Pale Queen's Courtyard

by Marcin Wrona

  Chapter 9: The Barley-House

  Leonine carefully sawed at Ilasin’s hair. It was no masterpiece – the ends were ragged, the length not quite even – but it would have to do. He was amazed to see quite how much hair there was. Black waves of it carpeted the floor around his feet.

  Ilasin squirmed, and he thought for a moment that he had cut her.

  “Is it done yet?”

  He turned her head to one side, then the other, taking a close look. “Yes, I think we’re done.”

  She ran to the wall of the inn chamber they shared, and studied her reflection in the beaten brass plate that hung there. Then came a plaintive wail. “I look like a boy!”

  “That’s the idea. It’s… admittedly, it is not much of a disguise, but people expect a Sarvashi and a girl. And now, I claim I’m traveling with my son. As long as you don’t talk too much, and try not to let people get too close a look at you, it should be believable.”

  “Oh, thanks!” she said, walking back and sitting down at his side, arms crossed over her chest. “That’s wonderful. Maybe we should turn you into a woman, then! They’d never expect that.”

  “That, my dear, would be a little more difficult than making you look like a boy.”

  “Not much more,” she muttered, drawing a laugh from Leonine.

  “But you raise a good point,” he said, thinking a moment. “How would you like to have your revenge?”

  She put a finger to her lips, considering the matter, and then peered at him through narrowed eyes. “How?”

  “Simple. I will keep my beard growing, and you will oil my hair back. Braid it, even, if you’re so inclined. We can’t make me into a woman, but an Ekkadi is not out of the question.”

  Ilasin thought about that, far too briefly for Leonine’s liking, and then nodded. “Perfume, too. We’ll make a proper, civilized man of you!”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “What about this one?” Ilasin asked later that day, pointing to a cumbersome-looking harp, the arm skillfully carved to look like the feathered bough of a cedar.

  Leonine shook his head. “Too big, too heavy.”

  “I have smaller! Come over here, master, I will show you!” the shopkeeper had struck that balance between unctuous and pushy that made him a perfect specimen of his kind. The thought made Leonine want to leave the shop. Still, his fingers itched. He needed something to play, and he had coin to spare. He could do without a custom-made instrument for the moment. And Ilasin, it seemed, was even more excited than he at the prospect of music.

  They had spent the afternoon browsing one of Numush-ummi’s countless markets, eating figs and olives, and a strange tart fruit that hid within an orange shell. Leonine had bought a sturdy bag that he could strap to his back, and as the shadows grew longer, the bag grew more full.

  They’d bought new sandals for Ilasin, and new tunics and woolen rain-cloaks for both of them.

  It had taken some convincing to find a less upstanding merchant, but coin loosened lips; a few shekels later, Leonine had bought new lock picks from a man in an alleyway, and a small knife that he intended to teach Ilasin to use. “He was so ordinary-looking!” she said afterwards. “He didn’t look at all like a thief!”

  Leonine had laughed at that. “Do I?” She hadn’t answered that question, which was, he decided philosophically, an answer in itself.

  He had told her more of his past over the last few days, of a childhood spent snatching bread and dates at market, and an adulthood spent snatching purses and burgling homes. She had told him of the temple of Nerkut, with its golden couch, on which her father had sworn the god Kutuanu slept on holy days. She’d snuck in once on Midsummer’s Day, to see if the god was there. Unsurprisingly, she’d found no Kutuanu. Just as unsurprisingly, she had found a lashing from an irate father.

  It had been a mistake to tell the girl that he knew a song about Nerkut’s deity. She seemed to have gotten it into her head that Leonine needed an instrument to accompany his voice. When they passed by a small shop in front of which a merchant displayed finely carved flutes and pipes, she had pulled him in by the sleeve, unrelenting in her aggression.

  “Look, is it not finely crafted? Go on! Touch the wood!” The harp to which the merchant pointed was a smaller one, with a long base meant to be gripped between the knees. Intertwined serpents were carved along the arm, a symbol most Sarvashi would be loath to adopt.

  An omen, I’m sure.

  He kneeled down before the harp, and picked out a quick song. One of the strings was out of tune; he would have to pull it tighter. Otherwise, the harp was well enough made. Still, as he left the store with a lighter purse and a harp tucked below his arm, Leonine was fully aware that he would have bought nothing, were it not for Ilasin’s insistence. Although, he admitted, the carved snakes were a pleasantly subversive touch.

  Thank all the gods I believe in, and those I don’t, that tonight I meet Ibashtu.

  A thin drizzle had fallen the previous day, and in the morning as well. The afternoon was cool, comfortably so. It reminded Leonine of summer days in Sarvagadis, of keening gulls and the breeze that softened the acrid scent of salt from the sea and the marsh.

  Ilasin, evidently, found it less pleasant than he did. She had rifled through his bag for her new rain-cloak of tightly woven grey wool, and now wore it wrapped around her shoulders.

  His new beard – still a patchy, ragged thing – was itching him, and he scratched as they walked. True to her word, Ilasin had twisted his hair into ringlets and oiled it back. He felt more than a little ridiculous. His Ekkadi “disguise” would fool no one when subjected to scrutiny. For all that his mother had been Ekkadi, his angular features spoke more of jagged cliffs than green riverbeds. Still, even if he still looked Sarvashi, he looked at least like a different Sarvashi, and dressing after the local customs was to the good as well; during those weeks when one was more a thief than a performer, it was best not to cut too striking a figure. Men could easily have traveled to Numush from Inatum by now. He had to assume that somebody was asking after him.

  A week’s beard and oiled hair made for a poor mask, but he did feel somewhat less exposed. And Ilasin had enjoyed making his scalp ache as part of the deception.

  He would miss her.

  “So, this is the same friend you met in Inatum? As we left?” she asked, taking a swig of beer from his cup and making a face at the taste.

  “Yes. She’s Hakshi, actually,” he said, remembering their conversation.

  “Can I meet her?”

  Soon enough, I expect you will.

  “Probably. But not tonight. She’s … like us, and a thief like I am. Meeting her might be risky, if the men in Inatum have made the connection between her and myself.” He rather doubted they had. They had probably learned about Shudagan by now, but Leonine doubted the Huntsmen would be overly concerned with his household slaves.

  “Leonine… what will we do next? After you talk to your friend?” The question was probing, blunt. He wanted to tell Ilasin the truth, to warn her that they had come to the end of their time together, but the words would not come. They had already grown painful to say, and Leonine did not like pain. He did not want to see her cry, wanted even less to make her cry. Too much time together. I should have left earlier.

  “I don’t know, Ila. I haven’t decided yet,” he said, giving her a smile he hoped looked reassuring. “Maybe we’ll go to Haksh,”

  If she did not believe him, she made no sign of it. She smiled instead, and popped a walnut segment into her mouth. “That would be nice,” she mumbled, chewing. Leonine could not be sure, but it seemed as though she avoided his gaze.

  She knows. She’s not stupid.

  “Could we… go to Nerkut?” she asked. “Before we sail?”

  Nerkut?

  “Do you want to see your father?” he asked, but she shook her head.

  “No. I want to go see my mother. She’s buried there. I … wouldn’t feel right, if I left without say
ing goodbye. You know?”

  He nodded. Yes, I know.

  “Do… do you want to go say goodbye to your wife?” she asked hesitantly, biting her lip.

  “No, Ilasin. I said goodbye already, and it was hard enough the first time that I can’t bear to do it again.”

  He had gone back for Farshideh, too late, when he realized she was in danger. He had found only a Hound in the desert, and Farshideh lying on her back, staring blindly into the sky, nails through her hands. He had said his goodbyes then, a scream on his lips and a knife clenched in his fist.

  “Besides,” he added. “Wherever we go, it will not be Sarvagadis. There is no place outside Sarvash that is more of a danger to us than that city.” He could warn her, at least. He could do that much. Even if they did not travel together, she would know not to go to Ekka’s great outpost of the Merezadesh.

  Ilasin knitted her brow in consternation. “Wait… if not Sarvagadis, where will we find a ship to Haksh? Surely you don’t expect to find a ship in Hatshut?” Leonine was surprised for a moment at how well she knew the lay of the land. The reefs around Hatshut were well known. Her docks faced the river. No captain was fool enough to approach from the sea.

  But then, of course Ilasin knew such things – she was a priest’s daughter. And not just any priest’s. She had been educated.

  “Adarpa, I think. It’s not a safe trip.” An understatement. The overland journey was mostly through desert, plied by nomads and outlaws. “But I’ve heard tell that guards can be hired, from among the desert outlaws. They’ll let us pass, if we pay them well enough… provided, of course, that we don’t pay them so well they decide to slit our throats to see what else we have to offer.”

  “We could buy camels!” Ilasin said suddenly. “I’ve never ridden a camel before. Have you?”

  Leonine laughed. “Vile creatures. They spit and bite. And stink.” She looked crestfallen for a moment, but her face brightened when he told her that it was actually a rather good idea.

  “Good! Then we have a plan!” she said, then blinked, a new thought coming to her. “But I don’t speak Hakshi…”

  Leonine shrugged. “I don’t either. But the Hakshi speak many languages themselves. And we’ll learn, anyway.”

  She smiled, a little wistfully.

  “Good. I’m glad. And it’ll be fun! An adventure, like in the songs.”

  Leonine nodded, plastering a grin across his face, but the song that came to his mind was Afazeh’s lament for a lost child.

  Idiot. Maudlin, sentimental idiot. Your child died with Farshideh.

  Night was darker in Numush than Inatum, although the streets were far busier than they’d been atop the Mound. Near the docks, boatmen and whores scurried about under the disinterested gaze of bearded guardsmen, the more well-to-do among them trailed by long-legged boys with sputtering torches in hand. One would find copper braziers like those of Inatum in the wealthier sections of the city, but not here.

  Leonine kept to the shadows, ducking now and again into alleyways when torch boys padded too close on bare feet. He had walked brazenly earlier, secure in the knowledge that he looked enough like a local – or at least a visiting deckhand – that he would not arouse suspicion. Still, the closer he drew to the Bridge, and the house with barley-etched lintels, the more pressingly he felt the need for stealth. Caution, he reflected, was a trait he had not cultivated quite enough of late.

  He found Luwa-Shagir’s house easily, spotting the distinctive lintel carvings with eyes well accustomed to the night. When he was content that he had not been followed, Leonine knocked on the door. Moments later, it creaked open to reveal a sour face set deep within folds of fat.

  “Get in here!” the man hissed, pulling Leonine through the doorway by his tunic. The door shut behind him, and then Leonine was rammed into it, a silk-clad forearm pinning him to the door by his neck, cutting off his breathing. The fat man was surprisingly strong. He tried to push back, momentarily, his blood beginning to grow hot, but stiffened when he felt something sharp poke at his stomach.

  “Luwa-Shagir?” Leonine wheezed.

  “Name?” the fat man asked.

  “Ha-Hafis,” he replied, giving the name Ibashtu had ordered him to use.

  “You lie. Hafis has not arrived.”

  “I’m here to talk to Ib –” A fist in the midsection finished Leonine’s sentence, blasting the breath from his lungs. He wanted to double over, but the man’s grip would not let him.

  “I said you lie, little man. Name?”

  “Hafis, damn you. I was not sure this name was safe. I gave another to the guards.”

  The fat man leaned in close, his small eyes scrutinizing. “And what exactly is my guarantee that this is true?”

  A female voice rang out from somewhere in the barley-house. “I’ll be your guarantee, Luwa. This is, in fact, my dear Hafis.”

  Luwa-Shagir smiled unpleasantly, and stepped away. Something in his hand gleamed briefly before it disappeared into a voluminous sleeve. Leonine coughed through a series of shallow breaths, steadying himself against the wall with an outstretched hand. He heard the sound of tinkling bells.

  Just wait until this job is done, fat man.

  He straightened gingerly, shaking his head, and looked over at Ibashtu, who stood smirking beneath an oil lamp.

  “Did you enjoy your little rebellion, Leonine?” she asked.

  “Very much so,” he replied. “I see working with you will be a pleasure.”

  “If you behave,” she said and shrugged. “May I ask why exactly you decided to disobey a direct order? You’re lucky I was not delayed in coming here. Luwa might well have gutted you.”

  “Inatum’s finest could have been looking for you. I didn’t want to take the chance that you’d been captured.” Not true, it was nevertheless as reasonable an answer as any.

  “Oh, of course,” she answered, her tone wry. “And to think, I was about to throw around all sorts of unfounded accusations. Why, I almost thought you wanted to be difficult to trace in case you decided not to work for me.”

  Leonine elected simply to smile and look around. The house he had been pulled into was clearly that of a richer man than any dock official had a right to be. Tongues of flame danced atop ornate bronze lamps set in a wall etched with poetry and harvest scenes. Colourfully stitched pillows lay in two rows against one wall. A lacquered stool sat nestled between them like an amulet between a woman’s breasts, atop it a water pipe that had some time ago extinguished; of its coal was left only a little heap of ash. The air smelled faintly of pipe-leaves and myrrh. In an archway inset with a checker pattern of red and green stones was a curtain hung with beads and bells.

  “I am happy to learn you are not quite so stupid. I’ve known you were here for a few days, though I’ll admit I did not expect you to look quite so… local.”

  She knew? It was not inconceivable, Leonine supposed, but he’d thought himself careful enough to avoid detection. She had spies, certainly, but who among them would be able to recognize him?

  “Wear furs in the north, tunics in the south. I thought I might try to make myself as unrecognizable as possible. Perhaps that is why dear Luwa-Shagir has so overstepped his bounds.”

  The fat man smirked. “A thief talking like a noble, eh?” he said.

  “Luwa, keep quiet,” Ibashtu ordered. “There’s no need for tension between the two of you. In fact, I hope there’s none, as I intend for the two of you to work together.”

  Leonine sighed loudly. Ibashtu turned towards him, eyes narrowing. “Leonine,” she said in a measured tone, “I grow weary of your arrogance. You are good, I’ll grant you that. But you are not indispensable to me, and these… tantrums of yours bring me ever closer to having Luwa slit your throat. I am not here to bicker as I would with a spoiled child.

  “Now,” she continued, “let us discuss the matter at hand and be done with it, so that I can rid myself of you and perhaps the pounding in my head.” Ibashtu waved a hand, some
what more imperiously than Leonine would have liked, and pushed through the curtain. The air rang once again with bells like falling raindrops.

  Luwa-Shagir grunted and pointed after Ibashtu. “After you,” he said, his voice light and maddeningly polite.

  I do so enjoy genteel men with knives at my back. He said nothing, but followed after the woman from Haksh, who reclined already among more pillows – these dyed a shade of violet that must have been ruinously expensive – before a low table, a ewer, and three small cups of polished stone. It seemed she’d been expecting him after all. She beckoned for Leonine to sit, then poured the first glass for him. Leonine sniffed at the cup. The liquid within it was warm and pungent.

  “Poison,” Ibashtu said by way of explanation.

  “Ah, of course,” he replied. Beside him, Luwa-Shagir chuckled as he settled his considerable girth down. Leonine sipped at the liquid. It was smoky and bitter, but not unpleasantly so.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “A sort of tea, brewed from a mix of roots and masha beans,” Ibashtu replied. “Hakshi. I was surprised to see it at market. It will keep you alert if I begin to drone on.” Her face was once again familiar, sardonic.

  “My dear Ibashtu, I hang on your every word,” Leonine replied, taking another sip. There was a certain pleasant familiarity to this meeting, at least, feigned as it was. “Where is Shudagan,” he asked. “Is he not with you?”

  Ibashtu shook her head. “He is… elsewhere. Nazimarut was taken, shortly after our last meeting. He’s dead now. Shudagan,” she said with some distaste, “is not his father. He has decided that safety is worth more to him at the moment than his calling, and has fled upriver to some friendly noble’s manor. He calls it ‘gathering resources’.

  “But enough about my master,” she said through a jackal smile. “You must be wondering what exactly I intend for you to do.”

  Leonine nodded and raised his cup to his lips, pretending to savour the fragrant Hakshi tea. An old trick, and a handy one. With employers one did not trust, it was sometimes prudent to hide one’s reactions.

  “We’re searching for a girl.”

  Leonine almost choked on the bitter tea. His stomach lurched.

  “A girl?” he said, feigning disinterest as best he could.

  “A girl.” Ibashtu nodded. Leonine’s mind hurtled madly from one thought to another. It need not be Ila, he reasoned, it could be anybody. He felt hollow, though, as though he were trying to convince himself of something that could not be true.

  “She’s seen ten or so years, perhaps more. A priest’s daughter, and a sorceress. She was last seen in Inatum, though some reports now place her here. Interestingly enough, I am informed that the Hounds of whom you ran afoul were in fact searching for her.”

  Ilasin. Of course it was Ilasin. Ibashtu lied, he realized. She had not known he was in Numush, or she would have known what company he kept. Fate, he decided, was as amusing as she was capricious. His task was complete before it had begun.

  And yet…

  “I see,” he said. “So, assuming I can find one little sorceress who may or may not be in the city, among thousands of other girls her age, what shall I do with her?”

  “You will bring her to Luwa, alive. And Leonine, do not take any stupid risks. She may be a child, but she is exceedingly dangerous, and has by all accounts not learned to control her power,” she said. “If she is here, her sorcery will manifest sooner or later, and you must get to her first. I would do it myself, but I must leave shortly, and so I need your talent. And whatever you do, do not allow her to use magic. Knock her unconscious if need be. She has left a trail of corpses.”

  “So I’m to bring you, alive, a girl who can kill with a thought? And my reward for this lunacy?”

  Ibashtu frowned. “You will be amply rewarded. Our benefactors are wealthy.”

  “Not good enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I want your word that I’ll never have to see you again once this is done.”

  Ibashtu sighed, and poured him another cup of tea. “I had hoped you might have gotten over this petty bruised pride of yours, Leonine. I’ll admit I may have forced you into this somewhat heavy-handedly, but –”

  Leonine barked something like a laugh.

  “But you will be rewarded more generously than ever before. We are not friends, Leonine. I know that. But I know also that your pockets have grown fat from the jobs I’ve offered you, and I have always dealt with you fairly.”

  Leonine shook his head. “You forced me into accepting a task against my will,” he said. “I will take your money, but I want your word that this is the last time.”

  “How dramatic you are,” she replied, scowling. “So be it, you have my word. Luwa, show our guest out. He does not seem to appreciate my patronage.”

  Leonine drained his cup, stood up and bowed.

  “Thank you for the tea, Ibashtu. It was lovely.”

  She would have him followed. That was how Ibashtu plied her trade. She would want to know where he was staying, so as to better keep an eye on him. That, Leonine decided as he stepped onto the Bridge, was fine.

  I’ll be rid of that crone soon enough.

  The Serpent’s Eye hung low in the black sky, casting a pallid glow through wispy clouds. The night-fires had all but disappeared. The darkest hours had come to Numush. Ahamash himself would be blind to his passing.

  The gods had a strange sense of humour. Yesterday, Leonine had thought himself a trapped man, as much a slave as any barbarian standing dejected on the auction block. Today, the key to his manacles was within his grasp. Better still, Ilasin trusted him. He’d seen first-hand what her scream could do. It was much easier this way.

  You’ll not give her up.

  But had he a choice? It was not a betrayal, not truly. Ibashtu wanted the girl unharmed, and what use could the Crescent have for Ilasin but to train her to join their ranks? They would teach her to control her gift – where was the ill in that?

  And she was powerful. If Ila could learn to draw power as she wished, even the Crescent would fear to mistreat her. It was for the best.

  It will hurt.

  Of course it would. Even pursued by Hounds, he’d felt a lightness of spirit that had been so long absent. Did his heart not swell when she laid her little hand in his, or kissed him like a daughter would her father?

  You are not a father. Your life is not a father’s life. If she traveled with him, what then? Would he have her burgling houses and cutting throats?

  But then, would the Crescent priests allow her a peaceful life? Were heretics and rebels any better than he? How could he be certain that their intentions were good? Suppositions aside, he could not know what they wanted with her.

  Fool. Your womanish emotions are getting the better of you again.

  Leonine turned into a narrow alley between two buildings. The walls were close enough that he could easily shimmy upward, back against one wall, feet pressing against the other. He pulled himself to the roof with the grace of a spider climbing its web, and rolled to its edge, looking back the way he had come.

  A dark shape followed the path he’d taken, a bearded man in the garb of a dockhand whose face turned this way and that, eyes gleaming when the Eye shone over his features. The man made as though to pass the alley Leonine had entered, but his hand disappeared into the folds of his tunic as he walked by. He peered into the alley’s mouth, subtly enough, then hesitated, his eyes suddenly darting in one direction and then the other. His mouth opened sharply, and Leonine grinned at the curse that spilled out.

  He rolled back from the roof’s edge and stood up, patting the clay dust from his clothes. Ibashtu was growing predictable. He wondered if she had anyone on the rooftops as well. She probably did. Tarrying would do Leonine little good.

  He broke into a run and jumped to the next roof, the mud bricks shifting uncomfortably under his weight as he landed. In the room below him, somebody would no doubt wake up spitting dust fallen from
the ceiling. Leonine grinned at the image, then leapt to the next roof – this one much lower – rolling to break his fall. A brief glance assured him that the streets below were empty, and he jumped from the squat building, touching down softly on the street’s flagstones.

  Let Ibashtu wonder where he was staying, even as she pretended to know every detail of his coming to Numush.

  As he neared the inn, Leonine’s step grew lighter. Freedom stolen could be so swiftly reclaimed. It was a truly auspicious reversal, and one worthy of a skin of fine wine and a new flute at least – and with the purse that had bought this little betrayal, Leonine could have one fashioned entirely of lapis, if he so chose.

  Perhaps I should give the gods a goat or two at least, he thought, smirking at the idea. But then, what god will have me?

  It was little matter. The concerns of Leonine’s flesh were somewhat more pressing than those of his soul, and his flesh cried out for a hot bath and a pipe full of hashish. And perhaps he could –

  A scream, muted and muffled, escaped through an open window a street’s width away. Leonine’s breath caught as his veins burst aflame. It was an echo, a reflection of a power all too familiar, and he was drawn to it as a moth to an oil lamp.

  Ila!

  He released the power that threatened to consume him in a note, a keening wail that shattered clay pots, and broke into a desperate headlong run. The inn door flew open beneath his shoulder, and then he was through, pushing a wide-eyed patron to the ground. Leonine took the stairs two, three at a time, racing to the room he and Ilasin shared.

  The door was closed, barred as he’d instructed. He hammered the wood with his fists, crying Ilasin’s name, until he heard someone fumbling with the bar. His knife was in his hand. He did not remember drawing it.

  “N-Navid!” Her voice was small, barely heard over the commotion of an inn stirring to wakefulness. The door swung inward, and there she was, eyes red and cheeks wet. Leonine fell to his knees and clutched her, momentarily oblivious to everything but the shaking, weeping child in his arms.

  “What happened?” he asked, unnecessarily. A dead man lay on the ground, his face grotesquely twisted. Blood trickled from an ear, and a blade lay naked beside him. The window shutters were open, the room bathed in the Serpent’s contemptuous gaze. Ilasin did not answer; she had not yet found her voice.

  Has Ibashtu found us? He shook his head. There was not time to consider the possibilities. Even if she had not known where to find them, she would now. Everybody in the city with even a modicum of sorcerous ability would know where to find them. He took Ilasin’s hand in his, noticing for the first time that his hand was bleeding.

  “We need to leave,” he said, pulling Ilasin to her feet. “Right now.”

  The innkeeper stood at the bottom of the stairs, an axe in hand and a grim expression on his face. There would be questions. Leonine did not want questions. He let Ilasin’s hand fall loose and leapt. The innkeeper’s eyes widened, and he made to raise his axe, but it was too late. Leonine’s foot took him in the mouth. As Leonine fell to the ground, his back striking painfully against the steps, the mute man struck hard against a wall and slumped to the ground.

  Leonine staggered back to his feet as swiftly as he could, ready to cut the other man’s throat, but the innkeeper lay groaning and helpless. Then Ilasin was there, tugging at his tunic. Together, they fled into the night, from one alley into another. They passed markets, storefronts, pleasure halls.

  Hours before Shimurg would be reborn into a cloudless sky striated pink and blue, Leonine found himself sitting alongside Ilasin in a narrow street somewhere in the southern part of Numush-ummi. Their chests heaved as they caught their breath.

  Leonine sighed. “Oh, Ila. I did not know how to tell you this, but it is something you must know.” He took her hand.

  “The Hakshi friend I went to see in Inatum, and now in Numush… I had been working for her. I stole a vase – nothing extravagant, but I needed sorcery to do it. From that point on, the Hounds were on my trail, and I came over time to the realization that you’re the reason they are here.”

  “I know all this, Navid,” she said, suspicions clear in her narrowed eyes.

  “There’s more. Ibashtu – that ‘friend’ – is after you as well. I did not know this until tonight, and I have every reason to believe the man who attacked you in the inn was one of hers.”

  Ilasin looked at him, her eyes wide. Then she shook her head. “Why are so many people after me?” she asked plaintively.

  “I don’t know, Ila. I can imagine why the Hounds are after you… but the Crescent? I don’t know. I think maybe they want to recruit you.”

  “The Crescent? The sorcerers of Nin?” Ilasin looked as though she would be sick. Poor child. How overwhelming this all must be.

  Leonine nodded. “Ibashtu represented them.”

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then: “Navid?”

  “Yes, Ila?”

  “I’m glad you came back.”

  Leonine’s chest constricted painfully.

  “Of course I came back. Where else would I go?” he asked.

  Leonine was accustomed to feeling like a liar, but he could not remember the last time it was painful. He put his arm around Ilasin’s shoulders, and pulled her close. He kissed her brow, and she nestled in closer, resting her head against his chest. She did not speak.

  She trusts me. Can I betray that trust?

  A week earlier? Perhaps then, yes. Now?

  Farshideh, my light, what have I become?

  “Ila, I promised I’d take you to Haksh,” Leonine said. “I will not let anybody take you from me.”

  It was a fervent promise, a passionate promise. And, for the first time in many years, it was an honest promise.