Constellation

by Sharon Lee

Within the layers of her at-home robes, Inas shivered, but her scholar-trained mind continued its questions, and the answers which arose to retire those new and disturbing questions altered the measure of the world.

  “Truth defines the order of the universe,” she whispered, bending to her needlework. “When we accept the truth, we accept the will of the gods.”

  Yet, how if accepting the truth proved the absence of the gods? Why had her father given her such a gift? Had he read the curiat before sending it to her? Did he know of the hidden—

  Across the room, from the other side of the guest screen, Nasir’s voice intruded.

  “The Esteemed and Blessed Scholar Reyman Bhar is returned home and bids his daughter Inas attend him in the study.”

  * * *

  HER FATHER WAS AT his desk, several volumes open before him, his fingers nimble on the keypad of the notetaker. Inas waited, silent, her hands folded into her sleeves. The light of the study lamps was diffused into a golden glow by the ubaie, so that her father seemed surrounded by the light of Heaven. He was a handsome man, dark, with a masterful beak of a nose and the high forehead of a scholar. His beard was as black and as glossy as that of a man half his age. He wore the House turban, by which she knew he had been home some hours before sending for her, and the loosened braid of his hair showed thick and gray.

  He made a few more notes, turned a page of the topmost book, set the notetaker aside, and looked up.

  Inas melted to her knees and bowed, forehead to the carpet.

  “Arise, Daughter,” he said, kindly as always.

  She did so and stood quiet once more, hands folded before her.

  “Tell me, did my packet arrive timely?”

  “Father,” she said softly, “it did. I am grateful to you for so precious a gift.”

  He smiled, well-pleased with her. “It is a curiosity, is it not? Did you mark the pattern of the errors? Almost, it seems a farce—a plaything. What think you?”

  “Perhaps,” Inas said, her breath painfully short, “it is a test?”

  He considered it, black brows knit, then nodded, judiciously. “It could be so. Yes, I believe you have the right of it, Daughter. A test devised by a scholar of the higher orders, perhaps to teach discipline.” He paused, thinking more deeply. Inas, waiting, felt ill, wondering if he knew of the hidden scholar’s key and the blasphemies contained in the revealed text.

  “Yes,” he said again. “A test. How well the scholar must have loved the student for which it was devised!”

  “Yes, Father,” Inas whispered, and gathered together her courage, lips parting to ask it, for she must know . . .

  “As you progress in scholarship, you will learn that the most precious gifts are those which are more than they appear,” her father said, “and that hidden knowledge has power.” He bowed, seated as he was, scholar to scholar, which was a small blasphemy of its own, face as austere as a saint’s.

  And so, Inas thought, she was instructed. She bowed. “Yes, Father.”

  “Hah.” He leaned back in his chair, suddenly at ease, and waved her to the stool at his feet.

  “Sit, child, and tell me how the arrangements for your sister’s wedding progress.”

  * * *

  THE CURIAT BUOYED HER, frightened her, intrigued her. She spent her nights with it, and every other moment she could steal. She stored it now in the long-forgot sand-wood drawer—the hidden pass-through where it stood long out of use—where she could, if she wished, reach it as easily from the garden or her room.

  Thelma Delance—she heard the woman’s voice in the few hours of sleep she allowed herself—a loud, good-natured, and unwomanly voice, honest as women could never be, and courageous.

  Inas read, and learned. Thelma Delance had been a scholar of wide learning. There were recipes for medicines among her notes; recipes for poisons, for explosives, and other disasters, which Inas understood only mistily; and lessons of self-defense, which held echoes of her mother’s name. There was other knowledge, too—plans for establishing a base.

  And there was the appalling fact that the notes simply ended, and did not pick up again:

  They’re on me. I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve. You know me, Jamie Moore, always one more trick up Thelma’s wide sleeve, eh? We’ll see soon enough if it’s worked. If it has, you owe me—that’s my cue. They’re shooting . . .

  There was nothing more after that, only the box, and the wound it bore, which might, Inas thought, have been made by a pellet.

  She wondered who had wished to kill Thelma Delance—and almost laughed. Surely, that list was long. The priests—of a certainty. The scholars—indeed. The port police, the merchant guild, the freelance vigilantes . . .

  And Inas realized all at once that she was crying, the silent, secret tears that women were allowed, to mourn a sister, a mother, a friend.

  * * *

  THE DAY BEFORE HUMARIA was to wed, Inas once again attended her father in the study, where she was given the task of reshelving the volumes he had utilized in his last commissioned research. By chance their proper places were in the back corner of the room, where the convergence of walls and shelves made an alcove not easily seen from the greater room.

  She had been at her task some time, her father deep in some new bit of study at his desk, when she heard the door open and Nasir announce, “The Esteemed and Honorable Scholar Baquar Hafeez begs the favor of an audience with the Glorious and Blessed Scholar Reyman Bhar.”

  “Old friend, enter and be welcome!” Her father’s voice was cordial and kindly—and, to his daughter’s ear, slightly startled. His chair skritched a little against the carpet as he pushed away from the desk, doubtless rising to embrace his friend.

  “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, “b
ut 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 bloody 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 ano
ther 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, rifled 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.”