Free In the Palace of the Khans by Peter Dickinson Page B

came into the hall, a small, pudgy, anxiously smiling woman.
    â€œThis is Janey,” said Rick. “Dzhanayah, if you’re talking local. And since the girls won’t, I’ll tell you that’s Lizhala there on the left and Nahdalin on the right. Lisa and Natalie to you.”
    â€œHappy with meeting you,” said Janey. “Come in along.”
    The room was obviously only used for this sort of thing, musty and shadowy, lit by one small window and three heavily shaded lamps. The central table was covered with dishes of elaborate little cakes and pastries and crystallized fruit.
    Nigel sat where Rick told him to and put his shoulder-bag on the floor beside him. Rick sat opposite. The girls hovered while Janey took a pair of silver tongs, picked up a tartlet from one of the dishes and put it on Nigel’s plate. She handed the tongs to Lisa who did the same and passed the tongs to Natalie, who changed her mind several times before giving him what looked like a crystallized gooseberry.
    Roger had briefed Nigel about all this. “They’re called guest gifts,” he’d said. “Once you’ve eaten under their roof their menfolk are obligated to protect you.”
    â€œAll right, you can sit down now,” said Rick. “And for Allah’s sake loosen up a bit, will you? He ain’t going to eat you.”
    Cursing him under his breath Nigel opened his bag and took out the return gifts Roger had given him. They all came in neat little gold boxes with the British royal arms on the lid. There was a framed photograph of the Queen for Janey and two silver clips of the royal lion and unicorn for the girls, which they all seemed pleased with, but not enough to break the ice.
    Nigel did his best, but it was hard work. Janey was obviously jumpy. Rick kept making clumsy attempts to jolly the girls along. Nigel told them the sort of stuff he’d been telling Taeela about his own life, and what things had been like in Santiago, and his school, and so on, but they just stared at him, and gave brief, unwilling, whispered answers to his questions about their own lives and doings. They spoke good English, with Rick’s accent.
    He was getting desperate when he asked them about their school. No, there weren’t any boys there. Yes, the teachers were women too. Except the Imam. He taught them about Islam and the Koran. What did he think about Lisa’s make-up?
    Suddenly an expression, a slight pursing of the lips, suppressing a smile, and the ghost of a giggle.
    â€œHe don’t know,” said Lisa. “We got to wear our dahli for him.”
    â€œHave you got them here? Can I see you wearing them?”
    He’d said it on the spur of the moment, just to give all three a bit of relief from the desert of time still to be got through before he could decently leave. They jumped up and scuttled out as if that was all they wanted, but they weren’t long gone. There was a sound of laughter and scuffling at the door as each tried to push the other one in first. Then they composed themselves and walked demurely in, lined themselves up and curtseyed again to Nigel, just as they had done in the hall.
    But this time the movement was easy, almost graceful, and though when they rose all he could see of their faces was the two-inch slot around their eyes, there was something different about the eyes themselves. There was a new light in them, a quickness of glance, an impression that life was fun. Boosted by Lisa’s eye-shadow the change was dramatic, but it was also obvious in Natalie. Without the veils she was clearly the plainer sister. Now you couldn’t tell.
    â€œHow on earth do you eat?” said Nigel.
    Another giggle, and they came almost eagerly back to their chairs, and each took something off one of the dishes and slipped it neatly into their mouths through an opening in the side of their veils.
    â€œMust be tricky with soup,” he said.
    Another explosion