Daughter of Sand and Stone by Libbie Hawker

Author:Libbie Hawker [Hawker, Libbie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2015-11-30T18:30:00+00:00

At his mistress’s command, that same day, Zabdas goes down into the city to haunt the wine shops and the dicing alleys, to lurk along the edges of the camel-racing circuits, listening to the bettors and drinkers for any hint of conspiracy.

Although he has never done this sort of work before, it feels natural enough. While his long years serving Zabbai’s family have accustomed him to a certain degree of fine dress and high living, he thinks he can learn to like his disguise of a common tunic and shabby sandals. Zabdas has never been one to fear getting his hands dirty or bloody. He has to admit, it’s a pleasant enough occupation, leaning in the brick alleyways, laughing over dice with other men, even if the alleys of lower Palmyra are filled with the thick, biting smell of refuse and days-old piss.

The only part he can’t get used to is the lightness of his belt. In order to fit in with the company he keeps, he carries nothing but a simple knife, the type of blade a workman might use for every purpose under the sun: cleaning his nails, prising the wax-sealed lid from a jar of beer, cutting his meat, or giving a pickpocket a warning jab in the ribs. It’s too utilitarian to be of much use to Zabdas—certainly it’s not the sort of knife he’s used to carrying, a blade that means business. He keeps reaching for his belt and closing his hand on air, trying to grip, just for the reassurance of it, a sword hilt that isn’t there.

Finally he resorts to locking his hands together behind his back, as Odenathus is fond of doing, to keep himself from searching for a larger blade. It will only take one observant alley thug to spot the gesture, to see his secret yearning for the comforts of a real sword, to realize that Zabdas is much more than he seems.

For the first time in years Zabdas spends his days far from Zenobia’s side. What a strange feeling, he thinks, to know that she is across the city, separated from him by all the length of Palmyra. She is rarely so distant that he can’t catch the brief, clear music of her laughter or hear her cooing softly to her baby boy. And yet he still carries her as close as he ever did on their night in the desert, when he’d settled her on the saddle before him and ridden for Tadmor with her slight, fragrant weight pressed against his chest. As he strolls through the city, sniffing after treason like a dog unleashed, all he can see is Zenobia, her dark eyes grave, peering up from the edge of her turban as she tells him of the news her sisters brought, of the Macriani supporters who plot to destroy her husband.

I should let them do it, he tells himself. What is Odenathus to me?

But even when Odenathus is dead, by a traitor’s blade or in the gods’ own time, Zenobia will still be as far beyond his reach as a star in the sky.

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