The Sheikh and the Servant (3 page)

The sheikh’s hand froze, staring down at the slave’s hand. Then he asked abruptly, “What is your name?”

“By Amir
Qutaibah’s harem master I was
called Abdur, Master,” Noori answered flatly. None of the slaves were given names of their own. Simply Abdul or Abdur. Servant or Slave.

The sheikh sniffed and looked Noori directly in the face, as was his habit, although Noori always looked away deferentially. “What is your birth name?”

“I was born Noori, Master.”

“Noori,” the sheikh repeated, the sound coming out like “nur-eee” with his thick accent.

Noori nodded, blushing slightly at the intense regard. As the sheikh studied him, he took the can of salve, scooping some onto his own fingers, and he began to gently knead the muscles of the sheikh’s palms.

The sheikh allowed Noori to take over with the salve, just watching him silently for long moments before he sighed, as if unhappy with some choice he’d made. He sniffed again. “You needed it,” he said shortly, looking away.

Noori’s blue eyes flashed up. “And Master provided it for me. It is the mark of a good master.”

The sheikh looked back to meet Noori’s eyes for a moment, and he nodded once, slowly, in acknowledgment.

#

After
a fortnight’s riding, one morning the group of riders plodded along at almost a lazy pace. A guard scouting ahead called out to the sheikh, who raised his hand in acknowledgment, and as the guard reached the top of what just seemed to be another dune in the ocean of sand, he was engulfed by a swarm of cheering denizens wearing bright colors.

Noori hunkered low on the horse he was riding, shocked by the sudden appearance and sound of such a large crowd. He pulled his scarves up to cover his face. He dared to look out over the surrounding land, seeing dunes give way to a city of tents built into a ridge of stone cliffs that formed a large valley. His eyes grew large, and he lowered his face immediately. He had never seen such a place—it rivaled Qutaibah’s palace, yet blended so perfectly into its surroundings that it must have been there for generations.

At the sheikh’s wave, the other guards rode ahead to greet their families as they were dancing and singing and cheering while the group descended the sand dune into the tent city that spread through the hidden rocky valley. They were surrounded by other chattering and singing people, and servants came to catch the horses’ reins. The sheikh dismounted in the middle of the crowd, waving a little, which only increased the cheers.

Waiting on the horse until he was told to dismount, Noori watched the crowd’s reaction to their obviously beloved sheikh from beneath lowered lashes. His hands gripped the reins tightly, his fingers turning white under the pressure. When he was told to dismount, he moved slowly, body tired and sore at the unaccustomed activity, to stand a safe distance behind his new master.

Unwrapping the scarves from his face, the dark leader accepted a waterskin and drank, causing yet more cheering. He waved a hand as if dismissing them, which drew laughter, and the sheikh allowed a ghost of a smile to take his face as the happy villagers danced around them. He turned to Noori, gesturing for the servant to follow, lifting his saddlebags over his own shoulder as he started walking through the crowd. Many people greeted the sheikh with bows, singing, waving, many reaching out to lightly touch his arms, which he seemed to ignore in good humor.

Watching as the people bestowed praises and gestures of fortune upon his master, Noori began to feel as if maybe his fortunes had turned for the better. While it would be up to the sheikh what Noori’s position in the kingdom would be, he could not keep his hopes from rising with each night the sheikh deferred his services. He had been held each night since leaving the amir’s keep, but the sheikh refused to use his body in any way other than as a simple pillow.

The sheikh led the way through a maze of tents, finally walking up to one that wasn’t much different from the others—perhaps a bit larger—with a torch on each side of the tent flap. Without any ceremony he ducked inside out of the sun and heat. Noori stopped at the flap of the tent, unsure of his welcome inside the dwelling. Qutaibah had never allowed a pleasure slave inside his private chambers, always using them in the outer rooms before turning them out.

Then he heard the sheikh call. “Noori.”

Noori blinked and spoke to the thick material of the tent flap. “Yes, Master?”

“What are you doing?” The sheikh appeared at the tent flap, glancing out at him.

Noori’s head remained bowed as he answered. “Forgive me, Master. A pleasure slave is never allowed into the private sanctuary of his master.”

He could feel the intensity of the sheikh’s gaze directed at him. Then: “I own no pleasure slaves,” the sheikh said, disappearing back into the tent.

Noori waited outside a moment more before calling, “What is your bidding, Master?”

A long arm snaked out of the tent and abruptly yanked Noori inside. Stumbling into the tent, Noori found himself held in strong arms. “I am sorry, Master, for being ignorant. Please tell me what you wish of me.”

The sheikh blinked down at the man in his arms. “Stay out of the sun,” he said curtly, and then he stepped back and walked over to his saddlebags, unbuckling one and digging into it.

An embarrassed flush spread over Noori’s visible skin, and he hung his head low in sorrow of angering his new master. He did not know what he had done.

After a few minutes of silence, the sheikh walked over with a waterskin. “Drink,” he ordered quietly. “Then you will finish the unpacking.”

Noori took the skin, taking several swallows of the cool liquid before re-fastening the skin and carrying out his orders. He unpacked the sheikh’s bags carefully, placing scrolls and papers on the low table that served as a desk. He then unpacked clothing, preparing to take it to wash. As he unrolled the tunics from the saddlebag, he discovered the bottle of bath oil. “Where would this please you, Master?”

Looking up from the papers he was squinting at, the sheikh waved over toward the thick pallet of silks and pillows that commanded one corner of the tent, looking back at the sheet with a frown. Seeing the look of consternation on his master’s face, Noori stepped closer, cradling the bottle carefully. “Is there something I might assist you with, Master?”

Sighing in annoyance, the sheikh handed the papers to Noori and started to pat his pockets—his usual manner when searching for his spectacles.

Noori reached without thinking to the fold of fabric just beneath the sheikh’s neckline. He pulled the spectacles out and handed them to his master. “Your larder appears to be overflowing, Master. There is not enough cold storage for the foods your people produce. I….” He stopped speaking, realizing horrifically that he was offering unsolicited advice. How could he make such an incredible gaffe? It was simply that he felt so at ease around the sheikh. He continued to examine the papers as he flushed, fearing reprisal.

Accepting the glasses, the sheikh peered at Noori rather than sliding them on. When the servant stopped talking, he frowned. “What else?” he asked, poking the paper.

Blinking up at him, Noori continued. “I would suggest a bartering system with neighboring tribes. Mayhap exchange vegetables for needed goods and services?” He dared to lift his eyes to watch his master’s face and gauge his reaction.

The sheikh folded his arms, fingers rubbing through the whiskers hiding his chin, and he grunted in response. “Possibly,” he answered. “For fabrics and pottery,” he murmured, eyes far away as he thought.

“Farriers, Master?” Noori suggested quietly. “Blacksmiths? Bakers? There are many options, when alternatives are examined, Master.”

The sheikh’s eyes snapped back into focus, looking at Noori, and he nodded once. “Scribe those ideas.” He walked toward the back area of the tent, unstrapping his gloves.

Now accustomed to such an order, Noori took a small piece of blank paper, wetting the quill before he dipped it in the inkpot. He noted the ideas for bartering, and then cleaned the nub on the quill.

After a glance across the tent, Noori approached his master carefully. “May I help you undress, Master?”

Raising his arms so that Noori could get at the ties, the sheik slowly unraveled the leather wrapping on his hand and wrist, dropping the hide to the pillows. He let Noori pull off his over-robe, and then he propped his boot up on the low table. Noori worked at freeing the sheikh from his clothing, not stopping until the man stood in his leather trousers. “I would draw you a bath, Master, but forgive me, I know not where to go for such luxuries.”

The sheikh sat gracefully amongst the pillows next to the low desk. “Tell the guard outside. A bath will be brought,” he said, sliding his spectacles on to look through more papers.

Noori departed the tent, making arrangements for a bath with the guard who stood outside the tent flap, an imposing figure in armor and leather. “The master wishes a bath to be brought to his quarters,” he requested in a low voice, deferring his eyes in respect. He then returned to the tent, gathering dusty clothes and removing his own filthy robes as he prepared them for washing.

Within a few minutes, there was a noise outside the tent, and the guard entered, holding the flap open for the two men who entered with a wooden bathing cask. Obviously accustomed to this, they set it firmly in a particular place and exited, and then a steady stream of villagers streamed in with pitchers of water, all offering a bow toward the sheikh as they departed. The bath was filled efficiently, and with only a quick glance toward Noori—the guard looked mystified—he, too, left the tent, folding the flap closed.

Noori took the flask of oil the amir had sent, adding a few drops to the water, whispering a blessing with a touch to the oil. “Master, if I may ask, why do they look at me so?” he asked timidly as he gathered a soft cloth from the stack of linens nearby.

“Hmmm?” The sheikh was still engrossed in the papers, not having made any movement in recognition of the bath’s arrival. He had much ignored the whole process.

“Master, they watch me as if I am… an oddity. I beg you tell me if I have acted disgracefully.” Noori’s voice reflected his plea.

Attention caught, the sheikh looked up from his papers and pulled off the spectacles. “As I told you, I do not keep pleasure slaves. They are curious about your presence.” Standing in one fluid motion, the sheikh stretched, sighing as his back and neck popped several times.

Noori hurried to stand behind the sheikh, his oil-slicked hands coming to rest on tensed shoulders. He began to knead the tanned flesh. “I do not understand, Master. Forgive me, Master.”

The taller man did not answer straightaway. Then he grunted. “You were wasted there,” he said quietly.

Flushing with shame, Noori agreed. “I was not Master Qutaibah’s most popular slave. It did not surprise me that he would let me go so willingly. I was an oddity there as well, Master.”

The sheikh moved unexpectedly, tucking a finger under Noori’s chin and lifting it so his near-black eyes could meet pale blue ones. “Focus on your strengths. Your mind.” He tapped Noori’s forehead. “Your heart.” He tapped Noori’s chest.

“I did not have much call to use them before, Master,” Noori whispered. The sheikh’s faith in him surprised him.

“Qutaibah liked your looks. You are fair of skin and eyes—a bewitching demon, even. Were you a woman, you would be both revered as a treasure and reviled as a witch,” the sheikh said slowly.

Noori looked up, daring to meet the other man’s eyes. “I do not mean to bring any shame or harm to your name, Master,” he said miserably. “Do you think me a witch, Master?”

The sheikh slowly lowered his hand, studying Noori’s face before he turned away. “You are not without your enchantments,” he said shortly, walking over to the cask. He shed his trousers and slid over the edge, settling into the steaming water.

Following the sheikh to the bath, Noori knelt at the head of the cask, waiting to assist him. He took the square of cloth and used it to wash the muscular body, his own body heating at the contact hindered only by a scrap of linen. It was still a most unusual feeling.

Chapter 3

The
large communal tent hosted a lively party. For the sheikh’s return, all sorts of delicacies were prepared and liquor abounded as the people celebrated. The leader himself presided quietly at the head of the low table, although he did allow a small smile to show at his people’s happiness. Servants circulated food and drink, musicians played in the corner, and several women danced about the tent. Perhaps some twenty warriors sat at the sheikh’s table.

Noori slipped into the open tent, skirting the edges of the crowd, though his quiet appearance still caught notice.

Numair leaned forward in his position at the sheikh’s right hand. “What is this prize you bring back from Qutaibah? He is obviously a foreigner and acts like a servant.” He paused. “No, more like a slave, I think.”

The sheikh’s eyes raised from his plate to find Noori in the crowd, pulled into dancing in a circle with some of the women. “A hidden treasure,” he answered cryptically. “And he is not a slave.”