by Sharon Lee
"To what blessed event do I owe this visit?"
"Why, to none other than Janwai Himself!" Scholar Hafeez returned, his voice deeper and louder than her father's. "Or at the least, to his priests, who have commissioned me for research at the hill temple. There are certain etched stones in the meditation rooms, as I take it?"
"Ah, are there not!" Reyman Bhar exclaimed. "You are in for a course of study, my friend. Be advised, buy a pair of nightsight lenses before you ascend. The meditation rooms are ancient, indeed, and lit by oil."
"Do you say so?" Scholar Hafeez exclaimed, over certain creaks and groanings from the visitor's chair as it accepted his weight.
Inas, forgotten, huddled, soundless and scarcely moving in the alcove, listening as the talk moved from the meditation rooms to the wider history of the hill temple, to the progress of the report on which her father and Scholar Hafeez had collaborated, not so long since.
At some point, Nasir came in, bearing refreshments. The talk wandered on. In the alcove, Inas sank silently to her knees, drinking in the esoterica of scholarship as a thirsty man guzzles tea.
Finally, there came a break in the talk. Scholar Hafeez cleared his throat.
"I wonder, old friend—that curiat you bought in Hamid's store?"
"Yes?" her father murmured. "A peculiar piece, was it not? One would almost believe it had come from the old days, when Hamid's grandfather was said to buy from slavers and caravan thieves."
"Just so. An antique from the days of exploration, precious for its oddity. I have no secrets from you, my friend, so I will confess that it comes often into my mind. I wonder if you would consider parting with it. I will, of course, meet what price you name."
"Ah." Her father paused. Inas pictured him leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled before his chin, brows pulled together as he considered the matter. In the alcove, she hardly dared breathe, even to send a futile woman's prayer to the little god for mercy.
"As much as it saddens me to refuse a friend," Reyman Bhar said softly, "I must inform you that the curiat had been purchased as a gift for a promising young scholar of my acquaintance."
"A strange item to bestow upon a youth," murmured Baquar Hafeez, adding hastily, "But you will, of course, know your own student! It is only that—"
"I most sincerely regret," Scholar Bhar interrupted gently. "The gift has already been given."
There was a pause.
"Ah," said Scholar Hafeez. "Well, then, there is nothing more to be said."
"Just so," her father replied, and there was the sound of his chair being pushed back. "Come, my friend, you have not yet seen my garden. This is the hour of its glory. Walk with me and be refreshed."
Inas counted to fifty after the door closed, then she rose, reshelved the two remaining volumes, and ghosted out of the study, down the hall to the women's wing.
* * *
HUMARIA'S WEDDING WAS BLESSED and beautiful, the banquet very grand to behold, and even the women's portions fresh and unbroken, which spoke well for her new husband's generosity.
At the last moment, it was arranged between Reyman Bhar and Gabir Majidi that Shereen would stay with her sister for the first month of her new marriage, as the merchant's wife was ill and there were no daughters in his house to bear Humaria company.
So it was that Scholar Bhar came home with only his youngest daughter to companion him. Nasir pulled the sedan before the house and the scholar emerged, his daughter after him. He ascended the ramp to the door, fingering his keycard from his pocket—and froze, staring at a door which was neither latched nor locked.
Carefully, he put forth his hand, pushing the door with the tips of his fingers. It swung open onto a hallway as neat and as orderly as always. Cautiously, the scholar moved on, his daughter forgotten at his back.
There was some small disorder in the public room—a vase overturned and shattered, some display books tossed aside. The rugs and the news computer—items that would bring a goodly price at the thieves market—were in place, untouched. The scholar walked on, down the hall to—
His study.
Books had been ripped from their shelves and flung to the floor, where they lay, spine-broke and torn, ankle deep and desolate. His notepad lay in the center of the desk, shattered, as if it had been struck with a hammer. The loose pages of priceless manuscripts lay over all.
Behind him, Scholar Bhar heard a sound; a high keening, as if from the throat of a hunting hawk, or a lost soul.
He turned and beheld Inas, wilting against the door, her hand at her throat, falling silent in the instant he looked at her.
"Peace—" he began and stopped, for there was another sound, from the back of the house—but no. It would only be Nasir, coming in from putting the sedan away.
Yes, footsteps; he heard them clearly. And voices. The sudden, ghastly sound of a gun going off.
The scholar grabbed his daughter's shoulder, spinning her around.
"Quickly—to the front door!"
She ran, astonishingly fleet, despite the hindrance of her robes. Alas that she was not fleet enough.
Baquar Hafeez was waiting for them inside the front hallway, and there was a gun in his hand.
* * *
"Again," Scholar Hafeez said, and the large man he called Danyal lifted her father's right hand, bent the second finger back.
Reyman Bhar screamed. Inas, on her knees beside the chair in which Scholar Hafeez took his ease, stared, stone-faced, through her veil, memorizing the faces of these men, and the questions they asked.
It was the curiat they wanted. And it was the curiat which Reyman Bhar was peculiarly determined that they not have. And why was that? Inas wondered. Surely not because he had made it a gift to a daughter. He had only to order her to fetch it from its hiding place and hand it to Baquar Hafeez. What could a daughter do, but obey?
And yet—hidden knowledge has power.
"The curiat, old friend," Scholar Hafeez said again—patient, so patient. "Spare yourself any more pain. Only tell me who has the curiat, and I will leave you and your household in peace."
"Why?" her father asked—a scholar's question, despite his pain.
"There are those who believe it to be the work of infidels," Scholar Hafeez said smoothly, and yet again: "The curiat, Reyman. Where is it?"
"It is not for you to know," her father gasped, his voice hoarse from screaming, his left arm useless, dislocated by Danyal in the first round of questions.
Scholar Hafeez sighed, deeply, regretfully.
"I was afraid that you might prove obstinate. Perhaps something else might persuade you."
It happened so quickly, she had no time to understand—pain exploded in her face and she was flung sideways to the floor, brilliant color distorting her vision. Her wrist was seized and she was lifted. More pain. She tried to get her feet under her, but she was pulled inexorably upward, sandals dangling. Her vision spangled, stabilized—Danyal's face was bare inches from hers. He was smiling.
Somewhere, her father was shouting.
"Your pardon, old friend?" Scholar Hafeez was all solicitude. "I did not quite hear the location of the curiat?"
"Release my daughter!"
"Certainly. After you disclose the location of the curiat. Such a small thing, really, when weighed against a daughter's virtue."
"Inas—" her father began, and what followed was not in the common tongue, but in that of her mother, and they were uttered as a prayer.
"Opportunity comes, daughter, be stout and true. Honor your mother, in all her names."
Scholar Hafeez made a small sound of disappointment, and moved a hand. "The ubaie, Danyal."
Inas saw his hand move. He crumbled the fragile fabrics in his fist and tore them away, unseating her headcloth. Her hair spilled across her shoulders, rippling black.
Danyal licked his lips, his eyes now openly upon her chest.
There was a scream of rage, and from the corner of her eye she saw her father, on his knees, a blo
ody blade in his least-damaged hand, reaching again toward Hafeez.
Danyal still held her, his attention on his master; Inas brought both of her knees up, aiming to crush his man-parts, as Thelma Delance had described.
The villain gasped, eyes rolling up. His grip loosened, she fell to the floor, rolling, in order to confound the aim of the gun, and there was a confusion of noises, and her father shouting "Run!"—and run she did, her hair streaming and her face uncovered, never looking back, despite the sounds of gunfire behind her.
* * *
THE HOUSE WAS IN the merchant district of the city of Harap, a walk of many days from the prefecture Coratu, whose principal cities, Iravati and Lahore-Gadani, had lately suffered a sudden rash of explosions and fires and unexplained deaths. There were those who said it was a judgment from the gods; that Lahore-Gadani had become too assertive; and Iravati too complacent in its tranquility. The priests had ordered a cleansing, and a month long fast for the entire prefecture. Perhaps it would be enough.
In Harap, though.
In Harap, at that certain house, a boy crossed the street from out of the night-time shadows and made a ragged salaam to the doorman.
"Peace," he said, in a soft, girlish voice. "I am here to speak with Jamie Moore."
The doorman gave him one bored look. "Why?"
The boy hefted the sack he held in his left hand. "I have something for him."
"Huh." The doorman considered it, then swung sideways, rapping three times on the door. It opened and he said to the one who came forward, "Search him. I'll alert the boss."
* * *
THE SEARCH HAD DISCOVERED weapons, of course, and they had been confiscated. The bag, they scanned, discovering thereby the mass and material of its contents. Indeed, the search was notable in that which it did not discover—but perhaps, to off-worlders, such things mattered not.
The door to the searching chamber opened and the doorman looked in.
"You're fortunate," he said. "The boss is willing to play."
So, then, there was the escort, up to the top of the house, to another door, and the room beyond, where a man sat behind a desk, his books piled, open, one upon the other, a notetaker in his hand.
Tears rose. She swallowed them, and bowed the bow of peace.
"I'm Jamie Moore," the man behind the desk said. "Who are you?"
"I am Inas Bhar, youngest daughter of Scholar Reyman Bhar, who died the death to preserve what I bring you tonight."
The man looked at her, blue eyes—outworlder eyes—bland and uninterested.
"I don't have a lot of time or patience," he said. "Forget the theatrics and show me what you've got."
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. This—this was the part of all her careful plans that might yet go awry. She opened the bag, reached inside and pulled out the curiat.
"For you," she said, holding it up for him to see, "from Thelma Delance."
There was a long silence, while he looked between her and the box. Finally, he held out his hands.
"Let me see."
Reluctantly, she placed the curiat in his hands, watching as he flicked the ivory hooks, raised the lid, fished out a volume, and opened it at random.
He read a page, the next, riffled to the back of the book and read two pages more. He put the book back in the box and met her eyes.
"It's genuine," he said and gave her the honor of a seated bow. "The Juntavas owes you. What'll it be? Gold? A husband with position? I realize the options are limited on this world, but we'll do what we can to pay fair."
"I do not wish to marry. I want . . ." She stopped, took a breath, and met the bland, blue eyes. "My father was a scholar. He taught me to be a scholar—to read, to reason, to think. I want to continue—in my father's memory."
He shrugged. "Nice work, if you can get it."
Inas drew herself up. "I speak five dialects and three languages," she said. "I am adept with the higher maths and with astronomy. I read the mercantile, scholarly and holy scripts. I know how to mix the explosive skihi and—" The man behind the desk held up a hand.
"Hold up. You know how to mix skihi? Who taught you that?"
She pointed at the curiat. "Page thirty-seven, volume three."
He whistled. "You found the cipher, did you? Clever girl." He glanced thoughtfully down at the box.
"You wouldn't have used any of that formula, would you? Say, back home or in Lahore-Gadani?"
Inas bowed, scholar to scholar. "They killed my father. He had no sons to avenge him."
"Right."
More silence—enough that Inas began to worry about the reasoning going on behind those blue outworlder eyes. It would, after all, be a simple thing to shoot her—and far more merciful than the punishment the priests would inflict upon her, were she discovered dressed in a boy's tunic and trousers, her face uncovered, her hair cut and braided with green string.
"Your timing's good," Jamie Moore said abruptly. "We've got a sector chief checking in tomorrow. What I can do, I can show you to the chief, and the two of you can talk. This is sector chief business, understand me?"
Inas bowed. "I understand, Jamie Moore. Thank you."
"Better hold that until you meet the chief," he said, and the door opened behind her, though she had not seen him give a signal.
"We'll stand you a bath, a meal and a bed," he said, and jerked his head at the doorman. "Get her downstairs. Guard on the door."
He looked at her once more. "What happens next is up to you."
* * *
SHE SAT ON THE edge of the chatrue—well, no she didn't. Properly a chatrue, a female's bed, would be hidden by a curtain at a height so that even a tall man could not see over. This was hardly a bed meant for a woman . . . .
She sat on the edge of the bed then, with the daybreak meal in dishes spread around her, amazed and appreciative at the amount of food she was given to break her fast.
But, after all—she had come to the house in the clothes of a boy, admitted to taking a son's duty of retribution to herself; and agreed to meet with the sector chief. These were all deeds worthy of male necessities; hence they fed her as a male would be fed, with two kinds of meat, with porridge of proper sweetness and with extra honey on the side, with fresh juice of the gormel-berry—and brought her clean boy's clothes in the local style, that she might appear before the sector chief in proper order.
She had slept well, waking only once, at the sound of quiet feet in the stairway. Left behind when she woke then was a half-formed dream: In it she had lost her veils to Danyal, but rather than leer, he had screamed and run, terrified of what he had seen revealed in her face.
Too late now to run, she thought as she slipped back into sleep, both Danyal and her father's false friend had fallen to her vengence. And the curiat was in the hands of the infidel.
Inas ate all the breakfast, leaving but some honey. There had been too many days since her father's death when food had been scarce; too many nights when her stomach was empty, for her to stint now on sustenance.
"Hello, child!" A voice called from outside the door. There followed a brisk knock, with the sound of laughter running behind it. "Your appointment begins now!"
* * *
THE NAME OF JAMIE Moore's boss was Sarah Chang. She was small and round, with crisp black hair bristling all over her head, and slanting black eyes. Her clothing was simple—a long-sleeved shirt, open at the throat, a vest, trousers and boots. A wide belt held a pouch and a holster. Her face was naked, which Inas had expected. What she had not expected was the jolt of shock she felt.
Sarah Chang laughed.
"You're the one pretending to be a boy," she commented, and Inas bowed, wryly.
"I am an exception," she said. "I do not expect to meet myself."
"Here, you're an exception," the woman corrected, and pointed at one of the room's two chairs, taking the other for herself. "Sit. Tell me what happened. Don't leave anything out. But don't dawdle."
So, she had told it
. The gift of the curiat; the visit of Scholar Hafeez to her father; Humaria's wedding; the violation of her father's study, and his brutal questioning; her escape into the night, and return to a house of the unjustly murdered—father, books and servant. Her revenge.
"You mixed a batch of skihi, blew up a couple buildings, disguised yourself as a boy and walked away from it," Sarah Chang said, by way of summing up. She shook her head. "Pretty cool. How'd you think of all that?"
Inas moved her hands. "I learned from Thelma Delance. The recipe for skihi was in her curiat. She disguised herself as a man in order to pursue her scholarship."
"So she did." The woman closed her eyes. "Any idea what I should do with you?"
Inas licked her lips. "I wish to be a scholar."
"Not the line of work women usually get into, hereabouts." Sarah Chang's eyes were open now, and watching carefully.
"Thelma Delance—"
"Thelma was an outworlder," the boss interrupted. "Like I am. Like Jamie is."
This woman possessed a man's hard purpose, Inas thought; she would do nothing for pity. She raised her chin.
"Surely, then, there is some place where I, too, would be an outworlder, and free to pursue my life as I wish?"
Sarah Chang laughed.
"How old are you?" She asked then.
"Fourteen winters."
The boss tipped her head. "Thirteen Standards, near enough. Regular old maid. And you've got a nice touch with an explosive.
"Skihi, for your information, is an extremely volatile mixture. Many explosive experts have the missing fingers to prove it." She bounced out of her chair and shook her head.
"All right, Inas, let's go."
She stayed in her chair, looking up into the slanting black eyes. "Go where?"
"Outworld," the boss said, and moved an impatient hand, pointing upward, toward the sky—and beyond.
Quiet Knives
THE TURTLES HAD CANCELED, the tidy kill-fee deposited to ship's funds before the message had hit her in box.
Just as well, thought Midj Rolanni, wearily. She sagged back into the pilot's chair and reached for the cup nestled in the armrest holder. She'd hadn't really wanted to reconfigure the flight deck for two turtles, anyway.
