by Anna Banks
He laughs. It is good to tease and for his teasing to be appreciated. As it is, Ptolem licks his lips nervously at her doubtful expression. “Let us go, before Ptolem expires and we have to carry his body inside.”
He grabs her hand then to pull her forward and, as soon as he does, regrets it. She is soft and inviting, and though she breaks away in the slightest of pulls and keeps her eyes trained on the path ahead of them, he knows she felt something in their touch as well.
Today might prove to be a long day after all—and revealing, if nothing else.
* * *
The Bazaar is bustling as usual, the air hot and dry and the wind just strong enough to be a nuisance, pelting them with tiny grains of sand that infiltrate their mouths as they speak, their eyes before they can blink away the irritant, and their noses so that they sneeze midsentence. Still, Tarik finds all those things to be insignificant inconveniences if compared with the growing enthusiasm he feels for Sepora’s exclusive company. Even Patra seems content to walk between them as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do.
He would be a fool to lie to himself about such a thing as his fascination with the mistress, when clearly he hangs on her every word and dissects her every smirk and smile in a way he’s quite sure has nothing to do with being a Lingot.
“So if not as Highness,” she whispers as they approach a booth, “how should I refer to you?”
“My name is Tarik,” he says, suddenly wanting to hear her say it. What an odd thought, to want to be addressed so informally by someone who just days ago would have called him something very crude if she’d had the chance. He remembers her ire at being held in the harem and nearly bursts out laughing. A harem would be boring to someone as interesting as the Mistress Sepora.
“And no one recognizes you here?”
“Of course not. What business would I—the pharaoh—have at the Bazaar, dressed like this, without even a speck of body paint?” Still, he keeps his voice down, decreasing the grandeur of the statement.
“And Patra?”
“I am the king’s servant, taking His Highness’s cat out for much needed exercise.”
“Are servants of the king supposed to act so presumptuous, then, Tarik?” He doesn’t miss the demure way she shades her eyes with her hand as she teases him. And he doesn’t miss the casual way she says his name, though he can’t decide if she’s testing it out to see if she’s pronounced it correctly or if she’s trying to discern whether it fits him. Either way, Sepora is at ease with him, despite his rank and station and responsibility.
Either way, Sepora is not here with the Falcon King; she is here with Tarik. And he enjoys that more than he should.
31
SEPORA
I’m not sure what I’m doing, bantering with the king as though I’ve known him since infancy. Perhaps it is the way he wears no paint this day, that his skin is a deep olive color, or that his eyelashes stand out more without the charcoal lining his eyes. And where I thought the body paint embellished his muscles, I’m surprised to find that the king is, in fact, built as a warrior. Built as I imagined his father would have been. Indeed, the paint hides his superior physique. But still, there is more. There is an ease about him, a poise that belies peace with his lot in life—a poise I never saw in my father—and also a desire to get away from it every now and again. The latter is evident in the way he handles the children who swarm about him, asking if the Falcon King has sent him along with prizes for them from the palace.
From his rope belt he pulls a purse, a mere cloth tied at the top with string woven through it, and he opens it to reveal a small fortune in gold coins. As the children squeal, he retrieves one, holding it in the air so that even the highest of jumpers can’t quite reach it. “Shh, shh, quiet down now,” he tells them. “And has the wind carried off your manners with it? Did you not notice I come with company today?”
An overwhelming sense of shame emanates from the throng of children, and the king laughs. “Well, don’t be shy, you bunch of wildlings. This is Sepora, and she is also a servant of the king. She’ll be accompanying me often, so you may as well get used to her.”
One of the smallest of the bunch steps forward, a little short-haired girl with a front top tooth missing, a rather shabby white linen dress, and a cloth tight about her right arm, signaling that she is of the Middling Quarters. “You’re pretty,” she informs me bashfully. “I like your eyes.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, feeling a blush warm my cheeks, even in the hot desert sun.
The king hands the small child a gold coin. “See? Was that so difficult?” He looks around the gathering, apparently for more volunteers. “Does anyone else have anything to say or ask Sepora?” the king asks. “I’ve got a gold coin for the next person to ask her a question.”
A boy this time, with all of his teeth and an extra chin, pushes to the front of the group. His shendyt is a pale lavender and his arm bulges out of the silver armband he wears, signifying his status as a Superior, as Anku related to me. “You look like the freed slaves. Are you of the freed slaves?”
“No,” I say, not appreciating his bluntness. Then I reprove myself; if the boy cared about Theoria’s apparent caste system, he would not be bothered to play with children of the Middling Quarters. Cara informed me that they do not intermix with the underclasses, as they call them. But this child is not concerned with classes at all. He doesn’t care if I’m a freed slave. No, he is simply a child being a child. “I’m of Serubel,” I say, less gruffly.
“Why did the king send you with Tarik? Will you always come with him?”
The king laughs and hands the boy a gold coin. “The king thought I needed help. What do you think? Should I keep her along with me?”
“I think you should marry her,” says the first little girl. “You and she would make beautiful babies.”
The king ruffles her hair and winks at her. “I think Sepora is far too clever to want to marry the likes of me,” he says lightly. “Anyone else?”
I try to imagine my father doting on a group of children like this in our marketplace and can’t. He never even doted on me, his own flesh and blood and royalty, nonetheless. I’m not sure why I keep comparing the Falcon King to my father, but every time I do, I find my father lacking. Not that I thought my father was ever the affectionate sort, but for him to act so warmly toward anyone beneath him would be, well, beneath him.
Perhaps this is a game the pharaoh is playing with me. A game for him to win my trust and tell him how he can acquire his precious spectorium. If only I were a Lingot, able to discern if there is deception here.
Still, it does not take a Lingot to see these children are very familiar with their king, though they only know him as Tarik. He has done this many times and long before I ever arrived in his grand Theorian harem. No, this is not a ploy to gain my trust. This is the king’s way of enjoying himself.
I try not to find that enchanting.
After each of the children has earned their gold coin by asking me questions, they are on their way, leaving the pharaoh and me to wander the Bazaar by ourselves. “They can be overwhelming,” he says after a while. “But I do find their innocence and inexperience to be refreshing.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
He raises his brows. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, mistress.”
I smile. “That’s not what I meant. I just—I’m glad you were having a good time.”
“I still am.” His eyes lock with mine, and I can’t help but feel infused by heat that has nothing to do with the Theorian sun. I find this version of the king to be most unsettling. In fact, I find it unbelievable. He truly is not the Falcon King today. And I do not feel like a runaway princess of Serubel. Today we truly are Tarik and Sepora, enjoying a day at the Bazaar.
It is a dangerous thing, to let one’s thoughts linger.
“Tarik, so good to see you!” a voice calls from the booth before us. Giving a lighthearted laugh, Tarik breaks our gaze an
d greets the man behind the table of necklaces.
“Cantor, how are things with you, my friend?”
Cantor is happy to relay that his wife and children are doing well, business is thriving, and his cat, Jesa, just had a litter of three and is making excellent work of motherhood. I find it endearing that Theorians are so smitten with their giant cats. I’m a bit jealous, too, that the kingdom of Theoria approves of pets in general. In Serubel, a pet is just a nuisance, another mouth to feed.
It is not long, though, before Cantor lets his gaze fall on me, in an obvious request for an introduction.
Tarik obliges easily. “This is a fellow servant of the king, Sepora. Sepora, this is Cantor, my good friend who fashions the most exquisite pieces of jewelry for the Superior Class, made from Wachuk turquoise.”
I bow my head, uncertain of what else is required of me. Cantor bellows his laughter. “No need to be shy, Sepora,” he says. “I’ll not bite, and especially not with Tarik standing there looking at you with such longing. A man knows when to step down.”
It is Tarik’s turn to feel the heat of his own kingdom’s blasted sun. “I … er, that is to say … I thought I saw a fly in her hair,” he stammers.
“It was,” I tell him. “I’ve heard it buzzing in my ear all day.” Letting the king of Theoria off the hook is not something one takes lightly and we both know it. He nods to me slightly, thanking me silently for my discretion. Still, his eyes hold a certain sentiment that extends beyond gratitude. Upon seeing it, I look away, my stomach swirling with an unfamiliar feeling.
Cantor seems to want to talk further, but Tarik seems eager to pass to the next booth, and then the next, making quick introductions and trivial exchanges until we’ve reached the end of one stretch of the Bazaar. There are four more rows of booths and tents, and I wonder if Tarik intends to take us to each and every one when he says, “On a normal visit to Anyar I would make my entire rounds, but today I wish to visit with Cy the Healer at the Lyceum. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the merchants another day.”
Another day. He wishes me to accompany him again. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m not sure how I should feel about that. These are his private moments that he steals for himself, I can tell. Special excursions meant solely for his pleasure and rejuvenation. Why he would want me with him I’m not sure. I’ve made myself a pest, a prickle in his foot at the very least.
We head north then, taking what I recognize as the path to the great Lyceum where I’d recruited the Lingot Saen for my impossible task of wooing the Parani. That morning I’d remembered every bend in the roadway, every sizable mound of sand we passed, as one would when one believes one may be about to die. Even now, as we walk down the beaten path, I feel squeamish as I contemplate what could have happened to me. And then I berate myself for all of a sudden turning coward again.
Tarik eyes me curiously but says nothing. I’m a bit unsettled at how easily I refer to him as Tarik in my mind instead of the king, and once again I’m confronted with how I should feel about things instead of how I actually do feel about things. I hope I don’t slip at court and call him by his given name; I know that seeing him as Tarik, instead of the king, has left an immense impression within me, a much deeper impression than watching him deal with the mundane matters of court as pharaoh. I wonder what the punishment for such a thing is here in Theoria, calling a king by his given name.
I wonder what my father would do under such circumstances. And I shudder.
32
TARIK
Cy greets them eagerly in the open courtyard in the middle of the Lyceum. Groups of Majai train one-on-one close by, and by the center fountain a group of Healers—recognizable by their lavender attire—recline for what appears to be an out-of-doors lecture. All of these things Tarik notices, and so does the Mistress Sepora in wide-eyed awe, yet it is the grimace on Cy’s face that commands most of Tarik’s own attention.
Tarik feels himself tense. How many lives has the Quiet Plague claimed now? How long before it becomes a noticeable threat among the citizens of Theoria, before it is talked about in the Bazaar instead of litters of kittens or children acting foolishly? These are questions he wants to blurt at Cy, but instead he makes hasty introductions for Sepora.
“My pleasure, of course, Mistress Sepora,” Cy says. “You’ve quite the reputation here at the Lyceum. Master Saen chatters on about how clever you are and Majai Sethos about your beauty.”
Tarik grits his teeth at the latter; Sethos and his infatuation with Sepora has become a bothersome thing. Just this morning he sent word that he’d like to have a meal at the palace soon and hopes that Sepora may attend. If he thinks I’m giving her back to him, he’s lost his mind.
Cy beckons them to an assembly of stone benches in the middle of the lavish courtyard. “I’ve news, Highness—er, Tarik. I’ve been seeing more of the Middlings at my door.”
“I was afraid you might say that,” Tarik says, feeling a scowl on his face.
Cy nods. “It is spreading, but not in the way that you think.”
“How do you mean?”
“Are you familiar with the Owinat root?”
Tarik raises a brow. The Owinat root, when ground and used as a tea, has hallucinogenic effects. He’s well aware that it’s a highly sought-after plant, used for leisure among all the classes. It’s sold widely in the Bazaar, and though not outlawed, it is traditionally considered in poor taste to hold company while under the tea’s influence. Though Tarik was not there to witness it, it’s rumored that a Superior merchant attended King Knosi’s court after having just drank the stuff, and was so addled that he stumbled to the throne and dared to stand eye to eye with the pharoah—a crime punishable by ousting at the Half Bridge. His father had spared the man’s life, but stripped him of his fortune and title. Gossip holds that the merchant dispatched with himself shortly after. Gossip that rings strikingly true to Tarik’s ears.
There is not a Theorian who does not know of the Owinat root and its effects.
But there is a Serubelan who does not. “What is Owinat?” Sepora says, mispronouncing it slightly.
Cy clears his throat. “Well, you could say that it’s a sort of a scandalous plant used for ill intent at times. It can ease the pain of some chronic illnesses, but when abused, it can cause quite the addiction to it.”
“And what does that have to do with the Quiet Plague?” Tarik asks. “Are you saying the Owinat is an alternative solution to spectorium?”
Cy shakes his head. “Quite to the contrary. I think the symptoms the classes are presenting are very similar to the symptoms of withdrawal from the Owinat root. It appears our citizens are withdrawing from something, but what, I couldn’t say. Likewise, I still can’t explain why a dose of injected spectorium helps them. It is a powerful elixir, that.”
Tarik runs a hand through his hair. “You’re saying they’re withdrawing to the point of death?”
“I’m afraid so. And there’s more.”
“Tell me.”
“Since the spectorium eventually dies, I fear that once it’s injected, it, too, will wear off in the patient’s body. I’m afraid it’s only a temporary solution. What I’m trying to say is, we need a constant supply of it, if not to power our city, then to power our citizens.”
A constant supply of spectorium. Something they may never have again, unless … His eyes lock with Sepora’s. “Not to worry, Cy. Sepora and I are working on a solution to this very problem, aren’t we?”
But she doesn’t answer, only raises her chin a bit. Oh, how can he trust her if she acts in such a way?
“Cy, I hate to take you away from your work, but I’d love to show Sepora how thorough you’re being in finding a cure for the Quiet Plague. You see, she is capable of finding … unconventional solutions to problems as well, and I think she’d appreciate seeing the progress you’ve achieved. Do you mind showing us what you’re working on now?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sepora tense.
&nb
sp; “Of course not, High—Tarik. Please follow me.”
He leads them south and through the usual labyrinth of halls and archways and stairs until they come to a set of double wooden doors. Apparently Cy’s work has been given additional space; Tarik is pleased to find the room they enter now is large and echoes with busyness, with at least twenty beds lining the walls in increments about two arm’s lengths apart. Each bed holds a body, and each body reveals clear symptoms of the Quiet Plague. Other Healers weave in and out between the cots, some with water jugs, some with clean linens, and more still with steaming bowls of what appears to be liquefied spectorium glowing purple in the dim lighting.
Sepora stops cold. “I don’t want to see this.”
Tarik grasps her hand gently and is struck again at the revelation that her touch sends chills and heat throughout him all at once. He tries to discern a reaction from her, anything to suggest she feels something of the same, but his Lingot perception returns to him with nothing. “I think it is only fair that you see this,” he says. “The king would want it.” Very much so. She should see the effects of the Quiet Plague up close and personally, should see the speed at which it takes its victims and the speed at which spectorium returns their life to them. She should put faces to this plague, put faces to those who might not otherwise live without this resource whose whereabouts she keeps hidden.
She inhales a long yet impatient breath, but when she releases it slowly and steadily Tarik can tell she’s ready to cooperate. Cy bids them to follow him to the corner of the room, to where a middle-aged man lies on the cot, his thin linen sheet draping halfway on his legs and halfway onto the floor. His blank stare, which is fixed on the ceiling, and his shallow, whistling breaths give the impression he’s concentrating on not dying. There is dried blood crusted around his nostrils, in his ears, at the corners of his mouth. His lips are stained red with it. To Tarik’s knowledge, however, this is not something that happens when one withdraws from use of the Owinat root. Cy believes his theory; Tarik cannot be so sure.