by L-J Baker
Adijan tested her ankle and winced. “That dung-head Ardashir wrote that poem of instructions to go with the necklace. Maybe he jotted down somewhere else how the enchantment could be broken. All the wicked kings and evil viziers in Shali’s stories have a fatal flaw in their plans.”
Zobeide graced her with a wry smile. “Unfortunately, Ardashir was not a fictional megalomaniac blinded by overweening vanity.”
“I’m not so sure about the vanity. One of the gate guards told me he had a big statue of himself made.”
“A statue?”
“He might be a bit disappointed to know that the local kids play on it.”
“Then it cannot be within the grounds of the Enchanter’s House.” Zobeide frowned in a way Shalimar never did. “What an extraordinary thing for him to have done. Ardashir’s contribution to the legacy is his enduring monument. Not some crude physical representation.”
Adijan was not in the least surprised when Zobeide announced her desire to find the statue.
“I have no notion what use it could possibly be,” Zobeide admitted. “And probably none at all. But there is nothing else we have thought to do, is there? And it seems improbable that Baktar will have men searching for us near a statue.”
The third person they asked knew where the enchanter’s statue was. Mercifully, the location was only a couple of streets away. During that painful hobbling walk with her arm around Zobeide’s shoulders, Adijan realized Zobeide might look like Shalimar but she didn’t smell and move like her, any more than she acted like her. What made Shalimar was the person within.
A well-patronized bathing house sprawled along the harbor-side of the intersection of three streets. Opposite, in the sharpest apex of the intersection, stood a curious little building of local stone. It was no larger than a cramped house. With Zobeide’s aid, Adijan dragged herself across the streets and hopped up the six steps to the open doorway. A cunning screen wall shielded the interior from the dust, noise, and sun. The interior felt unnaturally chill after the heat of the day outside.
Adijan sank to the floor with her back to the wall. She looked up at the larger than life-sized petrified arrogance of a man who must be the Enchanter Ardashir. He looked much younger than she’d imagined.
After a swift glance at the statue, Zobeide circled the chamber, which constituted the whole building. Her sandals scuffed the tiles. “Unfortunately, it appears I was correct. No inscriptions on the walls or mysterious tablets to unlock my curse. Just a few crudely scratched marks of vandals, broken sticks on the floor, and a layer of dust shrouding it all. You look dreadful. You’re in considerable pain, aren’t you? We should have visited an apothecary.”
“Did he really look like that?” Adijan asked. “I pictured him old and twisted.”
“That is Ardashir. But you were right about the vanity. I imagine that’s what he looked like twenty years before I knew him.”
Zobeide stepped around the screen to look outside.
“Someone coming?” Adijan asked.
“Not that I can see. I wish Baktar had felt a need to watch this place.”
“Because it would mean there was something here he wanted you not to find?”
“Exactly.”
Zobeide slowly circled the statue again, this time studying it rather than the chamber.
“I couldn’t get you to knock the head off for me, could I?” Adijan asked.
“Whatever for?”
“It’d make me feel better.”
Zobeide fleetingly grinned. “It looks no more nor less than a statue. And yet . . . yet it is such a peculiar thing for Ardashir to have done. He was not given to follies.”
Adijan, losing interest, peered past the screen. She could see a thin slice of the intersection and up one busy street. “I have to get on a ship.”
“I know.” Zobeide touched the carved folds of the statue’s robe. “If only –”
“Zobeide,” a male voice said.
Zobeide jumped backwards. Adijan started and stared. The voice had not come from outside.
“I have been waiting.”
The measured, dispassionate voice issued from the statue, but the stone lips didn’t move. A faint whooshing sound heralded the appearance of a bright silver light, shaped like a scimitar’s shining blade in the statue’s right hand.
Adijan swallowed with difficulty and found her back pressed hard against the chamber wall. She probably would’ve bolted and kept running until the sea stopped her had she been able to walk.
Zobeide, looking equally shaken, visibly struggled for command of herself. “A bequest enchantment.”
“Is it dangerous?” Adijan whispered.
“Ardashir must have crafted it. For me. But don’t be alarmed. It is not he who speaks. We hear an echo of what he wished to say to me when he created the enchantment.” She cleared her throat. “Statue, you know me. Now say what you must to the one you cursed.”
“It was not I who condemned you,” the statue said.
“Lying turd,” Adijan said.
Zobeide silenced her with a curt gesture. “Then who would you have me believe did?”
“Mine was the hand that punished,” the statue said, “but mine was not the hand that pushed.”
“And the same hand pushed you,” Adijan said to the statue.
Zobeide frowned. “Baktar?”
“Baktar betrayed you,” the statue said. “He was cunning. More than I imagined. He deceived us both. I shudder to think that I must soon surrender the legacy to such a craven, manipulative mediocrity.”
“Betrayed me?” Zobeide said. “Explain your meaning.”
“You foolishly allowed him to persuade you to challenge me before either of us was ready,” the statue said. “He knew I would defeat you and be angered by your presumption. It was the only way he could be sure the legacy would one day be his.”
Adijan swore.
“Your stupidity and gullibility warranted all that you have suffered,” the statue said. “My lack of foresight and understanding will torture me.”
Adijan glared up at the statue. “You arrogant son of a –”
“You have no idea of the torment, humiliation, and degradations I have suffered,” Zobeide said in an implacable tone. “I will not allow you, old man, to liken your qualms of conscience to the slavery you condemned me to.”
Adijan watched with soaring approval as Zobeide straightened to confront the image of her nemesis.
“If you knew us both deceived in Baktar, you had the opportunity to right the wrong you did to me,” Zobeide said. “As, indeed, only you could have done! And now… now when you are gone beyond my power to exact any retribution on you, you seek to incite me to avenge your misjudgment for you. Well, old snake, you have compounded your errors. I am not freed from your curse. I can do nothing to Baktar. I am utterly unable to challenge for the legacy. My biggest regret is that everything I am saying to this magical-chimera will pass unheard by your dead ears. I find myself consumed with the ignoble delight of wishing to imagine you writhing in perpetual terror as you rot in the coldest cavern of hell.”
Adijan might’ve cheered, except she heard a shout from the street. She twisted around to see a commotion past the bath house. Several men pushed their way through the milling pedestrians. “Camel crap. Company coming. We’d better get crawling.”
“Free me!” Zobeide said to the statue.
“What you ask is beyond the ability of this bequest,” the statue said.
“Curse you!” Zobeide said. “I know you. You wouldn’t have left this message for me without having the foresight to cover the possibility that I might still be enslaved when I heard it. Hurry. Baktar is looking for us. Free me!”
“What you ask is beyond the ability of this bequest,” the statue repeated. “Only the one with the power over you can relinquish it and give you a hand back to life.”
Zobeide blinked and stared down at Adijan.
“How?” Adijan tugged the necklace from und
er her shirt. “What do I have to do?”
The statue didn’t answer.
“What must she do to free me?” Zobeide asked.
“The one with the power over you must relinquish it,” the statue repeated, “and give you a hand back to life.”
The noise from the street grew louder. Adijan identified a bearded face as one of the trio who nearly caught them in the brothel. “We don’t have much time.”
“How?” Zobeide asked.
“The one with the power over you must relinquish it and give you a hand back to life.”
“Eye!” Adijan said. “I want no power over you. You can do whatever you like. I free you. Is that what –?”
Zobeide loosed a stifled cry. She jerked upright, clasped at her chest, and staggered back against the wall as if someone had driven a scimitar into her heart. Shalimar’s features melted away to leave the grey-haired woman Zobeide really was.
“I can’t believe it,” Adijan said. “Is that all we had to –?”
“My own clothes.” Zobeide lifted her hands from her chest. “This is what I was – but –”
“Can you magic those scabs away?” Adijan asked. “They’re nearly here. That’s Baktar on the horse.”
Zobeide stepped over Adijan to peer around the screen. “Curse it. Still, now I’m ready for –” She broke off with a gasp and stared at the hand she rested against the screen. Part of the hand had passed into the screen wall.
Adijan blinked.
Zobeide jerked back and scowled at her hand. “I’m not human.” She whirled around to the statue. “What has gone wrong? Why am I not restored?”
“Only the one with the power –”
“Yeah, we know,” Adijan said. “But what more do I have to do?”
” – hand back to life.”
Zobeide scowled at the statue. Adijan glanced outside to see Baktar and his men pushing and shoving their way to the intersection. Sunlight flashed off the ruby in Baktar’s turban.
“I don’t understand!” Zobeide said. “I felt the enslavement leave me. I am free. But I have no flesh. I have no body.”
“Can you do magic?” Adijan asked.
Zobeide cast her a desperate look and shrugged. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t – no! Curse it. I need a body to contain the legacy. Ardashir! You snake, what have you –?”
“Camel crap.” Adijan momentarily forgot imminent capture in the dread of realization. She stared up at the shining magical sword. “Not my hand. You turd.”
“What?” Zobeide demanded.
“I’ve got to give you my hand,” Adijan said. “A hand back to life. Literally. Isn’t that right?”
Zobeide looked aghast. “Bequest! Is it true that my mistress must sacrifice her own flesh to restore mine to me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, camel crap,” Adijan said.
“No.” Zobeide’s whisper was horror rather than denial. “Adijan –”
“I can’t.” Adijan folded her arms tightly across her chest, her hands jammed into her armpits. “I can’t. Not my hand.”
Zobeide looked lost for words. Her gaze flicked from Adijan to the other side of the screen. Adijan heard the voices, too, but didn’t remove her attention from the obscenely beautiful apparition of the magical sword.
“I won’t ask it of you,” Zobeide said.
“Not my hand. Anything but that. I can’t. It’d brand me as a thief. It’d cost me everything I’ve ever dreamed of, including –”
“He’s here.” Zobeide stood protectively between Adijan and the screen. “I felt some enchantment. I suspect it means we shall not be able to escape. Perhaps, if –”
“Zobeide!” Baktar called. “I know you’re in there.”
Zobeide stepped outside. “You are correct, Baktar. I didn’t doubt your perceptivity at guessing that I would wish to visit Ardashir’s monument as soon as I was apprised of its existence. It’s a fine representation, is it not?”
While Zobeide talked to buy them time, Adijan gritted her teeth and used the wall to haul herself upright. She sagged against the cool stones with all her weight on her good leg. The statue’s sword now shone just beyond arm’s reach. Her whole body cringed at the thought of that magical blade slicing through her wrist. She couldn’t do it. It would hurt beyond imagining and amputate all her dreams. No one would do business with a one-handed person: a thief, a cheat, a smuggler.
Adijan swallowed with difficulty. She had declared that she would give up anything to get Shalimar back. Her hand and her dreams?
“Oh, Eye,” she whispered.
Zobeide stepped backwards from behind the screen. Baktar’s heavy tread followed her. He stopped to stare at the sword of light.
“This is the magic you felt,” Zobeide said.
Baktar paled. “Ardashir’s own. But – but what –?”
“A bequest,” Zobeide said. “For me.”
Baktar looked unhappy. Zobeide didn’t interrupt his thinking. From Adijan’s vantage, Baktar and Zobeide faced each other with the statue of Ardashir between them.
“What did he tell you?” Baktar demanded.
“What was there to say?” Zobeide asked.
Baktar licked his upper lip and finally noticed Adijan. He frowned.
“What could Ardashir have wanted to tell me,” Zobeide said, “that he would go to such lengths to execute it?”
The unusual gem in Baktar’s earring flashed yellow, red, and green when he turned his head. Amongst the folds of his silk robe, his hand clenched into a fist. “He freed you.”
“He spoke of you,” Zobeide said.
Baktar stared as if he wished to flay Zobeide with his gaze, then flicked another glance at the statue with its scimitar of light. Zobeide took the opportunity to look at Adijan. For a moment, Zobeide’s face showed great sadness.
“We could share the legacy,” Baktar said. “As we planned.”
“And your son?” Zobeide said.
“The boy will be our heir,” he said.
“The legacy cannot be shared. And you don’t want to marry me any more than I desire you.”
Baktar and Zobeide stared at each other. Adijan fancied she could feel the air crackling with tension. The silver light from the sword made Baktar’s earring twinkle. Colored light danced and swirled around Baktar. Zobeide backed away.
“You can’t take it from me,” Baktar said.
“But that’s precisely what you fear, isn’t it?” Zobeide said.
Adijan, propped upright by the wall, couldn’t even reach out to hit him, let alone stop him hurling his enchantments at Zobeide.
Baktar lifted a fist. Zobeide twisted to the side and flung up both hands. She snatched at the magical sword. The blade came loose. Zobeide leveled the shining silver apparition at Baktar’s chest. Baktar’s eyes widened as if he expected her to thrust it between his ribs. With tension fizzing the air, and the silver sword glowing between them, they faced each other for interminable moments.
Inexplicably, Baktar smiled. He straightened as the tension sloughed away.
“You can’t challenge me,” he said. “You’re still cursed.”
Baktar turned his full attention on Adijan. He held out a ring-heavy hand. “Give me the necklace.”
Adijan was going to die. Ardashir might write Baktar off as a cunning, contemptible mediocrity, but he had been an enchanter of the first rank, not a brothel whelp without the power to even run away.
“Oh, that’s right,” Baktar said. “Didn’t you say that you can’t remove it before you’re dead? Well, we’ll just have to do something about that.”
Baktar’s earring twinkled and he raised his fist.
“No!” Zobeide thrust the magical sword at Baktar.
Baktar jumped backwards, his fist still raised. “You can’t!”
Zobeide stepped behind the statue. Adijan watched the shining sword point move toward his unprotected chest. She held her breath. The tip, steady in Zobeide’s double-handed grip, touched his
silk robe. An incandescent flash of rainbow light blasted from Baktar’s body. Adijan squeezed her eyes shut.
Zobeide screamed.
A metallic clang sounded near Adijan’s head, followed by another from the ground close to her feet.
Baktar drew a ragged breath. “You were never so foolish before.”
Adijan frantically blinked away the bright red spots blotting out most of her vision. Baktar still leaned against the wall. Zobeide lay crumpled on the floor. The top of her head appeared to be buried in the wall. She glared up at Baktar. The sword lay between Adijan’s feet and the foot of the statue.
“Now,” Baktar said. “The necklace.”
He turned to her and licked his upper lip. Her heart thudded even harder. She couldn’t run. There was nowhere to hide. Zobeide couldn’t save her.
“I will have this last piece of Ardashir’s legacy,” Baktar said. “And rest forever free of her threat.”
Adijan dropped to her knees at the statue’s feet and closed her fingers on the glowing hilt. It was warm and sent odd tingles down her arm. Adijan clutched it above her chest to point at Baktar.
Baktar sucked in a breath.
“Adijan!” Zobeide called. “Don’t –”
“Fool!” Baktar swept his fist in an arc. He didn’t come near Adijan, but something slammed into her and crunched her against the wall. She groaned. The glowing sword dropped from her fingers to clatter on the floor.
Baktar stepped closer.
“Adijan!” Zobeide called.
Adijan tasted blood as she watched Baktar close on her. His strange earring glinted and his pudgy hand clenched in a fist.
“Baktar!” Zobeide called. “It’s me you want.”
Baktar smiled down at Adijan. It was the same gloating smile that Hadim il-Padur used.
“Shali!”
Adijan flung herself to the side and snatched up the magical sword. She thrust her left arm out along the floor and swung the sword down on it. The shining blade hit her wrist. Light flared. Mind-stopping pain ripped up her arm to slam into her brain. Unable to look away, she stared at the scimitar blade partly buried in the ground between her forearm and fist. The magical blade had cleaved through sleeve, sinews, bone, and stone. She felt sick.
Zobeide screamed.