Sunbolt (The Sunbolt Chronicles)

by Khanani, Intisar

  “Sorry,” I say, and stamp on his fingers with all my might.

  He drops down with a shout as the carriage swings out, making the turn onto the road with barely a hand span to spare. Snapping the reins again, I shout at the horses, and spot a whip lying by my feet. I’ve never been so grateful to see one before. I stoop to grab it, nearly losing my balance as the carriage rattles and jerks over the ruts. Behind me, I can hear the shouts of the kitchen staff giving chase, but the alley is too narrow to allow them to run up alongside the carriage. What I need is to get far enough ahead of them that they won’t be able to catch up once the carriage leaves the back road.

  I brace myself in the seat and crack the whip—or try to. I’ve never used one before. Cursing, I swing it again, and manage to flick the lazy bay’s hindquarters with the tip. He jumps forward, breaking into a gallop and the carriage sways one way and then the other as the horses panic, too confused to match their strides.

  We burst from the back road. I haul on the reins, realizing belatedly that we have to turn or we’ll run into the opposite building. The horses’ hooves skid on the cobbles, and the back of the carriage bounces off the corner of the wall. I grab the driver’s bench, nearly losing the reins as the carriage skips sideways across the stones.

  And then the bay’s hoof catches in a hole where a cobble should have been.

  He screams, twisting and falling, and the carriage swings around again, slamming against the building opposite as the chestnut staggers to keep his balance. I drop the reins altogether, hanging onto the bench as the carriage tilts crazily, a wheel smashed. The carriage shudders on another pace before grinding to a halt.

  I clamber down on shaky legs and circle the horses. If there’s anything I can do to help—but my hopes stutter to a stop with a sickening lurch: the bay’s leg is broken. He pants, his eyes wide and ringed with white, as he tries again and again to stand. The reins are tangled, and the angle of the shaft won’t let him get his balance well enough to stand. Beside him, the chestnut has just managed to keep his feet. He tosses his head, stamping and snorting, the muscles of his neck straining.

  “Stop him!”

  The shout pierces the quiet that has wrapped around me. I bolt, darting through the gathering crowd. One man tries to grab my arm as I pass him, but I twist and kick and he releases me with a cry. But now more people are taking up the chase, and I don’t blame them. It’s one thing to make off with a frybread, and a whole other to destroy a carriage and break a horse’s legs.

  Fear lends me speed for the second time today. I race down another alley, turn and sprint through the open door of a building. I run up the stairs, ignoring the surprised faces of two women chatting before a door, and burst onto the rooftop. Below, I can hear shouts and cries, as well as the thud of feet on the stairs. Someone saw me enter.

  I take two deep breaths, surveying the surrounding rooftops, and then I begin to run. It’s one jump up to the short wall at the edge of the roof and then—leap. I come down on the next building, staggering forward, already searching for the next rooftop. Run, run, leap.

  I’ve done this before, but never in a part of town I don’t know, and never actually running from someone. The third rooftop lines an alley. I take the alley with a flying leap, grateful the next building is somewhat shorter, and come down with enough force to jar my bones in their sockets.

  I pause to look back. I’ve left my pursuers behind. All except one, a young man who comes to a stop at the edge I just leapt from, gauging the distance. He’s not going to jump.

  A quick glance to the alley below tells me that the people on the ground haven’t managed to catch up with me yet.

  “Listen,” I say, meeting the man’s eyes. His gaze narrows. He opens his mouth but I cut him off before he can speak. “I’m sorry about what happened, okay? This is for the horse. Get someone to set its leg properly.”

  “You’re sorry?” he says, taken aback.

  “Catch.” I toss the money pouch the Ghost had given me across the space between us. The man just manages to catch it. He looks down at it, heavy in his palm, then back up at me.

  “It’s for the horse,” I repeat.

  Then I turn and run. I put two more roofs between myself and the chase, then swing down to a balcony, using the wooden lattice as a makeshift ladder. I drop the last few feet to the ground, brush off my clothes, and begin walking.

  I glance skyward. Between the buildings, the strip of bright blue is already darkening. I’m out of time. Swallowing a curse, I head towards the waterfront. Without a carriage, we won’t be able to transport the Degaths—it’s too long a walk to the house Rafiki has in mind, and the family will be too obviously out of place wandering the streets. I’ll have to come up with something else.

  I keep a watch out for vacant buildings along the way, pausing at the intersections of alleys, studying the more decrepit structures for signs of occupancy. There are a few. Karolene may be a thriving trade city, but the occasional building does fall into disrepair; businesses close and leave behind empty shells; families board up their houses, intending to return one day, only they never do. Plans have a way of unraveling.

  I barely step into the first building before I slip out again, moving on before the squatters I spot can register my intrusion. The second and third have too many broken windows and doors to hide our presence or be in any way defensible. When I happen on the fourth, only a few streets from where Rafiki and the Ghost will already be waiting for me, I know that this one will have to work.

  The doors and shutters at ground level are still intact. It only takes me a moment with my trusty lock-pick set to get through the back door. Inside, I light a candle stub I keep for just such occasions and inspect the rest of the building. Past the large back room, a long hall lined by two rooms on either side leads to the front entry. The rooms have precious little to offer: moldering mattresses, blackened lumps that may have once been cushions, a scattering of refuse. But one of them does have a workable door.

  Back in the hallway, I find a stairwell built between the front room and these smaller rooms, but the treads have long since fallen to pieces, leaving a splintered framework incapable of supporting weight. My eyes search the stairwell. How did it fall in when the doors and shutters are still in tact? I find my answer in the blackened ends of timbers: a fire that must have started on an upper floor. Given how thick the dust—and ash—lies here, there should be no one upstairs.

  I cast around one last time, knowing that this is hardly the place to put a lord’s family. But we have no way to get them to Rafiki’s safe place tonight. It will have to do.

  Before I leave, I pull a pouch from my pocket, weighing it in my hand, then extract the string of stone prayer beads within. Better to set them up now, when no one can guess at what I’m doing. I suppose I could tell the Ghost or Kenta about my Promise, if I had to. I can’t imagine them betraying me. But there’s no reason whatsoever for Rafiki to know. He may be part of the League, but I’m not convinced that he wouldn’t report me to the High Council for hiding my Promise and remaining “untrained”—formally, at least.

  I shudder. Untrained Promises aren’t merely fined or sent to school. At my age, there would be only two options. I could choose to have my magic stripped from me, which would likely take my mind with it. Or I could agree to become a source slave, living in a mage’s household and being forced to funnel my magic into the mage’s own spells.

  No, the wards go up now, before anyone else arrives.

  With a quick tug I release the knot holding the loop of beads together. One by one, I line the inside of the building with the beads, leaving them below each window and along the walls, and at both exits. I return to the center of the building and kneel on the floor, cupping the last bead in my hand. I focus on the bead until I can feel it in my mind, feel the old ties that bind it to the circle I have set out, like the filaments of a single-stranded web. Reaching out through it, I slowly wake each stone, renewing old bonds and c
losing the circle I’ve created around the building. The bead in my hand grows warm as I send my thoughts out through it, sensing each of its siblings, assuring I haven’t accidentally mixed their order and left a gap. But the wards fall into place around me perfectly.

  I’ve cast this spell dozens of times, using it as a protection when I’ve slept in abandoned buildings or on rooftops. I wonder what my mother would have thought, if she could see me. I’ve never heard of a mage using prayer beads, but they’re stone, the traditional material for setting wards. Keeping them on a string retains their order so that I don’t have to recast the spell when I need it. I only need to reawaken it, and, when I am done, be careful to gather the stones in the same order that I lay them out.

  My beads also reduce the chance that anyone will notice my magic-working, for an old spell draws less attention than a bright, spangly new one.

  Wiping a thin sheen of sweat from my brow, I pocket the final bead and head out. I find Rafiki and the Ghost both waiting in a shadowed alley a block inland from the esplanade.

  “Where’s the carriage?” Rafiki asks, his voice ringing out loud in the empty alleyway. The Ghost touches his elbow, quieting him, but he too looks at me, waiting. For once I’m glad that his hood shadows his face.

  “I couldn’t get one. The proprietor didn’t trust me.”

  Rafiki swears. At least he doesn’t ask about the coin purse.

  “It’s all right,” I say, keeping my eyes on the darkness where the Ghost’s face would be. “I’ve found a place for them—a vacant building, safe enough until we can get a carriage. There should be one free by morning.”

  I can’t see the Ghost’s hands beneath his cloak, but I would guess they’re clenched around the hilt of his short sword and his dagger. He must be the most clean-mouthed man I’ve ever met: When he gets upset, he just goes quiet.

  “Where’s the building?” he asks.

  I describe its location and setup. Just as I finish, Kenta darts into our alleyway. In his tanuki form, he hardly comes to my knee, his honey-colored fur so thick he looks more plump than dangerous. His legs and belly are covered in darker fur that travels up his neck and wraps around each side of his face to his eyes, suggesting a mask that doesn’t bridge his nose. His ears, twin triangles atop his rounded face, are furred as well.

  He pauses, brown eyes reflecting the twilight, then tilts his head in a question.

  “She couldn’t get a carriage,” Rafiki explains. “Apparently—”

  “We’re walking,” the Ghost says, cutting him off. “Rafiki, Kenta, with me. Hitomi, you stay here.”

  I bristle at his tone. I don’t mind missing the conversation with the Degaths, but I’m the only one who’ll be able to feel the wards I’ve set. “Fine, but I’m coming with you to the building.”

  The Ghost hesitates. “No,” he says, and walks around the corner. Kenta follows, sending me a quick glance, ears perked. I try not to glare at him. Rafiki is already gone.

  I turn and kick the wall, which only hurts my foot. How could I have known that fish-brained proprietor wouldn’t rent to me? Is it my fault I don’t look like some rich kid?

  I put my foot down gingerly, curling my toes to see if I’ve broken anything, and run over my exchange with the Ghost again. I find myself grinning wickedly. He hadn’t barred me from going altogether, just going with them.

  I follow after the others, setting a brisk pace until I catch sight of them again. Rafiki and the Ghost wait just before the intersection with the road that lines the esplanade. I take up a position at the corner of a nearby building, peering around the wall as Kenta trots back into view, followed by a lone man. Lord Degath. The Ghost must have told him to look for Kenta—or rather, a dog that looked like Kenta.

  In the fading light, I can just discern the barely visible shape of the Ghost’s flowing black cloak, as he steps forward to meet Lord Degath. I can’t make out the conversation from here—they speak with lowered voices—but Degath is clearly worried about the missing carriage. I have a feeling that the Ghost hasn’t mentioned that their destination isn’t really a house.

  “Baba?” A young woman calls as she crosses the street towards the meeting taking place, her voice clear and carrying. “Where is the carriage they said they’d send?”

  I stare. Is she mad? Does she have any idea what’s she’s doing? Even if she doesn’t care about Blackflame finding her, she’s a rich girl entering a back alley. More than a few people would kill her for no greater reward than the dress she’s wearing. Not here, I hope, but it still doesn’t make sense to take such a stupid risk.

  Her father, to his credit, attempts to quiet her, but I can hear her next question: “We are going to a safe house, though, aren’t we?”

  Her voice is imperious, commanding, as if the phrasing of her words as a question is irrelevant. We will take her where she wishes. I frown. Her demeanor, her high-pitched insistence, and her use of the words “safe house”—as if we have a network of homes in which to hide fugitives—rubs me the wrong way. I’ve met plenty of annoying people working with the Ghost, but this is different. Why should it matter to her whether we take her straight to a boat or hide her on the island, so long as she is protected? And where did she get the idea that we even have safe houses?

  Her father says something in response, and while I can’t quite hear his words, I do catch her name: Saira. Even if I hadn’t heard him, I would have caught it a moment later when a young man hurries across the street, calling after her, “Saira. Saira! You’re supposed to stay with us.”

  Lord Degath snaps at them both, ordering them into the alley and telling them in no uncertain terms to remain silent.

  I close my eyes for a moment. It never occurred to me that the younger Degaths would be anything other than grateful. I can just imagine Saira’s disgust at the building I’ve selected. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling.

  The Ghost finishes his conversation with Degath without further interruption and drifts back into the shadows. Rafiki waits nearby. Degath crosses the street to collect the rest of his family, returning almost before he’s left with his youngest daughter, a girl of about ten, and Lady Degath. I can’t make out much about either of them in the fading light, other than that they both seem to understand the concept of not attracting attention, hardly speaking at all.

  Tarek and Saira begin to bicker again as Lord Degath motions for his family to follow after their rescuers. Just one night, I remind myself, easing back from the corner. One night and we’ll be rid of them.

  Holding that thought in my mind, I head for the vacant building.

  A block from my destination, I hear the click of nails on cobblestones.

  “Hey, tanuki-boy,” I say. “Did you think you could leave me behind?”

  Kenta cocks his head as he draws even with me, brown eyes laughing.

  “Just don’t let on I’m here until they’re all inside,” I say. The Ghost won’t send me away once we’re holed up; it’s not worth the risk of anyone seeing me leave. Kenta agrees with a soft barking laugh.

  At the door, though, he snaps his teeth at me before darting in. I hesitate, glancing from the dark alley to the even darker interior, and realize that Kenta is doing a quick search to make sure no one else has entered. I could tell him it’s unnecessary; no one has disturbed the wards I’ve set. But of course I can’t tell him.

  There’s a possibility that Kenta might sense the wards, but only if he’s actively looking for magic. And he likely wouldn’t be able to connect the wards to me regardless. There’s nothing to worry about, I tell myself. Even if he suspects me, he would never betray me to the life of a source slave.

  Kenta pops back out of the building, taking up a station beside the door. I nod to him and he dips his head in return. My secret is safe, then. I slip into the building. Without a candle, it’s much slower going. I cross the room by memory, feel my way to the central hallway and follow it to the collapsed stairs. Kicking a few splintered boar
ds away, I squat in a corner at the back. With the shadows as dark as they are, and Kenta there to assure the Ghost there’s no need to search the building again, it’s unlikely anyone will realize I’m here.

  I tilt my head, unable to discern anything until I hear the faint shuffle of footsteps at the door, followed by voices.

  “This? This is no safe house!” It’s Saira, and she sounds furious. Not worried or confused or curious. Irate. I close my eyes. I don’t like the sound of her at all.

  “It is a house, and it’s safe,” Rafiki replies shortly. She must have been making a nuisance of herself on the way over. “What more do you want?”

  “Saira.” A woman’s voice, hard and sharp as honed steel: Lady Degath. “That is more than enough. These men are saving our lives. At least maintain the pretense of being a lady and accept their help with gratitude.”

  A short silence. I hear the door creak closed.

  “It’s so dark,” a small voice says—the younger daughter.

  “I’ll light a candle,” the Ghost offers with familiar kindness. “But only for a few minutes. Once we’re settled in, we’ll have to blow it out. We must be careful not to attract attention.”

  “Didn’t you say this place was safe?” the son asks.

  “Yes. It is also supposed to be vacant,” the Ghost says, his words measured, as if he were addressing a simpleton.

  Light flickers, chasing away the absolute darkness of the hall: the Ghost has lit his candle.

  “Follow me,” he says. I hear his boots in the hall, the others behind him. The stairs are past the four small rooms, so there’s no reason to think he’ll lead the Degaths this far. But if he does, there’s a good chance he’ll spot me right away.

  “Is that a lycan?” the little girl’s voice pipes up. I grin as someone hushes her.

  Saira snorts with derision. “It’s just a dog, Alia. And a fat one at that. Lycans look like wolves.”