Dark Djinn (The Darkness of Djinn Book 1)

by Tia Reed

  “Eh, everything is to your satisfaction, I presume,” the satrap said, attempting to turn him around.

  “Indeed. I wish to discuss a lightening of your tithe to the Crown to enable some restoration of this city. May I accompany you to your chambers as we talk?”

  So the bewildered satrap, who was surely beyond rational if he remained ignorant of how Rochelle employed her talents, found himself installed behind his own doors as Matisse traversed the final cubits to his rendezvous.

  The room was easy to locate. It was bound to be the one furthest from his own. A door left ajar, a wedge of light shining through, was clear invitation. Matisse stepped inside, closed the door and beheld his uncle’s fair mistress as she reclined on a bed made with silk sheets and strewn with jasmine flowers. Her nightgown was arranged with seductive allure to reveal every contour of her feminine shape. Superb though they were, the gilded corbels and filigree walls paled in comparison.

  “I hoped you would come,” Rochelle said. “Nights have been so dreary since I returned home.”

  Matisse removed his housecoat. “Does my uncle mean so little to you?”

  “On the contrary. I hold him in great regard. You may recall it was he who discarded me.”

  “You put up little resistance.”

  “I am not willing to die for him. At least, not in a fruitless cause.”

  He unwrapped his kamarband, went to the bed and looked down at her. Her moonlight-pale hair fanned out over the pillow. “You move readily to another.”

  She sat up, took a fistful of his kurta and pulled him to her. “Do you object?” she asked when their lips parted.

  His answer was to slip his kurta over his head and climb onto the bed. Their lips met again as their hands tugged at each other’s clothing, diving inside to release their secret pleasures.

  “And what of you, my Lord,” Rochelle said when he moved his lips down her neck and onto her breasts. “Do you not find my beauty faded compared to the young courtiers you usually pluck from their sleep?

  “You yet glow, Rochelle. And I’ll wager your talents are unsurpassed.”

  “What?” she asked, her teasing brushes turning to firm gropes, “What will you wager?”

  Matisse had no spare breath to answer her as he discovered one of the reasons Rochelle had shared Ordosteen’s bed for so long. After, they lay on the sheets side by side, spent, sated, silent.

  “Come back to Kaijoor with me, Rochelle,” Matisse said at last. He shivered. The night had, despite the season, grown cold. He rubbed a tickle on his shoulder, smearing blood where she had scratched him. Rochelle’s exaggerated sympathy as she dabbed with her kerchief made him laugh.

  She dropped the kerchief onto the floor and turned onto her side. “I do not wish to cause Ordosteen pain.”

  “He has suggested I keep a mistress or three at the palace. I do not think he will be displeased if it is you.” He turned his head to look at her. This remarkable, talented woman would do more than keep him at the palace nights. She would have him running to it. Ordosteen could not object to that.

  “So I must pass from the Shah to his heir.”

  “The heir will be Shah in his turn.”

  The way she twirled the hair on his chest was pleasing. The way she ran a finger over his lips, and whispered at his cheek, stirred his blood. “And will this shah be wise? What will he barter with? What will he barter for, I wonder?”

  He kissed her, rolled to face her, and stroked her breast. “I will make no deals with a djinn.”

  “No? Does every man not have his price?” Her hands were exploring him again. His own moved down to the small of her back. The goosebumps erupting over him promised an exquisite night.

  “The cursed djinn are likely to demand my night-time pleasures. It would not become a shah to relinquish these.”

  She chuckled. “Nor would it be seemly for the future shah to remain cold.” Her hands moved to all the tender places with expert grace, her lips were at his again, and he was regaining his desire faster than he ever had before. He rolled on top of her, working his lips over her.

  “Come back to the palace with me.”

  “How else will you experience everything I have to offer?” she said, making sure he could talk no more.

  * * *

  The next, sweaty day unfolded in a predictable ride along the babbling river, learning and reciting mahktashaan lore. Come evening, Vinsant had his sword out before Levi could order him to do so. An hour’s swordplay on the uneven, rocky bank, and Vinsant was ready to wolf down his meal. This time reverent, mud-hut dwelling villagers pressed them with trout, fruit and bread, beating a respectful withdrawal as soon as they laid the victuals at Levi’s feet. Vinsant relished every bite, speculating on what magic Levi might teach him when the moons rose. An extension of yesterday’s failure, no doubt.

  Instead, Levi bid him summon an onyx-handled dagger from his hand. Now this, Vinsant thought, slapping at a biting mosquito, was super useful. Mega difficult too. Empty-handed, he picked up a stone and skipped it across the river. It bounced five times before plopping down.

  “A lay person who wishes to keep hold of their object will not relinquish it easily, even to magic. Other magicians will not let you steal their possessions without a fight. Now concentrate. I am barely keeping a grip on my dagger.”

  Vinsant sighed, and dragged himself around. The mosquitoes buzzing around his neck in the still, hot dusk did not make concentrating easy, but if it took him all night, he would get that dagger, if only to show Levi he could. All he needed was a memory of Mahktos to kindle the soft glow in his quartz.

  “I did it. I did it,” he cried raising the blade into the air. It was back in the Majoria’s hand before he could gloat further.

  “Do it again,” came the expected reply.

  And again and again, of course. He yawned. The trick was becoming easy-as, despite Levi’s firmer grip. One day, he would be a great hero, plucking swords from the hands of any who dared to challenge him. He would wield a golden-hilted Myklaani sword of the finest workmanship, the Terlaani royal emblem emblazoned above the mahktashaan Majoria one. He pictured the smith etching the symbols of his office in place of the Myklaani royal crest. A prowling leopard in front of a sun instead of two facing bears beneath a great oak. He waved his hand to summon Levi’s weapon. Lifted it in triumph. Gawked. Levi was still grasping his dagger.

  Vinsant looked at the blade in his hand. It was a sword. A heavy Myklaani sword with a golden hilt. With the Myklaani royal crest etched on it. With fresh blood dripping from the blade.

  Vinsant dropped the sword and backed away.

  “What have you done?” Levi asked. The Majoria’s hands had curled into fists.

  “I…I was trying…” he said and stopped because he had no idea what he had been trying.

  Levi strode forward, driving him back. “Your distraction may have cost the wielder his life.”

  Vinsant gulped as he tottered on a boulder at the edge of the water. He could not take his eyes off the bloody blade. “Can you return it?”

  “From where did you summon it?”

  Vinsant shook his head. He had no idea.

  “Then the owner must fend for himself.”

  Without another word, Levi levitated himself in preparation for sleep. Vinsant sat on the boulder. It was a long time before he found the courage to pick up the sword and clean it. For the time being, it was in his care. After all, stolen objects had to be returned to their rightful owners. He was a model apprentice, and had learned that lesson well. So not even Levi could deny he now had a legitimate excuse to travel to Myklaan.

  * * *

  The Crooked Bow looked every bit as unreliable as its namesake. The tavern’s lopsided sign swung on a single chain, its wooden planks had warped and, despite the din raised inside, little light spilled from the interior into the narrow alley. It was not hard to conclude they had reached the right place.

  Matisse sent four of his men to cover th
e back door of what was undoubtedly Zulmei’s seediest establishment. Swinging open the door, he stepped inside to the reek of sour ale and unwashed bodies, and was greeted by immediate hush. Uniformed guards tended to have that effect on the unsavoury, most especially when half bore the palace crest upon their emerald green cloaks and tabards.

  “Hai!” a burly man with a great ale gut protruding out of a soiled kurta greeted. “Our quality ain’t for the likes of you. The Sour Leaf is where you lot’d best go.”

  The men, his and the satrap’s, spread around the walls, blotting the weak light of the dribbling candles. The iron sconces the melting stumps squashed into sat at intervals guaranteed to preserve shadowy corners. Matisse ambled past tables cobbled together with rough-cut, ill-fitting planks, straight to the grimy bar separating the drinking room from the kitchen. Resting against the counter he beckoned the burly taverner with his index finger. The fat man wiped his hands on his soiled kurta and leaned across. His flabby arms had once been muscle, and were tattooed with the feather-throated schkaan.

  “A tankard of your finest,” Matisse said, depositing two lek on the counter.

  A wary eye on him, the taverner poured a cloudy brew into a mug smudged with fingerprints and slid it over. Matisse took a gulp and spat it out. Horse piss could taste no worse.

  “Who is trying to poison me?” he asked.

  Wobbly chairs scraped across the floor as three patrons decided an exit was in order. His soldiers had swords drawn and the entrance barred before they had left their table.

  “Who is the owner of this establishment?” Matisse upended the tankard so the ale sloshed on the floor. The silence turned ominous. Matisse set the vessel on the counter, and drew his sword. “I asked a question. Two in fact.”

  Chairs flew back as patrons drew knives and swords while others bolted for the door. The street fighters lacked skill but they greatly outnumbered the soldiers. As chairs cracked onto heads and tankards flew at faces, his men found themselves dodging blows more than parrying, fending off missiles rather than thrusting their swords. One of his men cried out as a knife lodged in his arm. Two more soldiers grabbed the culprit and threw him to the ground. The injured guard placed a foot on the riffraff’s chest and pointed his sword at his neck. The three of them ducked as a chair sailed their way. It flew over their heads and crashed into the counter.

  A robust sailor grabbed a stool and rushed at Matisse, cussing palace scum. Matisse jabbed the sword into his belly, sidestepping the blow the sailor intended to deliver on his head. The stool instead smashed upon the counter. The man’s eyes opened wide in surprise as he sank down to the floor, his hands clutching his bloodied stomach. Matisse withdrew his sword and wheeled. Three of the man’s mates were running at him, knives poised. Trapped between the counter and the dying man, he raised his sword. The scrawniest fellow threw his knife. Matisse struck up with his sword, deflecting the knife from his heart. Following the swing around, he changed grip in mid-air and cleaved the second fellow’s hand off. The third he kicked as the maddened man lunged for him. Twisting, Matisse only just managed to avoid being sliced. As the man overbalanced and toppled against the counter, a soldier rammed a sword into the attacker’s back. He too collapsed.

  These mercenaries had to be insane. By now, any rational fighter would have realised the quality of the competition and withdrawn. But two more men were rushing their way. Side by side, grinning, Matisse and his lieutenant prepared to face them. Swords raised, they put their head together and sang the last line of a victory song. At which point something beyond Matisse’s experience as a man, soldier and royal personage occurred. Something so unbelievable it stopped the four men dead in their tracks. His sword disappeared out of his hand. Just like that.

  Two blinks and the mercenaries resumed their dash. Matisse cursed as his companion prepared to defend his lord. As the soldier engaged one man, Matisse leapt onto the counter to avoid the oncoming blade of the second.

  “Teryl,” he called to his closest man, who was fencing with a chair.

  The man worked his opponent round, saw the heir unprotected and threw his sword. That moment of pause gave Teryl’s opponent opportunity to smash the chair over his head. Dazed, Teryl collapsed. Unfortunately, his sword fell well short of Matisse. Seeing the leader undefended, Teryl’s assailant lost interest in the unconscious man and made straight for Matisse. Cursing every inch of the anatomy of the djinn, Matisse jumped over a slash at his ankles, then dropped behind the bar. By some savage twist of fate, his companion appeared evenly matched for his attacker. No help would be forthcoming for critical moments. With two swordsmen now aiming for him, luck seemed to have fled. Matisse crawled the length of the bar as his first attacker rolled over the counter. With a precision borne of years of sparring with friends, Matisse reached up, grabbed a half-full tankard of ale, threw it at him, and hoisted himself onto the counter as the man landed. Skipping over another slash, Matisse leapt onto his shoulders, toppling him over and avoiding a stab from Teryl’s assailant, who had appeared at the end of the bar sporting a nasty smirk. He jumped onto the fallen man’s sword arm, pinning it beneath him. Matisse punched the man, stomped on his hand, and plucked the sword from his grasp. As the man tried to rise, Matisse delivered a fatal blow between the ribs. He whirled to face the other man, whose astonishment Matisse had managed to arm himself settled to a determined frown. Sword held in challenge, the mercenary strode forward.

  “I grow tired of this sport. Lay down your weapon,” Matisse said.

  “Submit to a tired dandy? I can’t think of easier prey,” the man replied.

  “Not quite what I meant,” Matisse replied, parrying a crude slash without effort. He allowed the man a few more strikes before taking the sword into a series of lightning-quick thrusts that forced his assailant back. As the man moved past the end of the bar, Matisse leapt onto it, hopped over the inevitable low slash and struck down onto the man’s neck.

  “I meant the lack of adequate competition was rather beginning to bore,” he said as the mercenary crumpled to the floor.

  From his vantage point, Matisse looked around. The action seemed to be dying. The rabble were cowering in the centre of the room, ringed by restless soldiers who were either tossing the final stubborn dissenters into their midst or threatening prisoners who so much as eyed the exits.

  “That,” said Matisse, wiping blood from his face and throwing the poorly balanced sword into the fray, “was a cursed expensive sword. Who is responsible for taking it from me?”

  Nobody answered. He jumped down. Striding around the room, he picked up and discarded every common sword in sight. The riff-raff followed his every move but, Vae’oeldin strike the culprit down, there was not a single smug expression in sight.

  “By the hairy butt of a stinking djinn,” Matisse cursed. “I’ll have something to say to Drucilamere about this.” He stomped along the counter and grabbed the taverner, who was sidling towards the back door. For a moment, the hulking man looked set to fling himself on Matisse. The blade at his neck convinced him otherwise.

  “Kneel,” Matisse said. Cussing, the man obeyed. “How many?” Matisse asked his lieutenant as the satrap’s men pushed those still standing to their knees. Around them, the room was a wreck of splintered chairs and overturned tables, injured men and angry soldiers.

  “Six of the lowlifes dead and that howler whose hand you cut off soon to be if he doesn’t shut his trap. Grumps has a knife in his shoulder, Foz and Teryl have slashed arms. Nothing that won’t heal.”

  “Then I thank you for the diversion. There is nothing like a spot of sport before bed,” Matisse said to the taverner, gesturing to the man whose hand he had sliced off. The unfortunate lad was screaming while attempting to stem the flow of blood. Two soldiers restrained him while another bound the stump before dragging him out.

  “Now we can hear ourselves think, I am waiting for my answers. Who owns this establishment?”

  “I do, you stinking palace dog,”
the taverner said.

  “That,” said Matisse as a soldier bound the man’s arms behind his back, “is no way to talk to the heir to the throne.”

  The taverner’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Matisse. Recognition turned to a flash of fear before his face settled into a resentful pout. “I tried to warn yer,” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose you did. But there is still the matter of my second question. To be fair, I shall change it. What name do you go by?”

  “I’m known as Korwin the Stout.”

  “Then it is you my business is with. You could have saved yourself the trouble and expense of this shambles had you only cooperated from the outset.”

  “And deprived you and these lads of some fun, Highness. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Matisse laughed. “Quite right. And for providing that free entertainment, things might not go so ill for you. Tell me. What business have you conducted with a Verdaani called Raj?”

  “Don’t know ‘im,” Korwin said with a shake of his head.

  Matisse sighed. “I am not above a little further sport.” He nodded and the soldier behind Korwin twisted up his arm. The taverner winced. “I would rather not take you back to Kaijoor. The Crown would have to confiscate this valuable piece of property.”

  “Don’t know ‘im, I tell you.”

  Matisse shrugged. “Then you can enjoy the hospitality of Zulmei’s dungeons before we head to Kaijoor.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Footsore and weary after two days traversing the hills at the point of Erok’s spear, Kordahla limped into the Hill Tribe settlement. Heads turned from weapons, knives and cooking pots to stare. In truth, she had seen so few tribespeople in Tarana that their feather talismans and bone tools intrigued her. Refusing to succumb to ill-breeding, she forced her gaze forward. Timak had no qualms looking around, and she was glad for his curiosity. Out of Ahkdul’s clutches, he might heal, though she doubted he would ever be the same boy he had once been.

  “They don’t look like they use porrin,” he whispered to her.