by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 47
Abass flew through the air, the city below lit up not only by the great pools of lantern-light, but also by the noon-day twilight of the dew. The buildings below rushed up at him. He pulled on the dew, slowing the world around him, and tried to land lightly. His boots struck the roof with a thud. For half a heartbeat, Abass thought he had done it. Then the slate below him shifted, and he found himself sliding toward the edge of the roof.
Only the dew kept him from falling off the building. He regained his footing just as Fadhra landed next to him, soft and silent as a cat. She looked up at him with a smile.
“Better,” she said.
Abass wrapped one arm around her and leaned down to kiss her. “I have a good teacher.”
For a long moment she pressed against him. With the dew pounding in his veins, the kiss was like lightning, the feel of her body against him like Istbyan dream-smoke. She pulled away, and Abass gasped.
Fadhra took a deep breath. “I haven’t done that with dew before,” she said. “It gives me all sorts of ideas.”
Abass felt his cheeks redden, but he grinned back. A part of him felt bad, knew that he should not be enjoying himself like this. Not when Qatal had not returned that day. Not when Abass had no idea where to look for Isola. Which is the whole reason we’re out here in the first place, he reminded himself, even as an almost irresistible urge to make love to Fadhra pounded through him. The feeling was as strong as the bloodlust and the rage that the dew brought, and it made Abass’s knees weak, made the world spin. Before he could take her in his arms again, which he knew would break the last of his resolve, Abass took an unsteady leap into the night sky.
The city fell away beneath him into a canvas of brilliant colors visible only in the dew-light, marred by patches of grey—the Sleeping Palaces. For a half a heartbeat the whole city lay beneath him, and then Abass fell, and the ground rushed back up toward him.
In his haste, he had not planned his jump, and as the houses sped toward him Abass realized that he was going to miss the roof of the closest building. Flailing arms and legs, he tried to propel himself through the air. As he neared the large home, Abass pulled on the dew—and realized, as he did, that his dew was ebbing—and felt the world around him slow as the dew sped up the speed of his body. Sound flattened out, the bustle of the street below becoming a drawn buzz, and a sparrow, startled from its nest by his approach, hung in the air for an impossible amount of time between the beats of its wings. Abass stretched, seeking the edge of the slate roof.
He curled his fingers over the rough stone. The world sped up around him as he let go of the dew, and pain and shock traveled up his arms as he caught himself. Abass swung forward and struck the wall, bracing himself to keep from flattening his nose against the painted wood. His heart pounded with exhilaration. With the strength born of the dew, Abass flipped himself up onto the slate roof.
Cuts ran along each finger where he had caught hold of the roof, but they began to close before his eyes; larger wounds would not heal so easily, but they would heal. With the dew in him, almost any wound would heal.
The brush of leather on stone was the only sound of Fadhra’s landing.
“You left in a hurry,” she said with a grin. Her eyes, dark even in the twilight-noon of the dew, ran up and down him.
“I didn’t want to bother the neighbors,” Abass said. Desire still simmered inside him, a new counterpart to the fury that the dew most often brought. “Besides, we have work to do tonight.”
“Work,” Fadhra said. “Well, I can deal with work. Now that we know about the dew, though.” Her smile broadened into a smirk, and Abass felt the heat rise in his cheeks, but only to match his own grin. “Where did you want to start looking?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know; Father take me, I don’t even know where Qatal is.”
Something dark shot across the dew-lit sky.
“What was that?” Fadhra said.
“Qatal?” Abass said.
“Maybe,” Fadhra said. “Only one way to find out.”
She leapt into the night sky, and a heartbeat later Abass followed her, the city falling away beneath them. They sprang from rooftop to rooftop, moving toward where they had seen the dark shape. With every landing, Abass felt himself gaining a sense of how Fadhra moved so quietly—although he still could not match her. The shadow moved as they got closer, and Abass could make out the shape of a man. At a nod from Fadhra, they kept following.
Whomever they followed did not seem to notice them, but his jumps were spaced far apart, as though he were unsure of where he were going—or as though he waited for something. He moved steadily east, staying north of Old Truth and moving past the old heart of the city.
Abass landed on a roof a few buildings over from where the man had disappeared, hitting the slate so softly that Fadhra gave him a small grin and a nod. They crouched together, dew still pounding through Abass’s body, but low enough that he swallowed another cube. The adrenaline rush of the dew, always so close to tipping into a thirst for blood, replaced the lust that scorched Abass.
At Fadhra’s sharp breath, he turned, following her gaze. A man crouched, two rooftops away, in profile. With the dew-light, Abass could make out his features perfectly. Long, dark hair. A sky-blue scarf wrapped over one eye. Serhan, dressed all in black, and with a long, curved blade strapped to his back. He glanced around, as though searching for something, and launched himself into the night sky.
Abass followed without stopping to look at Fadhra. Serhan, sneaking around the city, working for Maq. Maq’s plans were an obstacle, always threatening to loom up between Abass and his sister; he was not going to lose this chance to find out what Maq was doing.
Fadhra landed on the next rooftop at almost the same time. She pulled him down low and breathed into his ear, “What are you doing? If Serhan thinks we’re following him, he’ll be furious.”
For the first time since he had known her, Abass saw uncertainty in Fadhra’s eyes. “What’s he doing though? Don’t you want to know?”
She shook her head and gripped his arm. Abass hunkered down, watching Serhan.
The one-eyed man’s head swiveled back and forth, searching. Abass tried to follow his gaze, to see whatever Serhan saw. Nothing out of the ordinary met his eyes—the brightly-colored wooden homes of Khi’ilan, covered in a thousand different murals, and the night sky broken only by two Sleeping Palaces, like two great fingers that had broken through the city.
Two Sleeping Palaces. Two. Miles apart.
Serhan leaped into the night sky.
Abass grinned. “One more jump,” he promised.
With a grimace, Fadhra nodded. Abass jumped from the roof, feeling the dew surge in response to the sudden demand by his body, and the cool air whistled past his ears as he flew over the homes of Khi’ilan. He landed, soft as a cat, on the next roof, holding his breath. Serhan had led them north and east this time, and one of the Sleeping Palaces stood only a hundred yards from them. Serhan, a handful of rooftops away, gave the city one last, one-eyed sweep, and drew the curved blade. Then he dropped from the roof to the streets below.
Abass stared in surprise. He had been sure that Serhan was going to one of the Sleeping Palaces. Instead the man had disappeared into the streets below, and with his blade out—ready for a fight.
“What in the Father’s glory is he doing?” Abass said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Fadhra said, still in a whisper. “Let’s go, now.”
“Why are you acting like this?” Abass asked.
“Come on,” Fadhra said. She turned and jumped, heading south across the dew-lit sky. Abass gave the street a last look before he followed.
He found Fadhra on the patched roof of a warehouse several miles south, at the edge of the city. Back to him, she stood with arms crossed, shoulders tight.
“What just happened?” Abass asked.
“You could have gotten us killed,” Fadhra said. “You have no idea what
you’re doing; you’ve known Serhan for a few days, you fool, but even that should have been enough to tell you to watch your step.”
“So he’s got a temper,” Abass said, “so what? He’s not going to do anything.”
Fadhra spat. “You’re going to get yourself killed. Serhan is Maq’s pet, and Serhan can do no wrong. Maq won’t bat an eye if Serhan rips your arms off and stuffs them down your throat.”
“Might be a little hard with the dew,” Abass said.
“He’s faster than any of us except Maq,” Fadhra said, shaking her head. “Faster and stronger, and he loves to cause pain. The way he kills—tair bless us, there’s a reason he carries that big sword. He likes to use blades on people, likes what he can do to them.”
Abass swallowed the knot in his throat. Segi and Scribe had been carved up. Why would Serhan have hurt them, though? Maq had sent him to protect them.
Fadhra turned to face him. Her dark eyes, so beautiful, fixed him. “Stay away from Serhan, Abass,” she said. “Or else start carrying a salt-blade.”
For a long moment Abass thought of Segi and Scribe, butchered in that small room. He pushed the thought away. Isola was more important for now; he would deal with Serhan later. If Serhan had even been involved.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to get home and get some more dew.”
“Why?”
“I figured out the next place we need to search,” Abass said. “I should have thought of it a long time ago.”
“Oh?” Fadhra said. “Where’s that?”
“Where’s the best place to hide something in the city?” Abass asked. “Someplace no one ever goes. I’ve used one for years as my own hiding place.”
“For the Father’s sake, where?” Fadhra asked, hands on hips.
“The Sleeping Palaces,” Abass said. “Where else?”