Between Two Ends (13 page)

Yeats held his ground and his breath as well.

Mohassin came closer and stared curiously at Yeats. He was not as old as Yeats had first thought, at least, not quite as old as Mr. Sutcliff. But years of hard work and sun had taken their toll, judging by his bent back and weathered face. He wiped his sweating forehead with a cloth.

“God's blessings, child,” he said. “Do not mind Mustafa's scolding. The cabbages from my kitchen doors feed the rich and poor alike.”

Yeats nodded weakly. He couldn't find his voice.

“Come, child. There is enough. No, Mustafa! Do not shake your stick! Eat your cabbage stew with thankfulness or I'll put you around the corner.”

The beggar was mortified and tried to make amends. “Nice maggot. Come and sit with Mustafa. There is room!”

Still unable to speak, Yeats opened his hand to reveal Shaharazad's ring. The effect was immediate. The beggar pointed in astonishment and opened his mouth.

Mohassin pounced. He clapped a hand over the begger's mouth and hissed, “Have you not always eaten your fill here?”

The beggar nodded.

“Then fear not and speak not.”

Before Yeats could retract his prize, Mohassin pulled him into the palace kitchens. Fires from two stone hearths, one at either end of the large room, filled the space with heat and flickering light. No wonder Mohassin was sweating! Earthen pots, herbs, and plants hung from lattices above their
heads. The air was filled with spice. Two cooks laboring over a pot looked up at him.

“Young fool!” Mohassin whispered. “Why endanger the lady? Put the ring away!” He whisked Yeats into a storeroom shelved floor to ceiling with baskets. The odor of rotten cabbage was nauseating. “Speak quickly,” Mohassin whispered. “We've already been noticed.”

Yeats lifted the ring again hopefully.

Mohassin released him. Then he folded his hands in prayer. “I know the lady's token. Give it to me. There now, why are you here? What does she require and how have you managed to see her?”

Yeats shook his head, unsure of where to start. “I can't tell you! She told me not to. But she said you would help me.”

Mohassin's shrewd gaze held him firmly. “I must honor her wishes, of course. Unless it presents a danger to herself. What is it you need?”

Yeats looked up sharply. “Take me to her chamber at midnight.”

Twirling the end of his beard thoughtfully, the
man answered, “A most unusual request. Highly unusual.”

“It is very important,” Yeats said. “And I need your help. I don't know how to get to there from here. I can't remember the way. But I must be there by midnight because that is when she … she will be expecting me.”

Mohassin rested his hands on his portly belly. “How in the realm of heaven did you manage to meet her in the first place? The palace is sealed off from the town and the garden is guarded by more than just palace soldiers.”

“I … I was taken there. By people who know my father.” It was partially true. Mohassin was unconvinced.

“And what, pray, is your father's name?”

“William Butler Trafford.”

“He is a merchant? Certainly not royalty—not from the way you are dressed. And a foreigner.”

Yeats peered down at his robe. “These aren't my regular clothes!”

The old man raised his eyebrows. “I should hope not.”

“Will you help me?”

Mohassin regarded him thoughtfully. Finally he chuckled. “Shaharazad is always up to some new mischief. I imagine she is hungry for young company—strange as it appears to my eyes. And you are but a child! No harm to it, I think.” He turned the ring over in his hand. “Although it is a dangerous game you two are playing. If you are caught, your head will hang from the palace gates.”

Yeats held himself steady against the wall. He tried to hear Mohassin's next words but there was the image of his own head hanging. …

“You will need servant's clothes,” Mohassin was saying. “I will garb you as a cook's assistant. If you are met on the way, you shall say you are delivering a sleeping draft to ease her ladyship's dreams.”

Despite his assistance, Yeats sensed mistrust in the old man's words. He returned the cook's steady gaze as a show of good faith. Yeats had to gain his trust. It was his only hope of getting to Shaharazad.

The sound of wailing women rose above the clamor of the crowds. A wave of pain crossed Mohassin's face.
“That
is something Shaharazad need not know about.” He gripped Yeats firmly. “You know that, don't you—foreigner though you be? She must not learn of what is happening.”

Yeats shook loose. “I'm here for something else!”

The old man scowled. “Who are you, child?”

“Mohassin!” a gruff voice interrupted. A man holding a curved sword stood in the doorway. His robes were black and a silk scarf covered his mouth and nose. His silver helmet had a spike at the top. “Trouble?”

Palace guard!
It was Yeats's first good look at one and the sight was enough to make him wish he never saw another. The guard's bare arms rippled with muscles and there was a scar on his face that ran from the corner of one eye to his chin.

Straightening, Mohassin turned. “No. Not yet. The new assistant doesn't seem to know the difference between a cabbage and an onion.”

The guard laughed cruelly. Then he ran his
finger along the flat side of his blade. “Shall I give him a lesson?”

Mohassin studied Yeats thoughtfully, as if waiting to see his reaction. “No, thank you,” he said finally. “The assistant will need both his hands, and all his fingers too. But you will return to check his progress?”

Yeats thrust his hands behind his back.

“With pleasure.” The guard left the doorway for the busy street.

“Shaharazad asked me to help her,” Yeats blurted before the old cook could speak. “She did! Honestly! I swear I'm telling the truth.”

Mohassin grunted. “Since her ladyship was a baby I have brought food to her table. I was the cook when her mother was a child! Never before has such dread fallen upon her ladyship's family and this town. I have sworn no harm will come to her.” He gripped Yeats's arm tightly. “Do you understand? You will find little mercy from me if I discover you are lying.” The cook gave a frightening glare. “It must be my lady's swordsmanship.”

When Yeats did not respond, Mohassin added,
“She practices her swordsmanship at night. In secret. I assume you will be her sparring partner. Her own servant, Rawiya, is not trained in such arts.” He looked Yeats up and down. “I can't believe you've even held a sword! And where she found you …” He sighed and then released Yeats. “In the meantime you must learn to be inconspicuous. I will show you your work for the day.” He lowered his voice. “And I will show you the way by which you must enter the palace tonight. Provided,” he added ominously, “you are found to be trustworthy. If not, I shall call for the guard.”

All Yeats could do was nod. In only a few minutes he had been threatened with losing both his head and his hands. From the short time he had spent in this land, he did not doubt it was going to be a challenge to stay in one piece.

eats tied on an apron and hurried to catch up to Mohassin.

“The fire must be kept burning,” the old cook instructed. “When you are not chopping onions or peeling garlic you will check the fire regularly.” Yeats noticed an enormous pot in the center of the room with live coals beneath it. Steam poured out of the top and he could just make out something murky and brown boiling slowly and making frothy bubbles. Several featherless birds hung from a hook above the pot. Their heads were missing. Yeats shivered.

As they carried on into the next room, Mohassin continued to give instructions and pointed at
various plants or herbs. Occasionally he shouted orders to servants who were all busy at work, most of them chopping cabbages or onions. The heat was oppressive.

“My soups and sauces are used by all the royalty,” Mohassin commented. “Although my humble kitchen is outside the palace, I have many customers within it. So you will make certain that every chop, every leaf, every seed of cumin is to its exact measure.” Yeats nodded at everything the cook said but desperately hoped he would not be asked to repeat any of it.

When the tour ended Yeats was left alone to manage the fire. While he stirred the coals his mind raced with everything that had happened. At least he was headed in the right direction now and not lost in a strange town. He was back on track; he had found Mohassin, he was near the palace, and if all went well he would see Shaharazad that very night.

Yeats blew gently at the base of the fire and a great flame leapt up. There was movement near his knees, and when he looked down he saw a crowd
of nasty-looking bugs scurrying from the circle of rocks around the fire. He stood up quickly with a gasp and the bugs shot across the floor to hide under a basket of cabbages.

“I don't think this place would pass health inspection,” Yeats muttered.

Nearby, his fellow servants glanced at him periodically. One or two gave him encouraging looks and an older man showed Yeats how to control the flame when the coals died down.

Once he understood his chores, Yeats returned to his thinking. It was not clear if Mohassin trusted him or not. Every time the old cook checked up on him (which felt like every few minutes), there was a hint of distrust in his voice and his eyes. Shari's ring had done the trick so far, but would Mohassin truly take him to see the girl at midnight? Or would there be a guard waiting for him in the darkness instead? And what did Mohassin mean about the girl practicing swordsmanship? She had not said anything about that. He thought of her determined eyes and nodded to himself. Yes, she was definitely someone who would know how
to use a sword. That might make things more difficult.

He was still mulling over his thoughts when the old cook reappeared with a small platter and cup in his hands.

“Come and sit here, boy. Eat and listen to your next duties,” he said in an overly loud voice. The platter contained a lump of sweaty cheese and a piece of flat bread. Yeats gulped it down without a moment's thought. The cup contained a yellow liquid. Yeats could not stop his face from scrunching at the taste.

“What is wrong?” Mohassin queried. “It is good wine.” Yeats raised his eyebrows. He suddenly thought of his father, scrunching his face after drinking the Scotch in Gran's kitchen. Yeats clenched his fist.

And then the cook said something to lift Yeats's spirits. Holding a cabbage in one hand and a knife in the other, Mohassin proceeded to describe the proper method of cutting the vegetable. In between his loud instructions the old cook inserted hurried, whispered directions. “You will accompany me
into the palace for the noon meal. I will bring you to the inner pool and point to the hall where you may find my lady's chamber. You will have to keep a sharp memory of everything, as the palace is not as easy to navigate at night. I assume you know my lady's door?”

“Yes,” Yeats answered. The cook nodded almost imperceptibly and then held the cabbage up into the light of an open doorway.

“Should you cut too deeply on the first stroke you can always salvage the cabbage by turning it over and making a second here, like so,” Mohassin said.

It was all cabbages and onions until lunchtime. The smoke made him choke and the onions made his eyes burn so badly that Yeats found himself longing for the afternoon adventure to begin.

Mohassin returned, carrying a steaming pot in either hand. “Take these,” he commanded. “I will buy bread in the market and then we will go to the palace.” As they left for the palace, Mustafa, the beggar, gave a start as they stepped out the doorway. He reached out with his crutch and
cackled with laughter when Yeats stumbled. Yeats regained his balance and gave Mustafa his best frown. The beggar cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “Maggot!” Mohassin, several strides ahead, did not notice and advanced toward a bread stall.