Read Online Garment of Shadows by Laurie R. King - Free Book Online Page B

called. He was at the window again, his breath making clouds in the cold air, attempting an analysis of the neighbourhood’s geometry. He crossed the room, rubbing his hands into circulation, and his nostrils flared at the aroma. “ Salaam aleikum , Youssef,” he said.
    “ As salaamu aleik , Monsieur,” the servant replied. “Monsieur’s coffee.”
    “I shall miss your daily visits,” Holmes said. “The aroma alone could wake the dead.”
    From the moment he entered Dar Mnehbi, six days earlier, Holmes had seen that Youssef was no mere servant. The man was, rather, the steward of this diminutive medina palace, and while he occasionally held sway over the official Residency as well—a considerably grander palace, in one wing of which Lyautey and his wife lived, closer to the city walls—for the most part, the Residency was a place where silk-robed, white-gloved servants waited on men in European clothing, while Dar Mnehbi was for the homespun supplicant at home in the medina.
    Lyautey, truth to tell, seemed to prefer his medina dwelling as well, and often used the excuse of late nights to sleep in his simple rooms here.
    Dar Mnehbi was, in fact, a complex of linked buildings, since the original palace was too small until the neighbouring dar was taken over and converted into a combination guard house and guest quarters. It was now connected to Dar Mnehbi proper by a corridor and steps, its rooms adapted for the peculiar requirements of Europeans: the house hammam turned into a bath-room with a geyser tank, windows brutally punched through external walls, internal doorways converting individual salons into suites, with beds from France and the light-weight, decorative salon doors replaced by sturdy bolted wood. It did still have the central courtyard with fountain, cobalt-and-cream tiles, and a halka overhead, open to the sky.
    Youssef had run the Dar Mnehbi complex for a decade, in charge of everything from the choice of flowers in the library to the brewing of such superb coffee in the kitchen. He was a tall, dignified Berber who wore his trim turban and striped djellaba with the air of a Roman Senator, and if Youssef chose to deliver food and drink himself, Holmes thought it was more as host than as servant.
    “Black as hell, thick as death,” Holmes muttered in Arabic, watching the slim hands pour the liquid into the miniature cup.
    The dark eyes looked up in surprise, then Youssef ventured the first humour Holmes had been able to tease out of him. “If Monsieur wishes his coffee sweet as love, I shall need to bring more sugar.”
    Holmes laughed. “Thank you, my brother, I will take it bitter.”
    The man set the cup before Holmes, and said, “Few Europeans enjoy their coffee in this manner.”
    “It is a preparation better suited to walking over the desert than driving in a motorcar,” Holmes agreed.
    The Moroccan adjusted the spoon a fraction, tugged the tray’s cloth a centimetre, then left. In all the days of Holmes’ stay here, it was the most Youssef had said in his hearing.
    When the tiny cup was empty but for the grit, Holmes’ nerves felt as if they had been connected to a low-voltage wall socket, but he felt vaguely dissatisfied until he spotted the carafe of drinking water on the side table. Water after coffee: another desert habit learned from the Hazr brothers.
    Despite its Western-style renovations, Dar Mnehbi was a touch old-fashioned, a sumptuous expanse of tile and carpets with cramped private quarters, shared bath-rooms, few windows, and fewer fireplaces. The Residency, a short uphill stroll away, was an impressive, light-filled palace where guests could arrive in motorcars and be provided with taps that gushed hot water. Dar Mnehbi, deep inside the ancient walls of the medina, provided the French with a very different set of resources and messages. The Residency displayed power and flash; Dar Mnehbi made a clear statement of ferocious intent: The Resident General was an integral part