There are spurs on her riding boots, the spurs of a caballero. They are the only sound she makes upon the earth as she strides in the darkness from stable to the corrals. At her left shoulder comes a horse, a blood-red Andalusian mare, small as she is small. Fiery, as she is fiery.
Nazari al Sa'ad is clothed in her usual blacks and reds, a coiled leather bullwhip at her left hip and leather gloves tucked at her waistband. No matter the wind, the rain, the bulls, the men, despite all these elements, her hair is impeccable, coiled into an elaborate Iberian display upon her head, held by pins invisible. She carries the caballero's saddle as if it were nothing more than a cape, a scarf to be tossed to some passing toreador.
"Vaya al poste y espere," she says to the mare with a gesture to the nearby fencing of a corral. As the mare takes her station, Nazari sets the saddle upon a sawhorse and takes up the brush to begin grooming.
There is a set to her expression, a focus of her gaze. She knows he is not far. He has age; he may be felt upon the wind. There... where a dust devil is congregating, that is where one might find him. Sirocco, she calls him these nights. Will El-Adar be ready to face his fury?
Her hand brushes the curry over the mane's withers. "Amigo," she says to the air. "The oasis may as well be in India, for it lies on a bed of pins in anticipation. In wondering... what goes on, and what is the matter..."
The riders coming in from the east keep a very good pace even to the walkways between corrals and chutes. Edward's with them, a dusty band returning from an evening out. Where? Unknown. But they must have been gone for some time - they're covered in dirt and some mud. Ah, perhaps down by one of the water holes for the cattle.
The set of four come to a halt, and Edward immediately dismounts. His horse barely stops - it complains at the sudden shift of weight - and steps away from Edward's swing to the ground.
Without much word, the reigns are given to a nearby hand, who comforts the animal while Edward begins the process to remove his saddle. No muss, no fuss. No waiting. At least he is dressed for the occasion. Gone are the London clothes of the first nights, when he showed up, walked outside, and threw himself upon a horse to disappear into the night. Now, he at least wears riding boots and jeans found in his suite.
"Senor," one of the hands says to Edward, offering to take care of the saddle for him.
"No," Edward says evenly, shaking his head. "I've got it." Not even in Spanish, but English.
There is a soft, assuring sound, soothing. It calms the blood-bay mare, whose ears had pricked forward at the arrival of the company. She snorts and puffs, shifting slightly as she is brushed. But though she isn't tied, she doesn't move. Nazari curries along the mare's arched neck. She pauses, pivoting to the arrival and plucking out mare's hair from the brush. Fingers wiggle, and give it to the wind like so much dandelion fluff.
She watches Edward a moment, arm on the horse's neck, for the moment ignoring the mare's nibbling at her leg. "How was the wrangling," she says smoothly, turning now to the sawhorse and the blanket and saddle that rest there, waiting. "I heard there was a heifer in distress." Si, that seems to be going around.
The mare lifts her head as she feels the blanket and saddle on her back. Nazari adjusts it, the tacking of her horse a kind of meditation. It is focused, practiced, an art. You are coming in, Sirocco, dust in your wake. She, too, is compelled to ride. She wonders what your reason is.
Edward looks up, over the back of his horse. Honestly, he had not taken stock of the near yards, to see who was about. Recognition there, his face turns down again to deal with the saddle. "Nazari," said no differently than 'senor,' "How goes?" He'll let the heifer comment be, not giving a response to it. An opening if there was one.
"We were out fixing posts - no medical miracles," he grunts at a belt, "..for us."
"Edward," said like 'Good Evening'. You speak English and she joins you. Hers is slow, accented, but fluent if deliberate. "It is time for the sabbatical of the saddle." There is a look that travels between the two of you. She cinches the saddle firmly, the mare grunting in protest. "I need a vacation from prayer. I do not know that I shall escape the sound of midnight calling. Either I will hear the sultans or I will hear the wolves." Perhaps there's not much difference.
Nazari makes a clicking sound as she turns, her chiming stride echoed by the slow, following gait of her mare. "Perhaps Esperanza and I shall only walk together. You have only just returned or I would make you an offer to go with."
Cinnamon eyes are a light-darkness in the limited illumination. There is much on your mind. You stay in the stables. I see the wind building, Sirocco. I know a dust-storm when I see one. "I could, however, be convinced to take your money in poker..." If you wish to talk with someone.
The saddle gives way and slides towards Edward. "No, thanks," he says, lifting the saddle up and off. It comes to rest at his hip, and his gaze politely rises to meet. But at mention of poker, a small smirk is finally given. "No, thanks on poker too, Nazari," he exhales. Things to do. "I appreciate it though," he acknowledges, looking down again at his boots.
"How is Nasr," he asks, the first time in ages he has done so. "He okay?"
She pauses, not mounting. She stands at a friend's distance, her hand on the mare's withers. She ignores the others. Her look is one of study -- and of a woman's compassion. "He is well," Nazari replies softly. "Like any of us, he is Himself. If you are here through the month, you will see him. Tonight, he is in Granada. A meeting. Being an infidel," painted lips smirk, "... I was not asked to join him. He will have several other stops. A sultan's work is never complete. I have hired him his own personal secretary. We will see how long she lasts."
So, some things do change. Nazari is not following the sultan to his every destination. "Are you sure... not even a hand of cards if I promise to let you win?"
There's a smile to think of Nasr. He is as you have described. Edward nods at the recollection as you explain current status, but the wan smile falls about the cards again. "I do not think I'd be the best of company, Nazari." Not that he has been unpleasant mind you. For his arrival, there has been but silence and absence. He comes to work the fields, its said, as he did during his first nights here. "I appreciate the offer though. Maybe, the sultan will allow me in his graces, when he returns." They did not part on the firmest of grounds. "But for now," Edward's brow is given to the ground again, "There's just...a lot to do." That keeps him from everyone. And with no one.
"I ask as a friend, because I see a friend with much on his mind. But," she smiles a little, submitting with a matador's grace, "...I will not pester." There are some bulls that you cannot nudge into fighting when they do not want to fight, and Edward Meurelle is one such bull.
"I will convey your message to him. He has spoken of you often, you and the others. He misses your company, though he will never admit it, being a man." Nazari swings up upon her mount, the mare still through it and the swinging graceful, easy. She settles instantly, her booted feet finding the stirrups.
"You will share a drink with me tomorrow night, then. We will share a port in the barn." It is where you have been staying, the barn, the corrals, the fields.
His hip shifts with the saddle, "Tomorrow," he agrees. Edward's not so sure he has much on his mind. A brow quirks as he thinks to himself, but then he looks up to give his good night for now. "I shall see you then," he nods, boots dusting around him as he heads towards the tack room doors.
The saddle weighs him as he walks off, carried awkwardly away to be hung for another morning.
"Manana," she nods...
There are spurs on her riding boots, the spurs of a caballero. They brush lightly at the mare's side, causing the animal to toss in sudden movement. Nazari glances back only briefly as Edward walks off, but soon she straightens in a matador's posture and posts toward the open fields.
And No matter the wind, the rain, the bulls, the men, despite all these elements, her hair is impeccable...
Posted by rowan at June 07, 2006 07:11 PM
