An Ill-Fated Sky

by Darrell Drake

  The man flashed the cost in the sign language of merchants, which Tirdad agreed to with a nod. He handed over a little more than was asked for, though considerably less than he would have a decade earlier. The assets that once belonged to his House had been redistributed. Ashtadukht’s estate was his only because no one wanted anything to do with the place. He had to be frugal, though he had it easier than his relatives. He’d been living off of Chobin’s generosity since around the time his savings had run dry.

  The middle-aged man grunted, handing over the scarf and screwing up his face in thought. “Suppose I know a few places might be open to you staying for free. Empty bed in my place come to think of it, but—” He glanced at Shkarag, who was still bundled in her cloak and scarf, and his face screwed up further. “Your friend’s facing the wrong way.”

  “She does that,” Tirdad replied without looking back at her.

  “Oh.” The man eyed her for a moment before continuing. “Strange. You say you’re a star-reckoner?”

  Tirdad inclined his head.

  “Slipped my mind, but come to think of it, Rakhsh, he’s been—oh, Rakhsh runs the bazaar here—he’s been throwing a fit on account of our star-reckoner. Late to return from the capital, and it’s got Rakhsh rearing to wrestle an onager.”

  “Why?”

  “On account of our star-reckoner taking his damn time I suppose. Try to keep up.”

  Tirdad sighed, hoping he hadn’t run into another Shkarag—one was a handful. “Can you introduce me to this Rakhsh?”

  “Ah, sure. You were kind enough to pad your payment, though I suppose you were thinking it would encourage me to say exactly that, eh?”

  Tirdad cleared his throat. “Well, yes.”

  The vendor tapped his head. “More coin to count, less time to fuss. All the better, I say, and not just because I’m the one counting.” He started down the corridor, and waved Tirdad along. “No justice in being insulted when someone on in their years puts all that experience to work. Hope I’m savvy as you are when the grey’s got me in its clutches.”

  Tirdad ran his fingers through his hair, feeling his age and unhappy with it. “Yeah.”

  He followed the man through more corridors lined with high walls whose shade cooled the residents during the day, under low archways that did the same and more. In the event of a sandstorm, refuge could be found in their depths. They passed stalls closed for the evening and the two-story mudbrick residences that rose behind them, faces accented with floral stucco. Here and there, an ibex or lion motif would further liven the decoration. Unlike Ray, this city hadn’t bothered with maintaining its colour, but the stucco reliefs alone were effective enough.

  Eventually, the vendor came to a stop before a building that was larger than the rest, if only by a small margin. “Here we are,” he said. “Guild headquarters. May come off as strange, but I live here—even this humble bazaar demands vigilance. And work’s right at my doorstep. Oh, you can call me Rakhsh.” The man extended his hand.

  Tirdad stared. That was it then, he was convinced. All his life he had been fairly average, never really excelling but getting by on honour and hard work. He’d come to terms with that reality long ago. Turns out he was special: he had a penchant for attracting the weird ones. They flocked to him. Whatever sky he was born under, it had been a mischievous one.

  “Tirdad,” he flatly replied, reaching down to clasp the merchant’s forearm.

  Rakhsh perked up at that, grin anything but manufactured now, which better demonstrated the spryness of youth. Tirdad had mistaken him for middle-aged the way he carried himself, but he couldn’t have seen much more than two decades. “Oh, your name was mighty popular in the bazaar couple weeks ago. You the same Tirdad what gave that div a beating in Ray?”

  “One and the same.” The longer it went without explanation, the more Tirdad suspected the merchant had no intention of addressing his, well, whatever had just happened. A prank?

  “Then that means . . .” Rakhsh looked past Tirdad, and it was evident where his attention came to rest. “Is that?”

  “Seems word travels fast,” said Tirdad. “You mentioned being in need of a star-reckoner?”

  “Is she really a, uh, one of . . . thought the tale had, you know how they are, going and getting a life of their own.” Rakhsh turned his attention back to Tirdad, as if he needed to see the truth in his eyes. “She’s a daughter of Eshm?”

  That drew a frown.

  “Oh, she is!” Rakhsh laughed. “Well, rob my wife and fuck my coffers it’s true! That is great news if I have ever heard it. Those forty divs don’t stand a chance against the likes of you.”

  Tirdad knotted his brow. Surely he’d misheard. “Forty what now?”

  • • • • •

  “Forty divs.”

  Tirdad glanced at Shkarag, who was still bundled—probably against both the encroaching chill and the merchant’s ongoing interest in her existence. They’d been led through the bazaar administrative building, back to the room where this man, scarcely old enough to own a stall, much less run a bazaar, had settled behind a desk cluttered with seals, rolls of leather, and scrolls of parchment. He lit an oil lamp and, with an exasperated huff, made room to place it on the desk with a sweep of his arm. It didn’t do much to light the room, but it was enough to illuminate the immediate area.

  “There,” he said. “Now, suppose you are wanting an explanation before signing the contract? I would.”

  “Contract?”

  “Terms and conditions, binding, no lack of words to scratch your head over.”

  “I know how contracts work, but in so many years I’ve never signed a single contract. Star-reckoner’s aren’t contractual. This isn’t a trade.”

  “Huh.” Rakhsh leaned back, ostensibly perplexed by the idea. “Always seemed like the thing to do. Anything else is plain slapdash, running into a deal belt half notched.”

  Tirdad furrowed his brow. This man had some odd illusions about the process. That or Ashtadukht had done things differently, which wasn’t all that far-fetched, now that he considered it.

  “Oh, that’s a thought. Only around come harvest through winter, and he never was one for cleanliness, but his home is vacant. Hardly call it a home, considering. Residence then. You assume his responsibilities, and the star-reckoner’s residence is yours till either you leave or he gets it in his head to fulfill his contract.” Not bothering to wait for a response, Rakhsh set to amending the terms, mumbling to himself like an old curmudgeon as he did.

  Initial impressions aside, the man seemed to take his responsibility seriously—an observation Tirdad could respect. If you were capable, willing, and committed yourself, age was not an issue. And the merchant was offering up a prime opportunity to search the star-reckoner’s records, or lie in wait besides. Something did seem off, though. “Why’re you doing this instead of someone who runs the city?”

  Rakhsh didn’t look up from his writing. “Speaking.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tale’s all so much death,” Rakhsh added. “You’re thinking it’s unorthodox, and can’t fault you for that. By Ohrmazd, I never asked for the burden, but it fell on my shoulders all the same. Shrug it off and I’m no better than those good-for-nothing divs who brought it about.” He paused, throwing an embarrassed glance at Shkarag. “No offense.”

  “. . .”

  Likely taking the silence for the everyday breed, Rakhsh turned the contract to face Tirdad, who searched for his stamp seal where it should have hung around his neck, wearing consternation the more he failed to find it.

  “Well,” he said, realizing Shkarag must have flung it along with Ashtadukht’s, “I’d like to discuss these forty divs before I stamp anything binding.”

  “Ah, the sort of man to bite a coin. I suppose any star-reckoner worth his salt would want the lay of his quarry.” Rakhsh fished a ewer from under the desk, along with three goblets, and filled each half-way. The cloudy, faceted glass caught the flame of the oil la
mp, which struck out across the surface of the wine, granting it the comfortable appearance of a hearth in winter. Or, more simply, blood in firelight.

  “I’d gamble they’re no match for a star-reckoner and a daughter of Eshm. Would that you’d yank them up by the roots this time. That there star-reckoner, he does a mighty golden job of scaring them off, but he’s never of a mind to send them packing for good.”

  Joined by a scaled hand looking to do the same, Tirdad took a goblet, raising it with an appreciative nod to Rakhsh before taking a few swallows. It wouldn’t win any awards. “You still haven’t told me what exactly these divs are doing,” he said. The questions that followed did so rapidly, and Tirdad without a clue to their significance.

  “What’s their nature? What do you know of their mannerisms? What are their defining features? Do they speak? Are they known to come out before dusk? Have they ever entered a house? A warded house? Have they called you by name? Have they ever spoken a truth? Do they appear before you, or do you only see the aftermath? Have they been known to transform? Practice sorcery? Have you experienced an increase in any mental or physical maladies since their appearance? Has anyone thrown flour dough at them? Have—”

  “Woah, rein it in,” interrupted Rakhsh. “I didn’t catch a lick of that, what with you yammering like mad.”

  “I . . . uh, never mind.” Tirdad remembered a salvo of questions, but their contents were as lost to him as a memory on the tip of his tongue. “Would you just explain the situation?” he asked.

  The merchant leaned forward, though not with a storyteller’s carriage. Rather, with the intent of pouring more wine. “Been around forever, the reed-loving scoundrels. Far as I know, they are old as this city. Used to come around every winter on the same day to wreak havoc, slaughtering and causing so much grief, this band of divs.” He took a swig, and squinted. “Know you’re thinking brigands, but this ain’t no superstitious cover. We wised up—well, my ancestors did. Cozied up to star-reckoners, and convinced them to winter with us. Now the divs just cause minor trouble. Dead livestock, pranks, painting the city some disagreeable colour overnight. If they get it in their heads to do more, the star-reckoner yells at them.” He finished off his goblet and sat back. “Not above admitting I am afraid of what they’d do without someone around to keep them cowering. Happened once, and, well . . .” Rakhsh grimaced, and averted his eyes. “Now I run things.”

  “How long until they arrive?”

  “Forty-one days.”

  “That’s precise.”

  “In this, they are orderly. If only to deliver chaos upon us.”

  Tirdad drew his lips taut, giving the contract due consideration. Somewhere, he had the knowledge to thwart this band of divs. Of that much, he was certain. And accepting meant gaining access to a star-reckoner’s lodging, which could prove insightful in his quest for the truth. In the event that the star-reckoner returned, all the better; he’d get it from the horse’s mouth. If the contract proved to be more than he could handle, they could run. He had forty-one days to figure out the details. Best to get Shkarag’s opinion before committing, he thought. Tirdad turned to her and asked, foolishly, “What’re you thinking?”

  Still withdrawn into the cover of her scarf and cloak, Shkarag had the former lifted enough to get at the wine. She paused between gulps to cock her head at him, staring from behind her hood as if she could see through it. Rather than lowering the goblet, she spoke into the rim.

  “Wondering if the swindler wants to betray us, or if you want to betray me, or if the scarf is really silk. Thinking it might be nice to have a gift. Want to tell you about the sword. If the stars are watching, plotting something fierce to make creation revolve against me, it means she’s watching, too. This wine tastes like marsh water. What would I do with two scarves? Need to die like a šo-wretched coward. Can’t tell. I’m doing it for you. I’d keep them. So afraid of you. Teetering like some, like some beached Dourboat, with its too-slack gullet and its šo-barnacled hull, and it slept in the cape looking for solace after death, only to awake on a lone pillar, the tide absconding and not looking back, and all it takes is a shift in the wind and she wants to—” Her delivery lit up as if a war raged around her, fires and all. “Dismember everyone in this pitiful city, bathe in their smoldering—” Her goblet clattered to the floor, and she snatched the ewer from the desk, taking swallow after swallow until she’d finished it off. Hands around its neck as if strangling it, she eased the ewer to her lap. Tirdad glanced at the merchant; he was as spooked as a horse in a thunderstorm.

  After a few steadying breaths, Shkarag pressed on. “Think we can be victors together,” she said. “Maybe.” It warmed his heart to see the confidence she wore upon drawing back her scarf and hood, the vigor in her eyes. She’d won—for now. “I want, I want to be partners,” she said. “I’ll stamp the šo-jargoned thing, too.”

  Rakhsh cleared his throat, a shiver visibly claiming his spine. “Well, uh, that, uh . . .” He trailed off and wrung his hands.

  “She won’t bathe in the smoldering gore of your citizens,” Tirdad consoled. “Right, Shkarag?”

  “Maybe,” she said with a cant.

  “See?”

  “She, uh, doesn’t seem to have made up her mind,” said Rakhsh.

  “Sure she has. She gave us a maybe, after all.”

  “Uh.”

  “Never mind that,” said Tirdad, waving away his worry as if she hadn’t said what she had, and with that predatory tone. “We’ve agreed to take on the task. Trouble is, I left my seal back in—” Shkarag held out a fist. “Huh?”

  “Your seal,” she said.

  Tirdad accepted it with a smile, knowing she’d gone out of her way to scour the city for it after their first night together. “Well, no objections then?” he asked the merchant. “We’ll enter the contract and protect your city.”

  That called for another cleared throat. “Enthused to have you here, don’t get me wrong, but ain’t ever heard tale of a div putting stamp to contract, much less abiding by it. Goes against your nature, doesn’t it?”

  “. . .” Shkarag just stared at him, deadpan and flickering.

  “She’s only half div,” Tirdad explained. Why he thought that made a difference was beyond him. “Besides, we’re partners. There’s no way I could do this without her.”

  Rakhsh sighed, and pulled a second ewer from beneath his desk. “Given my position, I both should and should not protest. Leaning towards having a star-reckoner, though.” Shkarag took the ewer. Rakhsh retrieved yet another. “Keep a few ready for guests,” he explained, though no one had asked. “Anyhow, the benefits outweigh the risks. The two of you give me your seal and I’ll agree to a joint undertaking.”

  Tirdad did just that. He went to hand his seal to Shkarag, only to find her rummaging beneath her cloak. When at last she found what she was searching for, she stamped her seal alongside his, slightly overlapping, which left the impression of a coiled snake.

  “Oh, you have a stamp seal,” he observed. “This is my first time seeing you use it.”

  It vanished beneath her cloak, and she set once more to rummaging. “We all make one,” she said when, after some trouble, she’d finished stowing the seal. “Carve it out of bone like some, like some arts and crafts session all huddled around a dead one and squabbling over choice cuts like some, like some vultures who’ve—”

  “I get it,” said Tirdad. Then to the merchant, “Would you show us to our lodging? I’m exhausted.”

  Rakhsh gave the contract another once over, nodded to himself, and disappeared into a back room, presumably an archive. “Let’s be off then,” he said upon returning. “Bit of a hike, and I’m about ready to nod off myself. Wine saw to hurrying that along.”

  “Lead the way,” said Tirdad.

  Shkarag emptied her ewer, and together they followed Rakhsh through more high-walled corridors, now thick with shadows, to the muffled sounds of a city turning in for the night. They passed between a pair of d
omed cisterns that housed the city’s water supply, through which air was vented and cooled during summer, and to the lone residence tucked behind.

  “Beats me why it’s out here like a dog what refused to chase off the Nasu,” said Rakhsh. “Been used by star-reckoners for who knows how long. Well, I’ll leave you to it. Time for me to sleep this wine off. You know where to find me.” With a wave, he started back the way they’d come.

  “Friendly fellow,” said Tirdad. He faced their new residence—secluded, but two stories and adobe like much of the town—and figured it’d be pleasant to live again as they had in the estate. Just the two of them. Only now, he needn’t worry about the mystery of Ashtadukht’s past eating at him. Either he’d find answers here, or he would get them from the star-reckoner. Tirdad rested his palm on the ram’s head pommel, confident that, whatever the outcome, he would find justice.

  The pommel hardly had time to welcome him before Shkarag snatched his hand away, half-dragging half-leading him through the night and into the house where it was black as frostbite. “What’s the hurry?” he asked. “Shkarag, I can’t see a fucking thing.” She began unbuckling his weapon belt. “Oh, you’re hankering, huh?” He reached out to stroke her head. “I can’t say I haven’t been. Sleep can wai—what are you doing?”

  Shkarag had hefted him as if he were a doe, effortlessly moving through the residence and up a flight of stairs. She was oftentimes aggressive in her lust, which wasn’t remotely surprising given her lineage. And while he indulged all her obscene desires—in time, he himself had come to enjoy even the most heinous—Tirdad drew the line at being carried around. He was on the cusp of voicing as much when she laid him down.

  “Go to sleep,” she ordered.

  Tirdad’s agitation was plain. After she’d provoked him, the last thing he wanted to do is sleep. “What in the seven climes, Shkarag? I thought you wanted to fuck?”

  “. . .” The meaningful silence made it seem as if she were entertaining the notion. That it hadn’t occurred to her at all. “Maybe,” she said, with anything but conviction. Something hit the floor, probably his weapon belt, and the silence lost its meaning. She’d left.