After half an hour I gave up standing guard and started to sit guard instead, hollowing the sand to make it more comfortable for my bruised arse. I watched the sheik’s more able-bodied retainers salvaging additional tents and putting them back up as best they could. And I listened to the daughters, occasionally twirling a length of broken tent pole I’d picked up in lieu of a sword. I even started humming: it takes more than a Builders’ Sun exploding to take the gloss off a man’s first night in the living world after what seemed an eternity in Hell. I’d made it through the first two verses of The Charge of the Iron Lance when an unexplained stillness made me sit up straight and look around. Straining through the gloom I could make out the nearest of the men, standing motionless around a half-erected tent. I wondered why they’d stopped work. The real question struck me a few moments later. Why could I barely see them? It had become darker— much darker—and all within the space of a few minutes. I looked up. No stars. No moon. Which had to mean cloud. And that simply didn’t happen in the Sahar. Certainly not during the year I’d spent in Hamada.
The first drop of rain hit me square between the eyes. The second hit me in the right eye. The third hit the back of my throat as I made to complain. Within the space of ten heartbeats three drops had grown into a deluge that had me backing into the tent awning for shelter. Slim hands reached out for my shoulders and drew me in through the flaps.
“Rain!” Tarelle, her face in shadow, the light of a single lamp hinting at the curve of her cheekbone, her brow, the line of her nose.
“How can it be raining?” Mina, fearful yet excited.
“I . . .” I didn’t know. “The Builders” Sun must have done it.’ Could a fire make it rain? A fire that big might change the weather . . . certainly the flames reached high enough to lick the very roof of the sky.
“I heard that after the Day of a Thousand Suns there was a hundred years of winter. The winter of the north where water turns to stone and falls from the sky in flakes,” Danelle said, her face at my shoulder, voice rich and commanding thrills down my spine.
“I’m scared.” Lila pressed closer as the rain began to hammer on the tent roof above us. I doubted we’d be dry for long—tents in Liba are intended to keep out the sun and the wind: they rarely have to contend with the wet.
A crack of thunder broke ridiculously close and suddenly Prince Jal was the filling in a four-girl sandwich. The boom paralysed me with terror for a moment and left my ears ringing, so it took me a short while to appreciate my position. Not even thirty-six yards of thobe could entirely disguise the sisters’ charms at this proximity. Moments later, though, a new fear surfaced to chase off any thoughts of taking advantage.
“Your father made some very specific threats, ladies, concerning your virtue and I really—”
“Oh, you don’t want to worry about that.” A husky voice close enough to my ear to make me shiver.
“Father says all manner of things.” Softly spoken by a girl with her head against my chest. “And nobody will move until the rain stops.”
“I can’t remember a time when we weren’t being watched over by Father, or our brothers, or his men.” Another pressed soft against my shoulder.
“And we do so need protecting . . .” Behind me. Mina? Danelle? Whoever it was her hands were moving over my hips in a most unvirtuous way.
“Butthe sheik—”
“Gold plating?” A tinkling laugh as the fourth sister started to push me down. “Did you really believe that?”
At least two of the girls were busy unwinding their thobes with swift and practised hands. Amid the shadows thrown by so many bodies I could see very little, but what I could see I liked. A lot.
All four of them pushed me down now, a tangled mass of smooth limbs and long hair, hands roaming.
“Gold’s so expensive.” Tarelle, climbing atop me, still half-wrapped.
“That would be silly.” Danelle, pressed to my side, deliciously soft, her tongue doing wonderful things to my ear. “He always uses silver . . .”
I tried to get up at that point, but there were too many of them, and things had got out of hand—except for the things that were now in hands . . . and, dammit, I’d been in Hell long enough, it was time for a spot of paradise.
There’s a saying in Liba: The last yard of the thobe is the best. . . . or if there isn’t, there should be!
“Arrrrgh!”
I’ve found that there are few things more effective at making a man’s ardour grow softer than cold water. When the tent roof, weakened by earlier traumas, gave without warning and released several gallons of icy rainwater over my back I jumped up sharply, scattering al’Hameed women and no doubt teaching them a whole new set of foreign curse words.