“No. It is hard to say with dervishes. Most of them look alike. It is the anonymity of being lost in Allah.”
“Yes, master.”
“And, as they’re all elusive as shadows, I think you must not hesitate to take most of the credit for this in his stead. Abdullah, I thank vou. I could not have faced my master, the Sultan, again with the dishonor of his granddaughter on my head. From the bottom of my heart, thank vou.”
He touched my arm then as if he, my master, were half afraid of its strength. “I thank Allah my trust in you was not misplaced.”
His words moved both of us unaccountably. I was glad to be able to bow now and escape something in his eyes that asked—or offered, I could not tell which—so much more.
I turned to move away without dismissal, a breach of form which Sokolli Pasha quickly spoke to cover for me. “Yes, Abdullah. Get your sleep. You have earned it well indeed.”
“Good night, master.”
“Good night, Abdullah.”
As I turned, I noticed a smear of red-brown on the back of his neck. More blood? Or was it henna that had not had time to soak into my lady’s hands properly in just one hurried half a day?
But I left him standing there over the celebration of his victory which he took little notice of, and certainly no credit for. Nor did he return to the marriage chamber that night to take his victory again.
