by Prue Batten
Enough spirit to pay Isolde back for the pain. If by finding the charms he served the world in the doing, maybe it was a good enough pay off. Because other than that, his life had very little meaning and he found the thought did not upset him unduly. Besides there was always the woman in Curiosa’s…
Thus he found himself unseen inside the emporium. He wanted to watch her without unsettling her by his presence and at first in the shadowy confines he could see nothing except antique largesse. But then she moved, placing a cup back on a cleverly turned table. She’s as pure as the fine stuff she plays with. Her grey garb covered her body with purpose but he had no doubt that underneath she would be wrought with curves and lines just where they should be. Finnian had seen the wondrous in his sordid life at Castello, every conceivable malign beauty finding a way to his bed. But this mortal woman had a delicacy he had never seen before – a transparency, as if he could see straight into her soul. What he imagined there thrilled him. Courage, faith, and a steadfastness of spirit that shocked him because he had only ever been used to the fickle nature of Others. But what truly surprised him was the feeling that something had scarred her forever and it fitted with his own deep blemishes.
He moved to where he could watch her more clearly.
‘Beautiful lady, how can I help you?’ Finnian stepped back as Curiosa swished past, his long smoking jacket unearthing a heady tobacco smell. The elderly man, tall and with a face that had cunning carved into every crease, stood in front of the woman and lifted her hand to lips upon which sat a carefully combed, sand-coloured moustache. When he smiled at her, he revealed crooked teeth and as he grasped her hand, his fingers showed tobacco-yellow stains.
The woman removed herself from Curiosa’s touch, slipping her hands underneath her tunic like the religeuse who walks with hands folded beneath a scapular. ‘I am not sure if you can as what I seek may not be here. I have looked around and can see nothing like it.’ The tones of her voice slid round Finnian’s neck as if they were a hourie’s fingers.
‘Ah but my dear,’ Curiosa leaned close to her and Finnian gritted his teeth. ‘Some of the smaller, more valuable pieces are out the back. Would you like to come and have a look?’ His eyes glinted.
‘There seems little point if you don’t have what I seek.’
She is wise to the man, clever woman.
Curiosa smiled and Finnian had a vision of crocodiles. ‘And that would be? But wait, why don’t you sit here on the chaise-longue and we can conduct business with civility.’ Civil has nothing to do with it, you piece of filth.
But the woman sat. ‘Thank you’, she said. ‘What I seek is part of a set, I think. My uncle purchased one for me not that long ago on his last trip to Fahsi.’ Her voice cracked on the word ‘last’ and a shadow fled across her eyes, the light from the candelabra on the table casting a golden glow in her direction. ‘It’s a paperweight. A fine Venichese one of blue, white and yellow flowers.’
Finnian moved as if stung as she uttered the word ‘paperweight’. Suddenly Fate danced a jig. He fizzed with premonition, with warning and with no time to acknowledge either.
‘A p-p-paperweight, you say. I think you mean a m-m-millefiori paperweight.’ The antiquarian stood, his face pale, eyes darting everywhere as if someone were listening. As he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it from the candelabra, his hand trembled. This was Curiosa? This febrile man whom Ibn had warned was a snake?
But the fellow seemed to give himself a mental shove, resuming his seat, placing the cigar on a finely damascened ashtray and enunciating with great care. ‘As it happens I do have some paperweights.’
Finnian became more alert with each passing second, his fingers twitching, a mesmer so close to being cast. Fate…
Curiosa continued, ‘And in fact I remember your uncle. Do we talk of the paper merchant, Imran Khatoun?’
The woman nodded. Her face tensed and Finnian wondered what thing had happened to make her react so. He examined every inch of her, his fingers touching the parchment in his pocket. So like the scribe, Lady, so like. I remember I said I could love her. This woman who sat on the edge of her seat tempted him. If he hadn’t been Other, he’d have thought she mesmered him, the conversation flowing around and over him with a glamour all its own.
‘I remember the day he came in,’ Curiosa spoke blithely, unaware of his client’s distrait. ‘He said he wanted a gift that was as special as I could find. Something for his loved niece’s eighteenth birthday. And she was a scribe, a gifted calligrapher.’
A scribe. Finnian’s eyebrows rose. Moonlady, what game do you and your Fates play?
‘Well, I showed him fine ivory burnishers, a gold tipped quill pen, carved and inlaid writing cases, tooled leather portfolios. But nothing took his fancy until I recalled the unique and beautiful collection of paperweights I chose to leave in the back room because of their value and because unscrupulous people you understand, could lift them and pocket them. They were made in the fabricca of Niccolo, the master glassmaker in Veniche. Sadly the man himself is dead but of course that only serves to make his work eminently more collectable. My dear,’ he smiled that thin smile again and Finnian could have knocked him down. ‘Would you like some refreshment? I am of a mind to have a glass of wine.’
He stood and went though a curtain at the back and Finnian followed him, leaving the scribe to sit on the edge of her seat, a picture of emotion. These are the paperweights. Euphoria filled Finnian. That he would best Isolde. That he could stop her in her tracks. Better than a drug.
There were whispered tones out the back and the sound of a cork being pulled, a clink as a bottle and goblets were placed on a tray. Further frenetic whispers and then a muffled instruction to be quiet. As Curiosa parted the curtain to re-enter, Finnian glanced quickly but could only see a back door closing.
‘Here we are, my dear.’ Curiosa passed her a goblet but she placed it untouched and with due care on a side-table as he continued. ‘Now, the paperweights. Their provenance is unsurpassed as I was told they are from the collection of the Countess di Accia.’ Finnian bunched an exultant fist. ‘I had many and they sold very quickly and for an extraordinary price. But curiously I found no one wanted the most valuable, the millefiori. They are perhaps too floral?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Too pretty? The marketplace prefers the stripes and swirls rather than millefiori, which just goes to show what contemptible taste the public has. But Imran especially wanted millefiori because he said you were he and his wife’s flower… oh, my dear, do you cry? There there.’ His arm spread around her shoulders and he pulled her close.
Hit him. Hit him!
‘So I am guessing you are Lalita, Imran’s petal. Did you like your gift?’
He kept her close and she was patently uncomfortable, bending as if to scratch her ankle and managing to unlatch the old roué’s grasp. ‘I did. So much that I would like to purchase more for I thought to make a collection myself.’
‘Lalita, that is a lot of money.’ Curiosa sat back, a measured look in the bloodshot eyes as they examined the woman in front of him. At the same time, Finnian heard a noise out the back and knew he should examine the space as something niggled, but he couldn’t leave Lalita either. Lalita, he mouthed the name as if it were the sweetest nougat.
‘I know. But I have the money.’ As she spoke she looked down at hands concealed beneath the tunic and Finnian knew at once there was no money and that all her words were a bluff. She bit the inside of her cheek and he could almost touch her nervousness.
‘Indeed,’ Curiosa drawled, the fox with a chicken in its sights, as if he knew something about Lalita but was bating her, playing a game. ‘I do believe you have. Well then, I shall get what I have.’ He stood and wended his way to the curtain, letting it drop behind him. Finnian stayed where he was, surveying the scribe’s reactions. She stood up and looked toward the back of the emporium and he grinned as he heard the curse she whispered after Curiosa. She’s no ingénue. Her hand came out from u
nder the tunic and he caught a glimpse of a small dagger. And no one’s fool.
‘Here we are,’ Curiosa strode in. He moved in an elongated fashion, like a spider on thin legs, and in his bony hands he carried a worn carpetbag. He sat and laid the tote on his knees, unlatching it and rattling around inside. With a dry crackle of tissue, he brought forth a handful of wrapped objects. ‘This one? No, it has only swirls. Not so pretty. Perhaps this? No, who wants a heart? Particularly one so red. But then there will be a lover out there who shall buy it. Have you a lover, my sweet?’ He leaned precariously close and Finnian’s fingers closed. ‘And what about this? Ah.’ His smile sent ugly shivers through Finnian’s body, as if he could see the fox already had the chicken’s neck in its mouth. ‘I see you think this may be a match. Pretty, isn’t it? And alike? And yet not, I think. They had the same colours, didn’t they? But the configuration in each of the four was slightly different. And yet…’ he pointed with his little finger, the nail of which was long and hooked. ‘You see? Each has that central flower. I am sure you will find yours has too. Have you got it with you?’ Lalita shook her head as Curiosa held out the paperweight. ‘Ah, such a shame. I would like you to see it alongside this one. It is from the set of four… did you know there were four? But you see this tissue has a mark on it to remind me this one is reserved for a fine lady so I cannot sell it to you. The lady asked if I had yours as well, but I had to tell her it was sold.’ The man rustled another fold of papers. ‘But here, look, I must show you this. This is nothing like the others but Curiosa can tell you, it is a most special and unique design.’
Beneath the crackling tissue he revealed a paperweight of astonishing beauty. An inky night sky filled the ball as if Aine herself had poured it in, and floating in their tiny celestial prison were two glistening stars and a pale crescent moon. This time, déjà vu grabbed Finnian in a throat-throttling hold as he thought of the Moonlady’s garb. Curiously Lalita’s breath sucked in at the same time.
‘I see it appeals, my flower.’ Curiosa bent his head toward her as he held the ball in front of her, tantalizing. ‘Perhaps we can come to an arr…’
A crash thundered from behind the curtain. In the ticking quiet of Curiosa’s, the uncommon sound echoed like a harquebus shot. Lalita stood, one hand at her throat, the other holding Curiosa’s millefiori paperweight tightly. The dealer jumped up swearing, jamming the night-sky paperweight into the bag as he hastily begged Lalita’s indulgence.
‘Excuse me, dear lady. Wait for me. That was only the cat I am sure, but one can’t be too careful. A moment.’ He left with his smoking jacket streaming behind and Finnian knew he should follow as that was evidently no cat unless it was the size of a Raji panther. But the presence of Lalita kept him close to the woman and somewhere in the illusory memories of his brother’s existence was a yardstick and he could feel himself reaching for it as her face displayed warring emotions.
She has no coin but she craves the paperweights. Why? Because what she told Curiosa is definitely a lie – a personal collection as if she is some sort of aficionado? No. The enigma of the woman attracted him like an addict to opium and as he watched her move, he could see she intended to have the paperweight in her hand no matter the cost.
Go. Get out before he returns. I shall find you.
She cast a quick look to the curtain, behind which there was more noise and this time angry expulsions of sound hissed between one man and another. And then she was gone, fleeing past the studded door, diving into the crowd to be swallowed by the masses. Finnian knew he should stay, find out what it was that so frightened Curiosa, what the noise was, but he couldn’t let the paperweight out of his sight…
Chapter Fourteen
Dipping and weaving, unsure of direction, Lalita sped through the alley maze of the souks as if Hamou Ukaiou, the djinn who pursues lone women at night was at her heels. She grasped the paperweight tightly and all that rattled through her head was I don’t steal. But she was indeed a thief. That nightime paperweight with its moons and stars; the coincidence frightens me.
The alleys wound on, faces a blur as men called out and whistled at her and women clucked. Children laughed and ran along with her and just as she thought she was safe and could rest, a hand whipped out and a strong arm grabbed her and pulled her into a secret alcove. She struggled but the arm encircling her held tight and as she tried to scream, the other hand came up and pressed her mouth shut. A voice whispered. ‘Stop struggling. You are safe.’
She froze, a stillness whereby every nerve ending sparked and sizzled but her body stood as if encased in ice. The hands turned her around and she looked up into deep blue eyes that were darkly shadowed. The man’s face would have been perfect if the mouth had been less grim. The carved symmetry that could have been was roughened by stubble across the chin and upper lip, fading into a starkly underlined cheekbone, his black hair grasping at his neckline.
‘You.’
He smiled, a slight softening of his demeanour. ‘Yes. And you, Lalita, were running as if you were chased by all the djinns in Fahsi. But you are safe here, Curiosa won’t find you.’
Lalita’s wits sharpened. ‘How do you know he… how do you know I’m running from Curiosa?’
‘I saw you there. I saw what you stole.’
She placed her hand inside the split in the tunic and dropped the little paperweight into her pocket, leaving her hand on the dagger. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘I was inside the shop as you spoke to Curiosa.’
‘But I didn’t see you.’
‘No, you wouldn’t, but I saw you and I saw everything that happened. The carpetbag, the paperweights. And I heard Curiosa say you couldn’t buy one of them as it was promised to a lady. And Lalita, I heard that you already have one of the set of four and I am wondering,’ he sat down an old wooden crate, long legs stretched out in front, ‘why you should want the paperweights so badly.’
A commotion broke out in the alley, chickens squawking, dogs barking, and feet running past with someone calling, ‘She’s got a long plait and she wears trader’s grey!’
Another called back, ‘Down there!’
Lalita shrank into the shadows as the stranger stood again, towering over her, his hand rubbing against hers in the enclosed space.
‘They can’t see you, I won’t let them.’
She looked at him, unable to prevent the incredulous note in her voice. ‘And what is it that you can do to stop them that I couldn’t do any better?’
‘Unless you’re Færan, I doubt you mesmer.’
‘Færan!’
He picked up her hand as butterflies battered away at the lining to her stomach. ‘I am called Finnian.’ He brought her hand almost to his lips but stopped short and instead bowed over her fingers. Lalita could see a deep shadow at the back of his eyes, a shade that was almost palpable. ‘And I meant it when I said I wouldn’t hurt you or let anyone else hurt you.’
Lalita was at once on guard. The man presumed that she needed him, surely. ‘I thank you for your concern but I don’t need you to be my guardian. I’m capable of caring for myself.’
‘I’m sure you are. Especially with that fine little dagger you have. But let us remember two things. One,’ he tapped a finger, ‘you are an identifiable thief. And two,’ he tapped another, ‘you carry a fine collectable. Mortals crave them for their beauty but Others crave them for altogether different reasons. Do you crave them for their beauty? Tell me, why should these paperweights mean so much to you?’
Lalita bent her head under the weight of his scrutiny. How does he know these things? How could Others have found me so soon. No! ‘Why should you wish to know?’ she delayed.
His gaze remained fixed upon her but he turned his head slightly, an assessing glance, remaining silent.
She sucked in her breath. Honesty. ‘They represent something of inordinate value to me,’ she said.
‘Indeed.’ Such massive irony in that single word.
Her legs cave
d and she sat on a pile of jute bags and he moved to sit next to her, his very proximity sending ripples through her – a dangerous excitement, as though every nerve in her body was stretched to impossible limits. ‘I will tell you this much. My brother died trying to save an Other from being killed by a charm that was secreted in a paperweight just like the one I stole. My uncle told me on the day he gave me my own paperweight. How he knew is immaterial because my uncle is dead and his story dies with him.’ The words tasted as bitter as gall in her mouth. ‘I wish I could explain why I wanted what Curiosa had but I am not even sure I know myself.’ She took another breath, her fingers crossed under her tunic. Lie by omission, he needn’t know about Isabella. She looked at him and could imagine how paltry he would find her reasoning. ‘That is all I can tell you.’
‘They are called the Cantrips of Unlife.’ His voice was flat and deadly soft. ‘And Lalita, I believe your brother died trying to protect my brother.’ A sound brimming with something empty and incongruous emerged as he continued, ‘Isn’t Fate the most wonderful thing?’
Lalita’s mouth fell open. He talks of my family and his own. Shockwaves of disbelief rattled through her. Perhaps she was in a dream that progressed at an alarming rate toward nightmare. If it was a dream, she knew her next move could take her into the darkest night terror and her hand moved to her chest where she could feel her heart jumping – pa-doom, pa-doom. She wondered if hearts always spelled out the word doom with their beats. ‘If your brother is Liam,’ she whispered.
‘Liam, yes. How fateful.’ His tone bordered on sarcasm. ‘How fateful.’
‘Fate? Why do you think this is Fate?’
Finnian looked down at hands loosely clasped between his knees. ‘I suspect you would prefer to think in your mortal way that it is a mere coincidence that you should meet me, and you the sister of the man who died trying to save my brother. Even more of a coincidence that some strange peccadillo has sent you looking for the Cantrips of Unlife. Let me tell you, Lalita…’
