Part 12 (1/2)

”My little wife had a black nurse as a child. Now that she is... now that we are... we thought...”

Hakiim smiled to himself. Soon, if he kept his mouth shut, the fellow would reveal every fact and foible of his household. The Moor did not care, nor was he particularly disturbed by the idea of the ferocious Djoura as a baby's dry nurse.

The black's moods were various. Perhaps today she'd choose to exhibit cold pride instead of homicidal fury. Let the man look at her and decide; his family's safety was then his business.

They turned into a door in the blank white wall of a house: a fine, expensive house, rented by Hakiim for the express purpose of setting Djoura to the best advantage. They pa.s.sed through to the garden courtyard, where among oranges and tiny cypress the black woman sat, wearing robes of white cotton, brand-new.

In the corner sat the idiot eunuch, who had been commanded to sit still, and who obeyed like a dog.

The Spaniard was there, too, crouched un.o.btrusively in a corner where the welts on his face would not be visible. The welts had come from Djoura, as a result of the merchants' abortive efforts to feed the woman a sedative dose of kif.

But no such drug seemed necessary, for the black Berber gave the approaching party only the mostdemure of glances before lowering her shy head and lacing her hands together on her lap.

Hakiim approached. He tentatively extended one hand which was neither bit, clawed, nor spat at. He lifted the slaves chin for inspection. She smiled.

”This is Djoura,” he said. A shade of question crept into his voice.

He had expected SOME trouble. He had been prepared with discipline, explanations of previous ill-treatment, promises of amendment, offers of help in training... He had set up this entire situation-house, clothing, sale by private treaty-as an attempt to gloss over Djoura's maniacal temper.

What was in the girl's head, to go suddenly all meek and winsome? (And didn't she look handsome, with her face not twisted into a snarl?) Hakiim had the sudden wish he'd stated a higher price.

The customer stepped forward. He gazed down at the woman from over his white-cased paunch.

”Girl,” he p.r.o.nounced, ”I am Ras.h.i.+d ben Ras.h.i.+d. I am looking for an attendant for my youngest wife and a dry nurse for the baby that is coming. Would you be a good one?”

Djoura batted her curly lashes and smiled at the ground. Then she smiled at the little veiled face that peeped around Ras.h.i.+d ben Ras.h.i.+d's bulk. She wiggled from one side of the seat to the other in an agony of shyness. ”I think we would,” she mumbled into her lap.

Ras.h.i.+d liked the girl's att.i.tude. He also liked her looks. And it occurred to him that the Prophet had ordained that a man might have four wives, while Ras.h.i.+d (comfortably situated as he was) had only two.

No need to think further about that now, however. Now there was the baby to consider: perhaps his first son. It was enough that this woman be strong and biddable. Later, when he was ready to brave his present bride's pique, and that of her family, of course...

But by what strange custom did the Nubian refer to her lowly self in the plural?

Ras.h.i.+d ben Ras.h.i.+d laughed tolerantly. ”We, little one? Are you twins, perhaps?”

A giggle and a scuff of the ground with one sandaled foot. ”No. My brother and I do not look alike.”

Hakiim felt his ears p.r.i.c.k up. In fact, it seemed those organs were moving to the top of his head through amazement. He opened his mouth to contradict the girl-to as sure Ras.h.i.+d that there was no brother in the case-when Djoura crooked her finger and the blond eunuch trotted over.

Obedient, like a dog.

Ras.h.i.+d stared at Raphael, who returned a blue gaze free from either shyness or challenge. Then the large man seemed to puff out larger. He gave out heavy brays of laughter.

”Merchant of women, what is this?” he gasped, when he could. ”There was no talk of a...a brother!”

Hakiim shook his head blankly. ”I have no idea. The yellow-head is of course no relation at all to her, and...”

A voice in the corner spoke. ”They go well together,” said Perfecto. ”In contrast. Two for the price of one.”

Hakiim shot a look of fury at his partner. It was not customary for Perfecto to speak in the marketplace; he was not a convincing salesman and his native accent was strong. In dealing with customers of quality it was the Spaniard's business to keep his mouth shut.

And this... this bizarre attempt to get rid of the idiot by making him part of a package with Hakiim's prize discovery...

But Djoura took Raphael by the hand, and seeming to gather together slow reserves of courage, smiled into Ras.h.i.+d's glowering face.

”This is my brother Pinkie, master. He is not a man but- you know--a boy. He is a good worker and does everything I say.”

Ras.h.i.+d found his annoyance melting in this girl's black velvet gaze. ”I don't need a boy,” he stated, masking confusion with gruffness.

Djoura seemed to wilt, and she gave a long sigh. ”Without my brother,” she said tremulously, ”I must surely languish. Without Pinkie I think I will die.”

Hearing no response, she continued in louder tones. ”Without Pinkie I will throw myself into theocean, I guess. Without Pinkie I will throw...”

Hakiim cut her off, feeling her threats were about to extend from suicide to murder, ”Don't be silly, Djoura. You've only just met the creature this week!”

Then he turned to Ras.h.i.+d. ”The eunuch, when we first got him, was sick, and Djoura nursed him back to health. I guess they developed some attachment, but it's surely nothing that cannot be forgotten in a few days...”

While Hakiim thus held his customer's attention and Djoura watched them with a gambler's blank-faced intensity, the small person stepped out from behind her husband to look at Raphael.

Surrept.i.tiously, she pulled aside her veil.

She had thick hair hennaed auburn, and eyes like a doe deer. She was no more than fifteen, and she stared at the blond as though he were something wrought in gold.

Her name was Ama, and as she met Raphael's eyes she gave out a little gasp. She herself wasn't sure what it was she found there, whether pity, understanding, or sheer stainless beauty, but from that moment she felt-like Djoura-that without Raphael she would surely die.

Ras.h.i.+d was explaining very carefully to Hakiim that it was not that he could not afford either to buy or to keep a eunuch, but rather that his family was small enough that he had no need for a boy, when the small person tapped him on the elbow and stood on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear.

Ras.h.i.+d accepted the interruption with the exaggerated patience of a man who is humoring a pregnant wife. He listened to Ama's excited whispering.

”That much? You want her how much?”

”Both of them,” chirped Ama. ”I don't want her to be unhappy.”

Ras.h.i.+d stole a glance toward Raphael, whose hand was in Djoura's, and who watched the interchange with disinterested attention. ”Dearest swallow,” the householder said, patting his wife on the head, ”although your smallest word is law to me, here we must be reasonable. He will eat like a horse!”

”I will sell my jewelry,” offered Ama, a little wildly. ”My amber necklace, that my uncle gave me, and the gold chains. They are mine, and that will feed him-I mean them-for a long time. Oh, my husband, do buy them.”

Hakiim knew enough to back away, lest his own persuasion, added to the woman's, drive his customer to rebellion. Instead the Moor shot a glance at his partner, a glance imbued with all the betrayed fury he felt toward Perfecto. But the expression the Spaniard returned him turned Hakiim's anger into something like fear.

In an effort to save face, Ras.h.i.+d turned on Raphael. ”Well, boy,” he demanded. ”Why should I buy you? What are you good for?”

Hakiim began, ”I'm sorry, sir, but the boy is unfortunately...”

But Djoura forestalled him. Squeezing Raphael's hand with desperation, she hissed, ”Tell him, Pinkie.

Tell him what a good boy you are!”

Raphael lifted his eyes to Ras.h.i.+d. ”I can play the lute,” he said in faultless Arabic. ”Either al ud or the lute of Europe. I can also make music with the Spanish chitarre, the harp, and most other stringed instruments. Winds I have not played so often, nor drums, but I believe I could manage them. I can teach others the mechanics of music. And I can sing.

”There are other useful skills I could learn, probably, but as of yet I haven't had the opportunity.” The perfect fair brow lowered as Raphael considered the limitations of the flesh.