Quest for the Scorpion's Jewel

by Amy Green

  “They want to know what your business is here,” Samar said to Jesse.

  “Tell them that I must see the Sheik at once.”

  Samar relayed this message. Neither guard looked very happy. More questions followed, and Jesse tried to keep a look of haughty unconcern at all times as Samar answered for him. At one point, Samar slipped them a few silver coins. Still they did not move to open the gate.

  “It is not good,” Samar muttered to Jesse. “They say you are of the race of traitors and murderers. They ask you to prove your sorcery.”

  Jesse let his voice rise, as if he was offended by this request. “Silas,” he said, “I’m going to need your help.” True to his part as a servant, Silas did not protest.

  I hope this works. Jesse turned again to Samar. “Tell the guards that I will show them the extent of my powers by inflicting a curse on my servant.”

  For a brief second, Samar gave Jesse a look of panic, as if to say, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Then, sighing slightly as if he did not believe Jesse himself, he rattled off a string of Da’armon to the guards, who began to laugh.

  Ignoring them, Jesse fixed his eyes on Silas. He looked nervous, and Jesse was not sure if that was part of the act or not.

  “I curse thee with terrible intestinal pain,” Jesse chanted solemnly, walking around Silas in a circle. “It will make you wish you had never been born!” He slammed his staff down on the ground with the last word.

  Instantly, Silas fell to the ground, screaming and clutching his stomach as if he were in intense pain. He clawed the dirt and writhed in agony, thrashing violently. Jesse had to keep himself from staring in amazement.

  I almost feel like I really have put a curse on him, he marveled. Outwardly, he looked down coldly on his servant’s display of pain.

  Already a crowd of alarmed Da’armons had gathered. One woman was wailing, as if begging Jesse to stop. He let Silas scream a while longer, then shouted, “Enough,” banging the staff against the ground again.

  Silas stopped, breathing heavily. Slowly, he stood, looking disoriented, and dusted himself off. The noise of the crowd died to an awed murmur.

  “If you do not let us in, you will be next,” Jesse declared, pointing at the guards with his staff. Even if they did not understand his words, they could not miss his message.

  The fear on their faces nearly made Jesse want to dance right there in the street. “Harlid mahat!” one of the guards called.

  The gate began to lift.

  “That,” Jesse said quietly as they paraded through the gates, “was probably the most impressive display I’ve ever seen. If you survive the Youth Guard, you should join a traveling theatre troupe, Silas.”

  “If I survive,” Silas reminded him. “Let’s focus on that right now.”

  At least, Jesse thought, Rae made it through. Her familiar face was among the throng of Da’armons who had pushed through the gate, despite the weak protests of the guards. If the mob wanted a show, they would have it.

  Samar, at least, was confident they would succeed. If the clothes, painted designs, and staff were not enough, Samar had insisted that Jesse’s limp would be a key detail in his favor. “Da’armos is a harsh land,” he said. “Not many who have deformities survive for long. Those who do are considered marked by fate for greatness. Local folk tales tell of heroes who had to be wounded by the gods so they would not be able to overthrow them. That is what they will remember when they see you.”

  For the first time since the accident, then, Jesse’s crippled leg was proving to be an advantage. I hope it’s enough of an advantage, he thought, as the guards flung open the gates of the palace, the central building in the courtyard.

  Once again, Jesse had to bite his tongue to keep from gasping as he entered the palace hall. Incredible. The walls were hung with woven straw mats that featured brightly painted scenes, stretching from floor to ceiling, and the windows were framed with designs in gold.

  And, at the front of the room, a man sat on an enormous wooden throne. He was dressed in purple robes and a turban adorned with the largest emerald Jesse had ever seen. Five servants with reed fans kept a constant cooling breeze on his face.

  “This Sheik has only been ruling for two years,” Samar whispered to Jesse. “That is, perhaps, good for us. He is young and inexperienced.”

  The Sheik stared at the new arrivals with a bored, arrogant grimace on his face. Jesse judged him to be cocky, more concerned with impressing than ruling.

  “You’ll have more trouble with the ha’lit, Benotan,” Samar said, indicating an older man standing to the right of the throne. “He has served three generations of Sheiks.” The man was staring at Jesse with suspicion, paying no notice to the crowd of commoners.

  “The Sheik looks like a peacock I once saw in a minstrel show,” Jesse said to Samar and Silas—a little too loudly.

  Briefly, Jesse saw the one Samar called Benotan turn toward him. He might have imagined it, because it was gone the next instant, but Jesse was almost sure he saw a smile on the man’s face. He understands me, Jesse realized. It was an important thing to know. This time, he must choose his words carefully.

  “Pedriamet,” Samar called, bowing to the ground. Silas bowed too, and made a motion for Jesse to do the same. He did not.

  I’m going to get his attention eventually anyway, Jesse decided, never looking away from the young ruler.

  The Sheik didn’t appear to notice. He sighed and asked Samar a question in Da’armon.

  More formalities. Jesse sighed. It was stiflingly hot in the hall, and he hated not being able to understand what anyone was saying. A powerful sorcerer doesn’t have to wait for anyone, even a Sheik.

  He slammed down his staff, cutting Samar off in the middle of a sentence. “Hear me well, all you people,” he declared with as much authority as he could find within himself. “I have traveled far and seen many rulers.”

  He barely waited for Samar to finish translating before he continued. “I have been given divine wisdom to discern which rulers are cruel and greedy. Many are, and they must pay the price. We shall soon see if the ruler of your land is among them.”

  Benotan frowned and started to speak, but Jesse cut him off. “Those whose leaders rule with a fist of iron and a heart of stone will have their greatest treasure, the source of their power, turned into iron and stone.”

  As Samar relayed his message, Jesse heard a new word spread through the crowd, “obidhala.”

  Feeling rather ridiculous, he began dancing in a circle in front of the throne, chanting nonsense words and lifting his staff into the air. Rae must be enjoying this.

  With a final pound from his staff, Jesse stopped, eyes frozen on the Sheik, who looked slightly confused. Jesse turned instead to the advisor, Benotan. “Bring out the obidhala,” Jesse commanded. “We will see what the leader of your land is truly like.”

  Benotan did not even wait for Samar to finish translating. “You think we must listen to your demands?” he scoffed.

  Jesse had been ready for this, of course. “The only way to get him to bring out the obidhala,” Samar had told him earlier, “is to manipulate him through the people.”

  “I see that you’re afraid.” Jesse said, walking closer to the advisor.

  “Keep your distance, Amarian,” he snapped, edging away as if Jesse had some sort of rare disease.

  “You’re afraid of what will happen when the people find out that your obidhala is nothing but a block of stone. You’re afraid of losing power.”

  More mutters from the crowd as Samar translated his bold words. Jesse almost expected another piece of rotten fruit to come flying through the air.

  Another step forward. This time, Jesse lowered his voice, so that only Benotan could hear. “And power is the only reason you rule, isn’t it?” The expression of hatred on his face was answer enough,
and Jesse nodded with satisfaction. “Then my curse was well-placed. You do have reason to fear.”

  “You go too far, boy,” Benotan hissed.

  Jesse shrugged casually. “I merely state what the people will think. If you refuse to show them the obidhala, they will assume that it did turn to stone. Perhaps it will be enough to remind them of the evil of their leaders. You are heavily outnumbered. An uprising of any strength would succeed.”

  Although Jesse’s logic was sound, Benotan still hesitated. He can’t actually believe that I have the power to curse the obidhala…can he?

  Restless, some in the crowd began to mutter, until one man raised a shout. It was soon echoed by others, “Padrok le’obidhala!”

  His face expressionless, Samar turned to Jesse and the Sheik. “They ask that the obidhala be brought out and presented to them.”

  The Sheik seemed to consider this, although he still looked confused. Jesse held his breath as Benotan whispered something in his ear.

  The Sheik nodded, then made a proclamation in Da’armon that made the people cheer. “For my people, I will do this,” Samar translated. “I shall not be made a mockery by this Amarian pretender.”

  He clapped his hands, and the two guards at the hall door crossed over to a door near the throne room. They are going to the storehouse where the treasures are kept, Jesse guessed.

  If Jesse had not been watching carefully, he would not have noticed Rae following. She moved lightly along the back of the room, carrying a basket of grain, as if she were on her way to the kitchen. No one would take any notice of her. She was perfect in her role.

  It was true with all of them, Jesse realized. They each had their own strengths that contributed to the success of the mission, and they had already saved each others’ lives many times. Parvel had been right—they could not have done this alone. They needed each other.

  Everyone else was staring at him, and Jesse felt oddly like a juggler who, once onstage, has no act to perform. He settled for crossing his arms and trying to look intimidating. All I can do is wait.

  Samar’s plan had been simple. Rae must find out where the obidhala was kept, take note of its surroundings, and report back to them. It was a classic trick used by pickpockets: force the victim to unknowingly reveal the hiding place of a valuable.

  Once the people saw that the obidhala had not turned to stone, Jesse would be jeered at and laughed out of the palace, but they would have the information they needed to decide what to do next.

  The plan did not involve someone bursting into the throne room, shouting in Da’armon.

  Jesse turned around to see a man standing in the doorway, wearing the dark blue uniform of the Patrol with the black cape of a captain. His skin was dark, and his square jaw was stiff in a scowl. The two guards stood behind him, although they were partially blocked from view by the captain’s large frame.

  “Demetri,” Samar muttered. His voice sounded slightly panicked.

  For a moment, the man just stood there, breathing hard. He glanced at Jesse, then Silas, and nodded, a look of triumph on his face.

  Then he grabbed someone from behind the guards and pulled her into the room.

  Jesse froze. It was Rae, her white headdress ripped aside and her eyes defiant.

  The captain held her wrist high into the air and shouted something in Da’armon. Then he looked straight at Jesse. “This girl is with the sorcerer! She tried to steal the obidhala!”

  Shouts of outrage were already erupting from the crowd. This time, at least the Sheik had an easy decision to make. He shook his fist at his remaining guards and called out an order.

  The captain, Demetri, never looked away from Jesse. The man was smiling—smiling!—as he roughly shoved Rae to the guard in the doorway. “Take them to the dungeons. By order of the Sheik.”

  Chapter 15

  After five hours in his dungeon cell, Jesse had memorized every detail of it: every brick, every crack, every stain.

  Not that there was much to memorize. The cell would take four steps to cross in any direction. Of course, Jesse was not permitted to cross the cell. He was chained firmly to the wall by his hands and his ankles. The guard who had locked the chains had enjoyed laughing at Jesse’s crippled left leg, even kicking it once. Jesse had responded by muttering a fake curse at him. The guard left him alone after that.

  Near the wall where he was chained was a pot of dirty water that he assumed was used for drinking. There were two locks on the door, one near the top and another near the floor. A scorpion, dead for an indefinite amount of time, lay in the corner.

  That’s one good thing about a dungeon with no windows, Jesse thought. None of those horrible katharas can reach it here.

  They had taken the golden kalthara off of his staff. Some jailer will probably give the trinket to his wife tonight, Jesse thought wryly. He had been allowed to keep the walking stick. From the looks on the guards’ faces, he assumed this was because of his reputation for sorcery. But what good will my walking stick do when I’m chained in a dungeon?

  A rattling of keys down the hallway told Jesse the hourly inspection had come again. That was how he was able to keep time in the prison. Each hour, a guard would check to make sure he was still there, still chained, and still miserable.

  Sure enough, a figure in black came into view through the thick steel bars of the cell. The prison guards, as far as Jesse could tell, were the only Da’armons forced to wear dark clothing in the desert heat. Maybe that’s why they all seem to be so ill-tempered.

  This one was no different. He unlocked the door to the cell, muttering under his breath, probably about all the trouble he had to go to for a foreigner.

  Then he stepped closer. Interesting. The others acted as if they were trained to keep their distance, in case a prisoner got close enough to somehow steal their weapon.

  Of course, Jesse had no such plans. He could hardly move his arms away from the brick wall.

  The guard looked behind him quickly, then took another step toward Jesse. “I have a message for you,” the guard said, in heavily accented Amarian. “From the one who has no fear.”

  Samar. Jesse concentrated on every word the guard spoke, knowing it would not be repeated.

  “He says, ‘I have friends in high places. Fear not the vultures. Run to me when the time is right.’”

  “That’s all?”

  But the guard was already stomping away, making a show of locking the door loudly and deliberately. He marched back down the hall, leaving Jesse alone with his thoughts.

  Samar must have a plan to get us out of here. But what? Jesse thought again of the words of the message. ‘Friends in high places.’ That must be the guard. But what vultures? And how will I know when the time is right?

  Those questions, at least for the moment, had no answer, so Jesse pushed them away. He also refused to think of his parents, or Parvel, or Parvel’s God, or what would happen to him, or a thousand other unpleasant subjects that crowded his mind, demanding attention. He just stood in silence and stared at the wall like he had for hours on end.

  Once, he had heard a traveler at the inn tell of the prison at Terenid, the capital of Amarias. The huge stone tower was crammed with people, all sleeping on the same rancid straw, fighting each other for the scraps of food that would be thrown to them every now and then.

  This was altogether different. Jesse knew there would be no one to talk to or argue with, no one to discuss what might happen next, no one to help him if he got sick or cry for him if he was taken away to be executed. The Da’armons must understand the power of loneliness far better than we Amarians do.

  Just when Jesse had realized he needed Rae and Silas, they were taken away from him. If you are there, God, if you really do exist, then show yourself! Do something! He threw the prayer up to the brick ceiling like he would throw a stone at a vicious dog.

&nbs
p; There was no answer.

  Time seemed to crawl by, so Jesse was surprised to hear more footsteps in the dungeon hall. Surely another hour couldn’t have passed already.

  This time, though, there were three men: two guards, and the captain who had caught Rae, the one Samar had called Captain Demetri. Jesse refused to look at him and studied the floor instead.

  “Yasim’et,” Captain Demetri ordered. “Leave us.”

  The guards did not seem to appreciate this order, and they argued with the captain for a while. After a few harsh words, the captain seemed to have won, because Jesse heard two pairs of retreating footsteps.

  Neither Jesse nor Captain Demetri said a word. Finally, Jesse couldn’t stand it any longer. He lifted his head to face the man.

  Apparently that was enough of a show of weakness for Captain Demetri to speak. “They say you have no Guard tattoo on your shoulder,” he said.

  Jesse said nothing.

  “Tell me,” Captain Demetri said, “why were there only two Guard members in your party?”

  Again, Jesse said nothing.

  “The other two told their stories. I must see if your answer matches,” Captain Demetri said in a weary tone.

  That surprised Jesse, and it must have shown on his face, because Captain Demetri explained, “Each one was most helpful when I threatened to kill the other two members of the group. You will do the same. If you do not give us this information willingly, we will torture the others to make sure they are telling the truth.”

  “One member of the squad died in training,” Jesse said flatly. “Another is sick with poison back at the village of Mir.”

  “Very good,” Captain Demetri said, apparently satisfied. “I don’t know how you got mixed in with those two, but my orders were for them and any with them.”

  “What orders?” Jesse demanded.

  Captain Demetri ignored him. “Your friend, the translator, will go free. He is partly of the Da’armon people and claims that he knew nothing of your scheme.”