He was unconvinced, but Aya’s story had given him an idea.
“Do you think it would be possible to get into Shergarh through the sewers?” he asked.
Aya shook her head as she ladled their food on to banana leaves. “The sewer-girls had the same idea,” she told him. “Nara even had a crazy plan to break in and raid the treasury, but the holes into the latrine are too far up.”
Sharat sighed. All he wanted was to find Emira and get her back, and yet it seemed as though every doorway was being closed to him. However, he was also beginning to see that his wasn’t the only tragedy to occur in the City of Jewels. He glanced over at Aya again.
“What was it like in the Zenana?” he asked.
She managed a smile. “I was happy living with my mother,” she said. “We even had a little garden … until it was destroyed by the lickers.”
Sharat paused in sympathy, but he couldn’t help being curious. “What about the other princesses?” he said. “Were they very beautiful?”
Aya wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I hardly ever saw them,” she said. “Most of the children were older than me. The only person who used to play with me was my mother’s lady-in-waiting.”
“Oh.” Sharat felt a little disappointed. He’d had a much more romantic view of the Zenana. For a moment he fell into a thoughtful silence while they ate.
“I never knew my mother,” he said after a while.
“Why not?” asked Aya, glancing at him.
“She died when I was born,” Sharat told her. “My father looked after me. He’s the circus ringmaster.” As he thought about Lemo, a wave of loneliness passed through him. For a moment he wondered what they were doing at the circus now. He swallowed his food with difficulty.
Aya gave him a curious look. “How come the circus left town?” she asked. “Emira must be very valuable. Doesn’t your father want to get her back?”
Sharat shook his head. “They were driven out by the Emperor’s soldiers,” he told her. “That’s why I had to run away.”
“How did you end up performing in Shergarh?”
Sharat scowled as he thought of Mohini. “It was my father’s new wife,” he said. “She arranged for us to perform for the Emperor, but when I tried to find her after Emira disappeared she’d gone.”
“Do you think she had something to do with it?” asked Aya.
Sharat nodded. “I’m sure of it. She gave me a new hoop and a new collar for Emira just before the show.” His heart tightened. “Emira disappeared when she jumped through the hoop.”
A look of determination crossed Aya’s face. “We’ve got to find her!” she said. “What if she’s the tiger from the prophecy?”
“I don’t care about any old prophecy,” said Sharat miserably. “I just want to get Emira back.”
“Don’t you know anyone else in the city?” Aya asked him. “Anyone who can help?”
Sharat hesitated. “Uma told me my mother came from the city,” he said. “But she’s dead.”
Aya looked thoughtful. “What was her name?” she said. “Perhaps you have family here that you could track down.”
Sharat felt a pang of regret. “I wish I knew,” he said, “but my father never wanted to talk about her.” Carefully he unfolded the golden bee from his waistband. The blue stone at the centre glittered in the sunlight. “All I have is this.”
Aya’s eyes lit up. “Oh!” she said. “It’s so pretty!”
Sharat nodded. “Uma gave it to me,” he said. “It belonged to my mother.”
Aya reached out to take the amulet and weighed it in her hand. She looked impressed. “This is old gold,” she said as she glanced up at him. “Your mother must have come from a very rich family.”
“That’s not much help,” said Sharat. “We can hardly go knocking on the door of every grand house in the city to see if anyone recognises it.”
There was a thoughtful look on Aya’s face. “I’m not saying we should do that,” she said, “but there are other ways of finding out who it belonged to.”
“Like what?” asked Sharat.
“There’s a woman called Fonke who lives in the old town,” said Aya. “I used to hear the sewer-girls talking about her. She used to pay the girls for stuff they found in the dump. They always got extra for things made out of old gold.”
“I’m not selling this!” said Sharat.
Aya shook her head impatiently. “I’m not saying you should sell it,” she said, “but this amulet looks quite rare. Perhaps Fonke can help us in some way. She might be able to tell us where it comes from.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe it even has magical powers!”
Chapter Fifteen
SWORD
The sword lay on the wooden counter in a box lined with purple velvet. Fonke bent her turbanned head over the shining metal and her bracelets jangled as she reached down to pick up the weapon, taking care not to touch the blade. Slim, straight and perfectly balanced, it shimmered like magic in a shaft of sunlight from the windows above, silvery-white against the dark skin of her hand.
The woman next to her stood waiting quietly, with the patience of the poor. Her head was covered in a scarf and her face was pale and uninteresting.
“Is this the sort of thing you were looking for?” she asked.
For a moment Fonke didn’t reply. Only yesterday Rookh had been in her shop.
“I need you to find me a sword,” he’d told her. “A sword that kills jinnis. Use every contact you’ve got. Once you find it let me know. I’ll be back to pick it up personally.”
As soon as he’d left, Fonke had sent out her agents to spread the word. She was looking for objects, antiques, anything made of jinni metal. She knew which channels to approach, of course. Pawnshops, criminal networks, guttersnipes, and those that lived outside the law. She prided herself on being able to provide whatever her customers ordered, no matter how obscure, but even she hadn’t expected results so quickly. Now, as she raised her head to look down at the woman who stood before her, she tried to veil the excitement in her eyes.
“What did you say the sword was called?” she asked.
“It’s called the Sword of Shiva,” the woman told her.
Fonke felt a flutter in her stomach, but her face remained impassive. She was almost certain that the woman was telling the truth, but it wouldn’t do to believe her too soon. “Are you sure?” she snapped.
The woman nodded. “It’s been in my family for generations,” she promised. She lowered her voice. “I’ve got jinni blood…”
Fonke looked up at her sharply. That wasn’t an admission that came easily to most. Dropping her head, she pursed her lips as she examined the finely honed silver blade once more. If this really was the Sword of Shiva she might never have to work again.
“Tell me again what it does,” she demanded.
“It’s a sword that kills jinnis,” the woman said. “But only a jinni can use it. It’s very dangerous for human beings. In the hands of a man, any injury he inflicts will be directed straight back at him.”
Fonke felt a thrill of triumph, but she still didn’t look impressed. “What good is that?” she asked. “There are no more free jinnis left. Who’s going to want to buy a sword nobody can use?”
The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I just heard you were looking for old weapons, and I need the money.”
Fonke’s eyes were hard. She looked down at the sword. Then she looked back at the woman. “Two gold crescents,” she said, her voice sharp. “That’s all I’m prepared to pay.”
The woman’s face was a picture of disappointment. “Surely the metal itself must be worth more than that,” she begged. She lowered her voice. “It comes from Aruanda.”
Fonke paused to think about it. “All right, then, two and a half crescents,” she said at last. “That’s my final offer.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, mutely, the woman held out her slim, pale hand. “I’ll take it,” she whispered.
Fonke felt the thrill of su
ccess as she took out a well-used purse and handed over the money. “Such a pleasure to do business with you,” she said.
To her surprise, a faint smile crossed the woman’s lips. For the first time Fonke noticed that she had eyes like a cat.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied.
Chapter Sixteen
SHOP
Sharat and Aya followed the river into the old town. Above them, Shergarh loomed, its sheer walls as forbidding as ever. But this time they weren’t heading for the fortress.
Before long they reached an arched gate festooned with banners advertising clothing, perfumes, medicines, skin lighteners, eye brighteners, incense, unguents, and credit to pay for it all. Outside the gate were scores of buskers and beggars, snake charmers, ear-cleaners, gamblers and shoe repairmen, all hustling for business.
“This is the market,” said Aya. “Come on.”
They dodged past the hawkers and in through the gate.
Cucumbers, carrots, rich green leaves, aubergines as black as night, mangoes, bananas, papayas and coconuts were piled high on the stalls, each one as perfect as the next. Sharat couldn’t help staring.
“Where does it all come from?” he wondered.
“This is the food that’s imported for the rich,” Aya told him. “It comes from the lands the Empire conquers.”
Sharat frowned. “What about the poor?” he asked.
Aya’s mouth twisted in disgust. “They make food for the poor,” she said. “But I wouldn’t eat it.”
Sharat remembered the white stodge he’d bought the day before, but before he could ask more a haughty servant wearing royal livery almost knocked him over. Aya grabbed his hand.
“This way!” she hissed.
They hurried through lanes lined with fruits and vegetables. Then they turned a corner and found themselves in the meat market.
Carcasses hung above every stall, all of them sweating slightly in the heat of the sun, and buzzing with flies. There was a rank smell in the air.
Aya grimaced, quickly leading Sharat through a space between buildings into a quieter alleyway lined with mounds of powdered pigments, mala beads, prayer flags and holy parchments. Here the air was sweet with sacred oils and resins.
A small painting caught Sharat’s eye. A woman in a green cloak stood under a tree. Above her head hovered a tiny bird. The colours of the painting were like jewels, and the figure looked almost real. The storekeeper, a woman in a veil, saw him looking and snatched at his arm.
“It’s the Queen of the Forest,” she hissed in his ear. “Do you like it? I can give you a good price.”
For some reason, Sharat found it difficult to tear his eyes away from the painting, but just then Aya’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Down here!” she called, dodging to the left.
Quickly, Sharat muttered his apologies and hurried to follow Aya through an alleyway lined with stalls selling bundles of silk and velvet. Soon they arrived at a square where bored horsemen were watching the coaches and palanquins of the rich.
Aya pointed towards an avenue of proper shops made of marble and guarded by slaves. “That’s the jewellery market,” she said.
Sharat glanced at the glittering wares.
“We’d better hurry,” he said, conscious of his shabby clothes. “People will be wondering what we’re doing here.”
“Keep an eye out for a picture of the goddess Kali,” Aya told him. “Fonke lives nearby.”
They kept their eyes lowered, trying not to catch anyone’s attention. Finally they reached a side alley, where someone had painted the face of a black goddess with a long, purple tongue, wild hair and terrible eyes.
Sharat stopped. “Here’s Kali,” he said.
They faced a dead end between two tall buildings. At the end of the alley was an arched wooden door covered with metal studs. As they approached, a mangy dog got up and limped out of their way.
There was a head set into the door in the shape of a monster with bulging eyes and sharp fangs.
Sharat lifted his hand to knock, but before his fist reached the door, the monster’s mouth flew open.
“What do you want?” it demanded in a high, thin voice.
Sharat jumped back in alarm.
Aya laughed. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s only a house-marshal.”
“What’s that?” said Sharat, eyeing the little monster with suspicion.
“It’s a kind of jinni,” Aya told him. “But don’t worry, it doesn’t have any power. It’s trapped in the door. It can’t hurt you.”
“Yes, I can,” protested the monster angrily, gnashing its fangs.
Aya stepped forward impatiently. “We’ve come to see your mistress,” she said. “Let us in.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure?” teased the monster. Then, before either of them could answer, the door swung silently open. Sharat glanced at Aya.
“Does that mean we’re supposed to go in?” he asked.
Aya nodded.
As they stepped across the threshold the door swung shut behind them, and the house-marshal’s head swivelled to look in at them. Sharat glanced back at it nervously, but it had fallen still.
They found themselves in a room with high ceilings. Dim light filtered in through cracks in a double doorway at the back of the room.
“Hello?” called Sharat.
The only reply was the sound of rustling and whispering, like dry leaves shaking in the breeze, so they stepped forward and stood blinking for a moment to allow their eyes to get accustomed to the gloom. One wall of the shop was lined with shelves, on which were arranged a selection of statues, scrolls, daggers and other miscellaneous objects. In front of it stood a polished rosewood worktop, and there were also a couple of display cabinets. The first was filled with a collection of odd little dolls and the other contained charms, vases, oil lamps and bottles. Among these fairly innocuous objects there was also a more macabre collection, including what looked like a mummified baby, a pair of shrunken heads, a skeleton with four arms and several stuffed animals. Worst of all, a desiccated ghul stood propped up against the wall, its long white robes grey with dust, and its bony, twig-like hands poking out from the sleeves.
Sharat stifled a gasp, but the ghul didn’t move.
“It’s dead,” Aya whispered.
Letting out a breath of relief, Sharat stepped into the room.
Sitting on the worktop was a long thin box. Whatever was inside was glowing faintly and Sharat found himself drawn towards it. Curious, he flipped open the box, and his eyes widened as he looked down at a beautiful silver sword, but before he could examine it more closely, Aya let out a gasp.
Sharat turned to look.
She was standing in front of a pedestal. On top of the pedestal was a small wooden drum, and on the drum’s surface were mounted two delicate silver hands that glowed with the same light as the sword.
“What’s that?” asked Sharat.
In the dim light Aya’s face seemed transformed with joy. “It’s a musical instrument,” she said in wonder.
Sharat frowned. “That’s not a musical instrument,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” insisted Aya. “Listen.”
She placed the drum between the heels of her hands, lined her fingers up with the silver fingers, and as she plucked their metal tips a sweetly chaotic sound filled the dusty air. “See?” she said with a grin.
Sharat’s scalp began to prickle. “Don’t!” he said. “Someone will hear you!”
It was too late. All at once the skeleton had begun to move, its joints creaking. With a crack it detached itself from its stand and stood quivering unsteadily as it turned its empty sockets in search of the source of the music. Just then, a gust of stale air spread the smell of decay as the mummified baby woke up and a gurgling phantom floated above its cradle. The eyes of the shrunken heads snapped open. With a cackle of delight they began to rise up into the air, their tiny mouths glittering with pointed teeth. The ghul stirr
ed, a stuffed wolf let out a howl and they heard the flapping of invisible wings. Then ghostly creatures started popping out at them from every nook and cranny, some big, some small, some sleepy, some alert. Glowing faintly in the darkness, they advanced on Aya, reaching towards her with half-seen hands.
Aya let out a cry as she ran for the door to shove it open. It didn’t budge. The house-marshal opened its mouth and began to cackle with glee.
The phantoms surged forward.
Aya knocked into one of the display cabinets, dispersing the dolls with a clatter as she backed into a corner.
“Do something!” she cried.
Sharat’s eyes flicked towards the countertop. Without thinking he snatched the sword and as he touched the metal he felt a rush of power shooting up his arm. With one swift move he swung the shining blade towards Aya’s phantom attackers.
“GET OFF!” he shouted.
As the sword sliced through the ghostly forms it made a sizzling sound like flesh being branded with a hot-iron. The apparitions disappeared in a puff of steam and the skeleton came crashing to the ground.
Aya was still clutching the instrument.
“Let’s get out of here!” she gasped.
Sharat dropped the sword back on to the countertop and ran over to the door.
“Let us out!” he snapped, but instead of letting them out, the house-marshal began to shriek:
“Thieves! Thieves! Thieves!”
Moments later, the double doors at the back of the shop were thrown open, and the room was flooded with light. Silhouetted at the centre of the doorway stood a tall, imposing figure.
Her skin glowed like oiled ebony against a sweeping turquoise dress that made the most of her voluptuous curves, and a turban was perched on top of her extravagantly curled hair. Enormous earrings dangled from her ears and her arms clattered with bracelets.
Sharat and Aya glanced at each other in dismay. This could only be Fonke.
Chapter Seventeen
FONKE
Tiger Thief Page 9
