On the desk, a lamp was burning, lending its illumination to Lin’s purpose. There should not have been. This was undoubtedly the work of one of Shantar’s people, though she didn’t know how that was arranged. Perhaps one of the servants had been turned, or solicited for a favor about which they otherwise knew nothing.
The light of this lamp was reflected in a copper mirror, round and bronze-framed, that hung on the wall facing the desk. It was of an ancient style, its frame ornate with scenes of a siege battle, recalling the fallen empires of the south. Given Gvir Zuhalan’s extensive travels, it might have been a relic of just such a place and time.
Lin went to the mirror and felt along its edge on the right side. She tried to avoid the sight of her own face, though caught a glimpse of herself in the vacuous makeup. One of Shantar’s men was a professed expert and had applied himself to making her look, in her own estimation, like a whore. Her eyes were painted to appear larger and somewhat slanted. The Seer’s mark concealed beneath a thick layer of powder.
She felt a catch on the side of the mirror. It came free. The mirror slid outward from the wall on concealed hinges. Behind was a groove cut into the wall, and inside it a brass jar, sealed with a stopper. It was small enough to conceal in the pocket sewn in the inside of her skirts, as had been the plan. She would secrete it there, return to the room of yellow smoke, and wait for the game of desire between Zahir and the merchant to run its course.
As her hands closed around the jar Lin felt a chill. She turned. There stood Zweir Zuhalan. Behind him a contingent of armed guards. They had entered soundlessly, thanks to her efficient work on the door hinges. So close and large they loomed that they blocked the light. Still she saw the glint of steel and steel and steel, everywhere she looked.
“Bind her with double knots,” said the merchant’s son. “These thieves are like eels that slide from your grasp at the slightest mistake. I will not tolerate mistakes.” They were already there, all around her; two had pinioned her arms, another two her legs. Lin had to admit they were well-trained and fast. Just now she was too dazed to think anything else.
“Sir, what of her accomplice?” asked the man who led the guards.
Zweir’s lip curled. “Soon,” he said. “After my father is finished with him.”
CHAPTER
23
THEY abused her body on the way down to the cellar. The gold headdress fell off somewhere and her skirts rode up her legs. She knew it could have been worse; a squeeze of her breasts and between her legs was not as bad as what could have happened had they license to do as they pleased. They did not, however. Zweir had instructed the guards to leave her intact for his father’s justice. They found and took away her knives.
As these things were happening, as they carried her down the corridor, groped and twisted and squeezed, sniggered among themselves, Lin felt her mind go to another place. As if she hovered somewhere above her body. She knew this place outside herself: it was where she’d gone many times, from childhood, when Rayen cornered her in various secluded parts of Vassilian. First, always, she’d fought back; then when his men held her down and Rayen did what he did, she would feel herself float away. Her body would break while she was preserved somewhere else.
It had been a long time since she’d been to that place. It was easy to return there.
Now she lay bound on the flagstones of a room without light. She began to return to her body. Inside and out she ached. She thought, first of all, that this was a stupid way to die. Better to have wasted away from Darien’s spell than be executed as a thief. At least in the first was some semblance of honor.
She was still Amaristoth, she thought, and grimaced because she could not bring herself to laugh.
She thought of Zahir and then, truly, could not smile at all. Whatever was happening to him, it was taking too long.
Did he have a place to go, as she did?
She’d been avoiding thinking of the previous night, because it confused her. They’d shared that bed in the Jonquil Safehouse. Though she thought him decent enough, she’d steeled herself for possible drunken advances. She thought even the best of men might be given to these.
It was Darien who woke her in the night, as it happened. As so often happened. Weeping and nearer to her than ever before. She could now rest her hands in his hair where he knelt. In life she’d never touched it. She regretted this now. She murmured to him, “Don’t grieve. I’m ready.” Knowing it was a lie. But his anguish was too much for her. And then she remembered, at the edge of waking, that Valanir Ocune was dead, too.
She awoke blinking back tears in a quiet room. She sat up. Beside her, Zahir had stirred. In the absolute darkness here beneath the streets of Majdara she could not see his false face.
“What is it tortures you?” he said. “I felt it even in my dreams.” He shifted beside her in the bed. “It was like a cry that woke me.”
“You already know,” she said. “I’ve told you everything.”
She heard him swallow hard. A pause, that seemed to stretch for a long time. They lay in the dark and all she heard was his breathing, in and out. She thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep. Until he spoke again. “Will you let me hold you? That’s all I would do.”
She wanted to refuse but tears were tracking down her cheeks. She didn’t know where they came from. Whatever inward cry had woken him, it was something that had become commonplace to her. It was all the terrain she knew. “All right,” she whispered. She lay with her back to him. His arms came around her. They were warm and smelled of him. He did not press himself against her. Once he did lift a hand to brush at a tear on her cheek. “Try to rest,” he said. “I would take on your burdens if I could.”
* * *
IT seemed hours that Lin had lain in the cellar that the door upstairs opened and Zahir was flung inside. He was bound, too. Lin tried to maneuver herself so she could get a look at him. “Are you all right?” she said. “Did he hurt you?”
He lay back on the flagstones, staring upward. Shockingly to her, he laughed. “Of course you ask that. All I feel is hatred, of myself, that I let this happen to you.”
“I’m all right,” she said. “It’s just bruises.”
“I know what men like that are. It’s not all right. It’s another sin weighed against me in the balance. And, my dear one, I have so many.”
She decided not to ask what had happened to him upstairs with Khadar Zuhalan. Not now, anyway. She knew something of self-hatred in the wake of violation and did not want to make it worse. “I don’t care,” she said. “We are none of us without sin. Now all we must do is plan our escape.”
“He’ll turn us over to the magistrate at first light,” said Zahir. “He told me. I can try to summon the Ifreet to come to our aid, but that would require time, concentration. I don’t know how much of either we’ll have in this place. My guess is, they’ll be coming soon for us. I’m so sorry. This is not the honorable end owed to you.”
“The lives of your people…”
He winced. “I have failed them, too.”
“What if you revert your disguise?” she said. “Reveal you’re the First Magician? I know it’s the last resort, but—”
“That transformation would take time as well,” he said. “And I’d need use of my hands.”
At that moment the door opened at the top of the stairs. Lin caught her breath. They heard footsteps, but not heavy ones. Then saw a shadow take the shape of a man. One man, alone. Zweir Zuhalan stood over them, carrying a torch. Carefully, he set the torch in a wall sconce. He said, “I am about to untie your bonds. If either of you makes so much as a hiccough, I’ll call the guards.”
There was no danger of either of them doing such a thing. Not even when he drew a knife, the sight of which made Lin shiver involuntarily. But he made short work of untying them, starting with her. As she painfully drew herself to a sitting position, rubbing the life back into her wrists, she saw the way Zahir instinctively curled inward as Zweir approac
hed, as if to shield himself. She felt a grief like she had in her dream the night before. For something irrevocably lost.
But Zahir was impassive as he drew himself upright. He even attempted a smile. Whatever was happening, perhaps he’d already guessed.
“I will explain this quickly,” said Zweir Zuhalan in a dry, curt tone. As much, if not more than his father, he was a businessman. “You were betrayed. Someone in this city works against the Brotherhood of Thieves and told us to be ready for you. So we were. You may want to look into that. But it’s not my concern.” From his cloak he drew an object. By light of the torch, a gleam of brass.
“As it happens, our goals are aligned. My father needs this medicine in order to live. I don’t particularly want my father to live. And so. If I allow you to steal it, I dispose of him and remain above suspicion. You slipped your bonds, of course. I’ll have to execute the guards who tied you. Messy, but a small price to pay for my inheritance and freedom.” He handed the jar to Lin. “Here you are, dear. Try not to lose it this time.” He leered at her. “Give the Brotherhood my compliments.”
* * *
AS they staggered out into an alley behind the merchant’s house, bent in the cover of shadow in the hours before dawn, Lin felt a tug of conscience. She did, despite whatever had been done to Zahir Alcavar. They’d been given no advance knowledge that their mission would—however indirectly—lead to a man’s death. She hesitated, knowing that. But knew the arguments against such hesitation. They acted now for many lives, for thousands. And besides, Khadar Zuhalan had proven himself a cruel man. Nonetheless she felt soiled, more so than before, when she’d imagined it a simple theft. And that had been bad enough.
She uttered none of this to Zahir. They didn’t exchange much by way of words after leaving the merchant’s house. He seemed to have retreated from her in his mind. Every so often, he muttered directions. When to turn a corner. Where to stand, motionless and alert, as the city guard went by. Zweir had returned to them their weapons, clearly desirous of the success of their mission. The theft of the medicine would take it deep into the network of the Brotherhood and beyond his father’s reach. They kept to the side streets and alleyways on the way to the Jonquil Safehouse.
They entered the metalcrafter’s shop through a back door, as the front was kept locked at night. As they made their way to the storage room Zahir finally did speak, low and urgent. “Not a word to Shantar about … about me,” he said. “The guilt would never leave him. All he need know is there was betrayal. I fear he’s in danger.”
When they reached the storage room he made a sound she’d never heard, like he was being strangled. It took Lin a moment to see why. Peering into the shadowed corner of the room, she saw the chest hung open.
Zahir ran to the chest and looked down. He tilted his head above the opening, as if to listen. Nothing.
Lin found herself afraid to speak. She drew her knife and kept it drawn, however it hampered her climb, as they clambered down the ladder. Keeping silent, both of them, moving with the stealth of snakes. She a hunter, and he … well, he had once fled for his life. A skill that perhaps he’d kept.
As it turned out, there was no need for silence. In all the rooms of the Jonquil Safehouse they found no enemies. They found only dead. The two young men who’d been awed by Zahir’s hints of her sexual prowess were sprawled beside the tabla board on the floor where it lay upside down. Their throats were cut.
In the next room they found Shantar Nir. He had fought, it was clear. His torso pierced with multiple wounds. He had been, at the last, like a great tree in the felling. All around lay his men. Most with slit throats—work brutal and quick.
After they’d searched the safehouse and determined they were alone with the dead, Zahir turned to Lin with a face like death. “This isn’t the city I know,” he said. “It is falling.”
* * *
THAT night she didn’t dream. She knew the difference, after all this time; a dream was something that, good or ill, belonged to her. This was not her body that she wore, not her smile as she faced the people arrayed before her. Edrien Letrell held his harp in the curve of his arm. The people he faced were dressed distinctly, as if for a festival: the men in brocade vests, the women in long, gathered skirts of bright colors and with flowers in their loosened hair. One in particular caught his eye, a dark-eyed beauty in a dress of yellow and crimson. He held her gaze more than a moment before he returned his attention to the crowd.
“Why will you not show me your ritual dance?” he implored. A tone light, wheedling. He had pretended to drink a great quantity of the fiery liquor they’d given him, so they’d think him intoxicated. That would excuse him, at least somewhat, if he inadvertently transgressed on their customs. “I make a study of such things for my work. You like my work, don’t you?”
A woman came forward, hands on her hips. “We admire your work, Seer. That does not mean we give up our secrets. It was no small thing that we allowed you entry here. May I remind you.” She was older than he was, with grey-streaked hair and snapping eyes. She wore a man’s blouse and trousers, with an ornate vest and satin sash, through which was stuck a dagger sheathed in red leather. The thin blouse showed intriguing curves. Though not as lovely as the woman nearer his age who had initially caught his interest, Edrien began to think this person, in fact, might be the more memorable company if he was sufficiently persuasive. By the look of her it would not be easy. That was, of course, part of the appeal.
They stood in a large windowless space lit by tall braziers that emitted the scent of incense. The floor was of a white marble that shone like glass. Marble, too, were the balustrades that flanked a pool at the center of the floor. It made a perfect circle and unlike the floors was oddly unreflective, the water dark as a hole in the earth.
Edrien swept a bow. “I am honored to be here, in your secret space,” he said. “I had only wished to see the wonders of which I’d heard. In my country there is a traveling people, like yours, in the mountains to the north. They, too, possess a tradition of dance. I have long studied them and made music dedicated to their glory. Such is what I would do for you.” He became solemn. “It is music that will live after I am dead. Of that I am certain, or as certain as any man can be of his art. Your tribute would resound down the ages, for as long as people play music, or sing. And it would travel the world—with me, and after I am gone.”
A silence in the crowd surrounding the circle of water. A sea of flat dark eyes regarding him. And then, at last, a sound: a laugh that rang within the room of stone.
It was the woman, of course. Hands on hips, head flung back. Her hair, black and silver and long as a banner. She was perhaps twenty years older than Edrien but her neck was smooth and supple beneath the gold chains she wore. “Whatever you learned of these people in your land, it taught you nothing about us,” she said. “We who worship the moon goddess, ever-changing in her form and phase, take no interest in that which is inscribed on paper or engraved in stone. That which takes permanent form, which is fixed … is dead.”
“You have no books,” said Edrien. “I know this.”
“No books,” she confirmed. “No songs that are written. No choreography which is written. Our dances are ever-changing as flame and once they are done … they are done.”
“Such is your life,” he said.
She nodded. “Such are our lives.”
He grinned, then, unexpectedly gratified. “Countess Sitara, you have given me more than you know. And taught me much.”
She smiled back, then. As women in his presence often did. Even, sometimes, powerful women like this. “There is more I might teach you, singer,” she murmured, and the breath caught in his throat. He had no doubt it was true. As Edrien Letrell approached her, he noticed carved along the walls surrounding them a pattern of scrollwork: a series of winged horses. A reminder of the city above, even as here underneath they worshiped a goddess. The space they used had been built by Ramadians, by those who ruled in the c
apital. Winged horses stood for death.
These thoughts drifted through Edrien’s mind, then evaporated as he found himself dancing with the woman he knew as Countess Sitara, though he doubted it was the name she went by with her people. Someone was playing a lute. Others were dancing, too. It was a tame, measured start, but there was a hint that it would build to more. Much more. In the corner of his mind, beside his reverie of what this woman would teach him when she drew him later to the scented chambers beyond this one, he was thinking that all his life he’d sought two things: fame for himself, permanence for his art. And now here was transience at its extreme, and he’d make music of that, too—music he believed would endure. A paradox that made him smile as he danced, as he let the woman guide him close and into a heated moment in time.
* * *
WHEN Lin came awake it was still night. They were in a fetid inn on the edge of the city where none might find them, in a rough bed that stank of countless bodies. Zahir had thought it vital, after what had happened to the Brotherhood, to distance himself from all his old contacts, all the haunts where he’d taken succor in the past. It meant a retreat to one of the worst parts of the city. It was a miracle that either of them had slept, given the stench of the place and the horrors they’d seen, the various ways in which they were injured; yet they had. Zahir slept restlessly, she saw; he tossed and muttered. Lin touched his arm, said his name. And again. He came awake slowly, as if emerging from deep water. He met her eyes and smiled. “I was in a dark dream. You saved me. A Seer’s insight?”
“Not that,” she said. “The Fire Dancers. I think I know where they are.”
CHAPTER
24
CROUCHING outside the door of the sickroom, Nameir heard singing. In the course of days, anguish had weakened her, so it seemed natural to be prostrate, on her knees. For so long she’d directed each breath, each painful inch forward through the hills, to reaching the palace and safety. Bringing her prince to safety. Now they were here and he lay abed, attended by the king’s physicians. But there was nothing they could tell her; nothing. His condition was grave. They could only minister to him, and wait.
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