Zulaykha al-Mairi was married to a wounded enemy at the dry Lion Fountain. In that way the whole court was told that her house had betrayed Granada for water.
The prisoner stood before her in a borrowed cloak, with a dark bandage under his ribs and an iron band on his right wrist. His name was Íñigo de Mena. The guards saw a Castilian in him. For Yusuf ibn Sahr he was a means of bringing the house of Khalid to heel. And Zulaykha was being made to answer for the life of an unknown enemy as though it were her own oath.
The Lion Fountain was silent.
Twelve stone lions surrounded the marble basin. Once the water had poured from their mouths so evenly that the old masters could tell the hour before the dawn prayer by its sound. That day not one drop fell.
Salt crunched under Zulaykha's soles, still cold. So the fountain had dried very recently: that night, or even that morning.
But the court did not see the trace of the water. The court saw the daughter of Khalid al-Mairi, a water-master who had already been called a traitor for a year.
Women in dark veils were walking along the gallery. Under the arches stood the senior masters, the garden guard, scribes, servants, two physicians and Yusuf ibn Sahr's men. Beyond the carved stone the besieged city hummed. There was already not enough water in Granada, and people were sparing every jug.
Yusuf came out to the fountain unhurriedly. He wore plain dark clothing, and at his belt jingled the keys to the aljibes, the garden sluices and the closed passages, where even the guard did not go without his permission.
He did not raise his voice.
"Water does not lie," Yusuf said. "While a house is loyal, it runs clean. When a house opens a secret passage to the enemy, the stone dries."
One of the women quietly drew in her breath. Fatima al-Harrasa, Zulaykha's cousin, lowered her eyes. She had come as kin, but she stood nearer to those who were to bear witness against the house of Khalid.
Zulaykha did not look at her. She looked at the edge of the basin.
Where a thin rim of water should have glittered that morning, a strip of grey lime remained. A finger had been drawn along it carefully. This had not been done by a child or a careless servant, but by someone who wanted to hide exactly when the fountain had dried.
Yusuf turned to her. The guards brought Íñigo closer to the dry basin.
"Zulaykha al-Mairi, your father disappeared on the night the northern acequia was opened to the enemy. Today the court is again left without water. The emir gives your house a last chance to clear itself."
"This is Íñigo de Mena, a water-measurer from the camp of the kings," Yusuf went on. "He was taken by the northern ditch. He knows where the enemy is running channels towards our water courses. While the prisoner answers only for himself, he can lie. But if your house takes him under its protection, you will answer for every word he says."
Zulaykha understood where Yusuf was leading before he spoke of marriage.
It became so quiet all around that beyond the arch a dry leaf could be heard falling in the garden.
"By the old water law, the house of the accused may take a prisoner under marriage protection. If he dies, escapes or lies before the basin, that house will answer. If he speaks the truth, the water will judge between us."
The water-masters did not count such a union a real marriage: no nikah, no church vow, no conjugal bond. They called the rite a water contract. A foreign-born master passed under the protection of a local house, and he could not be executed without judgement at the fountain. The law had been devised to protect masters. Yusuf turned it against Zulaykha.
Fatima raised her head. Now what was in her eyes was not shame but fear.
Zulaykha felt the blood leave her fingers.
This marriage was not meant to restore her house's honour, but to bind Zulaykha to the prisoner.
If Íñigo died of his wound, the daughter of Khalid would be accused of killing a witness. If he escaped, they would say she had opened the way for him. If he lied, they would declare that her house had betrayed the city once again.
She should have lowered her head.
She did not lower it.
"And if the water was diverted before he was even caught?" Zulaykha asked.
A rustle went through the court.
Yusuf smiled without joy.
"Then prove it, daughter of Khalid."
He took from the scribe a thin cord with a small copper bowl. The old masters used to pour water into such bowls when they concluded a water contract. Now the bowl was dry.
Íñigo de Mena raised his eyes to Zulaykha for the first time.
His grey eyes glittered with fever. His hair was cropped short in the Castilian way, but Íñigo held himself like a water-master Zulaykha would have recognised: he was looking not at the people in power but at the damaged fountain.
"Say your name," said Yusuf.
The prisoner was silent.
A guard struck him under the ribs. Íñigo doubled over but did not fall.
"Your name," Yusuf repeated.
Íñigo let out his breath. He spoke Arabic with a strong accent, but he had clearly known the language a long time.
"The northern water stands seven handspans lower than you think."
To everyone else it sounded like insolence. Zulaykha understood at once that Íñigo had named an exact measure.
A common soldier did not speak like that. A man spoke like that who measured the run of water not by a map and not by hearsay, but by the stone. Seven handspans did not mean drought. Seven handspans meant a diversion. Someone had taken the water higher up, before the palace basin.
For a moment Yusuf stopped smiling.
In that moment a sound came from under the dry Lion Fountain.
No water could be seen, but beneath the marble something gurgled briefly and at once fell silent.
Zulaykha looked at Íñigo.
He was looking at her.
Now they were bound not only by an imposed contract, but by a shared secret for which both of them could be killed.
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