by Mirren Hogan
“You’d feel right at home in there then,” Benassi muttered.
Tabia ignored him, although his comment made her blood boil. “And everyone is praying to Zuleso several times a day to get out of the pens. And the Kalili are praying to . . . ” she stopped as Sevele held up his hand.
“All right, your point is well taken.”
Evidently, she’d struck a chord with him, for his weathered face softened and his mouth curved into a smile. The one occasion she’d entered his chambers, she’d seen walls lined with shelves adorned with the likenesses of at least six of the Mindossan pantheon. She’d never known a Mindossan to take his religion particularly seriously, but as in anything, there were bound to be exceptions. And it seemed that Sevele was one.
“Very well, if it will appease the gods, you may take out a trial group. Four only.”
“But assemblyman—” she started to argue, but his hand rose again, cutting off any further argument.
“Four and only four. If nothing goes amiss, we may consider further such excursions. You will go with them and take Ezeji and . . . ” His eyes passed around the table, settling on Benassi for a few moments before Sevele shook his head and let his attention move on. “Harshal may go as well; I trust you can inform him of this, Tabia?”
She nodded, barely able to contain triumph and glee. Harshal had been her friend and companion for the eight years she’d been at the guild. First befriended in his native Vanmala while they’d both been students at the hall of the incanti, Harshal had quickly become her shadow, eventually stowing away aboard the ill-fated ship she’d sailed on to return to Isskasala.
Well and truly under her wing, against her better judgement, he’d followed her into war, into peace and into the desert to earn his own place as a guild sorcerer. Harshal stood out as the only swarthy man in a guild of dark skin, but his easygoing manner and ready smile gained him acceptance, although he’d never sit on the assembly. That honour went only to full-blooded Isskasslans.
Intelligent, powerful, and charming, Harshal was a favourite with the guild’s serving women and, more discretely, one or two of Dassane’s noblewomen. He was also devoted to Tabia, serving as advisor as well as friend.
“I will tell him now. Thank you, sorcerer.”
Sevele shrugged and gestured vaguely with a wave in the air. “Yes, yes, any further business?”
Feko nodded, “Ganga discovered a new way to bend stone—”
***
Tabia quickened her steps, moving steadily around the crowds passing through the corridors, but knowing she wasn’t moving quickly enough. She proved herself right when Benassi appeared at her shoulder. She glanced at him, recognising the obstinate set of his jaw, the steel in his eyes as he looked back.
“You only won this battle,” he said loudly enough for only her to hear. “But I’ll be watching. Ha, everyone will be watching. When this turns out to be the disaster I know it will, you’ll be stripped of your post on the assembly and no woman will disgrace it again!”
She stopped and turned to face him, her eyes on his, matching steel for steel.
She was a powerful sorcerer with the audacity to be from another nation and the first woman to grace the assembly. Her position was high, but tenuous. And Benassi reminded her of this at every opportunity.
“Good, sorcerer,” she replied evenly, her voice pitch as low as his. “You watch if you want. I like an audience, I always perform much better with one.” She smiled and turned to resume walking. Two steps later, he caught her elbow, his fingers digging hard into her skin.
“Your audience,” he sneered, “will see a farce!” He glared at her for a moment, released her elbow and stalked off, disappearing from sight around a corner.
Resisting the urge to stick out her tongue and make a rude noise at his back, Tabia shook her head and pulled her mouth into a line, more determined now than ever.
“Are you all right?”
She spun around at the sound of Harshal’s voice; his Vanmalan accent hadn’t faded even slightly after all the years in Isskasala. Her mouth broke into a grin.
“I was just coming to see you.”
“Here I am.” His arms spread, almost knocking a sorcerer-in-training off her feet. The young woman, attired in distinctive deep green robes, ducked at the last moment and bustled on, her steps quicker than before.
“I haven’t lost my touch.”
“You’re supposed to sweep them off their feet, not knock them off.” Tabia pulled one of his arms down and looped it through hers, steering him toward her own suites. “Now, I have a job for you.”
“Does it have to do with Benassi?” Harshal asked directly. “I saw him stalking off like a wyrm without a bone.”
“Shh!” She led him through the corridors, only stopping long enough to open her door, close it behind them and lock it. Of course, the lock only kept the guild staff out; any sorcerer could pick it in a heartbeat. It was a habit she’d never grown out of and besides, picking a sorcerer’s lock was considered impolite.
Releasing his arm, she crossed to the window and looked out, her hands resting on the sill. Her suites overlooked the Mtaa a Ndata, the Street of Dreams, right across the centre of Dassane to the King’s Bastion. In the mornings, she liked to watch the sun rise behind the bastion, the light surrounding it like a corona before it topped the heights and rose above the city.
Now, the sun was past its zenith and well into the heat of the autumn day. In the depths of winter it became cold here on the coast, but the trees around the bastion already crowned themselves in reds and golds. Soon, the days would shorten and cool. Then pens would start to empty, but that was weeks, perhaps months away. She needed to deal with the present.
Harshal stood beside her, his arms crossed, a thoughtful look on his face. He must have been curious, but he had the patience to wait until she was ready to speak. Sometime in these last few years, he’d learnt to bide his time and she never had. Likely, she never would.
Turning to face him fully, she explained, leaving out Benassi’s petty snipes, but giving him the bare bones of the meeting and the conclusion.
Harshal nodded slowly and turned to face the window. “That explains the look on Benassi’s face. He’s been bragging about all the magic in the pens and how we’ll have enough to last years if we suck half of the harvested ones dry. He wouldn’t like it if you lost one.”
“Neither would I. So, we won’t lose one.”
CHAPTER 11
Darai could hardly hear himself speak over the din. He sat under a darnu tree, its remaining leaves wilting in the autumn heat. The flowers it had once boasted were gone, shaken free by weeks of exuberant children running into and shaking the slender trunk. Those same children, bored from weeks of incarceration, had invented at least a dozen new games, all of which consisted of making thunderous amounts of noise as they leaped, ran, hopped, skipped or whatever else around the courtyard.
It was perfect for not being overheard. All Darai was concerned about now was arousing suspicion, as Adina and he spent hours, their heads close together while they struggled to understand each other. The sight was common enough in the pens, but for all Darai knew, his nerves were written on his face. A glance at Adina showed hers as a mask of guilt, creases around her eyes deep as she frowned. He shifted around a fraction to shield the young woman from any prying gazes.
“So, you agree?” he asked. Behind the guilt, he saw her fear, and his own welled in his chest. Would she be too scared to attempt to escape with him? He couldn’t discount that she may betray him, now that she knew his plan, but he couldn’t bring himself to exclude her. Nor could he include any other harvested ones, apart from Adina. If he could, he’d take them all, down to the last baby and the old man who had shared his wagon. That would be both foolhardy and doomed to failure before they even made an attempt.
It wasn’t many, but a few of the harvested ones were more comfortable here than they’d been in their own homes. Some had come from the st
reets as beggars, to pens with warm beds, new clothes, and food. They had nowhere to go and would likely betray them, rather than leave. It was these they would have to be the most wary of. However, the majority—like him—simply wanted to leave.
If they had weapons, they might have stood a chance; if they managed to kill or incapacitate any sorcerers before they could bind them with magic. No, he’d have to trust Adina and pray to the Mother of all Gods that she trusted him. He saw the magic bubbling over from her, as if serving as an indicator of her agitation. It snapped and sizzled around her head like a silent halo, then drained down like water let out of a sink as her face softened.
“I agree.” She nodded. “They’re never looking too closely at meal times, but getting out the doors into the guildhall will be the hardest part.” She chewed her lip. Darai didn’t know how she didn’t draw blood, she was biting so hard.
“As long as we . . . ” he started to say, stopping mid-thought as a shadow fell over them both. Raising his head, his heart skipped a beat at seeing Tabia standing not two inches from his foot. The magic around Adina flared, but nothing in the assemblywoman’s face indicated that she’d heard them or suspected anything untoward.
Nevertheless, Darai bounded to his feet, positioning himself in front of Adina, instinctively shielding her from what might come.
“Sorcerer,” he said warily, his voice pitched just under the sound of the children.
If she had some way of hearing over the ruckus, she didn’t show it. Instead, she frowned and nodded, her eyes on his lips. When she responded, she spoke loudly enough for her voice to carry to Adina.
“Darai, I’m taking a few of you out into the city and I thought you’d like to join us? And your friend as well?” She leaned sideways to look around him, at Adina.
“Adina,” Darai said tersely, eyeing Tabia with undisguised suspicion. “Why?”
“Why?” Tabia echoed, looking taken aback by his response. Perhaps she’d expected some kind of gratitude; she was going to be disappointed.
“I thought perhaps you’d had enough of the pens and would care for a break. If you don’t, I can always . . . ” She started to turn away, but Darai’s hand shot out and stopped her with a light touch of his fingertips on her arm.
“I didn’t say we didn’t want to go.” Darai glanced over his shoulder long enough to see Adina nod her own agreement. “When?”
Tabia turned back and smiled. “Is now too soon?”
Darai dropped his fingers from her arm. “No.”
“Good, I . . . ” She hesitated and for a moment, Darai’s heart began to sink, assuming she’d changed her mind. He should have guessed that she was going to add a condition to their little jaunt.
“I’ll have to bind you with magic.”
That gave Darai pause, but even if he and Adina couldn’t escape now, they could use this opportunity to see the rest of the guildhall and make a plan. He couldn’t hide the mistrust on his face and made no effort to try. Insisting they both be bound showed the sorcerer trusted him just as much. He doubted there was a bridge either could cross to alter that. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing here to trust, no one but Adina, and her only because he saw it in her eyes. Anyone or anything more would be a mistake. As much as it shamed him, he’d use Tabia to escape as surely as the guild was using him.
The magic was warm around Darai’s wrists, like a scarf wrapped double over his skin. It danced, red flame kindled by the magic that seemed to reach from somewhere inside him to embrace the bindings. He felt as if he was betraying himself, but could do nothing to stop it. From the look on her face, Adina was experiencing something similar, although there was something like wonder in her eyes. She looked up at him and he saw dread lacing the awe.
He shot Tabia a look she couldn’t see with her back turned to them. He wanted to despise her for putting that look in Adina’s eyes. He feared her and what she was, but he couldn’t hate the woman herself. He gave Adina a half smile and a nod, hoping she’d understand that the plan was still on, somehow.
Feeling another set of eyes on him, he turned, seeing Harshal watching him intently, a look of curiosity on the older man’s swarthy face. Here was a man who gained people’s trust within moments of meeting. He had a broad smile and open face that took in everything, missed little, and spoke words people wanted to hear. But he was a sorcerer and, therefore, not to be taken at face value.
Harshal grinned at him, but Darai looked away, seeing the grin fade from the corner of his eye. It gave him only a small measure of satisfaction, given the magic twisted around his wrists. It bound him to Tabia and Adina, with two other young men bound to Harshal’s magic. Darai felt like nothing more than a sheep on its way to market. Or slaughter. He took a breath and reminded himself that the guild was both of those things and this excursion was the way out. Perhaps he should have returned Harshal’s smile, he thought in retrospect. Anything to gain his captor’s trust, but it was too late, Harshal was moving down the corridor, his charges in tow.
“Coming?” Tabia was watching him, a smile brushing the corners of her mouth, one eyebrow raised in query.
Darai frowned and nodded, falling in beside Adina as Tabia gestured for both to precede her. She had them on a leash; a long one, but a leash nonetheless. He ventured a glance sideways at Adina, but she had her face lowered, her hair falling to cover her eyes. He didn’t need to see them; he knew she was focused on the magic licking up and down her arms, her hands, her fingers. He saw her shoulders tremble and realised his were doing it too.
He felt betrayed by his own body, his own fear. He was a hunter, he could face down an angry warthog or track along through the forests for days on end, alone. But this magic was something he could not hunt, he couldn’t spear it and he couldn’t climb a tree to get away from it when he pushed his luck too far.
His resentment grew, and he glowered at Harshal’s back, sulking for the life he had no interest in leading. This was not his world, out here in the hall, in Dassane, out wherever they were taking him and Adina. He should have stayed in the pens, with his people, to help them and keep them safe.
Even as he thought it, he scoffed at himself mentally. There was nothing he could do there or here. He was as impotent as a eunuch. He snorted at himself and the cough he gave to cover the sound came out high-pitched to his own ears; castrated by magic. He resisted the urge to reach down and check that it was only in his head. The Mother of all Gods only knew what the magic would do, that close to his manhood.
Forcing himself to concentrate, he looked up and around, his face hot as several sorcerers stopped and moved to the side of the corridor to watch them pass. Some looked curious, one was clearly mocking although his attention focused on Tabia. Obviously, all was not so harmonious in the sorcerers’ guild. Perhaps he could use that somehow, when the right time came. In the meantime, he studied their route from the pens to the main doors leading out into the city.
The streets of Dassane were crowed, but clean. No—more than that—they were neat. Laid out in rows across the centre island, they reached out like fingers across the water, all in perfect lines. If he stood at one end of a road, Darai was sure he’d see the other end, clear through the city. All except the Mtaa a Ndoto, the city’s main road would be obscured by the guildhall and the King’s Bastion.
Craning his neck, Darai squinted up at the bastion shining in the midmorning sun. The view from the top would be impressive, like looking down at a chess board, complete with people moved about against their wills.
For a moment, he thought he caught sight of someone watching the small group from the highest balcony of the Bastion, but in the next they were gone. It must have been a trick of the light, or else the magic was playing havoc with his mind.
He almost tripped as Tabia led him and Adina around a corner and forced his eyes back down, to the road. He felt ridiculous enough without making a bigger fool of himself by falling. He caught Adina’s eye and nodded at her silent question of c
oncern.
“I was looking up there.” He nodded back toward the Bastion and she followed his gaze.
“It’s creepy,” she whispered. “I’m not sure why, but I always feel like it’s watching me.”
“That’s probably the guards,” Tabia chipped in, stopping to cup her hands over her eyes and look back the way they’d come. “They use magic. They’re usually sorcerers who’ve finished their training, but either didn’t want to stay in the guild or preferred more physical challenges. During the mhari, many of the sorcerers hire themselves out as guards to the king during the ceremonies.”
Darai frowned. “The mhari?”
“That’s right. The king marries his queen when he takes the throne or reaches his majority, at sixteen.”
Darai knew that, but he nodded for Tabia to continue.
“His bride then has five years to conceive or bear a son. If she does conceive close to the end of those years, then the next mhari is put off until she gives birth. If there is no son or offspring, the king must put her aside and another mhari, or marriage, takes place with his next queen and so on.”
Adina gasped. “What happens to the old queen?”
Tabia smiled softly. “The king can keep her as a concubine if they both so choose. Or she can stay in the bastion to serve the king. Most of those put aside stay if they bear a daughter. At last count, the king has five daughters,” she added. “Others return to their families. One or two have joined the guild.” She hesitated for a long moment before reluctantly admitting, “One threw herself off the top balcony.”
“Oh, how horrible!” Adina clapped a hand over her mouth.
“And if she has a son?” Darai asked, stepping close to Adina, who looked faint.
“Then she remains queen while the child lives, until he marries for the first time.” Tabia sighed a disapproving look crossing her face. “But the present queen is running out of time. She has a mere four months to prove her fertility. You may get to see a mhari while you’re here. A full week of feasting.” She smiled as though she relished the idea of grand festivities, or perhaps excessive eating.