Yeah, he was right. That felt better. A thirty minute bout of crap-kicking sorted her head out the way meditation never did. And now she was twiddling her thumbs till her appointment with grandmama. Reclining in a silk robe in the bathhouse. Nice long soak, a massage, and now a lounge. The student quarters were fairly basic, but no expense was ever spared for the Precinct’s elite. A music charm played theorbo concertos, incense rose from the censers, and she’d sent the bathhouse girl off to fetch her some clean clothes from grandmama’s. Well, no point being a stuck-up little princess if you didn’t milk it now and then.
This morning she was the only one reclining among the purple velvet cushions. Laid out on the low marble slab beside her was breakfast. All the meanies had provided was a few pathetic baskets of fresh bread, some platters of cold meat and fish, bowls of fruit, mounds of frivolous patisserie. Oh well, I can always ring the little bell and send the girl for more, thought Anabara.
She poured some chocolate and was about to select a pastry when—there!—something moved.
Her pulse raced. Someone was in here. A man. Golar! Behind that carved screen. Between her and the door. Stay alert. Don’t make yourself an easy target. No other exit. The windows were high, narrow. A weapon. The water flagon. Pelago, let him not have a crossbow!
Her fingers closed round the vessel’s neck. Focus. Keep him in your peripheral vision. Wait for his move.
She could hear him breathing.
Then a voice whispered, ‘Psst, pretty girl!’
Dear God! She released the flagon. That fecking Zaarzuk.
His appeared from behind the screen, grinning. ‘I see you fighting the Master. Hey, you fight very good. For a girl.’ She was trembling with rage. And the tidal wave of relief. He crossed swiftly and knelt before her. ‘Hey, hey. I frightened you? I’m sorry.’
She shoved him away. ‘Just feck off, idiot! This isn’t some stupid game!’
He smote his forehead. ‘I am a big idiot, like you say. Forgive me. You think, for real, someone is hunting you?’ His eyes flashed. ‘Only tell me his name, and you shall have his jewels for knacker-ackers and his head for your gatepost!’
‘Clown.’ She steadied her breathing. ‘It’s nothing. Work stuff. Now get out. You shouldn’t be here.’
‘Tell me about your work. I can help, maybe?’
‘No way.’
‘Ach, God’s love! Pity me. I kick my heels here, I weep for boredom. I miss my horse, I miss my dogs. Am I a schoolboy? Give me man’s work and I will do it. Tell me: this Fay—Fairy—of yours. He mends the ancient charms of the library, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Or pretends to. ‘Out. Now.’
‘I go, I go. But the library, you know it has tunnels with many thousand, thousand books? Some say twenty leagues, like a maze, all under here.’ He rapped his knuckles on the marble floor.
‘Yes, the Stacks. What about them?’
‘There are ghosts down there.’
‘Tscha!’
‘Would I lie to you? Ghosts of Fays. Fairies. I have seen their lights.’
‘No you haven’t. Students aren’t allowed in the Stacks.’
‘What can I say?’ He turned up his palms. ‘I am a Zaarzuk. I go where I am not allowed. I see a sign, Forbidden and pff! I must go there.’
‘Really? I hadn’t noticed that.’ Stop encouraging him. She tried to frown. ‘Look, seriously, if you’re caught in here—’
He shrugged. ‘Then I take my punishment. Who is this great dumb Gull you bring to the library, hey? I hate this man. All the girls are lusting for him. They steal books on purpose, so he must come to fetch them back. I think maybe you keep his picture in this?’ He flicked the amulet with his finger. ‘Maybe he’s your lover?’
‘None of your business.’ She slapped his hand away. ‘Now get out, or I’ll tell the Master.’
‘You would betray me?’ He seized her hand and tucked it inside his robe, pressed it to his heart. Her breath caught. God, the taut muscle of his chest. ‘You feel it beat, yes? The Master, he has no heartbeat. He has no passions, no weakness like other men.’
Wrong, she thought. Yanni had no defence against her girlish pouting and tantrums. Admittedly, these weren’t ideal tactics for a Zaarzuk warrior.
‘Why you smile?’ He raised her hand to his lips, but she snatched it away. ‘He works me, he beats me with his stick, he gives me nothing but water and oats. What, am I his mule?’ He gazed at the feast.
Anabara sighed. ‘Go on then.’
He kissed his finger tips, and fell to it.
Well, the man surely had an appetite. She lounged back among the cushions and watched as he devoured more than she usually ate in a week—bread, cheese, meat, more bread, cakes, great drafts of pomegranate juice. He smacked his lips, he groaned with pleasure. Yanni was clearly starving him.
Finally he wiped his mouth, sighed, and gave her a flashing smile.
‘Finished?’
‘I pause for breath.’ He pointed to the pastries. ‘What you call these, hey?’
A spot of Offcomer-baiting was called for here. ‘Well, the little round ones are harlot’s navels,’ she lied.
He worked the tip of his tongue into his chipped front tooth. ‘Yes, I know this sweetmeat.’
I bet. ‘Those ones there are tart’s thighs.’
‘These I know also. They fall apart very easy.’
She guffawed. ‘And the ones with cherries on top are maidenheads. Help yourself.’
‘Help myself?’ He reclined suddenly, facing her. Mouth inches from hers. ‘A man does not help himself to a maidenhead. It must be given him as a gift, yes?’
‘Na ah.’ She laughed. ‘You’ll be waiting a long—Woo! Get off, you ape!’
‘Come, let me try how sweet the cherry is.’ Stop giggling, idiot, sling him out! But the heat and hardness of him, through the thin silk. ‘You make me have these tarts instead?’ he asked, ‘these harlots?’ His mouth. Too close.
Oh dear Lord.
It was true.
That was how those filthy Zaarzuks kissed. Like this. And this. And—
A shriek echoed round the room. The girl dropped the pile of clothes and fled.
Anabara squirmed underneath him, tried to thrust him off. ‘Get out!’ An alarm bell started clanging. ‘Get out, get out!’
But the Zaarzuk only laughed at her panic. He twitched her robe open, and sprang back out of reach. ‘Hah, two pretty peaches! These I will have later.’
‘You—!’ She clutched the silk round herself. ‘Arsehole!’
He scooped up a handful of pastries and swaggered from the lounge to meet his punishment.
CHAPTER 11
I meant to do that. It was a tactic. Create huge rumpus, distract grandmama from murder enquiry.
Aw Go-o-od. This was so mortifying. Anabara sat huddled on the library roof, her chin on her knees. Silver ropes of rain shimmered their way across the salt flats. The only person in history to be banned from the St Dalfinia Senior Women’s Bathhouse for lewd behaviour.
But we were only kissing, for God’s sake. If it’s lewd behaviour you want, check out the Senior Men’s Bathhouse! Talk about double standards!
Nevertheless, Ms Nolio, you are banned. Furthermore, you should consider yourself fortunate your contract with the library has not been terminated. Said the Dean of Women. (Also known as Aunt Léanora.)
Yes, it would blow over; the worst of the nudging and sniggering would pass. And no doubt she could have Butros kick up a legal stink about gender discrimination and get the ban reversed. But she would for evermore be pointed out as that detective who’d been surprised in the bathhouse under a Zaarzuk. God, nobody was going to take her seriously ever again!
She thunked her forehead. What’s the matter with you? Encouraging him with your smutty jokes and giggling, then expecting him to listen when you tell him to get out! Oh why was she so crap at the whole man thing? Screwed by her mixed heritage, that’s why. Everyone kept giving the poor motherless Anabar
a the benefit of their advice. The Galen women told her to assert her right to physical love without shame (well, unless that contravened University regulations). Then along came the Gullmothers to tell her that only dirty sluts didn’t save themselves for their husband on their wedding night!
Small wonder she was so clueless. Helpless in the hands of a greedy wicked Zaarzuk who knew exactly what he was about. Did she love him? No. Yes. No. No! Stupid and pointless to fall for him. Not like she was going to ride off into the sunset and become a Zaarzuk bride, was it! Learn his language and his ways. Be treated worse than his dog.
And then there was the thought of Yanni. She wrung her hands. Anything else she could brazen out. He’d said nothing, but he was incandescent. This was what had driven her up here on to the roof. She was trying to get a grip before facing grandmama. It wasn’t working. Instead, she found herself two seconds from howling in misery. She flapped her hands in front of her eyes to urge back the rising tide of tears. No good.
She scrambled to her feet. Then her heart lurched as if she’d lost her footing. Paran. Watching from the top of the library dome. God, that’s all I need. My lovely associate: at best a liar, at worst a killer.
He sprang down, skimmed silently across the wet roof tops towards her. It hit her: I’ve spent my whole life trying to be pro-Fairy because of my parents. But I hate them. I hate the creepy way they move. I hate the way they stare. I hate the way they talk. I hate every horrible slinking lying thing about them. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. There. I’m worse than Butros, she thought. At least Butros isn’t a hypocrite.
The Fairy dropped to her side. Stared. Waited.
She cleared her throat. ‘How’s the charm-work going? Any progress?’
‘Yes.’
Lying gutter weasel. Playing you like a tinker’s fiddle. She’d got to master the art of pinning him down. ‘Specifically,’ she said, ‘what progress have you made with the library’s ancient stained glass window charms?’
Pause. That was another thing she hated—the time lag before he answered.
Every.
Bloody.
Conversation.
‘Specifically,’ he replied, ‘I have repaired the defence charms on seven of the twelve stained glass windows in the Library Round Room dome of St Pelago’s University, in the City Isle of Larridy.’
For a fleeting second Anabara wondered if he was taking the piss. But they had no sense of humour, of course. Then she thought: hang on, repaired? He’d repaired them? Impossible, he—
Pin him down, pin him down. ‘When you say “repaired”, what do you mean, exactly?’
Stare. ‘I mean, I have restored them to good condition and working order. Set them to rights. Mended them. Renovated, revivified, re-pristinated them,’ he said. ‘Is my meaning still obscure?’
Shit—the preservation orders! What kind of a bodged job had he done? ‘Aargh! Stop mending them!’
‘No.’
‘Paran, these are priceless heritage-listed artifacts, not shop fronts! You can’t just wade in and charm the crap out of them! Stop working on them this minute!’ He shook his head. ‘Hey! The deal says I’m the boss.’
‘The deal also says I have “my own area of responsibility”. Namely—’ he curled his lip ‘—security “stuff”.’
‘Well, the deal ALSO says you have to promote the wellbeing of my business!’ she yelled in panic. ‘We’re just supposed to be doing a preliminary report, here! If you knacker those windows, my professional reputation goes up in flames!’
‘Ah—your professional reputation! I was forgetting,’ said the Fairy. ‘Perhaps I, too, could enhance it by cavorting naked with a dirty horseboy in the public bathhouse?’
Her cheeks blazed. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, perhaps—’
‘I heard you, bog scum! I’ll toss you off the fecking roof if you talk to me like that! First off, I didn’t cavort naked with him; secondly, we call them Zaarzuks; and thirdly, it wasn’t the public bathhouse!’
A long silence. Long enough for Anabara to recite the ‘doing her no harm’ clause to herself several times. And to reconsider the bog scum remark.
‘A word of advice,’ said the Fairy. ‘Don’t defend yourself like that. You’ll only magnify your folly.’
‘I don’t need your advice.’
The three-quarters bell began to chime. Grandmama.
She made a belated stab at dignity. ‘I apologise for losing my temper. We’ll have to discuss the windows later, as I have an appointment. One other thing—my Counsel wants to see you. He’ll explain why. His name’s Butros Kaledh and I’d appreciate it if you told him the truth.’
‘Butros Kaledh.’ Pause. Another curl of the lip. ‘Is he a kinsman of yours?’
Ba-boom! went her heart. ‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Oh, curiosity.’
Rain pattered on the tiles all around. She could read nothing in those jet-black eyes. ‘Listen, I love Butros, all right? He’s like family. I’d be beside myself if anything bad happened to him.’
‘Ah!’ said the Fairy. ‘Then we must hope he is careful.’ He turned to leave.
‘Paran, listen to me!’ she called after him. ‘You can’t just… just go around killing people. You’ve got to promise—What?’
He was pointing to the side of his head. ‘My right ear. I am attached to it. I prefer to remain so.’
With that, he was off over the rooftops like a grey spider.
Grins on every side. It was like those nightmares where you’re walking to school and for some reason you’ve got no clothes on. Go on, say something, she urged them. Say one word and I’ll kick your teeth in. She passed a knot of male students outside the buttery. One of them clicked his tongue like a horse trotting. Blood rushed to her cheeks. Right! But as she turned, the Fairy’s words flashed into her mind: You’ll only magnify your folly. Paran had given her good advice once before and she’d ignored him. She clenched her fists and walked on. Snickering followed her down the length of the marble arcade.
And now there was the ‘What Are We Going To Do About Anabara?’ committee to face. Which influential VIPs had grandmama assembled this time for the emergency Governors’ Meeting? The university Vice Chancellor? The High Sheriff of Larridy? God?
Enobar would be wetting himself with excitement. Maybe I’ll get Paran to kill him after all. Anabara thunked her forehead again. Don’t joke about it! If you tried to be funny, even intelligent highbred Fairies stared like you’d lifted a leg and farted. They could grasp the idea of humour conceptually, but they drew back in disgust whenever it occurred. She doubted Paran even got the concept. He was the most literal-minded moron she’d ever met. I LOVE ENOBAR, she daubed in letters a yard high.
And she did. In spite of everything, she loved him. Partly because he was a fellow demy. His father was Galen, his mother Candacian. Shorter than most Galens, slight, totally exquisite to look at with his honey skin, his curls, his slanting dark eyes. Grandmama had poached him three years back from the Candacian Embassy, where he had been a trainee attaché. He came with glowing references. Of course he did! According to Butros, Enobar had been about one week away from getting fired for his inability to keep his big mouth shut. Or tell the truth when it was open. Enobar was 19 years old and in the humour stakes, the total opposite of a Fairy—he thought everything was a joke. And Anabara just knew today’s gag was going to be: Did you hear the one about the Patriarch’s niece and the Zaarzuk?
She rounded the corner beside the library.
What the hell?
Blood rushed back to her face. The scholasticus—with Carraman Senior and a highbred female Fairy. Probably the one Loxi had seen busting into Anabara’s house. All three stared at her as though they had heard the joke, and frankly, it was about as big and clever as a whoopee cushion. Carraman fingered his silver-topped ebony cane. His eyes slid over her damp clothes, grubby from the library roof, and he sneered. The Fairy’s tattoos rippled with liquid fire. She
didn’t sneer, but she emanated menace, like a bottled thunderstorm.
Then the scholasticus inclined his head, and the three passed on in silence. The ten o’clock bell began to ring. Golar, she thought suddenly. A certain Larridy security firm with whom he has business dealings. Allegedly. What was going on? Was Carraman part of the plot to frame her? She stared after them and felt an icicle of fear slip into her chest. But there was no time to puzzle over it now. She sped towards the Senior Staff quarters and up the shallow marble stairs.
The door chime faded. She heard the flutter of silk, the tinkle of anklets, as bare feet padded to the door. Enobar let her in.
‘I’m not telling you anything,’ she said. ‘Who’s here?’
‘Just me and her ladyship,’ he whispered. ‘But you are so going to tell me everything. Oh my God, oh my God—was he masterful? Did he—’
She smacked him aside and went through to the reclining room. ‘Grandmama!’
‘Darling!’ A whirlwind of embroidered kaftan and Anabara was in the matriarchal bosom, cheek ground against a tangle of pearls and gold. Jessamine enveloped her and she was two years old again.
‘You poor, poor child! This is an outrage! What was Léonora thinking?’ Anabara was crushed even tighter. Grandmama’s nasty little hairless dog yipped around their ankles. ‘Come, sit with me, my darling, and tell me all about it. Enobar, a tisane. And some almond biscuits.’
They sank into the velvet depths of the couch. Anabara kicked off her boots and tucked her feet under her. The dog sprang up. She shoveled it into grandmama’s lap and wiped her hands. The thing looked like a raw offal sausage with a ginger moustache.
‘I make a point of never criticizing my successor,’ began Grandmama—Anabara knew better than to glance Enobar’s way at this piece of monumental self-delusion—‘but I would not have made such an absurd song and dance were I still dean. A quiet word, that’s all that was required.’ She adjusted her peacock feather turban, and petted the dog. Dame Ferdinora Bharossa had the nose of a sorceress, and her eyes were a terrifying poison green in her dark face. Her reputation as a hex-caster was formidable. Completely unfounded, but formidable.
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