Chapter 9 · Chapter 9

I came back in through the courtyard with my Abaya gathered at the wrist, and the majlis did not turn as one body, which is how a room admits it has been talking about you.

The coffee had been poured in my absence. A second round, fresh, the finjans still warm at the rim. That was the first small insult, and I let it pass. A hall that pours while you stand at the gate has decided you will not be needed for a while.

My chair had moved. Not far. A hand's width from the Sadr side, where the room can read a thing without being told it.

I sat down in it anyway, put my hands in my lap, and looked at the man across the low table. He was not of this house. Hard collar, white thobe, plain cuff; a seal ring, and a pen clipped where a man keeps a pen when he means to use it.