Her heartbeat quickens. This is how Mr Sen likes to finish. She touches herself harder, lets the book fall shut. As always, as the heat under her fingers builds up and her hips buck against her hand, shuddering with hot and cold earthquakes, she finds herself thinking of the Axolotl—
But before she can cross the edge and take Mr Sen with her, the visitor chime rings, the brass sound sharp and sudden.
‘Good morning, dear Tawaddud!’ says a voice. ‘Do you have a moment for your sister?’
Dunyazad’s sense of timing is impeccable, as always.
Tawaddud leaps up, face burning with arousal and embarrassment. She pulls her robe around her and disconnects the beemee cable from the jinn jar.
There are muffled footsteps outside. The assignation room is next to her study, down the corridor from the entrance hall.
‘Tawaddud!’ says her sister’s clear voice again. ‘Are you still asleep?’
‘That . . . was exquisite, as always, my dear. Although, towards the end, you seemed . . . distracted.’ Mr Sen says in his dry, tinny voice.
‘A thousand apologies,’ Tawaddud says, digging for the jinn bottle from under the pillows. ‘No compensation will be required.’ Tawaddud swears under her breath. The ancient jinn purchased her services with a new Secret Name that she had been searching for a long time.
‘I promise I will arrange a new assignation at your earliest convenience. A simple family matter has come up that I have to deal with.’ She lifts the heavy bottle. A precious pre-Collapse bioprocessor within allows the jinn to maintain a temporary localised presence in her quarters. The outer shell is the work of Sirr craftsmen, simple ceramics and circuitry, decorated with blue glass.
‘In my experience,’ the jinn says, ‘family matters are never simple.’
‘Tawaddud! What are you doing?’
‘I’m afraid that I really have to ask you to leave,’ says Tawaddud.
‘Of course, if you will just lend me a hand. Until next time.’
Tawaddud takes the bottle to the windowsill. There is a rush of heat that makes the curtains flap, a barely visible shimmering in the air, and then the jinn is gone. She hides the jar behind the pillows, covers the mirrors again and takes a moment to arrange her hair.
There is a knock on the door. Just as Tawaddud is about to touch the unlocking symbol, her heart misses a beat: her book is still lying on the floor. Hastily, she replaces it in the casket and slams the lid shut.
The door opens. Dunyazad looks at her with a mischievous smile on her lips, one hand resting delicately on the qarin bottle around her neck. The Secret Names written on her fingernails are bright against her dark skin. Tawaddud’s sister is dressed for a walk in the town: blue robes, slippers and a jewelled cap covering her braided, beaded hair. As usual, she looks perfect.
‘Am I disturbing you, dear sister?’
‘As a matter of fact, you are.’
Dunyazad sits down on one of the pillows. ‘What a lovely room. Smells wonderful. Have you been . . . entertaining?’
I know what you are doing, her smile says. And that’s why you are going to do whatever I ask you to.
‘No,’ Tawaddud says.
‘Excellent. That is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Duny lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘There is a young man I want you to meet. He is wealthy, handsome and a wit to boot – and free this afternoon. What do you say?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own social schedule, sister,’ Tawaddud says. She walks to the window and closes the curtains with a jerk.
‘Oh, I’m well aware of that. That is why you associate with street entertainers and riff-raff.’
‘I have work to do this afternoon. Charity work, healing work. The Banu Sasan – entertainers and riff-raff- need doctors.’
‘I’m sure the young gentleman would be curious to see what it is that you do, down there.’
‘Yes, I imagine it’s difficult to see how the Banu Sasan live, up from a muhtasib tower.’
There is a dangerous glint in Dunyazad’s eyes. ‘Oh, I assure you that we see everything.’
‘My work is more important than a date with some perfumed boy you met at a Council party. I appreciate the effort, Duny, but you really don’t have to keep trying.’ She walks towards the door to her study, with steps that she hopes are determined.
‘Oh, I agree entirely. It is like washing wildcode off a mutalibun’s cock, and about as rewarding. Father feels differently, however.’
Tawaddud stops, a chill in her belly.
‘I spoke to him this morning. I told him that you had repented your actions, that you wanted nothing but to restore the good name of our family, to become an honourable woman again.’
Tawaddud turns around. Duny looks straight at her, with blue and earnest eyes.
‘Do you want to turn me into a liar, dear sister? Into a teller of tales, like you?’
Tawaddud pulls her robe tighter around her and grits her teeth. A teller of tales. A lover of monsters. Not my daughter anymore. That’s what her father said on the day the Repentants found her and brought her back from the Palace of Stories, three years ago.
‘Who is it, then?’
‘Abu Nuwas,’ Dunyazad says. ‘I think Father would be very pleased if you two became . . . friends.’
‘Duny, if you want to punish me, there are easier ways to it. What does Father want from him?’
Duny sighs. ‘What could he possibly want from the richest gogol merchant in the city?’
‘I am not stupid, sister.’ And Repentant jinni like Mr Sen like to tell me things, afterwards. ‘Father has all the support in the Council he needs: he does not have to buy it. Why him and why now?’
Dunyazad narrows her eyes and runs one of her rings along her lips, back and forth. ‘I suppose I should be glad that you follow at least the rudiments of city politics,’ she says slowly. ‘There have been recent developments that have made our position . . . unstable. A Council member died this morning, very suddenly. Councilwoman Alile, of House Soarez: I think you remember her.’
Alile: a dour-faced woman at her father’s table, with a wildcode-eaten bald patch in her dark hair, a brass hawk on her shoulder. You should rather shovel shit for a living than become a mutalibun, little girl. I guess this is why, Tawaddud thinks, brushing away the memory. Her chest feels hollow, but she keeps her face blank.
‘Let me guess,’ she says. ‘She was the biggest supporter of Father’s proposal to modify the Cry of Wrath Accords. How did she die?’
‘A far too convenient suicide. The Repentants think it was a possession. It could be the masrurs, but so far they haven’t claimed responsibility. We are looking into it. Father even contacted the Sobornost: the hsien-kus are sending somebody to investigate. The vote on the Accords is in three days. If we want to win it, we need to buy it. Abu Nuwas knows that, and that’s why you, dear sister, are going to try your best to make him very happy.’
‘I am surprised that Father would entrust such an important task to me.’ To a lover of monsters.
‘Lord Nuwas specifically requested Father’s permission to court you. Then again, rumour has it that his tastes are . . . unusual. In any case, I am going to be busy looking after the Sobornost envoy – a dull babysitting job, but somebody has to do it – so it is up to you, I’m afraid.’
‘How convenient.’ You are the one he trusts, and I am the one he sells to the merchant like a gogol from the desert.
It was not always like that. She remembers a sizzling pan, the rich heat on her face, her father’s soft hands on her shoulders. Go on, Tawa, taste it, you made it. Add some more marjoram if you feel like. Food should tell a story.