by Tia Reed
“My choice was not the culprit. There was a djinn.”
He studied her before he spoke. The bulbous windows were unshuttered, and the doors to the two balconies behind her stood wide, so she had the sun’s last light to study him back. His features held an elusive emotion she had difficulty pinning down. Reluctant disappointment, perhaps? “The Minoria tells me it is not the first time. He thinks that djinn has attached itself to you. Tell me child, have you brokered a deal with the creature?” His voice, while stern, was not unkind.
“Do you think me so foolish?” she asked.
“No, Kordahla, but I would have it from your own lips.”
A breeze fluttered the drapes at the doors. Warm though it was, she shuddered. “I have not made compact with one of their kind,” she said carefully. “Nor do I understand why the Minoria would think one haunts me.”
“Has one appeared to you?”
Her cheeks burning, she swallowed. “I caught a glimpse, today at the shipyard.” Vinsant’s passion for secrets would protect her, but she could not vouch for the misery that must be visible on her face. Her aptitude for deception was a near match to Samille’s.
“Relax child, I believe you, but the mahktashaan are trained in these matters. If they suppose a djinn trails you, then it is only a matter of time before he manifests. The capricious creatures turn guile into an art. Their offers are difficult to resist.”
She had nothing to say to that, except breathe a sigh of relief Father could not yet be privy to the humiliating vision of her defiled body, thank Vae’oenka for that. It made pretending to concentrate on his long caution against djinnkind that much easier. The indigo creature’s devious manipulations were fast convincing her how dire her future would be in Verdaan. He had to be waiting for the Shah’s sickening decision before offering her a pact she could not possibly refuse.
“I think you are aware Ahkdul has asked for your hand?”
She started. Her mouth had turned dry, although if she were honest, she had known from the moment he summoned her this was where the conversation would lead. She poured a measure of tea into both their cups, took a sip, and set the cup back down. Father knew she was aware, and yet he framed a question. This gentleness was uncharacteristic.
She nodded. “The more I learn of him, the more odious I find him.”
Father stood, and paced the length of the dining table and back. She was forced to look over her shoulder to follow him. Outside, pink streaked the airy clouds in the western sky. “Mariano said much the same thing, but–” he stopped and faced her, hands behind his back. She rose, in order to see him. “Royalty brings privilege, Kordahla, but also responsibility. The man is neither a charmer nor blessed with fair looks. He would expect unquestioning obedience, I think, but this is no more than a husband should expect of a wife. And he does not seem unduly cruel.”
Except where little boys are concerned, she wanted to shout, clutching the back of the chair. She chose to bite her tongue.
“Lord Hudassan is prepared to make remarkable concessions to border security if this union comes about. Today alone the patrols apprehended two smugglers attempting to sell porrin to children younger than Vinsant. The guilds claim productivity is falling, and women are reduced to begging when their husbands succumb to addiction. I cannot neglect the benefit to Terlaan if we can stem the flow of the drug into our land.”
Her heart quavered now, certain where this was going. “There are goods to trade with,” she said.
“None that would not compromise our security.”
And so she learnt she meant less to her father than a handful of magical crystals. And that beneath skies of deepening red, hearts could not just break but shatter. She swallowed back tears.
“And then there is your behaviour of late, and the threat of this djinn. I begin to think you would be safer far away from here.”
This was too personal. “That’s not true and you know it. The Majoria warned you I was not to leave the palace. I did not even wish to go. It is your fault the creature accosted me. You want to feel better about selling me into a life of misery. I shall not agree, I tell you. I shan’t.” She wavered on blurting out Ahkdul was the swine the message on the crate had warned against. But how could she? To admit a djinn had referred to the Verdaani lord as such would be to admit she had just lied. And that she was in the very danger Father sought to protect her from. The Shah did not trust the djinn, and neither did the mahktashaan. They were as likely to force her into marriage because the djinn counselled against it as to offer her a reprieve.
He opened his arms to her. The blood rushed out of her face. Her outburst had not provoked him to anger. When calm, Shah Wilshem was steadfast and resolute. She did not, could not, move. He came and took her into his embrace, holding her against his chest like a much younger child. She lost herself in the rich spicy scent he favoured, a mix of leather, wood, nutmeg and cinnamon.
“Kordahla, you are your mother’s child. The love I bear you is boundless. But there are strange happenings. The Majoria can shed little light on the falling fish. Now I learn one of the djinn tags you.” She tensed, and he released a small grunt of justification. “You may believe I try only to placate, but the reasons I have for granting Ahkdul’s request are not solely related to matters of state.”
Pulling away, she dropped her eyes and took care to speak soft. “Marry me to a Terlaani, if you believe there must be a wedding. I will even accept old Satrap Danosh, rheumy and impotent though he may be. But I will not wed Ahkdul gracefully.”
“The omens suggest it is with him you must join. Do not look so glum. The marriage will not be for months yet. In the meantime, he has requested you accompany him to Verdaan. It will be a good opportunity for you to acquaint yourself with his family and their customs. It will smooth your ultimate transition to Verdaani wife.”
“When will this be? The ship will not be fit to sail by eight-day’s end.”
“Ahkdul is keen to return home rather than tarry. Under the circumstances, I think it best.” He put his fingers under her chin and lifted her eyes to his. “You will leave with your maids tomorrow, for two major moon’s sojourn.”
A large lump caught midway down her throat. She could barely articulate her words. “It is decided then. There is nothing I can say or do to change your mind?”
As the skies bruised to indigo, Father gave her a single nod. “Yes, Kordahla. You will marry Ahkdul.”
* * *
The evening passed in restlessness, in sitting, standing and pacing, in pecking at the meal Kordahla had requested served in her room, and in picking up and putting down her jewelled brush, her silver horse, her wooden dolls. The books Vinsant had smuggled failed to hold her attention, much to the exasperation of her handmaids, who pleaded for the tale of the Periwinkle Djinn as they folded kameez into trunks in preparation for a hasty departure. She could not, she would not, marry Ahkdul. No sane person would believe her brother’s feeble plan to trade crystals for her freedom could work. Yet here she was, seeking the rifts in its fabric not to convince herself of its stupidity but to contrive ways to darn them. More than three hours after she had left Father, the glimmer of a foolhardy idea began to take hold. Ignoring her maids’ disappointment, she sent Samille to the kitchen for a basket of fruit and Karie to Physic Nocrates with a message.
Alone at last to brood and scheme, she pulled out parchment and ink from her drawing desk and flipped past the sketches that served as a cover should any man question her right to own such implements. Then she began to pen the most difficult letter of her life. Bereft of practice, she scratched out the strokes until she had formed a plea from the heart. Taking a deep breath, she folded and sealed the parchment and tucked it into her bosom with shaking hands and a prayer to Vae’oenka that the recipient would offer assistance, not betrayal.
Her maids returned together, Samille with a page lugging an oversized basket of oranges imported from luscious Verdaan. Kordahla asked little Banesh to set the fru
it on the table, then busied herself rearranging it, asking the girls to fetch her this pair of slippers and that veil (the green one with the gold embroidery; turn the bedchamber upside down if need be, but they must find it; it was her mother’s). Under guise of rearranging the fruit, she slipped the letter to the bottom of the basket, turning with guilty sharpness as Karie emerged with the ruby red veil draped across her arms, proclaiming it better suited to her complexion. Kordahla turned back and placed an orange inside the basket. The parchment crackled as it settled. She thanked the Vae Karie thought nothing of it. Minutes later, Nocrates arrived, the heavy bag he refused to entrust to a page under one arm. Smooth as a man half his age, he took her hand and kissed it.
“I would say it is a pleasure, Princess, but I am ill inclined to enjoy the distress of others.” Her eyebrows twitched in surprise as she wondered how he could possibly have heard her fate so soon. “I hope it is nothing serious. You shouldn’t be standing, you know. Not if you aren’t feeling well,” Nocrates continued, ushering her to the daybed. A few stars were visible through the open window above it, and a nightingale sang in admiration of the jasmine in the garden.
“I’m well, I thank you,” she said in a taut voice, glad his earlier comment was nothing but professional concern for a patient.
“Well you could have fooled me,” he said, peering at her face.
Kordahla gave a weak smile. “It has been an arduous day.”
Nocrates gave a harrumph. “So I gathered.”
“It’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure,” she said, grateful for the comfort of her fussing maids.
“But you’re not likely to have one of those tonight, are you Princess?” He grew thoughtful, and she knew he was studying the dark circles under her eyes, the strain in her jaw. Nobody ever hid the slightest bodily dysfunction from Nocrates, least of all someone whom he had nursed through every ailment since birth.
Her door opened. “Hello.” Vinsant stuck his head inside. Seeing Nocrates, he came right in. “I knew you wouldn’t be feeling well. Mariano told me what Father said.”
“Oh? What was that?” Nocrates asked.
She looked her request for reserve at Vinsant as Karie and Samille brought the physic a chair. Her boisterous, little brother stood straight and still. She could only imagine the royal blue kurta of the mahktashaan apprentices had instilled a sense of responsibility in him. “I have a favour to ask,” she said to Nocrates when Vinsant remained quiet. She forced her wringing hands still. “I was hoping you might deliver a basket of fruit to the carpenter whose leg was broken when you next call.” The evening breeze swept in, bringing a sudden unnatural chill. One of the cushions rolled off the bed and onto the rug. Kordahla shuddered.
Vinsant came over to the day bed and jumped on. “Brrr. He reached up and pulled the shutters closed, then gathered one of the curtains around himself.
Nocrates’ hazel eyes watched her in that astute way of his. “You wouldn’t be suffering from an attack of guilt now, would you?” he asked. A peep caught in her throat, giving her away. “From what I hear it was an accident.”
Karie picked up the cushion, holding it to her midriff as she listened for any detail Kordahla might have omitted when she confided the whole, distressing incident to her dear friends.
“It was. But all the same, I’d feel better knowing he rests easy.” She held her breath, hoping his fondness for her would prevail.
Nocrates gave a ponderous nod. “His leg is set – though a real problem that was, getting the bone together – and he has porrin for the night.”
“Kordahla needs porrin,” Vinsant said, twisting the curtain into a veil over his head and mouth. “So she can rest.”
“Still, I’d rather not leave it to some inexperienced twit to assess the splint,” Nocrates said right over him. “I might just take myself over there before I dine.”
“You should take Karie and Samille.”
“Kordahla!” The pair of them ran to her, Karie dropping the cushion.
“They can represent me in this.”
“We need to help you pack,” Karie said.
The girls could protest all they liked. This night belonged to Vinsant, to family bonds, and, if her trembling heart dared, to their plan for escape.
She held their hands. “Do this for me, and then the night is yours. You should bid your families goodbye before we leave.”
“Are you sure you are well? Your hands look clammy, and there are goosebumps on your arms,” Nocrates observed.
She pretended the curtains weren’t fluttering, a tiny movement the others might have attributed to Vinsant’s fidgeting. “Quite well, save for my concern for the man.”
“I shall leave a valerian potion to aid your slumber.”
Kordahla rose from the daybed and gave Nocrates a peck on the cheek. These few steps from the window, the heat was oppressive.
“All right, all right,” the old physic said, flustered, though there was a smile on his face. “But after this I’d have you remember I’m too old to go gallivanting all over the town for the sake of a commoner. Next time, do not be so quick to volunteer my services. I don’t want to die on the job, you know.”
As panicky as she was, Kordahla laughed. In Nocrates’s mind there was no better way to go, she was sure.
* * *
Arlem was not a stupid man.
When the court physic was done with his attentions, and had departed with a bow – to him of all people – his wife returned to his side with a plate of exotic orange segments, a parchment sealed with wax, and a look that after twenty-two years of marriage was unfathomable. A little ribbing later, Arlem was protesting fatigue to the gaggle of mates who had insisted on hanging around to hear the physic’s verdict. They left him with his leg splayed over the pillows on his pallet after just one more round of laughter at his expense.
“What’s this, woman?” he asked, indicating the letter. He frowned when she shook her head, gesturing to her veil with annoyance. While Sareta had lost the blushing beauty of her youth, he yet found her fair to look upon. Granted, she had covered head in deference to the visitor from the palace, but the trying day had left him ill inclined to patience. If he could not look upon the auburn hair of his wife, the day would have no saving grace at all. Grumpy with pain, he fumbled with the seal.
Letters were an oddity to Arlem, a mystery to decipher when he was in the mood for a headache. He was inclined to put the message down until morning when his woman told him where it had lain. He was not a stupid man. A poorly uneducated labourer, yes, but stupid no.
Several squints later, he thought he understood the gist of the daring request. He looked at his wife with no small apprehension and stuttered the message aloud. Her face became pinched by degrees. That was rich, since she was not the one in agony. Wincing, he sank further down on the mattress, clasped the letter to his broad chest and stared at the ceiling. A monumental decision was begging his attention. At least his pain imparted a certain clarity of thought.
“Take the porrin,” the physic had said.
“Send me a mahktashaan if you grieve for my pain, for I’ll not,” Arlem had replied. On his deathbed, he might condescend to imbibe the cursed plant that had whittled his cousin away to a shell, but not before.
It was just as well. This secret missive demanded a sharp mind. What he had seen atop the mast, as he lay in the boat while they rowed him to the city, was a scene so ghastly he had wondered if in his pain he had hallucinated. Except there had been no pain. The mahktashaan had seen to that. Because the Princess had requested it.
Djinn, magic and gods were not in the ken of an ordinary, hard-working man like himself. He wondered why Vae’omar had seen fit to burden him so. The answer came to him with such clarity he had to wonder if Vae’oeldin himself had planted it there. Had his daughter been so disgracefully exposed, he would have done everything in his power, everything beyond it even, to spare her the outcome. He would even have risked beheading to appro
ach the palace and demand an audience with the Majoria himself. Another man in this barren country at this crossroads in time might have denounced the girl, said she brought the humiliation on herself. Arlem had never understood how the aggression of men was the fault of a woman. At least not those as were suitably attired.
Arlem looked at his wife. Her expression had turned guarded as she awaited his decision. It would have to be her, he realised, who took the risk. With his leg as it was, he could barely stand.
“There is something you should know,” he said, “before we decide.”
She listened without interruption to the story of the docks. He added the rumour his mates had delivered, of an impending royal marriage to that pig of a Verdaani man. The swine would have left him suffering in the mud, and after Arlem had laboured for eight-days on his father’s ship. Lord Hudassan’s son, was it? That scumdweller was likely responsible for smuggling porrin into this Vae-abiding land.
When he had finished, Arlem gestured at the hearth. Without a word, his woman dropped the letter in and stoked the cooking fire. He watched until the last scrap had turned to cinders. Arlem was not a stupid man.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Wake up.”
Timak buried his face in the lavender-scented pillow, and fought to stay asleep.
“Wake up!”
He kept his eyes closed. Wakefulness had a particular meaning in his lord’s bed. The longer the stinky monster kept snoring, the longer Timak moaned with bad dreams, the safer he was.
“WAKE UP.”
He jolted full awake. The hazy light by the chest of drawers stabbed at his eyes, and he winced. Beside him, Lord Ahkdul’s snores choked to a stop. Timak held his breath. The luck of the djinn turned the monster away, toward the velvet curtains, and the yellow moonbeam which shot through the gap and over the bear-shaped foot of the poster bed.
“Can you get out without waking the beast?” Yazmine asked. “Don’t speak. Just do what I say.”
A very small sliver of curiosity wanted to ask her why. The greater part of him, the part Ahkdul had thrashed into meekness, told him to lie dead still.