by Naomi Cyprus
“Your Highness!” said the guard, stepping back quickly and dipping his head. “I am so sorry, Princess. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Captain . . .” Oh gosh, what is his name? Halan was sure she knew it. He was one of the friendlier guards, sometimes willing to stop and talk, usually ready with a smile. Bardak, that was it. Halan drew herself up haughtily, hoping that the guard wouldn’t dare to ask what she was doing alone in this part of the palace.
“Captain Bardak. I must be off, the . . . ah . . . queen is waiting for me.”
“Of course,” said Captain Bardak, stepping back. But as Halan made to move past, he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait,” he said.
“Yes, Captain?” Halan tried to sound casual, but her heart was thumping. Please don’t figure out that I shouldn’t be here. If my mother knew . . .
“Just be careful, Your Highness. I am not sure you should be walking alone in these halls.”
Halan stared at him for a moment, puzzled by his seemingly genuine concern. Then she straightened, squaring her shoulders and putting on an air of confidence. “Certainly, Captain. I assure you that I’m fine.”
The guard let go of her shoulder and stepped back to a respectful distance. Halan walked away, turning through the first arch she came to and finding herself in the Sun Garden. She stepped lightly across the lush grass, weaving between the huge mirrors that filled the small courtyard with reflected light. When she reached the other side and stepped into the shade, she turned and looked back, but the guard was gone.
“Princess Halan, thank goodness. Lady Amalia was starting to . . . worry.” Halan’s handmaiden, Lilah, stood at her door, wringing her hands. Lady Amalia was Halan’s prison guard—er, governess—and she never let the princess have any fun.
“I’m sorry if you got in any trouble,” Halan said.
Lilah had gone back to unfolding and hanging up the many-layered robes of silver that Halan guessed she would be wearing that night. “Not at all,” said Lilah. “Are you ready to dress for dinner?”
Halan sighed and nodded. Lilah hurried around behind her to unlace the back of her day gown. Halan kept still, despite the urge to try and help—the last time she tried, it only ended with the two of them tangled in lengths of ribbon, and Lilah hadn’t even laughed.
The problem with Lilah, Halan thought, watching her work in the dressing mirror, was that she knew her place. And you would need the strength of an elephant to pry her out of it. Lilah reported directly to the queen, and that’s where her loyalty lay. She was no help to Halan at all.
Well, not with her secret plans, anyway.
Halan had to admit that Lilah had dressing her down to a fine art. She draped and wrapped the layers of silver cloth over and around Halan, seeming almost to form a robe out of thin air, like she was commanding the fabric to do her bidding. Next, she draped silver chains around Halan’s neck and wrists, and pinned her silky black hair up with tiny silver stars. In the flickering candlelight, the princess sparkled like a glass moon.
It was so boring.
Halan tried not to be ungrateful. She felt pretty. It was . . . nice.
But nowhere near as nice as Ester’s hug.
She thought of the package, still tied up in its parchment, in the trunk by the bed. The colors burned bright in her memory.
But they weren’t for today. They had to wait.
“Thank you, Lilah. It’s lovely.”
Lilah gave her a rare smile. “You’re welcome, Princess. Of course, we shall have to do something special for the grand feast tomorrow. Are you looking forward to it? I hear there will be dancing.”
Halan thought about the feast, and her smile widened.
The first part of her plan was in place. At the feast, she would secure the second part. And then . . .
She’d heard that out in the city, there were marketplaces that sold clothes and food and crafts and even animals from all over the world. She’d heard that there was music on every corner, a constant drumbeat so that the people couldn’t help but dance in the streets. She’d heard that around the Thauma royal workshop district, the ground itself was so steeped in magic that people saw visions and heard voices from other worlds.
“I am,” she said. “I’m looking forward to it very much.”
Chapter Three
Nalah
UNCONTROLLED THAUMA FIRE KILLS YOUNG MOTHER
A workshop fire claimed the life of a young mother yesterday afternoon in the Thauma Quarter. Mrs. Rina Bardak was attempting a piece of complex metalwork, which she intended to use to heal her young daughter, when a fire broke out in her workshop, taking Mrs. Bardak’s life and almost destroying several neighboring homes. In the wake of this tragedy, Minister Tantawi has proposed stricter restrictions on the use of Thaumaturgy. Mrs. Bardak leaves behind a husband, glassworker Amir Bardak, and their daughter, Nalah.”
From the New Hadar Herald
Nalah tugged her dress down over her head and shoved her feet into her sandals, yawning. Today was a new day. She pulled her gloves on, though she wasn’t sure how much difference they would make, and as she was wriggling her fingers to stretch out the leather, she heard voices downstairs.
One was her father’s. She didn’t recognize the other one—at least, not at first.
It’s that man from the market! She hardly dared to hope—it had been months since the last time her father had taken a commission. It would be much more profitable than the market baubles. As long as it was legal . . .
She hurried downstairs, but froze a few steps from the bottom as she saw her father crossing the kitchen toward the front door, his face a storm cloud.
“Get out of my house, Zachary,” he barked.
The tall man, again wearing his cream linen suit, followed him at a leisurely pace, looking around at the small room as if he was in no hurry to leave.
That’s when Nalah realized who the man was. Zachary Tam.
Nalah remembered him now, all in a rush. He was the rich man who lived in the old mansion up on the hill, who had come to visit so often when she was small. When her mother was alive. They must have been friends.
He looked very different now, which was probably why Nalah had so much trouble recognizing him at the market. She remembered him being a scruffy, hairy figure who was always bringing some new and exciting Thauma artifact with him. She’d been delighted, but her father had always seemed to be grinding his teeth when Tam was around. Nalah hadn’t understood why until this moment: Tam had been bringing them contraband, and her father had been afraid they would be caught.
Nalah was fairly certain Tam never got caught. From the cut of his suit and the way he stood in the Bardaks’ kitchen, as if he owned the place, he was still a rich enough man to buy his way around the regulations, probably even more easily than the Cutters.
“Out,” Mr. Bardak snapped, turning around and seeing that Tam had slowed to a stop. “How dare you show up here, after all this time? I meant what I said back then. You are not welcome in this house.”
Nalah frowned. Tam had stopped coming after Rina died, but not right after. He’d visited a few more times, in those horrible days when the sun couldn’t pierce the gloom and the house had been full of soot and sadness. She was sure that, despite everything, he and her father had been friends. But then there’d been an argument, and suddenly Tam’s visits ended.
“Listen to me,” Tam said in a placating voice, holding his hands up in a gesture of peacemaking. “I only want to help you.”
“You’ve done enough of that,” Nalah’s father said.
“Please, Amir,” Tam urged. “Let’s not pretend. You’re struggling. Anyone can see it. There’s no shame in that, but you’re a fool if you don’t take what I’m offering you. You and Nalah deserve better than this.”
“So, you’ve come to make a charitable donation?” Mr. Bardak sneered. “What’s the matter, guilty conscience starting to get to you?”
“I’m not here to patroni
ze you,” Tam said. “I’m offering you work.”
“Well, you can take your work and—” Mr. Bardak began, but then one of the wooden steps creaked under Nalah’s weight, and he and Tam looked up quickly. Nalah winced as they spied her on the stairs.
Oops.
Tam’s eyes locked with Nalah’s. His eyebrows quirked and a curious smile played across his lips.
“Why, hello, Nalah,” he said. “Nice to see you again. It’s been a very long time since I was in this house. You probably don’t remember me—”
“I remember,” Nalah said. “Now, I remember.”
“Nalah, go to your room,” her father said quietly, without taking his furious gaze off Tam’s face.
“No, let her stay—this concerns her too, after all.” Tam pulled out one of the old wooden chairs and sat down at the kitchen table, as if he hadn’t even heard Nalah’s father telling him to leave.
Nalah felt emboldened by Tam’s wish to include her. “What’s the job?” she asked, coming down the stairs. She felt her father’s disapproval like a blast of heat from the furnace, but she kept her eyes fixed on Tam.
Tam smiled and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slender wooden box and a folded sheet of paper. He swept aside some empty mugs and a bowl of tangerines, and unfolded the paper.
“I need you to re-create this mirror.”
Nalah stepped a little closer. A mirror didn’t seem like such a terrible request. They were glassworkers after all.
The mirror drawn on the paper was beautiful in its simplicity, but the measurements along the sides of the picture said it was enormous, as tall and wide as a man. Mirrors were hard to get right—a tiny bit of warp in the glass and the image would be completely distorted.
“And,” Tam continued, “I need this to be a part of it.” He slid the box toward Nalah. Mr. Bardak snatched it from the table, opened it, and then put it back down.
“No,” he said.
Nalah reached out and gingerly turned the open box so she could see. Inside was a shard of mirrored glass, like a lightning bolt. It glittered, sparks of blue and green and pink opalescence flashing across its surface as it moved.
Thauma magic.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“It’s completely illegal,” her father added. “And Mr. Tam knows that perfectly well. I don’t know what this thing does, Zachary, and I don’t care. This box alone could get all three of us thrown in jail, or worse. Now I want you to take your contraband out of my house and—”
“Ten thousand dinars,” said Tam.
“—don’t come . . . back,” Mr. Bardak finished, weakly.
Ten thousand? Nalah stared at Tam, at the beautiful shard in the box on the kitchen table, and then up at her father, trying to communicate her thoughts with her eyes. For that amount we could leave this city. Start a new life in the provinces. We could be safe there, free to practice our magic.
For the first time in her life, Nalah realized, she wouldn’t have to hide her powers—she could embrace them.
“No,” said her father again, though now there was sadness in his voice. “And don’t think of raising the price, either. There’s no amount of money that will make me touch that thing. Nalah and I will get by. I will not risk our lives for you.”
Nalah felt her shoulders sag. She glanced at Tam and found him looking at her with a quiet, calculating stare. A shiver crept up her spine. It was strange—she didn’t remember feeling unnerved by him when she was younger. He had always seemed so cheerful, such a good friend to her parents. Perhaps she just hadn’t understood the danger he posed.
“Such a shame,” he said, folding the paper and slipping it back into his pocket. “I know I haven’t been a good friend to you recently—I thought if we worked together on this, we would both benefit. But I understand. You must do what you must do. But if you reconsider . . . you know where to find me.”
He stood and walked out of the house without looking back.
Nalah and her father watched him go. “Papa, I really think—” Nalah began, as soon as the door had closed.
Her father held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say,” he said, sinking into a chair at the table. “But I can’t.”
“But it’s just one job, Papa,” Nalah pressed. “What if you stayed inside the whole time and just worked on the mirror? Then as soon as you were done, as soon as we got the money, we could leave the city and never look back.”
“Please,” her father said. “Stop.”
“But, Papa . . . my accident yesterday. It must have cost us so much. We need this. And if we had a new life in the country, I wouldn’t have to hide anymo—”
“Nalah.” Her father interrupted. Then he paused, looking up at the ceiling.
Nalah’s skin prickled. She knew that look. He was preparing himself to say something, something she wouldn’t like.
His eyes, wide and wet, returned to hers. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to run away. I’m giving up glasswork. For good.”
Nalah gaped at her father. It was as if he had told her he was giving up breathing. “You can’t! How will we live?” You’ve already given up your magic—how could you give up your craft, too?
“Far more easily,” he said with a wry smile. “I have a job interview this afternoon at the factory. It’s just ordinary work, hard work, but at least it’s still a kind of craftsmanship. We can sell the house—if we don’t need the workshop, perhaps we can move somewhere the roof doesn’t leak. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He glanced at his watch and abruptly stood up again. “I have to go—the interview.”
He gripped Nalah’s shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“We don’t need Tam, baba. We don’t need his money or his illegal Thauma work. Things will get better for us, you’ll see.” He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. “I’ll see you this evening. Please . . . be good.”
Nalah forced a smile and waved, but when he was gone she sat down heavily at the table and stared into space.
Give up the workshop? The place where her mother and father used to work together, creating beautiful, useful things? Where Nalah’s earliest memories were forged, memories full of wonder and pride at her parents’ talent and passion? It would be even harder than giving up magic—the thing that defined their family, made them special, made them who they were.
How could Father just throw it all away?
Maybe he can turn his back on being a Thauma, Nalah thought, but I can’t.
Trying to get her mind off things, she started to move the mugs, thinking to wash them up, if she could get the tap to work today . . . and froze. There, behind the mugs and the bowl of fruit, was a slender wooden box.
“Oh no,” Nalah whispered.
Tam must have left it there by accident.
Her father would have a heart attack if he knew Tam had left a shard of contraband Thauma mirror on his kitchen table! She had to get rid of it. She picked up the box and flipped it open, gazing again at the iridescent surface of the glass. It was truly amazing work. She could feel the magic in it, pulsating, like a drum beating in her head. It was intoxicating. It drew her in, its rhythm pulling her toward it like a snake charmer’s song. She wanted to touch it. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help herself.
Nalah slid a finger down the surface of the glass. The drumbeat grew louder, and then—
The drumming merged with the sound of the crowd that thronged the bright space. A woman in purple danced and swayed in time to the beat. Colored fabrics blew in the hot breeze. The shifting crowd parted and closed again over a view of white dunes rolling away into the distance, as far as the hazy horizon. Nalah could smell smoke, Thauma smoke, that slightly sweet scent that made sparks dance on the back of her tongue—
She dropped the box onto the kitchen table, where it fell closed with a slap. Panting, Nalah pressed her palms together and held them to her chest, trying to contain the wild beating of her heart.
I didn
’t break it, she told herself. It’s all right. I didn’t break it.
But what was that? A vision? But of what?
As soon as she’d caught her breath, Nalah felt the shard pulling her in again, calling out to her. And against all reason, despite the fear that clutched her heart after she’d seen that strange vision, she wanted very much to pick up the box and hold the shard in her hands. It was calling out to her, and she desperately wanted to answer.
I have to get this thing out of here, Nalah thought, now.
She would take it back to Tam. It was dangerous, but Nalah felt certain that letting it remain in the house with her was even more dangerous. She couldn’t wait for Father to get back. He might destroy it rather than return it to Tam. And Nalah couldn’t let that happen.
This thing, whatever it was, needed to be protected. She knew that, though she couldn’t think why.
She tried to look on the bright side—perhaps Tam would give her a reward. At least that would be something. Father might refuse the man’s money, but that didn’t mean Nalah had to.
She wrapped the box in a shawl and dropped it gingerly into her canvas bag before setting off to walk to the mansion on the hill.
All the way up the steep road that led out of the city, Nalah felt like she was being watched. Every shadow between the buildings looked like an enforcer. She knew she was probabaly being paranoid, and yet . . . she was farther from home now than she had been in years.
It was a huge relief when she finally climbed out of a green tunnel of drooping palm trees and found herself in front of the largest house in New Hadar. It was a once-grand, opulent home, its stone walls sagging under the weight of years. She could imagine a great king once lived here, though now its walls were covered in vines, and its windows were either shuttered or so dirty she couldn’t see inside. All around and under it, she could see the crumbled remains of the old city that New Hadar had been built upon.