The Exile Kiss Read Free Page A

world. In a time when the average lifespan of a new coun-try was shorter than a single generation of its citizens, someone had to preserve order amid the political chaos. That was the expensive service that Friedlander Bey and Shaykh Reda provided. From one regime to the next, they remembered where the boundaries were, who the taxpay-ers were, and where the bodies were buried, literally and figuratively. Whenever one government gave way to its successor, Papa or Shaykh Reda stepped in to smooth the transition—and to cut themselves a larger chunk of the action with each change.
I found all of this fascinating, and I was glad that Papa had put me to work in this area, rather than overseeing the lucrative but basically boring criminal enterprises. My great-grandfather tutored me with endless patience, and he'd directed Tariq and Youssef to give me whatever help I needed. When I'd first come to Friedlander Bey's house, I'd thought they were only Papa's valet and butler; but now I realized they knew more about the high-level goings-on throughout the Islamic world than anyone else, except Friedlander Bey himself.
When at last the Cappadocians excused themselves, I saw that I had little more than an hour before Papa and I
were expected at the amir's palace. Kmuzu helped me select an appropriate outfit. It had been some time since I'd
last put on my old jeans and boots and work shirt, and I was getting used to wearing a more traditional Arab
costume. Some of the men in the city still wore Euram-style business suits, but I'd never felt comfortable in one.
_I'd taken to wearing the gallebeya around Papa's house, because I knew he preferred it. Besides, it was easier to hide my static pistol under a loose robe, and a keffiya, the Arab headdress, hid my implants, which offended some conservative Muslims.
So when I'd finished dressing, I was wearing a spotless white gallebeya suitable for a bridegroom, beneath a royal blue robe trimmed in gold. I had comfortable sandals on my feet, a ceremonial dagger belted around my waist, and a plain white keffiya held by a black rope akal.
"You look very handsome, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.
"I hope so," I said. "I've never gone to meet a prince before."
"You've proven your worth, and your reputation must already be known to the amir. You have no reason to be intimidated by him."
That was easy for Kmuzu to say. I took a final glance at my reflection and wasn't particularly impressed by what I saw. "Marid Audran, Defender of the Downtrodden," I said dubiously. "Yeah, you right." Then we went down-stairs to meet Friedlander Bey.
Tariq drove Papa's limousine, and we arrived at the amir's palace on time. We were shown into the ballroom, and I was invited to recline on some cushions at the place of honor, at Shaykh Mahali's right hand. Friedlander Bey and the other guests made themselves comfortable, and I was introduced to many of the city's wealthy and influen-tial men.
"Please, refresh yourself," said the amir. A servant of-fered a tray laden with small cups of thick coffee spiced with cardamom and cinnamon, and tall glasses of chilled fruit juices. There were no alcoholic beverages because Shaykh Mahali was a deeply religious man.
"May your table last forever," I said. "Your hospitality is famous in the city, O Shaykh."
"Rejoicings and celebrations!" he replied, pleased by my flattery. We conversed for about half an hour before the servants began bringing in platters of vegetables and roasted meats. The amir had ordered enough food to stuff a company five times our size. He used an elegant, jew-eled knife to offer me the choicest morsels. I've had a lifelong distrust of the rich and powerful, but despite that, I rather liked the prince.
He poured a cup of coffee for himself and offered me another. "We live in a mongrel city," he told me, "and there are so many factions and parties that my judgment is always being tested. I study the methods of the great Muslim rulers of the past. Just today I read a