Fire Dance

by Ilana C. Myer

  They were passing, in that moment, between the rose hedges. Lin turned her face to one of their red faces. Its perfume like a sign from a world beyond betrayal, or death. She inhaled with closed eyes. Said, “And what else do you do?”

  * * *

  THE tunnel beneath the metalcrafter’s shop was tidy and tiled with smooth stone on all sides, the floor. It could have been a wine cellar, and perhaps had been one once, long ago. Through the eyes of Edrien Letrell she knew how over years cities expanded, collapsed, relentlessly changed. The towers that rose and fell.

  Ahead was the light she had seen earlier from the top of the ladder. It was the warm glow of lamps. The chamber they came to was nearly bare, just a table, some chairs, and two men seated there. They sat erect, clearly on duty. Before them on the table was a tabla board, but they were not playing: the sound of the chest had alerted them and their eyes were trained on the door, knives in hand.

  In a jovial tone Zahir wished them a good morning. Their faces had altered when he came into view, though crinkled with suspicion at the sight of Lin. Both men were young and fit, with daunting shoulders. Not people she would want to fight if she could avoid it.

  One demanded, “You bring a newcomer, Haran? Here? Without permission?”

  Zahir approached the table with a walk that Lin could only have described as a strut. His hands gripped his belt above the hips. “Shantar doesn’t mind me bringing a lady, does he?” He glanced behind him at Lin, then turned back to the men. “We’ve been half around the world, but it’s not enough for my mistress. She’s begun to grow … restless. She’s promised that if I show her some danger … there are rewards in store. A little knifeplay, even, if I play my cards right. You understand, don’t you?”

  Lin kept her face expressionless. Then realizing this might not be sufficient, she made her face like stone. While he’d briefed her on much of what she was to expect here, this had not been included. She suspected it had been a spur-of-the-moment invention. She did not know whether to be amused or annoyed.

  The men were smirking and studiously avoiding looking her way. At last one of them said, “I don’t know, Haran. Shantar would want to see you, but lately he’s in a temper. There’s some strangeness abroad. If he finds out you brought her here, not even blindfolded, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  Lin thought this was the right time to join Zahir at the table. She’d removed the scarf when they entered the storage room, her hair tumbled about her shoulders. Zahir reached out his arm, without turning; she came forward and let him wrap it around her waist. Her eyes still hard as she looked from one to the other of the men. “I’m no snitch,” she said. She grabbed Zahir’s hair in a fistful and pulled, perhaps harder than necessary. Or perhaps not. “This one squeals more than I do.”

  “She has an accent,” said one of the men, even as he was trying not to laugh. “She’s very pale.”

  “From Eivar,” she said curtly. “Haran here came to my town to sing. And then, later on … I made him sing.”

  “All right,” said the man. Perhaps younger than she’d thought at first. “Go through, go. But later, Haran, you’d better tell us how you found this one. If they’re all like that in Eivar, I’m overdue for a visit.”

  A massive door, crowded with boltlocks, opened from this antechamber to another room. This was the real sanctuary, Lin guessed: the flagstones were softened with a fine carpet, and there were satin cushions at the low tables. Light flickered from the lamps set on each table. There were men here, conversing in low voices when she entered. They looked up only briefly before carrying on their conversations—all but one man with red hair and powerful build who gave a shout. “You bastard!” He hurled himself at Zahir. Enormous arms wrapped around the Magician. “Where have you been hiding this time? And you bring a lady? You’d better have an explanation, friend. Or do I have to kill Samir and Kor for their negligence?”

  When Zahir drew back, he was grinning. “I hope you don’t. The fault is entirely mine—and that of my lady, who is most persuasive.”

  Lin returned the direct gaze of the large man. So this was Shantar Nir. In his rough-hewn way he was handsome, with a prominent jaw and a broken nose. His hazel eyes were shrewd. She thought she might have the measure of him. “Gvir Nir, we are here to request a favor,” she said. “Haran has made clear to me that every favor has its price. And I am qualified, if necessary, to deliver.”

  Curiosity in the hazel eyes. “How, qualified?”

  “Like Haran, I can sing,” she said. “Moreover.” She drew one of her smaller knives and flicked her wrist. There was a dartboard on the wall, stuck with darts. And now her knife quivered there, too, near enough to the heart as to make no difference. Not if the target had been a man.

  Shantar lowered himself onto one of the cushions. He looked thoughtful. But then his gaze sharpened as it returned to Lin. “And who are you?”

  “You may call me Miryan,” she said.

  “One of our flowers. I see.”

  “You like flowers, as I understand it,” she said.

  The man gestured dramatically around the room. His thick fingers were adorned with rings. “I have been remiss with the courtesies,” he said, sardonic. “Welcome to the Jonquil Safehouse. Anyone trusted by this rapscallion is a friend to us. Sit, we’ll drink. What is this favor you desire of me?”

  As they sat, a man hurried over with a pewter pitcher and cups. The beer he poured out a rich brown. Zahir leaned across the table on his elbows. He waited until the serving man had gone before he said, “We seek the Fire Dancers, Shantar. Do you know the place they hide?”

  The red-haired man looked at him askance. “Do I want to know what this is about?”

  Zahir grinned, took a sip. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he shrugged. “Likely not.”

  “Hm.” Shantar steepled his hands as he surveyed Zahir across the table. “You stay away for months—off west this time, if your friend’s accent is an indication. And then you make a request like this. It’s not your usual.”

  “Do I have a usual?” A faint smile was playing around Zahir’s mouth.

  The other man sighed. “I guess not. Bastard.” Shantar took a long, savoring drag from his own cup. For the first time, Lin noticed that behind the other man’s swagger was a discordant note. His eyes darted around to others in the room, but no one seemed to be listening. Nonetheless, Shantar leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “Since Nitzan, something has been happening in the city. Our people are … they’re starting to disappear.”

  “Disappear?”

  “They go on missions and don’t return. Last night it was someone important … the chief of the Delphinium Safehouse. Old Raygar Shenk, if the name means anything to you. He was a captain in Yusuf Evrayad’s army, long ago. No friend of mine—we had our differences—but nonetheless. The Brotherhood is on edge. And with war coming … things have taken a strange turn, Haran. You picked quite a time to show your face here. And now you want to speak with the Fire Dancers when we are about to be at war with them.” He was watching Zahir’s face.

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Zahir. “But may I remind you—though none knows better than you: war never put an end to commerce and profit.”

  “So you seek them on business.” This seemed to satisfy Shantar. “Very well. I know how you might find your friends. They are well-hidden, but you’ve come to the right place. Much as the Fire Dancers keep to themselves, they’re not above dealings with the Brotherhood of Thieves.” He stretched his legs on an adjoining cushion, let out a sigh. “It’s just as well you’re here—I have a confounding problem that you’re about to help me solve. That is, if you’re as interested in the Fire Dancers’ lair as you say.” Now the cast of his face had sharpened, from uncertainty to cunning. “There’s a certain merchant prince I’ve had my eye on. He keeps a rare medicine under lock and key. Let’s just say I have an interested buyer. This is a mixture that’s very hard to procure. And now, with the t
urn of events in the city … we need more men. More resources. A tidy sum would go far for the Brotherhood at this time.”

  Zahir shrugged. “Like you need a reason to want money,” he said. “Have you sent advance spies?”

  “We’ve got everything. The plans to the house, the place where he keeps the medicine. But that’s as far as I could go without arousing suspicion. What’s needed is someone who can get close to the man—his name is Khadar Zuhalan—preferably of an evening when he’s been softened by indulgences. And of course I thought of you. He is known for a fondness for overly pretty young men—that’s right, you fey bastard. Moreover he is a connoisseur of music and holds entertainments in his home most nights. I can get you introduced to the people who scout fresh talent for him. I can get you in.”

  “Would I need to go to bed with him?” Zahir asked. He was inspecting his nails. “That would increase my fee.”

  “If that happens, I’ll increase it. Though by all accounts he is gentle, and, ah, is not often the one actively participating.” Shantar smirked. “You could close your eyes and pretend it’s your whippet, here.”

  “You really want this medicine,” said Zahir. His eyes were now intent on Shantar. “You will pay what I ask, on top of giving us the whereabouts of the Fire Dancers. I want that commitment from you in advance.” He named a figure that made Lin suppress an incredulous stare in his direction. She was sure the thief would refuse.

  Shantar looked resigned. “The Brotherhood keeps its word,” he said. “You drive a hard bargain, Haran.”

  “We all have things we want,” said Zahir. A velvet tone, satisfied, as at a seduction achieved.

  * * *

  THEY had dinner with Shantar Nir and his men that evening in the Jonquil Safehouse. The cuts of meat were fine, the wine plentiful. Majdara’s Brotherhood of Thieves was, it seemed, a prosperous operation. In undertone, at one point in the meal when Shantar had left the table, Zahir explained to her that there were even city guards who cooperated with the Brotherhood. That the organization went back centuries, though it had grown and strengthened under the reign of Yusuf Evrayad, a result of expanded trade. Once there had been only three Brotherhood safehouses in Majdara. Now there were six. The Jonquil Safehouse was chief among them, which made Shantar Nir master of the Brotherhood.

  “He may not look it,” said Zahir, “but the man has been instrumental in more political and trade deals in this city than some of its grandees. He cultivates that common air to throw people off guard.”

  “Yet he gave in to you easily,” she said. “Why?”

  Zahir’s new dark eyes were opaque. “He knows a job assigned to me will be done. I’m pleased—the money will go to Eldakar. To help offset the costs of this war.”

  “What other jobs have you done for him?”

  He grinned. “That would be a very long story, my lady. Maybe someday we’ll have the time.”

  When Shantar returned to the table, he fixed his attention for the first time on Lin. He seemed more relaxed, perhaps a combination of the effects of drink and his confidence that Zahir would get the task done. And besides, it was late. “Never, in all the time I’ve known Haran, have I known him to travel with a companion,” said Shantar, gaze boring into Lin. “Always seemed a lone wolf sort to me. Ever since we met years ago. I was carrying out one of my first jobs, and terrified. And then this musician, out of nowhere, helped me.”

  “How did he do that?”

  The thief’s smile was distant. “I was to lift something from a house in the course of a party. I arrived in the guise of a guest. Later I was to discover it was a test—if I succeeded in the job I’d be promoted. If not … well, life is only worthwhile when the stakes are high. The Brotherhood believes in keeping them that way. A lost hand, a lost head … the possibility of these, hanging over us, is what gives us life.” He was not smiling anymore. “At any rate. The item was kept in a safe in a room to which I gained access. A library. I knew the combination—it was a plan months in the making. But when I arrived, there browsing among the books was a woman. Beautiful, I recall. I couldn’t carry out the job with her watching. Time was running short. Then Haran came in. He looked from one to the other of us, and introduced himself as a wandering singer.”

  “He charmed her, didn’t he?” said Lin. Felt Zahir shift beside her, whether uneasily or with pride, she didn’t know.

  “Of course. He led her out to the garden. And I thought it coincidence, because—why not? She was beautiful. Everyone loves a handsome musician. There were many secluded parts of that garden, and I saw the look in her eyes. As sweet a triumph for him as for me. No one else arrived to disturb me—I was able to complete the job as arranged. But later on … before I left the party, there was that hand on my jacket collar.” Shantar shook his head with disbelief. “I’m twice this bastard’s size, and still he put his hand on me. He said, ‘I’ve done you a good turn. Now you’ll do one for me.’ Turned out he was newly arrived to Majdara and wanted to be introduced to the chief of the Brotherhood. My predecessor. Well. The stolen item—a dagger, I well remember, a treasure of Almyria with a ruby pommel—was on my person, and we were still in the home of its owner. I could hardly refuse. Though it was a risk for Haran here. I could have deceived him, led him into an ambush.”

  “You were intrigued by me,” said Zahir with a wicked grin. “Admit it.”

  “It’s true,” said Shantar, and drank. “I did want to see what kind of man would be so foolhardy as to actively seek out the Brotherhood. And I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  “Naturally,” said Zahir. “One more drink and you’ll confess your undying love.”

  “Perhaps I would,” said Shantar. “But alas. It seems your heart is taken. By a woman whose real name you won’t disclose.”

  Ah. Lin didn’t visibly react. Nor did Zahir. Instead, he said, “Old friend, do you ever find it is wearying, in the depths of your soul, to be alone? And aren’t you alone, always, even surrounded as you are by colleagues, even some friends? With them you must continuously mask yourself, dissemble, if you are to maintain control.”

  “I am not too drunk to murder you where you sit,” said the thief with a roll of his eyes. “Bear that in mind.”

  Zahir laughed. But soon became earnest. “All I’m saying is—my lady and I—I believe we found one another for that reason. We were both alone, and profoundly weary. Above all, weary of masking ourselves as other than we are.”

  “And she’s proficient with a knife.”

  “And music,” said Zahir. He seemed mellowed by drink as well. Lin was sure he was about to expound upon the skills in which she was supposedly proficient, an encore of the lurid fiction they’d delivered to the men on guard. She awaited it, cynical and weary. But instead Zahir took a tone she recalled from the nights in the gardens. His eyes grown distant. “Music, the knife. Aren’t these the things that matter for us, Shantar? People like us, who must keep to the shadows. At the center of our lives—of what makes us alive—the dance of blood. The violence of music.”

  “Now you sound like a Fire Dancer,” Shantar drawled over his cup.

  Lin smiled, more irony than mirth. “Or a poet.”

  * * *

  THE yellow smoke, the drink, and above all the hypnotic performance of Zahir Alcavar in the guise of the wandering musician Haran had done their work. Father and son, both, had fallen into what appeared a trance. But especially the father, which was the point. At a lull in the music, Khadar Zuhalan had in a voice made husky by smoke and emotion invited the singer Haran to sit with them.

  Zahir presented himself to the men with a deep bow. When he took his place at the table, Lin noted that his leg was not far from the other man’s leg. He held the merchant’s gaze as if they’d known one another all their lives. His final song had been one of passion, cried out with a ferocity that recalled to her his words to Shantar about the violence of music. Across the table, Gvir Zuhalan appeared transfixed. Here it was: her cue.

  S
idling up to the son, she made her voice timid and deferential as she asked where she might attend to her needs. She already knew the tiled, scented room where she’d be directed—where she might splash herself with rosewater and make use of a garderobe—adjoined the room she sought. She had studied the floor plans of the house intently, late into the night before she and Zahir had slept. The Jonquil Safehouse extended some distance underground and included a number of rooms. In one of these was a large, soft bed where she and Zahir Alcavar had been invited to spend the night.

  Beneath the silly gown she had a knife buckled between her breasts, another at her shoulder blade. Not ideally positioned, but still within reach. At the same time, Lin was acutely aware of the futility of these defenses. If she was caught, this man could summon a personal guard that would easily overpower her with swords and spears. A man did not keep such wealth in his home, and trade goods, without men-at-arms ready to hand. And the Zuhalan family was known for being cautious. For that reason the Brotherhood had been finding the house difficult to penetrate.

  Yet here she was, carrying out this folly. Despite herself, she did trust the judgment of Zahir Alcavar.

  The doors to the room that adjoined the purification chamber were heavy. She carried a vial of oil to apply to the door hinges. Her heart racing as she did so. The hallway was empty, but anyone might pass by at any moment.

  Thankfully the oil did its job and soon she was inside without a noise. She closed the doors behind her. She was in a room that might have been the merchant’s study: at its center was a splendid desk of cherrywood where ledgers were piled in a stack, alongside an inkwell and pen. Shelves of books lined the walls. She felt a pang of anxiety at the sight of the window that looked out on the street, where someone might look in. In a brisk motion she advanced to the window, staying adjacent to it at all times, and closed the drapes.