Devouring Flame, page 8
Smith frowned at him. “Hashim? Don’t you want to go along?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. Ringmaster expects me to arrive for my next ‘rehearsal.’ If I’m missing, he’ll get suspicious and might ask questions that would expose Rion’s absence too. It’s safer if I stay.” He gazed into Smith’s eyes, hoping he didn’t sound too abject. “You’ll tell me how he’s doing, won’t you? Any change, anything at all?”
“Of course.” Smith reached for him, but Dr. Makori hissed and Smith dropped his hand before it could break the circle. “As soon as I know anything, I’ll come back. I—”
And the circle erupted in a flare of green fire. When it died, the circle was as empty as Hashim’s heart.
EVAN’S green fire always left an unfortunate afterimage on Smith’s retinas. Guess I prefer the color of Hashim’s fire. Although things were looking more promising on that front, Smith put it aside—and moved out of the way to let the nursing staff descend on Rion and transfer him to a plus-sized hospital bed.
A bronze circle and pentagram were embedded in the room’s concrete floor, so the staff could choose whether to emphasize Earthside medicine or healing craft—possibly both, since in the Interstices, tech and magic could mix.
Smith lurked in the corner while they stripped Rion out of his leather breeches and boots, quickly and efficiently cleaned all his wounds—of which there were many, but all above his waist, where his skin had been bared. The nurses were confounded by the metal gauntlets on his wrists, though—they couldn’t get them off.
Finally Evan stepped in. “Leave them. They’re ensorcelled somehow, and at least the spell is strong enough that it protected his wrists.” He pointed to a deep cut on Rion’s forearm. “Otherwise, they might have taken off his hand.”
Apparently Evan was well-known here, because the nurses didn’t ask any questions and he gave very few instructions. They were a team. In a way, it made Smith a little sad. He and Evan had never had that kind of synchronicity. They were friends with occasional benefits, but Evan, with his impeccable Earthside credentials, combined with his incomparable magical talent, had always been out of Smith’s league.
Everyone’s out of my league. But he might stand half a chance with Hashim. A conjured ifrit. What does that really mean? Would there be any way they could be together? Was Hashim constrained by the terms of his conjuring? And if he was, how could he escape those constraints, yet not be declared rogue?
Smith had done some research on demon/wizard contracts a couple of decades ago when his mom was considering making a bargain with a sleazy necromancer. It was a much more reciprocal and time-boxed arrangement than what Hashim had described for djinni and ifrits. The wizard could summon the demon, explain what he wanted, and the demon could present what they wanted in return. Both were free to decline the bargain since the penalties for reneging were severe. Smith had convinced his mom not to go through with it, and she’d listened for a change.
But if there was one thing he’d learned in his years meshing tech and magic for the benefit of Enchanted Occasions, it was that once you understood the rules and parameters of any construct, you could work with them—or in some cases, around them, just like he was doing with the Faerie infrastructure upgrades.
He needed more information to know whether Hashim’s contract was one of the former—something he could work with—or the latter. Sometimes you want to get things right, but sometimes you just have to get shit done. And Smith was famous for getting shit done.
Evan left Rion’s side and strode over to Smith’s corner. “He’s doing better than I’d hoped. I had a moment in that ridiculous labyrinth when I thought we’d lose him.”
Smith’s stomach rolled. “You’re kidding. You seemed like it was another day at the office.”
Even smiled tightly. “Considering Hashim was about to fly apart at the seams and Rion already had one foot in Charon’s boat, I needed to project a different outcome for them. Luckily—” He draped his stethoscope around his neck and stuck his scrying crystal in the pocket of his lab coat. “—we were able to make that happen. Minotaurs are both tougher and more fragile than you might expect. I’d love to run some tests on him when he recovers fully. We know so little about them.”
“So who would want to slaughter him? I mean, it was clearly attempted murder.”
“Undoubtedly. He was lucky that whoever was wielding those weapons—and I judge it to be at least three different assailants—were merely semiskilled and weren’t armed with longer blades. Otherwise he wouldn’t have survived long enough for you to find me.”
Smith ran a hand over his face. “If you don’t mind, I’m not mentioning that to Hashim.”
“Nor to Rion.”
“I’m not an idiot, Evan.”
“No, Smith. I know.”
Smith moved toward the bed where Rion’s upper body was more gauze than exposed skin. “It had to be the vampires. I saw a bunch of them lurking around the labyrinth entrance beforehand.”
“There weren’t any bite marks. All the wounds were inflicted by bladed weapons.”
“We heard laughter before we found him.”
Evan raised his eyebrows. “‘We?’ I assume you’re referring to that extraordinarily beautiful man who refused to stay inside the circle. May I ask what ‘we’ were doing at the time ‘we’ heard the laughter?”
“No, you may not. How long will he be in the trance? I’d like to ask him about the attack. If we can prove it was the vampires, we can—” Smith slapped himself on the forehead. “Shit. They’re EO clients. I can’t do anything to them under the Death and Untold Destruction Indemnification clause of the contract.”
“You can’t, but Rion could. He’s not an EO employee so the clause wouldn’t apply to him. He could pursue redress through his own employer.”
Like that was going to happen. Smith clenched his jaw. Ringmaster might not pursue it, but nothing said Smith couldn’t do it on Rion’s behalf. I just need to work around the rules. “I’ll make it happen.”
Evan nodded sharply. “Good. I’d expect no less.” He glanced at the readouts on the monitors and at the scrying bowl next to the bed. “I can rouse him for a few minutes, if you want to talk with him briefly before you go.” Evan tilted his head. “I’m assuming you do want to go.”
“Yeah. I promised Hashim I’d—” Smith rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, you know.”
“Just so.” He smiled a little sadly. “Very well. A few minutes only, mind.”
Evan murmured a few words over the scrying bowl, and Rion’s eyes blinked open.
He looked around dazedly. “This isn’t the labyrinth.”
Evan gripped his shoulder. “No. You’re in the infirmary.”
Rion looked down at himself, at the bandages covering his chest, arms, and hands. “Wow. I guess that’s a good thing, huh?”
Smith approached the other side of the bed. “Hey, Rion. We sort of met in the labyrinth, remember? I’m Smith.”
He smiled, and Smith’s first thought was My, what big teeth you have. But they were blunt, like a ruminant, not sharp like a carnivore. Minotaurs have gotten a shit rap from the beginning. “You’re Hashim’s friend.”
Smith’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s mentioned me?”
“Uh-huh. Although he never seems very happy about it. Maybe you guys should have lunch and talk or something.”
Smith snorted. “Or something is right,” he muttered. Although Rion definitely had a point. A little conversation would be a good thing. “I’ll think about it. But I wanted to ask you about what happened in the labyrinth. Who attacked you?”
Rion blinked, his mouth trembling. “I don’t know exactly. I was at my station but—” He glanced left and right as if he was afraid someone might overhear. “—I was reading,” he whispered. “Don’t tell Ringmaster. He doesn’t like it when I read while I’m on shift, but it was so boring. There hadn’t been any players all day.”
“Not surprising. The Carnival is closed.”
Blink blink blink. “It is? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“That’s a really good question. But back to the attack. You were reading. Then what?”
“Suddenly, there was a guy. He had a knife. He—” Rion shrugged, then winced as the bandages—and what was under them—pulled. “It happened really fast. The labyrinth is kinda dark, you know. The players all have night vision goggles so they can see, but I don’t have any and my eyes aren’t good in the dark.”
How cruel was it to stick someone whose eyes weren’t night-evolved in someplace like the Twilight Carnival, let alone in the middle of that murky labyrinth? Smith’s opinion of Ringmaster sank to a new low.
“How were you reading?”
“Oh. A book light. Hashim got it for me.” Another furtive glance. “Don’t tell. He’d get in trouble.”
“No fear of that.”
“Speaking of your book,” Evan said smoothly, “I picked this up before I activated the transportation spell.” He set a battered paperback copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe on the bedside table.
Rion’s eyes widened. “Ooohh. Thank you. This is one of my favorites. I’d hate to lose it.”
Evan smiled down at him. “I like that one too. You’ll have a chance to finish it, since I’m keeping you here for a bit to make sure you’re on the mend. But you should be fine in a week or so, provided you take it easy.”
Rion plucked at his blanket with the tips of his fingers, the only part of his hands not covered in gauze. “Ringmaster won’t like that.”
“Ringmaster can suck my—”
“Smith.” Evan’s tone was sharp. “Remember where you are and to whom you’re speaking.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Rion said with a smile. “Hashim says that all the time.”
“Does he? I’m not surprised.” Smith cleared his throat at the warning glare from Evan. “So one guy with a knife.”
“Only at first. He got me here—” Rion touched his side, just under his massive rib cage. “But then, when I was trying to keep him from stabbing me again, another guy jumped on my back and another one started jabbing me from the other side.”
“So three of them? And you didn’t get a good look at any of them?”
Rion dropped his head to his chest as if afraid he’d done something wrong. “Sorry.”
“Hey.” Smith didn’t presume to pat Rion’s shoulder—for one thing, it was covered in bandages, and for another, he didn’t have permission—but he thumped the bed rail. “It’s not your fault. They attacked you. I’m curious, though—why didn’t you fight back?”
“We’re not allowed to touch the customers. It’s a rule.”
“So they can try to kill you—”
“Smith!” Evan glared at him.
“But you can’t do anything in return. Lucifer’s balls, why don’t you quit? This is obviously a shit job.”
Rion blinked his enormous brown eyes again. “I can’t quit. None of us can. We belong to Ringmaster.”
Smith stomach twisted. “You what?”
“We belong—”
“I heard you. I just don’t know what that means.”
“Ringmaster bought us. Our indentures. Although mine is kind of permanent. My stepfather says there’s not enough money in the world for him to let a monster back in his house.”
Smith wanted to vomit. “Is Hashim—Is he… indentured too?”
Rion’s broad, furry forehead wrinkled in consternation. “Sure. Didn’t you know that?” He held up his wrists. “That’s what these are for. The spells define our sentences. The fancier the pattern, the longer the term. Hashim’s got fancier yesterday, so probably nobody wants him back either.”
Like hells. I want him back.
“Could you leave if you wanted to?”
Rion looked up at Smith with those big innocent eyes. “Where would I go?” He tilted his head, peering up at the ceiling in thought. “I don’t think I could leave, though. One of the indentured flower fairies tried to leave once, and she kinda got zapped by the threshold.” He winced. “That was bad.”
“So what you’re saying is that you’re enslaved. But that’s illegal in every single realm there is.”
Evan shook his head. “Not in the Interstices.”
“Yes, in the Interstices. Just because we’re between worlds doesn’t mean we’re between laws or decency.”
“Don’t be naïve, Smith,” Evan said. “Think about the Vegas Interstices and the other spots that host the vampire Centennial Feast. If a spell is strong enough to negate vampire nature—even if only for a day—don’t you think it’d be strong enough to negate a few puny laws too?”
“Gray areas,” Smith muttered. “Gods, I hate them.”
Evan smirked at him. “Then maybe you ought to do something about them.”
Smith set his jaw, shoving his hands into his pocket. “Maybe I will. And you know me, Evan. If I decide to do a thing, you can bet your ass that thing will get fucking done.”
Chapter Ten
LONG after the green fire had died away, Hashim sat hunkered in the near-dark of the labyrinth, staring at the place where Rion had lain, so still. If it hadn’t been for Smith and his witch-doctor friend, Rion could have died. Unpacking that, if Hashim hadn’t been determined to taste Smith once more, yet hide the degradation of his enslavement, they’d never have been in the labyrinth in the first place, and Rion would have died alone.
Tracking it back further, if Hashim hadn’t succumbed to temptation with Smith at the Consort Race and volunteered to accept indenture as a way to repay Yashar for the loss of the fire gem, Hashim would never have met Rion, and he would have died not only alone but friendless.
Consequences. Remove any one of Hashim’s poor decisions, and Rion would have died. How ironic that I’m thankful for the very thing about my life I hate the most.
But the longer he stared at the dark stains in the dirt, his warped gratitude morphed into something else, something darker, as anger coalesced in his middle like an ember awaiting a single breath of air to ignite.
Ringmaster. Smith had been certain Ringmaster had set this up, and he was probably right. He usually was.
Rion shouldn’t have been that seriously injured. It was one of the articles of their indentures—that at the end of their term, they must be returned to their home in the same state they’d arrived. But my articles were circumvented by Yashar. Since Yashar signed the original contract—the indentured weren’t allowed to negotiate on their own behalf—he was the only one who could alter the conditions. And he must have, to allow Ringmaster to purchase Hashim as if he were nothing more than a goat or a camel or a horse. No, less than a horse. He’d never part with one of his horses.
Could Rion’s indenture articles be different too? He’d said that it was the king, his stepfather, who’d sold him to Ringmaster. Was His Asshole Majesty trying to get rid of his wife’s inconvenient aitcher son in a more permanent way?
It shook Hashim to the core. One of the bedrocks of his world view was the sanctity of the contract—every djinn or ifrit based their lives on it. If contracts could be diddled or broken by third parties, what did that mean?
Maybe it means you don’t have to abide by the terms either.
Hashim had always considered the bargains he entered as sacrosanct. Yashar had given him flesh, so he owed Yashar at least minimal loyalty during their arrangement. He’d never asked himself what would happen at the end of the arrangement.
Would I return to the djinn crèche, just one more wisp of smoke, one more spark in the eternal flame? Did I somehow imagine that I would earn the right to keep this body, this life? How would I even know the arrangement had reached the end?
He’d allowed Yashar to alter the terms of their pact when Hashim had broken his part of the bargain by choosing Smith over his duty. He’d followed Ringmaster’s rules—for the most part; ifrits were supposed to be troublemakers, after all—because his honor demanded it.
But what were debts of honor worth if the other party had none?
Ringmaster must answer for this.
Hashim pushed himself to his feet and took the quickest route from the center of the labyrinth to burst out the back door and storm across the grounds to Ringmaster’s tent. He didn’t bother to scratch deferentially and wait for permission to enter—he simply barged in and planted himself in the middle of the latest Persian rug.
Ringmaster had an iron-banded wooden casket open on the desk before him, and he was counting gold coins from the stacks on his desk into the little chest one by one.
“I’ve just come from the labyrinth.”
“Then go back,” Ringmaster growled. “One thousand six hundred seventy-two. One thousand six hundred seventy—”
“Were you aware that Rion was in there, bleeding out, when the Carnival is supposedly closed to visitors?”
Ringmaster smashed his fist on the desk. “Fuck. You’ve made me lose count.”
“Were you?”
Ringmaster’s nostrils flared, rendering his nose far more snout-like. “I don’t answer to you.” He poked at his wristband and a gout of pain shot through Hashim from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet.
Hashim gritted his teeth until it faded, his fingers and toes still tingling in the aftermath. “You answer to the terms of his contract. To his family. To decency.”
“Pfaugh. His family was happy enough to rid themselves of an embarrassment, and his contract”—he loaded the word with scorn—“was more a bill of sale.” He smirked. “Somewhat like yours.”
Hashim’s breath came fast and hard. “I’d think you’d want to protect your investment.”
“He wasn’t a satisfactory maze monster, anyway. The players complained about him all the time.” Ringmaster shrugged. “No great loss.”
“No great loss? How many minotaurs do you think there are?”
Ringmaster slammed the lid of the casket closed. “Look, if some human female wants to get busy in the bull pen or some human male in the cow pasture, that’s on them. I’m not keeping count, and I don’t want to know. If they want to handle things by unloading the consequences on me? I’ll consider it, for the right price, and with the right concessions.”
