Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

The slave girl in this chapter is a nod to CMQuinn. Happy singing.

"He ignores our pleas time and again," Hudhayfa's voice rumbled from the great mosque, carrying across the city with surprising strength and vehemence. "For years, the Khalifa has abandoned us to the fate of mismanagement and negligence. And now, he deigns to bribe me! He questions my honor!"

Ruqayya lounged on her newly purchased couch, low in the Roman style. Lavish furnishings dotted her freshly acquired home; every corner hosted at least one immaculate urn or brazier. The center of her audience chamber was decorated with a delicately woven rug.

Father Rochbert, her priest, stood uneasy and shifting atop it. Ruqayya smiled at his endearing restiveness.

"What does this mean, then?" the holy man inquired, voice quivering. "Will there be fighting?"

He crossed himself, muttering a quick prayer.

"Worry not, Father," she reassured him. "Hudhayfa is acting under my instruction. The delegation that he is about to dispatch to Madinah is a peaceful one, I promise you."

Muhammad ibn Abu Hudhayfa, the governor of Egypt's aide, continued his empty bellowing in the great mosque to apparent wide acclaim. As though he were some mastermind. Ruqayya offered the girl standing next to her a coy smile, musing about how men thought themselves the architects of their own fate simply for yapping at the forefront. It was women like Ruqayya who truly set things into motion. All through their respective figureheads, of course.

Ruqayya felt something stir inside of her when the girl did not shrink away.

Remarkably short, Ruqayya thought, barely containing her laughter at the dwarf-like figure by the couch. Yet, her small stature only served to add to her allure.

Ruqayya slid a finger across the girl's cheek.

She did not flinch at the touch. On the contrary, she basked in it. She seemed to grow closer.

Father Rochbert's growing tension at the events unfolding before him forced a giggle out of Ruqayya, a sense of glee washing over her. His inability to voice his displeasure helped remind Ruqayya who truly held the power in the room.

In the city.

In the province.

Though the governor remained in al-Fustat, his power essentially crumbled at the first hint of public admonition from his aide. Sarh was holed up in his chambers while his aide delivered a series of speeches to the disgruntled populace.

But Ruqayya knew where the true power resided.

She guessed that when her plan came into fruition, Sarh would flee north and east, into Palestine. She guessed he would brave the journey farther north and seek refuge in the governor's court in Damascus.

She cared not for his fate. The intricate pieces of her plan lay at the ready. In waiting for her to remove and place at her pleasure.

The day Andronicus, her adopted father, had died, a part of Ruqayya had died as well. It was then that her plan conjured as if spontaneously in her mind. She'd rounded up all the men of craft and traders in the city as well as a number of troops, tapping into their mutual disgruntlement over the governor's mismanagement.

Following a rather productive meeting with the governor's aide, the man yet screeching in the mosque, she had also linked up with one of the senior military officers she knew would lap up at her proposal – ibn Abu Bakr.

And she'd sown discord. She shattered the fragile harmony that kept the current Islamic community tied together.

And like a vulture, she swept in to collect the fragments.

She had brokered a deal as an intermediary with the men of craft and the troops. The merchants, carpenters, blacksmiths, armorers – the entire lot. They would all deposit their goods with Ruqayya, who would act as a sort of middle-man between them and the troops. She would then sell the supplies to those venturing to Madinah, as part of a delegation to the Khalifa to voice their concern over the administration.

The absolute monopoly of goods in the hands of one woman certainly facilitated the influx of trade that she knew would bombard her once the governor was disposed of. Though a considerable amount of her profit was returned to the craftsmen as part of their commission, Ruqayya managed to earn a small fortune with that one small trick.

From rags to riches.

And now...

The 'peaceful' delegation would be sent to Madinah. The second step?

All hell breaking loose, of course. All to see her wares grow and her pockets filled. The world had dealt her a great injustice with its theft of her adopted father. The world had wronged her time and again before that.

It was her time to take instead of give.

My turn, she thought, studying the features of the absurdly petite woman by her side.

So tiny, Ruqayya scoffed. If not for her adult features, Ruqayya would have mistaken her for a child. She looked as though she'd be level with Ruqayya's chest.

A Christian slave, she knew. Ruqayya had purchased her when igniting a revolt through her Alexandrian contacts.

She was not sure of her name, though. Nor did she care to inquire. She grinned wolfishly at her, imagining her on the couch by her side. In her arms.

"Sing for me," Ruqayya commanded, lying on her back.

Hudhayfa's deep-throated attempt at charisma faded into the background, replaced with the even more abhorrent sound of the slave girl's...singing. If you could call it that. It sent Father Rochbert cringing out of the room.

"Louder," Ruqayya ordered, shutting her eyes tight.

Imagining an empire.