Page 89 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

He sits up with exaggerated caution, then re-adjusts his wrap, which has almost revealed most of his smiling face. “I am truly exhausted.”

“They are not even yours,” I tease. “What will you do when you have children of your own to contend with all day?”

“Ah well,” he says, easing himself onto one elbow at my feet. “I will have a wonderful wife who will save me from them.”

“Will you, indeed?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says confidently, his eyes on mine. “Now tell me what you are doing up here all alone.”

I shrug.

“Ah come now, Kella,” he says. “I know you miss the trading life. But are you so unhappy here?”

I smile a little. “Not when you make me laugh. But I do miss it.”

“Tell me about the trading life,” he says. “I would like to be a trader myself one day.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the jewellers, the leatherworkers, the carvers,” he says. He has already learnt that I need little prompting. Just the names of the craftsmen will have me talking for hours.

I gaze across the dunes. “The jewellers have steady hands. They can tell so many stories on a tiny circlet of silver. They spend hours turning over gemstones to find the perfect matches of size and colour for a string of beads or a pair of earrings. You can ask them for magic amulets, and they will whisper prayers over jewels for fertility, for luck, for wealth. Some of them roll up tiny scraps of parchment containing verses of the Qur’an, prayers and blessings that will be kept close to the skin within a tiny box of silver. ”

Amalu nods, touching his own silver amulet, dangling from his neck.

I sit up a little straighter, gesture at my yellow leather slippers.

“The leatherworkers buy whole dyed hides from the tanneries and sit in the shade of their tents with all manner of colours spread out before them. The pure whites fetch the highest price. The mixtures used to make them can rip the skin off a man’s hands at the tanneries.

The yellows are dyed with the stamens of the crocus flower.

Aunt Tizemt only needs a tiny pinch of saffron for a meat stew, but a lot more is required for a full hide.

They cut out small pieces for shoes and use the bigger pieces for saddles. ”

I pause for a moment, thinking of the races in which I used to take part.

Amalu sees my face lose its brightness and interrupts my thoughts. “The carvers – you forget to tell me about them.”

I nod, distracted from my regretful thoughts by his enthusiasm. “The carvers work precious woods but also ivory. They make such wonders – the tiniest shapes, the most delicate markings. One false move and the work would be ruined.”

“No spoons and cups, then?”

I smile. “Those too and in far greater quantity. They are not treated with such care. I used to buy so many replacements just for our own family and everywhere we went we could always sell such goods.”

Amalu’s eyes are bright. “I will go to all the places you have been,” he says. “And see such things for myself.”

I want to say take me with you , but that would be too forward.

Already I know there are whispers about us in the camp, but although Amalu looks at me with loving eyes I am unsure of my own feelings.

Still, he is a friend to me, and I feel the need for someone who will let me speak of my trading days.

“Kella! Kella!”

I roll my eyes. “Aunt Tizemt is looking for me again.”

“I will hide you behind a bush,” offers Amalu mischievously. “And tell her you have run away.”

I shake my head. “Your life would not be worth living when she found you out,” I tell him and together we make our way back to the camp.

***

Back and forth, back and forth. Buckets from the well, thread on the loom, this grindstone, crushing the wild grains gathered one by one.

I refocus my eyes from the horizon and catch sight of Aunt Tizemt, who has paused in her weaving and is looking over her shoulder at me.

She smiles encouragingly. Waving her hand at the bowl of grains by my side that are yet to be ground, she begins a story.

“There were once some children lost in the desert. They were hungry and could find nothing to eat. They were surrounded by vile-tasting beetles, beautiful but poisonous oleander bushes, and sand. Sand everywhere, rocks and sand.”

I break in impatiently, rudely interrupting her story, which I have heard once too often.

“Then one small boy caught sight of a column of ants. Back and forth, they scurried, back and forth, each ant carrying but one grain on its back. The children took the grains of the sand from the ants, one by one, and so they were saved from starvation until they were found.” I gesture angrily towards the bowl of grains.

“You can tell all the stories you like, Aunt, but there is nothing interesting about the gathering or the grinding of grains. In the great souks I could buy my couscous ready ground and rolled by slaves. Street vendors made great basins of hot milk porridge to be eaten by those who had coins. I traded. I was quick, I knew the gemstones, the quality of skins. I chose the strongest slaves, the finest jewellery, the softest leather shoes. I spent my days seeing all there was to see, bartering for goods from all over the world. I felt the weight of cold gold in my hands and felt its softness against my teeth. I threw coins to the street vendors, and they served me fresh bread and roasted meats, cool drinks and sweets to please the tongue and eye. I did not stoop to collect one grain at a time, nor did my hands chafe with the distaff. My hands were tough because of the reins of my camel, the bundles of goods I lifted to the pack animals. I was better than this.”

Aunt Tizemt is unmoved by my outburst. She keeps weaving, her broad back firm and upright. She speaks without turning round. “You think you have seen everything the world can offer. I think you have not. You think too highly of yourself.”

“What have I not seen? I have seen more than you!”

I cannot goad her. She keeps her back turned and her voice is calm.

“Have you seen a child come slithering out of its mother’s womb, covered in blood and slippery to the touch?

Have you heard its first cry and seen the joy in its mother’s eyes and the pride in its father’s?

Have you caught a dead child in your hands and seen its shriveled body fall limply without breath to the floor?

Have you seen the tears of its mother and the cold hurt of its father?

Have you seen the man of your dreams and heard him whisper your name?

Have you stood naked before a man and seen his face turn to yours?

Have you held a man in your arms and loved him throughout the night?

Have you held your dying father and wept your heart away as he leaves you alone and unprotected in this world?

Have you held your first child in your arms and prayed that every one of your days would be so happy?

” She turns, smiling, to face me. “I think not. I think you have seen a great deal and lived very little. I think you have been so busy seeing everything that you have not experienced the moment when every grain you grind is food for your child and brings warmth to your heart. I think your eyes have been so filled with the wonders made by man that you have not seen the glory of the sunset and sunrise, the rise and fall of the dunes, the tiny ant and the mighty wind. You have seen everything and nothing at all. That will change. But sometimes you must be very, very bored before you can see something wonderful that is right in front of you.” She gets to her feet, hands on the base of her back, stretching out her cramped muscles after many hours at the loom.

“Now finish those grains. A child of ten would have finished them by now and I need them for our evening meal. Tomorrow, I will take you to Tanemghurt.”

***

“Remember to call her Lalla ,” says my aunt in a whisper as we make our way to her tent, which is large and well situated, for she is held in great esteem.

Tanemghurt is our camp’s healer and wise woman. There is not a child here who was not born into her hands, as were most of the adults. Tanemghurt has lived longer than anyone can recall.

I roll my eyes. I am hardly in need of lessons on basic manners, of course I would use a term of respect for Tanemghurt. “Why am I going to her at all?” I ask ungraciously.

“She will teach you the uses of herbs,” says Aunt Tizemt.

I bite back my rejoinder: that I have seen more herbs and spices on my travels than Tanemghurt can ever have seen, since she has spent her whole life here, in a tent in the middle of the desert.

The tent flap draws back suddenly and Tanemghurt stands before us. Her face is a wrinkled mass of lines, but she stands erect, taller than I am by a good hand’s breadth.

“Tizemt,” she says to my aunt, nodding her head as though to an equal.

“ Lalla ,” says my aunt. “This is Kella.”

Tanemghurt turns her dark eyes on me and says nothing.

“ Lalla ,” I say.

She holds the tent flap aside. “Enter.”

I hesitate, then step inside, the flaps closing behind me on my aunt.