by Mirren Hogan
“I don’t kill you right now,” the sorcerer growled.
That’s reassuring, Darai thought, I’ll just die later and probably more slowly. He felt himself tremble and swallowed hard, in spite of himself.
“Just as well, since you have a witness,” a new voice said pleasantly from the doorway. He must have opened it silently.
Benassi snapped away. “Harshal. Is that whore having you follow me?”
Darai had to agree that the swarthy sorcerer’s timing was either impeccable or not coincidental.
“Now, now, let’s not resort to childish name calling. But then, you’ve sunk lower than that, haven’t you? Threats and harassment could get you thrown off the assembly so fast you wouldn’t feel it until you ended up neck-deep in Lake Cabase.”
“It’ll be worth it, seeing her executed.”
Harshal turned stone cold eyes on Darai until he shrank from him, his blood chilled. He shivered involuntarily. He knew sorcerers were dangerous, but he’d never felt the cold fear which encapsulated him now.
“Get back to the pens, Darai, talk to no one. You saw nothing here.”
Darai was sure no magic passed between them, but he doubted he could have disobeyed Harshal if he wanted to. Mutely, he nodded, rose to his feet with the fluid grace and speed of a hunter and fled faster than prey.
CHAPTER 15
Clouds obscured the moon and stars. A mist hung over Lake Cabase, making the lights in the streets dance like ghosts. Benassi peered out the window, his breath on the glass further obstructing the view. As a senior member of the assembly, his room was one of the better ones, with a stunning view of Dassane. Only Sevele had better, for now. The man was getting old and soft; the guild needed a firmer hand to guide it. Benassi had every intention of being that hand. He’d spent the last several years garnering support from those he might need. Of course, he’d return their favour later with coveted roles on the assembly. He’d ban women from sitting, and perhaps anyone not from Mindossa. In the long run, he wanted to exclude any non-Mindossans from being a part of the guild at all. Let other countries form their own, Mindossa would always be far superior.
It would all take time, however, and he was becoming impatient. The whole of Isskasala needed fixing and he seemed to be one of few who saw it. Women had too much freedom, especially those from Chaq, who went around bare-breasted. The thought was both disgusting and arousing. He could not, would not, admit to himself that he was threatened by women of power. The more they held, the more he wanted to tear them down. Tabia in particular was distasteful and disrespectful. If indeed she had killed Genari, perhaps he could persuade Sevele that she be returned to slavery. He might even deign to buy her himself. He’d cow her in his bed and then break her until she begged him to stop. The idea made his body throb.
He turned from the window to the woman he had bought for the night. She was tall and dark-skinned. In the dim light, she reminded him of Tabia. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and twisted it until she cried out.
“Who is superior?” he whispered into her ear.
“You are, master.” She’d been well paid to give him exactly what he needed. Even he appreciated the slightly ridiculous nature of his bedroom play, but it relieved tension and amused him.
He pulled her over to his bed, tugged up her skirt and took her roughly, all the while keeping his fingers curled tightly in her hair. It didn’t take him long; it never did. He shoved the prostitute away and lay down beside her. He knew she’d stay quiet until he wanted her again, but he’d all but forgotten about her already. He should probably buy a slave, it would be cheaper, but he didn’t want to house anyone else in his room, or worry about unwanted pregnancies. Not that a fetus couldn’t be removed from the womb by magic; he’d done it before as a much younger man, but it got ugly if the woman objected. He hated women who cried. His mother had cried all the time, because his father kept her in her place with his fists. She should have just shut up and done what she was told, but she never seemed to learn. When Benassi was fourteen, he’d watched his father beat her to death for burning their dinner. He’d resented them both for making him go to bed hungry. He’d left the next day.
He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. It did so reluctantly, disturbed by the whore lying beside him. He should have sent her away, but he wanted his gold’s worth of her. At least she knew her place: submissive, quiet, and willing to please. A smile ghosting his lips, he fell asleep.
***
Benassi woke in the darkness an hour before dawn. He didn’t wait to see if the woman was awake before he took her again. Spent, he lay on his back, panting. He wasn’t physically fit, but exercise was for those who had to labour for their living. He worked with his magic, and his mind. He could afford to indulge, and he enjoyed it.
As the day lightened, he became aware of a shadow, lurking just outside his line of sight. As he turned his face toward it, it flicked away.
“Who’s there?” He sat up on his elbow. If Tabia had anything to do with this—
“What’s wrong, master?” The whore moved closer to him.
“Shut up,” he snapped, pushing her away. He felt her roll and a thud as she landed on the floor. She let out a cry of surprise or pain, which made him smile. It quickly faded as a cloud of darkness rose from the side of the bed and hung over him.
He rolled over, grabbed his staff, and drew himself full of magic. He made to rise from his bed but found himself pinned, unable to move his arms or legs. He writhed, trying to break free, to force his magic to crush whoever dared to do this. It didn’t respond, it merely sat in his belly, benign but untouchable.
“Whore, call for help,” he ordered. He got no response. When he got free he’d beat her for this. They’d find her body floating in the lake. He’d—
Pressure wrapped around his neck and he struggled to breathe. Something cold slid up his body like a lover, making him shudder. It slid over his abundant stomach and toward his chest.
“Please, I’ll give you anything,” he begged, his voice hoarse as air became more difficult to draw in. “I have power, gold . . . ”
The shadow touched his face and he felt himself void his bladder. “Oh gods,” he whispered. “Don’t kill me, I’ll do anything, I swear.”
“Anything?” a voice hissed. The pressure around his throat released slightly.
“Yes, yes, anything. Take my gold, take the whore, take anything you want.”
“Anything,” the voice repeated. It sounded as though it was contemplating the offer. “I want . . . you.”
“Oh gods.” Benassi was going to be sick. “No, I can’t.” But he knew he’d submit, if it meant his life.
The voice laughed, a grating sound. “No. I want you.”
Something snaked around his face and started to glow. The shadow was sucking his magic away, sucking him dry. Without his magic, he’d be nothing. He writhed and struggled, his breath ragged with terror. He’d rather be taken by a dozen men than surrender his power.
“I didn’t mean this,” he sobbed shamelessly.
“You said anything.” The voice laughed. “You can’t take it back!”
It kept sucking until there was nothing left, then travelled up and down Benassi’s body, probing and licking as though checking for any residue of magic.
“So delicious,” the shadow declared, what felt like a cold tongue sliding over Benassi’s cheek. “But no more. You’re an empty vessel. What good is an empty vessel?”
Benassi let out a shuddering sob, all but broken by the assault. “I can be filled again,” he said weakly. Surely, he could still draw magic, fill himself with it and hold it, as he had since he’d learnt how. “I’m a powerful sorcerer.” He heard a scuttling sound and the door open and close. Perhaps the whore had gone for help? Or to save herself. Cowardly bitch.
The shadow laughed. “No longer. Now you are nothing.” It squeezed his throat with icy fingers, which he had no strength to resist. He felt life begin to drain from him, darkn
ess falling quickly. His last thought was that he’d prefer to die than live without magic.
CHAPTER 16
“He’s dead?” Tabia flopped back onto a chair, her head in her hands. Her head spun with the implication of Sevele’s words. Benassi was a contemptible man, petty and manipulative, but she hadn’t wanted him to die. Not that she’d exactly mourn him. He was probably bossing Zuleso around in the afterlife.
“A least you know I didn’t do it, I was in here,” she said finally.
“You never left?”
She expected the question; he’d be remiss if he hadn’t asked it. A little bit of blind faith might be nice, but it wasn’t realistic, especially for someone in his position. He’d supported her, and therefore had a vested interest in her not messing up.
She raised her face and looked into Sevele’s eyes. In them she read the grief of losing an innocent staff woman first and now this: Benassi found dead in his room without a mark on his body to show the cause of his death. A staffer was a serious matter, but to lose a sorcerer, an assemblyman at that, was a massive blow to Sevele’s leadership. He didn’t look as though he’d slept in days and his eyes begged her for the truth. And she’d give it. If she was guilty, she couldn’t withstand that look for a moment.
But she wasn’t.
“No, I never left,” she assured him.
He hesitated for a moment before inclining his head and giving her a tired smile. “And so your guards have said as well. You think a sorcerer killed Genali?”
She shrugged with one shoulder. “I didn’t have time to search properly, but I couldn’t see a mark on her. I think whatever killed her, was something she was terrified of.” She shivered, recalling the woman’s expression. “Did Benassi look scared?”
Sevele frowned. “He looked . . . angry. More than usual. But unhurt that I could see.”
“There are ways to kill with magic, without leaving a sign.” It wasn’t spoken about, especially by her if she could help it. It brought back memories she’d prefer to forget.
“Indeed,” he said. “I’ll have someone send for Isobel. I’m sure you’ll want her company while you rest for another day.”
“If you think that best.” She was tired of being in her room, but she’d not push him any further than the situation already had.
“I do.” He gave her a nod and left her to her thoughts, troubling as they were.
Harshal also knew how to kill without leaving a mark. Not that she thought for a moment that he’d have done such a thing, but he was loyal to a fault and loathed Benassi. Although if the latter was a prerequisite, over half of the hall would be under suspicion.
***
“Did you hear?” The guild was in an uproar, but Darai had no idea why. He’d been for a run and just finished bathing and dressing when Adina appeared near his bed. Women weren’t really allowed in the men’s quarters, but the rules had become more lax, at least in that respect. He glanced around and saw another man watching them from the doorway, but he quickly turned around and walked away. Most of the harvested ones had apparently already forgotten about the escape attempt, and if they weren’t warm toward him and Adina, they didn’t go out of their way to ignore them either. There were some, however, who seemed to be watching every time he turned around. Perhaps the guild had paid them to keep an eye on him, or maybe they were just curious or nosy.
Either way, they generally moved away when they knew they’d been noticed, which at least enabled them to talk without interruption or fear of being overheard.
“Heard what?” he asked, grabbing a shirt, and pulling it over his head. Did he imagine a brief hint of disappointment in her eyes? He blushed and pretended to fix the hem, even when it was sitting just where he wanted it.
“Benassi,” she said, “he’s dead.”
Darai looked up in surprise. “What?”
“The same way that woman died,” Adina added. “Or so they’re saying.”
Darai preferred not to believe everything he heard, but it wasn’t an unwelcome piece of news. “Do they know who did it?”
Adina shook her head and sat down on his bed, her hands to either side of her. “I know they know it wasn’t us. We were here. And apparently it wasn’t Tabia either. Faleke said she thought she heard someone mention Harshal.”
Darai’s mouth formed an O and his eyes widened. “Harshal didn’t like Benassi either.” He’d already told her about their conversation. She must have remembered, as her eyebrows rose and then sank as she frowned.
“So, you saw them together before he died?” Adina whispered, her eyes huge. “Have you told anyone else?”
“No.” Darai shook his head and frowned. “What do I tell them? I didn’t see Harshal do anything. And even if I did . . . ” Not that he liked any of them, but he couldn’t bring himself to help condemn a man to death.
Adina bit her lip and drew her knees up to her chin. “What if he did do it and he knows you can tell them he might have done it? What if he comes for you?”
“I’ll be ready.”
***
Darai waited, and as he did, he become more anxious.
He watched the sorcerers enter the pens to choose another two harvested ones for the purge. Apparently, they had no specific system for choosing the next victim. One day they’d remove two men from the pens. The next they’d take a child and a man, then perhaps two of the women. Today they took an older man, his wrinkled face resigned to his fate. He sent a quick thought to the Mother of all Gods to take care of them after they died.
Several days had passed and even the talk of Benassi’s death died down and was forgotten by the harvested ones. No word came of Harshal’s fate, and Darai didn’t bother to ask. The sorcerers, a man and a young woman, didn’t seem inclined to speak. Their eyes darted back and forth as if they expected to be attacked at any moment. Evidently the two deaths were still very much uppermost in their minds. They ushered the old man out of the pens and locked the door behind them.
Darai sighed, his thoughts turning to the purge of the magic from his system and probably his death. The only static aspect of the removal was the time they came for them. Just after dinner, without fail. The harvested ones soon learned to eat early and hide in the courtyard until the sorcerers had been and gone. It was fruitless. Sooner or later, they’d all be taken. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do what he could to make sure he wasn’t next.
Darai always found a place to watch the removed ones being led out of the pens and tried to establish some sort of pattern. If he could do that, he reasoned, he could avoid being chosen and somehow might find a chance to escape before his and Adina’s turns came.
But every day, they came through a different door, and worked in two separate pairs. Once the man was gone, Darai moved to a place where he could watch the woman’s door, reasoning that they might opt for a woman, since none had been taken for at least three days.
He heard a shout coming from the children’s dormitory and slowly rose to his feet. It wasn’t a shout of alarm, it was a shout of joy, but every muscle in his body tensed as he moved slowly toward the door.
It was Jali this time, the boy who had shared the wagon with Darai and the girl who had fallen from the cliff. The boy was flanked on either side by a sorcerer, and behind them—Tabia, her face solemn, her ubiquitous clipboard in her arms.
Darai wanted to march in and fight them off, pull their hands from the boy and tell him to run while he still had time. But Darai had no power against these people and Jali was apparently a willing victim in his removal. The kid was grinning so broadly it looked like his face might split in two. He all but skipped along while his escort tried to keep up the pace. Jali held a sugared ball on a stick in his hand. Every few steps he’d suck on it, then grin at everyone around him.
His stomach twisting from the stress of knowing a young boy was about to have his innocence stripped from him, Darai sank back down to a crouch and leaned his back against the wall, hands over his eyes. He listened as
the door closed, taking Jali away forever, aware only of the nearness of his own death.
Wrapped up in his own thoughts and sorrow, he didn’t see anyone approach until a kick to his ribs bore him to the ground.
His eyes shot open. He groaned, the pain in his side intense and growing like fire spreading through his blood. He saw his own magic dancing in front of his eyes and across his cheeks. He blinked hard, clearing tears from his eyes. He saw a shadow; his attacker no doubt.
Who—? He lifted his eyes.
How had it gotten so dark so quickly? He’d have sworn that night was an hour away, maybe more. He must have hit his head and lost consciousness. He felt no pain from there, but maybe it was overshadowed by the agony in his ribs.
In the corners of his eyes, he saw no one. The courtyard was deserted except for him and the shadow. He saw a human-like figure, smaller than himself, with arms like wings flapping in slow motion. Knees bent as the shadow crouched beside Darai. Then in the middle of what might have been the shadow’s face, a pair of eyes appeared.
They weren’t eyes as Darai recognised them. They were red like blood, or magic, glowing and flickering like a candle flame. So bright, they lit the rest of the shadow’s face—narrow with a pointed chin and lips which pouted like a spoilt child. Its nose was petite, with nostrils that flared at him. He had the impression he was staring at a young girl, only a few years his junior.
The impression lasted for a moment before the face darkened, swallowed like a light consumed by night. The eyes blinked at him slowly, shades of red shifting and whirling in their depths. The shadow was like nothing Darai had ever seen. Nothing human.
Out of the suddenly gaping mouth darted a tongue, long and sinewy like a cangi lizard’s and glowing like the shadow’s eyes. Something like a handful of needles slammed into Darai’s stomach as he strove to recover his breath, pinning him to the ground.
The shadow’s hot breath caressed his cheek, smelling strangely of cinnamon and unknowable spices. He broke into a sweat, his blood pounding in his ears as he struggled to break free of the shadow; the thing held him hard.
