His considered, restrained reply was, “You what?”
“Have wed Suhail ibn Ramiz. This morning: that is why Tom, Andrew, and I left. I do apologize for the disruption. There is nothing untoward about it, I assure you—only that he is a scholar and a gentleman, one I have respected for many years. And now he is my husband.”
Pensyth had grown very red about the neck. “You sat in that very chair and swore to me you didn’t want a husband.”
“At the time, it was true. There may not be even two men living in the world whom I would have agreed to marry, certainly not on such short notice. But I do not need two; I only need one.”
My words were more than a little giddy, which I imagine did not help my case at all. Pensyth said, “Is this your idea of avoiding a scandal?”
My giddiness did not take me so far as to speculate out loud regarding the alternatives. (And thank goodness for that.) I merely said, “Given that I have done nothing improper, I care not a fig for what people may say. Now that I am married, I desire precisely the same thing I did before I was married: to carry on with my research. Only now I will have Suhail’s assistance in full.”
Brash confidence can carry one past some obstacles—but not all. Before the night was out, I had to once again eat my words to Pensyth, this time regarding my lodgings.
Suhail arrived at the House of Dragons shortly after nightfall, looking grim and resigned. “I hoped that would go better,” he admitted quietly to me.
My heart beat faster. “What happened?”
“I have not been disavowed—not yet, anyway. We’ll see what Husam thinks when he wakes up tomorrow morning. But neither am I welcome in the house.”
I thought of my own estrangement from my family, brought about when I pursued my dreams against their wishes. The familiar ache rose up within me. In no way could I bring myself to regret what Suhail and I had done… but I could, and did, regret what consequences it might carry for him. “I am sorry,” I said, knowing it was thoroughly inadequate.
Suhail shook his head. “Do not be. I knew this was a risk, and I accepted it gladly. But in the meanwhile—I don’t suppose this place can house us both?”
“Of course,” I said instantly. “I may not be able to get a larger bed until tomorrow, but for tonight—”
He stopped me with one hand on my arm. So small a contact should not have meant so much—and yet it did. “For tonight,” he said, “we will find a place to stay in the city. I look forward to sharing your work with you, my love… but there are some parts of you I will not share with your work. And tonight is one of them.”
PART FOUR
NINETEEN
It is a common trope of romantic tales that the heroine declares she would gladly live in a garret if it meant being with her love. I was not prone to such dramatic utterances; but looking back on my actions, I suppose it would not have been far off the mark.
We resided at Dar al-Tannaneen for the remainder of my time in Qurrat, for Suhail remained unwelcome in his brother’s house. I shifted my belongings to a larger chamber (one which, coincidentally, was farther removed from the barracks in which the others slept), and we made plans for furnishing the room in a comfortable style—but it will surprise few of my readers, I think, if I say that we never followed through on those plans. Our arrangements there were haphazard, and remained so until I departed.
What need had I of furnishings? I had Suhail; I had Tom; I had dragons. Under no circumstances was I going to drag Jake with us into the desert—no matter how much he might have pleaded to go—but I wrote to him saying that he could miss the fall term at Suntley and come join us in Akhia instead. Even if my commission ended before then, I thought Jake deserved to reunite with his new stepfather and see where Suhail came from.
Much of the clutter in our new quarters belonged to Suhail, who relocated his entire library from his brother’s house to Dar al-Tannaneen. “I’ve had to keep half of this hidden under my bed,” he admitted, prying the lid off the first crate. “It will be nice to feel like an adult again.”
I borrowed his crow-bar and opened another crate. It is inevitable, I suppose, that one cannot unpack a box of books efficiently, at least not when the books belong to someone else; I was immediately diverted by looking through them. Of course I could not read three-quarters of their titles, as they were in Akhian or some other language I did not know—but that did not stop me from looking. And when I lifted a heavy green volume from the bottom, I found something I did recognize.
“Is this Ngaru?” I asked, pointing at the symbol on the front cover.
You may think it strange, but I had quite forgotten about the rubbing of the Cataract Stone I gave to Suhail. He and I had rarely been in the same place since then—and when we were, our minds were fully occupied with other troubles (such as Maazir and the Yelangese poisoner), or else we were busily pretending to be near-strangers to one another. It was not that the Cataract Stone had never crossed my thoughts again; rather that it never did so at a point when I could ask Suhail how he was getting on with it.
As it turned out, he had not gotten very far at all. He said, “That was one of the books I had to hide under my bed. Which is a very great pity, since I had to sell my soul to Abdul Aleem ibn Nahwan to get my hands on it—that’s a glossary and grammar of Ngaru.” A mischievous grin spread over his face, and he took the volume from me. “But I suppose, now that I am the idle husband of a prominent naturalist, I must occupy myself with something. And I have no idea how to do needlework.”
Even with his aptitude for languages, it was slow going. Suhail had never studied Ngaru before obtaining that book from his fellow scholar, and had devoted the months between then and now to the necessary first step of familiarizing himself with it. Translating the inscription was a painstaking process, and he warned me at every turn that he would need an expert to verify his text before he would be at all confident in the result. Indeed, he would not even share what he had with me until he worked his way through the entire piece. It is a very good thing that the House of Dragons kept me busy, or I would have hovered over his shoulder until he went out of his mind with distraction. Even though ancient civilizations and dead languages have never been my greatest love, I was champing at the bit to know what the stone said.
He unveiled the fruits of his labour one night over a private dinner. “The beginning of it is not the kind of thing to make anyone’s heart beat faster, except perhaps a scholar of early Erigan history. It is a list of names—a lineage, I think, for some early king. Then it goes on for some time about how that individual caused the stone to be set up in the ninth year of his reign—”
“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “Get to the interesting part.”
“Are you sure?” This time his grin was more diabolical than mischievous. “I could read that part to you, if you like, complete with footnotes about my uncertainty regarding case endings—”
“We are alone, Suhail. There is no one to see if I throw food at you.”
He laughed. Then, composing himself, he recited:
We are the patient, the faithful, those who continue when all others have abandoned the path. Obedient to the true masters, we make this stone in their name, in their hand as we remember it. Here the gods will be born anew: the jewels of the precious rain, the sacred utterances of our hearts, the transcendent ones, the messengers between earth and heaven. On their wings we will ascend once more to the heights. May the blood of the traitors be spilt on barren stones of their sin. Hear us, gods of our foremothers. We keep the faith, until the sun rises in the east and the Anevrai return.