“All I ever said was that you were smart and beautiful,” Azzad promised them. “Of the rest, he knows nothing.”
“I never doubted that you would keep our secrets,” Leyliah answered graciously. Swirling the scarf around her shoulders, she admired the snowflakes again while saying, “And I know just when I’ll wear this!”
“Leyliah,” said Fadhil in a cheerful tone, “is getting married next year.”
Before Azzad could find words to express his congratulations, Abb Shagara added, “Her husband is Razhid Harirri, a man of subtle eyes, silken beard, and many fine goats. It’s my opinion that she’s marrying him for the goats.” Leyliah laughed and threw a pillow at him; he tossed it back, grinning. “But they’re very fine goats!”
“You should know,” she retorted. “You bleat like one!”
Turning to Azzad, Abb Shagara asked merrily, “So, have you met any girls?”
“My son,” Meryem said mildly, “you pry into thing that do not concern you.”
“He’s Shagara now, Mother—I can ask him anything I want. Isn’t that right, Azzad?”
Still in shock that Leyliah was marrying someone other than Fadhil, Azzad blinked and nodded mindlessly. Summoning his manners, he addressed Leyliah. “Razhid Harirri is a fortunate man—I hope he knows it?”
“Ayia,” laughed Abb Shagara, “we made certain of that before we accepted him! Now, Azzad, you cannot mean to say you’ve left not even one girl sighing for you in this Sihabbah you now live in?”
His thoughts flew at once to the women in a cottage up the mountain, who saw to the needs of Sihabbah’s unmarried men—and not a few of the married ones. It was a family business like any other, common in every community of any size from Dayira Azhreq to the Great Western Sea. Despite the differences between these lands and his home—which he was startled to find he had stopped thinking of as home—some things didn’t change. Still, he had been surprised to find Bindta Feyrah and Bindta Sabbah interesting company as well as skilled practitioners of their art, neither attribute an expected one in so remote a place as Sihabbah. But had he truly visited them only a few times?
Forcing a smile, he said, “I rise at dawn, eat, work until noon, eat, rest for a time, work some more, eat, and fall into bed. When is there time for women?”
This brought a stern lecture on the damage he was doing to his health. He bore it with good humor, hanging his head in pretended shame—which, after all, was not such a pretense. His mother would have sent instantly for the family tabbib; his grandfather, for his own favorite mistress.
“Enough!” Leyliah finally said, scowling at Abb Shagara. “Leave him alone, cousin. I want to hear about Sihabbah and this charming al-Gallidh, who sends such lovely presents. And so appropriate to my husband’s name!”
“He of the silken beard,” teased Abb Shagara, and Fadhil added slyly, “And many fine goats”—and both yelled as this time she threw pillows at both of them.
That night before the feast, Azzad washed up in Fadhil’s tent. His young friend was now Chal Fadhil, a fully trained healer, entitled to his own tent and the triple-braided ring of authority. Azzad congratulated him sincerely on his new status, wondering—but not quite daring to ask—why this high rank had not earned him marriage with Leyliah.
The feasting went on until well after dark and the dancing until midnight—and the drinking until dawn, as far as Azzad knew. Pleading the tiring length of his journey from Sihabbah, he left the celebrations a little after midnight, replete with excellent food, congenial conversation, some very interesting stories, and quite a bit of wine. He made his carefully studied way back to Fadhil’s tent, didn’t trip on any cats or dogs along the way, and fell onto a pile of carpets in the dark.
The carpets were already occupied.
“Fadhil,” he slurred. “Sorry—”
“No man could have had so much wine,” said a feminine voice, “that he cannot recognize that a woman is in his bed, not a man. Unless you would prefer Fadhil?”
Scrambling back, he toppled over and lay propped awkwardly on one elbow, trying to see into the blackness. “Leyliah?”
“I admit he is quite handsome, and a wonderful friend, but it seemed to me always that your eyes were for women, not men. I might be wrong, though.”
There was the sound of flint and iron, and a candle flame sprang to life. His elbow slipped out from under him with the shock. “Leyliah?” he repeated stupidly.
She wore nothing but her curling black hair and the white silk scarf with silver snowflakes, draped lightly about her slender form. “Ayia, Azzad, if my identity is now established, perhaps you would tell me if I am welcome to sleep with you for what remains of the night—or if I should indeed call Fadhil.”
Fadhil spent what remained of the night elsewhere.
At dawn, Azzad was twining a lock of Leyliah’s hair around one finger, the other hand tickling her breasts with the fringed ends of the scarf. “You still haven’t told me why.”
“Your health, of course.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, trying to be severe—difficult, when she stretched languidly and looked up at him through thick black lashes. “Why you?”
“You would prefer someone else?”
Realizing the implied insult, he quickly—and sincerely—said, “No! But you’re to be married—”
“Yet you will have noticed I am not a maiden.”
He had. “I don’t understand.”
“I do as I like, when a man pleases me.”
“But—” But it left a sour taste in his mouth, for he was reminded of Sheyqa Nizzira’s appetites. Why equivalent behavior should be different for a woman than for a man, he was not entirely sure—had never been entirely sure, in fact, although he trotted out the explanation his mother had given. “When a woman has charge and control of a family’s business and fortunes, she owes it to her own honor to be sure her children are her husband’s. Also—”
“Do you think me such an idiot that I do not know when I am fertile?”
“Also,” he repeated, “it doesn’t do, does it, for a woman to admit she made a mistake in her marriage? That she chose the wrong man?” A thing his mother had not done—and was too proud ever to admit if she had. His parents had genuinely loved each other and had been happy. He was certain that Leyliah and Fadhil—
“I have chosen exactly the right man!”
“I meant no disrespect or disparagement,” he said hastily. “I only meant—” He paused. “I’m not sure what I meant. Leyliah, I’m gratified and I’m honored, but I’m also confused. Why me?”
“Very few have pleased me,” she continued. “You, one or two others—”
“Fadhil?”
“He was my first and most cherished—as I was his. You don’t know our ways, Azzad. Perhaps one day you will, but for now—”
“Why don’t you marry him? You love each other.”
“Of course we do.”
“Then—”
“Fadhil, Fadhil!” she exclaimed. “Would you rather talk or have love with me again?”
“Both,” he said frankly. “But if you’re giving me a choice—” And she smiled as he lay beside her again.
All the next day he could barely look at Fadhil.
Waking without a headache, even after the quantities of wine he’d imbibed the night before, Azzad presented himself at Abb Shagara’s tent. Fadhil was already there. Together the three young men inspected Khamsin’s Shagara foals, a colt and two fillies, all healthy and finely grown. A wallad izzahn came along to record Azzad’s advice; full of importance at the privilege, the boy obviously saw himself as the future man-in-charge. Azzad went into great detail for his benefit, quickly boring Abb Shagara.