by Tia Reed
“Is something wrong, my dear?” the Shah asked.
In disbelief, not denial, she shook her head. “It is a perfect match to one I had in Terlaan.” She looked up at him. His smile had been replaced with shrewd appraisal. “How did you come by it?” she blurted.
“It belonged to my first wife.” His words rang hollow.
She took a deep breath. “I thank you, but I could not possibly borrow such a sentimental item. Besides,” she forced a smile, “it was my choice to forsake the veil that sparked my desire to come here. It would be hypocritical of me to don one now.”
“Your bravery is commendable,” Ordosteen said, as he replaced the garment in the drawer. He locked it, she noticed. It was hers; she was sure of it. Days had passed since she had thought of the wicked djinn; of what he had truly exacted from her; what he might have to gain by delivering her veil to Shah Ordosteen of Myklaan, for it could have arrived in his hands by no other means. And now she had confirmed it was hers before she understood the consequences of doing so.
Ordosteen was saying something. She managed a wan smile to cover her lapse. Vae’oenka was kind to see a knock at the door alleviated the need for an answer.
“Enter,” Ordosteen said.
In the same garb as yesterday, his body tense with rage, the Master Magus entered and bowed.
“Drucilamere? What has happened?” Ordosteen asked.
Kordahla rose. Raised at court, she was well aware protocol dictated she take her leave.
“Forgive my lack of control, Your Majesty. This could not wait,” the tall mage said. In his mood, he dominated the room. “One of our apprentices has murdered the other, and fled with our entire stock of porrin.” He trailed off as he caught sight of her, his lips tightening under his wide moustache.
Kordahla curtsied and hurried for the door. The Master Magus permitted her passage by stepping in front of one of the shelves on either side of the hearth. She could not help notice, as she approached, the title on one of the books in cosy disarray among artefacts so diverse they must have been gathered from across the known world: Tales of the Djinn: Duplicity and Deception. Her step faltered.
“A moment, Princess,” Ordosteen said before she had reached the mage. She turned. The Shah, though furrows perturbed his brow, remained thoughtful. “This concerns you, however indirectly.”
“Your Majesty, there are matters best discussed in private.”
“Then leave them for now. What of the crystals Princess Kordahla brought? Are they safe?”
“They are still in my possession,” the mage said. He lifted the quartz out through his green v-necked kurta and retrieved the crystal from a pocket.
“What magic can the mages work at present?”
The door opened again and Matisse sauntered in, followed by the proper Captain deq Lungo, looking leaner than she remembered now he was clean and dressed in the emerald tabard and black cloak of his office.
Drucilamere, with a glance at her, answered, “Absolutely none.”
All eyes turned to the heir to the throne. His unruffable demeanour quickened both Kordahla’s pulse and breath. Matisse ignored everyone else to cross the room and kiss her hand. The token gesture stole any words of greeting she may have had.
“I have just heard of the misfortune of the mages. My condolences,” Matisse said to the mage, turning his back on her. She swallowed, unsure if his disregard, so close on the heels of his intimacy, hurt or calmed.
“Where is Jordayne?” Ordosteen asked.
“In private,” Drucilamere said through gritted teeth.
“Your disapproval is hardly call to hide the truth,” the lady in question said as the door opened yet again. Her gaze swept over the occupants. Unconcerned by Kordahla’s presence she continued. “Our Master Magus condemns my efforts to secure magical protection for our realm.”
The mage rounded on her, grief now defined beneath his rage. “You barter with that which belongs to the Vae.”
Tales of the Djinn fell over. Its thump cut off Jordayne’s reply.
“What have you done this time?” Ordosteen asked with a wary weariness. His hands came to rest on the back of an armchair which, judging from the depression in its padding, was clearly his seat of choice.
Magus and Lady faced each other, the one looking down with stern condemnation, the other with her arms crossed stubbornly under her bust. After three heartbeats, it was the mage who answered. “She has trapped the soul of my apprentice. She has created a soulous.”
A long way into the shocked silence that ensued, Kordahla said, “Perhaps I should await my friends in my room.” She pulled up her skirts, determined to leave before everyone had lost their wits entirely. This chaos was not what she had envisioned ruled Myklaan. The presumption much of it was her fault, however irrational, was beginning to niggle.
Matisse caught her by the shoulders. Her eyes betrayed her, widening at his proximity. Vae’oenka help her but she could only gaze into his, so blue, so tantalising. “They are still at the Hospice, Kordahla.” His minty breath was warm on her face.
Amid this confusion, the touch of another was comforting. As immoral as it was, she did not want him to let her go. Nor was he in a hurry to release her. His hands remained on her as Jordayne and Drucilamere continued their argument.
“This thing can truly be done?” Ordosteen asked. His hands were very tight on the back of the chair.
“It is dark magic. It draws on the souls of the vulnerable, preventing them from reaching the Vae in death,” Drucilamere said, glaring at Jordayne.
“In present circumstances, it is the only recourse left to us,” Jordayne said, rearranging the outermost layer of her sheer skirts. The bangles on her arms slid down and tinkled against each other as she did.
“It is another of your power plays.”
Her head snapped up. “Do not presume to tell me how to run this realm.”
Shah Ordosteen removed his hands from the chair and straightened. “The last I checked, I was the one running this realm, so you will both kindly shut up and listen to me,” he said without raising his voice. With a final glare at each other, Jordayne and Drucilamere turned to hear their Shah. Matisse rubbed her arm, and then dropped his hands so she too could face Ordosteen. She was acutely aware of how warm her skin was where his hands had lain. How close behind her he was standing. How bare her elbows were in the presence of a man.
“Everyone in this room is aware Myklaan is under very real threat. For now, we will all do whatever is in our power to secure its borders. Lady Jordayne is more than capable of assessing the risks of certain…endeavours. Whether those risks prove acceptable is something the Crown will decide later. Until then, it seems the mages require more porrin, not least so that the more distasteful elements of their profession need not be brought into play. I am willing to hear suggestions as to how the drug might be secured.”
“Uncle, porrin is in abundance among the artists and artisans of our city, not to mention the increasing supply to those who can ill afford it,” Matisse pointed out.
“Are you suggesting we confiscate it? From the homes of our well-to-do?”
Matisse shrugged. “Have you a better idea?”
“Certainly not one which will provide you with as much fun,” Jordayne said.
“We will have a riot on our hands,” Ordosteen said.
“Either that or a massacre because our mages cannot counter the mahktashaan in a war,” Matisse said.
“Very well,” said Ordosteen, though he appeared less than pleased with the decision. “I will draft a decree, effective immediately. But see that the influential among our citizens are aware of the need for this action. And Matisse, try to keep things civil.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Matisse said, one hand on the pommel of his sword and grinning from ear to ear.
“The hospice has need of porrin,” Jordayne said. “You cannot seize its supply. And if the addicted are denied their dose, it will overflow with those in withdrawal.�
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“Then see the hospice has an adequate amount, and have all available physics take turns at duty there. Tell them they will be rewarded for their service, of course. Now, is that all?”
“There is one more matter,” Captain deq Lungo said.
Without making a sound, the Shah’s body appeared to sigh. “Yes, Captain?”
“I’m afraid the Akerin girl went missing from the hospice early this morning. Dario deq Pitran gave chase. He sighted her at the edge of Faradil Forest, but was unable to prevent her entering.”
Kordahla’s hand flew to her mouth.
“I take it this is the girl who is marked for a soothsayer?” Drucilamere said. He might have taken the information from either her mind or Lady Jordayne’s mouth.
“It is,” deq Lungo said, with a sidelong look at her.
“Is there a soldier who will volunteer to enter Faradil?” Ordosteen asked with an emotion akin to regret.
The hardened soldier’s straight back went a little crooked. “If it please Your Majesty, I will go.”
“It does not please me. I need you at the border.”
Edard deq Lungo squirmed. Recalling the strange pull of the forest, Kordahla sympathised. “I cannot ask a man to do what I would not.”
“I cannot spare you, Captain. You must oversee a change of the guard at the Mykter Pass. Nobody who has heard the ghost of a rumour about our guests is to remain on duty there.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” deq Lungo said with a bow.
“Sian needs help,” Kordahla said. After all they had been through, she could not abandon the girl.
“I will go after her,” the mage said.
“Without porrin?” Jordayne asked. “Are you mad?”
“I am still a trained mage, whether I am under the bliss or not.”
“We cannot risk you, not with a war threatening.”
“Now who presumes to tell whom his business.”
“Leave your lover’s quarrel for the bedroom. The girl is a guest of this realm and not an unimportant personage among her people, I gather,” Ordosteen said. Kordahla did not disillusion him. “Even so, Drucilamere, Jordayne is right. If we cannot spare the Captain, we can spare you less. You do not have permission to seek her out. Is there another you could send?”
“Perhaps, but let me scry her at the forest’s edge, so I may set him on the right path.”
“That is acceptable. But do not put yourself at undue risk,” Ordosteen said.
“Let me come with you,” Kordahla said, unsure why she was offering.
“It is best you don’t,” the mage replied.
“I feel responsible for her.”
“You will be a hindrance to me at best, and a danger to the girl at worst,” he explained, though his voice was nowhere near harsh. She was, in truth, glad of it.
“Leave the magical to the mage. If you wish to take your mind off matters, you may accompany me,” Matisse offered, holding out his hand.
“On a raid?” she asked, confused. Witnessing the beheading of addicts was not the distraction she craved.
He winked at her. “Of sorts.”
Seeking reassurance, she looked to Jordayne. “It will be fun,” the lady said. “A chance for you to see something of our fair city. And perhaps with you there, my brother might keep his sword in its sheath.”
“You never know. In the right house, I might have found the perfect reason to unsheathe it,” Matisse said with a wicked grin.
Jordayne answered with an enigmatic smile of her own.
Kordahla felt compelled to take Matisse’s hand. She could not help feeling she was missing something.
“By the djinn, it is Tiarasae, Queen of the Genies, herself,” the svelte artist proclaimed, palette and brush in hand as Kordahla followed Matisse into a bright, open studio on the ground floor of a mansion. It took a moment to register he was talking about her. When she did, the blush came unbidden. Tongue-tied, she could only stare as he made an effusive bow.
“You may worship from afar, Naldo,” Matisse said.
“Will you not introduce me?” the artist asked. His face was narrow and angular, with sharp features which hinted at intelligence behind his ebullient manner. Much to her alarm, he dropped the palette onto the plain tiles, clasped his hands over his heart and fell to his knees before her. His strange turban, floppy-topped and cropped so the ends of his hair were visible, slid lower on his head. The cut of the head garment precluded modesty and could only have been a statement to southern fashion.
“As this is not a social call, Tiarasae will do just fine. Now get up before I am forced to defend the Lady’s honour.”
“A kiss, a single chaste kiss,” the artist begged. He removed his turban from his russet hair, clasping it tight in his hands.
Ready to flee outside, she gave Matisse a beseeching look. He laughed.
“Oblige him, Kordahla. Then he will be yours to command. He might even hand over his porrin without a fight.”
“What!” Naldo cried, leaping to his feet.
Kordahla let out a sigh of relief, and moved closer to the impassive Captain deq Lungo.
“By decree of the Shah,” Matisse said, flipping through a stack of half-finished canvases. “There’s trouble along the border and the mages need a steady supply.”
“You cannot be serious. My work, my art,” – Naldo waved a hand at the canvases – “they will suffer without the caress of the bliss.”
“Then find your inspiration in suffering.”
The short, slender artiste threw his hands into the air. “It is an affront. It is an outrage.” He indicated the splatters of paint over the tiles. “Do you not see how hard I toil?” You cannot demand this of an artiste.”
“I will fight you if I must,” Matisse said drawing his sword.
“Huh. Well you must,” Naldo declared. He extended his arm, realised all he held was a flimsy paintbrush, and threw it and his turban past the columns, out of the open side of the room and into the untamed garden which formed the inspiration for a number of pieces of his work. “A sword. Fetch me a sword,” he called. As soon as a servant delivered one, the pair began sparring across the room. Matisse forced Naldo against a table with pots of unmixed paint. Naldo twisted away and pressed Matisse to the columns. “‘Will dissent’s heated sway, our summer friendship wither in the height of bloom,’” the artist read from the lines of classic poems carved on the section of wall between the corbels and low vault.
Biting her lip, Kordahla retreated to a corner. “Will you not do something?” she asked deq Lungo. He had come to stand by her, polite enquiry in his eyes.
“Do not fret. They are the best of friends. This is their idea of a bit of fun.”
“Then,” she said, “no one will get hurt? Matisse won’t behead him for defiance?”
It was deq Lungo’s turn to smile at her, though it contained measured reassurance and not the unsettling amusement Matisse seemed to find at her expense. “I doubt either of them wants to die today. The only place we are likely to encounter real resistance is on the streets of the slums, and my lord is not about to take you there.”
Their blades clashed above their heads, swung around and met at the level of their knees.
“Matisse has a sword plainer than Naldo’s. Is he so very modest?” The idea sat at odds with everything she had seen of the heir to the Myklaani throne.
Deq Lungo deepened his smile. “Far from it. His sword disappeared during a fight. There was magic at play, probably a djinn, though no one can fathom the why of it. The smith is still forging another worthy of the heir.”
The tale was intriguing but further inquiry was forestalled.
“A trick. It was a trick,” Naldo declared as the sword went flying out of his hand. It clattered on the tiles and spun to a disproportioned self-portrait set against a column, knocking it face down.
“Do you admit defeat?”
The artist hung his head. “Alas, I have no choice.”
“T
hen fetch your porrin. All of it,” Matisse said, returning his sword to his belt.
The artist turned to her. “Will the fair Tiarasae not bestow upon the conquered the consolation of a kiss?”
“I rather think that the prerogative of the victor,” Matisse said, striding forward. He picked up her hand and pressed it to his lips, looking at her all the while. Her cheeks had become hot again, as hot as his breath on her fingers. Too flustered to speak, she realised she had offered no resistance. She made a tiny movement, and Matisse dropped her hand.
“Despite his vagrancies, Naldo is a passable artist. Would you care to view more of his work?”
Unable to do anything else, Kordahla nodded. Matisse offered her his arm and she took it.
“Who are you calling passable, you ignoramus?” Naldo called from the next room. “I am pure genius.”
Matisse laughed as they entered an internal room. Naldo’s work was lined along the frescoed wall, the female form his most common subject. The half-naked female form, she noted with growing alarm. She tried to look away, only to find her eyes had alighted on a couple engaged in an illicit embrace.
“Well,” said Matisse. “He has outdone himself this time.”
Not knowing where else to look, she deciphered the pattern of the tiles on the floor. Strange emotions were stirring in her. Vae’oenka denounce her for a harlot, but she wanted another peak. She stole a glance and wished she had not, because now she was wondering what it would be like if someone touched her that way. If Matisse held her so close. And, dear goddess, he was looking at her like he craved to do just that.
“Your beauty would put them all to shame,” Naldo said, returning with packets of the drug. “I beg you to honour me with a sitting.”
“Not even you would do my Tiarasae justice,” Matisse said, taking her arm and leading her from the room. “Where’s the rest?”
“That is all there is, my dear Matisse.”
“Would you trade a kiss from Tiarasae for it?”
Naldo sighed and beckoned a servant in. The lad counted packet after packet into a sack a palace guard held.