by Prue Batten
Curiosa raised bleary eyes to his potential client. As Finnian expected, the glass was placed with overt care on a tray by the side of the decanter and the cigar in the man’s skeletal hand was flicked into a bin at his feet. It hit the enameled sides with a thump like a small warning.
Finnian walked around the shop, picking things up and putting them down, holding them to the light, opening and shutting caskets and drawers.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Curiosa stood next to him as the lid of an inlaid musicbox was lifted and a dancer spun round on a spindle in front of mirrors.
‘Pretty,’ muttered Finnian. ‘What? Help me?’ He frowned, ladling a dose of indolence to his manner. ‘Not sure, old man. I want something unique and they told me in Veniche that you’d be as like to have it as anyone.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Wife of Hobarto, major-domo to the Di Accia’s. She hasn’t seen him in a while and is worried. I seek paperweights you see, that he stole from my family.’
Curiosa paled, a sheen of sweat appearing above his moustache. ‘You are a Di Accia?’
Finnian neither confirmed nor denied his position within the infamous family, just continued gazing at the antiquarian who fidgeted.
‘Hobarto, you say.’ Lips were licked and a stained finger moved along the moustache, removing the moisture. ‘I can’t say I know the man.’
‘And yet he knew you.’ Finnian relished the act of toying with the man. ‘His wife said this is where he intended to deliver the paperweights.’
‘Paperweights.’ Curiosa pulled at the frogging on his smoking jacket. ‘And you say they are stolen?’
‘Indeed. From my family… who aren’t at all happy. Do you have the goods?’
‘Ahem. Not… that is to say I did, but…’ the man struggled.
‘I am not an unreasonable man,’ Finnian said, as he crossed his arms over his chest, his height intimidating even Curiosa who was not a short man. ‘If you don’t wish me to bring the law on your head for the receipt of stolen goods, you will show me what you have. You will, won’t you?’
A lump in Curiosa’s long neck jumped up and down as he swallowed. And then as if he were tugged from behind, he swung around, walked to his desk and pulled out a carpetbag and sighed as he passed it over. ‘This is all I have left, sir. They have been popular. If I had known they were stolen, I would never have sold them.’
‘You say,’ Finnian said sourly as he felt in the bag and his hand came out with a tissue-wrapped ball.
‘One? Only one? Aine sir, I will have your hands cut off!’ The threat hovered as he unwrapped the tissue to behold the nightsky, stars and moons. ‘And this is all? Damn you, where is the set of four?’
Curiosa reached for a silk kerchief edged in fine Venichese lace and wiped his forehead. ‘One was brought by a paper-merchant for his niece. The lying little wretch came by this morning and stole another whilst my back was turned. As for the others, a lady purchased one some time ago, reserving another. She said somewhat ambiguously that she would collect it when the time was right and in fact she came today. I tell you, she gave me the shivers.’ He reached for his half-full goblet and sucked a reviving dreg. ‘There was something about her, as if she could see into my soul with glamour. I reached to kiss her hand when she left and it felt odd, insubstantial, and all the time this feeling that I was being measured squashed me into the ground.’ The antiquarian turned hopeless eyes upon Finnian, the eyes of a man who has seen his future and knows he has been damned and must seek absolution. Finnian mesmered and the man froze, staring into some nether distance, unaware of the casement clock striking the hour or Finnian pocketing the nightsky paperweight.
‘Tell me where she lives.’
‘As you say.’ The antiquarian’s voice replied hypnotically. ‘An estate deep in Trevallyn.’
‘Its name?’
The eyes stared vacantly and the thin features showed no expression as Curiosa enunciated the syllables. ‘Killymoon.’
Finnian turned and left and as he did he erased the mesmer and the memory, leaving the carpet bag in the hands of a man who would no doubt wonder why he stood with it, worrying that he was losing his mind through the strain of dealing with strange women who could see into souls. There was no doubt he would quickly pour another drink for comfort.
Finnian threaded his way through the gregarious crowd. Unease and disappointment sat on his shoulder like lead-weights. It was you, Moonlady, wasn’t it? You collected the paperweights. Why? What despicable game are you playing? The quest was a farce – forever striding two steps forward, slipping ten steps back. He could see his own prize in the far distance and his feet sank into the muck and mire of mortal life the further he tried to move. Isolde secures more information about the charms and about me with every second that passes. Even now, I can feel it. Damn you to perdition, Moonlady.
He pushed around a corner, the crowd parting as he shouldered through and then closing behind, determinedly enjoying their end of week pleasure. He crossed the square, stepping out of the way of a circle of dervishes who spun faster and faster, their white robes flicking out. Conical hats swaying, the dervishes’ song ululated through the warm air, the bells on their hands and feet tinkling in unison so that the very surroundings vibrated. From the bare feet of the dervishes, little clouds of dust stamped up until the hems of their white robes became tinted with the ochre of the soil. Finnian paid them vague attention as he puzzled his next move. As ripples of malaise spread across his body he caught himself looking over his shoulder. She’s not there, he said to himself. Yet, said the voice of the child Finnian.
He strode on and as he passed into the darker, shadowy maze of alleys, a voice broke through his concentration.
‘Ah effendi. It is you. How good it is to see you again, so fresh and… moneyed.’ The harsh voice dragged at his memory, the grasping hand wafting a familiar acrid smell, a tantalizing odour – a fragrance filled with promises of dreams and ends to difficulties.
‘Effendi, do you wish to lie with the Black Madonna again?’
To leave the effort behind…
‘Effendi,’ the voice slid down Finnian’s spine like the fingers of a seductive whore. ‘She is waiting. Beautiful, black as a night sky, cosseting you quicker than a hourie’s hands.’
Finnian looked down at the claw as it held out the ebony tablet. ‘Here,’ he quickly passed over a handful of gelt and curled the Black Madonna into his hand in return, savouring the coldness of the tablet against his sweaty palm. He had always longed for escape. In the past, such exits had been the ticket that made his life bearable. Nothing changed and choice was a fine thing.
He hurried away, anticipation and an ugly excitement jangling his nerves. If he took it before he went back to the inn, he may never get there but did that matter? Haven’t I just made a choice that will give me instant freedom?
‘What about self-worth, Finnian?’ The Moonlady’s dreamlike words whispered as he rounded another corner, almost colliding with a muscular man who sported a distinctive moustache and smelled of fresh lemons.
‘Effendi, ah, effendi. You look much better.’ Ibn the tellak grasped Finnian by the arm and smiled. The kindness and warmth of the tellak’s expression spread through Finnian’s veins, the tablet alien and intrusive.
‘Ibn. How… fortuitous.’ He wondered if the gentle bath attendant with the face of a tragi-comedian would understand the irony.
‘I think so too, effendi. For if I am not mistaken, the Madonnas begin to solicit.’
Finnian was taken aback, his tone derisive as he responded. ‘Are you sure you aren’t Other?’
‘Wouldn’t you know, effendi, if I was?’ Ibn’s face portrayed inscrutability and Finnian shifted his feet.
‘Why?’
‘You know the answer to that, I should not have to tell you of all people.’ Ibn cocked a heavy eyebrow. He held out his hand. ‘Is there anything you think I can help you with?’
Finnian looked down at the
outstretched palm and then grasped Ibn by the arm and led him to a beverage stall to purchase two juices. ‘Tell me Ibn, do you value yourself?’
‘Value? What a strange time for such philosophy.’ He examined Finnian’s face in detail, as if he searched for something. Then with the faintest nod he continued. ‘Value you ask? Not myself so much. But I value what I have – my wife, my little children, my mother and father. And because I value them, I cherish and care for them. So perhaps in a roundabout way that places some value on me. Do you see what I say? It is not how one views oneself but what one does that creates a self-worth. Ah, but it is an ambiguous thing and for the scholars in the Academia to argue, not Ibn the tellak.’ He raised his glass and tossed back the wine with a grimace, to then tap his mug against Finnian’s and continue, ‘I would not wish to offend you but it is a thin line you think to cross this night. Fortuitous as you say, that Ibn is here. Remember I said you would know if I was Other? Well,’ he looked down at his mug, shifting it around in his hand. ‘I think you are different. You don’t need the Madonnas to help you on whatever road it is you travel. One of your kind does not need mortal tools of self-harm. You are above that.’
‘Huh!’ Again the derision and then Finnian’s attention sharpened like a razor. ‘What do you mean – my kind?’
Ibn tapped the side of his nose. ‘As I massaged, effendi, I opened up channels in your body to release the pent up tension. Normally that is all that I do and I walk away observing nothing particularly out of the ordinary. But with you I felt I had unleashed a tempest, so powerful was the energy whirling around you. As I massaged, there was a frisson from my hand to my armpit that felt like a lightning bolt.’
‘And yet you were not frightened? You kept going?’
‘Effendi, you were in trouble, you needed me. And for me the compassion is stronger than the concern. The energy inside you, it was just a swirling angry mass, not functioning as it should.’
‘In Trevallyn, Ibn,’ Finnian handed his cup over to the stall-holder, shaking his head at the offer of another, ‘or in Pymm, you would be considered a wise man, a healer, or if you were a woman, a carlin. Tell me, what do you think I am?’
Ibn bent to Finnian’s ear, whispering, ‘Other. Perhaps Færan?’
Finnian couldn’t help his eyes opening a little wider.
‘Hah.’ The tellak laughed but immediately he adopted a more sober tone. ‘So. As I said, I have seen strength and it is why you don’t need,’ he took Finnian’s hand and peeled it open, revealing the stark nakedness of the Black Madonna, ‘that.’
Chastened, Finnian looked deep into the honest eyes, seeing an image of himself staring back from the pupils. He held the tablet out. ‘You are my conscience. Once again I owe you.’
‘Ah, it is nothing.’ Ibn took the tablet and dropped it into the dregs of his drink where it began to dissolve into a black paste. Tipping it upside down, he drained it onto the soil of the alley and ground his heel into it. ‘I hate to see people with potential waste themselves. Remember the story of my brother? I would not want that for you. Tell me, you spoke of value. Have you a significant other in your life? Mother?’
‘Deceased.’
‘That is very sad. Then father?’
‘Dead also.’
‘Siblings?’ Desperation tinged the tellak’s voice.
‘A twin. Dead.’
‘Effendi!’ Ibn reached for Finnian’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Then there must, for one such as yourself, be a lady… ah yes, Ibn is relieved. I see it in your eyes. She is beautiful?’
Lalita’s face filled Finnian’s mind and he nodded.
‘She loves you?’
Finnian threw back his head and laughed, an empty sound. ‘Aine, no. I think she believes I am detestable and feckless, certainly dangerous.’
‘Then effendi, if you value her, make her believe otherwise. Your eyes, they are a window to your soul and I see in them that you crave her respect. No, don’t snort so, you do. Or maybe it is that you don’t recognize it yourself.’
‘Oh my friend, I wish I knew.’ Finnian replied. For once in his life he had a mentor, someone who understood him. The relief was immeasurable and he wished he could divulge so much more. But it was not politic, he knew that much. Instead, ‘I’ve lost my direction, if I ever had any.’
‘Ibn has many such moments, and when that happens all I think of are the ones dearest to me and what they would want of me. What would this woman want you to do?’
‘Leave her well alone. She fears me and repudiates me in equal proportions.’
‘Alright then,’ the tellak heaved an importunate sigh. ‘Let Ibn be your nearest and dearest. If you value his friendship then you will do what you must, for by accomplishing it you will earn his respect and admiration.’
Finnian looked at the wise face of this mortal who unaccountably would be his friend. If you truly knew what it is that I would do, would you respect me? If I succeed in finding the charms, I have no doubt I will have your respect and your undying gratitude, for your sake and for the sake of your wife, your children and your family. But when I use them for my own ends, what will you think then? Ah Ibn, how powerful is your mortal magic. Do you push me to rethink my plan? Maybe I must find the paperweights for you and your family. And for a cabin-boy and a scribe. His mouth set in a line.
Maybe…
He climbed the stairway to the room at the Inn of the Two Doves and pushed the door open quietly, not wishing to disturb Lalita.
But the bed was empty, the room emptier still.
She was gone.
***
She had sat as still as a statue after he left, pieces of the tulip tile that had fallen off the wall littering the floor about her slipper-clad toes. The titanic ferocity of his anger, the way it had blown up as quickly as a dust storm, blotting out reason and calm, had stunned her. One moment he had sat by her side, grateful for the story, the next the wind changed and she was faced with a poltergeist. He frightened her, he and this heady mix of emotions he carried – the melancholy that sat at his shoulder, the helpful solicitude as she hid from Curiosa, the anger – she couldn’t reconcile any of it. She shuddered, his shouting face fresh in her memory. But then her traitorous recall lingered on his earlier kindness and she admitted that her heart had skipped beat after beat as he looked at her, she couldn’t deny it. And when he touched her, she felt desire in her deepest, most private places. She lusted after it, any touch, even his shoulders pressing against her as he folded his body onto the dainty divan earlier.
She kicked at the tile, sending a sharp fragment skidding across the floor. He mesmers me with his very proximity, that’s all he does. None of it is real. Glamour. It’s what his sort does.
She stood up. He shan’t. I must find the remaining paperweights and protect my tiny family. I’ll not have them murdered on a whim. She had no doubt her Uncle Imran would have considered her out of her mind, that her Aunt Soraya would have despaired but she also had no doubt Kholi would say, ‘Please, Lalita, I rely on you.’
Kholi, I owe you this. I owe our family this. There is no one else, only me. She would search and secure the third and fourth paperweights before Finnian and thus she would go to Curiosa’s. She must make sure no others were hidden away.
Warm night air caressed her. The town walls had kept the heat of the day compressed within the souks and the hour would approach dawn before the stale fug lifted like a blanket to allow the cold desert vapours to cleanse and refresh. As she walked, she pulled up the grey silk scarf to cover her hair and then wrapped it twice around her neck so she could blend as she inched into the shadows away from the light of torchères and braziers.
The night crowd was boisterous, the end of the week bringing with it thoughts of a different life, perhaps to relax and enjoy instead of nuzzling the grindstone. To most Fahsi citizens one day was the same as another – hard and hot and compiling seven days of each week where one worked to keep oneself or one’s family fed and sheltered
. But the holiday spirit always infested the end of the week and today was no different. Food vendors thrust aromatic end-of-the-week morsels under Lalita’s nose as she pushed by. Drink stalls offered refreshing beverages but she shook her head. The pastry bakers held out trays of specially coloured nougats and sweets as something of the air of the festival hung around but she ducked her head and walked on. Musicians, acrobats and jugglers drifted along the edges of the bazaar, busking to small crowds. As Lalita wove in and out of the shadows, she spotted a music-box grinder with a petite golden tamarind monkey dancing on his shoulder to a tune that unaccountably reminded her of Finnian. The music tinkled and plucked and sounded exotic and altogether Other so that goosebumps raced each other up her arms.
‘Lady.’
She jumped as a hand brushed at her. An odd character smiled, his teeth gleaming in the evening light. ‘Would Lady like her fortune told?’ He grinned again and she saw the unmistakable red of betel juice in his mouth and it reminded her of blood and her stomach folded on itself.
‘No,’ she said, trying to pull away. ‘No thank you.’ But the fellow held tight, bald head shining in the light of the flames all about. In a second she realized that to draw attention to herself with this gypsy was a dangerous thing so she relaxed in his grip and said, ‘How much?’
‘Cross my palm with gelt but no silver.’
Alarm bells began to ring. No silver? An Other – surely not. And yet silver is a curse to Others. As she scrutinized his face, he winked. She dragged out a brass farthing that Rajeeb had placed with others in her pocket.