Songweaver's Awakening

Chapter 10 - Anestan

“In here,” Anestan whispered to Nehara, the words muffled by her veil.  She beckoned her maidservant and former playmate into an alleyway in the inner city.  Nehara was dressed in the same manner as Anestan: hooded and veiled, white tunic with flowing sleeves, and skirts with enough folds to allow for riding the white camels bred in the southern provinces.  They ducked off the bustle of the main street.  The walls that rose around them were smooth and unmarked save for a small bronze door on the left side.  Anestan stopped when they reached the bronze door.  Pulling the full white sleeve back from her hand, she rapped on the door.  For several moments, nothing happened.  If Anestan had not been certain that this was the correct door, she would have walked away, shaking her head.

At last the creak of metal against stone sounded and the door was opened a crack.  A middle-aged man peered at them with one small, black eye.  He, too, was dressed in the manner of the southern provinces.  His tunic and trousers were flowing white.  He wore an embroidered gray vest over the tunic, and his hood and veil lay about his shoulders like a mantle.  The eye that the man pressed into the crack roamed over them.

“I’d guess you came from my own home village if I did not know better.  The dye that stains the tips of your fingers is the wrong shade.  I’d wager it washes off with some scrubbing.  There is no sand in your clothing, none at all.  The winds blow strong to the south.  If you’d been here for a week, even, the sand would still be pouring forth from your every pore.  If you’d been here for over a week, you’d likely not be wearing the veils at all.”  His gaze dropped to the hand Anestan was using to keep the voluminous hood of her robe low over her face.  “That ring, Raja, is far finer than any you would ever find in the southern provinces.”

Anestan swore, clutching at the ring with her other hand.  It was a heavy silver band, intricately engraved and set with two diamonds that hugged at the sides of an enormous ruby.  Her wedding ring.  She felt stupid as a shepherd that has mistakenly slain a pregnant goat.

The man laughed and swung the bronze door open.  “It is difficult to fool Sayed Amihd, Anestan, only daughter of the First House.”

With the door wide, Anestan could see the well-lit courtyard beyond, six white camels feeding at the trough in the western end.  Two servants paused mid-chore, one's arms laden with white sheets, and the other’s laden with a large blue ceramic bowl overflowing with dates.  “Quiet,” Anestan hissed as she passed Sayed into the inner sanctum of his home.  “There’s a reason I came dressed as a southron woman.”

Sayed shut the door once Nehara had entered.  Now that they stood face-to-face, Anestan saw that he was a thin man, gaunt and hard-muscled.  His skin had a leathery, almost bronzed look to its surface, as if the sands had worn away all irregularities and left polished stone in its wake.  His nose curved outwards like the beak of a hawk.

“Your secrets are safe within my household, Raja.  My servants are all members of my own family, not multa.  If they wish to receive a part of my inheritance, they will keep their mouths shut.”

Anestan felt a rising irritation at his confident, breezy tone.  “And if someone offers them more than your inheritance will provide?”

Sayed's face darkened.  “Then I would cut out their tongues with my own knife.”

Her eyes settled on the long, curved knife strapped to Sayed's belt, its bronze sheath engraved in broad, swirling patterns.  If rumors were correct, it had seen a good deal of use before.  Sayed’s own brother had fallen under that blade.  “I believe it,” Anestan said.  “Do you have a place we can discuss things in private?”

Sayed turned and gestured to Anestan and Nehara over his shoulder as he walked across the green and white tiled courtyard.  Anestan readjusted the white linen veil that hung over her nose and mouth.  Its flowing ends wrapped twice around her neck and tucked into her high-collared tunic. The sun was beginning to gain height in the sky, and in late morning the veil stifled.  Anestan tugged at it once more and let her hand fall to her side.  It would not do to be seen pulling at the veil like the city dweller she was.  None of those that lived in the provinces south of Javhineel, in the sandy dunes, ever tugged at their veils.  At least, not that she had ever seen.  Nehara did not pull at her veil.  She had been dressing as a southron woman since she was thirteen.