We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

Altair had the nerve to grip his shoulders and steer him to the worn carpet, where Nasir folded his legs beneath him and sat like a common peasant. It was all he could do not to flip the general over his shoulder.

Altair laughed, clearly enjoying every heartbeat. “Shall I procure you a bib as well?”

“Keep at it and I’ll shove your fancy turban down your throat,” Nasir offered, noticing that the carpet beneath him was mottled with dark stains of who-knew-what.

He was here for information. He had seen and done worse than this filth. He would survive.

“Fancy, eh? Feel free. Blue isn’t really my color.” Altair winked and settled on the opposite side of the table.

Nasir didn’t bother with an answer. Someone opened one of the tent’s many flaps and the moon peeked in, bringing a gust of the cool desert breeze inside. In the deserts of Arawiya, there was nothing more beautiful and beloved than the moon, bringing with her relief from the relentless sun. One more thing the growing darkness sought to diminish.

“Marhaba,” the server girl said in greeting. A green jewel—likely fake—adorned her exposed belly button, arms shimmering with iridescent powder. Altair’s smirk spread wider, and she took that as permission to sidle close to him.

“Tell me, habibi, does this turban look good on me?” Altair crooned.

Nasir crossed his arms and sighed.

The girl ran a henna-tipped finger across his turban and smiled with pink lips. “I think it makes you look”—she leaned closer and dropped her voice, dark hair fanning him—“ravishing.”

Nasir lifted an eyebrow when she trailed her lips down Altair’s cheek.

Altair gave him a stupid grin, hunger darkening his gaze. He was drooling like a dog just praised by his master. The girl tittered and Altair answered Nasir’s glare with a calm stare before turning to her with a new smile. He trades faces quickly.

“One dallah of qahwa for me, please,” the general said.

Nasir was surprised. Coffee? He would have thought the general would be all for drink and get drunk.

“And for my friend here…” Altair trailed off, gesturing to Nasir, who scowled at the word “friend.”

“Water.”

The girl bristled at his order, touched Altair’s cheek, and glided away.

Altair’s eyes followed the server girl. “I knew you were a boring man, Nasir, but water? I don’t think they even have that here. They might just scoop some for you from the toilets.”

Nasir bit his tongue.

Altair continued, “Your restraint astounds me.”

As if coffee would make Altair forget anything.

“And your lack thereof abhors me,” Nasir replied.

“Some seek ways to forget,” Altair said, oddly solemn.

Nasir followed his gaze to a man clearly taken by drink. The fool stared at a glass, lost and unfocused until he blinked—a flash of pain, there and gone again. Nasir did not think Altair saw that pain.

“Some of us can never forget.” Nasir didn’t know why he said those words to Altair of all people.

As a reminder of his idiocy, Altair gave him a withering look. “Some of us don’t deserve to.”

The girl returned before Nasir could form a retort. She set a dallah pot and a cup in front of Altair, and a smaller glass of water in front of Nasir. It looked clean, and didn’t smell like it had been salvaged from … there.

“Shukrun, habibi,” Altair said, trailing the backs of his fingers over hers.

Nasir’s ears burned when the general leaned into her and murmured against her skin before pressing a scrap of papyrus to her palm.

“Listen,” Nasir started, but the girl stood and sauntered away with a parting glare. She stopped before one of the men in black uniform. A Sarasin soldier.