"He was a good cat. Always kept the mice away."
Silas turned, wiped his brow. Keste's hair, eyes, skin, and smock were so close in hue they made her a daylight ghost. A box lay at her feet.
"Let's put him in there," she said. "So the foxes won't get at him."
He nodded. Silas gathered the remains with the shovel and scraped away the crimson soil. Keste averted her eyes till he was done, then helped him seal the box. Soon only a mound of dirt marked Mulberry's demise.
"Someone around here must have a litter," Silas said. "I'm sure you could…"
"No. I won't get another cat." She brushed her cheek. A lock clung beneath her eye. "I'll get a dog. A big, vicious brute. The kind that eats foxes."
They walked Keste back to the shack. She opened the front window's shutters and watched them ride off.
"Where now?" Silas said, after a while.
"We'll try our luck in town."
***
Rayya's dreams tumbled away. Her eyelids trembled and the light sealed them again. Why was her bed so strange? Memories washed over her, one by one, and their current swept her towards wakefulness. Her room. Clara's. Ghadi's house. Oh… Lencia.
She sat up on the dead woman's bedclothes.
Clara! Where was-
The door opened. Rayya's lungs froze. She scooted backwards, away from whatever had come for her. Kharjis wielding swords and torches… Purple monsters… Peacekeepers who'd drag her off to the gallows… Lencia, eyes glowering in what was left of her face…
"Morning."
Clara put a tray down on the bed. Savoury smells wafted. Rayya blinked at her. Clara just smiled, and for the barest instant Rayya Shimud wondered if it had all been a dream. Because Clara's smile, that bowl of golden porridge, didn't belong in the same world where her friend bludgeoned a woman to death. But this was a world where her parents lay beside their gateposts, so maybe everything belonged now.
"Your hand…" Rayya said.
Clara lifted her mitt, turned it this way and that. Bandages encased everything down to her wrist. Fingers wriggled inside their wrappings.
"Hurt it," Clara said.
"In the fight?"
"Yeah."
"Let me see…"
Clara's hand drew back.
"It's fine. Really. Eat, before it gets cold."
Rayya opened her mouth to say she wasn't hungry, but her stomach rumbled. She picked up the spoon. Porridge baked her tongue and something crunched between her teeth. She swallowed it down. Her friend had a lot to learn about cracking eggs…
Clara opened a trunk while Rayya ate. She rummaged inside, tossed clothes in all directions. Rayya thought of chiding her. But why did it matter, after what they'd done? Clara Mandrake found a pair of gloves. Big, fat things. She put them on and they fit over her bandages.
"Want anything?"
Clara gestured at mounds of breeches, jerkins, socks, and undergarments. Rayya shook her head. She finished her breakfast, picked up the tray, then put it back down on the bed. Clara went out into the main room. Rayya paused at the threshold. She clenched and unclenched her fists, took a deep breath, and stepped through.
Redness stained the floor, the rug, the chairs. But Lencia was gone and Rayya exhaled.
"Where…?"
She shook her head. It didn't matter. Rayya took her clothes off the rack, pulled them on.
Clara opened the front door and they stepped into the morning.
***
"One girl, in all of that…"
Jasmina sighed. Fahmaia nodded, though she only half-heard her. This hilltop wasn't as lofty, the scene before her far less vast. But Lemstras sprawled to the horizon and she shivered. If they failed… No eyes gleamed among the clouds. Yet she imagined Allat's hand all the same, poised to grind the city till all its buildings and denizens were just a smear on the landscape.
"There are believers here," the mawlana said. "Our brothers and sisters. They'll help us do the Goddess' will. And…"
At the edge of the city, the maimed men and woman passed a set of stables. People stared at them. Some spoke, gestured. The trio talked with them and gesticulated with their stumps. Their voices didn't reach the hilltop, but their meaning did. The story of the swamp and their suffering. When it was done, an old man beckoned. He led them along the road. They disappeared under a marble arch which might once have been part of a wall. Fahmaia prayed Allat would them show mercy in whatever lives remained for them.
"Parmeen, Maalam… You're the best riders."
The pair exchanged looks with Jasmina and Azim. After a moment, all four of them nodded.
"Yes, mawlana." Maalam glanced at the stables.
"You'll need us," Parmeen said. "We're few enough…"
"That's why you must ride. And two are safer on their travels."
They went down to the road. People clustered here and there around the stable buildings. Workers tended to the animals, while others loitered. A few conversations died when the Kharjis drew near.
"We want to buy horses," Fahmaia said. "Two of them."
A man and woman whispered nearby. Both wore doublets with elaborate sleeves, and gold glittered on their fingers. The woman's voice rose.
"…their money's just as good… I'll take them if you won't…"
She came over and looked Fahmaia up and down. Her gaze lingered on the mawlana's mask before it met her eyes.
"Ride or pull?"
"Ride."
"This way."
She led the Kharjis to the stalls, pointed out a mare and a stallion. Fahmaia stood back while her warriors inspected the animals — from hoof to tooth.
"How much?"
The merchant named her price. Fahmaia laughed. Numbers went back and forth. It was a long time since she'd haggled. Kharjis almost threw their wares at her, ever since her markings appeared. But her childhood in the bazaars lingered at the back of her mind. Those skills hadn't faded.
Their prices met. Hands shook. Minutes later, Parmeen and Maalam rode away.
"I've heard there's a masjid in the city," Fahmaia said.
"Like a temple for your lot?" the merchant said.
"Yes."
"Yeah, think so. Somewhere in the east quarter. The market-traders and shopkeepers around there can point you towards it."
"Thank you."
The three Kharjis passed through the arch's shadows, into the noise and stink of Lemstras.
"Hey!" A woman in a blue and black tabard jogged over to them at the first crossroads. The butt of her halberd tapped the ground. "No swords."
"Excuse me?" Fahmaia had to stop her hand from going to the hilt of Jamsheed's weapon.
"No one 'cept peacekeepers can wear anything bigger than a knife. Mayor's orders."
"What's the difference between a long knife and a short sword?" Azim said.
"My halberd, up your arse."
He took half a step forward. The peacekeeper's left leg crept back into a combat stance. Fahmaia put her hand on Azim's chest.
"We've only just arrived," she said. "We didn't know."
"Fair enough. Don't blame you for wanting sharp steel on the road. But…"
"We're looking for the masjid."
"That where you'll be staying?"
"We hope so."
"I'll take you. Make sure there's no trouble."
The woman marched them down streets and alleys, through a marketplace where stall-keepers and shoppers stared.
"More bloody Kharjis…"
"Bandits, the lot of 'em…"
"Want to buy some fish? Even your goddess would love these trout!"
The masjid was larger than Fahmaia expected. Atop its steps, marble slabs flanked the entrance. Each supported a pair of feet, sculpted from the same rock.
"Smashed the statues when they bought the place." The peacekeeper shrugged. Her halberd prodded the stone that capped one of the ankles. "Ask me, I thought those gods, or heroes, or whatever they were, brightened the place up."
A seagull squawked overhead.
"Stash your weapons in your lodgings, till you're leaving the city."
"We will. Thank you."
The peacekeeper stood back, and the three Kharjis entered Allat's house.
***
The roar came on the wind. Voices melded into a tumult greater than any Clara had heard in her entire life, even at the height of the festival when wine and cider flowed. How many throats did it take to make that much noise? A thousand? A million?
She and Rayya looked at one another.
"Hogmire?" Rayya said.
"Must be."
"Sounds like a battle…"
Shrieks and war cries echoed in Clara's brain. But this wasn't the same. It came at them again, and there was joy amid the ferocity. Their steps quickened. They mounted a rise, and the first buildings lay in front of them. A vista of rooftops rolled away.
People milled around where the road became Hogmire. Two leaned on staves. Another's arm hung inside a sling. One woman held a bloody handkerchief to her nose.
"…should've kicked him right in the…"
"..bowk me dose…"
"…if the bastards win this one, they'll never shut their…"
Clara and Rayya passed between them. A man looked around, then planted himself in front of the girls.
"You two can't play." Gums flapped where his front teeth should've been. "Too small. They'll smash you."
"Oh, bullcrap!" a woman said. She clasped her upper arm, wrenched it, and grimaced when it popped into place. "I wasn't much bigger at my first match. Small and agile. Would've scored too, if some tosser hadn't stamped on my head."
"We just want to get to The Cracked Crown," Clara said.
"Too small." The man crossed his arms, shook his head.
Clara's vision flashed. She'd pull off her glove, tear the bandages away, shove five black blades through his… Those images, impulses, would've frightened her once. It was hard to care about dark thoughts when claws had sprouted from your fingers. She forced them back down. But her eyeballs burned.
"Get out of our way."
She glared up at him.
"Clara…" Rayya touched her arm.
The man blinked, averted his gaze.
"Whatever. You get broken into little pieces, don't come crying to me."
Clara moved around him.
"Wait!" The woman still clutched her injured limb, but pointed with the toe of her boot. "You have to pick a side. Even if you don't play."
"Have to," a man said. Dark red coloured half his grey locks and a quarter of his face. He swayed till his neighbour steadied him. "Folk come to watch, get caught up in the excitement, and jump in. If they're not in colours, causes all sorts of trouble."
Two crates stood side-by-side. Both held piles of sackcloth.
"Purple or green?" the woman said.
A couple of the onlookers wore armless tunics. More of the garments lay in heaps at the others' feet.
"Purple?" Clara said.
A few cheered. One youth booed, till someone clipped him round the ear.
"They're for Hogmire!" The gums shaped a grin. He rapped his fist on the purple saltire which bound his torso. "Still say you're too small, but at least you're with us."
The woman with the relocated arm chanted. A couple more joined in.
"Hogmire, Hogmire, Hogmire! Hog! Hog! Hog!"
"Here." The gum-grinning man held sackcloth in each hand.
Clara took hers, brought it to her face. The purple smelled sweet but sharp. Her nose tapped it and came away damp. Some of the colour stuck to her gloves. She shrugged and put it on. Rayya did the same, then pulled her plait out from under it. The fit wasn't bad.
"The pub's over that way…" The woman pointed with her boot. She bent the leg back as though readying a kick, pivoted on the ball of her foot, and extended it again. "But if you want to join in, Grunshire's goal's there. See the flag?"
A green pennant flapped atop a spire.
"Since you're with us, your goal's…" Another bend, pivot, kick. "…on the other side of town. Can't see any of the flags from here, but you'll know it when you see it. It's the temple. Ball through the doorway to score. Played football before?"
Both girls shook their heads.
"Use your feet on the ball-"
"That's why we call it football." The gum-grinning man tapped the side of his nose. "But you can use your hands on those Grunshire wankers. Knees, elbows, and teeth as well, if you've a mind to."
"Okay…?" Rayya said.
"Good luck!" The woman released her own arm, grimaced, and patted each girl's shoulder.
"Hogmire, Hogmire, Hogmire! Hog! Hog! Hog!"
The battle cry chased them into the streets.
***
Rashida looked from the book to her parchment, as though her gaze might carry Allat's scripture across, give it shape in the infidels' script, meaning in their tongue. But the One Goddess didn't oblige with a miracle. And so the imam mulled over sacred verse, weighed up several possible translations, wrote one down, and struck it out.
She rolled the quill between her fingers.
It was impossible. How could she convey the power and beauty of the Goddess' voice, render it in some lesser language? She should just consign the manuscript to the fire… No. Allat smiled when infidels became believers, and divine words would achieve that faster than any preacher's passion or clever arguments. But only if those infidels comprehended them.
Imam Rashida prayed, wrote, rewrote, and gazed at the translation. She allowed herself a smirk. It read even better than she'd hoped.
"Allatu Akbar."
She dipped the quill again, but voices clamoured outside in the prayer room. Rashida frowned. If the youngsters were gossiping again, spreading stories about Barzik Khan and his 'beard of doom'…
The imam went to the mirror. Checked herself for ink marks. Arranged her turban. Assumed a grim expression. When her reflection appeared ready to put the fear of the Goddess into them, she opened the door and strode forth.
"What's all this-"
They stared at her. Fatima and Yasmin were there, with a few more of the congregation, and their mouths gaped. A woman stood in their midst. Dirt and dust clung to her travel garb, yet when she bowed her head there was such grace in the movement that she might've worn the finest silks from Khalib.
"Imam Rashida?"
"Y… Yes."
Rashida's brain tried to return the gesture, but her body didn't respond. The woman's face… Holy words flowed upon her skin. The same verse the imam had just translated passed across the stranger's cheek.
"I'm Fahmaia Hashad. My companions and I request your hospitality, if you'll have us."
The mawlana! A woman with Allat's blessing on her very flesh…
Fahmaia's expression didn't change. A smile hovered on the mawlana's lips, as though it might last forever. But another stranger coughed into her fist.
"Oh… Of… Of course. We'd be honoured. Yasmin, Fatima… Show them to the dormitory. I fear our quarters here are humble. If you'd prefer, I… My home is yours, mawlana."
"Thank you, imam. Truly. But places in the masjid are more than enough. May we speak?"
"Yes. Please… My study."
The mawlana passed her pack to her comrades. They followed Yasmin and Fatima to the stairway. Chatter erupted behind Fahmaia Hashad before she'd gone more than a few feet. Rashida shut the door behind them and hoped it'd muffle the worst of it.
She indicated the armchairs by the fireplace. When Fahmaia sat in the less comfortable of the two, she bit her tongue. If Rashida suggested she take the other instead, would she frown? Denounce the imam for her hedonism? But if she didn't offer… Rashida envisioned hellfire.
The mawlana let out a sigh and settled into the seat.
"Was your journey long?"
"Not so long, but hard and harsh."
"Would you take food and wine?"
"If it's no trouble, imam."
"Rashida
, please."
She opened her cupboard. A few moments later, she set a goblet and a saucer of baklava on the table at the mawlana's elbow. Fahmaia sipped the wine. Then she removed her glove, unveiled more of the dancing scripture, and took a piece of pastry between thumb and forefinger.
"This is… wonderful."
"A gift from an elderly sister." Rashida extended her fingers, curled them back, then extended them again. "Forgive me… but may I…"
"Of course."
Fahmaia held out her hand. Rashida's fingers brushed her skin. The script continued to move beneath, and she felt nothing but flesh.
"Allat…"
Fahmaia took another sip. The goblet hid part of her face, and the imam's words came easier.
"Mawlana… The stories they've told, about the village…"
"Traverd?"
"They say the Khan's warriors attacked it."
"It was so."
"Did the villagers… attack one of the faithful? Harm our brothers and sisters?"
Fahmaia sighed. She set aside her cup, leaned in closer to the imam.
"The Goddess sent me a vision while I knelt at prayer. Her judgement looms over the world."
"Allat be praised!"
At last! She'd annihilate the non-believers and… Fahmaia's eyes glinted. The smile seeped from Rashida's lips.
"She intends to destroy the whole world for its sins."
"But… Even the faithful?"
"Everyone will perish. Such is her punishment for what we've allowed to happen."
The imam's brain throbbed with its own heartbeat. She tried to speak but nothing came out. Allat was merciful! She loved the Kharji people! How could this-
"Barzik and I carried out a great sacrifice to earn her forgiveness. Traverd."
"The whole village?"
"Every man, woman, and child. Allat demanded no less."
Rashida's spine crumpled. She slumped back into the armchair. Fahmaia touched the imam's knee and she flinched.
"But we failed. A girl… Clara… escaped into the forest and eluded us. She's come to Lemstras. We must complete the sacrifice."
"You'll… You'll kill her? Here, in the city?"
"We must. For the Goddess. But we'll need your help to find her in this vast place. You and the brothers and sisters of your masjid."
Clara Mandrake's Monster Page 15