Dark Djinn

by Tia Reed

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thanks to his stunning reaction to Majoria Levi’s crystal, Vinsant had it all worked out. Which was why Physic Nocrates’s response stumped him.

  “Look,” he said, juggling the grapper so he could pull up his kurta and display the red area over the back of his ribs that was going to colour into a spectacular bruise. It hurt his pride to admit the minor yet hard won injury pained him. But he was faking it for Kordahla, so he affected a wince when Physic Nocrates’s aging but gentle hands explored the area and hoped first that his manhood would not be called into question and, far more importantly, that the Majoria would never hear of this.

  “I’ll give you a salve to decrease the bruising,” Physic Nocrates said in a voice that sounded like it needed that salve to smooth its creaks. He wended a stiff path around tables laden with dried herbs to a shelf stacked with pots where he selected one filled with a pungent greasy ointment. While he had the hunched posture of a doddering grandfather, he never faltered when it came to remedies.

  “Er…” Vinsant scratched his head. The fair tuft of hair that always stood up tickled the side of his hand. “I really need to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “If you lie on your stomach, you should have no problem at all. Would you care for me to apply the first dose of the ointment, Highness?”

  As the cold salve went on, Vinsant articulated heartfelt groans he was sure would convince the physic of the seriousness of his condition. He had, after all, had plenty of practice with the particular timbre during sword practice with Mariano. The ploy worked too well.

  “An injury that distressing may mean cracked ribs, young man. I’m afraid you will have to suspend your training for a couple of major moons until they heal.” The physic stopped his ministrations, claimed a padded seat, and leaned back. Vinsant dropped his kurta and turned in open-mouthed horror as the man thoughtfully rubbed the white stubble on his chin. An excellent physic, Nocrates often became so engrossed in his tasks he forgot to attend to his appearance, a characteristic the Shah tolerated from him and no other because of his reputation for miracles, a talent he vehemently denied.

  “I don’t think it’s that bad,” Vinsant said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine with a good night’s sleep.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.”

  Vinsant pushed the fish into a nook between some bowls on the table, wrinkled his nose because it really had begun to smell, and looked around the ordered clutter. Subtlety was not having the desired effect. “Perhaps a dose of porrin. Just to ensure I don’t toss too much and accidentally crack my damaged ribs,” he blurted. With luck, Nocrates would not notice he was unable to look him in the eye. His awkwardness provided good cover to spy out the plant in question. Too bad that nothing resembling it was in plain view.

  Nocrates tapped a finger over his lips. “For cracked ribs, yes, porrin may be necessary.” He slapped his hands on the arms of the chair. “Oh dear, I imagine the Majoria will be disappointed to learn of your infirmity.”

  “No!” Vinsant fairly jumped towards the physic.

  Sighing, Physic Nocrates hoisted himself onto his feet. “Prince Vinsant, you do realise I am bound by the oath of my profession to keep my patient’s medical history private?” When Vinsant looked at the ceiling in what he hoped was an angelic pose, the physic shuffled forward and placed the pot of salve into his hand. “Would you care to tell me why you visit my rooms rather than have me call at your chamber, then make great effort to secure porrin when you have sustained worse bruising at the end of your brother’s practice sword?”

  As he could think of nothing that, despite the physic’s assurances, would stay within these walls, it was time to be gracious in defeat and exit before he landed himself and Kordahla into deeper scums than they had seen in his entire life. “It was a dare,” he said, picking up the fish and backing away. “There’s no need to tell the Majoria.” One trait Levi would never possess was a sense of humour.

  He lost the physic’s reply turning to the door. In the corner behind it, a small gilded statue of Mahktos sat atop a pillar. The god couldn’t be too pleased Vinsant had twisted the truth because His crimson eyes were glowing something stern. Vinsant squirmed aside to allow Nocrates full view of the statue. It figured that under the physic’s gaze, the eyes would harden back into lifeless gems. His overactive, overtired imagination had to be playing tricks on him. He longed to fall into bed, a rather rare sensation for his boisterous self, and told Nocrates so as he moved to the door because it would help convince the physic how earnest he had been about his terrible injuries. Mahktos wasn’t fooled. As soon as Vinsant obscured Nocrates’s view, the stature’s eyes tracked his path.

  “Uh…Uh…Mahktos?” he managed, pointing weakly. He kept his disbelieving eyes firmly on Nocrates as the physic walked over and lifted the statue into his hands.

  “A gift from the Majoria for tending the mahktashaan over the years.”

  “Huh?” That inarticulate mumble wasn’t going to get him any answers.

  Nocrates replaced the statue with the deference of a mahktashaan. Pressing his palms together, he touched his liver spotted forehead in obeisance. “I dare say you want to know what an old man could possibly do to incur a debt from the Majoria?”

  “Yes, no, I mean, don’t the mahktashaan cure themselves?”

  “They have a gift for relieving particular hurts, but as far as open wounds, broken bones and certain diseases are concerned, there are few among them who have the talent to cure. Those that do usually need to study under a physic. Take Arun; he is one of the best I have ever trained but even he is no match for some of these herbs in cases of disease and…”

  “Ehr, yes,” Vinsant interrupted before the old man rambled him to sleep on his feet. He had somehow assumed the mahktashaan could cure all. Their limitation suddenly made his plan to get Kordahla out of the palace seem risky. “But why do you worship the mahktashaan god, anyway?” As hard as he peered, the eyes remained stubbornly inert.

  “What. Such a question from you? I had heard that you were rather liberal in your thinking, Highness.” Affronted, Nocrates wove his way back to his chair. “Forgive me. My spine is not what it used to be.”

  Vinsant dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. To do otherwise would be to suffer a rebuke from father. Besides, the tending of an expertly set broken arm, a severe fever and a spate of childhood ills had earned this man the right to a little indulgence. “Isn’t Mahktos the mahktashaan god?”

  “Who’s teaching you philosophy, boy? Pass me that jug, will you?”

  Dutiful because he wanted answers, Vinsant put the fish down and poured Nocrates a mug of water. A furtive glance at the statue failed to catch anything unusual.

  “Mahktos is a god. A god, you understand. Gods may be worshipped by any and all who choose.”

  “But..But..” What was philosophy anyway?

  “It’s a common misconception around here that the mahktashaan worship a secret god. That’s only because most folks are keen on the Vae.” Nocrates crumbled the leaves of a woody dried herb over the fish. Poor Errol still smelt. “You’ll find temples to Mahktos scattered over the realm; small ones granted, but they’re not there just to serve the mahktashaan on the rare occasions they turn up. His followers are everywhere.”

  “Ah,” said Vinsant, with a glimmer of understanding.

  “Well speak up, Highness. Your mouth looks about to burst with questions. And you don’t think those mahktashaan are going to give you straight answers, do you? They’ll have you believe they’re the only ones with the right to His grace.”

  Vinsant wasn’t sure where to start. Blurting the point usually seemed to work. Of course, in that regard it probably helped that he was a prince. Considering bed was a more welcome option than a night of Nocrates garrulous tales, he decided to give it a go. “Why do his eyes glow at me?”

  “What? What do you mean, Highness?” With a sigh, the physic rose, pulled Vinsant aside and squinted first at
the statue, then into Vinsant’s eyes.

  “I mean its eyes were following me.”

  “Did you hit your head? Do you feel dizzy, or faint?”

  “No.”

  Nocrates scratched at his whiskery chin. “Perhaps you should get to bed.”

  Vinsant grabbed Errol as Nocrates ushered him to the door.

  “I’ll check on you tomorrow. Of course, if the god is watching you, Mahktashaan Branak might explain it.”

  “Okay,” Vinsant pulled the latch on the door, bit his lip and fell into thought. After today’s initiation, he had as much intention of asking a mahktashaan as a scum dipper did of smelling sweet. He thought he knew well enough why the god might want to keep a close eye on him. It meant the stinking scums for both him and Kordahla.

  Dragged from downy comfort of bed when Samille answered a knock at the door, Kordahla could only stare at the pillared, interlocking crystal in Vinsant’s outstretched hand. She really had not expected it. Had thought deep down they were playing some childish game.

  “You didn’t,” was all she could manage to say, aware her speechlessness was not entirely from the astonishment that her younger brother had managed to pilfer one of the most closely guarded secrets of the mahktashaan. The odour from the deteriorating fish had a trifle to do with it too.

  “You have Errol to thank. It was the least he could do, seeing he got you into this mess in the first place.” Vinsant beamed at her. Which was when she noticed the quartz around his neck.

  She took his arm and led him to the daybed, over carpet so profound a dark red it appeared blooded. They huddled behind the curtains to avoid drawing the attention of the sleepy maids she had coaxed back to bed. As loyal as they were, she couldn’t chance they would spill a secret this devastating. Devout, brown-haired Karie had a habit of gabbling when the mahktashaan guard she fancied came courting, and long-lashed, brunette Samille admitted to the least transgression under the mildest of enquiries. As it was, they probably suspected some wayward exploit; Vinsant had no business in her chambers at this hour.

  She threw open the shutters on the bulbous arch above the bed, and set her dripping candle on the sill. Green moonlight bathed Vinsant’s freckled face as he coddled the crystal in a depression he had thumped into a plump pillow. He whistled as the reflected beams cast a glow around them. His enthusiasm failed to infect. Kneeling, she flicked waves of her walnut hair back as she leaned in for a better look.

  “Won’t it be missed? Won’t you be punished if they find out what you’ve done?” She could not let him take this risk for her. A risk which for anyone other than a prince might end on the point of a mahktashaan sword. Could not, if she were honest, take another step to commit herself to this foolhardy path. She peeped through the billowing curtains into the bedchamber as sheets rustled and female voices whispered.

  Vinsant stroked his treasure. “They’ll never know it was me. No, seriously, if the mahktashaan discover it here you can tell them a still wind blew just before you noticed it among the pillows. It was the djinn’s idea. Blame him.”

  “Oh, Vinsant. I couldn’t. Father would never, not when he meets Ahkdul.” She slid off her heels, gazed out the window, and sighed. If only tonight, and not yesterday, had been the major moon, Levi might not have accorded such significance to the falling grappers.

  “You want me to take it back?”

  She heard the trepidation in his voice. Realised with a trill of shock how much he had risked simply to bring it to her, that he would double that risk by trying to return it undiscovered.

  “How does it work?” she asked, too awestruck even to touch it. She hugged a pillow into the curve of her waist.

  “No idea,” he said with a shrug which failed to hide just how crestfallen he was. “Just find someplace safe for it.”

  Kordahla nodded.

  “Do you think it will be enough?” Vinsant asked.

  “I hope so. But Vinsant,” – she hesitated on parted lips – “you know it can never happen. I mean, even if I managed to escape these walls, how would I get to Myklaan before the mahktashaan found me? If, by some miracle, I got to the hills, what interest would the hill tribes have in seeing me safe? They would as soon turn me over to Father for a reward.”

  He straightened one leg. “Then you’ll just have to offer them a bribe they can’t refuse.”

  “Gold would weigh me down.”

  “But porrin wouldn’t.”

  “Porrin?” She blinked. “Whatever would they want with the drug? Their people are suffering its effects as much as ours.”

  “Exactly. So many of them are wandering into the towns looking for it. They can hardly afford to buy it, can they? I bet they’re the ones responsible for all this crime.”

  She thought of the wharf, and the leg in the trousers with the brightly coloured braid. “Where are we going to get porrin?” she asked, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. She most certainly did not want Vinsant to be involved with the illicit drug, nor to encourage this crazy conspiracy. Vae’oenka knew it could never come to fruition.

  “Not from Physic Nocrates,” Vinsant answered.

  Her lips tightened. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He put on his angelic face.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The glittering, golden Temple of the Vae was a travesty when one nursed deep sorrows. Unable to bear the bright exterior, Jordayne stepped through Vae’oeldin’s entrance, which was in Vae’oenka’s wall, and beheld the architectural marvel. Against protocol, she turned to her right, to Vae’omar’s corner where a statue of the god’s scaled body reflected in the pool from which it soared. Behind it, water babbled around the ferns studding the stone wall of the minaret, and melted into devastating calmness. The pool should have had the decency to churn for her loss. But the day was still, and the holes in the wall which channelled the spraying wind refused to whistle. The god’s indifference did not leave her inclined to generosity. She slid one of the gold bangles Trove had gifted her off her arm, and let it slip from her hands into the pool. It had drifted past a goldfish and into the algae of the depths before she blinked herself back to the present.

  She visited Vae’oeldin’s busier corner next, taking the time to pray in the bright light streaming through the myriad windows that checkered His minaret. She had never cared for this particular depiction of Him, an austere warrior with feathered plumes streaming from His head down the length of His back. The mages travelled through His domain, however, and it was fitting she pay her respects. On rising, she tossed two of her bracelets, Trove’s bracelets, into the air currents that spiralled around the god. With tears threatening, she did not wait to see where they would land, instead turning towards the dark corner of the triangular temple, the one dedicated to Vae’oenka, goddess of the earth.

  “My condolences, my lady,” a voice said.

  Jordayne turned to find the haggard Physic Hamid deq Lamont behind her. He had suffered a busy night she deduced from his sunken eyes and stooped posture. The boy with the infected arm was beside him, contemplating her with a solemnity that exceeded his tender years. One had to grow up quickly living with an addict, she supposed.

  “They are appreciated. And my sympathies to you, young man,” she replied, for the boy was dressed in the white churidar kurta of mourning. For all the tears streaking his cheeks, he had to be better off without an addict in family.

  “I have offered Ilyam a position at the hospice,” Hamid continued.

  She nodded, not truly caring, wanting to make her offerings and creep to the Mage Guild, where she could wallow among people who mourned Trove with sincerity. Only a pressing need to ascertain the intent of the shadowy visitor to the hospice detained her, for she had remembered who he was last night, as she lay awake after Druce’s gentle lovemaking.

  “Are you really Lady Jordayne?” the boy asked. He was clutching a grubby turban no self-respecting man would have contemplated wrapping over his head. Likely the only possessio
n his father had left him, the paltry offering would, with luck, touch the heart of whichever god he chose to gift it to.

  “People do address me as such,” she said, too tired to converse but unable to abandon her habit of mockery. Her gaze had drifted to the mosaic of animals and plants on Vae’oenka’s wall. Her usual empathy had deserted her, and she wanted to be about her day.

  “Then you need to do something about the porrin. You need to tell the Shah to stop the trade.”

  She blinked, unable to recall if it was normal for a child to be so outspoken. Then she sighed. “I suppose I do,” was all she could think to say.

  “Forgive him,” Hamid said. “He is as overcome by grief as you are.”

  “There is no need,” she said. “He speaks the truth. Though perhaps he could consider how it might be done. The brightest minds in our land have yet to find a way.” Her eyes drifted, to the statue of the goddess, and the kowtowing women before it.

  “We will leave you to your obeisance,” Hamid said, sensing her mood. He gave a small bow.

  “A moment,” she said, remembering the real reason she had forborne to accompany Drucilamere here this morning. Her mage had seen through the pretext of fatigue, but known better than to ask her business. “What affairs did the oriental man have at the hospice last night?”

  The physic frowned. “There was no one of that description there.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “My lady, you and the Master Magus were the last visitors of the night.”

  She nodded, and left him. Her mind roiling with anger, or anxiety, or both, she knelt before the goddess in the final corner of the triangular temple with its bowed walls and domed minarets. This night-clad niche was her favourite, though it offered no comfort today. The statue of the goddess seemed to rise from the very earth, its body garlanded with leaves and petals, its hair a braid of vines. She twisted three bangles off her arm and threw them into the surrounding pit. Take him back to you, she prayed, struggling to breathe through a stab of fear that Trove had not found rest. In a fit of desperation, she tore the remaining bracelets from her arms, an offering she flung into the bowels of the earth. Don’t let it be, she pleaded. You cannot let a heathen lay claim to Trove that way. She cast a guilty look at the statue of Vae’oeldin, who bore the magi across his expanse, but she had never understood the warrior god, and so she renewed her pleas to the Mother, who welcomed Her children back to the womb when their time on this earth expired. Around her, monks garbed in sleeveless, wraparound, knee-length robes tended the corners, paying little heed to her tears. Watering eyes were common enough around the goddess. Collecting herself, she left through Vae’omar’s exit, which was in Vae’oeldin’s wall with its mosaic of winged creatures and clouds. Tears would accomplish nothing, and she had a task to complete before she could allow herself the luxury of collapse.