[Arry]

‘Give me the pipe,’ Bahir ordered the drunken servant who had stumbled to comply with Sangalazin’s orders. ‘You will spill the water the way you are lurching about. The hoses will get wet; your master angry.’ He looked at the man closely, sweeping his gaze from toe to head. ‘And what will your master do to such a clumsy, clumsy chit such as yourself.’ He smiled in a beguiling way, as if to sympathize with the sot. ‘Others have gone missing, have they not, who displeased the Lord. And perhaps he keeps a tally of little mistakes one makes . . . and perhaps when the sum grows large enough he will zero it with a quick word to his most trusted retainer.’

The servant’s eyes went large with fear as his befogged brain processed what the boy was saying. Still, he was the one commanded to bring the pipe.

‘There are no marks against me,’ Bahir continued; his voice gone soft and sing-songy as he wove his words, back and forth, much in the same way as a cobra mesmerizes his prey before the strike. ‘Go back to your quarters; let me take the pipe to him.’ He smiled again, his face going soft as if in sympathy with a close companion. ‘You will be spared his ill humor from the recent news of the Northmen’s fleet.’ Like a great, dumb beast, the man complied, his unsteady hands giving over the pipe. With a nod toward the chest where the spiced tobacco was kept, he staggered off.

Bahir sniffed the leather packets of tobacco, the shisha, as it was called, in the chest. He picked one smelling of honeyed apples, mixing it with one of a heady rose; the mixture sat mounded in a pretty enameled bowl. He placed the bowl along with the rest of his necessary equipment on a black lacquered tray, and into the base of the pipe he put two fingers’ width of fresh water. ‘And what’s this,’ he smiled, finding a flannel wrapped silver box beneath the tobacco. Several small, resinous balls, waxy, brown. ‘Ahh!’ he took one along with him, the largest.

‘The preparation of the pipe and the lighting of it, the offering of the hose, and the maintenance of the smoker’s pleasure is as elegant as a dance,’ the old smoking master of the Sultan had taught Bahir. ‘Your movements are like so,’ he would say,’ showing the boy the movements of hands and torso; the way to tuck his legs as he sat upon the cushion. ‘And your gaze should always be on the face of the one smoking. Read his expressions; alter your actions to enhance his enjoyment of the experience. Every time can be the very first, if you are attentive, boy.’

And Bahir had learned to be attentive . . .

Between the lightings of the pipe, there were silvered cups of wine and stronger spirits. And music . . . and other such pastimes as the Lord commanded with but a twitch of his finger or a smile. Bahir kept his eyes close on Sangalazin, watching how the man commanded, and demanded, and caused the others in the room to swirl about him like so many pretty scarves caught in a whirlwind. On the third lighting of the pipe, when he felt the Lord’s attention turn too much toward him, he placed the resinous ball on the heady tobacco and put the burning charcoal to it with the tongs.

On the deck above his sharp ears heard the command for the sailors to turn out; to take their positions for battle. ‘Breathe in deeply, my Lord,’ his soft voice said, as Sangalazin’s eyes began to dilate and grow dreamy. ‘My other master commands me, and I am bound to his service. I must take my place on the riggings . . .’

His voice faded out as he slipped from his cushion and made for the hatchway to the deck. Sangalazin, or perhaps it was another in the shadowed quarters, reached out to grasp him by the ankle as he stepped away. But Bahir slipped free, and ran quickly to answer the call to arms.