Despite news of the rebellion spreading across the kingdom, the gold merchants did not seem deterred. Every year they flocked from far and wide, from as far as Aleppo and Palestine in the west to the Tang Empire in the east, with their cartfuls of gold crafted into all manner of wondrous marvels; the esteemed patrons of such art closely followed. Jewelry, sculptures depicting great battles and beauties of legend, decorative ornaments and trinkets, solid gold furniture, fabrics woven with gold wire threads, paintings created with powdered gold paint. Only those artisans and merchants who could certify their gold from Rey's official goldsmiths were given permits to enter the Gold Suq and display their wares. It was a task taken as piously as any pilgrimage, and done with utmost care and respect for law. No bribe could be taken by a goldsmith without their accountants reporting directly back to Firaz, such was the loyalty and discipline he had cultivated in his city since being appointed governor by Al-Mansur.
The moment Abu Musa had been executed, a wave of relief washed over the old man. Not just for the safety of the Gold Suq, but for his entire city. His first task, after cleaning up the mess left in his hall of public audience by the Prince, was to send missives to the great gold merchant families of Damascus, Baghdad, and the Tang dynasty of Sinaa, who were already en route to Rey. Some had already been on the road for more than a month, with no news of whether the city was safe or not. The least he could do was ease their worries.
After the tithes, paying the soldiers, the martyr's families, the physicians and the servants, Rey's coffers were running dry. The chests of jewels and gold brought by Rehan had completely depleted, though he had sent requests to Baghdad for more aid. The preparations for the souk, changing the layout of the centre and commissioning massive multi tiered structures and tents for the displaying of wares, temporary accommodations, stable facilities, and of course preparing the governor's residence to host diplomatic and foreign guests, was going to take enormous capital that Firaz did not currently have. All he had was promissory notes from Baghdad and pure good faith elicited from the presence of the Prince.
He tried to ignore it as he went about organising, what he did best. Everyone was made aware that their payments would only come after the souk, itself a three day event, was finished. Nevertheless, they worked with the same vigour and conviction as if they had already received their fees. Whether it was from the presence of the Prince, the end of the rebellion, or simple faith, he did not know.
As the cogs of the city turned, the Barmakis prepared for Tahir's departure. He had monitored Rehan's wounds as the days went on, and spent his additional hours healing the soldiers who had sustained grave injuries; stab wounds to the torso and abdomen, burns, poisonings, and broken limbs. Tahir had banished all the physicians from the ward, however Amina, despite the disapproval of a woman physician in a ward full of exposed male patients, was determined to shadow his healings and decipher his method. Eventually, he relented. There was little damage a single woman could do to the dynasty of the Barmakis, after all. Her mind could scarcely believe what she was seeing, even as broken bones mended themselves together and open wounds wove together without outside intervention. Each and every time she asked him, his response was the same. "Time and a prayer. Make sure you continue to take care of them after I leave."
"Can't you teach me how to do it?"
"How I wish I could, my dear." He smiled, and her cheeks warmed beneath her veil.
Now he strapped on his black steel armour and tied a keffiyeh over his face for the long desert ride home.
"Safe journey," said Rehan, clasping Tahir's arm like he would a friend. "I will see you soon."
He smiled and tilted his chin down, then looked at Sharan. "Return soon. The Vizier needs you back in court to manage the Byzantines."
Sharan smiled. Pulling a laugh from him was a miracle only God could accomplish. "There's a few people coming for the Gold Suq who I want to meet, but I will be back soon."
"I notice you don't call them friends," quipped Rehan.
"I'd call you a friend but then you would accuse me of assuming outside my station, or worse, being sentimental, which I can't allow."
"Whatever you say old man," he laughed, eyes shining with genuine pleasure. "You Barmakis continue your long winded goodbyes, I have things to do."
Rehan made his way back into the residence, where he changed into a nondescript grey thobe and black and white keffiyeh to cover his face. Khayzuran was already dressed in a black abaya, finally able to step out of the masculine clothes she had been wearing while in disguise. The fabric was light and free, comforting as an embrace. They left the residence by the southern gates, standing at arms length from one another as they walked down the street. Though Rehan had walked the streets in his royal regalia mere weeks before, none whom they passed could now identify him.
They walked in silence, enjoying the gentle breeze and balmy sun, the low buzz of activity as the city prepared for the souk, and normal, everyday people went about their day, apathetic of the hand of empire that had given them this peace. Khaya felt a thrum in her chest, a thrill at being able to walk outside with him in full view of everyone as a common woman. She walked a half pace behind and well to the side of him, and though they did not speak to each other, it felt just as intimate as them being alone in a room. They went to the blue mosque for the afternoon prayer, separating at the entrance and reconvening to return home. On the way back, they walked a little closer, so if he reached his hand out he would find hers.
They returned wearing blissful smiles on their faces, nothing in the world could have happened that would disrupt their mutual happiness. As they walked through the hall leading to the spiral staircase, Yahya was suddenly upon them.
"Where have you been? We were searching everywhere."
"We went to the mosqueâ" Khaya began.
"Have you forgotten why we came here?"
Rehan stepped forward to partially shield her body. "Do not speak to her with that tone, Yahya."
"It's alright," she touched his arm and looked at Yahya, "I know, I was on lookout."
Yahya avoided Rehan's eye and sighed. "I apologise. We haven't heard anything from any of our informants about it, but Sharan and I are still very concerned."
"Maybe the Byzantines had bad intelligence. It wouldn't be the first time," quipped Rehan. "I for one don't think they will try anything while I have my personal bodyguard with me." He slid his eyes to Khaya.
Yahya clenched his teeth to stop a smile. Despite their grand victory, and the relief that came with it, he was still filled with unease about this kidnapping plot, which so far had not shown its face. But underneath that unease was also the the remnants of guilt. The guilt of what he had done to break Rehan's soul, of lying to him about Khayzuran, of being utterly useless despite his unfathomable power.
Rehan touched his arm, as if he could see the dark thoughts on the surface of his eyes. "Don't worry Yahya, we will be careful, if only to stop seeing that morose expression on your face."
This time, he laughed.
"We were going to eat upstairs but why don't we all go to the western courtyard," Rehan suggested. "Call the two grandpas as well."
"I haven't seen Firaz in days, he must be in the city somewhere helping with the souk arrangements."
Rehan rolled his eyes, his hand absently moved behind and took Khaya's. "Fine, just call Sharan out for an hour."
They parted ways, Rehan and Khaya made their way out to the western courtyard, briefly stopping to direct the servants to bring their feast outside. The sun was high in the pale blue sky, the breeze gentle as they settled under a proud date palm casting swaying slats of shade. Khaya shifted on her legs, her abaya splaying around her like a pool of ink. For a moment they were alone. Rehan reclined and rested his head on her lap, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in the sweet scent of dates drifting from above. A while later a slew of servants arrived with sprawling platters and jugs of fresh food and cold drink. They served them ground lamb kebabs seasoned with parsley, sweet and savoury stews of pomegranate, meat and spinach, green nettle soup, warm pita and sour hummous. There was a carafe of red wine, which Khaya showed little interest in, and copper jugs of cool water and lemon juice. The Barmakis emerged from the residence just as the servants departed, and Khaya quickly shifted to create a distance between her and Rehan. Sharan was stiff as a bone, but slowly relaxed once on the grass, spreading his legs to the side and lounging as he picked at the food one handed. It was comical seeing him pronated, thought Khaya. She was sure Rehan was thinking the same.
Khaya began after the others had already started, pulling her veil forward and feeding herself with the other. It seemed silly to do when both the Barmakis had already seen her bare face, but still she went through with the effort. She listened as they spoke of idle things, messages of praise and relief from Baghdad, news about Yahya's sister's baby, other strangers she knew nothing about. Rehan was beaming with the same joy she had seen the first ever moment she saw him in the desert, and the others mirrored that same joy. Khaya could not wait for her family to share in it sometime soon.
X
Finally, the first day of the Gold Suq arrived. Firaz had lived up to his reputation as a masterful planner despite the months-long siege in his city. The streets in the central district, an area encompassing sections of each of the four quarters with the minaret at its centre, were alight with gold and glory, rippling in the manner of a mirage.
Sharan had flitted away first to find one of his mercantile friends, while Rehan and Khaya walked around together. He was in simple garments again, his face partially hidden by a keffiyeh, but he had a procession of servants carrying large empty chests trailing behind him to store all his purchases along the way. Khaya merely had to glimpse at something for him to be inclined to make a purchase. She did not even know how he was paying, he certainly didn't have a pouch of coins hidden on his person that she could see, or even hear. Perhaps there was some sort of agreement, or the merchants already knew who it was they were speaking to.
Elsewhere, Yahya walked along one of the lanes, senses overwhelmed by the sheer volume of gold he was seeing. He finally stopped to peruse one of the stalls displaying hair ornaments, something of interest to him. There was a comb embossed with a golden rose, and when he picked it up he found it to weigh more than one of his daggers. He replaced it and found a hairpin carved with verses from scripture. Just as he reached for it, his hand grazed another's attempting the same. He looked up and froze. The woman's long, luscious waves bounced with the movement of her turning to look at him, her large piercing green eyes wide with surprise.
"Apologies," she said, "Did you want that one?" Her lips looked soft as rose petals, her brown skin smooth and unblemished.
Yahya realised he was still staring, and quickly lowered his gaze. "You may have it," he said.
She shifted so she caught his eye again. "Why? I think it would suit you."
Yahya was too stunned to speak for a moment. His mouth hung open limp, then he suddenly laughed. "It's not for me."
"Oh, were you going to buy it for me?"
"You..."
A rich perfume drifted up from her neck, oud and bergamot. He spotted a woven silver necklace with a single emerald jewel as large as a fingernail threaded into it. She was no courtesan or common brothel woman.
"Can I help you both?" an assistant called, suddenly appearing from thin air.
The woman did not break her gaze from Yahya's. "Not at all, we are just deciding what to go with."
"Were we?"
"Why don't you tell me?" Her eyes slid to the table, where their contested hairpin lay abandoned. He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers.
"You have lovely eyes," she said, searching them, "I've only known one other person with such eyes, silver like the moon."
"You are extraordinarily brazen, sahiba."
She tilted her head to the side and smiled, her cheeks pinching into dimples. "I think you aren't brazen enough, sahib." She plucked the hairpin from his grip and reached both hands around his neck to twist his hair into a bun and pin it in place. Her face was dangerously close to his, their mouths sharing the same air.
Yahya's heartbeat filled his ears. He glanced down at her lips, then up at her eyes. It would have been easy to step back, to push her out of the bubble of space he valued so dearly, but he couldn't move.
"I was right, it does suit you," she murmured, then stepped back of her own accord. "He'll take this one," she called.
Yahya turned to see the assistant gliding towards them with a ledger in hand, but when he looked back the woman had disappeared.
"That will be three dinar, sahib," the man said, suddenly upon him. He was short and rotund but had immaculate grooming and poise.
"You want three gold pieces for a hair stick weighing less than one?" Yahya's brows knitted in annoyance.
"You pay for the sculpting and the carving sahib. My artists need to be paid, and so do I."
"Aren't you a greedy little bastard," he mumbled as he pulled out the gold.
"Name calling won't change the price, sahib," he paused to give the street a cursory glance, "Where did your wife get off to?"
"My wife lives in Baghdad, if you care to take your nose out of my business."
The assistant closed his eyes and nodded knowingly. "I see."
Yahya handed the man his dues and emerged onto the busy street again. There were a surprising number of commoners among them, not as staff but as customers, and many had already made purchases. Was this where all the fruits of their labour would be spent? Yahya carried on, heading towards the central square where Firaz had instructed them to meet at around noon. When he arrived he could hardly recognise the square. The dais they had constructed for Rehan's procession had been modified into a longer and wider raised stage, with tiered benches around its periphery. One of the ends had larger, more elaborate seats carved from oakwood, probably where the dignitaries and Emirs would sit. As he made his way down, people began flocking in from the alleys and roads that emptied into the square, filling up the tiered seats and standing in between the gaps when there was no more place. Sharan was in deep conversation with a stranger, a dark skinned man with coils of thick gold rings snaking around his neck. Yahya did not interrupt them but merely stood by his side and waited, surveilling the crowd for Firaz and Rehan. Soon, they too arrived. Rehan had changed into royal black silks and a glittering black cape, along with his silver crown, so that he was unmistakable. Khayzuran trailed a few paces behind him, also in black, with a cape that matched his. A clear and open claim to everyone who saw them. Perhaps some would think she was Rayta, thought Yahya.
After the seats had filled to three quarters of full capacity Firaz took to the stage to begin his announcements.
"Welcome all, to the fifteenth annual Gold Suq of Rey. We are blessed by God to have you here today, and I thank you for travelling from so far and wide to grace us with your presence."
Light applause sounded through the crowd, and he continued, "As we bask in the richness of our great lands, please allow me to welcome our most esteemed guest and divine heir, Prince Rehan al-Mahdi." He gestured forward with both hands just as Rehan stepped onto the raised platform at the centre of the royal seats. He waved at the onlookers with a wide grin on his face, his crown and cape glittering with every movement. Khayzuran stood close to him, trying to hide the fact that she was watching the crowd's reaction to him.
"With his blessing I would like to call upon our fabulous performers today, who bring to you music, dance, and feats of daring from the four corners of the empire."
"Let's have them," called Rehan, throwing his arm out.
An arc of fire cast a flaming frame around Firaz's figure as he stepped off the platform, revealing rows of dancers standing behind him. Musicians huddled behind the fire breathers readied their flutes, ouds, drums, and lutes, and began a soothing, mellifluous melody which slowly lulled the audience. Dancers carrying huge golden leaves twice their own height sprang forward in alternating steps in time with the music, eventually huddling in the centre and closing the leaves into a shimmering gold bud. The music slowed, then suddenly sped up again, and at its crescendo the leaves burst open to reveal a female dancer, her chest wrapped in glowing gold cloth and bare stomach tattooed with patterns in gold dust. She arched her back and twisted her fingers in delicate movements, utterly hypnotizing every man who was sat in the audience, including the Prince himself.
The dancers around her moved away as she came forward into full view of the royal seats, and though only the lower half of her face was covered with a sheer veil, her eyes were unmistakable.
Yahya's lips parted in shock. It was her.