The First Binding, page 26
A small leather pouch sat comfortably in his grip, but Nisha took hold of my chin, redirecting my stare. I caught sight of what she intended for me to notice. A thin leather cord ran from the pouch into the folds of his robe.
“He’s been pickpocketed before or warned a long time ago. Only smart and good merchants do that. Most of those are the ones who end up rich.” She rocked in place, evening light catching her eyes and adding a twinkle to them. “Koli would be really happy with me if I plucked that from him.”
The muscles along my neck knotted and my jaw tightened. “Maybe you won’t have to steal for Koli anymore.”
Nisha looked at me like I’d told her the sun would plummet from the sky. She ran a few fingers through her hair, twining them idly in the curls. “I’ll always have to do that. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m Sullied like you. Nothing I can do, Ari. Koli still takes care of me.” Her posture changed. Nothing so noticeable to anyone giving her a fleeting look, but after a month of training with Mahrab, she may as well have been doing cartwheels.
Her body stiffened for an instant before she pulled away from me. The muscles along her shoulders shuddered before she regained control. The look in her eyes grew distant as if she were looking past me rather than at me.
I knew enough to not reach out and offer her a comforting hand. It would only frighten her in the moment. I made my voice as low and calming as possible, like I was speaking to a rabbit on the verge of running. “What if you could come with me?”
“Where?” Her voice held no scorn at the suggestion, only curiosity. “Khalim wouldn’t have me in the theater. What would I do?” She turned her gaze toward the skies and dimming horizon.
I could almost see the longing in her stare. The desire to be anywhere else than Abhar, and doing anything but what she absolutely had to. “What if I told you I’m planning on leaving?” I’m not sure what possessed me to say it. Maybe a part of me had already known it to be true and spoke for me. Or perhaps it was the simpler thing of telling a lie in the moment to give my friend hope for the future.
Sometimes, that’s all we can do. Trade truths for lies and the comforts they offer, because not everyone needs the truth. Not always. Sometimes they need ease.
Nisha didn’t turn her attention back to me, still keeping it fixed on the sky as it changed to a smear of oranges and berry reds. “Where are you going?”
My tongue spoke for me again. “North. To the Ashram Mahrab’s been telling me about. He says anyone can take refuge there. There are laws all the kingdoms abide by in the Empire. And I’m going to study to be a binder.”
“Mhm.” Her voice grew quieter, like she’d become lost in thought. “That’s far. Really far.”
A journey of over six hundred miles from where I stood. At least according to Mahrab. Though the man told me he’d walked it, and had stuck to walking everywhere in life—something I couldn’t fathom. But given my meager possessions and having no coin to my name, I’d likely be forced to do the same. I didn’t voice my concerns to Nisha, though.
“We can figure it out, Nisha.”
She smiled, but it failed to touch her eyes. Nisha didn’t believe me, or her life with Koli had left her unable to do so.
A piece of me ached for her in that. I wanted nothing more than to move closer and console her, but she wasn’t in a place for that. Right now, Nisha sat where most people do when they’ve let go of hope and turn to what solace dreams can offer.
I left her to that place for several heartbeats. Then, when it became clear she would linger there far longer, I moved closer and waited with her.
Evening passed into night, and kundhul hour neared.
Nisha finally slipped back from her reverie, edging over to my side until our shoulders touched. She took my hand in hers, twining our fingers together. “Will you tell me something?”
“Like what?”
“A story—anything.”
Torches and braziers had been lit on the street below, throwing up enough dancing flames to draw my attention from spot to spot. The candle and the flame called to me under that much firelight. The moon had risen in full, shining like a piece of polished white glass. People still bustled through the quarter in numbers rivaling the brighter hours earlier.
“How about a game?” I jabbed toward one of the passersby below. “We take turns telling small stories about each person. Guess what they’re doing out here and who they are.”
Nisha let out a small giggle. “You first.”
I took in a figure at the corner of an intersection. He wore a shirt of homespun that could have been cotton. The color had weathered into a muted brown, telling me it must have been white at some point and had dirtied up over time. He wore matching pants and leather sandals. His face was perfectly clean shaven short of an overly grown mustache that made me inherently distrust him.
“He’s out late at night trying to get away from his wife. He probably drinks too much and does little else. Look how he’s walking.” The man stumbled and had to brace on a wall for support. “She nags him, but does so because of his silly little mustache, which he’s too proud to shave off.”
Nisha giggled louder.
“He’s out here hoping to woo another woman, though I think he’s in for a lonely night.”
Nisha jumped in, pointing to a vendor of spices. The woman’s stall was filled with tin cups carrying powders in every color imaginable. She would take a pinch and reach out to travelers, asking for their hands, giving them a sample. It may have been her broad and white smile, or something else, but she managed to get coin from most of the people she stopped. “She’s a sad one.”
I arched a brow, waiting for Nisha’s explanation.
“She’s out here morning to night, trying to save money for her children and her mother. She works twice as hard as any man, and she does it with a smile and never looking tired. But she’s tired inside.” Nisha pressed a hand to her chest. “She won’t leave her stall and spices until the last man and woman is off the streets. And here, we know that doesn’t happen. She’ll be here until morning and sleep behind the stall, praying no one tries to hurt her while she rests.”
My mouth dried at the description, but I managed to voice the question on my lips. “That’s rather detailed. How did you come up with it?”
Nisha gave me a crooked smile that had no warmth in it. “I know her.”
Oh.
The sounds of the quarter and insects took over for a while. Once the sobering revelation lost some of its weight, Nisha nudged me into returning to the game. So we did, passing the time until the bells rang for kundhul hour.
An owl came to rest by us, ignoring us completely.
Nisha smiled at it. “It’s a good sign. They’re the eyes and voices of Naathiya, you know?”
I didn’t. Naathiya was the goddess of long night. Patron to orphans, the lost, the wise, the clever. Those who made use of their minds and wits to survive. And some sects of the religious believed she shepherded and tended to thieves—rogues, the ne’er-do-wells.
“It means she’s looking out for us tonight.”
I hadn’t taken Nisha for the spiritual sort, but if my friend found solace in a little owl omen, what was wrong with it? It felt more to me as a sign that she would be fine should I leave.
I got to my feet. “I should get back now. There’s still time. Khalim will just be setting the mock placeholders for stage pieces.”
“Stay with me, please?” The plea in her voice carried more than just a simple request. Loneliness. Not a child wanting for a friend to idly fritter away time with. Something deeper, more painful.
This was the loneliness of someone who had nowhere else to go tonight, and wanted to have somewhere to belong with someone. Even if for just one point in time. We all want to belong somewhere. And we all wish to have someone to belong with, no matter what we tell ourselves otherwise.
Belonging is one of the oldest calls and cries our hearts make. And when they go unheard, pain fills those empty spaces. It makes that part of us go distant—grow cold. Ice forms and it’s ever harder to let anyone ever come into those places again.
Nisha pulled my arm before I could think of a response and leaned forward. Her lips pressed against mine for less than a heartbeat before she pulled away.
It would have been generous to call it a kiss, especially after all I’ve learned to date, but then, I found myself flushing.
“Please stay.”
How could I say no?
I stayed until the bells sounded an hour later that kundhul had passed.
And the owl stayed as well, turning its head to finally regard us.
* * *
A storm broke out.
Thunder drummed hard enough to rattle my ears. The hand of Brahm had seemingly come to whisk away the moon from its corner. And the owl hooted in a frenzy before tearing into the sky at the onset of the weather change.
It flew drunkenly, as if it had lost all sense of how to move. Other birds took to the air in similar fashion. Crows, hardly visible in the dark and stormy skies, struggled to fly proper. They should have been taking shelter, but they soon set upon themselves, clawing and pecking.
Nisha and I parted ways and I ran as hard as I could toward home, knowing the practice play couldn’t have gotten too far in. At the very least, my role was safely set by, waiting for me to appear.
Khalim may have been punctual to the second, but his plays always began with speeches and pontificating. He took his time perfecting the placement of even the mock stage pieces. If they were flawless then, they’d be the same on performance night. He permitted no laziness—nothing short of perfection.
The added delays meant I’d have time to arrive and prepare before my role was called.
I neared the street leading to the theater, my eyes darting from place to place under the low light of night. This part of the quarter didn’t benefit from torches or braziers.
It was home to the very softest of trades. Trades of the body: art … and those of an unkind nature to men and women, but which called in more coin than any theatrical performance could hope to make. At least here.
Those kinds of places also invited the kind of men who sought to negotiate unfair terms and dealings at knifepoint.
And I wasn’t well-equipped to handle those sorts.
Red smoke, almost tinged the color of blood, billowed from one of the buildings ahead.
And I recognized the place.
Its worn stone exterior looked nearly colorless in the dark. Nearly. Violent tendrils of orange and red strobed as much inside the building as outside.
Fire. My home.
I raced toward the theater, making my way to its door. My hand almost touched the brass knob when I registered the heat radiating from it. My heart beat fast and hammered hard as hailstorm. Instinct screamed at me to move, and I did as the door burst apart.
Streams of fire screamed their way out of the new opening, spreading further.
The window. I ran around the corner of the theater, finding the glass pane leading to the understage. No smoke beat against it or clouded my view inside. Relief swelled in me as I noted my underground home had been spared from the fire.
For now.
I had shut the glass pane after Nisha had entered, but hadn’t bothered latching it, thankfully. My fingers reflexively twitched as I reached for the window’s lip. My hands remembered the near mishap with the doorknob. I took hold and opened the window, sliding through and climbing down onto my bed platform.
“Khalim! Mahrab? Kauri!” Even under the duress of the situation, I couldn’t bring myself to scream for Makham. I clambered down the platform, feet hitting the hard ground as I broke into a run. “Anyone?”
No answer.
I left the understage and hurtled through one of the halls, catching sight of more red smoke filtering into the mouth of the passage ahead. I brought the collar of my shirt up against my mouth and nose.
My eyes watered as I bulled through the streams of smoke. My clothing did little to keep me from breathing it in, but I told myself I’d been spared the worst. “Khalim? Mahrab!”
Nothing.
I pressed on, making my way up to the main floor. The hall I entered led to the stage room and seating area. Light cast shadows against the end of the passage. The colors and flickering made clear where the illumination came from.
Fire.
My heart pounded harder, drumming its way into my ears.
“Mahrab!” He would know what to do. He had to be here. He, more than anyone, was keen on hearing Khalim’s story. He wanted to know about the Ashura, and had been promised their story in the play.
“Mahrab!” I moved into the stage room and froze.
Sections of the floor had given way as if an earthquake had torn through the place. Stone and wooden tiles sank into the ground, shattered and splintered. Not so far as to damage the roof of the understage, but deep enough to swallow a man whole. Fire licked its way up the theater’s balconies and had burned out on the floor where I stood. But the smoke lingered.
Charred remains of wood and cheap upholstery littered the ground.
Ash hung in the air in far greater quantities than it should have, almost as if the whole theater had already been burned. The stench of sulfur flooded my nostrils and nearly drove me to retching.
That’s not what stilled me, mind and body, however. Talim, a fresh-faced man, lay under some of the broken wooden beams. He was in his thirties but hardly looked mature enough to pass for an adult. This, plus his stunted height, made him look more an older child at times than a younger man.
Blood matted his face and the color of his light brown eyes had paled a bit. They stared directly at me, or through me in truth. The short curls of his black hair covered part of a gash along one eye, and dust and debris matted the locks. I couldn’t see his clothing, just an arm protruding from the mess of former seating. The limb was bent at a horrible angle, bone protruding from a puckered mass, and more red over his skin than I ever wanted to see on a man.
It took me a long moment before I returned to my senses and called another name—hoping she at least survived.
“Kauri?” The words came out too weak to carry, though the room was designed to amplify noise. Crackling fire, still consuming wood above, drowned any other sounds I made. Seconds of searching showed me what I looked for, but I wished I hadn’t asked to find her then.
Kauri’s body sat slumped against the far wall. She’d been spared the fire’s wrath, but that was little comfort. Blood streamed and dried along her face, all stemming from her eyes. Some had made its way down the side of her neck. I couldn’t see it from where I stood, but I wagered it had come from her ears. Her mouth had been frozen in a macabre smile, still showing her teeth, which were no longer pristine white.
Blood caked them, and had pooled from her mouth. It still fell in a few strands, thick and syrupy. Enough of it had been spilled to dye the uppermost portion of her sari a color I wish to this day I could wash from my mind.
Stone and brick were not safe from whatever oddities filled the theater that night. The very mortar of the walls bled, streaming red without promise of ending anytime soon.
My throat constricted and my voice died for reasons that had nothing to do with the smoke. It was like a hand seized the inside of my throat and resolved to keep me in forced silence.
A thread of remembrance filtered through me, telling me of another name to search for, though I usually wouldn’t have. “Makham?” I could barely speak his name.
Surely if he survived, he would make it obvious. The man never let his presence go unnoticed.
But his voice didn’t echo back through the theater.
It’s funny what a situation like that, your home burning and friends bloodied and dead, will do to your prior beliefs. In that moment, I would have sold my voice if it meant finding Makham safe and alive. No amount of hatred could make me want him to suffer that fate.
But life is keen on teaching us this lesson: a child’s wants are hardly ever considered in the greater procession of things.
At least, mine weren’t.
“Khalim?” My voice had turned into a brittle thing, like bits of glass, already too small for being broken underfoot to make any further noise. “Anybody?”
“Hoo-hoo!” The call came from the stage, louder than the noise of fire and deteriorating building.
I turned toward the source of the voice.
My heartbeat loudened, now thumping so hard it threatened to drive out all thought from my mind. The pounding shook my ears and my vision blurred. I had to fight to remember how to stand properly.
The world around me squeezed in with a pressure that threatened to hold me still. Even the thought of moving seemed too far out of thought and reach.
Mahrab’s training begged remembrance, and I adopted the candle and the flame. I held the bead of fire in my mind and fed it all my fear, doubt, and bodily aches. The whole of me steadied and I stared toward the voice that called me.
Koli stood there, garbed in black clothes that held tight to his frame. The firelight did strange things to his eyes. They almost looked like they burned from the inside. “It’s the little rat from earlier. You were scrubbing the floors when I first came to meet Khalim, hm?” His eyes widened as if he suddenly realized something. He reached down, bending at the waist, and grabbed something in one hand.
Koli hauled up the figure with no effort, smiling as he shook the man’s body like a marionette. “Oh-ho, I found Khalim. You were looking for him, ah?” He gave Khalim’s body another shake. “He’s not very talkative today. Not so fond of making deals and asking for favors now, it seems. Dead people are like that.” His face stretched into a grin fit for a hungry wolf.
Khalim had worn his lucky robes tonight. A matching pair of silken white top and bottom. In all the years I’d known him, he kept that one set as the only piece of extravagant clothing by any of our standards. Everything else came by way of secondhand homespun. He’d kept the ensemble immaculately clean.
