Huda presses her lips together, but doesn’t offer a correction on our relation to our escort. Instead, she thanks the woman for our quarters and a few minutes later we are both in our pallets.
I open my eyes to find the dormitory half-lit, curtains drawn over the windows. I peek out from behind the heavy cloth at the great semicircular cobbled yard we rode into last night. It lies relatively quiet now, the hour still early. I spot only a pair of horses hitched to a post and a small group of men conversing in a doorway.
When I turn back to the room, Huda is sitting up on her pallet, prayer beads clicking. Perhaps she wasn’t asleep at all when I awoke, only lying down with them in hand.
“Did you rest— good?” I whisper. The room is now full of sleepers, every bed taken.
She nods noncommittally, which I take to mean she slept miserably but won’t insult our hosts by admitting it. “If you are hungry, I believe our host mentioned a dining … room.” Huda says the last word awkwardly, and it takes me a moment to put my finger on why: she isn’t used to rooms with specific functions, or to rooms at all. She’s used to walls of cloth, open fires, and shared space.
After washing up, we head downstairs and are directed through a great courtyard — apparently not the one where Laith and his friends were given space to sleep — to a dining hall. It is huge, greater than three of Stormwind’s cabins put together, with long, low tables running the length of the room, and cushions on the ground to sit upon. The room is mostly empty, but no sooner do we sit than a young girl brings us a tray laden with fresh bread and spiced milk. She returns a few minutes later with a large platter of spiced eggs fried with vegetables, and plates of freshly cut apples and pears.
“What will you do?” I ask Huda as we start our meal, sharing from the platters before us. “How will you go to your lands?”
She looks up from the food, smiles briefly. “You are right, I will not go back with them.”
“Then?”
She tilts her head, indicating the room and what lies beyond it. “After the Festival, there should be at least one caravan riding east. I will join it, if I may.”
“They would say no?”
“I must be able to pay,” she explains. “To ride with a caravan means you are protected by their numbers and guards.”
I frown. “It is a lot?”
“I am not worried.”
Which tells me nothing. Nor do I have much to offer her, even if she would take it — there had been hardly a handful of coins in Stormwind’s coin jar, most of them coppers.
“What of the men?”
“I cannot ride alone with them,” Huda says. “They are not my relations. But I am sure they will remain here until I find passage back. It is their honor to do so.” She makes a slight gesture, as if brushing away such thoughts. “And you? Will you need direction from here?”
I shake my head. “No.” It would be wiser to ask directions of a stranger on the street, someone who will forget me among the masses of faces and people they see each day, than anyone here.
Once we finish, Huda accompanies me to the entrance of the caravanserai. It feels strange to leave her so easily, so suddenly. And without being able to offer her anything in return for what she has done for me. Well, there is one thing, however small. I pull a spare glowstone from my bag and press it into her palm. “Here,” I tell her. “It is small, but I hope it brings you light.”
She smiles, closing her fingers around it. “There are many kinds of light. The light of friendship can dispel all darkness.”
My smile is almost a grimace, for I am not much of a friend to her at all. I have brought her out of her lands and I leave her far from her home, unsure of how to return safely. She touches my arm gently. “I do not know what burden weighs on you, but I wish that it might be lightened.”
Her words bring me back to myself. Here I am wallowing in self-pity, when she has gone to such lengths to help me. “I thank you,” I say. “And I wish your road— safe and easy.”
“And yours.” She takes a step back, then suddenly grins. “My sister’s wedding will be during the white nights of the next month — the nights of the full moon. If you are able, we would be honored to welcome you as our guest.”
“Sumeyya?” I ask before I can help myself.
Huda laughs. “No, our elder sister, Zainab. Will you come?”
“I…” A month from now seems as unknowable as where I might be in five or ten years, if I should live so long. “If I am— can,” I stumble. “If I can, I would be honored to attend.”
“I look forward to it, for my heart tells me we will meet again.” She grasps me by my arms and kisses my cheeks lightly, in the desert tradition.
“Peace be upon you,” she tells me, stepping back again.
“And upon you, peace.”
The streets are starting to come to life as I make my way into the city. The road from the caravanserai is broad, its large stone pavers lying flat and perfectly aligned. A host of workers sweep and scrub after the night’s festivities, pushing along barrels on small carts to collect the debris they find. They must have been at work since dawn, and they still have a great deal of work ahead of them. The main road is relatively well swept, but the smaller cross-streets are littered with scraps, broken flags, and bits of cloth and paper.
The buildings are many-storied, built of yellow stone and brick as the city in the Burnt Lands had been. These buildings, however, are vibrant with life. Clotheslines crisscross the alleyways, strung from windows and balconies. Potted plants overflowing with mint or flowers line the edges of balconies and rest on wide windowsills. Everywhere there are doors and shutters, brightly painted in green and blue and red.
I pause at an intersection with another large road, glancing one way then the other. The buildings are now so tightly packed, the sun not quite high enough to peer over their shoulders, that I’m not certain which direction will take me to the city center — or if that’s where I need to go at all. But there, resting against her cleaning cart, stands an older woman with a wide, friendly face and reddened cheeks.
“Hello,” I say tentatively in Tradespeak.
She bares her mouth in a gap-toothed grin. “Hello to you! Up early, aren’t you, child?”
Her accent is so strong it takes me a breath to parse her words. Then I shrug, smiling slightly. “I’ve just arrived. I’m supposed to meet my uncle at the Mekteb.”
“We’ve a few. Which one is it you want?”
“Uh. The mages’ school?”
“Ha! That’s the Mekteb-i Sihir. Follow this road till you reach the second great square — you won’t miss them. The first has stages built for the players, and the second is for the sporting competitions. At the second, take a left and keep going. It’ll take you over the river and right past the front gates. Maybe an hour walking from here. Been there before?”
“No.”
“The biggest building has six domes. You can’t miss it.”
“Sounds impressive.”
“It is. Very beautiful. We’re blessed to have such a great school here. But then,” she sweeps her arms out proudly, “we’ve a great city. It’s only natural, wouldn’t you say?”
I nod. “I’ve heard the High Council is here this year as well.”
“Oh, aye,” she drops her arms, apparently not quite so pleased with that. “That they are.”
“Any interesting news of them?”
She snorts. “Get a gaggle of mages together and something interesting is bound to happen, good or bad. Why, just the other day they convicted one of their own of all sorts of terrible charges.”
I feign shock, my throat tightening, though it is no worse than I expected. “No! Who was it?”
“A Mistress Stormwood, or the like. Said she was undermining the Council itself, consorting with rogue creatures, and I don’t know what else.”
“What’ll they do with her?”
“Lock her up,” my informant answers philosophically. “What else d
o you do with someone like that? They’ll send her off to Gereza Saliti.”
My eyes widen. Stormwind mentioned the Gereza once, an island stronghold, the prison itself dug deep into the earth. The prisoners may as well be buried alive, she had said. I swallow hard and hope my reaction looks like a laudable mixture of fear and surprise as I ask, “Then she’s still here?”
“Oh, aye. With the Festival, there’s too much disturbance to try to move her. They’ll wait till it’s quiet. At least,” she shrugs, “that’s what we’ve heard out here. You never know with those mages. Maybe that’s what they’re saying so we don’t look for her to pass through in the middle of it all.”
I chat with her for a few minutes about the Festival itself so that my questions on the Council won’t stand out in her memory. She urges me to catch a play or two, and to come out for the midnight “burning of the fortresses,” as she terms it.
“If my uncle allows me,” I assure her. “I would love to see such a thing.”
“Aye,” she agrees. “When I was young, I spent from noon till dawn at the Festival. Mind you, make sure you go with your uncle, or some group as will keep you by their side. The Festival is safe enough, but a girl alone in the night is never a good idea.”
I smile my agreement, even though alone is all I’ve got.
By the time I reach the second square, the city is bustling with people. Children shout and laugh as they chase each other through the crowds. Street vendors push their carts along, selling food to the spectators flocking the morning’s competitions. I catch the scent of fresh baked bread, roasting meat, fried fish. From the far side of the square rise the shouts and hoots of the men gathered around a wrestling ring.
I thread my way through the growing crowd and turn down the connecting street, following it to a great river, wide and deep. The bridge over it rises on pillars high enough for low-masted ships to pass below. I squint as the light reflects off the water, try to recall my geography: the great rivers bisecting the city, the desert and the Burnt Lands to the east — and of course, the sea to the south.
I continue across the bridge and barely five minutes later reach the entrance gate to the great domed building of the Mekteb-i Sihir. The School of Sorcery. It’s a lovely structure, all flying arches and fluted towers, with a great sapphire dome at its center and five lesser domes cascading down around it. Lower buildings stand to either side of it, and I think that there must be even more buildings behind them. A high, white wall surrounds the compound, far enough away from the buildings that there must be gardens within as well.
The grand entrance is gated with iron, an exquisite melding of central flowers and radiating geometrical designs. Today, one of the side gates stands open. A turbaned old man, dark-skinned and bearded, perches on a stool by the gate, a staff in hand. He wears the tan thobe of the desert people, and despite his age and non-magical appearance, I have no doubt he’s an excellent guard. He wouldn’t be there otherwise. I keep my gaze ahead of me as I continue down the street, careful not to give any indication of my interest in the Mekteb.
As I walk, I scan the buildings opposite the school. The third building down from the gate has an open-air stairwell built into its side, opening into a snug little alley. I turn the corner and walk to it, climbing up as if I know exactly where I’m going. The stairwell ends at the top floor, the hallway bisecting the building perfectly empty. I walk down the hall, coming to a stop at a balcony built out from the back. Below me, I’m surprised to see a hidden inner courtyard shared by the buildings that make up its walls. Within the courtyard are benches and walkways, a few straggly trees, what appears to be a vegetable patch, and a plethora of flowers.
More importantly, right next to the balcony a small back stairway goes up to the roof. The door at the top is jammed shut, but a good hard shove opens it — the lock seems to have been broken some time ago. There’s not much worth stealing up here, other than clothes drying on their lines. I duck under them, making my way to the front of the building, and settle myself on an overturned bucket by the low boundary wall. From here I have an unobstructed view of the Mekteb’s front gate.
Over the next hour, flocks of students leave the school, some in their own clothes, most with their robes worn on top. They greet the guard with smiles or nods, or sometimes not at all, too caught up in their conversations. Now and then, a solitary mage enters the gates. The guard watches them more carefully, but a smile and nod seems to get them through just fine. Do they know the guard, or is there something else about their appearance that makes clear their right of entrance? Is there some brooch or pin all students wear, some bit of embroidery that states their affiliation?
From this distance, I can’t tell. But I might not need to worry about it. A good excuse might get me through just as easily. I pull Stormwind’s robe from my pack, pull it on over my clothes, and set off to visit the turbaned gatekeeper.
I take the back alleys around to the bridge and start up the road again, keeping an eye out for other mages headed in the same direction. As the gates come into sight, I spot a robed woman ahead of me. I quicken my pace so that I’m only a few feet behind her as we reach the gate.
The guard observes our approach with rheumy eyes.
“Good morning, master,” the woman calls in Tradespeak.
“Morning,” I echo, nodding.
He nods to the woman, then turns his gaze to me. “Morning,” he agrees, his voice rasping slightly. He watches me expectantly and I find myself slowing down. And immediately curse myself. I should have kept walking.
“Are you here for someone?” he asks.
So he does recognize who belongs.
“I’ve a message for a master here.” I hold up the pouch that once housed all my charms. Now a single glowstone weighs it down. He eyes the slightly bulging pouch thoughtfully, then looks me over. “My mistress wasn’t able to come herself,” I add as he frowns at my boots. Did I step in something?
He raises his gaze to me. “Your mistress?”
I don’t miss a beat. “Mistress Sunbolt.” It’s a mage name by the sound of it, but not one he’ll likely have heard before. Even Mistress Stormwind could think of no other mage who had earned such a name.
“Hmm. And the master you’re to see?”
“Master Stonefall.”
“Ah yes.” The old man tugs absently at his turban. “He’s here. Have you been in before?”
“No, sir.”
“Rehan,” he calls, glancing past me to the far side of the gateway. “Rehan!”
A sloe-eyed young girl with the golden skin of the locals and a pair of dark brown braids bouncing down her back comes running toward us, broom in hand. The dustpan lies abandoned some paces behind her on the path that runs alongside the boundary wall. “Yes, Master Jabir?” She asks.
“Take this young lady to Master Stonefall’s rooms. You know where they are?”
“Couldn’t find ’em unless they called my name,” she says cheerfully.
“White Raven Hall, fourth floor, by the Seven Claw stairwell.”
“Right,” she says. “White Raven Hall. Come along, miss.”
I follow the girl down a long, paved road leading toward the main building. Closer to the domed building, the road is bounded by two long, rectangular pools, fountains playing in their midst. But before we reach them, my guide turns off and follows a cobbled pathway leading us around the main building.
We come out at the corner of a long garden lined by tall buildings on either side. Built out from the buildings are domed arcades offering a shaded walkway to the students through the hot summer months. The garden itself is carefully manicured, scattered with benches and fountains. A peacock struts along one of the walks, its jewel tones surprisingly dull compared to the phoenix’s colors.
The grounds are filled with young men and women, some as young as six or seven, newly identified promises, and some as old as I, ready to leave for their journeyman studies. The arcades where we walk are busy, students s
houting greetings to each other and standing in knots. Rehan threads her way past them, and few if any take notice of either of us.
“This way,” Rehan calls, darting through a set of great wooden doors. Above them, a carving of white marble ravens adorns the lintel. Inside, we continue past a stairwell with its railing carved with feathers before coming to what can only be the Seven Claw stairwell, the stone banister supported by thin white marbles rails. Each rail ends in a carved raven’s foot sporting seven onyx claws.
It is so uncanny a sight, so realistic and yet fantastical, I slow to a stop. This is a school of mysteries and magic, and the home of the High Council. Once I go up these stairs, I cannot be sure what will follow.
“He’s at the top,” Rehan says cheerfully, and starts up the stairs. I make myself follow after her, the stairs curving round and round as if we climb a tower, though the stairs regularly open up to another landing. Wide windows follow the line of the stairs up, giving us a view of the gardens from ever-higher perspectives.
At the final landing, the girl comes to a stop before a pedestal on which a stone raven perches. “Master Stonefall,” she says.
The raven flutters his alabaster feathers and glances over his shoulder before croaking, “Fifth door on the right. Watch your step!”
I study the raven in fascination but, having provided this direction, it lapses back into stone. The girl has already moved ahead. I follow after her, keeping an eye out for tripping hazards, but there’s nothing of concern underfoot.
“Is that all it does?” I ask, glancing back at the raven.
“The raven? Oh yes, they just give directions. People got tired of never knowing who was where, what with the students moving rooms every year, and offices getting shifted about and all that. Here we are.”
She comes to a stop before a wooden door. A clawed raven’s foot holds a round iron knocker. At least this raven’s foot has the right number of toes.
“Thank you.” I say. “I haven’t really any coin to give. I’m very sorry.”
Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) Page 11
