Free Sultana by Lisa J. Yarde

finally stood and the sack opened, she wobbled slightly. Niranjan and two identical young women wearing slave collars bowed before her. She looked around, realizing she was in a sparsely furnished tent, with only a chair and table. Outside, the people talked and argued and coins jangled.
    She asked, “Are we in the market?”
    “Yes, my princess.” Niranjan gestured to the chair. “Please await the Sitt al-Tujjar here.”
    “I want to go home.”
    “You shall.” He grabbed the chair and set it in front of her. “Sit.”
    “Don’t tell me what to do! You’re not my father. You’re just a slave.”
    He grinned, showing yellowed teeth with a few gaps in his mouth. “You remind me so of her. When I see you, I imagine what she was like as a child.”
    “Who?”
    “Princess Aisha.”
    “Don’t talk about my mother! You didn’t know her.”
    “I did. I have served her since I was a child, long before she married the Crown Prince of Gharnatah.”
    Fatima sank into the chair and folded her arms across her chest. She did not want to hear from anyone who knew her mother, who might have known her better than she did.
    Niranjan pushed the two women forward. Their coloring was the same as Niranjan, except they were thin and looked as though they had not eaten in a week with bellies caved in and ribs peeking through the flesh. Their narrow features were stark, bulging dark eyes, high, hollow cheekbones and buckteeth jutting forward between their thin lips.
    “These are my sisters, Amoda,” Niranjan patted the arm of the one who wore her braid on the left shoulder, “and Leeta.” He gestured to the other girl, her dark hair falling over her right shoulder. “If you’re hungry, they can bring you food.”
    “I don’t want anything from you! When can I see my father again?”
    Niranjan shook his head.
    A morning breeze whistled through the tent, just before a woman in a blue cloak entered. She swept back her hood with a fat, bejeweled hand, revealing a white cloth with two blue stripes that covered her hair. A small ring-shaped patch of yellow cloth decorated the shoulder of her cloak. She bobbed her head.
    Niranjan bowed to her, before turning to Fatima.
“The Sitt al-Tujjar.”
    Fatima scowled and leaned forward on the chair. “Why is your name the ‘mistress of the merchants’?”
    “It is best for my business that no one knows my real name, princess. I am a widow who manages her late husband’s trade. I am free to travel throughout the Muslim and Christian lands. People pay for my silk and wares. They pay me even more to keep their secrets.”
    She held out her hand. Niranjan pressed the red pouch into it. She cupped the weight and nodded. “We leave for al-Qal’at Al-Hamra. Once there, I shall send word to Prince Faraj’s steward that we have very special merchandise, for his master’s eyes only.”
    Fatima jerked from the seat. “What? Why aren’t you taking me to my father?”
    The Sitt al-Tujjar tucked the bag of coins into the unseen folds of her garment. “I receive large sums of money because I am careful and can follow precise instructions. Your mother commanded me to deliver you only to your husband, Prince Faraj. She said he would understand the need for discretion, rather than arousing the curiosity of others by your sudden appearance outside your father’s harem.”
    Fatima shook her head. “My mother trusted Prince Faraj? She didn’t even like him.”
    The Sitt al-Tujjar shrugged.
     
    Once again bound and stifled in the hemp sack, Fatima could hardly breathe. The bounce and sway of the camel caravan stole each breath, as rope held her securely on its back again. She rode up a sharp hill. When the camel finally sank to the ground, she waited for the opening of the sack.
    “Send word to Prince Faraj’s steward of my arrival.”
    She stayed quiet listening to the Sitt al-Tujjar giving other instructions. Soon, the camel swayed again and she gripped its sides tightly, fighting against