The Hazael family itself numbered just under sixty here. Just over two hundred slaves farmed its land, staffed its household, and provided entertainment, relaxation, and pleasure to its affluent clientele. A full-service hospitality business for the rich upper class, House Hazael offered gourmet meals and diversion. A company of guards protected the Hazaels and their guests and kept order.
Escape from House Hazael—at least without a solid plan—was suicide. She would have to earn trust, collect information, bide her time for the right opportunity. And it began with quietly completing her duties.
A day’s work as a scribe proved to be long and tedious, but not as dull as she had imagined. After she finished her work every day, Ihsan left her in the solar, which offered private time with the many tomes on magic. Unlike Emaurria and most countries, Sonbahar had no forbidden magic, and House Hazael’s books detailed innumerable mind-magic, necromancy, and sangremancy spells. The hours after she finished her work became quiet study, for as long as she could keep her eyes open.
Working the long hours Ihsan demanded and studying the magical tomes meant staying awake long enough that when she finished, nearly everyone else in House Hazael slept. Including the guards.
Her work involved translating news stories and some treatises—familiar work since her days at the Tower. But as her hand ached for the tenth consecutive hour today, she felt a lot like a delinquent novice forced to copy the introduction of The Way of the Learned Mage one hundred times for misbehaving. Leigh had happily and frequently doled out that punishment to her before she had become his apprentice.
What was he doing now? How did he spend his days? Did he still believe in the conspiracy theory that had cost Emaurria so much?
Her vision focused on the black inkwell before her, and blurred. In the news she’d translated in the early morning hours, there had been encounters with strange and monstrous creatures, with death tolls ranging up to hundreds. Times at home were dark, and the darkness was spreading—reports came from the shores of Kamerai and the Kezan Isles, too.
She’d longed for something more, anything, to alleviate the weight of her heavy heart by even hinting at the safety of Jon, Olivia, Leigh, Gran, Brennan, and all those she loved. The news message, however, had ended abruptly, without a shred of mercy for her longing.
Was Jon coming for her? There was no news about whether he remained in Emaurria or had traveled.
The pain in her hand was bad, but the suffering of wondering was worse. Too much. She returned to her work, to lose herself to its tedium. When her mind wandered, she let it wander to the new spells she’d learned. A way of destabilizing the flame cloak to explode… A sangremancy ward that functioned as a trap… Gestures, incantations, ritual…
After moving her finished stack of materials, she found an untended workstation with piles of papers and several books scattered across its surface. Seeing the stool pulled out in invitation, she sat and began the process of deciphering the unfinished project. She was Ihsan’s only scribe, so it fell to her.
Documents in several languages were gathered and grouped together. Had the previous scribe been compiling them into separate volumes in High Nad’i? Several were nearly complete, all in the same consistent hand—a masterwork of healing and medicine.
Peering down at the page of an unfinished book, she examined the thin, sloping script. Not rounded like Ihsan’s penmanship. Someone else. What had happened to this person?
“Aina always wrote in a beautiful hand,” Ihsan said.
Rielle started. Ihsan had stepped away from the alchemy recipe she had been working on to look over her shoulder at the incomplete healing grimoire. Should I not have— The hairs on the back of her neck stood. “I’m sorry, Zahibi. I should have—”
“It’s all right, Thahab.” Ihsan’s voice was quiet, soft. Unperturbed. “Aina was my former scribe. She originally came from Kamerai and became a fast favorite of mine.”
Aina… She grazed her fingertips across the dried ink. Aina had sat in this chair before, slaved in this solar before, lived this life.
A life she now lived. Simple as that; they were interchangeable, like cogs in a contraption.
“Farrad strangled her.”
Rielle’s hand froze. “Strangled…?”
Ihsan nodded.
Dead. Aina was dead?
A cog was a cog was a cog. Aina had been replaced. I could be replaced. They were just lists of qualifications and sums of araqs given form.
But could Ihsan be believed? Had Farrad killed her?
The day she’d arrived at House Hazael, out there in the courtyard, two truths had been clear: Farrad Hazael killed with ease, and the siblings were feuding.
If he wanted to injure Ihsan indirectly, her favorites would be a means for him to exploit. A way to strike at her without touching her at all.
And I’m next in line.
Ihsan had already singled her out, so even if she tried to distance herself or curry favor with Farrad, it was hopeless. She could either try to please Ihsan and earn what minor favor was possible for her to earn, or be utterly defenseless against Farrad.
Perhaps in Ihsan’s favor, she would gain access to useful knowledge—knowledge that could save her from Aina’s fate and enable her survival. Now more than ever, without her magic, survival depended on knowledge.
Softly closing the book, she looked at its title, which translated to Healing Spells for the Elderly. Indeed, its spells had all addressed symptoms that disparately affected older people.
“It’s inspired by Grandfather,” Ihsan said. “He’s been ailing for several years now, and although I have been tending him and have managed to prolong his life, it is all too quickly approaching its end.” Ihsan swallowed, her face sagging. “The ‘business trip’ that Farrad referred to when you arrived was Grandfather getting his affairs in order before…”
The silence prevailed between them.
Ihsan’s grandfather was none other than Imtiyaz abd Hassan abd Sayid Hazael, the head of the House. If his death was quickly approaching, Farrad’s ascension to head of the household was imminent as well.
Ihsan returned to her alchemy.
Unusual, however, that Ihsan had taken her into confidence. She’d only been here a few days. Had they developed a rapport so quickly?
A slave walked in with tea for Ihsan, and Rielle turned to her work. It wouldn’t be finished in one day, but the stack of healing-potion recipes was the smallest. With a little determination, she would be finished translating and copying it in a few hours. So, she opened the potions recipe volume to a fresh page and began her task.
By the time she finished, the sun had long since set, but the stack of potion recipes was gone and its corresponding volume a good deal thicker. She breathed a relieved sigh.
“Take it to Samara, and see yourself to the slave quarters.” Ihsan didn’t lift her head from her work but slid a key to the edge of her table.
“Yes, Zahibi.”
The apothecary would be stocked with the ingredients that the latest recipes called for, and she wouldn’t complain about any errand that delayed returning to the slave quarters. Cracking the knuckles of her aching hands, she rose from her seat. She tottered a moment on numb legs, then took the volume and the key.
She found the hallway alight with a halo from the nearby radiant sconce on the wall. Farther down the hallway was another, and another, and another—the entire place lit with soft light. Over the railing in the open indoor courtyard, the fountain babbled the continuous and relaxing sound of water tumbling into a pool.
A passing guard with a star tattooed on his neck gave her a once-over. Eyed her from beneath a burst of black hair. A moment too long.
Averting her gaze, she hurried toward the staircase, but he blocked her path.
She moved to avoid him, but he moved again.
“Why the hurry?” He grinned, flashing a gold tooth.
She backed up. “I apologize, sayyid,” she said, inclining her he
ad as she retreated and headed toward the other staircase.
But as she approached, another guard walked up to her.
“That’s rude, ahabadah,” he crooned through a smile, and tsked.
Frozen, she gaped at him, towering over her, a blade strapped to his side.
He lightly rested a palm on her arm, making her shudder. “No need to be afraid.”
His smile didn’t set her at ease. At all.
She shifted the book and key in her hands. “Zahibi Ihsan commanded me to deliver this to the apothecary.”
A laugh burbled in his throat. “Plenty of time for that.”
“Immediately,” she said, a little louder.
His muddy-brown gaze fixed on something over her shoulder, and he stood to attention.
“Stand aside,” Ihsan’s firm voice echoed from behind her.
Ihsan stood in the doorway, straight and tall as a queen.
Rielle bowed. Save me, save me, save—
“My slave is carrying out my business,” she declared. “Let her pass, and do not detain her while she’s working.”
“Yes, Zahibi,” the guard replied, saluting before returning to his post.
While she’s working. What did that mean? That he could “detain” her after work?
“Thahab!” Ihsan barked. “Move!”
She started, then inclined her head. “Yes, Zahibi.”
Giving the guard a wide berth, she made her way to the staircase and the apothecary.
She couldn’t stop shaking. The guards had eyed her before, sometimes made sounds or comments to one another, but they’d never blocked her path before like that.
Like the overseers at the stable, sometimes they’d come into the slave quarter, often in the middle of the night, and drag away a woman or two. After Vittoria, there was no doubt as to the reason.
But never her. She was Ihsan’s scribe—didn’t that afford her some protection?
While she’s working.
She shuddered again.
They’d left her alone her first week, so perhaps she’d remain safe. Maybe they’d lose interest.
Tonight, she’d bed down far in the back, close to a corner, well among the other women. They wouldn’t find her among the hundreds.
She reached the door. The key fit right into the lock, and inside, only a single candle in the back of the room offered light. There, behind a table littered with several small jars, a stack of papers, and an open envelope of anise, Samara sat, mixing a potion.
Samara looked up from her work, tossing her thick black braid over her shoulder. She smiled. Her round eyes fixed upon the volume. “The potions book is finally complete?”
She walked it over to Samara. “You know of it?”
“Yes.” Samara ran her palm over the cover. “Aina was nearly done with it before… before…”
“Before she was murdered?” She cleared her throat.
Samara crinkled her nose. “Murdered?”
“By Farrad.”
Samara shook her head. “Zahib Farrad,” she corrected. “He said he had no choice but to kill her. She was such a peaceful woman, and Zahib took her as his lover. One night, he said she drew a poisoned blade on him. He had no choice.”
Rielle stared at a shelf of herb-filled jars. When Ihsan said murder and Samara said self-defense, who was she to believe? “Ihsan said…”
“Zahibi Ihsan.” Samara frowned. “Divine! You must learn, Thahab.” She shook her head. “Who were you? In your life before this place?”
Who had she been, really? Once upon a time, she’d been a master mage with the magister’s mantle in reach. Then an incompetent fool. Her own perceptions had failed under the crushing weight of betrayal in Courdeval.
“Before I was brought to this land, I was… happy.” At the memory of Jon giving her his Sodalis ring, the corners of her mouth turned up. She rubbed her thumb, where the precious gift should have remained.
Samara smiled sadly.
“I was in love,” Rielle confessed, closing the lid of a slightly open jar of mugwort. “He was strong, loyal, a man of conviction. Honorable. Good. He daydreamed with me about a home, a family, a life together, and he teased me like it was his job.” She half-laughed under her breath. A few jars away, next to the crushed pomegranate seeds, she recognized another herb: queen’s lace. It had been nearly three months since she had used it herself, and in a place like this, it had to be in high demand. “But I was also reckless. Reckless enough to end up here.” She turned around, and Samara was looking at her with wistful eyes, her work abandoned.
It was strange, for a girl born into captivity to have sympathy for someone who had made idiotic choices. After all, it hadn’t been fate that had led her to the stable but incompetence.
Samara’s soft eyes were watery, and they made her eyes water, too. Better to change the subject.
“What about you?”
Samara pulled in a deep breath. “My mother was once the apothecary assistant.” She arranged the jars before her absentmindedly. “Zahib Farrad was about fifteen when he came here seeking sen’a, and she was a year younger than I am now when she caught his eye. And then I was born.”
Samara was Farrad’s daughter?
“Zahib Farrad kept her as a concubine, but she kept me close, teaching me about plants and potions whenever she could steal us away to this place. Last year, Zahib’s first wife, Nazira, ordered my mother to accompany her to the marketplace,” she said with a sad smile. “When Nazira returned, my mother was not with her. Nazira said she ran away.”
“Samara,” Rielle breathed, taking a step closer with her hand outstretched, but Samara shook her head and shrugged it off.
“I know my mother didn’t run away.” She looked up, her wide eyes shedding not a single tear. “I was happy once, too…”
“Farrad’s first wife,” Rielle whispered. “Is she after you?”
“Zahibi Nazira?” Samara shook her head. “When she returned without my mother, she received thirty lashes for losing Zahib Imtiyaz’s property. She may be jealous of me, but she is either unwilling or unable to act against me.”
That first day, the warrior-caste duelist dying on the flagstones… Farrad had said the man had asked to purchase Samara. “It is natural for a father to protect his daughter.”
“Zahib may have sired me, but I am not his daughter. I am property Zahib will inherit, and nothing more, but he does protect his property.” Samara lowered her gaze and drew in a slow breath. “Come. If you are dismissed, let’s retire.”
Head reeling, Rielle agreed. Samara tidied her workspace, put out the candle, and locked up the apothecary room. Together, they ascended the steps to the third floor and returned the second key to Ihsan’s solar.
House Hazael’s quiet in the midnight hours never achieved utter stillness; the fountain babbled in a hushed whisper, nocturnal birds called in the trees outside, and the faded workings of the city breezed in past the golden gates. The candle sconces provided soft if sparse light, and indoors, only the rare guard stood or patrolled with purpose. Perhaps they’d already taken someone tonight.
The ambient moonlight filtered in through the tall lattices in the slave quarters, where the house slaves slept, and but for the dim illumination, darkness and quiet clad its corners. She made her way to the washbasins with Samara and washed as hastily as she could while making nary a sound.
Past the soft snores, all the sleeping mats in the back corners were full, and they tried their luck around the outer walls, whispering apologies to move past. She settled in for the night with Samara close by and gazed through the lattice at the night sky that lay beyond. Without fail, every evening found her with thoughts of Jon and her loved ones, how they spent their days, whether they were in good health, whether they—
Lived.
It had been months since Shadow had declared her intention to kill Jon. Since there had been no news of his death, he still lived, at least as of several days ago. Perhaps he was aware of Shadow’s
lethal intentions. Perhaps she’d even been apprehended or killed. Or she could be biding her time for the right opportunity.
I am powerless to do anything about it. All she’d learned hadn’t prepared her for arcanir bonds and navigating the politics of a slave-holding House in Sonbahar.
She rested her palm on her unsettled belly. Whatever it would take, she would be free of this place and find her way back to Emaurria. To Jon.
“Come to me tomorrow,” Samara whispered. “I’ll give you some ginger for your nausea.”
Rielle turned to her on the mat and smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Chamomile usually helps, but…” She twirled a finger at their surroundings. No chamomile for her here.
Samara shook her head, a rustle against cloth. “No, Thahab!” Even hushed, her voice was insistent. “Chamomile isn’t safe for your child. Ginger…”
Child? The rest of her words faded.
There was no way. No possible—
Well… Not entirely impossible, but…
She frowned, rubbing her belly, tracing back to her last moonbleed, but her thoughts stumbled. The last she could remember had been just after Melain. Three months ago?
Three…? Divine, no, it couldn’t be. Absolutely could not—
She curled tighter. In the midst of everything since Courdeval, she hadn’t had time to consider her absent moonbleeds. She caressed her belly.
Three months. Three months and no moonbleed. Three months since… Jon. Since that passionate eve of battle she’d spent in his arms—and the morning. She hadn’t taken her nightly dose of queen’s lace that eve, or the night after when Shadow—
Samara was right.
In her heart, she knew it.
A child.
She shook her head, a smile sweeping across her lips. Could it be?
Jon’s child.
She inhaled quickly, fighting her broadening smile. Divine… A child. She hadn’t planned on a family so soon, but… she hadn’t planned on Jon either. And his love had embraced all the shadows in her life and kissed them into brilliant light.
A soft calm blanketed her.
It would be all right. It was all right.
She spread her fingers over her belly. This child was welcome. A surprise, but a joy. She’d teach her all about magic, the natural world, the invisible things that were everything, and Jon—
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 17
