Arabesque

Sarn

Ciris Sarn listened to the faint calls of morning prayer that drifted above Oranin, which had already sprung to life. Prosperous Oranin had grown well past the established city walls to include hundreds of caravanserais grouped beyond each of the city's four gates. Among these, one of the largest, Isfahan Caravanserai, rested like a jewel beside Ras'mal Hari—the Cape Cities Road. Here, in this opulent but functional place, Sarn had passed a safe evening. Isfahan was a long rectangular maidan structure built of limestone blocks, remarkable for its size, with a broad exterior lined with a single continuous tier of portico, making it both accessible and well-protected.

The second sun was just beginning to rise; Sarn could already feel the growing heat of the day. It was doubtful he was still being followed. Still, because of the attack at the mosque, Sarn couldn't be certain.

As focused as Sarn was on leaving the caravanserai, he was distracted by thoughts of Jannat, his most recent seduction. One of Dassai's four wives, Jannat ran an extensive vineyard near the Haffal Mountains. Sarn had lived in secret with his very accommodating hostess for nearly a year, seducing and bedding her with pleasure, satisfying his needs with thinly-disguised contempt. Reflecting on the illicit relationship with Jannat, orchestrated for his own personal gain, Sarn realized with continued distain that the cost to her would be greater than she could have imagined.

Dassai would have to kill her.

Sarn smiled. Jannat was no longer the mistress of a vineyard, but instead a common whore, an intolerable disgrace in the eyes of her husband. She was of little concern or use now to Dassai or Sarn. Dassai had other wives to comfort him in his loss. Dassai also had pride, which he would not sacrifice at any cost. Sarn was the cause of his scorn and humiliation. Soon after, Dassai had arrested Barrani and put a price on Sarn's head. Dassai had as much derision for Sarn as he had for Jannat.

So be it, then.

Still reflecting on his satisfying indiscretion, as well as the price on his head, Sarn left his room and headed downstairs to the bar. As he passed the second-story landing, the morning light from the hallway window reflected dimly on the wall.

Sarn continued his descent to the lower floor of the caravanserai, pausing in the doorway as he peered into the dark bar. He canvassed every crevice, examining the shadows beyond the feeble glow of the jasmine-scented lamps.

He stepped inside, passing through the crowd of patrons. He found himself in the midst of a steady murmur of speculation about a deadly assassin, even as he walked by.

As Sarn's presence became known, a hush spread and the voices faded into silent stares. He pretended not to notice and made his way to the bar.

"Naveen," Sarn said, smiling as an attractive, dusky woman dressed in an abaya, her hair wrapped in a headscarf, approached the bar. Sarn leaned across and gave her a soft kiss on both cheeks, something that he would seldom have dared elsewhere.

"Coffee? Or are you here just to waste my time?" Naveen said with a faint smile. She was the proprietor of Isfahan and ran it with her sister, Layyena.

"Just one cup," Sarn answered, surveying the room, aware of eyes and ears focused solely on him. "I must go soon."

"Two dirans, unless you are going to pay me for the room as well." Naveen hadn't missed his mention of departure.

"Of course."

Like her sister, Naveen was no-nonsense and direct. She and Layyena were strong women. Without them and their network of caravanserais, Sarn would have been vulnerable last night after his altercation at the mosque. He might well have owed them his life.