by Zamil Akhtar
In the hallway, Bayer waited as if he had nothing better to do. That grin stretched across his face. “Lovely.”
She ignored his compliment and followed him down stairs she had never been, into an underground level of the building.
“So, princess,” Bayer said, “have you enjoyed yourself so far?”
She didn’t want to talk to him because then she had to look him in the eyes, and they disgusted her. “Where are we going?”
Bayer opened a door she’d never been through and she followed him in. Then he swerved and shut the door, blocking her way out.
Sunshine from the roof windows provided a dim lighting. All the girls were lined up wearing different colors — Zauri in black. Mangled-arm man sat at a desk, putting pen to paper, while Nesmith stood at his side.
“Line up,” Bayer said.
Saina moved to stand next to Zauri, who was still staring at the floor.
Mangled-arm man looked up, perspiration across his forehead. “Sell them all to your regular buyers in the upscale neighborhoods. They’ll make decent slaves for conduction or servitude or fucking or all those things. Except this little one, we’ll send her to the auction.”
That little one was the girl Saina had noticed earlier, barely adolescent. The girl clung to her sister.
“Sis, don’t leave me,” she said, “I don’t wanna go away.”
“Let go and go with them,” her sister said.
“No! I won’t!”
“Let go! You have to!”
From behind, Nesmith locked her arms as the rest of the girls left the room. She wriggled her body and flailed her hands, all the while crying and crying. Saina looked away, knowing she could do nothing for the girl and could only do something for herself.
I can’t let them sell me off. This is my last chance to get the hell out of here.
Nesmith dragged that girl out the room. The crying and wailing became distant, and now only four remained: Saina, mangled-arm man, Bayer, and Zauri. Saina had no idea what to expect.
“Both of you, take it off,” mangled-arm man said.
Saina gasped. “What?”
“Your clothes,” he tugged his own shirt, “take them off so I can put a value on your ass.”
A princess would never!
But Zauri did. In one motion, the black of her dress fell to the floor. Shame forced Saina’s eyes to the window, where bare sunlight fell on shrubs and dirt that refused to betray what was outside.
Mangled-arm man’s chair screeched as he jumped to his feet. “By Nur! I knew there was something wrong about you, but this is...this is...”
“Inside you,” Bayer said, “all that metal?”
Was it what Saina had glimpsed yesterday? Curiosity forced her to look. Zauri’s eyes were watery, her teeth digging into her lower lip.
On her back — it shimmered like silver, weaving in and out of her. A metal spine. There were the silicon threads Saina knew from all those years ago, finely woven into what seemed to be hundreds of aperture holes — all empty.
“I know someone who will be interested in her. Yes, very interested,” mangled-arm man said. “He’ll pay out of his hairy right nostril, for more reason than one, to have this thing in his lab. Wonderful find, Bayer. You’re the king of kings.”
Even in front, between her breasts, all the way to her naval — more holes of empty silver. Her skin seemed to grow around and over it in patches.
“Damn, Mezzin. I kind of liked her, but this is gross. What is it all anyway?”
Mezzin...so that’s his name...
Saina wondered why Zauri refused to look at her. Drenched in pity, she picked up Zauri’s dress and slid it back over her.
“Who the hell cares what it is.” Mezzin chuckled. “It’s something — good Nur. Across the insides of her thighs too.”
“And her back, all along her back.”
“She’s barely human anymore. Freak of freaks!”
“That’s bold coming from someone with a mangled metal arm!” Now Saina had their attention.
Mezzin looked at her with a candy smile. “It’s your turn now.”
“I won’t.”
“Going to play hard to get? You don’t want to. You really don’t want to.”
She mustered all her resolve. “As Princess Saina of the noble Barzamid House, I demand you release me, or else!”
Mezzin came closer. With every step and every way the light cast the shadow of his mangled form upon her, venom and its fear swam through her blood, and when he was close, she realized anew just how inhuman that arm was. Like a thousand snakes coiling into a mesh of twisted metal and burnt wire, it spat out of his body and seemed to move on its own.
“Want to know what happened to my arm?” He lunged at her neck, breathed in her ear. “I was fucking a girl not unlike you, when some hero got in the way. I won’t let that happen again.”
“You wouldn’t do that to me.” She backed away toward the wall. “You’d gain the wrath of Almaria and destroy yourself.”
“Do you know who I am, little girl?” His shadow covered her as he closed in. “You think we fear Almaria? We don’t even fear the Empire! A Son proves himself by taking whatever he wants. If you are a princess, all the better!”
He grabbed her dress and pulled, pulled the threads into her skin and around her neck. And his mouth — where was it going? His hair frizzled on her neck, and his hand went lower, across her back, into her thighs, and a fiery pull ripped the dress off her. She couldn’t push his weight, and now her head hit the wall, and she banged hard against it, and Zauri stood still barely looking her way, and Bayer stared as she fell over, and then mangled-arm man climbed on top. Get off me. Get off me. Save me, Abba. Don’t let this happen. Not to me. Not to your only daughter.
Air barely in her lungs and clothes torn, she couldn’t struggle. His hand reached around her neck, and he felt it and fingered it: the brand on her back. And then he got up, and she covered her breasts with her arms, and he pushed her face into the floor and she felt pangs of pain on her forehead.
Abba. I hate you. I hate you so much. You left me alone and this happened. Nur made you responsible for me. You’ll burn in hell for this, Abba.
“Look at that! You have a mark too! Hah! You were full of it, dirty whore.” Mezzin pointed at the back of her neck. “Check it out, Bayer. It’s an Almarian marker. I’ve seen a few of these. A slave brand, garbled up a bit because she must have grown with it, meaning she’s been a slave since a child! No, not a princess after all. Meh, I’m not interested in such low grade trash.”
Abba, you said I was your flesh and blood. You said the world was created for me. You said the sun would go out before you let me get hurt. You said...
“You know what I think, Bayer? This little whore may have not been completely full of it. She is well kept, after all. Maybe she was a harem girl. You know — schemin’ against the real princess, competing with the other harem trash, trying to be the prince’s prime cunt. And then maybe prince realized she wasn’t any good in bed, and sold her for something more filling.”
Why did you leave, Abba? I tried my best to be like mother. Like the one you really loved. I tried my best to be the way you wanted. I tried and you couldn’t accept that. I hate you more than I can.
“You know what, we don’t need this. Sell her off at the next auction. The real prize is this chick with holes all about her. She’s the real princess. She will sell like one. But please, get this little whore out of my sight. The auction uptown — the upper crust will be there. Give her a new dress and send her off.”
This was no fantasy. The world she felt was real. This was what she was, and it refused to change. Abba — where are you? Can’t you hear me crying? She thought of that day years ago, when he did.
The day when she awoke burnt out and broken in that room which smelt of rusted silicon fibers, and they refused to give her water for a bath, and she felt something in her throat like a sip of bitter fuel. And the dirty turban ma
n shouted at her for how clumsily she was sewing the apertures, and the little man Divu tried to get in the way, but what could a little man do?
The bitter fuel turned into a sore lump, and it spread down her throat and her lungs swelled and her breaths clogged.
That man picked up his leather belt and the shrieking slap of leather reddened her skin and chaffed it and blood filled her nose and darkness her eyes.
She was floating when she awoke. Everything was black. There were things twinkling in heaven, but she knew not what they were except that they burned in patterns. This was her existence, and her soul left her arms and legs and tore through her throat like cotton through a thorn bush.
She cried with her last ounce of self, and then she felt him pull her back to life, and the world was light, and his voice greeted her at bedside.
“You’re my daughter,” a man named Zayd told her. “You’re all I have and I’ve always loved you.”
But did that mean anything? Did it ever? Where are you now...if you love me, where the hell are you?
In the middle of a slum, Kav stood facing the doorway where the cold fire waited. He could get some warmth just beyond those walls. Like a cold day spent wrapped in blankets, sipping warm milk. That’s what he wanted from that fire.
I’m an addict. No self control. So weak willed.
That was his own thought. But the next one wasn’t.
Everyone is an addict. Everyone depends on something to survive. See the sun in the sky? You’re all addicts, using its light to live, fight, to survive. Eclipse it for a few moments, and everyone goes into withdrawal.
I won’t kill anymore Magi. Every time I kill one, something terrible happens to people who don’t deserve it. It’s my fault that the tidal wave hit the city and so many suffered. Had I let the Magus Dahma pilot the ship, then...then—
Didn’t we rectify that when I guided you toward saving that innocent couple? But the Magi are the opposite of innocent. And there’s only one more left.
There’s always only one more left. This time, I know you’re lying. Aside from Asha, what about the Grand Magus?
Just beyond those walls, the cold fire flickered – the taste of sumptuous milk, softly dripping down his throat. But he didn’t want it; he was terrified of getting closer. Even though he wanted it more than life.
Let me tell you a story. Imagine a king, who rules over a great nation. A generous king, who loves his subjects. But this king has an advisor, a misguided man with wicked and terrifying intentions.
Oh, so now you try and change the subject? How about you go tell your fairytale to someone who gives a damn?
Just listen, after all, you’re the prince in this fairytale. So when the advisor becomes more powerful than the king, the kingdom falls into ruin, and oppression takes hold in the land. And the oppressors one day break down your door, kill your family, and leave you to suffer all alone. Now the only way to save the nation and its people is to overthrow the wicked advisor, but he’s hiding. And to bring him out of hiding, you have to kill all his disciples.
Like I said, I don’t want to hear it.
Two guards came out to man the door, their right hands gripping hidden blades tucked in their jackets. The way the Sons had taught Kav, all those years ago. No doubt, this was their establishment.
Have you forgotten? You saw him with your own eyes that day, the Grand Magus Haytham. He and his cult destroyed your life, your home, your peace. Protect Layla, Kav. Kill all of them.
I can’t protect someone who’s already dead. You’re trying to turn me into your monster. I won’t submit.
The twicrys in his wrist throbbed with a milky glow. Layla’s bond — which had once lived over his heart. Put the fire out, swallow it, make it your soul. That’s what it told him. No. No. No. Yes. It’s going to feel so damn good.
At the auction house, Saina studied the audience and wondered who would take her. Was it to be the Shirmian nobleman with sweat dripping through his shirt, or the Keldanese merchant who kept nodding? Or maybe the dirty industrialist in the back row, who must be looking to man his factories with the lowest caste of disposable workers?
That little girl from earlier would wail now and then. She hadn’t lost the energy to show how miserable she was and how badly she wanted things to magically be better. Crying — it was the farthest thing from Saina’s mind. She had cried enough already.
The little girl sold, and the Shirmian nobleman walked away with another to fulfill his whims. What kind of life would possess her? Would she be a slave in a mansion, ridiculed and dehumanized until even her spirit to cry died? Forget about her — what will happen to me?
Saina was next, and they tossed her into the center, and the sunlight was on her and so were the eyes of everyone.
The auction master began. “Almarian virgin girl, five-foot-one, ninety-five pounds, cup size B.”
B? How generous.
“Reserve is set at 1500 Shirmian twinsen, currently equivalent to 56,530 Keldanese emrils. As mentioned, due to the current inflationary period, Keldanese emrils will not be accepted. With that said, let us begin.”
“Sixteen!” It came from a man in the back, his face and body shadowed.
The Keldanese merchant raised his skinny finger. “Seventeen!”
“Nineteen!” the man in the back said.
The dirty industrialist added his bid. “Twenty-four!”
“Twenty-five!” shouted the man in the back.
“Twenty-six!” roared the dirty industrialist. And now there was a pause.
I’m already worth more than the others...
“Is that all? Anymore bids?”
No — anyone but him. Maybe he’s not a factory owner, maybe he’s a loving person, maybe I have him all wrong.
She looked at her new owner; sunlight beamed between them from the roof panels. He approached the stage, his clothes marked with soot, sand sprinkled in his hair. And then she heard it dangle by his side — ching-ching — a set of cuffs on chains.
“Wait! Twenty-seven!” The man from the shadows spoke up.
“No! Thirty! I want this one!” The dirty man grabbed his chain, as if about to strike any counter bidders.
“3000 twinsen is the current bid. Are there any more bids?”
Probably not, because 3000 twinsen was the quarterly salary of an eye doctor in Qindsmar.
Abba — I’m not even worth that much to you, am I? And now I...
“Then, for 3000 twinsen, you are all witness to this—”
Something stirred. The sun moved. A shadow fell on the world, bending sunshine and whirling into a white phantasm.
And then he materialized: a man in a white mask.
White mask...Abba?
Armed men stormed the stage and surrounded the masked man. Saina stared at the starlight whiteness in hope.
“I’m here to make a bid,” the masked man said in devoured breaths. “For the girl.”
The armed men relaxed and backed away. The auction master got over being flabbergasted and returned to the matter.
“The current bid is 3000 twinsen. Will you bid 3100?”
“I don’t have money.”
There was a hoarse laugh in the audience.
“Sorry? How do you expect to make a bid without money?”
“I...have something else.”
“We are only accepting Shirmian twinsen as currency. Sorry.”
The man was still. “Dammit. Just...wait, it could be worth something.”
He took out a knife — rusty and plain.
“I don’t think that little blade is worth 3100 twinsen,” the dirty industrialist said.
More hoarse laughs.
Saina didn’t understand. Who was this being with a mask that glowed like a falling star?
Knife in hand, the man did something unreal. He fleshed the blade into his wrist, and the light around him flickered. The man grasped his head in pain, then dropped something into the hand of the auction master: a twicrys, the tinies
t thing, but it gleamed with unrelenting passion.
Something was different about him. He was real. “Valuate this. It’s all I have.” Blood trickled down his wrist. He covered his face with his hands. There was a familiarity to him.
The auction master summoned someone with an eyepiece. He studied the twicrys and turned back with a terrified gape. “This is...unbelievable.”
“Give us a price,” said the auction master.
“It’s symmetry is perfect, it’s intricacy is beyond what I can see, it’s structure is so solid I bet you couldn’t crush it with twenty tons of weight. This twicrys is worth not less than 10,000 twinsen.”
“This a joke!?” the dirty industrialist said.
“Current bid stands at 10,000 twinsen. Are there any more bidders?”
The dirty man walked away fuming. And there were no more bidders.
“Sold!”
“Kav — that you?” Saina recognized him by the wavy hair under his hood.
He looked at her with cracked-emerald eyes and smiled.
“Kav, why?”
“I just bled my wrist, again, to save you. All I ask is you don’t ask why.”
He took her by the hand and they walked away, all eyes on them. Outside, salt filled the air and seagulls squawked below clouds. Kav seemed breathless, just like in the forest when he knifed out his twicrys.
“Where are we going?” Saina asked.
“A beach with warm sand.”
He took her behind the bungalows lining the street to where embers of sand kissed the ocean. His wrist continued bleeding, so Saina ripped part of her angel dress and tied it around his empty aperture. Kav threw off his shoes, sat in the sand, and lay back. The grains were hot beneath Saina’s feet, yet soft, as if she melted into them. She sat and watched Kav with worry and wonder.
“You going to tell me what just happened?” Saina said.
He was still, as if asleep.
“And, umm, thanks for freeing me.”