by James Derry
Sygne couldn’t help but state the obvious, “It’s like the fossils we saw in the Dwell—”
“Don’t say it,” Jamal warned. “Not in this place.”
“But do you think this means the Lurk—”
“Don’t say that either!” Jamal pulled Sygne into a standing position and forced her to take a few steps backward.
“What happened?” he asked. “Your compass was supposed to keep us clear of the Cursed Quarter…”
Sygne huffed. “My compass navigation wasn’t completely foolproof. We may have veered… Or maybe Ohbo’s map was wrong.” Sygne shook her head. “And we don’t know for sure that this is Tallasmanak. This could be a random burial site.”
“Random? Like Hell it is!” Jamal said. “Truly. This place is like Hell.” He put a hand over his nose. “The smoke smells bitter now. Don’t you smell it? Almost like the fumes of the underworld!”
Sygne bit her lip and chose her words carefully, to avoid being shushed. “What if… there is something… primeval… here? Something involving the Threefold Key. If we’re going to Albatherra, we owe it to the Mentors to investigate this area. The more data we have—”
“No. We are leaving. The graves. The smoke. The sea animals in the middle of the desert. This place is far too reminiscent of the story Ohbo told. I hate to admit that he was right, but not as much as I would hate dying.”
Jamal turned to walk away, but Sygne gripped his wrist. She said, “I’ve been thinking. Remember my amnesia?”
“You’re the one who forgot, not me.”
“Well, the Dwell... the you-know-what... controlled memory. Right? So what if it affected my recollection? It could be some sort of concealment magic. What if all this confusion about where Lurk...”
Jamal’s eyes jabbed at her.
“The other you-know-what. What if all that confusion is another massive concealment spell the Firstspawn are using to keep from being found? If we’ve stumbled upon something here, in spite of all the Ancient Ones’ machinations to keep us away—”
“Wait a minute,” Jamal pulled out of her grip. “You’re saying the Ancient Ones don’t want to be found, and that’s a reason why we should go find them?”
“I... This could be our one chance...”
With that, Jamal kicked away through the sand, presumably to warn Ohbo.
Sygne turned back to the graves. Something caught her attention in the midst of the stone sarcophagi. A tiny flicker of movement. She wandered toward it, past another vault of stone. On its far side she saw another relief carving that hadn’t been worn away by the elements. It was a circle with lines radiating off of it. An uninformed observer might have assumed it was an archaic sun. Sygne knew better. It was a large sea urchin. The Dweller Under Dreams.
Sygne was starting to feel lightheaded. Was there something noxious in that smoke? She nearly stumbled over a knot of rock. Somehow, the sand hadn’t settled here in between the graves. Instead the stone floor of the desert showed through. Sygne had never seen rock formations like these. They were like humps of stone, overlapping each other. But some of the rocks were narrow and sinuous. They twined across the ground like tree roots. Or blood vessels. In another spot they coiled together like the surface of a brain.
She bent to touch it. The stone had been faded by sand and the sun, but its colors were still there—a spectrum of dusky pink and lavender and turquoise. Very unusual. The rock seemed porous.
“What is this?” she asked herself. “I can’t quite put my finger on it…”
Something darted over the pale rock and onto her extended finger. It was quick and tiny. A long tail and fast little legs. And claws. Sygne shrieked as it scurried under her loose sleeve—a flash of blue-gray scales. She lost her balance, clutching at the thing under the fabric of her sleeve.
A sharp pinch. The thing bit her. Then the tiny creature let go of her and tumbled to the ground. A lizard—it was a lizard. But Sygne could see that there was something very wrong with it. It looked less like a lizard and more like the dried husk of a lizard. Sunken eye sockets and an exposed sinus cavity on its snout. The brittle lines of its ribcage stood out on its sides, and its flaking scales were bluish-gray—the color of spent charcoal, or a patina of aged copper.
Sygne sucked in a breath and clapped a hand over the bite mark under her sleeve. That flash of pain had been enough to snap her attention back to the harsh reality. Forget investigations. Forget data. Could this really be the City of the Dead? Had she led them to Tallasmanak? She could hear Jamal and Ohbo yelling to each other. Upon regaining her senses, Sygne’s first impulse was not to shout back to them—to warn them against biting lizards or to ask for help. Her first impulse was to hide her wound.
Ohbo shouted loud enough that Sygne couldn’t ignore it. “They’re coming for us!”
She followed the cameleer’s gesticulations and saw two oddly shaped figures clearing the crest of a faraway dune to the east.
“It’s more scorpion-men!”
Jamal had unsheathed his sword. “We have the higher ground. They know we’ve seen them.”
Ohbo ran close to Sygne. He stopped in front of her, puffing with his hands on his knees. “I can’t believe… they came out here to find us!”
Jamal snarled, “Let me fight them this time!”
Sygne kept her hand over her forearm. “Remember,” she said, “they’re half human, and you don’t want to kill humans.”
“Well, these bastards are doing a good job of convincing me that they deserve to die.”
Ohbo held out Sygne’s telescopic lenses, which he had borrowed. He sputtered, “They have bows.”
“Bows?” Jamal grimaced. He asked hopefully, “Do they have arrows?”
“Of course they have arrows!” Ohbo cried. “They’re trained killers…” For the first time, the cameleer seemed to register that they were standing near the ancient sepulchers. “We’re going to die in this graveyard, aren’t we?” He moaned, “Isn’t that horrifically convenient…”
Sygne backed into the center of the graves. Her head was starting to spin; her vision wobbled. She must have stepped on a weak spot in the coils of intertwining rocks. They cracked away beneath her like branches over a tiger pit.
“Sygne!”
She tumbled through some dark, subterranean space. A vertical shaft of rock. Her plummeting body struck an outcropping of hard stone, and Sygne lost consciousness.
9 – Ambush at the Bazaar
She dreamed of Jamal in happier times.
It was hard for Sygne to admit that, considering he was almost a slave again. But here he was, well-fed and comfortable in the beautiful city of Gjuir-Khib, surrounded by walls of satiny cedar. (The Sjayl River Valley was one of the few civilized regions in the Golden Empires where building timber grew plentifully.)
Jamal’s armor was equally resplendent. As a member of the Echelon Elite, he wore a lacquered ox-hide shirt scaled with bronze armor that had been decorated with niello. All along Jamal’s shoulder pads and his breastplate, black engravings showed history’s most glamorous Gjuirans captured in their most notorious moments—lurid fights or nearly pornographic love scenes—each so lavishly detailed that Jamal looked like a walking tabloid. Each soldier carried a tall, rectangular shield—and wore a straight, finely smithed sword on his belt. Jamal’s sword was so long that the tip of its scabbard nearly reached to his heel.
He stood in a line with his magnificently armored brethren, watching the ladies of the Gjuiran royal court. By comparison the ladies were dressed rather casually. They all wore long flowing gowns in jewel-tone colors. The fabric of each gown hung from a torque band clasped to each lady’s throat. Chains of gold and malachite extended from those metal collars to drape across their bare shoulders. It was a fashion statement meant to draw attention when seen from above. (The Gjuirans believed that their gods, the Specularity, were always watching from their amphitheater in the clouds.)
A
t that moment, Jamal was focused on a young woman in a lavender gown. She was certainly not the tallest of the royal ladies gathered in the courtyard today—and probably not even the most striking. But she was the prettiest, especially as Sygne observed her more closely through Jamal’s eyes. Jamal felt like Lady Nemeah was his own hidden gem. The more he looked at her—the more he spoke with her—the more he realized how special she was. And the more he fell in love. Sygne could feel that affection growing in him, quickening his pulse.
One of the Elite Guardsmen nudged Jamal hard in the shoulder. “Do more body guarding, and less body watching, Ardhian.”
Jamal snapped to attention. “Yes, Eiglon.”
Eiglon was a handsome soldier with an olive complexion that was more typical of native Gjuirans. As often as he could, Eiglon made sure to point out this difference.
“Look at your face, Ardhian! If that black skin of yours could blush, I think you’d be several shades of crimson by now.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“I think we established that—you know, because of your skin.” Eiglon nodded to some of the other guardsmen. They chuckled. Jamal was the youngest recruit in the Echelon Elite, and also the skinniest. He’d been eating and exercising to build muscle, but so far the results were slow to develop. The guardsmen often made Jamal the butt of their jokes, but their laughing stopped when they faced him on the sparring grounds. If anything, Jamal’s fighting skills had only grown sharper since earning his title of the Demon of Uhl-Arath.
The Queen’s sister Aiehla stepped toward the lineup of guards. “Vice-Commander! What has you so amused this day?”
Now it was Eiglon’s turn to snap to attention. Like nearly every other large city-state in Embhra, Gjuir-Khib was ruled by a patriarchy—but the royal women of Gjuir-Khib wielded their own distinct and devastating power. Social power. Gjuirans esteemed glory, charm, and intrigue above all other things—because these were qualities that drew attention from the Specularity. And no one could bring more flair to an occasion—or more sting to a criticism—than a queen and her sisters.
Eiglon answered, “Nothing, your highness. We are ready to move at your command.”
“Good,” said Aiehla. “Stay on your toes today. After the trade minister’s announcement about grain levies, I’m afraid the working classes will be in quite a mood this morning.”
With a rattle and creaking of chains, the courtyard gate was drawn open. The guardsman on Jamal’s other side, whom Sygne recognized as another elite Ardhian warrior named Kalil, whispered, “Here come the sounds of the haters.”
A cacophony of boos and hisses billowed through the open gate, and the guardsmen marched into position, creating a double-file phalanx with the Queen’s sister and her family members in the middle. Eiglon moved to the head of the procession, where he stood tall and gleaming—and very imposing—in his bronze armor. Kalil and Jamal fell into ranks toward the back of the procession’s left side.
“Keep your head on a swivel,” the older Ardhian advised. “The haters aren’t above throwing fruit or night soil.” Perhaps a few of the noblewomen had heard Kalil’s warning. They opened parasols over their heads. In a lower tone, Kalil said, “If we’re lucky, they’ll just fling racist insults our way.”
Jamal gritted his teeth and quietly growled, “I’ll abide taunts from Eiglon. At least I respect him—somewhat. But what have these common folk done that makes them think they can look down on us?”
Kalil leaned close. “They were born tawny-skinned and free. All they’ve done with that freedom is learn how to beg and complain. That’s why they’re haters.”
Jamal puffed out his chest. Kalil was the one person who allowed Jamal to feel proud about his roots as a slave. Sygne could understand that. Look at how far they had come.
They marched through the gate, and the crowd parted as Eiglon barked at them. It seemed to Sygne that the Gjuiran citizens did become bolder as the bulk of the Echelon Elite had passed by them, and as they saw the dark skin of Jamal’s and Kalil’s faces. As the mob hurled out racial slurs and spat at the Ardhians’ feet, Sygne couldn’t help but wonder if someone had specifically positioned the two former slaves to draw the crowd’s ire to the back corner of the procession. Through each insult and act of abuse, Sygne could feel Jamal’s heart rate surging on a rush of anger. Jamal hated the common folk with a special, irrational ferocity that only a seventeen-year-old could muster.
The royal procession was headed to the Bazaar Unique in the city’s southern district. That was seven blocks away. A very long walk. Fortunately, the mob seemed to thin out after just a block. Sygne could feel Jamal glowering at the uneasy peace.
Kalil muttered, “Lazy haters. They don’t even have the energy to complain for very long.”
Jamal shrugged. “If they think they’re so righteous, why do they give up their cause after a few minutes?”
Kalil chuckled. “If they had the daring or the organization, they could have mustered up an effort to truly show us how outraged they are. They outnumber us by a hundred to one.”
“They can’t even count to a hundred…”
“Hold there,” Kalil warned. “Your sparrow approaches.”
Nemeah had separated herself from the crowd of noblewomen. She subtly drifted into an easy stroll at Jamal’s side; then she spoke from the corner of her mouth, “You look quite dashing today, young Demon.”
Jamal tried to make his voice equal parts stealth, stern discipline, and flirtation. “An Elite Guardsman is not supposed to fraternize with the royals, milady.”
“But it is this lady’s prerogative to offer you a compliment. Aren’t you obliged to take it?”
“I am.” Jamal’s eyes cut to Nemeah and they shared furtive half-smiles. The right side of Jamal’s face bowed up to match the left side of Nemeah’s. Sygne groaned internally. She noticed that Kalil had gone quiet. Did he disapprove? He probably knew better than most that Jamal’s attraction to Nemeah could only lead to trouble.
The lady said, “After this morning’s trip, I’m planning to take my brunch in the Scholars’ Library. There are some new poems that I’d like to read aloud…”
“The Scholars’ Library is outside the palace grounds, milady. You will need an Elite Guardsman to escort you there.”
“Yes, of course. Are you free?”
Kalil cleared his throat, but Jamal ignored him. “I will check with Vice-Commander Eiglon.”
“Let me know if he offers you any trouble,” Nemeah said.
Jamal spoke in a voice that was barely audible. “Eiglon seems to think that… I’m growing attached to you.”
Nemeah leaned toward him. “Does he think that I am growing attached to you?”
“Most definitely not.”
“Then perhaps Eiglon is only half as perceptive as he claims to be.”
They walked in silence for a while, both of their hands swaying in the same motion.
The striped tents of the Bazaar Unique were no more than sixty feet away. Soon their conversation would draw to a close. Jamal asked, “Are you planning to read any of those odes that you read last week?”
Nemeah didn’t have time to offer an answer. A hoot carried through the air over their heads.
A war cry.
Jamal tensed instantly. Soon other common folk along the street had taken up the same cry. Their voices swarmed like bats in the canyon between loam-brick buildings.
“To arms!” Eiglon shouted, and all along the procession, the Echelon Elite bared the long blades of their swords. Nemeah cringed away from Jamal and Kalil; the sight of flashing metal seemed to terrify her more than the cries of the mob.
A throng of bodies rushed out of the nearest alley. The Echelon Elite closed ranks, raising their shields to form a seamless wall decorated with niello hieroglyphs. The muscles in Jamal’s legs twitched, but he didn’t rush forward at the first opponent. Instead, Kalil’s sword flashed through a momentary gap in the shi
eld wall, and the commoner fell to the street with a wail. A second commoner leaped forward and swung a club at Jamal. Were the attackers focusing their efforts on Jamal because he was the skinniest guardsman? Jamal met the man with a powerful thrust of his shield. The man stumbled back on his heels, and the crowd gathered themselves, holding still for a moment and hurling curses at the procession.
“Gaudy, gilded filth!”
“Time you learned a lesson!”
“My children are starving!”
“Come on boys,” one hater screamed, “let’s teach them how to suffer!”
A loud clamor rose up from Eiglon’s section of the perimeter. Jamal glanced that way to see Eiglon’s sword slicing up and down. Commoner blood sprayed in a jet through the air, and a few ladies had their gowns stained. The noblewomen screamed and retreated toward Jamal’s section of the shield wall. It was obvious that—despite Eiglon’s efforts—the common folk were fighting more ferociously at the head of the procession. The guardsmen took a few steps backward to maintain their footing against the crush of bodies. They needed to change their formation to meet this forward assault.
“Tighten the circle!” Jamal cried.
Someone started throwing chunks of marble over the shield wall. A noblewoman clutched her knee and fell to the ground.
“Tighten up!” Jamal demanded. “Ladies, move close to our backs. You’re less likely to get hit that way.”
Sygne noticed that only Nemeah had followed Jamal’s advice, and his fellow soldiers had stayed where they were, each preoccupied by their own tiny section of the battle.
In the end, the whole party, guardsmen and nobles alike, were as feckless as sheep as the mob broke through the head of the procession. Soon Jamal had opponents flooding in at his front and his back. He was separated from Kalil. He was separated from the man on his right.
Jamal relied on his shield as an offensive weapon. He didn’t want to draw blood with his sword. Something hard struck the back of his helmet, and the world exploded with flat flowers of light.
Jamal spun in place and cut a big man with the edge of his shield. As his vision cleared, he saw a noblewoman lying on the street. Her aquamarine gown showed like a beacon among the brown clothes of the commoners and puddles of their blood.
