That, I decided, was safe. It would show friendly warmth—an encouraging interest in a topic I knew he loved—without overstepping any boundaries. If Suhail happened upon us again in the garden, I would ask him about the Cataract Stone.
Mahira greeted me warmly when I arrived. She called for refreshments, and we spent some time chatting about my experiences in the desert. News of the kidnapping had reached her ears; she startled me with some rather fierce comments about the fate that should be visited upon those sons of dogs, the Banu Safr. “Is a prayer-leader allowed to say such things?” I asked, half scandalized.
She laughed. “In the older days, the tribes used to load an unmarried girl into a special howdah and carry her into battle as their standard. There is a long tradition in Akhia of women urging their menfolk to valour against the enemy.”
It reminded me of old tales from Niddey and Uaine—though in those, of course, there is no howdah. “I hope the battles are concluded,” I said. “Your brother’s men did an excellent job keeping order, at least in our immediate vicinity, after that outrage.”
I meant to use that comment to prepare the ground, so that asking after her other brother would not seem out of place. The words stuck in my throat, though, because I could not find a way to make them sound innocuous—not when she had almost certainly heard the poem about Suhail’s own valour. Instead I gave her the gossip about Umm Azali and the rest of the Aritat, as well as I could. Mahira might live in a city, but the urge to ask for the news from elsewhere in the desert is alive and well in every part of Akhian society.
When that was done we went out to the garden, so that I might examine the honeyseekers. Amamis and Hicara were drowsing in the heat when I entered their net-draped enclosure, which meant that capturing them was the work of mere moments.
I spread Hicara’s wings wide, ignoring her indignant chirps, and examined her from every angle. Then I repeated the process with Amamis. They both appeared to be in excellent health: their scales were glossy, Amamis’ crest a bright sapphire blue, and neither showed the slightest lethargy in scrambling away from me once I released them. “You have done very well by them—I thank you,” I said to Mahira.
“They have been an ornament to our garden,” she replied. “I hope you have learned a great deal from their eggs.”
The honeyseekers had fled into the trees. I peered after them, watching as they twined about the branches in search of something to nose at. “It will take time. To truly know the tolerances of their eggs, we must test all the way to the limits, and that will require more rounds than we have had so far. So long as you do not mind continuing this work, I would be delighted to leave them here—though I must find a way to repay you for your effort.”
I turned toward Mahira, intending to ask whether she would like a pair of honeyseekers as a permanent installation in her garden. The offspring of my two could not mate, of course, without risk of inbreeding—but I could request another set from Lutjarro, as a gesture of gratitude. When I turned, however, the world turned with me. I swayed to one side, catching myself against a tree, and then sat down very hard on the ground.
Mahira was there in an instant, robes billowing as she sank down next to me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite,” I said—in that inane way one does when one is not well at all. “Only I was dizzy for a moment.”
She helped me to my feet and then settled me on the bench, staying at my side lest I tip over. I could not bring myself to argue against her caution. “I have been feeling a bit indisposed for several days,” I admitted. “I thought it was just the heat—I have been trying to drink plenty of water—but this is rather worse than before. I fear I may be ill, after all.”
This last I said with annoyance. Disease is the near-inevitable companion of every traveller, and I had made its acquaintance far too often for my liking. Illness would take me away from my work, making me look weak in the eyes of the men I was trying to impress.
But I had also seen what happened when I attempted to work through illness. I did not want to drive myself to collapse.
Mahira said, “Would you like me to call my own physician to attend you?”
“Oh, no,” I said hastily. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I assure you, it is no trouble. And she is very knowledgeable.”
The pronoun pulled me up short. “She? Your physician is a woman?”
Mahira looked scandalized. “Do you think I would allow a man to examine my body?”
When she put it that way, I could hardly say that I took it for granted. As some of my readers may know, the first university in Akhia was founded by a woman—the mother of one of the caliphs—and apparently she had been in favour of training women physicians, so as to uphold propriety while also caring for the patient’s health. It took another two hundred years for that vision to become a reality, and even now women physicians are not so common; but the wealthy and the pious often call upon their services.
I had to admit the notion held some appeal. Over the years I have been poked and prodded in a variety of embarrassing ways by male doctors; it might be a relief to consult a woman instead. “I would be grateful for her assistance,” I said.
Little did I know what I was unleashing with those words. When at last the whirlwind settled, I had somehow been transported from the honeyseeker enclosure to the women’s quarters of the house, where I was laid upon a sopha and plied with cooling drinks. A serving girl fanned me, and I was not permitted to rise until the physician arrived—which she did with great alacrity, likely because of Mahira’s status as the sheikh’s sister.
She introduced herself as Nour bint Ahmad, and asked after my symptoms. “I have been very tired of late,” I admitted, “and sometimes dizzy; I have also had frequent headaches. It may only be heat exhaustion.”
But this was not enough for her exacting standards. She began to question me in detail, asking when I felt the symptoms most acutely, in what precise way they affected me, how long they lasted, and more. She took my pulse, examined my eyes and my tongue, and various other matters I will omit for the sake of propriety. (I do not mind being frank when it serves a purpose; but in this case it would not.)
As this interrogation wore on, I found myself feeling ashamed. I was startled by Nour’s apparent acumen—and then, following that thought back to its source, I realized I had assumed that she, being a woman physician, would not be as knowledgeable or skilled as a man. It was, in short, precisely the kind of patronizing attitude I had suffered throughout my own career; and here I was, inflicting it in turn on a woman who knew more about the human body and its workings than I could ever aspire to. For heaven’s sake: she had a university degree in the subject, which was far more than I could say for myself in my own field. Undoubtedly there are incompetent women physicians out there; but so, too, are there men who do not know a broken bone from a fever in the head. Despite Mahira’s recommendation, I had judged Nour unfairly.
I wanted to apologize to her, but she did not know what I had been thinking; and if I had shown it in my behaviour, I could make up for it best by placing my confidence in her now. “At least it cannot be yellow fever,” I said when her questioning was done. “I have had that already.” Also dengue in the Melatan region and malaria after I left Phetayong, but those can be contracted more than once. Although Pensyth had supplied us with gin and tonic water as a preventative for malaria, it is far from foolproof.