Free The Waters of Eternity by Howard Andrew Jones

toward truth, but I did not see it until the singing girl came to the stage.
    She was quite fair. Though on the slender side, her arms were rounded—she was no gangly youth. Long blonde tresses trailed out from beneath her yashmak. Her dress was not so scandalous as that of many singing girls, though of course her face was uncovered by veil. Gold bracelets flashed upon her pale arms and ankles, and her slim waist was bared.
    Her voice was low and I paid it little mind, but I frankly stared at her flashing eyes as she tossed her head this way and that over the course of her song. And I fancied she returned my gaze. She smiled slyly and slid her eyes to other men, though they returned to me.
    “The Circassian has eyes for you,” I heard Dabir say. “Her singing is…not altogether unpleasing, but I do not think that her chief draw.”
    A moment later he continued. “Do what you can to win her favors, Asim. Though it seems your broad shoulders have done that already. You, now, are the quarry.”
    Forgetting myself, I glanced over my shoulder at him. “The quarry?”
    “We will test a theory of mine. Approach and praise her when she ends her song.”
    I could not now ask my friend’s reasons, for the girl had finished. She spread arms to the crowd and lowered her head, and coins rained before her slippers. I rose, hand steadying my sword, and wove through the tightly packed tables. I stopped before her, then dropped a fist of bronzed daniks into the bowl at her feet.
    She lowered her head, as though she felt modesty, then looked up at me through her lashes in such a way that my heart sped.
    “Yours is a lordly offering,” she said, “and I am unworthy.” Her voice rang with the inflections of the north, and this, too, pleased me. Why is it that an accent makes an attractive woman more appealing still?
    “Nay, you are more than worthy. May your bowl be as overflowing as your charms.”
    Her smile broadened and she artfully brushed back a lock of hair. Seeing that she would not be singing immediately, the musicians struck up another song.
    She put a dainty hand upon my shoulder, leaned close, and spoke into my ear. She might have shouted to be heard over them, but this was more pleasing. Her hair was fragrant with rose water. “A lord like you,” she purred, “deserves a private song. Would such a thing please?”
    “It would.”
    “Follow me after the length of time it takes milk to boil,” she whispered in a more businesslike tone. “Tell no one, lest some other seek to woo me.”
    I nodded.
    Her eyes kissed mine, and then she glided off through a back curtain. I returned to my seat.
    “That seemed to go well,” Dabir said. I relayed what the girl had told me.
    “Ah. Then follow, and I will shortly follow you. On no account,” he added quickly, “are you to consume any foodstuffs she offers. Especially almond cakes.”
    “None?”
    Dabir laughed shortly. “I do not jest, Asim. Take no food she gives, lest it be your last.”
    “You think her a poisoner?”
    “She may be. Guard your person well.”
    After the proper time I left Dabir. No one halted my progress through the back curtain and out the rear door, where the girl awaited me, her hair grayed in the darkening evening. She had donned a veil, and the night’s breath stirred it. She spoke but one word, “Come,” then pressed her fingers against mine. Poisoner she might be, but her touch stirred my baser interests.
    It was a short walk to her apartment above a rug merchant’s.
    “I sent my servant to light candles for us,” she explained, for light glimmered through the shutters. A short man opened the door for us, bowing low. Behind him the room was richly furnished. Low couches were spread with silks and fine pottery stood on low shelves.
    “Bring my guest sweets and wine, Fahd.”
    The servant bowed and then left through a back door.
    “Come, take your ease.” She guided me to a couch. Her fingers found my waist and undid my sword belt. I