Dark Djinn

by Tia Reed

  “No, my Lady,” Rokan said, missing her tone in his agitation. “It darted to the north.”

  “So good to know my big, strong guards aren’t afraid of the dark. But the light, now that is another matter. Entirely understandable, in my view.”

  His embarrassment made him step back, and so he missed the disquiet on her face. Faradil Forest lay to the north. Its malevolence ever lapped at the outskirts of the city, but today, today its brooding presence drained the life from Kaijoor. The folk they passed spoke in subdued tones, dawdling about their business; the hawkers forbore to call out; and the sun itself had paled.

  Ill at ease, Jordayne hurried to solace in Drucilamere’s arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Curled in a coil of rope, Timak mumbled to Yazmine. He knew the hazy light over the dipping bow, the one due east despite the sweltering hour, was her. It stung that he had not heard a peep from her for almost an eight-day, but maybe she didn’t understand him. He was muffling his words in the rope so they couldn’t hear.

  “I wish I could fly like the gulls.” He moved his bare arm over his burning cheek.

  “You should hush.”

  He gasped as he looked up, because he had thought he would never hear her again. She was above him now, high above. “Why?”

  “They all stare at you when they come this way.”

  He rolled onto his back. His bruises pained him inside and out, and now someone was listening, it was hard to talk. “Why do you stay?”

  “I like you.” Her light dipped toward him. “What’s your excuse?”

  “You’re the only one I can talk to.”

  “I meant why do you stay?”

  He went quiet, although the hiccup kind of ruined it. She had to be simple to think he could run away from a boat. Or maybe she didn’t understand men. Or else she meant he should plunge to his death beneath the nauseating swell. Drowning wouldn’t be so bad, but he didn’t want the sawtooths to eat him alive. In good weather, their triple fins kept circling the ship. Sometimes they even lifted their wide mouths filled with rows and rows of sword-sharp teeth out of the water to snap at surfacing turtles or diving gulls.

  “You know what I am,” she said, lowering her voice. He didn’t know why. No one else heard her.

  He peeked over the coil. Apart from the merciless sun, hers was the only light. He reached over for a discarded rag. It stank of raw fish and burned oil, but he draped it across the coils and nodded a solemn answer. Now she was speaking to him, he wanted to avoid notice. The tattered ends were difficult to tuck between the loops in the stinging hot wind, but he got the coil half-shady.

  “And you know my name.” She said it so soft he almost didn’t catch it. He pretended for a time he had not, lying back down, letting his aimless fingers work at fraying the rope, and listening to the snap of the sail and splash of waves on the side of the boat. The temptation was sweeter than a honey cake. He had wrestled with it for hours after learning her nature. Had almost succumbed as Lord Ahkdul lingered over his pleasure.

  “Do it,” she said in an urgent whisper.

  He curled right up, burying his face in his knees. He couldn’t stop the tears this time, and soon he had to sniff. “Yaz-mine,” he choked. He risked another peep but she was still the only djinn around. “Yaz-.”

  “Wait. Someone’s coming.”

  He understood. The worst of Ahkdul’s torture would not convince him to reveal her name to these wicked men. He held his breath as footsteps halted beside the coil of rope. A rough hand clamped on his arm and dragged him up.

  “Your djinn about?” the hulking, leathery sailor who brought his dinner each night asked. Timak shook his head so fast the sea became a streak of blue. He was sure his wild eyes would not have fooled the adults he grew up around, but the sailor grunted a word that could have been good. “That why you crying, boy?”

  Timak nodded.

  The sailor scrunched up a grease-smeared cheek. “Accept it, lad. There’s a peace to be found in realising things won’t change.” He set Timak down and dragged him around. “Look you there.” To starboard, turbulent water foamed where the mouth of a wide river spilled into the sea. A city gleamed to its right, undulating in the afternoon heat. Far beyond in the east, tall mountains marched in a jagged, white-capped haze. “We’re in Terlaani waters, boy. That’s Dnea on the River Sheraz, though we’ll not be stopping. Lord Ahkdul’s keen to reach Tarana. That’s the capital of this realm.” The sailor turned him again, so he could look stern into Timak’s eye. “You’ll be seeing wonders the likes of which Verdaan will never know. A wondrous palace, refined princes and princesses, and fearsome mahktashaan. Don’t be getting any ideas about help. I ken enough ‘bout Lord Ahkdul to know yer life won’t be worth living if you try, and yer dear ma and pa’ll also pay the price. Serve him well, lad. Yer could probably learn to like what he does to yer, and it’ll only be a few more years or so ‘fore you outgrow his tastes.”

  Timak sniffled at the ships skimming the wide, sandy harbour as he wiped the tears on his sunburned cheeks. All he wanted was to skittle down the streets of rundown Fayrhan with his friends, just for the treat of watching a galley dock. The thought of years of abuse curdled the sickness in the pit of his stomach. He almost cried out Yazmine’s name right in front of the sailor.

  The muscled man nodded. “It’d be only the djinn who could change your fate, and we all knows they is almost impossible to trap.” He gave Timak, a long, hard look. “What d’yer call ‘im, your djinn?”

  Timak clamped his hands on the side of the boat and bit his tongue. He stared at Dnea as the boat rose and fell, spraying salty sea on his cracking lips. What he wanted to do was run off in disgust, but he couldn’t raise suspicions he knew Yazmine’s secret. He fought the urge.

  “I asked you a question, boy.”

  “Genie,” he grudged. “I call her Genie.”

  The sailor snorted and left him at the bow. Timak stepped back into the coil of rope and curled up under the flapping rag. Its small privacy was a blessing.

  “Thank you, Timak,” Yazmine said. She sounded relieved. “Thank you for not telling.

  “Never,” he said, and fell quiet.

  “There’s no one about. You can say my name again.”

  He took a deep breath. “Yazmine.” That was twice. One more time and she was bound to do his bidding, to remove him from this scumpit, to torture Lord Ahkdul if he asked. He squeezed his eyes tight and rocked.

  “Timak?”

  Her name caught in his throat. The guilt would devour him from the inside out if he enslaved her the way Ahkdul had him. It would be a death worse than sawtooths eating him alive, because it would take years and years. There had to be a word for it, a genie begging him to bind her when the world turned over every rock in search of the evasive creatures; his refusal to name her, when others gave up limbs, or loved ones, for the hope of a wish. On her intake of breath, he rolled away from her haze.

  “Why don’t you finish it?” she asked. “I want to help you.” The offer squeaked with her doubt. He knew for sure then.

  “The djinn will punish you.”

  “But it will be his fault. He spoke my name.”

  Somehow, Timak knew that would make it all the worse. For both of them. “Never,” he said. “I could never do that to you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ordosteen enclosed Jordayne’s hands in his rough palms, and kissed her once on each rouged cheek.

  “My dear, I am so sorry for your loss.”

  The words were small comfort: her darling uncle could not possibly understand how acute her loss truly was. But she accepted with good grace, and in her grief sat with uncharacteristic decorum on the sagging emerald couch in Ordosteen’s comfortable study, arranging the sheer white mourning robe over her regular garments to alluring effect. The eight-day of bereavement she had spent withdrawn in the Mage Guild, while not alleviating her sorrow, had at least tempered it. Now affairs of state demanded her attent
ion and it would do no one any good for her to remain ensconced in Drucilamere’s passionate arms, least of all herself. Beside her, Matisse sat back, threw his arms along the top of the couch, and welcomed her home. She leaned in to let him know his characteristic lazy smile and tousled hair eased her despondency.

  “Where do we stand?” Ordosteen asked when he had complimented the funeral ceremony and asked after the mages. Ordinarily, Jordayne enjoyed his attention, especially in this worn room. The simplicity of the square arabesques on the upper portion of the walls still tended to extravagance, but its mahogany desk, uncharacteristic in this bright palace, and the curios on the shelves opposite, had always reminded her of home. Today, she desired only the solitude of her rooms.

  “In a rather precarious place,” she answered, wondering how long she must remain. “The mages are convinced they are under threat, Uncle. In the mage dreams, they have disappeared from Myklaan’s future. I would not say it is hard to believe. The porrin trader has been cheating them for months, and apprentices are becoming harder to come by. If I were them, I would take their latest recruit and pin him to a dart board. He is good for little else.”

  Matisse snorted. His eyes were red but he looked not in the least chagrined his pleasurable pursuits had robbed him of his rest. “Do not suggest it, sister, or I am sure you will inspire a new pastime.” He sat forward. “We have established that even without porrin we can fend off any attack from Verdaan. More worrying is news of the north-east. There are rumours Verdaan seeks a marriage alliance with Terlaan. Myklaan cannot repel an attack on both fronts.” He lifted an empty pitcher from the table beside him and tilted it.

  “Forgive me. I have been remiss.” Ordosteen went to the door, and beckoned a page. Having given instructions for refreshment, he resumed his place in the deep armchair opposite the couch. After years of use, its lumps and sags were a perfect match for his slackening body. “I take it Princess Kordahla is to seal the bargain. Shah Wilshem is not one to give his daughter away for a pittance. What possible advantage could he gain?”

  Rubbing one eye, Matisse said, “Our spies deliver nothing but speculation.”

  “What talk do they hear?” she asked.

  “A great deal.”

  Her thoughts drifted on the sweet perfume of the frangipane flowers arranged in the hearth as her brother detailed one report after another. It carried them through the vast keyhole window behind Uncle’s imperial desk, into the blossoming gardens, where she had strolled through avenues of love on many an eve, with Trove, or Druce, or a suitor who took her fancy. She managed to blink herself to concentration as Matisse finished.

  “We have to assume Shah Wilshem will receive aid for an invasion,” he said. “Our strength lies in our ability to endure a prolonged campaign. A steady supply of food from Verdaan’s lush hills will be all Terlaan needs to overcome our defences. Their mahktashaan are far more powerful than our magi. If the mages are constrained by a lack of porrin, it will be a slaughter.”

  “There is something about that too,” Jordayne said. “Trove’s dying words were ‘Crystal. Destroy.’” She broke off as the page entered with wine and a platter of fruit, and set them on one of the side tables designed to complement the desk. Ordosteen gestured him out, and poured the prized white vintage into their pewter goblets himself. They did not resume their conversation until the door had shut.

  “It is undisputed, then, that the threat comes from Terlaan,” Matisse said.

  On this little information Jordayne believed nothing undisputed, but she held her tongue. Where the military was concerned, Matisse possessed the greater knowledge. She contented herself with sampling the wine while he compared the forces of the two realms.

  “Wilshem’s daughter is reputed to have received her beauty from Tiarasae,” Ordosteen said the moment Matisse paused for breath. Jordayne really could not blame him for drifting. The numbers Matisse spouted were decidedly boring. She put her goblet down. Uncle had his in hand. He contemplated the sapphires adorning it, but did not take a single sip. “Wilshem can be ruthless but would he trade his beloved daughter to Ahkdul for little more than the risk of war?”

  This lovesick posturing was uncharacteristic. Jordayne hoped his growing feelings for Rochelle had not compelled him to cast her aside. That one had wit alongside her beauty, though if the rumours were true her looks paled in comparison to Princess Kordahla’s. She had a vague recollection of a gorgeous, bubbly child dancing at Ordosteen’s last wedding. She would not care to wager those qualities had bloomed. A woman in Terlaan, while accorded greater freedom than the slavery her sex endured in Verdaan, was far removed from the liberties of this golden realm. She felt a pang of pity for the girl, which was replaced at once by a sudden thought.

  “Terlaan’s shahs have always been conservative. Could Wilshem mean to attack in the name of the old ways?”

  “It would be his best excuse,” said Matisse, helping himself to a refill. “Though he may simply be growing power-hungry.”

  Ordosteen twirled the stem of the goblet in his fingers. “What else might account for the magi’s prediction bar war?”

  Jordayne and Matisse looked at each other.

  “There is nothing, Uncle,” Matisse said.

  She placed a hand on her brother’s knee. “The simple truth is lack of either porrin or apprentices will imperil the mages.”

  The Shah stared at his goblet like he did not know how it had come to be in his hand. His thumb worried at one of the sapphires decorating the cup. “How do we assure a continued supply?” he asked.

  “Uncle, this ignores a great deal of what we know,” Matisse cautioned.

  “There has been peace in Myklaan for forty years. There is no reason to believe it will end.” Ordosteen’s thumb pressed. The sapphire fell out of its bed, dropped onto his lap, and slipped to the rug. My, he was touchy today. Jordayne could almost believe he was the one dealing with grief. And such conviction the magi’s doom would come from another source.

  “You cannot be serious, Uncle. We could not have clearer warning save for a demand for surrender from Wilshem himself,” Matisse retorted. He had set his full goblet down.

  “We must consider other possibilities.” Ordosteen was up and pacing by the desk. “A forty-year truce is unlikely to come to an abrupt end without provocation.” He stared at the drop of blood welling on one finger.

  Jordayne took the goblet from his hand and put it down, spilling wine across the fruit. In her experience, rumours carried more than a shekel of credence. And in forty years, the rumours surrounding Ordosteen had changed little. She had done her share of wondering over Ordosteen’s ill luck with wives. Until today, she had never guessed what a blessing his terrible burden had bestowed. She had thought the very personal price might have purchased a very private gain. In a prospering realm, he was certainly the wealthiest of shahs. With the realisation, her uncle assumed the aspect of a great man. Greater than the shahs who plunged wholeheartedly into war for the glory victory brought. Perhaps the greatest of them all. A nearby warbler thought so, singing his praises to the palace. She stood on tiptoe to plant a tender kiss on his forehead.

  “You are both right,” she said, “but the mages have declared Terlaan is a possible threat. We must prepare for every eventuality.” The djinn were not to be trusted, after all.

  “Let me prepare the armies and double the border patrols. We at least need to dispatch a good captain to Mykter Fort. That garrison has been left to its own command too long. There are disturbing reports of lapses in procedure which will need to be investigated regardless of whether trouble arrives from outside,” Matisse said.

  A honeyeater shrieked warning from its garden perch, a reaction to a slinking palace cat, no doubt. The warbler’s song dissolved into a string of chirps.

  Ordosteen nodded. “Prepare for war, but do it discreetly. I want no rumours to reach our northern neighbours, nor a populace unruly from fear.”

  “I will send Captain deq Lungo. He
is the model of discretion. And under the guise of tightening discipline, not even the soldiers will suspect unrest.”

  “How is our dear Captain?” Jordayne asked.

  Matisse leaned full back into the couch. “He left Madame Yinmae’s with a red face, but I do believe he returned last night.”

  “In the interests of checking on his men, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And you came by this information how?”

  He looked at the ceiling. “I happened to be accompanying him at the time.”

  Their banter brought a smile to their uncle’s face. “Matisse, perhaps you should take a lesson in discretion from the Captain.”

  “I am having far too much fun, Uncle.”

  “My heir must possess a certain amount of decorum. Lodge a girl you fancy at the palace. Lodge three if you will, but do not expose yourself so wantonly. The people must respect their future Shah.”

  The glint in Matisse’s eye was the only sign of his humour. “The men do nothing short of worship me. As for the women, they fall over themselves to attract my attention, and those that can’t, beg their partners to emulate me in bed.”

  “A wife, Matisse. You need a wife to settle you down and produce legitimate heirs.”

  “There is plenty of time for that. My age is not such an issue as hers. As long as she is pretty, fertile and a vixen, heirs will gush from her womb.”

  “I believe you,” Ordosteen said in good humour. “But on this matter we shall talk further.”

  “When the threat of war is no longer upon us. A commander risking his life must find what solace he may,” Matisse said with a wink. He rose. “If there is nothing more, Uncle, I will begin. This conversation is almost as amusing as a bedfellow, but I long for the savagery of war.” He gave Jordayne a peck on the cheek and left.

  Ordosteen turned to her. “What do you think? Will he make a good Shah?”

  “Will you consider another?”

  “I will not. So, I suppose the question is unfair.” He took her hand. “Niece. You must believe I am a foolish old man with nothing to show for my age.”