Sandstorm (21 page)

Isra dodged the swing, caught the man's wrist and twisted hard, forcing him to drop it, then snatched it up and drove the blade deep into the man's leg, yanking it out and wounding the other leg while the man screamed in pain. He rolled away, assured the assassin wasn't going anywhere.

He spun around as he heard someone coming up behind him, then relaxed as he realized it was Bahadur. "Let's get him inside," he said.

Gasping in pain, the assassin did not struggle as Bahadur lifted him like he was little more than a sack of feathers. "Just kill me," he hissed.

Isra laughed coldly and dropped back down to the balcony, being none too gentle as he and Bahadur worked to get the assassin down. "What would that accomplish?" he asked.

"Is that what they do in Tavamara?" Bahadur asked "Simply kill them?" He hauled the assassin to his feet and drug him inside before dropping him to the floor. "Dead men can not divulge secrets. In the Desert, we keep them alive until we have all we need." Bahadur knelt to examine the man's leg wounds, which were bleeding profusely. "A tidy job," he murmured almost absently. "I guess we had best bind these, else you will not live long enough to be useful."

The assassin said nothing, already pale with blood loss and pain.

Shihab dropped a bundle of supplies on the floor, then knelt beside Bahadur and with his assistance bandaged the wounds inflicted by Isra.

The assassin glared at Sahayl, who stood nearby watching the proceedings. "I was going to give you a merciful death," he said contemptuously. "I've never been so cruel as to make my victims suffer. What sort of men would injure a man and then immediately bind his wounds?"

Sahayl shrugged. "Sons of the Desert. You should have made sure your strike was true, or that you were fleeter of foot. Bind his hands."

Bahadur obeyed, using a length of bandage to bind the man's wrists. He then picked up the assassin's knife and pressed the tip to his throat. "Cooperate, assassin, and perhaps we'll be lenient."

"Who hired you?" Sahayl asked.

"Do as you like; I have no intention of telling you anything. I'm dead either way."

Shrugging again, as if the matter did not concern him at all, Sahayl motioned to Bahadur and then addressed the assassin. "Saa, but do you want to die painlessly or in great agony?" He stood expressionless as Bahadur drew the knife slowly across the assassin's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "I do not prefer to be a savage, but there is more at stake than merely my life. Who hired you?" He flicked his fingers at Isra, who had replaced Shihab at the assassin's side once the bandaging was done. Isra balled his hand into a fist and drove his knuckles into the bandaged wound, making the assassin scream in pain before he managed to choke it back.

"Savages!" the man swore.

"Yes," Sahayl said, unmoved. "You should have known your enemy better."

"Do what you like, savages," the man repeated "I will tell you nothing."

Sahayl dropped his arms and motioned. "Take him away, Bahadur. We'll leave him to rot for the night. Those wounds plus a prison cell might change his mind." He shrugged. "If not, then he is of no interest to me."

"I'll go with you," Shihab said, and moved to help Bahadur. "Easier if I'm there to explain everything."

The room fell silent as Bahadur and Shihab hauled the assassin away, leaving Isra and Sahayl alone.

"Both legs, Isra?" Sahayl asked.

Isra glared at the absent assassin. "He is lucky I did not have a chance to fetch my sword,"

he said savagely. "I would have simply taken one off."

"So angry," Sahayl murmured, dropping his arms and wandering to his bed, and it finally struck Isra that the man was only half-dressed. "Are you that upset someone tried to kill me, desert rose?"

"I am tired of people interfering in the Desert," Isra snapped, turning away, focusing on the room and not on the thoughts in his head. "What happened?"

"He was lying in wait, hiding behind the drapes," Sahayl replied, motioning to the curtains that were bundled against the wall, meant to surround the low bed to keep out the night chill and the early morning sun. Sahayl moved to the bed and picked up a dark blue robe, slipping it on and belting it with a red silk cord. "Bahadur saw him and saved me. You two arrived just in time to catch him." Sahayl smiled briefly. "I was impressed with how easily you followed him onto the roof."

Isra shrugged. "Shihab and I were fond of sneaking around places we weren't supposed to while in school." He frowned at the low table across the room, set neatly with wine and drinking dishes, a few plates of simple treats. Crossing over in several quick strides, he dropped to his knees and began to examine the carafes of wine and food.

Shihab had chosen three wines for their games, and Isra carefully examined each one, though never tasting.

"You suspect poison?" Sahayl said, sitting down beside him, close enough Isra could feel his body heat.

He moved slightly away, glowering at the wine and food as he thought. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "It would be like a cowardly assassin to use such a cheap trick, but if he employed poison why attempt to kill you directly?" He tapped his nails idly against a carafe filled with a pale blue wine. "I guess it doesn't really matter. We simply don't drink or eat." He smiled briefly. "Shihab's plans have been rather neatly foiled, so something good has come of the evening."

"What were Shihab's plans?" Sahayl asked.

Isra shrugged and stood up. "To get us drunk," he said and began to walk away.

Sahayl snagged his wrist and yanked him back, and Isra swore as his lower back collided with the edge of the table, elbow knocking over the carafe of pale blue wine. He glared.

"What?"

"My apologies," Sahayl said. He hesitated a moment, then reached up and traced the scar cutting across Isra's right cheek. "Why do you hate me?"

"Why don't you hate me?" Isra snapped. "Ghost made it clear they want nothing but blood from Falcon, and you seemed plenty content to draw your sword against me."

"You always drew first, desert rose," Sahayl replied quietly. "I worked for months to arrange the meeting with Falcon. My father would not listen to me. I wish with all of me that we had called a truce that day." His eyes dropped, and Isra was struck by how suddenly weary Sahayl looked. It reminded him of the day he'd encountered Sahayl in the oasis. There was nothing of the Sandstorm in this Sahayl, merely a man who looked far too old for his age.

Then those gold eyes stared into his, as dark and rich as a fine wine but far more potent.

"You have not left my thoughts since I encountered you, Isra. Why the Lady chose to torture me so, I don't know. You've no reason to hate me, I swear it." Sahayl watched him for a moment more, as if searching for something, then dropped his eyes and made to stand.

Isra swore he could feel something inside him breaking, crumbling into dust. He wondered if the inability to resist Sahayl was why all called him Sandstorm. Making a sound that was somewhere between a curse and a groan, he grabbed Sahayl's shoulders and tugged him back down, letting his frustration guide him as he kissed Sahayl. He stopped after a moment, pulling back just enough to stare at him, blinking. "You act as though you've never been kissed."

He stared more as Sahayl's mouth twisted in a sad, somewhat bitter smile. "Who would kiss me? By the time I was old enough for such things, being that close to me was too dangerous a thing for me to permit." Sahayl shrugged and pulled away, embarrassed and unhappy.

"Why dangerous?" Isra asked, standing slowly, watching the way Sahayl stiffened and did not turn around. "Not simply because you were Amir." A statement, not a question.

Sahayl shook his head, but otherwise did not reply.

Isra glared at his back, hating the mystery. He should have kept his mouth shut and just continued with the kiss. Which hadn't been all bad. Not at all. He couldn't for the life of him understand why no Ghost had ever found his way into Sahayl's tent. If he'd been Ghost, it would have taken a great threat indeed.

Which was a thought he didn't dare linger too long over.

A great threat.

He recalled their one peaceful encounter. How brutally beaten Sahayl had been. He'd never really thought about it before. It hadn't been an enemy, for Sahayl had said Isra was the only enemy to mark him. He would have been sure to taunt him if someone had landed blows Isra could not. Someone in Ghost, then. Who would dare to strike the then Amir so? Sheik Hashim would have never allowed-Something twisted in Isra's gut as realization dawned. Hashim. Had beaten his own son.

Sickening. Isra had never particularly cared that he didn't know his own parents. His honored uncle and aunt had always filled that role in his life. As often as he had probably deserved a beating, his uncle had never struck him. Always he'd just been confined to his tent. They faced violence aplenty every day in the Desert. Jabbar did not use more to discipline except under very particular circumstances.

To think the Crusher had used his infamous brutality against his own son. 'By the time I was old enough' Sahayl had said. Which meant the beatings had been going on since childhood.

Isra would be the first to say he had a temper. But lobbing books at Shihab's head was a far cry from beating his son so brutally he feared letting anyone get too close. Isra wished suddenly, with such vehemence it took his breath away, that Hashim was still alive so he might kill the man himself.

He shoved the thought aside to ponder later, attention only for the Sheik - Prince - who had moved toward his bed and was clearly preparing to sleep.

Which was, in Isra's opinion, the most boring thing one could possibly do with a bed.

Stripping off his shirt and tossing it to the floor, Isra strode across the room and forced Sahayl to turn, plunging one hand into thick curls that were far softer than Isra thought they should be, dragging Sahayl close and kissing him hard, giving Sahayl no chance to protest or resist, softening only when hands landed hesitantly on his hips and Sahayl began carefully to kiss him back.

"Leave it to a Ghost," Isra said eventually, "to neglect all the fun lessons."

"Not by choice," Sahayl said, fingers whispering softly across Isra's back, as if he feared what would happen should he truly touch.

Isra chuckled low and lapped at Sahayl's throat where his pulse beat, fingers going to the cord that held Sahayl's robe closed. "Well you have a choice now."

"What changed your mind?" Sahayl asked, dark gold eyes confused, searching Isra's face for an explanation.

"I'm stubborn, not stupid," Isra said, which was as close to the truth as he could manage. He stretched up to give Sahayl another kiss, preventing further questions. Sahayl's skin was hot, his mouth surprisingly soft and warm, flavored with a lingering hint of wine - Morning Mist, Isra realized. His reactions were sweet, heady, and Isra was dumbfounded that not a single man or woman in Ghost had been willing to brave a beating or three to be with this man.

It rather frightened him that he thought he would.

Then he gave up thinking entirely, mind focused solely on showing Sahayl how he very much was not some stupid flower.

Sixteen

Something was strange. Sahayl stirred, trying to figure out what was different. He moved his arm, and his fingers stroked across something that definitely wasn't bedding.

Isra.

Images of the night before flooded his now-awake mind, and Sahayl dreaded opening his eyes. The assassin he was willing to believe was real, but surely the rest had been a dream.

"Why are you awake this early?" Isra groused. "Why am I awake this early?"

Sahayl's eyes snapped open in surprise, and he stared at the man glaring up at him.

Isra's glare turned into frown. "What?"

"Nothing," Sahayl said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm used to it.," Isra said, then leaned in to kiss him, mouth tasting of wine and sleep and something that was only Isra. Sahayl gasped softly into his mouth, still surprised by all Isra did - had done - when only yesterday he was certain the man would hate him forever.

"Isra…"

"Good morning," Isra murmured against his mouth, then shoved gently so that Sahayl was on his back, Isra leaning over him. "Sleep well?"

"Very," Sahayl said, sinking a hand into Isra's dark hair, holding him close to steal more of the kisses that had followed him into his dreams. "I think perhaps I still am."

Isra stilled at his words, pulling back to stare pensively at him.

"Did I say something wrong?" Sahayl asked, hands sliding away to fall on the bed as uncertainty overtook him.

"No," Isra said, but he levered himself away, sliding out of bed. "Come, we should bathe. I'm certain you're supposed to be somewhere shortly."

Sahayl nodded and followed, good mood vanished. Perhaps he wasn't sleeping, but he had definitely been dreaming, to think that things between he and Isra had changed that much. In the bathing chamber, he scrubbed and rinsed quickly, leaving the frowning Isra in peace, and slid into the steaming bath with a whisper-soft sigh. He heard Isra slide into the water nearby, but still jumped when fingers tangled in his curls, tugging gently. "Wherever did you get hair such as this?" Isra asked, voice still too somber but full of curiosity. "It's nearly as odd as mine."

"It's always run in my mother's family," Sahayl said with a shrug. "My father said more than once there must be heathen blood somewhere far back in her line." He struggled not to linger too long on those old, unhappy arguments between his gentle mother and brutal father. "My mother said it existed solely to be aggravating." He smiled briefly. "Her hair fell to her waist; it took her hours to comb out all the knots and tangles. She used to speak endlessly of cutting it off, but my father forbade it."

Isra moved closer, just barely touching as he continued to run his fingers through Sahayl's hair. "Poor woman. If I had hair like this, I'd shave it all off. Though it would be a pity if you did such a thing."

"I have considered it more than once," Sahayl replied. "My former wife said she would do much worse if I dared to do so."