The Silver Sparrow

A Reason for Revenge

The spacious dining tent, to Hasheem's surprise, was only a touch more extravagant than the others. Inside was a low-legged, wooden table covered with a long, white strip of fabric beautifully stitched in gold and silver around the border. One large, handsomely embroidered cushion had been placed at one end of the table for the kha'a who had yet to appear. Immediately to the left seated Nazir and then Djari. Iza Nyema took the place opposite to her granddaughter and left the place immediately to the right of the kha'a vacant—presumably for the kha'ri whom he had yet to meet.

His place was beside Djari's, iza Nyema had explained. It was to be so from now on, everywhere she went, at any time. He would take the tent next to hers, attend the same classes, and guard her during all activities unless she deliberately excused his presence. Nighttime would be an exception, but any private activity—iza Nyema had stressed—was to happen in his tent where he could still guard her effectively, and nowhere else. Only he should know that the walls didn't keep in sound very well, she'd added with a grin. He'd simply smiled at that and told her he didn't think he would be needing that information anytime soon.

Nazir looked up at him when he entered, brow raised in a small surprise, and gave him an approving nod. The serving girl, a dark-haired, hazel-eyed common blood with freckles on her nose blushed all the way to her ears when he caught her gaze and gave her a smile. Djari, however, simply looked and acknowledged his presence, unimpressed with his cleanliness and a change of clothing, or she was hiding it well. She smiled very little, he noticed, and always carried herself like an adult despite her age. A fifteen-year-old girl—he'd found out from iza Nyema—who looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. He wondered if all bharavis were that way.

The kha'a entered the tent some time later, alone. He had anticipated the kha'ari to have arrived before or at the same time, had been looking forward to seeing the woman who had raised Djari and Nazir. The seat, however, remained empty while the meal was served, even though a place had clearly been set up elaborately for one more guest. From time to time, he would see Djari glance at the empty plate and then look away from the table, as if to clear her mind from an unwelcome memory.

They spoke of small things and he listened quietly, taking care to not show too much interest except when he was asked questions. Surprisingly, there had been no questions asked about his past, and he wondered if Nazir had already told them everything. If he had, none of them seemed to mind. Except maybe Djari. She sat through the meal without a word spoken, picking on her food absentmindedly and barely eating. He couldn't tell if something else was disturbing her, or that she was displeased with him. She was difficult to read, and he considered himself quite capable of reading people.

"I assume you have been trained to fight?" the kha'a asked, taking a sip of his wine and then glanced briefly at his son.

Kill, yes, fight, not so much, Hasheem wanted to say. Assassins were taught to kill swiftly, discreetly, preferably from a distance. He had been taught more on how to sneak up on his victims unaware and less on how to fight an accomplished warrior head on. It would have to be explained carefully.

"I can use a sword, a dagger." All kinds of cutlery. A rope. A silk scarf. His bare hands. Also poisons. He decided to omit all that from the answer. "I am...adequate with a bow." Compared to what Djari could do, adequate was considered the correct word for his own skill, if not poor.

"And the rest?" asked the kha'a. "How good are you?"

How good was he? He was Deo di Amarra's gold ring assassin. Back in Rasharwi, that was as high as one could go in status where deadliness was concerned. In front of Za'in izr Husari ... "I'm not sure," he concluded. If a fifteen-year-old girl could shoot like that, to these people, he could be average at best.