The Dew of Flesh

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter 48

  Fire popped behind Siniq-elb, but neither he nor Zeyn flinched. The blond servant, the man who had willingly placed himself in a position that only the laziest, weakest Khacens would accept, stared at Siniq-elb. There was no hint of laziness in his eyes now, only the hardened look of a man committed to doing what was necessary. The flames surged, heat washing over Siniq-elb’s back; the fire had reached the barrel itself.

  “Get out of my way,” Siniq-elb said. “And run. Get the kitchen help out, Jela too. Don’t come back.”

  Zeyn shook his head; even now he refused to speak. Siniq-elb took a step forward, crutches slick under his palms, but Zeyn remained in front of the door. Blocking him. The fire behind Siniq-elb crackled, and the heat threatened to blister his back through the thin tunic. Wisps of smoke hung in the air, slowly drifting together into a layer of haze.

  “Go!” Siniq-elb shouted. Zeyn stared at him, his face fixed, and made no response.

  With a single shake of his head, Siniq-elb swung forward, determined to knock the other man out of the way, or to push past him—whatever it took. The heat of the fire scalded him now, and sweat coated his neck, almost as hot as the fire itself.

  Siniq-elb turned to catch Zeyn’s shoulder with his own—nothing more than a tap, really, to get the man moving. At the last moment, Zeyn grabbed Siniq-elb by the shoulder and slammed him into the shelves, rattling the bottled spices and sending a bag of grain to the floor, a plume of dust meeting the smoky air. Siniq-elb grunted, both from surprise and from the pain of being slammed into the shelves. He twisted, trying to reach the knife strapped to his thigh. Nothing. Desperate, he let one crutch fall.

  Zeyn grabbed his free arm before Siniq-elb could reach the knife and, with a two-handed shove, slammed Siniq-elb against the shelves again. The force of the blow knocked the spice jars on their sides, and they rolled to fall and crack against the floor. Cinnamon and thyme mingled with the smell of fire, and the heat in the room seemed to draw the breath from Siniq-elb’s lungs, as though every bit of air were needed to fuel the flames.

  “Why?” Siniq-elb gasped. He twisted trying to look the blond man in the eyes. “Tair help me, what did I ever do to you? What do you want?”

  Before he could finish, Zeyn slammed him into the shelves again, so hard that Siniq-elb bit his tongue. Blood sparked in his mouth, sharper that the smell of burning mint and cassia. Anger blinded him; for a moment, Siniq-elb was no longer a trained soldier, no longer a strategist, a duelist. He was an animal, trapped and wounded, helpless. Afraid. And so he lashed out, flailing at Zeyn.

  The crutch in one hand connected, and a breathy gasp came from Zeyn. The blond servant slackened his grip, and Siniq-elb slipped free, turning to slam the top of the crutch across Zeyn’s face. The flexible wood gave slightly before the full force of the blow connected; then the blond man’s head snapped to one side, his eyes widening and going blank. Jaw slack, Zeyn stumbled back a step before his legs folded under him, and he fell to the ground with a grace to match the sack of grain.

  Heat and sweat mixed with blood in Siniq-elb’s mouth, bringing him back to himself. For a moment, panic lingered, but the sight of Zeyn, unconscious on the ground, helped ease the fear. Siniq-elb had incapacitated the blond man, had brought him down by himself. No help from anyone else. It was the single most rewarding thing that Siniq-elb had done since arriving at the Garden—even sweeter than gaining his position in the kitchen. It made him feel, for a few painful and sweet heartbeats, like the man he had been once. It made him feel invincible.

  Smoke stung his eyes, and shouts came from the other side of the storeroom door. Siniq-elb retrieved his fallen crutch, crossed Zeyn’s unconscious body, and found the door wedged shut with a broom. He undid Zeyn’s impromptu block and the door flew open, revealing Jela, her balding head as red as the flames. Sweet, clean air, laden with the scent of roasted meet and baking pastries, rushed in over Siniq-elb. The ever-hot kitchen felt cool in comparison to the storeroom.

  “The oil,” Jela shrieked, pulling Siniq-elb to one side.

  “What happened?” Shehr said, almost at the same time.

  “Zeyn,” Siniq-elb said. He gasped for breath, drawing in the kitchen air, and stumbled past them. “I couldn’t stop him.”

  Jela’s wordless moan drew Siniq-elb’s attention, and he glanced back at the storeroom. The fires raged now, running along the shelves, and the barrel of oil had blackened and cracked, so that lines of burning oil now ran across the floorboards. Siniq-elb felt a pang of regret; so much food, so much wealth, destroyed. But it was necessary, and the loss was not waste; it was going to buy Siniq-elb’s freedom and, more importantly, the safety of the people of Khi’ilan.

  “We need to get out of here,” Siniq-elb said and took Shehr by the arm. “When the barrel gives way, the fire will flood through here. We should be gone by then.”

  For once, Shehr did not laugh, and her face held nothing of its usual distracted amusement. To Siniq-elb’s surprise, she seemed to be one of those people who thrived in moments of disaster. She gave a quick nod and stepped to Jela’s side, talking in low tones and pulling at the larger woman’s stained dress-sleeve.

  Siniq-elb did not wait to see what happened; as fast as his crutches could carry him, he raced toward Khylar’s rooms. As he hurried, he prayed to the tair that Khylar would be caught in the fleeing crowds—or, better yet, that he would try to help fight the fire—and be delayed in returning to his room. Siniq-elb pressed one hand against the pouch of dew tied to his upper arm, beneath his sleeve. They had no idea how long it would take to activate the brachal; Vas thought it would be instantaneous, but Siniq-elb had his doubts. After all, why would heretics know anything about the way divine magic worked?

  Through hall after hall, the air cool in comparison to the kitchens, he hurried. Each step found Siniq-elb’s thoughts circling round Zeyn. The blond man who had not spoken once, not even at the end. Not even when he had tried to kill Siniq-elb. Why did he not speak? Why did he work in the kitchens, when any decent Khacen would have lived off the tair’s blessing and the bounty of the land? Why had he attacked Siniq-elb? A part of Siniq-elb wanted to believe that Zeyn had been sick of mind, or born simple, but those answers felt wanting; there had been nothing irrational or simple about Zeyn’s look of grim commitment at the end.

  Stronger, though, was the flood of elation that ran through him. Siniq-elb had done it alone—he had defended himself, he had fought and, more importantly, he had won. To a warrior, that was everything, and Siniq-elb let that elation carry him along, muting his confusion over Zeyn’s behavior and his fear of Khylar.

  Vas leaned against the wall outside Khylar’s room, trying to look casual and failing. He glanced up and down the hallway every fifteen heartbeats, and when he leaned against the wall, he slouched so that it looked like he might slide to the floor on accident. When he caught sight of Siniq-elb, he straightened with an anxious smile.

  “Well?”

  “Done,” Siniq-elb said. “Although not quite as simple as I’d hope. Zeyn tried to stop me.”

  “Zeyn?”

  “Attacked me, had me pinned against the shelves. Tair help me, I don’t know what he wanted, what he was doing, but I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “What happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Siniq-elb said. Then, a moment later, with a smile that he couldn’t keep from being smug, “I knocked him out.”

  “Tair and the Father,” Vas said, “thank goodness. Are you alright?”

  Siniq-elb came to a stop at Khylar’s door and gave a nod. “Open?”

  “Yes,” Vas said. “Wasn’t even locked.”

  “And? Is it in there?”

  “I didn’t go in,” Vas said.

  The stout man’s face fell as he said this, but Siniq-elb felt too good, too satisfied with how things had gone, to scold him. “Let’s find out, then. You stay here; give a shout if you see someone coming. With any luck, they’ll all ha
ve other things to worry about.”

  “Unless one of the eses decides he wants to save something he has stashed in his rooms.”

  “Tair help us if that happens,” Siniq-elb said. “Let me know if you see anyone.”

  He pulled the door open and stepped inside before Vas could say anything. With a last look at the stout, dark-haired man, Siniq-elb pulled the door shut. The room was as he remembered it. The opulent Istbyan rug, cream and gold, covered with the bronze tub; a dark stain underneath the tub, and the buckets of water standing near the door, evidenced Vas’s success with the tub. The thick cream-colored drapes hung closed around the bed.

  Most important, though was the carved rosewood desk, the matching chair padded with white leather. A small box, barely as long as Siniq-elb’s hand, sat on top of the blushing wood. Fatigue in his arms forgotten, Siniq-elb sprinted to the box, his crutches gripping the thick-napped rug easily. With trembling hands, Siniq-elb reached out to open the box.

  It was locked.

  He pulled at the lid, fingers scrambling for an opening, an edge. It did not open. Heart pounding, Siniq-elb turned the box; on the opposite side, facing away from the door, was a keyhole. That single bronze opening stared back at him, and for a moment, it was the worst disappointment of Siniq-elb’s life. For a heartbeat, it was worse than losing his feet—he had never feared for his feet, never had hopes about keeping them because he had no fear. This, though—all his hopes, his plans, bound up in a single box, and dashed to pieces.

  Gritting his teeth, Siniq-elb pushed back the wave of despair that threatened to drag him back into the numb, almost comatose state of his early days in the Garden. It was a struggle; a part of him wanted to give up, to surrender to the muted, but almost irresistible, pull of those dark thoughts. If he did, though, he knew it would be over—the fires had given him away, and he would never have another chance like this. It would mean his death.

  Siniq-elb grabbed his crutches, the box pressed under his arm, and turned toward the door. “Vas,” he shouted and started to cross the room. “What do you know about picking locks?”

  The door swung open when Siniq-elb had crossed half of the gold and cream rug. “Vas,” Siniq-elb said again, looking down to adjust the box. “It’s locked. The bastard locked it.”

  “Of course I did,” Khylar’s voice made Siniq-elb stop next to the tub. “I’m not a complete idiot. I’d like my box back, if you please.”