The Seal Page 6

  ‘Do nothing. Accept your punishment and let events play out.’

  The voice wasn’t the Unmade Creator’s. To her right stood Manah. The winged bull’s body and the smug human face were a construct of her longing for the old days, the simplicity of fulfilling the Unmade Creator’s wishes without hesitation or question. Even now, the lamassu wanted her to behave as if nothing had changed, to do what the Unmade Creator expected of her, which was nothing.

  She would if it weren’t for being leashed to this world, agonisingly aware of each torturous second, the weight of a single world confining a consciousness designed for a domain’s vastness, an expanding universe where, once, there was never enough time for Armaiti to get things done.

  ‘My punishment is to remain here until Roshan dies,’ she said, as much to Manah as the Unmade Creator. ‘If Roshan changes, how long will she live for? How long must I wait? How long before I turn insane? What kind of punishment is that?’

  She received no answer from either of them. This time, she addressed only the space beyond her domain.

  ‘I can’t stand back and let events develop. If I don’t act now, the wrong I did can never be put right.’

  Manah shook his head, disappointment furrowing his brow.

  ‘I’m scared, Unmade Creator,’ Armaiti said. ‘Is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry for what I did.’ She pointed at the lamassu. ‘Please don’t abandon me and leave me alone with this creeping madness. Say something. Tell me what to do.’

  Silence.

  Armaiti’s spirit condensed, forming a humanoid body with the wings and head of an eagle. Like the lamassu, this was another manifestation the humans imagined a protective spirit might take.

  The eagle’s head gazed up at grey, bloated clouds.

  ‘I cannot accept the interminableness of your punishment, Unmade Creator. End my existence, if you must, and release me from this tedium. Do it now. Stop me, because I’ve decided.’

  Neither the mountainside nor Armaiti moved. Snow began to fall, and Manah, the lamassu, had disappeared.

  10

  Roshan waved goodbye. Her brother, Behrouz, and King Fiqitush waved back. Zana sat next to Navid and continued to sulk. Yesfir stepped through the portal first.

  Cushions and crumpled clothes lay scattered across the single room’s floor. Two rolled sleeping blankets lay beneath a lone window, the cramped room’s only source of light. Opposite and to one side of the window was an arched alcove. Roshan collapsed the portal. She looked past Yesfir and found unwashed plates heaped on a wooden worktop in the alcove. Beneath the work surface stood a bucket, the water in it grey and cloudy.

  Yesfir faced her, both hands resting on Roshan’s shoulders.

  ‘How are you?’ the djinni said, squinting into Roshan’s eyes.

  From the burning she’d experienced, raising the portal would have caused minimal scarring, if any. She rolled up the sleeves of her nomad’s thobe and checked her forearms. No additional sickle-shaped scars spotted her skin.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  Yesfir raised an eyebrow, looked Roshan up and down and then stepped away from her.

  ‘The prince really lives here?’ Roshan said.

  Hands on hips, Yesfir surveyed the room.

  ‘Soon after my father’s coronation, Uncle left.’

  ‘Was he upset he wasn’t made king?’

  One corner of Yesfir’s mouth rose. She shook her head.

  ‘Far from it. Uncle Emad found court life suffocating, and the thought of being responsible for anything or anyone more so. No, he left to sail the world and see it on his terms. He was the captain of his own trireme. His cabin couldn’t have been any bigger than this room and probably just as messy.’

  Yesfir bent down and retrieved a cushion.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Yesfir tossed the cushion. It landed next to the sleeping blankets. She did the same with another.

  ‘He hasn’t returned,’ Yesfir said, ‘and I don’t want to spend all day waiting for him. Uncle Emad’s still at the teahouse with Aeshma.’ She pointed at her eyes, yellow flames circling her irises. ‘You go and get him while I tidy this place.’

  Earlier, King Fiqitush had weaved a destination window. Roshan had seen the prince and the huge disfigured daeva, Aeshma. They sat outside a teahouse, beneath the shade of its red and white–striped awning.

  Roshan pulled the nomad’s scarf over her head. The teahouse was a quarter-hour’s walk east of the prince’s accommodation. She stepped over a hessian bag to reach the door. A red brick had fallen out of the bag, its corners chipped to reveal the beige of unstained wood. Roshan raised the latch, pulled the door ajar and scanned the street outside.

  ‘Cover your arms and don’t let anyone see you can weave magic,’ Yesfir said. ‘If anyone asks, remember your story.’

  Roshan nodded once and slipped outside.

  The first turning on the right led her onto Derbicca’s main thoroughfare. The wide street, free of shadows, was as arid as the dark, narrow one she’d emerged from. Canopied stalls lined it. Only a few stallholders offered goods, gewgaws as tired and as dusty as their sellers, who sat stooped on low stools. No one looked up when she passed.

  Roshan’s scarf slid from her head. A trader looked up, his eyes flitting over her. She pulled the scarf back over her hair and kept its ends clamped in her hand to prevent it from slipping again.

  She sped away and slowed only after she overtook a woman carrying brushwood slung across her back. Everyone she passed possessed a lazy, shuffling gait. No one in Derbicca seemed in a hurry. Except for the occasional trundling cart, an eerie silence filled the city.

  Why would a prince want to live here?

  Roshan kept a count of the streets she’d passed. The one after the next led to the bazaar and the teahouse next to it.

  ‘You! Stop.’

  Roshan kept walking. Whoever had called out couldn’t be referring to her.

  ‘You, nomad. I ordered you to stop.’

  Roshan heard the crunch of boots on sand. She halted. Her mouth dried and the space between her shoulders tightened. With a casualness that belied her fear, she turned.

  Two guardsmen, wearing fish-scale mail and each carrying a spear, flanked a man dressed in the black and scarlet–striped tunic and leggings of a city administrator. The man beckoned Roshan over.

  ‘My name is Arman,’ the administrator said. ‘I’ve just come from the city gates. The guards made no mention of anyone entering the city this morning. When did you arrive, and what’s your business in Derbicca?’

  Roshan gave her name and recounted Yesfir’s story. Two days before, her mother had fallen ill with a fever, and Roshan had arrived in Derbicca to visit the temple, make an offering to the sacred fire and pray to the Divine Light for her mother’s recovery.

  ‘Today is when we conduct the weekly census, Roshan Abla,’ the administrator said. ‘You’re to come with me and register now. Failure to register will result in your arrest and imprisonment until next week’s census.’

  Persepae was filled with such administrators, men who exploited the empire’s laws for their own gains. Judging from the tassels hanging from Administrator Arman’s tunic and the brightness of his clothing’s dyes, he could afford tailoring beyond a civil servant’s wage.

  ‘Please, sir, I’m worried about my mother,’ Roshan said. ‘If there is a fine, I’ll pay it. I must get to the temple before they run out of blessed cedar wood for the offering.’

  The administrator folded his arms and raised his chin.

  ‘If you can afford the fine, you could have paid for a magus to visit your mother, light a fire altar and perform the prayers in her tent.’

  Had she misjudged him and he wasn’t on the take?

  ‘Please, sir, I would never think to summon someone as important as a city magus to my family’s camp. I didn’t know the few darics I have would pay for such an honour.’

  The administrator’s arms remained
folded. He stared at her.

  Not sure what else to say, Roshan clasped her hands together in supplication.

  Just let me go, she thought.

  The administrator unfolded his arms and tapped the tip of a finger against his chin.

  ‘Very well, Roshan Abla,’ he said. ‘You have an hour. Go say your prayers and then report to the municipal office to register your name. Ask the magus on duty. He or she will give you directions.’

  Lightheaded and relieved, Roshan bowed and thanked him.

  ‘Remember, an hour,’ the administrator said. He pointed with his thumb at the men behind him. ‘If you do not reach the office by then, these men will come looking for you, and fine or no fine, you will languish in Derbicca’s jail until the next census.’

  Before she could thank him again, the administrator turned and walked away.

  The pleasant light-headedness remained with her as she walked farther up the street. In case he was watching, she passed the street leading to the teahouse and continued to the next one and the temple at the end of it. All it took was two right turns after the temple and she’d reach the teahouse.

  At the top of the street leading to the temple, Roshan stopped. Her elation had passed. Something wasn’t right. The administrator had let her go too easily.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone had followed her. There was no sign of guardsmen and the locals remained indifferent to her.

  Roshan shook her head.

  All Yesfir has to do is convince the prince and Aeshma to return with us, she told herself. Don’t worry about that administrator. He can’t know why you’re really here. As soon as you’re back and inside the prince’s room, we’ll all leave Derbicca through a portal.

  11

  Emad looked up and past the awning’s edge, a hand shading his eyes from the sun. Esmar Sharo, Widow Sharo, was late.

  Seated at the table next to his, Aeshma spoke unintelligible words to his menagerie of wooden animals. Once in a while, he’d stroke a back or pat a head with a finger. Engrossed, Emad’s cousin either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care how the tables surrounding them had filled since they’d arrived. It was lunchtime.

  Emad shuffled on his stool. If Widow Sharo didn’t show up soon, he’d have to leave. Within the hour, or sooner, Administrator Arman would conduct his rounds of the bazaar. Emad held as much affection for the administrator as the administrator had for daevas. Emad ached to leave. His fingers drummed the tabletop. There were only enough coins in his pouch to pay the rent. Without the widow’s money, he’d have nothing left with which to buy food.

  Widow Sharo, her scarlet tunic and leggings now faded to a dull pink, squeezed her way through the bazaar’s shoppers, a bag in each hand making her shoulders sag.

  The muscles in Emad’s lower back uncoiled, and he stopped drumming. He stood and took both bags from the widow so she could sit next to him. With the bags on one side of him and the widow on the other, he sat down. Emad smelled the sweetness of bruised fruit and glimpsed the blackened skin of a pear near the top of one bag. The other bag contained a bolt of saffron-coloured cotton.

  ‘We barely survive on the money I make as a seamstress.’

  She’d seen him eyeing the contents of her bags.

  ‘You were a proud woman even before your husband’s death, Esmar Sharo,’ he said. ‘Unlike those of us who wait until the evening, when the grocers throw away their bruised and rotten wares, you buy those same fruits and vegetables at, I’d wager, a substantial discount.’

  Crow’s feet appeared at the corners of Widow Sharo’s blue eyes, and her shoulders straightened. Emad prided himself on learning all he could about his potential customers. Esmar Sharo had married a merchant twice her age. Thanks to his poor investments and unsettled debts, they’d fled Persepae. Being in this backwater city wasn’t her fault.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Emad said.

  The widow flattened her palms on the table. Unlike most women, her fingers and wrists were devoid of jewellery.

  ‘My husband possessed very little when he died,’ she said, her voice a whisper so only Emad heard her. ‘I had to sell my wedding bangles to start a business. My dresses are popular among the few who can afford a new dress, and my mending and alterations never fall apart. If it were only me, I’d live comfortably. But I have a daughter, Sona. She’s of marrying age, and with the money I earn, I only have a little left over to save for a dowry.’ Widow Sharo shook her head, her hands curled into fists. ‘I have prayed and prayed to the Divine Light, but my prayers have gone unanswered.’

  While she spoke, Emad reached out with his aura—the sensation akin to touching her without moving his hand. Although tired and frustrated, the widow had ample auric energy. If he were to help, he wouldn’t harm her when he took some of it.

  Emad bent forward.

  ‘What is it you wish?’

  Widow Sharo glanced at the table next to theirs and Aeshma.

  ‘I love my daughter,’ she said. ‘She is bright, hardworking and kind. She will make a good wife.’ Widow Sharo looked up, cast an accusatory glare at the sky and continued. ‘But without a large dowry, most men cannot see past one thing. There’—Widow Sharo pointed at the bazaar—‘there’s my Sona.’

  Emad’s eyes followed the widow’s finger. His gaze fell upon the coppersmith’s stall. Pots, pans and kettles hung from hooks attached to a bar hung above and along its length. A young woman stood beneath a large pot, one used for cooking stews, and examined a ladle. Her hair, a shiny blue-black, set off her blemish-free, dark-amber skin. Like her mother, she had blue eyes.

  I’d marry her, Emad thought.

  That was until Sona turned to face the coppersmith and showed him the ladle.

  Sona’s nose was nothing exceptional until viewed in profile. Instead of flat, a severe bump interrupted the bridge of her nose.

  ‘She has her father’s nose,’ Widow Sharo said. ‘Sona isn’t concerned by it. She says I worry too much about how it affects her prospects of finding a good husband. As I’ve said, she is kind, and she never judges others by their looks. But then, she doesn’t think like a man—she isn’t shallow.’

  Emad felt his face redden. While he had no difficulty imagining how a man lost himself in Sona’s eyes, his gaze kept drifting down to her nose. Side on, the young woman reminded him of a hawk.

  He couldn’t help her. Derbicca’s citizens used him to mend things they couldn’t afford to replace: cart axles, worn pans and cracks in walls. Sona walking around with a straight nose would start people talking, the gossip inevitably reaching Administrator Arman’s ears. All empire cities forbade the practice of djinn magic.

  If I were flung in prison, who’d look after Aeshma?

  Widow Sharo gazed at Aeshma.

  ‘If you cannot help your friend, perhaps there’s no hope for Sona.’ She looked away from Aeshma and shook her head. ’But I’m her mother, and I am not so proud to admit I’m desperate. Can you help me? Will you help?’

  Emad glanced at the bag of bruised fruit and rotting vegetables.

  God is just as cruel to these humans as It has been to the djinn.

  Sona stood haggling with the coppersmith. The stewpot above her gave Emad an idea.

  He had no time to warn Widow Sharo about what he’d do, that his drawing energy from her would leave the widow listless for the rest of the day.

  Emad reached out again with his aura, experienced the slight resistance Widow Sharo’s aura presented. He bit the side of his tongue to steel himself—he never enjoyed the experience of allowing another aura to invade his. He opened his mouth. The resulting inhalation of warm, alien energy made him swallow down his nausea. For several heartbeats, he knew Widow Sharo’s pain and anger at her husband’s unexpected death, her anxieties over their daughter’s fate and how her worries hounded her from the moment she woke.

  Emad summoned Core power. He ignored how Aeshma—sensing the power’s vibrations—made soft mewling sounds.

  T
wo things had to happen concurrently. Weaving magic involved weaving several incantations into a single spell. Thanks to centuries of practise and a djinni’s talent for near-instant recall of the required incantations, Emad had muttered the spell and only needed to say a single word to trigger it.

  Sona continued with her haggling, waving the ladle and shaking her head at the coppersmith’s counteroffers.

  If the accident were to look convincing, he needed her to take a step back from the stall so the stewpot hit her nose and not the top of her head. Emad couldn’t be sure if the sweat trickling down his back was him waiting for the right moment to trigger the spell or Core power churning around his body.

  ‘Well,’ Widow Sharo said, her words slurred, ‘are you going to help me or not?’

  Without taking his eyes off Sona, Emad pointed at the widow’s daughter.

  ‘Watch,’ he said.

  Sona put down the ladle and shook her head. Either her final offer wasn’t the price the coppersmith wanted to sell it for, or she’d walk away until he called out his final price. She took a step back.

  ‘Ushkar,’ Emad said, before Sona could turn.

  The hook securing the stewpot straightened. A deflection incantation caused the heavy pot to slide onto her nose at the same time its bridge straightened. The thunk Emad had conjured to suggest the stewpot crushing bone was, perhaps, a little too loud.

  Sona yowled, then clutched her nose. The pot clattered against the utensils arranged on the stall’s table. Emad released the power he hadn’t used back into the earth.

  Widow Sharo rose, knocking her stool over. Unable to reintegrate their auras and return the departing widow’s remaining energy, Emad watched her dash to her daughter. The widow wrapped a comforting arm around Sona and issued a string of vitriolic insults at the coppersmith. She only stopped when the poor stallholder offered Sona the ladle as compensation.

  ‘Ha-ha. Funny.’

  Emad turned to face his cousin. Aeshma, who’d arranged his wooden animals into a diagonal column across his table, must have witnessed the whole affair.