A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1)

by Darrell Drake

  “Thank you for offering,” said Ashtadukht. “We’d be grateful.”

  Waray let out a long, low groan. “Sailing will be the—huc—end times. All the things will flood, the šo-wretched Dourboat will appear with its too-many masts, it’ll part its barnacled lips, and you’ll all wish you had—ehht.”

  • • • • •

  The old fisherman kept his word, and a long line of boat- and horse-hopping along the coast of the Mazandaran Sea was coming to a close.

  Waray disembarked the moment their vessel was a jump away from dry land. She went straight for the nearest patch of dirt and flung herself flat, giving it a genuine hug and taking a great whiff of soil.

  Ashtadukht and Tirdad bade the fisherman well, padded his payment with a few extra coins, and caught up to Waray.

  “I’ll see if there are mounts available,” said Ashtadukht. “We could walk, but I’d rather not tarry until we see what this case is all about. Would you mind handling our provisions, cousin?”

  Tirdad grunted and extended a hand toward the half-div. “And this one?”

  “Let her be. We’ll come back for her when we’re ready to depart.”

  They returned after an hour of haggling to find Waray dozing in the same place they’d left her, arms and legs spread to embrace as much of the ground as possible.

  “The trip hasn’t been good to her,” said Ashtadukht. “I don’t think she got much sleep that wasn’t passing out due to lack of sleep.”

  “She had many opportunities to leave,” Tirdad noted as he knelt beside the snoozing half-div. “But she did not. She is resilient if nothing else.”

  “Or just desperately lonely,” ventured Ashtadukht.

  Tirdad motioned for his cousin to bring the horses and carefully hefted Waray onto hers with only a mumbled “Dourboat” in response.

  Ashtadukht raised an eyebrow. “That was kind of you.”

  “I am not unkind,” Tirdad grumbled as he did what he could to fasten the half-div to her mare.

  “I wasn’t implying anything of the sort,” said Ashtadukht as she hopped onto her horse. “It was a compliment. That’s all. You’ve a big heart, cousin.”

  Tirdad mounted and grabbed hold of the reins to both his and Waray’s steeds. “I must if I am to survive dealing with you and yours,” he quipped, and clucked his horses into a trot toward Mount Damavand, which loomed with a lazy bronze sheen in the early morning sky.

  Ashtadukht allowed herself a faint smile. She meant what she had said, and hoped her sincerity reached him. He had his convictions, his code of conduct, his biases that she didn’t always agree with. But she didn’t need to. His honour and just character meant that he wasn’t too rigid to place his feelings above being a good person. She believed that was what had driven him to volunteer to be her guardian to begin with. And she was grateful for it.

  The cohorts rode throughout the day, stopping once for a brief break and meal. It wasn’t until light began to wane that Amol could be seen in the distance.

  Waray awoke to the feeling of mane being all too friendly with her mouth. She spat and gagged and spat and wiped the drool from her cheek.

  “Šo-insidious hair on a šo-insidious abductor,” she muttered. “An ill wind to be taken by a horse.” She planted one foot on her saddle and promptly leapt off. The same straps that had secured her to the mare nearly pulled Waray under as she jumped. Rather than doing so, they made her tumble considerably less pleasant due to a botched landing.

  Ashtadukht was the first to turn her horse around and rush over. She dismounted and squatted to check for injuries: some bruises, scrapes and a large rip in her tunic, but nothing apparently severe.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  Waray lingered there in the sitting position her roll had ended in.

  Tirdad approached with their mounts, beetle-browed and looking down his nose at them. “What in the seven climes is wrong with her?”

  “She seems fine, if a bit dazed.”

  “She is not fine. She jumped.”

  “You jumped?” asked Ashtadukht incredulously. “Why?”

  Waray swayed somewhere between the grogginess of having just awoken and having just gone for a wild tumble. She forced her eyes wide and scrunched her brow, much like one would do when battling drunkenness. A beastly yawn took purchase in her chest, rose in her throat, then drew her arms and back into a grand stretch as it escaped her lips.

  “Drink,” instructed Ashtadukht, and she shoved a waterskin into the half-div’s chest, more than a little irritated at the supposed leisure with which her question was being addressed.

  Waray did just that. She drank gustily; she drank it all, in fact.

  “The horse,” she tried to explain. “It abducted me. The šo-insidious horse with the šo-insidious mane.” She pointed in exasperation at the vacant saddle as if it were evident and they were blind. “The very fugitive you’re harbouring.” Her vision and mind were starting to focus, and she did not like the scornful expressions the cousins wore.

  “We’ll switch then.” Ashtadukht stood and started toward the mare when Waray stopped her by the arm.

  “No,” pleaded the half-div. “It’s not safe.”

  Ashtadukht took a steadying breath, and an edge crept into her tone. “This mission is important to me. It’s about family. You understand family, don’t you? You’ll either get on that horse or I’ll leave you here.”

  Waray swallowed and tilted her head. She then cringed and reached out as Ashtadukht mounted and left at a trot. “Down,” she muttered. “Down, down, down.”

  “It would do you well to avoid pushing her right now,” said Tirdad. “I will not be arguing in your favour when she gets sick of . . . whatever this is. Tread lightly.” He brought his horse about and started off toward Ashtadukht.

  “Is our troublesome friend coming?” she asked as he pulled up alongside her. “I don’t want to look.”

  Tirdad turned in his saddle. “Well,” he considered, “something like it. She is patting her horse like it is covered in scorpions. Are all divs like this?”

  Ashtadukht shook her head. “I don’t think she can help it. May not even be aware of it at all. I’m just getting more and more stressed the closer we get to Amol. After all—”

  That thought was curtailed by the raucous thunder of a horse approaching at full gallop. The cousins hardly had time to split before Waray barrelled between them and continued onward toward Amol, with no sign of stopping.

  They watched her shrinking form in mutual speechlessness until Tirdad finally broke the hush. “She is a good rider,” he said matter-of-factly.

  The sneer Ashtadukht gave him made it clear she was not amused. She spurred her horse into a gallop, but wasn’t fast enough to prevent Waray from speeding into the city.

  Ashtadukht came to a halt before the guards and quickly fished out her stamp seal. “I’m Ashtadukht of the Eighth House, royal star-reckoner here on official business,” she blazoned, sure to inject a measure of the confidence expected of her. “That rider is a subordinate of mine. She went ahead to handle matters on my behalf.”

  The soldier she’d handed it to casually examined her seal and compared its authenticity to a strip of repurposed leather. “A star-reckoner, huh? Never heard of a female star-reckoner before. Seal matches anyway,” he said at length, after what she thought was more thorough an inspection than he would’ve given any other star-reckoner. “I can summon an escort if you like.”

  “I’ll find my way, thank you.” Ashtadukht gleaned some satisfaction from the way the soldier deflated when Tirdad neared. It reminded her of a predator walking into the midst of scavengers. “This is my guardian.”

  “Oh, uh, yes, of course,” stammered the soldier as he returned her seal and waved them through. “Safe passage in our fine city, friends.”

  Ashtadukht smirked and supposed having a guardian forced on her wasn’t all bad. “Did you see the way he looked at you?” she asked when they were out of ear
shot. “Like a frightened little frog in way over its head.”

  Tirdad chuckled and gave her a jovial pat on the back. “Fret not, cousin. Their respect is a tiny thing.”

  “I wish that were true for everyone,” she remarked. “Would you mind finding Waray? I did just claim responsibility for her. I’ve a feeling I’ll regret it if we leave her unattended. The Supreme Judge was a star-reckoner, so it’s also best if we keep her out of sight.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” said Tirdad. “I will see to it.”

  They parted there, and it didn’t take long for him to find his quarry. She had dismounted to the side of a less-travelled causeway where she sat cross-legged.

  He slipped off his horse and walked it over to her. “You should not have made a spectacle like that,” he censured. “What did you hope to accomplish by charging into the city?”

  Waray chewed her lip. She couldn’t quite place why she had been in such a hurry and it frustrated her. “I . . . don’t remember. It was red and šo-smoldering. But not fire. Good smoldering. Like . . . jam.” She sloughed that irksome thought as if it’d never existed and leaned forward. “Look. I think this one is telling that one that this bread would be better with yogurt. That one disagrees. Married life isn’t what they thought it’d be. It’s her father’s fault, really.”

  Far enough off that they weren’t spooked by the intensity of her stare, a crow and a white-winged snowfinch were bickering over a discarded corner of bread. It didn’t seem to matter to either bird that one towered over the other, or that their volucrine dispute was in the middle of a street. They just went on with their crowing and chirruping.

  Tirdad retrieved her discarded veil and handed it to her. “You have to keep this on in the city, Waray. Where is your horse?”

  The half-div let out a defeated sigh as she slipped the veil back on. “Can’t translate with it on. Birds titter sideways. Like, well—” She lay on her side and swept one arm parallel to the ground. “Like so. And that’s not even accounting for the šo-cryptic way they flutter those primaries.”

  “Your horse?” pressed Tirdad.

  “Around a corner. Maybe. You’re beating it, I think. Oh, there they go.” Waray did her utmost to keep a keen eye on the flights of both birds before they flew from her field of view. She canted her head toward the direction they’d flown, but kept her gaze trained on it. “We should find their nest,” she mused. “Could be eggs.”

  Tirdad grimaced at the way her neck bent. “Let us take a look,” he said, and couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

  • • • • •

  Ashtadukht was by no means having an easier time of things. In truth, she had no idea where she was going, and had only found the office of the Supreme Judge of the Province by bumping into the very man she’d been trying to prepare for. He looked like he should be at the vanguard of a charge rather than adjudicating. She’d always been intimidated by him.

  When he spotted her, Mehr-farr strode directly over and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Ashtadukht.”

  She shied away from his stare. It was always so direct and penetrating. “Mehr-farr.”

  “You look well,” he said with a wide grin. “It warms my heart to see you again. If only it were under better circumstances.”

  “I apologize for the delay.”

  “Think nothing of it, dear. I hear you were summoned by the King of Kings himself, may he live forever. I am proud to have been your mentor.” He pushed her to arm’s length and shook his head. “Look at you, all grown up. And to think you used to be such a troublemaker.”

  Ashtadukht only nodded. It struck her as remarkably odd for him to greet her so heartily. He’d always been so cold and harsh during her lessons.

  Mehr-farr suddenly laughed from his gut. “Oh, I just recalled how terribly you would muck up star-reckoning. It is good you were so stubborn. We need more like yourself: practitioners with a thick hide who do not mind the infamy. Summoned by the King of Kings!” He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her along for a walk.

  As abruptly as his laugh had come, his tone grew austere. “A shame about your brother. I am always here if you need me. And I mean that. You are like a daughter to me.”

  Ashtadukht blushed confusedly. He gave her a squeeze and pressed on. “When I discovered that this murder might have some connection to the div responsible, I sent for you immediately. It seems as if this div, or a div with the same manner of killing, has been targeting mainly star-reckoners.”

  “This one, too?” inquired Ashtadukht. “Seems to be a pattern, doesn’t it?”

  Mehr-farr gave a somber shake of his head. “It is as you say. The victim was a good friend of mine. A good friend. We have already performed the rites of exposure, but I can personally attest to the legitimacy of this one. All the signs are there. The case is peculiar, however.”

  “How so?”

  They passed under a lofty vault decorated with stucco relief into an ayvan tastefully embellished with glazed tiles, gold-gilded inscriptions, and pomegranate trees livened by the tirra lirra of passerine. The traditional Iranian architecture had a calming effect: it reminded Ashtadukht of the family estate where she was raised.

  The Supreme Judge went on with his briefing, still firmly but politely pulling her along. “Four have come forward to claim responsibility. As far as I can tell, not a one is a div or has any of the qualities you would expect—not the least of which is admission of murder.”

  “I can see how that’d complicate matters.”

  “Oh, that is nothing, dear. Wait until you hear their stories.”

  They took egress directly across the ayvan and turned into a side corridor, which led past a brilliantly-coloured mural depicting the royal hunt, and into a dimly lit yet not unfriendly anteroom.

  The suspects had been detained, though treated fairly well. No one really argued for their being anything more than unfortunate. The absurdity of their tales made up for any wrong done on their behalf—the whore notwithstanding. Still, precautions were obligatory where divs had a role in affairs.

  “We have separated them,” explained Mehr-farr. “If one is by chance a div, it would be cruel to the three who are not.”

  “Assuming they aren’t all divs,” remarked Ashtadukht. “Who’s first?”

  She was introduced to each suspect individually, beginning with the one who last discovered the body, and together they wove a ridiculously tall tale.

  The first suspect was a woman with a powerful-looking frame whose better years were behind her, but only just. She spoke as if she were never sure of anything—inflections in all the wrong neighbourhoods.

  “I am sure of everything?” she began. “It all started with a childhood friend of mine—he had always been a rascal? When I was blooming (has it really been so long?), he would wait until I would go to wash clothes in the river? After I had really gotten into it—well, you know, your mind tends to wander? But once I did: BAM?! He’d come out of nowhere and grab my rear? Such a pervert, that one? I never learned not to fall for it? I might have liked the attention?”

  She paused long enough for her gaze to turn crestfallen and slowly drop to her feet. “He is gone, now? In a way I was hopeful: that maybe he’d returned, you know? I am also grateful? Is that weird? It brought new life to some strangely sweet memories?”

  “The incident,” interrupted Mehr-farr. “Please.”

  “Right? Sorry? I was in the shallows by the shore when it happened to bump into me—the body, I mean? I do not know? All those lost emotions flooded into me, and I just started whaling like I was a youngster again? Come to find I had beaten someone to death? How despicable is that? But I am an honest citizen as you can surely tell? I recovered the body and reported it immediately?”

  “That must’ve been very difficult for you,” Ashtadukht gently spoke as she took the woman’s hand in her own. “Thank you for sharing, and for your honesty. You’ve done well in coming forward.” Her brow knot
ted and she turned to Mehr-farr. “That seems fairly straightforward. I assume the others will be more enlightening?”

  He indicated the next room. “She had just finished confessing during her trial when a fisherman burst in.”

  The next suspect was a withered old man with sun-dried skin and an energetic smile, which he wore generously—and more so upon spotting Ashtadukht. “Pretty lady come to see me, hmm?”

  “Not quite,” she replied with a cut to her tone. “I’d like to hear your story.”

  “Hmm. Been livin’ longer’n most,” replied the fisherman. “Loved plenty o’ women in my time. But if you’re insistin’. It all began—”

  Ashtadukht stopped him with an uplifted hand. “Please, don’t. That won’t be necessary. I’m only interested in what you’ve to say concerning the murder.”

  The fisherman gave her a gleaming, toothsome yet not entirely toothy grin. “Ah, shoulda said so, you fine piece o’ sturgeon.”

  “Just get on with it.”

  That wolfish grin only widened. “Likin’ the cut’a your jib, lass. You see, I sets out early, long afore the sun kisses the horizon. Part’a bein’ a man’a the sea’s friggin’ loathsome hours. So I starts my routine same’s always, but m’head must’a been’n the clouds. Unmoored my boat’n forgot to reel the rope in.

  When I got’r in what’d I find but a dead man tangled innit! Figured a vagrant done napped in my moorin’ line then got ‘mself drowned. I was right afraid, and drowsy as all get out, so I cut the poor fella loose. Came to Amol when I heard’a the trial then saw the lass so broad in the beam that I couldn’t rightly let’r take the blame.”

  Ashtadukht pursed her lips and considered his explanation; mainly that he had made any connection at all. “How’d you know it was the same victim if all this happened before sunrise and some time ago?”

  The fisherman shrugged. “Call it a gut feelin’. The whole thing dit’n sit well with me. Been eatin’ at me since.”

  “Well, your time and . . . eventual forthrightness are appreciated.”