The meal was eaten in silence but the barely repressed anger of the host filled the room as one harried servant took the place of many.
At the head of the table the host sat on a lowered, cushioned couch, his back utterly straight as he glared at his food. Despite the small size of the room and the meager trappings, the meal itself was rich. Plates of fruits lay in an elegant pattern between bowls of thick, rich stews. Two long baskets of bread edged the table and a large pot of scented rice dominated the center.
Spiced coffee steamed to the side of the guest's plate. He waited patiently until all was set before bowing from his seat.
"It is, indeed, a feast, Omid," the Englishman said. "I'm honored that you would choose to sit with me this evening."
"Please, eat," Omid said, waving his arm. "I know of you. I know of the Levant Company with which you're employed. I've traded with them before-"
Grunting, the host stroked his short beard, tugging it briefly to hide the snarl that briefly arose on his face. He ignored the plates set before him as he focused on his guest.
"Your Persian is quite good, Oswyn," the host continued after a moment.
"Thank you," Oswyn replied, raising his glass to show his respect. "I've spent many years in court and trading with your beautiful country. It has been a privilege given to few and I'm eternally grateful for it. It's a beautiful language."
"Trading," the host grunted again with a sour look. "With our enemies."
"With anyone," Oswyn said carefully. "Luxury goods. Nothing suitable for war and I pay heavy dues to all in order to travel freely. My commission-"
"I'm aware," Omid said, ending that thread of the conversation. "But, understand my frustrations."
Oswyn nodded as he broke a piece of his bread to show his lack of affront.
"Un usurper lives in my home," the host continued. "I have been given this- this domicile as we work to reclaim our lands. It is nothing. A fraction of what I had. Filled with what little I could take in the night."
"Your loss pains me," Oswyn told him, softening his expression to show his empathy. He wasn't fooled, despite the truth in the words. "But, the court whispers that you're a skilled merchant. One such as yourself could trade a fig for a bag of rice and the rice for a bracelet until you've secured a fleet - all with a humble fig as your seed."
"Bah," Omid said, sipping at his coffee to hide his smile. "You seek to feed my ego but words will not feed my family."
"No," the Englishman agreed. "Gold will, however. Traded in kind for the silk you took with you when you were forced to flee your home."
"Good quality silk," came the reply as the bearded host held his sleeves back to eat from a bowl of thick stew. "Finer than what you would find from my fellow displaced countrymen."
"Indeed," Oswyn agreed. "But, my own clients are not as cultured. I could sell them a bolt of cotton and claim it was silk - they would scarcely know the difference. I've been approached by others, selling their own stock of far less quality for a pittance."
"Desperation drives a poor bargain," Omid said, his jaw flaring as he stared at his guest. "I'm aware of it. Just as aware as I am of the exquisiteness of my goods."
The Englishman directed his eyes to his food, giving his host a moment of silence to think on his position.
"If not for that thief," the bearded man groused. "I would-"
The servant stood from his place in the corner to refresh their drinks and the silence continued.
"Do you know his name?" Oswyn asked, his voice as even as he could make it.
"Yes," the host said. "Yes, of course I do. Afterwards, I spent coin to learn of it. A Sipahi cavalryman. Granted my land for his
timar.
He sits there still now, a pig wallowing in clean sheets. Davud bin Musa."
The name was spoken with a sudden, intense fury that made Oswyn look up. Frowning, he glanced back down at his food while pushing a piece of bread around with his finger.
"The Shirvan province?" he asked.
"Yes," Omid answered, the flesh around his tired, dark eyes tightening as he became suspicious of the direct questioning.
"I trade near there next," the Englishman said, biting at his bottom lip. "Before appearing before the Sultan."
"Where are you going with this?" the host asked, scratching at his beard. "Not to prod me, I think. Not to goad me with thoughts of my homeland."
"No," Oswyn said. "No, not that."
"Speak, then!"
"I could bring him low," he told his host. "In exchange for a very, very favorable deal today, you would see your tormentor dishonored in front of front of-"
"How?" Omid asked, leaning forward eagerly.
"My Lord," the Englishman said uneasily. "I don't wish to-"
"How?!" Omid demanded, slamming the table with his fists and causing the servant to jump.
"Please," Oswyn said, pained as he raised his hands to placate his guest. "I hesitate to even bring it up. To mention details of it would- it's- I have someone in my employ. Please, I beg you. Ask for no details. Know only that if you agree, it shall be done and spare yourself the details. You are a righteous man and I am a man of honor. I will not dishonor you or your house with the details. We can come to an agreement you and I. Your silk for half of your asking price and, within a fortnight, Davud bin Musa will find himself exiled from court in shame. And that, my Lord, will be the most lenient sentence he can expect."
"Half," the bearded host said in disbelief. His knuckles whitened on the delicate mug set before him until it shattered, spraying hot coffee across his clothing and the table.
