The Keys to Paradise, page 25
‘Why would they steal it?’ asked Petia. ‘They know their way through the desert.’
‘It’s to keep us from finding the key,’ said Keja, still angered by the intrusion into their rooms. ‘I, for one, am not going to let them get away with it. We’ll steal their damned key and spit in their eyes doing it! Wait and see!’
‘It’s off to the marketplace,’ Giles said. ‘I didn’t study that map enough to be able to duplicate it.’ He frowned and scratched his head.
‘What is it, Giles?’ Keja paced furiously and only occasionally slowed. ‘Something occur to you?’
‘Just trying to think of those who knew I had the map.’ The old man Petia had offered the tea to had known – but Giles decided he was only a minion of another who already knew.
He left to question Ryilla about the stolen map.
On the way, he passed a second-hand shop, saw the clutter inside and on an impulse entered to look over the old carpets, leather tent flaps, brass utensils, broken swords and other unidentifiable items littering the floor. Within a few minutes he had found a pile of old maps. One showed caravan routes across the desert.
Giles studied it carefully. Drawings of beasts from some ancient desert mythology adorned the map along its edges. The portraits appealed to his sense of humour. He compared the map with his memory of the maps examined the previous day. These routes differed from the ones on Ryilla’s more recent maps.
He paid a shambling old woman who appeared from behind a curtain at the back of the room. She examined him with rheumy eyes and bit the coin he handed her. ‘Thank you, mother,’ he said as she relinquished her hold on the map. Giles didn’t see her toothless grin as he left the shop.
He continued up the street, intent on talking to Ryilla once more. Before he reached the marketplace he tucked his recent purchase inside his tunic. The vendor did not need to know that he had replaced the map with one better suited for his purposes.
When Giles reached the small shop, the dealer was all smiles. ‘Ah, good sir. Back to buy another map?’
‘Back to find out who you told about selling me the map yesterday.’ Giles’ face was stern. He dropped a canvas flap over the door and put out the small brass pot indicating that the shop was closed. He had reached the end of his patience with the grinning Ryilla.
‘Surely, there is a mistake,’ the map seller said, his grin hollow now. His dark eyes darted about, seeking an escape route. Giles was no man to argue with. ‘Why would I wish to do such a thing? Not for the sake of selling you another map for a darhim or two.’
‘Then, you know that it was stolen.’ Giles pinned the man against a wall like a bug on a pin.
Colour drained from the already grey face. ‘I know nothing of the sort. I would not have someone steal it back to sell again.’
‘I don’t think you would,’ Giles replied. ‘But I think you would tell the Harifim that a stranger was asking too many questions. I wonder if you are not of the Harifim yourself.’
‘And if I were?’ Ryilla looked toward a torn corner of the tent. Giles turned to see eyes staring back at him. ‘I would warn you away from the desert. The key is sacred to my people. The faithful are lent the key when they die so that they may enter Paradise. You put yourself in grave clanger if you go to steal it!’ Perspiration beaded the map seller’s forehead. ‘You would do well to turn around and sail back to your home.’
‘Not likely,’ Giles replied. ‘One key would not do you or your friends a bit of good. It takes five to open the Gate.’
Ryilla’s mouth hardened into a line and his eyes blazed. ‘Heresy! There is only one key.’
‘There are five locks, each requiring a separate key. I know. I’ve seen the Gate.’
‘Liar!’ Ryilla roared. ‘You cannot have seen it. Only the Harifim are allowed. Our key alone will open the Gate.’
‘I don’t think you even know where this key is, this single key you speak of,’ Giles said softly.
Ryilla waved his hand and men poured into the tent. Giles had wondered how long it would be before those he had seen spying entered. If all went well, he might learn something of value now.
‘This man is blaspheming against our faith,’ Ryilla said angrily, grinding his teeth. ‘Take him to the temple and lock him in a cell. You need not be careful of how you treat him.’
Giles did not see the haft of the dagger flash toward the back of his head. Nor did he feel the pain from the blow. He was unconscious before the message reached his brain.
* * *
Keja had vanished, but Petia paid no heed. She stared up at the young boy in the wooden cage. He knelt at the front, looking down imploringly at her.
His clothes hung in tatters, and Petia saw ribs sticking out of his scrawny chest. She wondered how he had gotten into this situation. Where were his parents? Dead? Brothers and sisters? Perhaps he had none. Petia swallowed hard. Was she in any better condition? Her family had died during the Trans War – and Segrinn. How could she forget his brutalities, the way he hunted her down even now, the punishments in store for her if he caught her?
The slave dealer walked toward Petia, rubbing his hands unctuously. ‘My lady is interested in the boy, yes?’
For a brief moment Petia thought to rip out his throat with her claws, but she quieted her rampaging emotions. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘He is a Trans, like myself.’
‘The auction will begin in a half hour. There are slaves who will sell for much more money than he. I don’t expect that he will come to the block until late afternoon.’
Petia stared into the slave dealer’s eyes. He averted his gaze. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘I have a great deal of patience and nothing else to do.’
‘As my lady wishes.’ The man turned and waddled off, glad to be away from the crazy Trans.
Petia settled gracefully to the ground, stirring the dust beneath her. She would have the boy. Nothing would deter her from purchasing him – or stealing him, if that proved necessary. Giles would be furious, and it might mean the end of her part in their quest, but she did not care. Giles had ignored her the day before to the point she had ceased trying to mention it. He seemed too wrapped up in the intrigue surrounding the map and its theft to bother with freeing a poor Trans boy.
Patiently she watched cages being unlocked and humans pulled onto the raised stage and displayed like livestock. Many seemed relieved when they were sold; their waiting was over. No matter the situation they might be entering, at least it would be stable and a known quantity.
The sun beat down with increasing ferocity as Petia waited, signing to the boy to be patient. She watched as nubile young girls, men shrunken with age, haggard old women, and other young boys were led to the block. She heard the shouts of various bidders, ‘Five darhim, ten darhim, twenty darhim.’ And she looked elsewhere when the sale consummated so that she wouldn’t see how new owners treated their purchases.
After long hours of waiting, the Trans boy’s cage was opened. The slavemaster’s assistant gestured for him to come down from the fourth tier. The boy scrambled down, using his arms while his legs dangled free. When he reached the bottom, Petia saw that he walked with one leg twisted awkwardly. He limped to the block.
‘A healthy Trans boy,’ the slavemaster shouted. ‘He limps only because he has been crowded into the cage. The kinks will work themselves out. His legs are as sound as my own.’
The boy shook his head negatively from his crouched position.
‘What am I bid for this fine boy, only eleven years of age? Unwanted by his parents but strong and with many good years of service in him.’
Petia’s voice rang clearly over the heads of the crowd in front of her. ‘Fifty darhim.’ The crowd hushed, then gabbling broke out over so high a starting bid. It was traditional to start with five or less darhim.
‘Five darhim has been bid,’ the slavemaster shouted. ‘The lady begins the bidding at five darhim.’
‘No, greasy one. Fifty darhim.’ Petia’s gaze did not waver as the crowd turned to examine her. She heard people near her exclaiming: ‘She must really want the boy ‘ ‘It’s too bad he is a cripple’ ‘No one will bid that high for him.’ ‘She could have had him cheaper.’
The slavemaster wiped his forehead. ‘Fifty darhim,’ he shouted, ‘for this excellent boy. He is Trans, part-cat. Do I hear fifty-five? Fifty-five darhim, going once.’
Petia’s voice rose once again. ‘A trick one might expect from such as you, fat-as-a-sow. My bid is fifty darhim, not fifty-five. Shall we now say ‘fifty darhim, going twice?’
The crowd laughed at the slavemaster. He shouted, ‘Fifty darhim, three times.’ The crowd continued to chuckle at his discomfiture. ‘Sold for fifty darhim. Take the accursed cripple.’ He pushed the boy off the stage. The boy turned and bowed to the slavemaster, then raised his arms and did a dance step on perfectly straight legs. When he had finished, he bowed to the slavemaster again, then turned to greet Petia.
Petia touched her empty pouch – the intruders had stolen her money – but still she smiled as she stepped forward, pushing through the crowd. Her nimble fingers worked and purses opened at her passing. By the time she reached the slavemaster, she had more than the fifty darhim required – and it had all been supplied by the very people she hated most.
‘Stand up, boy,’ she said when he tried to pay her obeisance. ‘Such behaviour offends me.’
‘Mistress, let me kiss your feet. I would do anything for you.’
‘If that is so, then stand up and don’t embarrass me. Why did you pretend to be a cripple?’
The boy rose from the dust and looked up into her face. ‘I had hoped that you would purchase me. I wanted to go cheaply so that you would not be angry. I was trying to save you some money.’
‘You are a rascal. What is your name?’
‘Anji, my lady.’
‘All right, Anji. First we see about something to eat, then some decent clothing for you.’
‘But these clothes will be all right. Mistress has paid good money for me. I am content to be out of the cage. I will work hard for you, you will see. And I eat little.’
‘You will eat what I tell you. You’re scrawny. Your ribs stick out. Now be quiet for a moment while I think where to take you for food.’
The boy’s eyes widened when he saw that Petia meant to take him to a cafe. ‘I have never eaten in one of those, Mistress. I would not know what to do.’
‘Then, it is time for you to begin learning, is it not?’ She took his hand and pulled him along behind her.
Once seated in a cafe, Petia ordered plain food and, when it came, leaned back in her chair. She enjoyed the sight of the near-starving boy as he wolfed down the food. After a few minutes, she made him slow down and showed him how to use the table implements: the spoon for the soups and stews, the fork for vegetables and meat, and the knife for cutting.
Sensing the boy’s awkwardness, she encouraged him. ‘You’ll do fine with practice.’
At last Anji sat back, groaning. His stomach hurt from so much food after existing on bare rations for such a long time. He put his hands on his belly and said, ‘It hurts.’
‘You’ve gone hungry for a long time, then?’ Petia asked.
‘Since I was sold to the slavemaster.’
‘When was that?’
‘A long time ago, Mistress. I was sold once before, but I didn’t work hard enough, and my owner sold me back to the slavemaster. But I will work hard for you, Mistress. I will do whatever you command.’
‘I didn’t buy you to be my slave,’ Petia said. ‘I bought you to set you free. After I get you some decent clothing, you can go wherever you want. Do you understand? You are free.’
The boy’s eyes opened wide. He shook his head. ‘Do you mean that I am to go away. Where will I go? I want to stay with you, Mistress.’
‘I’m not sure that you can do that, Anji. I have obligations to other people. I’m not certain that they would allow you to accompany us. It would be best if you went your own way.’ Petia’s heart dropped as she said the words; she found the boy appealing. He was a Trans, part-cat as she was, and alone in the world. She knew the feeling.
‘Where are your parents?’ she asked.
Anji turned sullen. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care, either. They sold me to the slavemaster. They didn’t want me.’
Petia closed her eyes. So Anji had been rejected by his parents, too. Her own father was long dead, but it was her mother who had indentured her to Lord Ambrose. Clearing her mind of the painful memories, she took the boy by the hand and went in search of a clothing shop.
A much more presentable Anji followed Petia into the room at the inn. She didn’t know which of them was the more nervous. Anji had never been allowed inside an inn before, and she was unsure of Giles’ reaction to the foundling. She saw no sign of Giles but found Keja staring out the window. He whirled as she and Anji entered.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked. A worried look creased his brow.
‘I’d like you to meet Anji,’ The boy peered up at Keja, although there wasn’t that much difference in their heights.
‘The slave boy,’ Keja said, finally recognizing the youth. ‘Hello, Anji. You haven’t seen Giles, have you?’ Keja asked, returning his gaze to Petia.
‘No. Why? You look worried.’
‘He said he’d be back early this afternoon. He hasn’t returned or sent any message. You didn’t see him in the market?’ Keja persisted.
‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Giles knows his way about, and he looked as if he had much to do when he left this morning. He’ll show up.’
‘I’m going out to look for him. Don’t you go wandering off.’ He almost ran out of the room. Petia barely had time to relax over a cup of scented tea when Keja returned, downcast.
‘Did you speak to the map seller?’ she asked.
‘He admitted that Giles had been there and had looked at some more maps. Giles asked about temples, and the map seller, Ryilla, I think his name is, said that he directed him to several around Kasha.’
‘Ryilla,’ Anji said. ‘That is the map seller’s name. A Harifim. Be careful of him.’
‘How do you know that?’ Petia asked.
‘My previous owner was of the Harifim. Bad people, he beat me. Ryilla is Harifim, also.’
Keja sighed. ‘And the Harifim have warned us not to search for the key. Not in so many words, but a knife in the back can say more than words alone.’
‘And Giles has gone to the Harifim temple to see what he can uncover,’ Petia concluded.
‘They are fanatics,’ Anji said. ‘They would capture your friend, about whom you worry, and hold him at the temple if they thought he tried to get information about their cult. This Ryilla is the guilty one. He gave your friend over to the Harifim. He is one of them!’
‘We’d better go see if Giles is in trouble,’ Keja said. ‘If he is, we can break into the place and get him away.’
‘You do not know the Harifim, sir,’ Anji said. ‘They are savage. They have guards in their temple. It would be best to wait until nightfall. At vespers their ceremony will be at a point where most of them will be in a trance from a drug they use. You will have a much better chance of getting in then.’
* * *
The waiting was unbearable. Keja and Petia hoped to see Giles walk in the door at any moment, but as the dinner hour passed and the sun sank into the hot desert sands and promised a little coolness, Keja became more nervous. Finally he reached into his pack and took out a rope. He wound it carefully around his waist, then flung on his cloak. Petia took her cloak from the hook by the door.
‘You stay in the room, Anji, until we get back. Do not go anywhere, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’ The boy’s eyes gleamed with excitement, but he sat meekly with his hands folded in his lap. ‘You do not know where the temple is,’ he said calmly.
Petia muttered in exasperation. ‘No, but you’ll tell us how to reach it, and then you will stay here,’ she insisted.
Using Anji’s somewhat muddled directions, they found the Harifim temple, which stood stark against the low desert moon, casting elongated shadows across the square. The building was plain, only two stories high, with a flat roof. There was no dome or tower or other rooftop ornamentation. Neither had ever seen a temple like it.
‘Catch the lip of the roof with your hook,’ Petia whispered. ‘You stand watch while I take a look up there.’
Keja knew better than to argue and unwound the rope from his waist. He attached a triple hook to one end and tied the knot carefully. It caught the ledge on the first try; he tested it with his weight before stepping back.
Petia flexed her fingers, grabbed the rope and paused, concentrating. Mentally she shifted herself to a more feline orientation, becoming more agile, quicker, her body turning sleeker. She pulled the rope taut and scurried catlike up the wall to the roof. Keja watched in open admiration.
She paused briefly at the edge of the roof, and Keja saw her crouch and peer into the darkness. The Trans turned and signalled that she would leave the hook and rope in place.
Her first glance suggested that there would be no way into the temple from the flat roof, but previous experiences at thievery cautioned her that first impressions were not always true. She circled and, finding nothing, crossed the roof from side to side, studying and feeling its surface with preternaturally sensitive fingers. At the halfway point, she felt the roof give slightly. Kneeling, she discovered a trap door, flush with the roof. Her claws slid under the edge of the door; she lifted carefully.
A ladder led downward into the Harifim stronghold. She went down catlike, head and hands first, and came out in a narrow passage. Lifting her head, she tried to identify the strange scent permeating the air. Spicy and pungent, it was unlike anything she had smelled before. The first sniff cleared her head, as if she had been suffering from a cold. The second made her giddy.
The sound of drums, beating softly but with rhythmic intensity, came from beyond the wall. Then she felt that peculiar rhythmic vibration of people dancing.
