Chapter 9: The Sixth Wife's Dance, or, Syrian Nights

Damascene Nigrescence, Part I.

It was with a slow and sudden start that Win realized she was finally back in civilization. A tremor went down her spine, just a little one, and she blinked. It felt as though she had been in the desert for so long that she had forgotten what buildings looked like. (Or baths). She suddenly yelped and then whooped loudly, leaping nimbly to her feet (she was standing already, but she was so stooped over it hardly counted) and ran.

The aging footman that saw to welcoming guests on behalf of the wealthy sheikh that owned the hotel nearly went into cardiac arrest when he saw the scraggly, bundled up (and full of sand) travelers limp energetically in his direction. Kanda didn't limp, of course, because that was what weak people did when they twisted their ankles in the stupid desert sand, but the rhythm of his walking was certainly off. Win was covered up in her goat shepherd robe thing with what she figured was supposed to be the hood down so she could enjoy the fresh air.

Kanda gruffly went up to the servant and ordered him to lead them to the suite belonging to the extraordinarily wealthy Maharajah of Gujarat (already renown among the women of that part of Damascus for his foreign appearance and rakishly good looking red hair), and that's where the problems started.

Of course, everybody had heard of the visiting prince. He seemed to have fast become a favorite of Amjad al-Qadir, the man who in essence owned a large portion of Damascus. And the servant who was the acting footman for this great sheikh certainly knew it as well.

"Be gone from this place, beggars! You shall solicit nothing from the esteemed guests of Amjad al-Qadir, not while I draw breath!"

Kanda was not in the mood. At all. He had spent six weeks in the godforsaken desert in Kazakhstan with the annoying pig woman and a herd of ugly, useless goats (not counting the other desert he had crossed to get to Syria!) and he was not going to go another minute without the simple comforts of…the ostentatiously extravagant hotel in front of him. He was about to draw his sword when he heard that dreaded voice.

Not Win's. She had lost her voice from screaming a few weeks back and had not gained it back because of all the sand she was breathing in every day. No, the other dreaded voice.

"YUUUUUUUU-CHAN!"

Kanda twitched. Win's head shot up. If Lavi was near, then so was Daine! Seeing her best friend might almost make traveling directly to Damascus from whatever the name of the little town they used as a base for their expeditions in Kazakhstan with the stupid, prissy girly man and the stupid, mottled old goat worth it.

When Kanda saw Lavi, he was so infuriated by the sight of the redhead that he couldn't speak. Not even to berate him for using his given name and ridiculous suffixes. The man in question was draped in black silk, embroidered in what looked suspiciously like gold thread. The…shirt, if you could call it that, fit loosely on his upper body and was meant to be tied closed at the neck, but Lavi had neglected to do that and thus was showing off his physique through a flatteringly gaping neckline. He wasn't wearing his bandana, and he was barefoot. The pants he was wearing were loose, silk as well and embroidered to match with gold. He was wearing gold jewelry, he smelled like sandalwood and musk and Kanda was most certain that he had just left the bath. What angered the Japanese swordsman most, though, was what he was holding in his hand. A goblet of wine. A freaking goblet of wine. Yes, Kanda was feeling murderous. After all he had suffered to get here-the goat, the desert, sandstorms, hordes of akuma, the annoying pig woman-he finally arrived and found the stupid rabbit living in the absolute lap of luxury.

"Yuu-chan, you're finally here!"

Kanda was going to kill him.

"Ah-they're here, Lavi?"

The redhead snickered, nodding and pulling Daine close with one arm, the other leisurely lifting his golden goblet (it was studded with emeralds) to his mouth to wet his lips before he spoke.

"Yes, my love, they are. Would you care to say hello?"

Daine might have smiled, but Win and Kanda could only tell by the light in her eyes. She was dressed to match Lavi (her shirt didn't tie closed, but rather had a square neck with golden embroidery) but with a silken scarf covering her hair and a light black veil covering her face. Her front was draped in precious gems and spun gold, and her feet were bare.

She was just out of the bath as well, it seemed, because she was scented with jasmine and just a hint of sandalwood. It was so subtle a hint that her newly arrived exorcist friends suspected it hadn't truly been there in the first place-it seemed more as if it had rubbed off on her from Lavi.

"Win, you guys finally made it!"

"My prince, you surely cannot know these beggars!"

Lavi looked up in surprise at the servants passionate exclamation-he had entirely forgotten the man was there. The red head laughed and waved his hand in dismissal.

"These are no beggars. This is my friend and his wife. They were traveling here from Rajkot, which, as you must know, is in the Gujarat territory which is my own, but their caravan was attacked by bandits. It was the raja's prowess with the sword that enabled him to escape with his wife. They disguised themselves in order to travel the desert safely."

The servant looked suddenly horrified and contrite.

"Esteemed ones, I beg your forgiveness! I have caused offense to the guests of the Maharaja's, who is the guest of my master! Please accept this humble sinner's apology."

Kanda let out a noise of disgust and then growled in exasperation when the man suddenly threw himself to the floor, groveling about something or other that he didn't care to even try to understand.

"Guest of the Maharaja's, tell your wife to cover her face! It is exposed!"

Win looked at the man as if she were about to run him through with her claws-and perhaps use his bones to sharpen them-when Kanda nodded at her gruffly.

"Cover up, woman. We have to blend in here."

As much as she hated doing absolutely anything that Kanda told her to, she knew that this wasn't the particular time or place to debate it and used the coarse, sandy fabric of her robe to cover her face like Daine had. Once that was taken care of, they were escorted inside by Lavi and Daine, who dismissed the footman. Kanda scoffed at the man as he left.

"What the hell was his problem?"

Lavi laughed but there was a glint of disapproval in his eye when he answered.

"He was just scared you were going to have him killed for his insolence. That's legal here."

Kanda was silent and he and Win were taken to freshen up for the evening-Lavi had made the executive decision to simply watch over the innocence until Kanda and Win arrived, not because they needed back up, but because once they took the innocence they would in all likelihood have to leave the comfort of the hotel and Lavi was quite enjoying the pampering.

Attendants waited on them in the bath and even Kanda-who absolutely loathed the unnecessary-understood why Lavi had waited. Kanda refused to wear those silk things that made up Lavi's wardrobe, but Win embraced Daine's clothes and came out of the bath smelling literally like roses and draped in a lovely shade of ocean blue.

"Where did you guys even get this stuff?"

Daine looked at Win with a wicked grin when she answered.

"What can I say, the sheikh loves us."

Win's jaw dropped.

"You mean he gave you guys all this gold and the silk clothes and the jewels and the perfumes and-is that saffron?"

Daine beamed.

"Yup! It's from one of his spice trade caravans."

Win rummaged through the trunk, finding all sorts of spices and oils, closing the lid with a low whistle.

"Saffron's really expensive. How much money does this guy have?"

Daine shrugged, applying a line of kohl to her left eye, then her right as she tucked her hair into her head wrap thing, whatever it was called. There was a knock on the door and she set the kohl brush down and called softly, "Enter!"

"Hey wifey, you ready?"

It was Lavi, all decked out in his finest robes-once again they were black, but the embroidery was superb and he had rings on every finger, fine chains around his neck, the works. His hammer was, as it had consistently been the four weeks they had stayed at the hotel, tied to a sash at his waist. Kanda stood behind him in his order uniform-he wouldn't change, no way, and he certainly wasn't going to drape himself in silk like the idiot rabbit had.

Daine hurriedly tied her veil across her face, helping a struggling Win with her own. She had, after all, had four weeks of practice. She was also in her finest-dark emerald silk, so dark it looked like black until it caught the light and turned to the clearest bottle green. She had just as much jewelry proportionally as Lavi did, and the sheikh had sent up a fancy golden headdress to go over her head wrap for tonight. It was studded with diamonds, emeralds and pearls from distant Japan and it matched perfectly the rest of her finery.

"As ready as I'll ever be, oh honorable husband."

They shared a laugh and Kanda and Win were left wondering what on earth was going on. Neither of the exorcists mentioned anything, though, so they simply followed quietly, Kanda because he was a silent stoic by nature, and Win because her throat was still raw from practically eating sand for nearly eight weeks. It had taken them three weeks once in Kazakhstan to reach the mountains, three weeks to return to the village, and nearly two to get to Damascus. Never had Win wished so hard to be able to take a train.

"Lavi, what's going on?"

The redhead let go of his "wife" and turned to Win, grinning.

"Today you shall have the honor of enjoying a huge feast in honor of the Maharaja of Gujarat. Namely, me. Oh, and you get to watch the famed dance of his sixth wife. Which would be his favorite wife. Namely, Daine."

Win made a face of surprise.

"Daine is dancing?"

Lavi nodded, drumming his fingers (Kanda couldn't get over how showy it looked, what with all of the huge precious stones sparkling on his rings and all) to a rhythm Win didn't recognize. Daine apparently did, because she looked at him a little shyly and then started muttering counts to herself.

"Oh, by the way, Yuu-chan, if anyone asks, Win is your first wife."

Kanda glared at Lavi in disgust.

"What do you mean, 'first'?"

Lavi waved a hand airily about, looking utterly mischievous.

"Oh, well, I told the sheikh that you had two. Win, your first wife, and Moyashi, your second."

There was a pregnant pause as everyone pictured Kanda being married to Allen, who was, of course, called "moyashi" by Kanda, which was Japanese for bean sprout. And then, all hell broke loose.

"The esteemed Maharaja of Gujarat and his sixth wife, the honorable Maharani of Gujarat."

Lavi walked Daine into the great hall of the sheikh's house, to where they had been transported in litters carried by servants earlier in the evening. They took their seats next to the sheikh, in the place of honor. Once seated, Daine surreptitiously pressed her hand to Lavi's knee and he leaned over, as if kissing his wife, so that she could whisper in his ear.

"While I dance, collect the innocence."

He nodded an affirmative at her after pressing a brief kiss to her cheek. Why not, he figured. After all, she was his favorite wife. That entitled him to it, right?

"The esteemed Raja of Rajkot and the honorable Rani of Rajkot."

Kanda walked in, escorting (in a very sour-faced manner) a pretty if disgruntled Win.

"His esteemed self, Amjad al-Qadir."

Here there was silence, and Win craned her neck to see the man who had just walked in. He was nothing like she had expected, nothing at all. In fact, he was exactly the opposite of what she had expected. What she expected being, of course, a really fat old sultan type, you know, the stereotypical ones with those odd mustaches?

He was nothing like that at all. In fact…he was rather…

"My dearest guests! Welcome! Welcome to my humble home!"

The two hundred people gathered all made clear their approval, and the sheikh, who had raised his hands dramatically at his place at the head of the table, nodded his acceptance.

"Today we feast in honor of my esteemed friend, the Maharaja of Gujarat, and we have the pleasure of being entertained by the honorable Maharani of Gujarat, our exalted guest's most favored wife."

More cheers of approval.

"Now, my esteemed guests, feast unto your heart's content! Take pleasure from what I humbly offer you, and may Allah bless us all!"

There was another cheer and the feast began.

When Daine had fist met Amjad al-Qadir, she had taken a most favorable impression of him. The man was genial, charming, even, generous to both his friends and those beneath him, and was, for lack of a better word, gorgeous. He was of a powerful, sinuous build, very trim but with the appearance of one who is quick, agile, and very, very smooth in his movement. He had dark hair, deliciously rich, tawny eyes, and a sort of coffee colored skin that was nothing short of exotic. He had welcomed Lavi with a hug and kisses on both cheeks, and he had cut the most sweeping figure when he bowed to Daine-who had turned pink beneath her mask-and she had immediately gotten the feeling that the man before her was dangerous.

It wasn't his prowess with a blade-though they had seen a demonstration of it in the courtyard and had been more than impressed-and it wasn't the power he wielded or the men at his command. No, it was the way he had looked at her when they met. She had felt then an easy trembling in her knees and she felt his almost overwhelming presence acutely, so much so that it was as if she was nothing but sand slipping through his long elegant fingers. Their very brief conversation had put the image in her mind of an adder in the desert, nothing but a breath of winding lines, an alluring promise of night. He was like a pattern of waves in her mind in all colors, iridescent, heralding a coming dark, and when he had briefly brushed past her in the narrow hallway that lead to her room, she had felt a sudden spark and a flare, like the lighting of an oil lamp, the slow intoxication of the heady perfumes of the baths and the heat of the water slipping over her and the dark silk of the sheets in her room and she swallowed. Amjad al-Qadir was dangerous because he was a physical embodiment of temptation, and as she stood before him to dance, feeling his rich, molten gold eyes trained on her as if no one else existed, she knew exactly the danger he presented and sighed.

It was that soft, soft sigh that had caught the entire room's attention. Daine raised her arms above her head and counted the beat she was presented with-Lavi had taught her the dance, he had seen it once, in his youth, in India and had, of course, remembered everything-and began. Lavi slipped out, unnoticed by everyone.

One arm descends in a slow, slow crescent, and the other one is brought to her face. Make a circle with the index finger and the thumb, keep the other three fingers so straight they look like they arch backwards. Bring the left hand to the face, touch the circle to the cheekbone, move a foot slowly forward, toe pointed and then step so that the foot is parallel to the arm that is now extended in a sweeping gesture to one side. Seven…eight…nine…

She did her absolute best to make her movements entrancing-if someone noticed Lavi missing, it might compromise their mission-and tried to keep calm, barely breathing for fear of moving her mask. It should look, she thought, as if she didn't need to breathe, as if she was some sort of apparition. She was legendary Sixth Wife of the Maharaja of Gujarat, every movement of her body should be art, the slow sway of her hips music, her svelte limbs and her curves poetry. She had to act her part.

It was difficult, the dance, but she had thought that it would be easier to learn as it was slower, but that hadn't been the case at all. With speed comes sloppiness, and it would have been more challenging for a member of her audience to note a botched kick or too violent of turn amidst a flurry of movement. Her movements were slow, and the timing had to be perfect. She had practiced and practiced-this was the window of time that they needed, this was the distraction that would allow Lavi the opportunity to slip into the inner chambers of the sheikh's room and make away with the innocence. She couldn't fail, not now.

There was a glimmer of something in her host's eyes when she came before him-entirely unintentionally-and rose up from the sort of contortion that made her wonder at the fact that her spine hadn't snapped clean in half and tilted her head before him, raising one hand into the air as gracefully as she could manage as the other one was lowered to over her stomach, and she bent her leg at the knee so that her foot pointed to the side and it ran parallel to the floor. She felt a breath of cool air against her cheek and realized it was because her mask had ever so slightly moved, teasing the man with the slightest hint of her pale skin, the curve of her jaw. It nearly made her botch a move it had taken her three nights to complete, a slow lowering on one foot, the graceful curving of her foot as left and right switched places and she rose again. She backed up with a halting step then two, then three, and as the music at last sped up she bent backwards with a grace she would have never believed herself to have (product of Lavi's photographic memory and eye for criticism) and lowered herself to her knees, rose from her nearly laying flat position and bowed low before her audience, with her hands extended before her, palms flat on the ground in a gesture of supplication and all she could do was pray.

Lavi had slipped in quite easily enough, there had been guards, of course, but his hammer was for use against akuma, not people, (mostly) and he had found an alternate entrance. After climbing onto the roof and extending his hammer, he had proceeded to use it as a sort of slide to drop down into the room. The sheikh had a pool in the antechamber of his room that had open roof access-Amjad had told him that he loved the night sky, the stars, and the soft silvery glow of the moon, and Lavi had to agree, it certainly gave the room a sort of sensual charm-and it had seemed to Lavi the perfect entrance.

The sheikh was in possession of a most fabulous family heirloom-a wickedly curved blade that dated back to the Crusades, said to have been wielded by his ancestors since the rise of their family. The sheikh had shown this most prized of possessions to his friend the Maharaja, explaining that the blade's hilt had been restored in his personal forges by the most skilled of craftsmen, but the blade itself was the same Damascus steel wielded by his Saracen ancestors. The blade was the innocence, Lavi was sure. The numerous stories they had heard-it seemed to confirm what they had been told, what they believed. So, why did Lavi have the feeling (that he absolutely loathed with every fiber of his being) that he was missing something? It was then that he realized and the annoyed expression on his face faded into one of recognition. He stared at the blade in question.

"It had been in my family since the time of the Crusades, it is the blade of a most honorable ancestor who fought and died for our beliefs. To me has passed the last of his possessions, his blade, wrought here in Damascus, in the way of the ancient smiths, and his mantle, gifted to him by the Saracen leader before the fall of Jaffa. I wear it now to only the most spectacular of occasions, for the most esteemed guests. Yourself included, my friend."

The mantle. He could see it in his mind's eyes, the jeweled clasp where it gathered. He cursed. Why couldn't a mission go smoothly for once? Was it really too much to ask? He didn't know it as he extended his hammer and used it to carefully clamber up out of the sheikh's private chambers, but the state of their mission was rapidly deteriorating.

"Rise."

Daine dared not utter a word as Amjad smiled quite dangerously at her and did exactly as he asked, drawing herself up to her full height. He motioned her forward and she obeyed, stopping right before where the man sat back, reclining. He pulled her almost into his lap, his mouth by her ear in a way that sent a chill down her spine, even as she felt suddenly warm.

"I commend you, lady, for so successfully diverting my attention. I hardly noticed him leaving."

And he released her, his tawny gaze lingering on her even as she fled the room.

The Sixth Wife's Dance, or, Syrian Nights/End.