Free Between Two Ends by David Ward Page A

liftedwith the branches to show her hair flowing over her shoulders in thick black curls. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale.
    â€œYou’re not Khan. What are you doing in there?” There was no alarm in her voice, only mild amusement.
    â€œI … I …”
    â€œAre you spying?”
    â€œUh …” He winced.
    She stepped closer. “Listen to me, spy, because I warn you for your own good. Do you know what happened to the last spy that was found by Khan? And my father is even less merciful than Khan.” She put her hands on her hips. “I am astonished that you eluded my pet. Still, I am happy for someone’s company other than my nurse.” She looked sideways at him. “Unless, of course, you are a thief. Be warned that I am armed.” She pulled back the folds of her tunic to reveal a short knife.
    â€œI am not a thief,” Yeats managed. “But I am looking for something.”
    â€œAnd what might that be?” She folded her arms.
    â€œYou.”
    Her face brightened. “Did Mohassin send you? Oh deceitful, lovable cook! He cannot tell me himself but has sent his servant,” she murmured. “Wait! I’m coming in!” Before he could reply, the girl parted the branches of his tree covering and stepped through.
    She was so close their noses nearly touched. “There! Now, what does Mohassin have to say to me?”
    Yeats tried to think. “Mohassin did not send me. I am here on my own.”
    â€œFor what purpose?”
    Taking a deep breath, Yeats ventured, “To help you, to save you from a danger. And to help my father.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “The poets have said, The face of an honest man hides nothing, while the face of a liar can be read by all.”
    She was almost as tall as Yeats, which surprised him since he was used to looking down at people his age. Her delicate curls and feminine clothes were deceiving, for when her arm brushed againsthis shoulder he felt the strength of an athlete, not a dainty royal.
    â€œI am not a liar,” he answered.
    â€œYet not telling all either. That is close to a lie. Tread carefully.”
    He swallowed. “I can’t.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause you will think I am crazy.”
    She scrutinized him. “You are
not
witless. However, each man serves his own purpose. And what may yours be, I wonder?” She tugged him out of the tree branches into the moonlight. “What garments are these!” she exclaimed and touched his shirt. “You are from a distant land, I see. But I do not fear you. You have a trusting face. And familiar! Walk with me. My father allows no one but my maid to visit, and your company, deceitful or not, is welcome.” She stopped after a few paces. “By all that is in heaven! I
have
seen you before. Swear it is so.”
    â€œYou knew my father.” Before she could query further he added, “And if everyone has their purpose I would very much like to know yours.”At the last second he remembered to add, “My lady.” The stones crunched pleasantly beneath their feet and the moonlight opened a path before them. Yeats had the surreal sensation that the garden was a theater and the trees an audience. Blossoms fluttered down like butterfly ghosts and came to rest silently before their feet. Her next words broke his reverie.
    â€œI want to know why the city weeps.”
    His stomach lurched. “You said that to Mohassin.”
    â€œSo you
are
a spy!” she accused.
    He shook his head. “No. But why do you need to know about the weeping? Do you really think you are Shaharazad?”
    With the briefest smile she kept walking. “How intriguing! It is told that once there lived a man whose words were honey but whose garb was as slovenly as a boar. …”
    â€œIs this a story?” Yeats interrupted.
    Shaharazad nodded.
    He sighed. “I was told you are familiar with all the