Chapter 21 · Chapter 21

A suffocating silence hung beneath the high arched beams of the majlis. The thin plume of Oud smoke from the brass Mabkhara drifted undisturbed between the heavy divans, cutting through the sharp aroma of cardamom and roasted beans. Ammi Tariq stood frozen, the papers trembling slightly in his grip, his bluster checked by the cold weight of Nayef's vow.

From the far end of the hall, seated beneath the carved plaster frieze, another man cleared his throat. It was Abu Badr, the head of the secondary trading syndicate that had hitched its wagons to Tariq’s maneuvers.

"You speak of debts and reserves as though ink on paper can mend what is frayed in the eyes of Riyadh, ya Sheikh Nayef," Abu Badr said smoothly, leaning back against the embroidered cushions and adjusting the gold trim of his Bisht. He did not look at Nayef; his insolent gaze slid directly toward me, taking in the black folds of my Abaya where I stood upright beside the perimeter.

"Choose your next sentence with care, Abu Badr," Nayef said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. He did not turn his head, yet every man in the room felt the sudden drop in temperature.