Heart of Flame

by Janine Ashbless

  “What is it?”

  “He wasn’t a sorcerer. That was no earthly flame. He was a djinni.”

  “What?”

  “As Mankind was made from the earth at our feet, so the Djinn were made of hidden flame. Fire without smoke. It means…” She blinked at the coffeepot. “It means she will be all but impossible to find. He could have taken her anywhere. Anywhere in all the world, you understand? Those men on their camels will be searching in vain. She hasn’t just been smuggled out of the Citadel or the city. She’s gone.”

  Rafiq’s gaze was steady. “All but impossible, you say? There is some way of finding them, then?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell me.”

  She knotted her fingers together, thinking hard. “None of the spells that I—that I have heard of are powerful enough to lead you to her. But there is a book. It’s called the Scroll of Simon. It’s said to contain a spell for finding anything you desire, anywhere under the sky or on the earth or in the sea.”

  “And will it tell me how to kill a djinni?”

  “You can’t kill a djinni,” she snapped. “They are far too powerful. You can trick them and trap them and command them, but you can’t fight them.”

  “Trapping and commanding will do. Will this book show me how to do that too?”

  She ran her tongue across dry lips. “I can do that,” she admitted cautiously, regretting every word. “I’ve never done it, but I know how you could do so. If you had to.”

  “Good! Then get this book and we will find the djinni and the girl.”

  “It’s not that easy. I don’t have the Scroll of Simon. So far as I know there is only one copy.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Baghdad. In the House of Wisdom. All the ancient texts of the infidels are being gathered there by order of the caliph and translated into proper Arabic. There are books on medicine and science and geography—and magic.”

  “Well then.” He calculated, talking almost to himself. “I have contacts in the City of Peace—friends who will help. I can pay for a look at this book. Baghdad is thirty days away by caravan, if you take the Palmyra route. A man riding alone might do it much faster, but it would be far more dangerous. So…”

  “There’s no hurry. All the amir’s men on all his camels will not find a djinni before you do.”

  “Would you say there’s no hurry if it were you, or your own daughter, in this creature’s cruel hands?” asked Rafiq, and Taqla bit the inside of her mouth because the one thing she had not allowed herself to do was imagine what it must be like for the abducted Ahleme. In this disguise, she could not afford to. Annoyed, she swatted at a fly.

  “The Djinn are not evil, you know. Not inherently. Like Mankind and unlike the Angels, they were created with free will.”

  “Truly? Well, I’ve seen fewer years than you and bow to your wisdom, but in my experience it’s not much reassurance that they’re no worse than us.”

  Taqla could not bring herself to argue over that one. “I can get you to Baghdad in two days, maybe less,” she said in a low voice, “if that is what you choose to do. And I can help you trap the djinni, though you risk your life.”

  “Two days? You’re sure?” His eyes lit up. “What would you ask from me in return?”

  Oh yes. Of course she should demand a fee. Why else would Umar the Scholar offer his aid to a stranger? “In return I want…”

  “Yes?”

  “I want the captured djinni to be my own servant. And when you come into the highest office, if you do”—even here in private she was careful with her words—“then I want my choice of any magical device in the treasury of Dimashq.”

  Thoughtful, he nodded. “You have my word.”

  “Then you must prepare to leave for Baghdad.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No. You’ll be travelling by daylight. Tomorrow.”

  “But in the desert it’s better to—”

  “Are you telling me how best I should get you there? In two days?” she asked while privately agonising over the work she would need to do to prepare the device she had in mind.

  Rafiq lifted his hands. “No. Of course not. Forgive me.”

  “Tomorrow is Friday. Come back here just before the afternoon call to prayer. You’ll be leaving when the streets are at their emptiest.” She scrambled to her feet, her mind already sunk in plans, and gasped when Umar’s old bones refused to cooperate. Rafiq, rising, caught her arm to steady her and clasped his hand over hers. His grip was strong and confident, and she cringed as the spell of shaping bent.

  “Thank you, wisest of scholars.”

  She turned away, hurriedly pulling the headscarf over her crumbling features. “And bring a saddle,” she ordered gruffly.

  Ahleme woke upon a bed spread with a fur coverlet and knew at once that it wasn’t her own. She sat up, took a look at her surroundings, and as her eyes tried to make sense of what they saw and the memories filled her mind, she clapped both hands over her face.

  She wasn’t wearing a veil. A squeak of anxiety escaped her lips.

  She wasn’t wearing her own clothes either. The stiffly embroidered layers had been replaced with loose shalwar pantaloons and a tiny top of bronze-colored silk whose artfully slashed and filmy fabric made the minimum possible concession to her decency. Ahleme ran her hands over the silken scraps in amazement and horror. It was a costume even a dancing girl would have blushed at, but trimmed with fringes of gold coins in a manner similar to that she’d seen on the clothes of some desert women. Her hair was pulled back into a complex braid held with a golden filet and there were thick gold bangles coiled about her ankles and her wrists too. Strings of the coins hung across her bare midriff, and as she sprang out of bed, those coins made a tinkling noise. Her bare feet sank into mounded carpets and stumbled over cushions.

  She couldn’t make out the dimensions of the room. There were pillars certainly and arches too, and oil lamps hanging on chains from some of these, but the light was uncertain and shapes peculiar, and the shine and the shadow seemed to merge with each other in a manner that confounded the eye. Ahleme dug her nails into the palms of her hands and circled the big low bed, growing more frantic by the second. Under the rugs, the floor was level and did not creak. The pillars were translucent, bluish in color, reflecting glimmers of light at odd angles. Suddenly she glimpsed the moon overhead, but another step quenched its light, turning it to a distorted ghost. Glass, she thought, the roof is glass. The pillars and arches are of glass. And the walls—

  The walls were not there.

  She got to the edge of the rugs and there was a lip of thick blue glass and then nothing, a black void. The sound of rushing water rose up faintly as from a great depth. No walls, just faint rainbow arches of glass disappearing into the darkness beyond her and below her and above her. The room she was in, she realized as her stomach rose to meet her throat, was hanging in midair upon a web of glass strands like one of those brittle confections of spun sugar served at banquets. One false step and she would fall, and only God would know how far. Ahleme recoiled from the edge, retreating back upon the cushions, beginning to whimper.

  “You will see better when dawn comes.”

  Ahleme whipped round and saw a woman standing between her and the bed, a young woman of great beauty, very tall and delicate and extraordinarily pale, with long, unbound hair the same white as the fur coverlet on the bed. Ahleme had never seen anyone like her and could not guess where she had appeared from. “Where have you brought me?” she cried. “What’s happening?”

  “Hush. Be calm.”

  “The man with the scroll—is he here?” Ahleme gasped, moving toward her. “Did he bring me here?”

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m your friend,” said the strange woman, and she caught Ahleme as she fell forward, seizing the stranger’s skirts and bursting into tears. “Hush,” the pale woman repeated, enfolding her in her arms and stroking her hair. “I feel your pain.”

  “W
ho are you?” Ahleme asked, sobbing, her voice muffled in the other’s robe.

  “I’m Zubaida, sister to the one who carried you here.” At that, Ahleme lifted her head, shocked into silence. The woman added, “You’re safe with me.”

  “What does he want?” She glanced around quickly. “Is he here?”

  “Soon.”

  “What—?” Ahleme began to squeal but Zubaida laid a finger gently on her lips, trapping the words.

  “Shh. Listen to me. Oh, you’re younger than I thought. Listen and don’t cry. My brother is great among the Djinn—” She broke off as Ahleme shrank from her embrace, realizing rather belatedly that this strange woman was not pinkly pale as certain of her father’s concubines from beyond the Black Sea were, but the whitest shade of blue, and that her eyes were without color. Even her brows were like white gull feathers. Her long hair hung upon the air, undulating softly.

  “A djinni!”

  “He has seen your beauty and wants you for his wife.”

  “Me?” The news hit Ahleme like a blow. “He can’t. I can’t. My father won’t allow it.” She was aware she was babbling a little, but couldn’t stop herself. “There was no contract, no judge to bear witness. I may not be married to him.”

  “Then you’ll have to settle for being his concubine.”

  Ahleme mouthed No! but no sound came out. Her stomach felt as if it were full of lead.

  “He desires you to be the mother of his children.”

  “No,” she whispered. “You must let me go. Please!”

  “The choice isn’t mine. I’m as powerless in this as you are.”

  Ahleme was not used to feeling so helpless and she ground her knuckles against her lips. Zubaida stroked her cheek.

  “Your pain is mine also, sister. This is a terrible thing he does.”

  “My father will not permit this. He will send soldiers. They will find me.”

  “Your father doesn’t know where you are.”

  Ahleme bit her lip. She felt dizzy. “You’re a djinniyah. Wish me away from here, safe back in my own room.” She felt the other woman stiffen, but she was so distraught that she barely registered the flash of Zubaida’s eyes.

  “You think that will help you? You think I can go to war with my brother? Oh, you’re quick to give orders, but you don’t know what it is you’re demanding.”

  “Then what am I to do?” she wailed.

  “Are you asking my advice?”

  “Please! Please help me, elder sister.”

  Zubaida sat back, eyes narrowing. “Well, I might be able to help you—but you must never let him know that I’ve done so.”

  “Of course not.” Any hope was better than none, she thought, not caring what she had to promise.

  “I can gift you with a magic. It must be subtly done, and work in line with your own will, or else Yazid will know that it’s not your own doing.”

  “Yazid—that’s his name? Is he very cruel?”

  “He is…not one that someone so tender as yourself should be paired with.”

  “Oh.” Ahleme shuddered. “What is this spell?”

  “When he comes to lie with you, you must want to stop him, that’s all. Can you do that? Can you want to drive him off?”

  “I can want, but if he’s stronger than me…”

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s enough that with all your will you must reject him.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good. Open your mouth.”

  Ahleme hesitated.

  “You don’t have long, sister—he’ll be here soon. You must trust me!”

  With a droop of her eyelids she obeyed, parting her lips. Lightly Zubaida bent in and laid her own mouth open over hers and Ahleme quivered, feeling the soft heat of another woman’s lips. Then Zubaida began to speak, lip to lip, passing the almost inaudible words direct from tongue to tongue. The syllables seemed to explode softly against Ahleme’s palate, filling her head with steam, making her heart pound as the pale woman’s tongue fluttered over hers. The chant went on for some moments, and then Zubaida pulled away, smiling.

  “There.”

  Ahleme licked her lips cautiously, tasting rosewater. “Is that it?”

  “It’s good enough, child,” said Zubaida, her eyes flashing somewhat, “so long as your will is strong.”

  “I’m…sorry.” Her status as the daughter of a great amir was reasserting itself. She couldn’t find her courage, but dignity and duty emerged through the fog of shock. “I thank you. May I send a message to my father? I can tell him where I am!”

  Zubaida shook her head. “But I can let you see him, if that’ll ease your heart.”

  She nodded.

  “Come here then.” Zubaida took her by the hand and led her to one of the glass pillars that rose from the floor into unseen spaces overhead. The glass was smooth but not regular. Zubaida stood behind her, directing her to look into the reflective surface, and Ahleme gawked. She had seen glass formed as beads and panes and pitchers before but never anything as big as this, which seemed like a waterfall turned to stone.

  “What can you see?” Zubaida asked.

  “Just myself.” In that clouded mirror, her body didn’t look like her own. She was shocked how alluring the concubine’s clothing made her appear, from the barely restrained orbs of her breasts to the golden-brown sweep of her legs. Over her shoulder, Zubaida looked as pallid as something that had crawled out from under a stone.

  “Look beyond yourself. See your father.”

  Carefully Ahleme focussed behind her own reflection and there, dimly at first, she saw another picture begin to form. Her father was standing over a map, a big one burned onto the spread-out hide of a white oryx. He was scowling and pointing at a symbol and then jabbing that finger at the men who waited upon him. Ahleme could hear no sound, but she recognized the captain of the palace guard and the vizier and the chief of spies. As she stared, the captain ordered soldiers out of the room, obviously barking at them.

  “Father!”

  “Quiet. He cannot hear you.”

  “They’re searching for me,” she said. “He’s sending out his men to look for me.” At those words the scene shifted and she saw the Citadel gate. A troop of soldiers was riding out on horseback, each man clad in black with the blue cloak of the Amir of Dimashq. In the centre of the market square, the troop split suddenly into nine smaller units and these rode off in different directions, heading, she realized, for each of the city’s nine gates.

  The scene shifted to the Bab Sharqi, the eastern gate of the city. She knew it because it was the oldest of them all and still stood as the Romans had built it, with three arches side by side. Troops were clattering out through the central aisle. But not just troops; there was a group of three men on camelback, whipping their beasts to a lumbering trot. And there were further knots of men visible on the pale road too, under a staring moon.

  “Are they all looking for me?” The thought that the whole city might be mobilised was like a rush of strength in her veins.

  “My brother has kicked over the wasps’ nest,” said Zubaida. “It will be a while before it settles again.”

  The scene shifted to an interior, a large arched space with the characteristic striped brickwork walls and arches of one of Dimashq’s caravanserais. In the foreground crouched Rafiq the Traveller; she recognized him at once. He was packing a set of saddlebags.

  “This is someone you’re looking for?” Zubaida asked, sounding almost amused.

  “Me?” She couldn’t disguise the unsteadiness of her voice. “No. I mean, that’s not anyone I know.”

  Zubaida lifted a white eyebrow. And when Ahleme turned back to the glass the vision had melted away.

  “Please, show me Dimashq again,” she begged.

  “Are you amusing my beloved in my absence, Zubaida?” said a deep voice behind them both. “That’s most kind of you, Sister.”

  The djinni Yazid had arrived.

  Chapter Five

&nb
sp; In which a bad first impression is made, and two journeys begin.

  “You can’t go with this man!” Lelia protested as Taqla knotted a cloth bag of dried dates. “Days and nights out in the desert with him, alone!”

  “I am not going anywhere. Zahir is going with him.”

  “Zahir?” Lelia planted her fists on her broad hips. “Oh—and that makes all the difference!”

  “Of course it does. There can be nothing improper imputed to me.”

  “Because Zahir doesn’t think that this Rafiq has a handsome face, does he?”

  “Lelia!” Taqla went crimson. “Don’t be ridiculous! Someone has to accompany Rafiq to make sure he brings back the Horse Most Swift.”

  “So you don’t trust him?” she demanded with an air of impending triumph.

  “Yes…I trust him.” Taqla shook her head, flustered. “I’m sure he’s an honorable man. But you have to be sensible about these things.”

  “Oh, that’s what it’s called now, is it? Being sensible?”

  “Think about it. He’s on a quest to rescue the daughter of the amir. If he succeeds, we will have a powerful ally in the Citadel.”

  “If he succeeds,” the housekeeper countered, “there will be someone in the Citadel who knows exactly what you are. Never trust the man in power, girl. Don’t you know anything? Don’t you remember what that amir did to your great-grandfather?”

  “Shut up.” Taqla clenched her fists and bit her lip. “Of course I remember. But you have to trust someone sometime. I trust you, don’t I?”

  “You’re not listening to me, I notice!”

  “Because you’re fussing over nothing. It’s a journey of only a few days, that’s all. Baghdad is safe and I will get to speak to the scholars in the House of Wisdom face-to-face instead of writing all those letters. That will be worth so much to my studies!”

  “Well, I heard that this man tore the veil off Khadiga al-Hava and is not to be trusted.”

  “That’s street gossip and belongs in the gutter with the dung. He told me the true story himself. Why would anyone want to see Khadiga’s face?”