Monstrum, p.9
Monstrum, page 9
Javid used a pinch of spell dust to correct his course and alit in the field abutting the southern face of the Rock designated for wind ships. As usual it was a beehive of activity. The Rock of Ariamazes was a small city unto itself, run by an army of bakers, cooks, wine stewards, cup-bearers, body servants, scullery maids and grooms. At a somewhat higher rank were the physicians, bureaucrats, musicians, scribes, messengers and emissaries, although they were still considered the “Outer Court.” Javid knew the true power lay in what was called the Inner Court, the princelings and concubines and courtiers and eunuchs. This Inner Court was managed by a powerful official known as the Hazara-patis, which meant Master of a Thousand. And with the king on his deathbed, the Hazara-patis was the true power behind the throne.
Javid deflated the sack and tied down to the mooring peg. Despite the bustle of ships being unloaded, a pall hung over the Rock. There was a palpable sense of uncertainty in the hushed voices of the servants. He tucked the lacquered box beneath his arm and went straight to the side gate where he was accustomed to meeting the Chief Steward, who reported to the Hazara-patis, and handing over the dust. But this time was different.
The steward who awaited him gave a bow adequate to Javid’s station, which was not high at all, so the man’s next words came as a surprise.
“You are summoned,” he said.
“To whom?”
“Prince Shahak.”
Years of practice allowed Javid to mask his shock, but his stomach gave a slow roll.
“I am unworthy of this honor,” he murmured fervently, knowing it would be the gravest insult to reveal how little he wished to meet his client in person. There was nothing for it but to follow the man into the torch-lit darkness of the great fortress.
The royal apartments were buried in the very heart of the Rock, and Javid used the journey to review all he knew about Prince Shahak. He was thirty-two years old and unmarried. He was also the eldest son of King Cambyses and thus next in line for the throne, but his mother, the Queen, favored her middle son and was scheming with certain sympathetic elements of the nobility to undermine Shahak’s claim. The support of the Hazara-patis would be crucial, but Javid was unsure where the man stood. Personally, Javid didn’t care who took the throne. One princeling was much the same as the next to him. But his boss, Asabana, very much desired Shahak to win his claim because Asabana had power over him: spell dust.
Prince Shahak purchased vast quantities of it on a regular basis. Clearly he had a strong interest in magic. He must have an alchemist who knew the language of spell dust, and if the man was anything like Marzban Khorram-Din, Javid shuddered to meet him. So they would probably both be waiting.
Javid had visited the palace many times before on business for the Merchants’ Guild and the layout of the Outer Court was familiar to him: the squinting scribes hunched over their scrolls, the audience chambers with columns soaring up to the dim ceiling above, the murals and bas-reliefs everywhere of hunts and battles and processions of men bringing gifts to the king.
But he had never before been to the royal apartments—not even close. As they moved deeper into the Rock, the corridors narrowed into labyrinthine zig-zag patterns, the better to defend against attack. Javid saw far fewer servants, and they crept about on silk-soled slippers that made no sound. The air grew colder. It smelled of ancient stone and he shivered to think he walked in a place the sun had not touched in more than a thousand years. Three times he was wordlessly handed over to another servant of higher rank, who led him deeper still. His disquiet mounted with each step. Why did the prince wish to see him? Was he displeased with the last shipment? If so, what would he do? The nobility was notorious for punishing messengers, and that went triple for royalty.
Javid didn’t bother trying to memorize the route. He would be escorted out with the prince’s blessing, or not at all.
At last they reached two doors, each ten paces high and carved with fantastic beasts. Javid was given to the chamberlain waiting outside, who in turn gave three smart raps on the door and swung it wide.
Holy Father keep me, he thought.
Javid stepped through but saw nothing but the carpet because etiquette demanded a full prostration, which began as a bow that grew lower and lower until the knees bent and the forehead touched the floor, at which point one stretched out face-down with the arms reaching above the head. He performed it with great care and elegance.
“You may rise,” a taut voice declared.
Javid waited another heartbeat, then stood but kept his gaze rooted on the carpet.
“What is your name?” the prince asked.
“Javid, your royal highness.”
The prince must have made some sign, for the chamberlain withdrew, softly closing the great doors behind him. They were well-oiled and made only the gentlest whisper.
“You may look upon us.”
Javid did as commanded. Prince Shahak was thin as a blade with large brown eyes and thick eyelashes. His face was narrow, his nose suitably aquiline. He wore his black hair loose and parted in the center. Slender fingers emerged from the sleeves of a heavy, embroidered robe in shades of green and purple. Javid had heard he was handsome, and the lines of his face suggested it as a possibility, but there was something a bit ghastly about the man lounging in a large plush chair. His skin had a gray cast and hung loose on his bones. The flickering light of a brazier in the corner did not flatter him. Javid felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. After the corridor outside, the room was smoky and stiflingly warm.
“Where is it?” the prince asked.
His tone was offhand but his fingers had a slight tremor.
Javid stepped forward and knelt before him, offering up the lacquered box.
“Ah.”
Prince Shahak snatched it from his hands and opened the lid. His whole body seemed to relax at the sight of the sparkling dust it contained. He produced a tiny silver spoon from the sleeve of his robe and scooped up a bit of dust. Unsure if he was supposed to retreat in the absence of a direct command, Javid stayed where he was, kneeling at the prince’s feet. He heard a sharp inhalation followed by a sigh of pleasure.
“Come,” the prince exclaimed in a different voice, this one full of life and good humor. “Have a cup of wine with me, Javid. I have company so rarely these days.” He laughed. “Not honest company, at least. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
The sudden change—and the astonishingly familiar attitude, as if Javid were an old friend—caught him so off guard he merely blinked for a moment. Protocol was the lifeblood of the Persian court. If one wrote down every rule, every proper form of address, for every occasion, it would fill a hundred scrolls in the tiny, spidery lettering the scribes uses for long-distance messages. Each aspect of life at court required a flowery, elaborate ritual. And here was Prince Shahak staring at him frankly and inviting him for a cup of wine.
Not to mention the fact he had just inhaled spell dust. Javid couldn’t begin to imagine what effect that might have on a person. He’d never heard of such a thing. Never even suspected it could be done.
“Your Highness,” Javid managed. “You do me too great an honor.”
“Oh, rubbish,” the prince declared, bounding out of the chair with sudden energy. To Javid’s complete and utter amazement, he seized another chair and dragged it over. “Sit.”
Small tables scattered about the room held statues and other knickknacks. Javid’s gaze desperately searched the room for the wine. He finally spotted it, in a golden decanter perched upon the hindquarters of a roaring griffin.
“Please, allow me to pour for you first, Your Highness,” he said, more confused and unsure than he’d ever been in his entire life.
“Yes, do,” the prince said, discreetly inhaling another spoonful of spell dust. The color had returned to his cheeks and his brown eyes shone with curiosity.
“I’ve heard about you,” the prince said when Javid had sat down and offered him a cup.
“Indeed, your highness?” Javid replied, pretending ignorance. Who knew what rumors had reached the palace?
“You were captured by the Pythia.”
“It was a piece of ill luck,” Javid said smoothly, though his bowels instantly turned to water. Holy Father, how much did the prince know? His mission to the darklands had involved a scheme to evade the king’s taxes. Javid could well imagine the hideous death he would face if the truth came out.
“Tell me about her. I wish to know everything.”
“I only spoke with her once.” Javid remembered every detail of that hair-raising encounter. “She’s young, less than thirty I’d guess, although no one seems to know her age. She has a commanding presence. Lord Asabana says she’s the true power in Delphi now. The Polemarch and the Archons do her bidding.”
“I fear she will wait until we’re all squabbling over my father’s corpse to invade,” the prince said darkly. “Why does she hate us so?”
“That I cannot say, your majesty. But I know she despises the daēvas with all her heart.”
The prince barked a harsh laugh. “She simply fears what she does not have. Magic.” He took a long sip of wine. “My mother and brothers are scheming against me,” the prince said, his gaze growing distant. “She does not approve of me.”
Javid said nothing. Who knew who was listening?
“She doesn’t understand. Power is there for the taking. But one must be willing to take risks.” He leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. “Give me your cup.”
Javid did so.
“Watch.” The prince closed his eyes. Then he tossed the cup into the air. Red liquid flew in an arc. Javid felt a sudden intense burst of heat and then he heard wingbeats. The goblet vanished and a white dove fluttered upward, frantic. The prince held out a hand and it settled on his wrist.
Javid realized his mouth was hanging open and shut it with a snap. It wasn’t possible. He understood the basic principles of magic. The daēvas could directly work the three elements of earth, air and water. Only the Vatras had mastery over fire. Spell dust also had a variety of uses, but they were all similar to elemental magic. But what the prince had just done…. That was transformation of one object into another. A dead thing to a living thing. Even the daēvas couldn’t do that, Javid felt certain.
Prince Shahak leaned back, weariness marking his face. A thin line of blood dripped from his left nostril.
“Leave us now,” he said.
Javid made the prostration, his mind racing. No wonder the Queen didn’t approve of her eldest son. He was dabbling in arts well beyond the bounds of prudence. And it was just as clearly taking its toll.
“Return in three days. You will come to me personally from now on.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he murmured, backing from the room.
An elderly chamberlain with huge ears waited in the corridor to escort him from the Rock. Neither spoke a single word until Javid stepped into the sunlight and they uttered terse pleasantries. No money changed hands—that would be horribly crass. The prince had a credit line with Izad Asabana and his accounts were settled monthly.
But if he had been given a sack of gold…Well, Javid might have tossed it into the Ash Vareca, set a course for the darklands and never looked back.
9
New Hope
Fingers of mist curled around the Chione’s square sails as she drifted into the fogbank. Nazafareen gripped the rail with her left hand, peering into the gloom. Darius stood next to her with a lumen crystal, but its blue glow hardly penetrated the dense mist. All was still except for the muffled slap of water against the hull.
As soon as they entered the fog, the wind died completely. If the Marakai hadn’t summoned a current to carry the ship forward, Nazafareen doubted they would be moving at all. As it was, the pace seemed terribly slow. She burned with impatience to meet Sakhet-ra-katme, not only because she might know how to find the talismans. Of all the daēva clans, the Marakai were the strongest healers. Surely Sakhet would know how to fix the holes in Nazafareen’s mind. And perhaps the knowledge would offer some clue as to why Nazafareen had this strange breaking power, and what it meant.
Everyone had gathered on deck, though her companions were no more than faint outlines in the mist. And then one of the crew gave a shout. The Chione glided through the last ragged fingers of fog into an open space. The stars reappeared overhead and Selene’s warm yellow light burnished water as calm as a mirror. Nazafareen gripped the rail tighter.
Then she saw something small and dark on the surface. The others saw it too. Immediately, four Marakai dove gracefully over the side and swam over to the piece of flotsam, examining it with grim faces. Without a word, they vanished beneath the surface for many long minutes. Finally, they emerged and swam back to the boat, climbing up a rope ladder.
“There’s more wreckage at the bottom,” one told Captain Mafuone. “The remains of a boat. Part of the hull is wedged in the rocks.”
“And Sakhet?” the captain asked in a tight voice.
“We found no body. But the currents are strong in the depths.”
He handed the captain a piece of wood. Most of it was charred, but Nazafareen could see traces of red paint on one side.
“Holy Father,” Darius muttered.
Kallisto strode forward, tears springing to her eyes. “It cannot be,” she said. She reached for the piece of wood, then drew her hand back as if she couldn’t bear to touch it. “I recognize the color. It was her houseboat.” Her mouth twisted in sorrow, and Herodotus put an arm around her shoulders, looking stricken himself.
Nazafareen realized at that moment she had not truly believed in the fire daēvas. They were bogeymen, a shadowy threat with no substance. Her hatred had focused on the Pythia. But here was evidence that at least one of them walked free in the world. She felt a flush of shame that she’d been thinking only of herself and what Sakhet could do for her.
“It was the Vatra,” Kallisto said in bitter confirmation. “He found her first. And we must assume he learned what she knew before he killed her. He could be hunting the talisman at this very minute.”
“Do you know what he looks like?” Captain Mafuone demanded.
“Not really. Just that he is red-haired, like all the Vatras. My visions come in flashes and they are veiled with metaphor.”
The captain exchanged an uneasy glance with her current master. “In what way?”
“The Vatra has the face of a wolf, or sometimes a jackal. I’ve seen him savaging a Marakai girl with his teeth.” Kallisto swallowed, her face pale. “But I’ve also seen her wearing the Blue Crown of the Khepresh.” She raised a hand. “Don’t ask what she looks like. I cannot see her face either. I think she must be warded and the spell is strong enough to cloak her even from Dionysus.”
Darius stepped forward. “May I?” he asked deferentially.
Captain Mafuone handed him the piece of wood. He sniffed it and rubbed a bit of charcoal between his fingers.
“This happened recently,” he said. “Within the last hour. He can’t be far ahead of us.”
Captain Mafuone nodded. “We’ll make for the Isles. The others must be told what happened here. And it’s the nearest land, this Vatra could be there.” She paused. “Sakhet belonged to both the Selk and the Nyx. We must inform the viziers.”
A gentle rain began to fall as the Chione set a new course. The fog thinned and began to break apart. Nazafareen sensed the magic shielding Sakhet’s home was fading and she felt a deep sadness although they had never met.
“It’s my fault,” Kallisto muttered. “I failed to warn her in time.”
“It is not your fault, my dear,” Herodotus said sternly. “You know birds aren’t always reliable. You did everything you could.”
“If he finds this girl, what will he do with her?” Nazafareen asked.
“The talismans made the Gale. I imagine they have the power to bring it down.”
“So he won’t kill her?”
“I don’t think so. Not until he’s used her.” Kallisto looked at Herodotus. “All may not be lost. There is the matter of Nabu-bal-idinna’s scroll.”
“Lest the power corrupt their hearts, they shall not know it nor touch it until the fourth talisman brings it forth,” Herodotus recited.
“You mean he can’t use her without this fourth talisman?” Darius asked.
“If the alchemist spoke truly.” Kallisto sighed. “Sakhet might have known what it was. Or the Vatra might know already. But how can we protect the talismans when the only person who knew about them is dead?”
No one had an answer to this.
The Isles of the Marakai comprised five barren humps of rock where the waters of the White Sea and the Austral Ocean flowed together. They had formed millennia before from volcanic eruptions on the sea floor and although the fiery calderas were now dormant, sulfurous steam still rose through vents, making the climate around the Isles warmer than the surrounding ocean.
Captain Mafuone and her crew were Sheut Marakai, which meant shadow. Their home was the southernmost island, but the Chione sailed past it and made for the neighboring isle of the Selk.
Ships crowded the harbor beyond the breakwater. Most of the sails were emblazoned with the image of a gray-striped cat, though a few displayed the giant carp of the Jengu and the Blue Crown of the Khepresh. A ramshackle collection of mortared stone buildings sat along the shoreline. Herodotus said the town was called New Hope and had been built by the Stygians, the only mortals to live in the darklands. They eked out an existence fishing and diving for pearls, which they traded to the Marakai for fruits and vegetables from Solis, and items of wood or metal. The glow of lumen crystals spilled through the windows of the houses, blue and white and yellow, and Nazafareen’s heart lifted to see land again.
