City of Keys, page 62
But the power rested beneath fathoms of water. Kasia pulled harder. She could almost taste it. A boiling cauldron of ley. Shivers wracked her as she caught the edge of it, and then it was stirring, flowing upwards from the black depths.
Blue ley burst forth from the card. The color of the Curia’s Wards. The color of rational thought and Sanctified Marks. It bathed the ship, reflecting back from the frothy waves and the creature’s deep-set eyes.
For an instant, she saw it clearly. A flaming mane licked the ridges of its back. It had six powerful legs tipped with silver claws, and a barbed tail covered with overlapping metallic plates. The immensity of it, the sheer strangeness, erased any thought save for one.
“Go away!” she screamed.
Glowing eyes fixed on her. This was no dumb beast. She sensed intelligence. And malevolence. Kasia got the distinct impression that she had just been marked somehow.
Then it banked and wheeled upwards. In a moment, the clouds swallowed it up.
She waited for a long minute, but it did not return.
Kasia released the ley. She sagged against the rail, hardly daring to believe she’d driven it off. A tug on the rope around her waist made her twist in alarm, but it was only Aemlyn. The captain hauled herself across the bucking deck. Her face looked ashen.
“What in the seven watery hells was that?” she gasped.
Kasia stared into the windswept darkness. The card was crushed in one fist. She slowly unfurled her cramped fingers. It showed a woman taming a lion. She gripped it by the mouth, fingers a hair’s breadth from its sharp teeth.
Fortitude. The eighth trump of the Major Arcana.
“I think . . .” Kasia turned to the captain, fear mingling with wonder. “I think it was a dragon.”
Chapter 3
“Father Bryce?”
Alexei opened his eyes. A face swam into focus, pale with light eyes and short, fluffy blond hair.
“I bring soup. Do you sit?” A crooked grin. “Or do I feed you again?”
It was the boy. His name was . . .
Alexei knuckled his forehead. Karl. That was it. Karl from Kvengard.
He pushed himself up to sit. A lamp had been lit, though daylight filtered through the curtains of the wagon.
“Your fever, it breaks,” Karl informed him in halting Osterlish. “You sleep for a long time.”
“How long?” Alexei managed.
“Six days. You remember?”
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. It was furred with beard.
“Some. I remember you.”
Karl looked pleased. “You wake up sometimes.” He mimed eating. “Take water and a little food.”
“How did you find me?”
“Your friend. Malach.”
Alexei frowned. “He’s not my friend.”
Karl looked puzzled. “He saves your life.”
“Did he?” Alexei asked in surprise.
The boy nodded. “What else you remember?”
“We’re in the Masdar League.”
He did recall the last few days in flashes of wakefulness. The swaying of the cart. Karl giving him water. Voices speaking in a foreign tongue.
“Bad witches send you here,” Karl said in a sympathetic tone. “Eat now.”
Alexei accepted the bowl. Fragrant spices met his nose and he realized he was starving. He spooned some into his mouth and swallowed.
“Thank you,” he said.
Karl waved a hand. “Any person do the same.” He glanced out the window and stood. “Your . . . er, soutane. Sorry, I don’t know the word.”
“Cassock?” Alexei supplied.
“Yes! Cassock. It is there if you like to dress. But no hurry.” A brief smile and he ducked out the door.
Alexei finished the soup and threw the sheet aside. He could feel his thoughts starting to wind up and drew a slow, deep breath. The situation was so bizarre, so utterly surreal, he didn’t know where to begin. Kasia had told him what Nikola Thorn did back in Novostopol—suddenly vanishing into thin air after Malach killed the Pontifex Luk—but he hadn’t really believed it.
The ley just didn’t work that way.
Questions crowded his mind. Why had the witches done this? What had happened to Kasia? To his brother, Misha? Were they in danger? And, most important of all, how was he going to get back home?
He pulled the cassock over his head and checked his reflection in a vanity mirror. His blue eyes were puffy and bloodshot, with shadows the color of a fresh bruise lurking beneath. The skin of his face looked stretched too tight over the blade-sharp bones.
Not much different from the usual.
But the Masdaris had treated him well, for he felt stronger than he expected to. Alexei opened the door and climbed down two steps to the sand. Four other brightly painted wagons were drawn up in a circle. There was a queer orange light in the sky.
People moved about, rolling up tents and stashing poles. One of them was Malach. The mage wore a long white robe like the others. He glanced at Alexei without expression, then returned to his task.
Alexei walked over. The mage ignored him, so he turned to his companion, a handsome, slender youth who gave Alexei a friendly smile.
“Please accept my gratitude for the generous hospitality you have shown me,” Alexei said in Masdari.
The look on Malach’s face was priceless. Shock and irritation, quickly smoothed over.
“You speak our language!” the young man exclaimed.
“I know some phrases,” Alexei replied modestly, though he knew far more than that.
The man bowed. “I am Hassan. And it has been my honor to welcome you to our caravan.”
Alexei bowed in return. The wind was picking up, sending swirls of sand across the desert. “A storm is coming,” he said, squinting at the horizon.
Hassan nodded. “A bad one, I think. That is why we are breaking camp.”
“Is there shelter nearby?”
Hassan glanced at the western horizon. His face was calm, but worry tinged his eyes. “We are not too far from Luba. I think we can reach the walls in time if we make haste.”
“How can I help?”
Hassan nodded. “You can work with Malach to roll that rug.”
He pointed to a large carpet that must have been inside one of tents before it was dismantled. Malach looked up at his name. Alexei explained in Osterlish. Malach stalked over to the rug. They each took a side, shaking out the sand and rolling it lengthwise.
“Who are they?” Alexei asked in a low voice.
“Performers.”
“Like actors?”
“Singers. Dancers.” Malach looked at a dark-skinned woman who was stowing food in a basket. “Koko recites poetry.”
They lifted the rolled rug and started for a supply wagon.
“Just tell me one thing,” Alexei said. “What happened in that room back at the Arx?”
“What happened?” Malach repeated. There was a flat edge to his voice.
“Yes.” Alexei felt his Marks flaring, trying to suppress the sudden anger. “I deserve to know that much.”
Malach dropped the rug. “You got in my way, that’s what happened. I almost had her!”
“Had who?”
His jaw clenched. “Rachel.”
“The only reason I was there is because you Marked my brother,” Alexei reminded him. ”I wanted to make sure you kept your promise to ask the witches to remove it.”
Malach’s hazel irises darkened. In that moment, he looked uncannily like Kasia. “Fuck your brother!”
Alexei mastered himself with an effort. “Just tell me what happened. I only came through the door because I heard a voice.” The memory of it raised gooseflesh on his arms. “It sounded like a little girl, but—”
Alexei saw Malach’s fist ball. He ducked, but the blow came in like a battering ram, clipping his ear. Alexei bulled into him and they tumbled to the sand, trading punches and kicks.
It only lasted a few seconds. Someone grabbed the hood of his cassock, dragging him back. Another man—heavily muscled, clad in a leather jerkin—wrestled a panting Malach into submission.
Hassan jogged over, lips tight. “You behave like rowdy children,” he admonished. “What is this?”
They both muttered apologies. Just the minor fracas left Alexei gasping and weak-kneed.
“Release them,” Hassan told the two guards. He pointed at Malach, then at one of the wagons. “Go!”
To Alexei’s surprise, Malach meekly obeyed. The dark-skinned woman, Koko, stood on the steps, hands propped on her hips. She shook her head and led him inside.
“What do you fight about?” Hassan asked.
“What has he told you?” Alexei asked warily, wiping blood from his mouth.
“That the witches took his child and banished him here.”
“Do you know what he is?”
“He is Malach.”
Alexei frowned. “I don’t mean his name. I mean that he is nihilim.”
Hassan nodded with a touch of impatience. “Yes, malak. We know this already.”
It was the Masdari word for angel, Alexei remembered. What they called the mages.
“And . . . you don’t mind?” he ventured.
“We do not revile them as the Via Sancta does,” Hassan replied. “He is as welcome to our fires as you are, priest.” His voice hardened. “But I cannot tolerate violence. Give me your word this will not happen again.”
“He started it,” Alexei retorted, and immediately felt foolish.
“I will speak to Malach, as well. But we have no time for feuds. Do you see?” Hassan pointed to the horizon.
A yellow wall was bearing down on them. It had already erased the sun, casting the land in eerie twilight.
“Yes,” Alexei said quickly. “I promise to stay away from him.”
“Good.” A quick, humorless smile. “Then let us pray to the Alsakhan that we outrun this storm.”
The rest of the camp was already broken, the camels waiting in their harnesses. Alexei ran to Karl’s wagon. The boy was lounging on silken cushions, smoking a water pipe. The moment the door was sealed, cries of Hoi! went up outside and the big wooden wheels rolled forward.
“Will the camels be all right?” Alexei asked, switching back to Osterlish.
“They own three of this,” Karl replied, touching an eyelid. “And they can close their noses.” He smiled. “Do not worry, they travel this way many times.”
Alexei pushed the curtain aside. The wind moaned, low and menacing, whisking the loose sand like a giant broom.
“How far to Luba?”
Karl shrugged. “Not so far.”
“What if we don’t make it?”
He laughed. “Then we make a circle and hope we don’t blow away.”
Alexei wondered if he was joking. He looked around the wagon, truly seeing it for the first time. Costumes hung on racks, along with a variety of high-heeled shoes and boots. Stands held wigs of every length and color. The vanity was covered with cosmetics.
“How did you come here, Karl?” he asked.
A shadow crossed the young man’s face. “It is not easy for me in Kvengard. They are conservative there. My mother did not like it when I dress up in her clothes. My father likes it even less.”
Alexei nodded. “I lived there for a little while. It is very . . . traditional.”
“But you are from Novostopol. I know by your accent.”
“Yes. It’s different there. We have clubs where men dress as women, and the reverse. No one cares.”
“And you?”
Alexei frowned. “Why would I judge another for who they wish to be?”
“You are a priest.”
“There is nothing in church doctrine that forbids it. The opposite, in fact. Free self-expression is a human right, as long as you do not harm anyone else.”
Karl looked relieved. “I am glad to hear that, Father.”
“Are you Marked?”
He shook his head. “My parents send me here just before the test. They expect me to fail.” He eyed Alexei curiously. “You have many.”
“Sometimes I think I have too many,” Alexei admitted.
“Why?”
“I can’t sleep more than a few hours. It is very bad. I have this problem for years now.”
A puzzled look. “You just sleep for six days.”
“And that’ll last me for a while.” He smiled. “What’s your stage name?”
The boy smiled back. “Katy Wulf.”
“So the Masdaris embrace you?”
“We are . . .” He thought for a moment. “Popped?”
Alexei frowned. Karl mimed cradling a baby.
“Pampered?”
“Yes! That one. I am lucky to be part of Hassan’s company.” His chest swelled with pride. “We are the best.”
“So Hassan is in charge?”
“He is both father and mother to us.”
“He seems young for such responsibility.”
“Hassan is young in years, but we have trust for him. If it is something important, we all talk together.”
The wind rose to a howl. Sand hissed against the windows.
“Aqaf! We must close the windows,” Karl said, jumping to his feet.
They went around the wagon, hooking the latches on the shutters. Alexei’s last glimpse of the world beyond was dire. Reddish gloom cloaked the land like an antechamber to Hell.
“Why you not like Malach?” Karl asked, once they had settled on the cushions again. “Because he is nihilim? No offense for the question.”
Alexei no longer hated all mages. How could he when he was in love with one? But Malach . . .
“He struck a bargain with my brother. And my brother got the worse end of the deal.”
Karl cocked a brow.
“We were both knights,” Alexei admitted. “We fought in the war together. When I first met Malach, we were on opposite sides.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.” That was the truth. “But I promised Hassan I’d behave myself.”
And let’s hope Malach does the same, he added darkly.
“What will you do now?” Karl asked.
“Try to return home. I didn’t mean to come here.”
“The witches do it.”
“That’s right. I suppose there might be a ship sailing for Kvengard, though I haven’t any coin for passage.”
“I help you,” Karl said immediately. “I save money.” He ran to the vanity and took out a small box. “Not much, but perhaps enough.”
Alexei pushed it away. “No, I couldn’t—”
“Yes, yes, you take it.” His face was earnest. “Your need is greater than mine, Father.” A quick smile. “I want new stockings, but Koko will give me.”
Alexei was quiet for a minute, deeply touched by the boy’s kindness. After seeing the depths of human depravity in both Kvengard and Nantwich, he’d wondered if the Via Sancta’s teachings were all just a pipe dream. But there were kind people in the world still.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will pay you back as soon as I can. Did Malach say anything else? He refuses to speak to me.”
“Only that he has a friend in Luba.”
Alexei kept his expression neutral. “Do you know the name?”
“Jamila al-Jabban.”
He’d heard about her. A Masdari who came to Nantwich with Balaur and had been caught trying to flee after he was killed. Why would Malach be looking for the woman here when she was in a prison cell back at the Arx?
“Please, Karl. Anything you know would be a huge help.”
The boy looked uncomfortable. “I do not want to get in the middle of this.”
“I won’t breathe a word to Malach, I swear it. But I’m desperate.”
“I wish I could help, but truth, he says little to me. All I know is he asks about her.”
Alexei waited.
“He describes her. I say she is a servant of the khedive,” Karl added with some reluctance. “That is all I can tell him.”
“Will we be seeing the khedive?”
“I do not know. We pass the night in a caravanserai. But this is my first time in Luba.” He struggled to explain. “When I come, I have thirteen years. There is a new Imperator. Now I have twenty years. So the Imperator changes, ja?”
Alexei nodded. He understood the seven-year system.
“We only make, ah, big trip when there comes a new Imperator.” Karl swept his hand in a wide circle. “Go everywhere, understand?”
Alexei was familiar with maps of the Masdar League. Qeddah lay in roughly the center, with the seven emiratis forming a circle around the capital.
“Where are you based?”
“Qeddah. It the most grand city your eyes will ever enjoy.” Karl nodded encouragingly. “You find a ship there.”
Alexei nodded, feeling better. “One other question. Do you have my gloves? The leather ones I was wearing?”
He remembered pulling one off just before he entered the chamber in the Arx. By some miracle, he’d kept hold of it in the madness that followed. Alexei felt sure he’d been wearing them both during the arduous trek across the desert.
Karl looked around with a frown, then snapped his fingers. “Yes, I keep them.” He rummaged through a pile of clothes and found one, then the other.
Alexei exhaled a slow breath. He tugged them on.
“The ley is weak, but it still takes an effort to hold it at bay without my gloves,” he explained. “You are Kven, you understand.”
“Ja,” Karl said. “I do. But . . . Father, you must never use ley where someone sees. It is verboten here. Ah, forbidden.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.” He held his hands up. “That’s what these are for.”
The wind continued to rise, rocking the wagon on its wheels. Alexei was just starting to think they would have to stop when Karl cracked the shutters.
“We arrive,” he said, flashing a quick smile of relief.
Through the driving sand, Alexei could just make out high walls the same color as the desert. The first wagon drew up and a figure emerged, bent against the storm. The face was swathed in a white scarf, leaving only a slit for the eyes, but something in the graceful gait made Alexei think it was Hassan.
He banged on a small door set next to the gates. A minute passed. A narrow slot opened. After a brief exchange, the gates swung open just enough for the wagons to pass through. Once they entered the city, the wind died a little. Buildings of sun-baked mud slipped by, all sealed tight. Date palms lined the larger avenues, their fronds swaying. The streets were utterly deserted.
