by Tia Reed
The High One chuckled. “Ooo. What does she want?”
“A kiss.”
“A kiss?” Drucilamere demanded. “Just a kiss?”
Timak nodded.
The High one shoulder-bumped him. “Is she pretty?”
Timak nodded.
Doric made a series of gestures with his pudgy arms.
“How important is this quartz?” the High One asked. “If it is in the hands of the djinn, the only way to retrieve it is to deal.”
“It is,” said Drucilamere, “crucial to the future of magic in Myklaan. But I will not allow the boy to deal. No object is more important than a life.”
“Then I think it is lost to you.” The High One shuffled to the armchair and settled himself down. “Did you know, Timak, that the djinn are fabled to be the children of Mahktos?”
“Tales of heretics,” the monk said.
Timak bit his lip and shook his head. “She said she was just a girl.”
“Just so, just so. There is much we don’t know.”
Timak stared at the light, twisting his mouth in different directions. He supposed he could kiss a girl. He had seen Master Magus Drucilamere and Lady Jordayne lock lips like they would never come apart. Neither of them seemed to feel disgusting and filthy when they pulled apart, their faces moist but flushed. And his parents had done the same.
“Well while you make up your mind, I’ll just sit here and wait for him to take it from me, shall I?”
She had never been that sharp with him before. “What if I give you something else?”
“You will not!” Drucilamere said at the same time Yazmine sighed.
“It has to be something I want.”
It was the rules, he supposed. Looking down, he nudged one of the cushions on the floor and twisted his mouth. “What about the words to the lullaby you sang?”
“You know the verse?”
He nodded.
“Timak deq Rasheed, we have a deal!”
She was so overjoyed, he couldn’t help smiling, until Drucilamere seized him by the shoulders, catching Timak beneath a furious glare.
“Did you deal?” Timak’s hand reached towards Yazmine of its own accord. “Did you just deal?” Timak looked at the ground. Doric pelted Drucilamere with cushions. Relenting, the mage squatted. “You will renege. There are worse betrayals in the world, and worse losses besides.”
“Timak, do you trust this genie?” the High One asked.
Timak turned from Drucilamere’s glare. “She helped me,” he said.
Doric scooped up the plate and flew it between Drucilamere and him. Neither of them bothered about it until the plate floated up and up and they were forced to part or suffer a bang on their chins.
“I think we are quite full, Doric,” the High One said.
“High One, you cannot allow this abomination within the grounds of the Temple,” Zomax said. The plate flew over his head and flipped. The remaining dates pelted him in the head.
Zomax closed his eyes. From his tight jaw Timak rather thought he might be counting to ten.
Wriggling up, the High One gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Doric approves, and who are we to argue with those on a higher plane.” He clapped Timak on the back, leaned in and whispered, “Kiss her if she’s pretty.” Turning to Drucilamere he winked and said, “The boy has an enviable date. That demands a spot of privacy, I think, although Timak, I do want to hear all the details.”
Zomax stormed from the room. Drucilamere looked about to explode.
The High one waved him out. “Never fear, Doric will chaperone.”
The High One, it seemed, was not to be argued with. Keeping Timak in his sight as long as possible, Drucilamere shuffled into the hall.
“Don’t fret. He’ll be fine I’m sure,” the High One said, closing the door.
Yazmine appeared at once. She looked different, paler, as she sat, legs dangling, ankles crossed, hands flat.
“I like it when I can see you.”
“We don’t have much time.”
“Don’t laugh. I can’t sing.” Timak took a deep breath.
Butterfly flit all the day
Drift on the wind, drift away
O’er the hills, ‘cross the vale
Under the sun, through the gale
Butterfly flit, flit today
Glide on a beam, glide my way
Flowers to smell, hearts to win
Butterfly sweet, welcome djinn.
He had changed the last line, of course. She would remember what it was now but he didn’t want to ward off this particular djinn.
“Oh Timak, I could kiss you for that.” And leaning over, she did, right on the cheek.
Timak slapped a hand over his face and wiped it off. She laughed. He gave her a sad smile, dropping his eyes. It hadn’t felt like a horrible abuse. Her cheeks flushed as she broke into laboured breaths. Her shimmery, pink skin was nowhere near as bright as usual, and her rose scent was faint. Her crystals didn’t glow, either.
“Here.” She lifted a hand before he could say anything. His white quartz lay upon it. He took it. “The indigo djinn wants it. He’ll try to trick you for it.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because you’re my friend. And because he is a terrible, dangerous djinn.”
“You never used to be scared of him.”
“That was before I knew he’s the evil everyone’s fearing, before I knew he tried to kill Tiarasae. He was so jealous she had Mahktos’s favour he set a kaidon on her. That’s a gross monster with stinging tails and poisonous blood.”
“But she’s the queen.”
“Mahktos made her queen after she built him a magnificent temple. Hearing people call her that reminds him of how angry their father was when he tried to hurt her. This was millennia ago, Timak. And he still resents her. He wants to make her pay.”
“Because she’s the queen?”
“Because Mahktos loves her so much for her devotion mortals may speak her name.”
He wanted to learn more but Yazmine was holding her arm. “They said a kaidon hurt you.”
Yazmine turned a greener shade of grey. She looked about to burst into tears.
“You’ll get better, though? If Tiarasae was all right?”
“Be careful Timak. He’s going to be angry.”
He wanted to ask again but Doric floated between them. The ghost held out the dates he had plucked from the floor, one on each palm. Yazmine’s laugh turned to a wheeze.
“What’s the matter?” he whispered. He was shivery cold and he was scared for her.
“In my village we eat these at weddings.”
That was not what he had meant, but Doric dropped the dates. Yazmine giggled, but the ghost was opening the door.
“Uh-oh, time to go.” She disappeared with the whisper of a pop.
The door creaked open. The adults stood under the lintel.
Drucilamere beckoned him over. “What happened?”
Timak slung the quartz around his neck. “She gave me my quartz. I only had to sing a song.”
“Doric says you sang it very well,” the High One said.
Drucilamere’s expression turned to cautious acceptance. “I regret, High One, we must take our leave.”
“Promise you will visit me again.” The High One clasped Timak’s hand between his own.
Timak looked at Drucilamere, who gave a reluctant nod.
“She won’t hurt me,” Timak said when they went outside, his hand in the mage’s. Drucilamere was pulling him along like their lives depended on getting away.
“You should not have dealt. The djinn are duplicitous. No pact is what it seems. You might have the quartz but I am not pleased.”
They hurried past the temple. The crowd was buzzing in and out of Vae’oeldin’s entrance as though nothing bad had happened. Monks drifted across the triangle, unable to hide their curiosity behind their polite nods. A ray of sunshine peeked through the clouds and glinted off the do
me. And there on its golden surface was Rondel deq Oakson, terrible in his anguish and fury as sunlight streamed through him. The moment Timak laid eyes on him, the ghost marked him in its sights. Under that accusing look, Timak stopped dead. The ghost leapt off the temple and charged towards him, his mouth open in rage. Drucilamere’s next step jerked him forward. Tripping, Timak sprawled over the cobbles, knocking his chin. Throwing his hands over his head, he lay in the wet. The air was numbing cold. He could feel the ghost hovering above him.
“Still wind,” murmured several people in the crowd. They were fleeing in all directions.
Hands seized him. He screamed, kicked, fought to stay down.
“Timak. Timak, calm down.” He threw his arms around the mage’s neck, hung on tight. “What does she want?” Drucilamere asked. He tried to prise Timak off but no way was Timak going to let go. He wrapped his legs tight around the mage’s waist.
“Ghost. Help me. Help.”
“Doric?” Drucilamere unpeeled his arms, forcing them down.
Timak shook his head. Someone tapped his shoulder. He yelped. Rondel deq Oakson was now lurking above the temple door. For the second time, a finger tapped his shoulder. Timak swallowed. Two ghosts shadowing him? Rooted to the spot, his eyes strained sideways. A stuffed date flew across the triangle, through Rondel and pinged against the temple. Doric zipped after it, shaking his fist at the thief, who was drifting his way, his eyes glued to the quartz.
“Timak,” Drucilamere said.
Murder glinted in Rondel’s glazed eye. He floated so close Timak was forced to tilt his head right back. Rotund Doric intercepted him. Chest to shoulder, the ghosts hung.
Rondel ran his eyes up and down the robed ghost. “A devout one. Leave us be. I’ll not hurt the boy.”
“Bring me porrin,” Drucilamere said to one of the monks who were congregating.
Rondel gripped Timak’s shirt and pulled him close. Drucilamere grabbed his arm but Timak’s knee went through Rondel’s leg. It felt like it had swung into ice. “You see me, boy. Do you hear me too?” Steadied by the muttering mage, Timak gave a stiff nod. Rondel grabbed at the quartz. His hand passed right through it. His finger was still missing in death. “How?”
Doric flew over and slapped Rondel on the chest. Rondel brushed him aside as he might a gnat. The High One somersaulted right through the temple.
Rondel let Timak go. “How, boy?”
“A genie helped me.”
“You too dealt? Ahhrr.” The ghost dropped his face into his hands. A sob wracked his whole body. “We had a deal, we made a pact.”
“Your wife was sick.” In some small way, Timak understood. Through each of the terrible nights he had endured Lord Ahkdul’s touch, he had prayed for release. He had come so close to whispering Yazmine’s name thrice.
Rondel rubbed his face. “Aye. And now she’s in danger.” He poked Timak. The ghost’s touch burned with cold. “You will warn her.” There was no asking in that. In his grief and anger, Rondel was more fearsome than the mutilated spectre on the lake. He drifted to within a hairsbreadth of Timak. Timak shuddered as a glacial chill ripped through him. “Warn her or I’ll not leave you be.”
Timak’s white breath puffed straight through the ghost.
Rondel turned and pointed at the High One, who was striding across from the temple. The gesture stopped Doric in his elevated tracks. “The boy comes with me. I’ve the curse of a djinn behind me and no sanction on violence.”
Doric shook his head. Joining thumbs and forefingers together in the blessing of the Vae, he disappeared.
“Come, boy. This once you comply, and then you are free.”
A monk ran up and pushed a packet into Drucilamere’s hand.
“Do you know whose spirit haunts you?” Drucilamere asked, trying to turn him.
Timak buried his face in the mage’s chest. “It’s the thief. He wants me to talk to his wife.”
Chapter 35
WHEN ROKAN APPEARED at the entrance to the grand dining hall, a city guard half hidden behind him, Jordayne draped the festoon she was holding over a servant with nothing short of relief.
“You will have to excuse me, my dear,” she said to Rochelle, who was turning out to be most finicky about the decorations for the wedding. Giving her aunt-to-be a kiss on the cheek, she waltzed to her sergeant, determined to find an excuse to abandon the frippery for at least the remainder of the day.
“My lady, there has been a murder. You should hear the report of the city guard.”
“Is it something you can show me, Sergeant?”
“My lady, it is not a sight for gentile eyes.”
“Rokan, if you sound any more like Captain deq Lungo I shall banish you to his company at Fort Mykver.” With a brief, teasing touch on his arm, she swept out of the hall. “Don’t dawdle,” she called to the dazed youth, a raw recruit if blood yet turned his stomach. She led the way through the warren of arched corridors.
“Perhaps we should advise my brother,” she said, descending a set of steps to a side door leading to a courtyard.
“It is done, my lady.”
She stopped short. Rokan almost toppled to avoid bumping into her. Crossing her arms, Jordayne fixed the man with a regal stare.
“Lord Matisse is the head of security,” he said, not in the least fazed by her suggestion of disapproval.
“But you are my man, Rokan.”
He laughed. The more she flirted, the more he teased. He really was a gem. “A pity the city guard are not, though you could fix that no doubt.”
She peered at the pimply youth, who was staring between them as though unsure what to make of the exchange. “I doubt I would want to.”
She made a point to jingle her bracelets and sway her hips all the way through the courtyard to the stables where a groom held her beloved Aribelle. How predictable the trailing lad had regained some colour in his cheeks. If Matisse had not already been riding through the western gate, she might have flirted a little more.
“What’s this?” she queried when Rokan ordered her usual contingent to carry shields.
“Archers.” He swung onto a gelding and kept it abreast of her mare as she set of in pursuit of Matisse.
“How many times must I insist you include me in all your fun.” she said when she caught her brother up.
“I question your notion of fun, sis.”
“Very well. You go listen to Rochelle prattle on about pulled stitches on the tapestries and smudged pigment on our most expensive plates.”
“You are most welcome to accompany me. How are the wedding preparations coming along?”
“I shall spare you the boring details. Suffice it to say even Uncle’s infatuation is fading by the inane word.”
“I very much doubt it. He was most particular about the tabards the guard of honour are wearing. I dare say he will have a fit when he finds out I haven’t changed for this little outing.”
“Then it is a timely escape for us both.”
The lane the youth led them to was blocked by city guards at both ends. They entered on foot, their boots heavy on the cobbles. The shrill calls of children at play from behind the wall sat at odds with the brutality here. Death was a constant intrusion in her life but her mortality struck her anew when she saw who lay beneath the overhanging branches of a large oak.
“Rondel deq Oakson,” she said, meeting her brother’s grim eye.
Matisse picked up a piece of embroidered hessian lying on the corpse. The porrin leaf needed no interpretation. “Prahak deq Fraaq.” Her brother gave orders to search for the drug dealer.
She stared at the corpse. The dead man had been beaten to a pulp but no blood pooled beneath him. His mangled neck was chilling in its familiarity. Her horrible guilt convinced her to kneel and take his cold hand.
“A hideous end, which should be avenged,” Rokan murmured in horrid fascination.
“Are you sure deq Fraaq struck the killing blow?” she asked.
“This was
meant to send a message. And not just to tattletales,” Matisse replied.
And so they were to blame, she twice over if her suspicions were correct. “You will see he gets a decent funeral,” she said to the nearest guard. His curt nod dismissed the body, one more unfortunate victim in their disintegrating city. She stood. “At the Crown’s expense.” That made him stand straighter. She fixed an icy glare on Matisse before he could protest.
“You will need extra guards,” he said as she turned away.
“Nonsense. I have Rokan.”
“And by all reports the city guard had this man surrounded.”
That stopped her in her tracks. “Why was the city guard after him?”
“You will listen to this,” he said, beckoning a guard. “The man stood accused of stealing, from inside the temple no less. Repeat your report, Corporal.”
The corporal’s account of the skirmish at the wharves sent chills down her spine. “Is it not enough we must prepare for war?” she asked.
“This is war. On a different front,” Rokan said with an intensity that left her wondering who he had lost to porrin’s curse. Her sergeant stood inappropriately close. “This man had a wife.”
Her eyes opened wide. Dear honourable Matisse was running for his horse before she had collected her wits.
“I will escort you to the palace,” Rokan said.
“Nonsense,” she said, striding for her mare, fingering the hip where her dagger should sit at the same time. Could her brother never wait?
“My lady, this fiend has a troop if not an army behind him, and he is looking for revenge.”
“But he will not take it out on an unfortunate woman.”
She was on Aribelle before he could protest further. He withdrew a wicked dagger from his boot and passed it up to her. Jordayne was not fool enough to refuse. Her heart was hammering at the thought of Prahak’s stolen touch. For that alone, she would make him pay. For widowing a sick woman, his reparation would be lengthy. Kicking the horse, she cantered after her brother, her irritated guards racing to sequester her inside their ranks.