Akai izr Imami had trained more than a hundred White Warriors in his prime. Sixty-five of his apprentices had won at least one event during Dyals, and fifteen among them had been crowned champion. Since Dyal champions often went on to become kha'as, as many as ten living kha'as today had been apprentices of izr Imami at one point. It, in turn, gave him a certain amount of influence over these kha'as and their decisions. He was said to have prevented two clashes between khagans years ago with a single disapproving letter sent to each of the kha'as involved, Hasheem had been told.

'A man who can prevent battles with words can cause one with less effort if he so chooses,' Dee had said. 'That is the kind of power Citara is sure to acknowledge. Win Akai izr Imami's favor and you will have one of the most powerful allies behind your back.'

Now, at sixty-eight, all grey and roughened by life in appearance, Akai izr Imami was still a figure of larger proportions than Za'in had ever been in both reputations and in person. Hasheem could feel the weight of the old man's presence on his skin the moment he'd entered the dining room, could tell how fast, how efficient, and how clean he would be able to cut with that blade on the table even at that age. He also knew he would die before he could reach for one of his daggers if he had tried. In a way, one could say that Akai izr Imami was the White Desert's version of Deo di Amarra––a man of immense power and influence that could move mountains if he wanted to.

And a father who now had no idea what to do with his daughter.

'I think that this is the man I'm supposed to marry,' she had said. A bold statement, made in the way one might have expected a spoiled, innocent child to have done so when claiming a toy. It didn't bother him. To an escort, possessiveness from clients was a good thing. There were always benefits to being desired if one knew how to use it. It did, however, bother the father.

"I am,' said Akai izr Imami, rubbing his temple with his wrinkly hand, "deeply sorry for my daughter's behavior. Saya." He turned to her with a grimace made to be seen from a hundred paces, maybe more. "Apologize at once." The tone was firm, but not terrifying.

The daughter, of course, had no intention whatsoever to do such a thing. She stood over the table with arms crossed over her chest, her lips pressed as tight as Djari's when she decided to be stubborn, only this one had an air of self-importance never to be found in his soul bearer. Djari could be as difficult and assertive as the most impossible stallion anyone ever tried to ride, but she was never entitled or vain. He wondered what she would have said to hear someone lay claim to her horse that way. He liked it that she often considered him one of her horses. That was as close as someone would ever get to her heart.

"That would not be necessary," Hasheem said mildly, turned to the daughter, and dipped his head in a formal show of respect. Saya was her name. This was the second time it had been given. He made sure to remember it. "The lady has done no wrong."

She gave him a suggestive smile, pulled back her shoulders, and angled her neck to expose a generous amount of skin. When a woman did that, some things became very clear. He smiled back, made sure it reached his eyes, and turned to her father. "A child who knows what she wants is one raised well. I am only honored by her approval." He did not look at her again. There was a point to that. He was a professional, after all. Always leave as much to be desired as possible, that was the first rule of being an escort.

"Generous," said Akai izr Imami, a trace of relief in his tone. "But what she wants is not to be permitted."

"I understand," Hasheem said as the daughter––Saya–– parted her lips to protest. There were times to press and times to seek alternatives. Knowing the difference between the two was what he was trained at. "I will leave the mountain, izr Imami, as you wish. I will also take your word on the secrecy of my identity and accept your decision until I find the reason you are looking for. I have, however, been gravely wounded just a little over a month ago and the climb has been long. If you would permit me an overnight stay before I make the journey down, I will be grateful."

"Of course." It was the daughter who agreed. She continued before her father had time to object, "We have always offered our guests such hospitality. That is the way Akai izr Imami honors his visitors. I will lead you to your room and have a look at your wounds. Come," she said, grabbed his arm, and dragged him through the door.

He allowed her to lead him where she wanted. There was, after all, something Dee had taught him on the day Hasheem became his apprentice. Something about trying to open doors by the hinge when the lock was not to be picked.

It would, however, require him to slip back into his old role again to open it.

'Our past is never left behind,' Akai izr Imami had said. True words proven all too quickly. He had been given a new name, a new identity, a chance to start over. But sooner or later, the past always caught up with him. Hasheem or Amar, orphan or not, he was still the Silver Sparrow of Azalea. So much for a blank slate.

Amar was his name now. Djari had picked it herself, had asked if it pleased him. He'd told her that it did. Whatever name she was pleased to call him with was fine with him.

He wondered how she was now. If she had someone to talk to about the death of her father. It was always hard, losing a parent. She had lost both, and so had he. They had more things in common now.

A cruel thought, that. Something he should never wish for that warmed his heart nonetheless. He needed the connection, he supposed. She was missing from his life and would be for many years. That was going to have to be dealt with, gotten used to, like learning to live with a missing limb. One could do that, even without ever forgetting it was missing.

For now, all he could do was to give her what she needed. Train. Get himself a zikh. Win Akai izr Imami to their cause. Join Nazir's council.

Win the war with the Salasar.

Large goals for one man. He'd told Dee as much. Had shivered just thinking about it.

'You may have been sold for the price of a pig,' Dee had responded. 'But I didn't pay five hundred thousand silas to free one. Try to live worth my gold, and don't fucking ruin my reputation.'

He'd asked then, what it was his mentor had thought he was paying for. Dee didn't reply. Hasheem had a feeling he never would.

He shook that thought from his head. Right now, he had something else to worry about. Hasheem looked at the woman whose arm was clinging to his, trying to decide how to best handle the situation, and while at it, found himself wondering what would happen if she and Djari ever ran into each other.

A nightmare for some other time, he decided.

***

The place looked different, Saya thought, watching Amar izr Zaharran walking around the guest bedroom she had chosen. Her father had built three cottages up here and all the furniture in them, had taught her many of those skills growing up so she could help him around the place. Al-Sana was right next to the border between Samarra and the White Desert. Wind from the coastline brought rain to the plateau during the storm season, allowing many trees to grow on the side of the mountain facing the Salasar's seaside province. There were more than enough woods to build anything they wanted, enough vegetation to sustain their lives and that of their livestock without needing to move around as in the desert below. Permanent living arrangements were among the luxuries they enjoyed here, but with only the two of them as carpenters and artists, the results wouldn't impress anyone unless they were desperate.

They are impressive now. Saya stared in awe at the same old surroundings she saw daily, amazed at how the table and chairs suddenly looked interesting with Amar standing near them. Even the crooked leg of the bed she had carved and messed up on her first try didn't seem so bad now. Some people could walk into a place and change everything––sometimes also the men and women in it.

He had changed her, today, and in ways she couldn't understand. The man I'm supposed to marry, she'd said. The words had come out of nowhere, as if someone had written it down and forced them from her lips. Something inside her seemed to have settled upon it, slipping easily in like trying on a pair of shoes and finding them to be a perfect fit the moment she'd said it out loud. It scared her a little, how certain she was about that future. She wondered if he felt the same way. If he did, it didn't show. There was also a woman. She remembered the name. She wanted to know more.

"It's lovely," he said, elongating the sound to match the motion of his hand as it ran along the back of a chair. His fingers, she thought, were very long. "From where do you get these things?"

"We built them," she said. "My father and I. There are trees."

He turned toward her. Grey eyes focusing on her face, lingering there. "They're beautiful," he said.

She knew they were not. "Do you always lie so easily?"

He paused for a moment. She stared at him quietly, waiting. He met her gaze, and then he smiled. A different smile this time that set something alight in her stomach. "Where I come from it's called flattery."

She stepped around the table that stood between them, taking herself closer to his side. He stayed where he was. That meant something. "Does it work?" she asked.

"Flattery?" His voice became smoother, richer now. Like honey. Like wine. "Sometimes."

Another step forward. "With your woman?" She hesitated, then made a decision. "Djari iza Zuri?"

It stilled him. That name. "She is not my woman," he said, stopping there, making it clear.

"But you love her." An intrusive question for someone she'd just met. A question she needed an answer to, however, and urgently, before she decided what to do next. She was not––had never been––someone who stood on ceremony or equipped with patience.

The answer was all there on his face, in his stiff shoulders, in his eyes. "That," he said, drew a breath, a sharp one, "is crossing the line."

He loves her, Saya concluded. But she is not his woman.

Saya took the final step to stand in front of him, close enough to feel the heat from his body. "Do you want to stay? To train with my father? You owe me something for this. For helping you stay the night. That is why you asked to stay, is it not? To use me? There is no wound, is there?"

She had known from the moment he gave her that smile in the dining room. The change had been there, easy enough to spot for someone who had been trained by Akai izr Imami daily to read facial expressions and body language. They were important lessons. It helped when you knew what your opponent was thinking.

His expression changed at that. Those mesmerizing grey eyes turned sharper, more focused, more ghostly in shade. There was something dangerous about him now, no, from the moment the name had been mentioned. As if she had drawn a blade on him and cut open an old injury.

"There are wounds," he said, sternly. "But yes, that is why I asked to stay. To use you. That is my plan."

She liked that he admitted it easily. It would have been an insult to her intelligence otherwise and a show of incompetence on his part. "You use women, often?"

"Only when they try to use me."

The reply surprised her. "I tried to use you?"

"By laying claim to what is not yours." The tone was colder now, perhaps also dressed with a hint of anger. "I treat people the same way they treat me. That is who I am. If you choose to treat me as an object to be acquired for your own needs, then I will use you to get what I need. It is only fair."

"You said you were honored."

"I said what your father needed to hear."

"A lie, then."

"Yes, to get what I need." Then he added, "I may do more."

"For a good cause?" He had said that to her father.

"For Djari iza Zuri." The answer, this time, came with immovable resolution. She had a feeling he would have carved it in stone for her to see if given a chance, if only to draw a line.

But there were other lines too, weren't there? "But she is not your woman."

"No." He breathed. "She is not."

She made note of that. This was important. A woman he couldn't have was not competition. Not everything you wanted came whole, undamaged, or untouched. One took what one could from life or be prepared to die wanting. "And you will do more, for what you need? To stay?"

"I am willing to negotiate," he said, picking up her meaning quickly. She liked cleverness and wit in a man. "So long as it does not hurt or bring harm to Djari. I am her swornsword and blood, you should know this before we go on. My oath to her precedes all, it will always precede all, even if one day I should end up your husband by some form of agreement or extraordinary circumstances. She will always come first. That," he stressed the word, hammered it down, "is the line you may not cross. If you agree, then we can talk about what you need and what I need."

It explained a lot of things. Her sworn sword and blood. The impossibility of it made sense. It also occurred to her then that there seemed to be many identities and faces to Amar izr Zaharran––a fake name at that, from what she gathered having listened to the conversation. Many faces and many names.

Which is the real one? Which one do you show her? She decided she wanted to know, that she liked this man, and that she wanted him in her life. Perhaps now, more so than ever, for the wound he inflicted on her pride, to take something from another woman she had never met, to do something about how fast her heart was beating by his doing.

"I can get you to stay for some time." That much she was certain she could convince her father. "I cannot promise he will train you. We will talk later. I will come to you, tonight, and you will give me pleasure, in exchange for this night's stay I have accommodated. That is fair?"

He smiled at that. Another smile she hadn't seen. This one, she thought, looked like a mockery of some pain he had gotten used to but never managed to get rid of.

"It shouldn't be a problem," he said. "That is my life. It is what I do."

***