The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

In time the crowd around the cooking pots thinned and a line of bearers carried the products of all that labour into the largest tent. A gong sounded and the brothers stood up around me. “Tomorrow we’ll see Hamada. Tonight we feast.” Mahood, lean and morose, tapped his pipe out on the sand. “I missed many old friends at the oasis meet tonight, Prince Jalan. My brother Jahmeen was to meet his betrothed this evening. Though I feel he is rather pleased to delay that encounter, at least for a day or two. Let us hope for you that your warning proves to have substance, or my father will have lost face. Let us hope for our brothers on the sand that you are mistaken.” With that he walked off and I trailed him to the glowing tent.

I pushed the flaps back as they swished closed behind Mahood, and stood, still half-bowed and momentarily blinded by the light of a score of cowled lanterns. A broad and sumptuous carpet of woven silks, brilliantly patterned in reds and greens, covered the sand, set with smaller rugs where one might expect the table and chairs to stand. Sheik al’Hameed’s family and retainers sat around a central rug crowded with silver platters, each heaped with food: aromatic rice in heaps of yellow, white, and green; dates and olives in bowls; marinated, dried, sweet strips of camel meat, dry roasted over open flame and dusted with the pollen of the desert rose; a dozen other dishes boasting culinary mysteries.

“Sit, prince, sit!” The sheik gestured to my spot.

I started as I registered for the first time that half of the company seated around the feast were women. Young beautiful women at that, clad in immodest amounts of silk. Impressive weights of gold crowded elegant wrists in glimmering bangles, and elaborate earrings descended in multipetalled cascades to drape bare shoulders or collect in the hollows behind collarbones.

“Sheik . . . I didn’t know you had . . .” Daughters? Wives? I clamped my mouth shut on my ignorance and sat cross-legged where he indicated, trying not to rub elbows with the dark-haired visions to either side of me, each as tempting as the succubus and each potentially as lethal a trap.

“You didn’t see my sisters walking behind us?” One of the younger brothers whose name hadn’t stuck—clearly amused.

I opened my mouth. Those were women? They could have had four arms and horns under all that folded cloth and I’d have been no wiser. Sensibly I let no words escape my slack jaw.

“We cover ourselves and walk to keep the Ha’tari satisfied,” said the girl to my left, tall, lean, elegant, and perhaps no more than eighteen. “They are easily shocked, these desert men. If they came to the coast they might go blind for not knowing where to rest their eyes . . . poor things. Even Hamada would be too much for them.”

“Fearless fighters, though,” said the woman to my left, perhaps my age. “Without them, crossing the barrens would be a great ordeal. Even in the desert there are dangers.”

Across from us the other two sisters shared an observation, glancing my way. The older of the pair laughed, full-throated. I stared desperately at her kohl-darkened eyes, struggling to keep my gaze from dipping to the jiggle of full breasts beneath silk gauze strewn with sequins. I knew by reputation that Liban royalty, be it the ubiquitous princes, the rarer sheiks, or the singular caliph, all guarded their womenfolk with legendary zeal and would pursue vendettas across the centuries over as little as a covetous glance. What they might do over a despoiled maiden they left to the horrors of imagination.

I wondered if the sheik saw me as a marriage opportunity, having seated me amid his daughters. “I’m very grateful that the Ha’tari found me,” I said, keeping my eyes firmly on the meal.

“My daughters Lila, Mina, Tarelle, and Danelle.” The sheik smiled indulgently as he pointed to each in turn.

“Delightful.” I imagined ways in which they might be delightful.

As if reading my mind the sheik raised his goblet. “We are not so strict in our faith as the Ha’tari but the laws we do keep are iron. You are a welcome guest, prince. But, unless you become betrothed to one of my daughters, lay no finger on them that you would rather keep.”

I reddened and started to bluster. “Sir! A prince of Red March would never—”

“Lay more than a finger upon her and I will make her a gift of your testicles, gold-plated, to be worn as earrings.” He smiled as if we’d been discussing the weather. “Time to eat!”

Food! At least there was the food. I would gorge to the point I was too full for even the smallest of lustful thoughts. And I’d enjoy it too. In the deadlands you starved. From the first moment you stepped into that deadlight until the moment you left it, you starved.