Kamal Farag Aziz, the new president of Egypt, had come to Baghdad to submit himself to the Caliph and make his nation one with Syria, Palestine, Iraq, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, under the restored caliphate. In Cairo, Baghdad, Damascus, East Jerusalem, and Mecca, the masses celebrated. In Lebanon, Qatar, and Kuwait, the leaders of the few remaining sovereign Arab states were shivering.
Lilith pulled the edge of her shimagh across her nose and mouth. Partly it was to disguise the fact she was a woman, but it also kept the dust, raised by thousands of shuffling, stamping feet, from choking her. Only in Iraq could you smell the rich, moist tang of water and reeds, chew on grit, and endure nighttime temperatures in the high nineties. Her robe clung to her body, and she felt a trickle of sweat inching its maddening way down her spine. When Saddam had lived in the palace the acres surrounding the building had been given over to lush gardens. The Caliph had chosen not to take water from Iraqi farmers, and allowed the gardens to die.
From her vantage point near the palace wall Lilith could see the looming bulk of the palace. The white marble walls were washed in a kaleidoscope of colors as the fireworks display continued. A man dressed in snowy white robes and keffiyeh stepped out onto a third-floor balcony. He paced, rested his hands on the carved balustrade, peered down into the crowd, paced again, and vanished back into the room.
Idiot, Lilith thought. Get yourself killed by a stray bullet.
She waited until one particularly spectacular fireworks display lit the sky and every head craned back in that particular kind of amazement unique to yokels. Then she swept the folds of her dishdasha and jalabiya around her body and felt that strange, internal snap, as the surface beneath her sandals changed from dirt over concrete to less dirt over polished marble.
Prince Siraj gaped at her. He was handsome, but his smooth round face and the bulge of a belly against his robes showed the dangers of sufficient food for a Bedouin. No matter that the royal house of Jordan had been out of the desert for four generations. Two thousand years of subsistence living was bred deep in the bone, and it whispered constantly that this meal might be the last for a long, long time.
"Are" He coughed and tried again. "are you the one Noel sent?"
"You better hope so." Lilith stepped into the room. A breeze off the Tigris stirred the white fabric of the mosquito netting that swaddled the bed. An elaborate mosaic of multicolored stone covered the floor. It depicted King Nebuchadnezar hunting waterfowl in the rushes. But of course, Saddam had been a secularist. Lilith wondered how long until the Islamic purity patrols of the Caliph would destroy this art.
"I have your clothes." Siraj lifted the folds of black material from the bed and thrust the abaya and burqa into her hands.
She pulled off the shimagh, and her waist-length black hair tumbled free. Siraj stared at her. At five-ten, Lilith was a couple of inches taller than the prince. Her only worry were the silver eyes, legacy of the wild card, but fortunately the Muslim requirement of modest downcast eyes for women worked to her advantage.
"Noel said you were in school together?" she asked as she dropped the tentlike garment over her body. With one of her blades she cut discreet openings in the material that she could reach through.
"Yes. At Cambridge. We were great, good friends. He loves our culture." The sentences emerged in agitated little bursts of sound.
"Would a friend put you in this position?" Lilith asked. The mesh was disconcerting to look through, and the veils reduced her peripheral vision. She felt naked beneath the layers of cloth.
"I can be a bridge," the prince said as he paced around the room. His hands kept clasping and unclasping. "Between our two worlds."
"It's just one world," Lilith said, then added, "Do you have the map?"
"Yes." He handed her a piece of paper, and hurriedly pulled back his hand when their fingers brushed.
Lilith wondered at the avoidance. He had been educated in England, and lived for long periods in the west. Perhaps it was just the proximity of the Caliph that had him jumpy. She looked down at the paper. It looked like a cross section of a honeycomb. "A little hint would help. You know, insane religious nutters sleep here," Lilith said.
Siraj flushed at her drawling British delivery. "He changes rooms . . . frequently."
"Well, that's . . . irritating."
"He's become increasingly paranoid."
"Understandable. He was nearly assassinated by his sister." She gave Siraj a bright smile, then realized he couldn't see her features. Ridiculous culture.
Siraj plunged on as if she hadn't spoken. "Even though I'm on his council, I think . . . well, I think he doesn't trust me any longer. It started when the Righteous Djinn arrived. The Djinn disapproves of western education. He thinks it taints us." The hand washing had become even more fervent. "You mustn't fail."
"Relax. Tonight you have a pro."
The prince looked around as if expecting the walls of the room to collapse in upon them. "It may not be as easy as you think. The Djinn accompanies the Caliph everywhere. He is enormously strong, and he can become a giant."
"Good thing we're indoors."
Her light response didn't please Siraj. "Since you find the Djinn unworthy of concern, you might remember that there is also Bahir."
"I'm very aware of Bahir."
But it didn't stop the nervous flow. "Bahir can teleport. Many an enemy has been surprised to find his scimitar suddenly behind them. It's the last surprise they have before they're beheaded."
"Little flamboyant, don't you think? A gun would be easier and far more certain." She was very aware of the pistol strapped to the inside of her thigh.
"Well, yes, it's a stereotype, but it's also symbolic. The street loves it."
"All that symbolism is why the Arab has found himself despised and dismissed." Lilith looked at the map again. "I can't just go teleporting into rooms hoping to find the Caliph. Do you have any idea where he'll be?"
"He's at the banquet now," the prince said, "with the Egyptians. Aziz."
Kamal Farag Aziz. Egypt's new strongman had come to power when the meddling Americans had forced a free election that swept out the secularists in power and swept in the fundamentalists of Ikhlas al-Din. "Is your absence going to be problematic?"
Siraj shook his head. "I took ipecac. No one doubted I was sick."
"Ah, ipecac. Every British schoolboy's delight." Lilith paced. "Well, I can't crash the party." The folds of the burqa twisted around her legs. "Is the Caliph a typical male? Is he going to stay with they boys 'til dawn?"
"He is a serious man, not given to frivolity." Siraj paused.
Lilith seized on the thoughtful look. "What?"
"He is close to Nashwa, his first wife. He often shares his triumphs with her."
"Good thing I'm a girl."
"What are you thinking?"
"That I've always wanted to see the inside of a harem."
There were a pair of soldiers on guard outside the door to the women's quarters. Their dull dun uniforms were brightened by the presence of the green kerchief tied at their throats. Their eyes swept across her and dismissed her in a blink.
In a thick country accent, Lilith said, "The Caliph has sent this for his beloved wives, but the Caliph, great is his glory, will not mind if his brave and loyal soldiers sample a few of the delicacies."
They echoed her words of praise, and Lilith held the tray while the young men helped themselves to sugar. She noticed they both had dirty fingernails. Lilith then slipped under their arms and tapped lightly on the door. The heavy panel fell shut behind her, cutting off the bass rumble of male voices.