Call of the Trumpet by Helen A. Rosburg’s Read Free Book Online Page B

hands, and a column of servants appeared, each bearing a laden tray. Coffee was served, strong and dark, along with pitchers of sweet wine for those less heedful of religious constraints. There were plates of sugared almonds and honeyed dates, heaping dishes of rice mixed with almonds, and skewers of spicy grilled lamb.
    The conversation continued, though its tone now was subdued. Then, abruptly, it ceased. Startled, Muhammad looked toward the door, where every eye had suddenly turned.
    He wore the robes of the desert, long and full. The end of this snow-white
khaffiya
was draped across his mouth and chin. Yet there was no mistaking the tall, broad, powerful figure. An undercurrent of murmurs swept throughout the room. “El Faris,” someone said, and the name was picked up and echoed, repeated again and again, until silence at last descended.
    Ibn Hassan smiled, taking advantage of the moment, and called El Faris to his side. “Welcome, friend,” he said. “Sit down and join me in a cup of wine. I am glad you have come.”
    “Tell me,” came a voice from Hassan’s right. “Why
have
you come?”
    Tension strained the silence. Unconcernedly, El Faris gazed down at Suhayl, agent in matters of procuring women for the illustrious ruler, the caliph of Damascus. The agent’s enormous, bejeweled body was lavishly spread upon its supporting cushions. A cup of wine dangled from his thick, gem-studded fingers.
    “I was invited by a friend,” El Faris replied at length, smoothly. “Even the caliph, I think, cannot deny me the rights of an invitation extended. Or can he?” He paused, savoring the shocked expressions of all around him. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you should hurry away and tell your master. Be a good errand boy, Suhayl! Tell him I am here, in his city, unprotected. I await his … pleasure.”
    Suhayl’s face flushed red. Others looked away, some embarrassed, some afraid, some trying in vain to hide their smiles of delight. How exquisitely El Faris taunted the caliph, who would love nothing more than to put the brave desert warrior away forever in his foulest dungeon. How lovely it was to see their illustrious … infamous … ruler humiliated once again in the cat-and-mouse game he and El Faris endlessly played. Everyone knew Suhayl would not budge from his place. Nor would he dare to send a messenger to the caliph. Not beneath the watchful eye of El Faris. Or of those who undoubtedly awaited him outside.
    The low murmur of voices slowly resumed, and El Faris seated himself, pleased. It seemed the evening was going to be more interesting than he has anticipated.
    Muhammad wiped his sweating brow. Of all things to have happened. Though it was a singular honor to have the legendary El Faris, a defender of the desert tribes and enemy of the caliph, visit his house, he prayed that Suhayl had not been too deeply insulted. An unhappy man held more tightly to his purse, and Muhammad had counted on selling at least several of his prizes to the caliph’s agent.
    Wisely, Muhammad decided it was time to produce what they had all assembled for. While it would incite the heat of passion, it might also cool tempers. He clapped his hands once more, and servants hurried to extinguish the braziers near the back of the room. Only the front fires remained lit. The silky hanging over the doorway to the corridor billowed in the evening breeze.
    An expectant hush fell upon the guests. Muhammad savored the moment and moved with slow deliberation to the front of the room. He pressed his hands together and bowed. Then he began his short prepared remarks.

    This time Cecile was ready when the door opened. It was not the female servant, as she had expected, however, but Abdullah. For a long moment they faced one another. Cecile’s fists clenched at her sides. A barely perceptible smile touched Abdullah’s mouth, and he took a step forward.
    Cecile backed away. Trying to avoid him was futile, she knew, yet she couldn’t simply