by David Hair
Sabele looked at him measuringly. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that rather depends. Would you know more?’
He looked at her, scarcely able to think. This power she was offering was a dream, a fantasy – but to become a real power in this world, when the times were so perilous, was a Shaitan’s bargain that he surely could not afford to decline.
Ramita will understand, he told himself. I do this to grow stronger, my love, so I may protect you.
‘What must I do?’ he asked.
Ramita was alone in her courtyard. Meiros was away, attending yet another emergency meeting at Domus Costruo, and Alyssa Dulayne had taken Justina to a party. Ramita had been largely alone since that night at Southpoint and already it felt like something that had happened years ago to a different person. Only Huriya was left to her, but she was constantly away in the daytime and consumed with her own appetites at night. Ramita could hear the sounds of passion emanating from Huriya’s room even now. Jos Klein was intoxicated with the Keshi girl, constantly seeking her out. She is my sister, but I hardly know her any more.
She prayed Kazim and Jai were far away, far enough to survive Meiros’ wrath, even if things went badly. She had two glimmers of hope: one, that her children truly were Meiros’, or if they weren’t, that he might forgive her. She rehearsed over and over in her mind how she would beg his forgiveness: her next children would be his, this she would swear; she was so very, very sorry – but she would make it up to him. It sounded pitiful, even in her mind. These were things men did not forgive.
She dined alone on some cheese and bread and a small glass of juice. Olives gave her indigestion this week. Her pregnancy had her appetite rotating in some obscure cycle, so she was never sure what she would be able to eat without having to stagger to the privy. It was the first week of Junesse and the courtyard, a roasting dish during the middle of the day, became bearable only at night. The curfews imposed in the city outside were poorly policed, so the city was noisy after dark, even in their quiet neighbourhood.
Her heart fluttered as a dry voice asked from her doorway, ‘My dear, you are still awake?’ Antonin Meiros grinned boyishly as he hobbled into the room.
She looked up, feeling a smile return to her face for the first time in several days. ‘Husband—’ She went to get up, but he kissed her forehead and settled opposite her.
‘How are you, Ramita?’
‘Well enough. I have some discomfort here,’ she said, lightly touching her belly, ‘but otherwise I am well. Although I miss my husband,’ she scolded lightly.
‘I am sorry, my dear. We are trying to get Salim to meet with us, but Rashid cannot get him to agree.’
She remembered the darkly handsome emir with a shudder. ‘I don’t trust him.’
‘Rashid has his uses.’ Meiros poured himself some fruit juice. ‘His family have been part of the Ordo Costruo from early on; they have much to be grateful to us for. They have remained loyal to the Order through two Crusades. He will be steadfast.’ He looked across the table at her. ‘I did not come to see you about the woes of the world. I came to see your lovely face and to hear your voice. Tell me, is Justina paying you more attention these days?’
‘No – well, a little. She sees me daily, but only to see if I have started to, um, manifest.’ She steeled herself. ‘Husband, is there anything that might prevent this thing happening to me?’
‘No. According to the texts, it has always happened,.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear. I know you were raised to think of the gnosis as evil, but it isn’t; it is just a tool, no more good nor evil than the person wielding it. Your soul is in no danger.’
It was easier to let him think that was what troubled her. She didn’t yet have the courage for the real conversation.
‘So, may I help you to bed?’ he asked, a hint of the lascivious in his words.
She was about to agree when her belly and bowels chose to rebel and she clutched her stomach. ‘The only place I need help to go to is the privy! I am sorry, Antonin.’
He looked up at her, startled. ‘You used my name?’
She realised it herself only then and she put a hand to her mouth, struck mute. She wasn’t precisely sure what this meant, but it felt powerfully significant somehow; he evidently thought so. He tilted her head and kissed her.
‘My Ramita,’ he breathed.
It felt like some part of her had changed: she had accepted her new life and farewelled the old. I am sorry, Kazim, wherever you are. She went to kiss him in return, a kiss of genuine affection, but her body betrayed her. A stomach cramp struck her, making her gasp. ‘Please, I must use the privy,’ she gasped.
Meiros let her go, an almost foolish look on his face. ‘Please, my dear, come to my chambers when you are done, if you feel able. Even if it is just to hold you.’
She nodded, feeling dazed, and staggered into the privy, where she sagged to the ground. Eventually she found the strength to purge herself and crawled out of the foetid little chamber, desiring nothing more than to be clean. There was a small bucket of water left over from the morning.
Huriya should be helping me, she thought irritably. As she washed herself, the cool water began to make her feel better. She found a clean nightdress, then sat in her tiny courtyard for a while, trying to find herself again. Am I falling for my ancient jadugara? she asked herself. Have I forgotten Kazim? Antonin is good to me – better than I deserve.
Who am I to yearn for love anyway? I am a market-girl – we are coins for our parents to exchange; love does not enter the transaction. It is just a lie we tell ourselves to make it bearable.
Love is simple, the songs said; love is certain. It sings inside you. So why was this so complicated? Why all these doubts – why was everything so confusing? Her love for Kazim was simple, but her feelings for Meiros were not. His power and age frightened and repelled, but his gentleness and strength brought comfort. And he needed her, it seemed, not just as a mother for children, but as a companion – as a wife. And in this frightening new world, she realised she needed him too.
She had tried to do the right thing. She had not eloped with Kazim – how could she? Who on Urte could hide from Antonin Meiros? To flee would have been a death sentence for them both. But why had she let Kazim fill her womb? How could she have been so insane? A few moments of bliss, selfishly offered and selfishly taken, had condemned her. There would be a price to pay.
Then I must pay it alone, she decided. If the children are Meiros’, he and I will raise them. If they are Kazim’s, I will plead to be allowed to raise them, in captivity if need be. I will beg to be allowed a second chance, and if my husband denies me that, it will be no one’s fault but mine.
There was a movement at the door, a serving boy who ran messages, one of the children of the kitchen staff. ‘Madam, there is a man at the gate, asking for you. I cannot find Captain Klein, madam.’ He glanced meaningfully at the door to Huriya’s rooms.
It would serve them right if I interrupted them … She sighed and said, ‘I will come,’ rising awkwardly. ‘My husband is abed and the captain is indisposed.’ She clutched her belly, straightened painfully and followed the boy down the stairs.
The courtyard below was silent, and lit by lanterns, little pools of light in the blackness of the darkmoon. The boy with her danced ahead, full of sprightly life. It made her smile to see him and she patted her belly fondly. I would like a boy-child. The lanky young guard Morden was on duty with another man, Franck; both waited before the inner gate, the one protected by Meiros’ wards. Only a family member or Klein could use the carved handles to admit guests after dark. Ramita glanced down at her acid-etched hand and flexed it slightly. Who could it be?
‘The Omali priest is here to see you, madam,’ Morden said, jerking a thumb at the viewing slit. ‘Something about prayers and candles.’ He looked contemptuously amused by it all.
Ramita put her head to the slit and opened it. In the well-lit chamber was a lone man, wrapped in dirty orange robes, his face coated i
n ash, hunched over a walking stick. But she wasn’t fooled for an instant; it was Kazim. She felt her heart slam into her ribs and she clutched her breast.
This is the moment.
She could almost hear Kazim’s thoughts: the hope, the determination, the purpose. The boy who loved her had come to take her away. But now I do not want to go …
She could almost touch his flinty purpose, his determination was as sharp as an arrowhead. It frightened her. Her legs trembled and she almost swooned.
‘Madam, are you all right?’ Morden gripped her forearm. ‘If you are unwell, I can send him away.’
It would be that easy, to make herself non-complicit, to remove herself from the decision. But she owed Kazim more than that. She’d loved him all of her young life. He did not deserve such cowardice.
I must make him go away – he must go – for his own sake he must go!
‘It’s all right,’ she heard herself say, ‘I just had a small turn. I will have a few words with him.’
‘Is it wise, madam?’ Morden wrinkled his nose. ‘There is a curfew.’
‘He’s Omali, Morden,’ she heard herself say. ‘What does he care for shihads? He’s a man of God. See, it is the young chela who has come here before.’ She could hear the shakiness in her voice, and marvelled that he could not. She reached out and twisted the handle that enabled the gate to be opened. The familiar tingle of the wards identifying her made her quiver, then the inner gates creaked and sagged slightly as the powers binding the door loosened, allowing the guards to unbar and open them.
‘Step through,’ Franck told Kazim. ‘Put your staff down and raise your hands.’
‘It will be only a short conversation, then he will go,’ she said firmly, the words meant for Kazim as he stepped through the opened door and put down his staff. He raised his hands.
He’s unarmed. What harm can he do? Why is he here?
Morden stepped closer to search him. Unexpectedly, his eyes flashed with gnosis-light as he passed an open hand in Kazim’s direction. She had vaguely known Morden had mage-blood, but he’d never used his skills in front of her as he did now, examining Kazim carefully.
‘He’s unarmed and his intentions are as stated,’ he told Franck.
The two guards stepped away and she met Kazim’s gaze. Emotion crackled between them. Please, tell me you are here to say goodbye. Please, let it just be that—
Franck patted Kazim for weapons himself and then stepped back. ‘He’s a well-made bastard for a holy man,’ the guard observed grudgingly. ‘Look at the muscle on him.’ He stepped away and glanced at her. ‘We cannot admit him further than this without Captain Klein’s permission,’ he told her.
She shook her head. ‘I do not wish him to be allowed further in any case,’ she said, her eyes not leaving Kazim’s face. See, I reject you – please go!
Kazim stared back at her mutely.
‘Well, chela?’ she asked. Then in Omali she let a little emotion show. ‘Kazim, why are you still here?’
‘I came for you,’ he replied woodenly.
‘My place is here,’ she told him.
No reaction. Nothing.
Something died inside her – and inside him. A light in his eyes flickered out.
He did not reply but instead bent to his feathered staff as if about to take his leave again. She almost collapsed in relief, but as he straightened, she glimpsed steel among the feathers decorating the top of the staff. He whirled with blinding speed, driving it through Morden’s right eye. The young man sagged on the bending shaft of the staff, already dead, but Kazim was still moving; his legs scissored, a kick that broke Franck’s jaw before he could cry out. Franck tried to lift his spear, but Kazim blurred inside his guard, plucked the man’s dagger from his scabbard and slashed it across his throat. He pinned him against the wall and let him slide down it, almost silent. Beside them, Morden had rolled onto his side, his eye-socket still impaled on the spear-staff.
Ramita fell to her knees in shock at the sudden violence. Kazim turned back to her, a splash of blood across his chest from Morden’s death-wound. The child servant beside her backed away, his mouth working towards a scream, but Kazim lunged past her and drove a fist into the boy’s face, snapping his head back. The boy bounced and slid across the stone, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He didn’t move.
She opened her own mouth to scream, but Kazim’s hand stifled her. ‘You will not make a noise,’ he said coldly, as if he were made of stone. He kissed her pitilessly, swallowing her whimpering cries. ‘Open the gates, Ramita.’
No – no! she screamed inside, but Kazim had grabbed her and was leading her firmly to the gates, his left hand clamped over her mouth. He forced her right hand to the handles and as he worked the gates open dark shapes filed through the security pen and joined them: hard-eyed men, hooded in black. There were six of them, counting Kazim: assassins, come to kill her husband.
Please let this be a nightmare, she prayed hopelessly. Please, let me wake—
They moved like shadows, these hollow-eyed killers. One of them turned and looked at her curiously. His face was scarred, she noticed – and then he was bending over the child and straightening the boy’s limbs, no emotion showing.
Gesturing silently to each other, the assassins flowed up the stairs. Kazim’s arms locked tight about her, holding her up, whispering little endearments in praise of her courage and loyalty as if she were a pet animal that must be calmed. ‘Just one more task, my darling, and then we are free of this, free to live and love for ever,’ he told her, his arms like shackles about her. He was more muscular than he had ever been, his voice deeper, and terrifying in its implacable purpose.
They swarmed up to the upper terrace where a single lantern lit Huriya, wrapped only in a bloody sheet. She had a satisfied air about her: the afterglow of sex and death. There was a bloody dagger in her hands. She swayed languidly to Kazim and kissed him, the metallic stink of blood all about her. ‘The big ape is dead,’ she purred. ‘He never saw it coming.’ She giggled. ‘It was better than fucking.’
Ramita felt a great surge of revulsion and the Keshi girl noticed and reached out, stroking Ramita’s cheek with a bloody hand. ‘Oh, Mita, don’t be like that. We’re doing this for you.’
Make this stop, she pleaded silently again, wide-eyed with horror.
‘Have her open the door,’ hissed the scar-faced assassin.
Kazim pulled her against his chest. ‘Ramita darling,’ he whispered, ‘you have to do this one thing: you have to open the inner door. We will do the rest. We can’t get to him without you.’ She could feel his rising excitement, his tension building towards a climax; the impending death of her husband was pounding through his head. His thoughts were so palpable they made her want to scream. Her very soul revolted at the bloody desires she sensed, and her mind began to rebel.
Parvasi, be with me: they make me their tool. Please, great Goddess, give me strength. Darikha, Mother of Passion, lend me your fire! She walled herself off from Kazim’s thoughts, drawing on all that Meiros had shown her of mind-shielding, and drew strength from the silence. Though it might kill her, there was something she could do. A simple plan she could cling to: I will bite his hand, and then I will scream, and my husband will do the rest. She steadied herself and Kazim pushed her towards the security wards while behind her the dark shapes closed in, their weapons poised. Kazim’s hand gripped her shoulders. Scarface laid a blade across her path, mutely warning her that there could be no attempt to step inside the door and shut it. She felt all of their thoughts except for Scarface; he was closed and dark, hard like coal. Their murderous auras made her nauseous, but she could also sense their tension and fear – and now she could even see the glittering walls of pale light that protected the Casa, like webs of light patterning the doors before her.
The realisation hit her like a blow: I am feeling the gnosis – this is the manifestation! And then: These children belong to Antonin! Oh Gods, what can I do—?
> She could feel the waiting, dormant power around her; in the water, in the stone of the building, in the burning lamps. She could feel it in the people about her, overwhelming her with sensation. But she had no idea how to reach it.
‘Just open the door and all will be well,’ Kazim whispered.
Scarface gripped her wrist and a dark gritty presence filled her head, as Alyssa’s had. She stared into his eyes. He is one of the magi!
Kazim could barely sense the other Hadishah positioned about the courtyard, silent as shadows. Rashid and Jamil were among them. He didn’t know the other three; they were only cold eyes through slitted masks. They held crossbows at the ready. Rashid held a scimitar.
Huriya had sashayed to the side, licking her dagger and looking smugly satisfied. My sister has become something frightening, he thought, holding Ramita tight. He could feel her trembling body, sense her inner turmoil. She hadn’t wanted to admit him at the gates. That thought burned him, but he told himself, She’s frightened, that is all. She’ll get over this, once we’re free.
‘Just open the door and all will be well,’ he whispered to her, but Jamil didn’t wait; though he was looking at her curiously, as if she had just surprised him, he took Ramita’s wrist and placed her hand on the security ward.
Her teeth sank into his hand and he recoiled in shock and pain. She screamed something in Rondian and Kazim almost lost his grip. He seized her to him, hard, dragging her away as Jamil whirled and words began to crackle from his mouth.
‘Don’t hurt her!’ Kazim bellowed, shielding Ramita with his own body – then a huge cracking sound shredded the night and the door of Meiros’ quarters blasted open, splintering into a hundred shards of carved wood that flew outwards, impaling the crossbow-wielding assassin in front. The Hadishah was torn apart in a gory spray as he was thrown backwards.