Huguel

1

The Great Farhad-e Kimiyagar
"Ey!" Farhad snaps a pair of bony fingers in front of your face. "Are you daydreaming?"

His workshop swims back into focus. The two of you are sitting on wooden stools, facing each other. On one side of you stands Farhad's workbench, covered in glassware. On the other squats the small, brightly burning forge, a flask of naft boiling within. A spout over the mouth of the flask collects the vapor and funnels it down into a smaller container on the hearth, where it cools and condenses, filling the shop with the sharp, sulfuric scent of oil.

Farhad's wife, Mahasti, sits at a desk by the stairs leading up to the rest of the house. She's going over a ledger. Every now and then, you catch her casting surreptitious glances in your direction, her face a mix of curiosity and concern.

Towering shelves crammed with books banned by the padeshah line the walls between the desk and the opposite corner of the workshop, where a folded blanket rests on the swept sandstone floor, marking the spot that will serve as your bed for the duration of your apprenticeship. It's a far cry from the dormitories at the University, but it looks comfortable enough. Beside it sits the battered satchel containing your few, precious possessions—among them a rare volume of Vatani verse that belonged to your baba and the ring he gave your maman the day they were married.

"Well?" Farhad strokes his gray-streaked beard, eyes sharp as a shamshir behind his spectacles. "Are you here with me? Or are you somewhere else?"

"I'm sorry, ostad. What were you saying?"
"I was thinking about my parents."
"I was paying attention!"
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