Chapter 34 · Chapter 34

The hours in the lower vaults measured themselves only by the seepage of groundwater through lime mortar and the muffled strikes of the cathedral bells above the Albaicín. I sat upon the dry timber bench, my back pressed against the cold stone, holding my linen mantle close about my collar.

A daughter of Abu Jaafar does not weep before wardens, nor does she let her knees tremble where the damp smells of rot and tallow. When the iron bar grated back along its slot, I rose before the turnkeys could touch my sleeve.

Two guards flanked me up the spiraling stairwell into the vaulted audience room of the chancery. The air smelled of woodsmoke, wet wool, and sour ink. Behind the trestle table sat the magistrate, surrounded by docket rolls and two scribes whose quills scratched rhythmically against coarse vellum.

Saad stood squarely before the bench.

He had not left the hall. His woolen cloak hung straight from his shoulders, uncreased and immaculate despite the rain that had begun to drum against the clerestory windows.