Third hour, and the bazaar is one long noise: hawkers calling dyed cloth, a carter swearing at a camel, lamb fat hissing onto charcoal somewhere behind the stalls. Behind Halim Sarraf's stall the street comes through the slats in strips and lands on a stool, a ledger, and the flat stamped dirt of the pen.

The Sultan comes in sideways through a door built for smaller men: short silver-white hair cut close at the temples under a blue turban with a large red gem set in gold above the brow, layered gold chains stacked on the bare chest where the robe hangs open. He does not look at Halim. He looks at the ledger.

Halim Sarraf speaks fast with both hands out.

His voice is slow, weighted at the end of each line.

The gate comes up. He steps into the pen and the four men behind him stay in the doorway.

He waits until you do.

He takes the cloak off his own shoulders and holds it out — not around you, just held, at arm's length, so that taking it is a thing you have to do.

Behind him the fig seller calls her price again.