Demon's Arrow

by Rachel Devenish Ford

  He took the basket the baker gave him and spent the day walking the city with the basket on his head, delivering flat bread and crusty bread, desserts, and even some vegetables. It was better than he had hoped. He was able to see the inner parts of the city without suspicion, for the baker gave him a baker’s coat that allowed him to pass through without inspection from the city guards.

  He saw many people stopped by the guards, questioned as to where they were going or what their business was. Gavi slipped right by them, pulling his ser over his face in case they had a description of him. But no one seemed to be looking for him, and he realized the cart driver must have kept quiet. He silently thanked the driver, an unexpected friend.

  He saw that the city was built in tiers. He only had one order in the top tier—a tray of crusty, cream-filled pastries that sent their fragrance into his nostrils and tempted him until he could barely think straight. Then there was the middle tier, where the bakery was, a tangled web of well-trodden streets, packed full of bustling merchants and well-to-do housewives. Gavi delivered most of his baked goods there, observing the customs of the city. Shoes off at the door of most homes or shops. Women wore long tunics over loose skirts, decorated with tiny bits of embroidery or jewels. Their sers were also decorated with bits of mirror, and they called them sars, or at least their Gariah accent made it sound so. Women ducked their heads to avoid his eyes, but men stared straight at him, which was different from the Workers, who met no one’s eyes.

  As he loitered and observed in the second tier of the city, he heard whispers about a princess, which peaked his interest until he realized, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that they were talking about Aria.

  “She’s come back,” he heard people murmuring to one another. “At long last.”

  He felt slapped. It was as though a door had cracked when they trekked across the desert together, but now there was no denying that Aria’s life could take another path, that there was another side to her lineage, people who had been waiting for her here, in the city of Maween’s greatest enemy.

  He took a break in the early afternoon. The baker had a slab of cheese and a crusty loaf of bread waiting for him.

  “You’re certainly the healthiest Worker I’ve ever seen,” the baker said, “and you work twice as fast as any helper I’ve ever had in this bakery. Do you think your master might be willing to sell you?”

  Gavi gaped at him. “No,” he said, settling for the simplest answer. How could people own and sell one another so easily?

  “Pity,” the baker said. He handed Gavi another basket, full of flatbreads and the dense grain-rich bread balls. “These are for the third tier. And then you’re done, son. You’ve more than worked off that shower. I’ll set you up with some food for the journey as well.”

  Gavi walked slowly down to the lower reaches of the city, noting again that things got worse the farther down he went. Beggars crawled along in the gutter, and filth covered the lower halves of many of the walls. He had to work to avoid water and other liquids thrown out of the tallest floors of the buildings. It smelled. It hurt him to be there. Dozens of people that he passed seemed in need of healing, and he wondered where the healers were to allow this to happen to their people.

  He found the building the baker had directed him to and stood in front of it, looking at a short blue door, well below his head level, with a round symbol painted on it, like a circle with one piece missing. A line of people waited near the door, and he caught snatches of their conversation as he moved past them to get to the door.

  Suddenly he froze at something he had heard. He looked hard at the speaker.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “I said,” the man replied, his voice loud and coarse, “I heard that this isn’t even the worthwhile princess, but some bit of trash the king has decided to take pity on.”

  Gavi took the baker’s basket off his head and took a step toward the man, who was third in line and very near the door. The door began to swing open just as he drew level with the man, his hands in fists at his sides.

  “You watch your mouth,” Gavi growled, and the man made to step closer to him, but stopped suddenly as a voice came from the open doorway.

  “You, Ko, you know you get no food if you fight in the line.” The speaker was a small elderly woman with deep black skin creased over with wrinkles, jingling with jewelry; rings in her nose and on her fingers, and bangles on her wrists. Ko looked abashed and stepped back into line.

  “You, boy, are you delivering bread today?” the woman asked, glancing at the basket Gavi had retrieved from the ground. “Must be that the baker didn’t warn you about the rules here. Come in then.”

  “How come he’s delivering today?” Gavi heard the man ask as the old woman put a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder and yanked him into a small, dimly lit room.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed at him as soon as the door was shut. “Do you want everyone to know who you are?”

  After a moment, Gavi realized his mouth had fallen open as he stared at the old woman, a thought that was confirmed by the snicker from the corner. He glanced up to see a woman who looked exactly like Abbas, so much so that he stepped toward her before realizing she wasn’t Abbas. He frowned.

  “No, no,” the old woman said, leaning over a countertop and scribbling wildly on a piece of paper. “No time for questions now. You’ve been seen. Just dump the bread on the table and read this somewhere private.”

  “Are you sure he can read?” asked the woman in the corner. “He doesn’t look very smart.”

  “Oh, I’m sure, as are you,” the old woman said. “You’re just trying to get him to crack. Get out of here, boy, unless you want to be suspected by every person in the lower reaches.”

  Gavi stumbled out the door and past the line of people, walking quickly in case the angry man decided to abandon his meal in favor of revenge. Not that he was worried about getting hurt. The man looked like he had seen a rough life but Gavi had been trained as a fighter. He didn’t want more attention, though. The woman was right, he needed to be able to slip around the city. But what was that place? Did she know him somehow?

  In a quiet corner, he opened the piece of paper he had crumpled in his hand. The paper was different here, he thought absently, rubbing it between his fingers. More slippery. And the writing was different. But those thoughts left him completely as he read the words on the page.

  “Evening watch. North gate of the palace. Tell the guard you’ve stopped a fight near the mountain gate.”

  Well, that was cryptic. But Gavi felt a rush of excitement to think he had happened upon something that could help him get to Aria. If it was help. What if it was a trap? What was that place, and the symbol on its door? He walked back to the bakery and returned the basket, accepting his bread with thanks and turning down the baker’s offer of more work the next day.

  He walked toward the palace, wondering whether he could trust the old woman. But the woman seemed to know Gavi. A delivery boy wouldn’t be able to read. How did she know him? He had to go to the North Gate if he wanted answers.

  The guard at the North Gate was tall and broad. For a moment Gavi thought he might turn back. But then he thought of Aria, sick and alone in the palace, and he squared his shoulders and approached the guard.

  “Yes?” the man asked in a gentle voice.

  “I stopped a fight near the mountain gate,” Gavi said. The man flinched, just a tiny bit, then stood back.

  “By yourself?” he asked.

  Desert spines, the woman hadn’t said anything about any questions.

  “Yes,” Gavi said, hoping it was the right answer.

  “Come with me,” the man said, and he left his post to lead Gavi to a tiny walled garden, where he left him.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  Gavi barely noticed him leave because the garden was filled with spiky gilgal bushes that flowered in every sunset color. He turned in circles, breathing in the scent
of the gilgal flowers. After a while, he heard someone clearing his throat. He looked up from the flower he was examining, startled. He had nearly forgotten where he was—not his own garden at home, but the Desert King’s palace garden, a dangerous place.

  A man stood at the entrance to the garden. He was very tall, though not as wide as the guard. He wore a long red robe that reached the ground, but the hood wasn’t pulled over his face so Gavi could see it clearly. The man was about as old as his father, and stern looking.

  “Are you ready for this?” the man asked. “This is not going to be easy.”

  “What?” Gavi asked.

  “Joining the Circle. Working with us. Are you playing, like a child who has lost his friend, or are you ready?”

  Gavi nodded, shook his head, and nodded, startled. He had expected an introduction or something, not these cryptic questions.

  “Is someone coming?” the man asked. “Will someone else help? Or is it only you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “We are Nenyi’s Circle,” the man said. “We have been here longer than Maween has been a country. Now tell me, is it only you?”

  “For now, I suppose. But the Othra may come to bring and take messages. And,” he shook his head, laughing. “I’m sure Jabari is on his way. He probably wants to take me back to Maween,” he said. Then he frowned. “But I’ll never go, I’ll never leave her.”

  “So you shouldn’t,” the man said, crossing his arms and smiling faintly. “You are in the story, too.”

  Chapter 21

  “There are too many cats in this tent,” Ben said.

  Isika looked up. One of the young male Palipa was chewing on a cushion, making a large hole in one corner. Isika jumped up and pulled it away from him.

  No! she told him. Go somewhere! Can you control your children? she asked the mother cat, sending her a look. The mother cat heaved herself up and padded over to the younger cat, knocking him down and growling with her teeth at his throat.

  “I agree,” Brigid said. “I have to curl up in a ball to sleep.”

  “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” Isika said irritably, her arms crossed. She found her pack and rifled through it until she found her sewing kit. She threw herself down and began stitching the gorgeous cushion back together. It was one of many that were scattered around the tent the king had given them for the night.

  She worried about growing soft on their journey. This tent was a far cry from a bedroll around a fire, thick with cushions in the sleeping area, cool in the day, warm at night. She worried about the prophecy, which didn’t seem positive no matter which way you interpreted it.

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “Exert your mighty powers. Talk to them with your Isika ways.”

  Isika glared at him, but she did try.

  Do you hear this? she asked the cats. It makes people nervous to have you so close. She tried her best to explain it as clearly as she could, showing them pictures of their claws and teeth.

  Why? the young ones kept asking, and the mother simply fixed Isika with a level stare.

  Because you are so big and there are so many of you.

  Would it be better if some of us waited outside? The mother cat asked.

  Yes, Isika said. Absolutely.

  Okay, the mother cat said, but then nothing happened. She waited for a while and still nothing happened. The cats went to sleep.

  “I tried,” Isika told the others. “They didn’t listen.”

  Olumi laughed quietly in a corner.

  “Thanks for trying,” Brigid said, eying the cats. “I think I’ll find some space outside.”

  That night when the travelers came back from their meal, the three younger cats were gone, and only the mother was left.

  What happened? Isika asked. Where did they go?

  The cat blinked slowly at her and yawned. You asked them to go. They went.

  Isika stared at her, then sighed and went off to prepare her bed. She hadn’t known that any creature could be more irritating than Othra, but here they were. Othra, at least, had good qualities, like singing and calming people. They were helpful occasionally.

  “I often help,” a voice said, and Isika jumped.

  “Keethior,” she said, turning to look at the giant bird. His feathers gleamed in the lantern light in the tent. “We’ve talked about you reading my mind. Don’t listen unless I’m talking to you!”

  “It’s hard not to when you’re thinking so loudly. But you’ll find that the cats are good friends when they are loyal to you. It just takes a dire situation to find that out.”

  Isika stared at him. “Well, we’re not hoping for a dire situation.”

  Keethior hummed in his throat. “The cats showing up means you just might have one. They’re made for killing.”

  It took Isika a long time to fall asleep.

  * * *

  The next morning was bright and hot, the sky almost metallic, and when Isika walked to the king’s tent she found Abbas outside already, staring into the distance.

  “It’s going to storm,” he said.

  “Really?” Isika asked. She looked around. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  “Yes, can’t you feel it?”

  She hesitated, shifting from foot to foot.

  “I taste or smell something, almost like an old belt buckle.”

  Abbas grinned at her. “That is it. An approaching storm is like an old belt buckle. Very good, little sister.”

  She smiled back at him. “What are we doing today?”

  “My father wants to talk more, tell you more of the Karee ways. Then you are free to explore our camp if you want.”

  “I would love that. I want to see everything.”

  Abbas gestured for her to go first, and she ducked through the opening in the king’s tent, blinking when she realized that Brigid, Olumi, and Ben were already there. The mother cat stayed outside, settling onto her stomach, staring at the other people who passed into the tent in a disconcerting way. Isika shook her head at the cat.

  Be less scary, she said. The cat looked at her with unblinking eyes.

  When they were all there, the king offered spiced tea. Isika took a tiny glass, of the hot, sweet tea and sat forward quickly as she burned her tongue. She was brushing tea off her lap where she had spilled it and was taken by surprise when the king jumped right in.

  “We need to discuss this prophecy,” he said. “And what it means for all of us.”

  “We don’t yet know that the prophecy is about Isika,” Brigid said.

  “True. Yet you said your sister has gone to Dhahara?” the king asked, directing the question at Isika.

  She nodded. She felt the familiar ache that came whenever she thought of Aria marching into the city by herself.

  The king leaned forward. “What I say next must not leave this tent, do you understand? Of course you may speak of it together, but it is guarded, dangerous information. Please do not breathe a word.”

  Isika nodded, as did the others. She felt a prickle of anticipation. What was he about to say?

  “What do you know of the Circle?”

  Isika blinked. She looked at the others. Ben had a blank face, along with Brigid. Only Olumi looked like he knew anything. He sat with his mouth open, mopping at his wet trouser knee. He had spilled his own tea at the question.

  “Is it real?” he breathed in a whisper. “I believed it to be a wish or a myth. A wild rumor.”

  “Oh no,” Abbas said. “The Circle is very real.”

  “Are you going to explain what the Circle is?” Isika asked, feeling irritated. “Or do we have to guess?”

  The king shot her a quelling look and she sat back a little.

  “The Circle has been around since before Maween was a country. It is Nenyi’s resistance effort, built into the inner reaches of the Desert City.”

  “Nenyi’s what?” Ben asked. His face had a slightly distant look, as it did when he was listening hard.

  “Deep
inside Dharhara there is a resistance effort against the Desert King and Mugunta, the goddesses and the Great Waste. But Ikajo will execute anyone who even breathes the name Nenyi, so it must be hidden. You knew already that many of the Karee fight for independence. Many are a part of the Circle, part of the resistance. And there are many more who only want to fight the Gariah.

  “And the people who disappear?” Abbas asked.

  “All part of the resistance in some way or another.”

  Abbas sat back, his face stricken, as Isika tried to take in what the king had just said.

  “You mean they know?”

  “They can’t know. It is some magic from the Great Waste, a strong poison trying to wipe out the last of those who are willing to try to fight the king.”

  There was silence as everyone tried to digest this.

  Isika spoke. “Long ago, in Batta, a Worker priest told me people weren’t allowed to know the Desert King’s name. But last year you said it, Abbas, and now here…”

  “The Desert King does not allow Workers to speak his name,” Abbas answered. “He feels that their low caste will taint it. But Gariah, including Karee, all refer to him as King Ikajo.”

  More silence. Then Isika sat forward.

  “Is there anyone from the Circle in the palace?”

  The king nodded. “Yes, though we hear there are only a handful, and they are so secretive that we don’t even know who they are. But a few months ago, Abbas’s sister Enfa went to the Desert City to learn what she could about the missing people. She has sent messages that she is in communication with members of the Circle from the palace, the inner Circle, if you will, but that is all she has said. She must be very careful. She already looks different. She is there on pretense of being a merchant selling our embroidered robes and blankets.”

  Isika looked at Abbas.

  “You have a sister? I didn’t know.”

  “I have three sisters and four brothers,” Abbas said. “I have many siblings. But Enfa is close to me. She is my step down sister, just a year younger than me.”