“Marhaba,” a short, plump woman in a roughspun abaya said when he stepped through the door and its curtains to a warm room full of patrons. “I am Rameela.”

“Business seems good,” he observed.

The seated crowd was subdued but boisterous enough, the food abundant. Another woman sat on a stool, the gold-dusted length of her brown legs on display. She played a ney, fingers sliding down the flute sensuously.

The caravanserai owner eyed him, her face kind as she regarded his attire. “The sun never shows, but it’s nothing new, eh? People still need a warm bed.”

“Are there ifrit?”

“None around here. How may I help you, sayyidi?”

“Have you any rooms?”

“Aywa,” Rameela affirmed, smiling. “The moon ensured your luck—I’ve one left.”

“Just one?”

She nodded. “Have you a party?”

“I’ll take the room. I’ll also need a woman—”

Her smile flattened with disappointment. “We do not cater to such needs, sayyidi.” She gestured behind him. “Rana sometimes does, if you’re to her liking.”

Nasir turned to the woman playing the ney, realization striking him far too slowly when she smiled coyly at him.

“I—that’s—I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I need a healer.”

Rameela leaned back and laughed. “Don’t look so frightened, sayyidi. You should have said so! I will see to your injury.” She looked him over. “My husband is more skilled. Shall I fetch him?”

“No, you’ll do. Only to change bandages.” Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids like they were stubborn curtains.

The vacant room was down a dimly lit hall. It was a small space with a narrow bed and an even narrower adjoined bath. Cramped, but warm and free from mold and filth, and nearest the back exit.

“Passable, sayyidi?” Rameela ventured.

“It’ll do,” Nasir said, because he apparently didn’t know any other words. Rimaal, why was it so hard to carry on a conversation with anyone amiable?

Outside, a few spindly trees scratched against the caravanserai’s roof like knives across bone. He led Afya to a low ledge so that Zafira could dismount more easily.

“No killers in this one?” she teased lightly.

“I’m still here,” Nasir replied wryly as he handed the reins to the stable boy, whom he assumed was the owner’s son.

Zafira laughed, but stopped just as quickly with a wince and a low moan. Her hand closed around Deen’s ring at her chest, and Nasir found himself relieved at the sight. It meant she was thinking of something other than the book, other than death. Other than those boys.

“You truly loved him,” Nasir said like a fool.

She paused to look at him. “I will always love him, though never in the way he wished.”

He didn’t know what to say next, so he said nothing.

Inside, they found the caravanserai owner lighting a few suspended lanterns in the room.

She smiled when she saw Zafira. “Yaa, so this is why you asked for a woman. Come, child. Rest, so I can see to your wound.”

“Do you need help?” Nasir asked like an idiot from the corridor.

Rameela tsked. “If you could help her yourself, you wouldn’t have asked me, eh? There is food in the front. Yalla. Go eat, boy.”

Tags: Hafsah Faizal Sands of Arawiya Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net