Abal found reading to be her favorite pastime. Her father taught her four languages and bought her books in all four. She spent her mornings reading but in the afternoons she craved adventure. She regularly ventured out ( alone, but shhh) . She was almost caught once by someone she knew. She cursed herself that day for being careless and now took the precautions of dressing like a boy. It wasn’t much of a stretch, she wore her brother’s jubbah that was much too small for him and hooded so it covered her hair. She wore no kohl and pulled her hair back into a messy bun at the small of her neck. What little you could see of her hair looked like the mussed mane of a traveler. Not many people gave her a second look. She had some androgynous features and could pass for a boy. Whenever someone asked her name, she said it was Khubaib.
Khubaib was her alter ego. The street savvy, smooth talker who could get what he wanted. Abal had most of her fun when she took on this persona. She went into town that day, just like any other and snuck into the abandoned bookstore where there had been a fire the previous summer. The book seller was found with black magic texts and the kings men burned the place to the ground. No one bought it so it stayed deserted. A couple beggars made there way in and out of it at night but during the day, it was the perfect place for Abal to hide her things and change into Khubaib.
Abal pulled her hair into her loose bun and pulled up her hood. She wove her way through the narrow cobblestone streets to a dark wooden door with and intricate metal gate. She knocked twice using the men’s knocker. It always gave her a rush to grab hold of the heavy metal knocker that gave such a resounding loud sound. Nothing like the light ding that sounded when the women’s knocker was used. A gruff voice asked for her name and she told him it was Khubaib.
The big burly man let her into a stuffy dark hallway. She was led into a smoky room filled with pillows and lush carpets. Sultan sat facing the door, hookah pipe in his mouth and dark eyes on Abal. He waved her in.
Sultan was not his name but it was the name everyone knew for him. Sultan ran things, he was the type of gangster whose best friend was the king and made private visits to the president’s house. Sultan owned half of the town. He had a few pieces that were very expensive but besides that he lived simply. Or at least he did while he was in town. There were other people in the room as well. People who you you had to go through to see Sultan. There was the lean and gorgeous Amar. He was the charming, occasionally charismatic young man who had no other purpose that Abal knew of but being charming and good looking. She had heard rumours that he was an efficient killer but did not like getting his hands dirty.
Uthman was the one that looked like a killer. He had wild eyes and battle scars that he displayed like ornaments on his arms. His purpose was obvious. During her visits with Sultan Abal had seen a dozen other faces but those two were there every time.
The men were laughing about something when Abal sat down. Sultan turned to her with glittering laughing eyes and asked her “ What do you think? Do you think your king would lie to me when I knew the truth or is he really a puppet?”
Abal’s heart sped up momentarily. This kind of talk could be treason. “ I don’t know,” Abal said quickly and looked down at her lap. “ Maybe he thought lying was the safest thing to do,” she went on. She realised that her voice had begun to shake and stopped talking.
Sultan still held his amused expression when he sat back, “ Look brothers, our brave little pigeon Khubaib is afraid of his puppet king.”
Sultan drank in some smoke from his hookah and blew it in Abal’s face. He started talking in serious tone then, “Under the cover of smoke, everyone seems scarier, son.”
“ Your king is a puppet who spews out the lies he is fed. Even he does not know the truth about what happens in his own palace. His son has more power than he does.” He laughed then, but this time it was cold and humorless. “ What kind of a man lets a boy control his affairs?”
Amar and Uthmaan laughed as well. A woman, wearing and flowy skirt that jingled when she moved brought in a brown package. She set it down at Sultan’s feet and left immediately. Sultan opened the package, pulled out a silk bag and stuffed who knows what inside of it. He rewrapped the bag in a burlap cloth and tied it with string. He handed the package to Abal and told her where to drop it off.
“Tell them that Amar will be around later to collect.”
To collect what she did not know. She did not even know what she was carrying.
