Chapter 18 · Untitled Chapter

The silence that settled over the carpet was absolute, cold as the marble flagging beneath our feet. Abu Tariq remained standing by the console, his hands tucked into the black wool of his bisht, his breath shallow, awaiting whatever concession an elder might still expect in a Riyadh house before the first light of dawn.

Bandar gave him none. He offered no parting formula, no customary courtesy to soften the dismissal. He did not even look at the man’s face. Instead, his gaze dropped to the two porcelain finjans resting on the brass tray between us—cups still dark at the bottom with cardamom grounds, lukewarm and abandoned.

With two fingers raised in a brief, downward slice, Bandar signaled the steward stationed near the heavy corridor door.

Sulaiman moved immediately, silent on the wool rug. Without lifting his eyes or acknowledging the tension thick enough to catch in the throat, the steward stepped between us, gathered the silver dallah and the cups, and lifted the tray. In that single, practiced motion, hospitality in this room ceased to exist.