“Shkarag?” he called. “Shkarag?”
No answer. Not even a meaningful silence.
Canvassing the area turned up nothing, which had him worried. He believed in her phylactery—had witnessed it for the second time when she dragged the poor soul over the cliff—but he worried all the same. All eyes had been on her when her neck snapped, so her reappearance would raise the sort of questions that even Chobin’s charisma couldn’t smooth over.
“Shkarag?” he called again, much louder this time. That earned him a croak. Tirdad craned up just in time for blood to splash his face. “Fuck!” he swore, clearing his eyes and jumping back.
This afforded him a clear view of a thin stream that was already petering out, but caught the light enough on its way down for him to trace it to the parapets overhead. Tirdad was eager to bolt off, but he suppressed the urge. He wasn’t sure how to reach her.
It was then that Chobin came rushing out from the city, nearly tripping over the body, and curling his lip at it. “What the everliving fuck?” he exclaimed, panting. “Are you all right? What is going on here? I’ve been searching all over for you.”
“I’m fine.” Tirdad indicated the parapet with his pommel. “But Shkarag is up there, and she’s hurt. I need to get to her.”
Chobin bolted off without another word. He was always roused to action with such surety it was a wonder he still had his head. Tirdad hurried to follow, not exactly sure what he was rushing for, but rushing all the same. Maybe he just felt she shouldn’t have to die alone, even if it was temporary.
He followed Chobin down the lane, turned into another, took the steps to the citadel two at a time, fell when he tried to cut a sharp corner, then after scrambling to his feet, finally found himself at the parapets. Chobin came to an abrupt halt, uttering a curse and pressing his back to the cliff face to let him by.
Tirdad had mourned her death in his own way back when he slit her throat. He felt it in his heart when her neck had snapped. But as he approached the half-div, torchlight illuminating the streak of blood from where she must have impacted the parapet and slid down, dread gripped him, irrational and suffocating. Like it was Ashtadukht all over again. He had to keep repeating the word phylactery in his head just to avoid losing it.
She was curled in a gap in the battlements, head hanging loosely over one edge, boot and bootless foot over the other. Her hands, drawn into claws, scrabbled aimlessly at the puddle of blood she lay in.
“Shkarag,” he said, gentle and low. “I’m here. You aren’t alone.” He knelt in the puddle, removing her glove and taking her finely-scaled hand in his. “You’re going to be just fine. You have a phylactery, remember?” Mid-way through the question he realized he was asking for himself. She gave his hand what scarcely amounted to a squeeze, not even tightening when she hacked up a river of blood. It would be her last.
The silenced that crept in was short-lived. “She’s gone,” said Chobin.
“Yeah.”
“So, is she going to, I mean . . .” Chobin shifted uncomfortably, scratching at his head and wearing a grimace. “Haven’t lost her, have we?”
Tirdad searched her gaze. Her pupils were dilated like the day she had drawn close in order to explain the change in her condition, hovering only a breath away. He’d found the terrible, insuperable yet indescribable weight that hung over her ugly then. It wasn’t the weight that was ugly, after all; it was what it did to her. A steeper breed of ugly. To suggest otherwise would have been romanticizing something that oppressed. The key was so simple yet so hard to come by. All he had to do was see the person behind it.
“She saved my life,” he said, grave and at length. “Again.”
Chobin grunted from behind. “You’re accruing quite the debt. Everything taken care of with the div?”
“Yeah.” Tirdad waited for minutes that seemed like hours, keeping constant watch for her spark. He deliberated the implications of a phylactery, what it meant to trivialize your own death. There had to be ramifications; everything comes at a cost. Especially for someone who had escaped death for millennia.
A flicker. Her pupils narrowed in the torchlight. They darted to him, her hand, and back again. She pulled herself up, looking around as if disoriented, and the scene slowly returning to her. Half her head glistened with fresh blood, favouring the mounting scars as outlets over which to gather and run—especially the short one that bifurcated her forehead and nose at an angle slight as her touch when she retracted her hand.
“Shkarag?” he asked. “Have you recovered?”
She canted away, but glanced at him obliquely. “. . .”
“Shkarag?”
“Phylactery did the mending. Must’ve—” Her gaze flitted about, finally coming to rest on her lost boot. “River shifted, so the road cuts through town again. Business is booming. I think.”
Chobin cleared his throat. “Glad to have the skink-slicker back. Wasn’t around when she came to, but someone was bound to have seen it.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Tirdad. He hadn’t once broken his stare, still transfixed on the half-div. “It’s your city after all.”
“Suppose it is,” agreed Chobin. “Just lie low here while I check on things.” With a convenient excuse to leave, he did just that.
Shkarag pulled her boot back on. She then reached into her egg pouch, which elicited a sneer—likely all broken from the fall. That was the last Tirdad could see of her before the light cast by Chobin’s torch was out of range.
“You gave your life for mine,” he said. “That . . . well, whatever it was, it would have been the end of me if you hadn’t been there.”
The half-div murmured something too indistinct to make out, then stood to the squelch of her own blood. Tirdad took her by the hand before she could leave, glad and more than a little relieved when she didn’t object. The firmness of her grip was all the more welcome after how weak it’d been earlier; that it was slick didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you,” he said, wanting to say so much more, but unsure where to start or even if he should. “You need to know that.”
She canted, made evident only by the shine of her head. “Don’t need to convince me like some, like—” She caught both her wandering and her temper; he could make out a claw raking at her head. What came next was as soft as he’d ever heard her speak. “Long as you need me, I’ll be here.”
She stood staring at the cliff face as if she had more to say, and while she usually had a slew of tales eager to devour their own tails, he suspected she was holding back more than that. “Until you die,” she added with a tilt. “Maybe.”
Shkarag punctuated it by tightening her grip, then wandering off into the night. He was about to call for her when the familiar sound of her spear clacking on stone signaled her return.
A decisive clack that either laid claim to the plot of stone or demanded his attention had her leaning into the spear before him. “Didn’t win,” she confessed as if he weren’t there to witness it. “Gave it my all, really swallowed the urge to kill something fierce, but the šo-branched—” She clacked the stone again, agitation seeping into her delivery. “His roots were sturdier than mine. Must’ve been gilded because they had more purchase.”
Tirdad smiled a tired smile. His chest ached. Although, if he were being honest with himself, it was more than just his ribs. He was coming back around to honesty, but wasn’t there quite yet—it hadn’t served him well in the past.
“Well,” he said, getting to his feet and bending backward to work the kink out his back, “I’m exhausted. How about we find somewhere to settle in for the night, then see what we can get out of that Adur-mah tomorrow morning?”
“. . .” Shkarag shifted uneasily.
“You’re right. It’d be best to confront him at night. But I’d rather not draw a lot in the city. I’d rather not draw one at all. Let’s do it after we’re on the road.”
“. . .” More meanin
gful silence, which he took as tacit consent since he had nothing else to go by.
Eventually, he resigned to the kink going nowhere and figured he had no room to complain after the bone-deep ache he’d experienced in Ashtadukht’s memory. He started back the way he’d come, a regular clacking to his rear.
The pair returned from whence they came, but drew up short of entering the city proper. Tirdad mulled over how best to tackle the issue of what may very well have been her compromised disguise. Divs weren’t universally hated, but they were distrusted, and distrust is only a scapegoat or misstep away from hate. He turned to her to find she’d already drawn her scarf around her head. He didn’t need to see her eyes to know she had trained that expectant look of hers his way. There was something about her poise, the calculated silence that hinted at a withheld remark—like a parent entertaining a child. Maybe he was a child to her. That’s what he made of it anyway; wasn’t like she was ever so forthcoming as to explain the nuances of the many things she left unsaid.
“What do you suggest we do?” he inquired. “I don’t want a mob to descend on us.”
Shkarag cocked her head. “Hide.”
“That’s it?”
“Hide. Lie in wait for the goat-fucker. Like snakes in the—” She emitted a hiss. “Lie in wait.”
Tirdad nodded to himself. Drawn taut as a bowstring over all that’d transpired, he’d forgotten about waiting for Chobin to return. He pointed toward the tunnel he’d taken in his flight and before confronting Niyaz. “There’s a natural spring up a ways. I know it isn’t my place to order you around, but you’re a mess, and being covered in blood isn’t going to do us any favours with the locals.” He paused, furrowing his brow and speaking his mind before he realized what he was asking. “Do you get off on your own blood? Or just others’?”
“Both,” she stated matter-of-factly. She canted his way. “Only fresh. Only free-range.”
Tirdad tangled his fingers in his hair, which had managed to grow even more greasy than before, and grimaced at his crassness. He supposed throwing in with someone as ribald as Chobin was bound to rub off on him sooner or later. “Sorry. I asked that without thinking.”
Shkarag started off, spear thumping on dirt, before coming to a halt a few thumps away. “They say,” she began, “they say you make decisions here and there. Here, with wine. There, without. Here, th—”
Her speech dropped off sharply, as if taking a dive into something frigid and paralyzing. She’d left the dim light that strived against the shadows at the edge of the city, so his only indication that she was still around was that he hadn’t heard any thumping. Shortly after, she picked up where she left off.
“—the wine dislodges things. There, you consider the things you shook free. You’re always too worried about being there. Makes you forget here. Here is . . .” Shkarag trailed off to the sound of thumping. “Ask more without thinking,” she insisted.
Tirdad loitered in place, tracing his thumb over the horns of his ram’s head pommel and reflecting as he did. This late in his life, he’d be hard-pressed to experience another festival as eventful as this one. He’d have been hard-pressed at any point in his life. So embroiled in the events of the day, he’d nearly forgotten why he was here at all. The answers were close; that star-reckoner had to know more than he let on. With what he’d said when they first met, Tirdad was all but convinced. He would untangle this mystery, and do right by Ashtadukht. He owed her that much.
A yawn escaped, the day’s exertion swiftly catching up to him. Already, his lids were drooping. Tirdad walked to the nearest mud brick building and sat against the wall. He unsheathed his sword and laid it across his lap, one hand on the hilt, the other gingerly hugging the blade. He had just nodded off when the approach of footsteps stirred him from his much-needed rest, which made him feel twice as exhausted as he had minutes earlier.
“Chobin,” he grumbled as the marzban passed by without so much as a glance. “Chobin.”
He spun on Tirdad, sword blazoned and eyes wide, which transitioned to a strained smile upon recognizing the planet-reckoner. “What’re you sneaking up on me for?” he asked, slipping his sword into its sheath. “Ahriman’s musty testes, what’re you down here for at all? Really need to talk to you about making the most of these intimate moments. You’re, what, fifty years older than me? Shouldn’t have to tell you this.”
Tirdad blew out a sigh. He was too worn out to argue. “How’s it look?”
“Couldn’t find anyone who actually saw what happened, which is either a miracle or a lie. Most had run for cover, and according to the few in the area, one moment she was there, the next she had vanished.”
“But they did witness her death,” Tirdad reasoned. “It doesn’t matter whether they saw her run off or not. What matters is what they’re going to think when they see her alive and well.”
Chobin flashed an embarrassed grin. “If I’m being honest, I hadn’t thought of that. Could we just get her a change of clothes? Not like anyone saw her face.”
“Let’s do that, assuming she agrees.” Tirdad gestured to the west. “I left the div’s body on the overlook, and her thrall is below if you didn’t catch it earlier.”
“I’ll have them disposed of. Thank you, friend. My city owes you a debt. If not for the two of you, who knows how many more lives would have been lost. You’re turning out to be quite the planet-reckoner.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Tirdad. He strained to put his feet beneath him, accepting Chobin’s outstretched hand in doing so, and thankful for his casual kindness. Trying again in vain to get the kink out of his back, he considered what the marzban had said—namely, what stood out. “Do you mean to say someone died?” he asked. “Other than Shkarag?”
Chobin’s grin faded at that. “Yeah. Seems the div got old Adur-mah before you put it down.”
Tirdad froze in his stretch. “Huh?”
“Yeah, it’s a damn shame. Many of the folks here grew up on his stories, and the same can be said for their children—not that I ever numbered among them.”
Astonishment wrestled rage and dejection for supremacy in Tirdad’s mind; ultimately, it was a stalemate. So he just slid back down the wall, head in hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “How? How does a star-reckoner like him—just how?”
“Can’t say for certain, but seems to me he was poisoned. All signs point to it, but I’m as lost as a fat man’s penis when it comes to divs. Besides,” he went on, and the shift in his tone told Tirdad he was beaming, “since when do you care about star-reckoners? He charm the grudge out of you?”
Tirdad sat there for a moment, damning his luck to the sibilance of Chobin’s torch, wondering if this was what he had to look forward to until at last what was left of his soul crossed the bridge of judgement. When he finally spoke up, it was thick with resignation. “Remember those documents Shkarag brought? Well, we spent countless hours trying to make sense of them. When at last I found the right vantage to view the details, a plot against Ashtadukht was laid bare before me. Or a plot with her underfoot at any rate, and by her peers. The whole time, she had known and told no one, because who would believe her? And if they had, what could they have done?”
“Took it into her own hands then,” Chobin observed with a grunt.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m out and about so soon. I need to investigate, to get to the bottom of this shit-clogged qanat.”
“Here I thought you missed me.”
“I did.” Tirdad raked his fingers over his scalp and blew out his exasperation. “To think a chance encounter would have me befriend the star-reckoner who could have been the key to it all, only for him to die before I could get any answers.” He craned to look at the marzban. “Adur-mah had answers, Chobin. He made that much clear. And now he’s gone, his secrets scattered like so much wind.”
“So, what now? Move on? Can’t bring him back from the dead, now can—what’s that look? Don’t like that look one bit.”
&
nbsp; Ashtadukht had done just that. She’d resurrected two star-reckoners long enough for them aid in her clash with the forty-armed div. Trouble was, he hadn’t the faintest clue how she’d done it; worse, neither did she. While he couldn’t reference her memories at will, they’d imparted enough about planet-reckoning to know she hardly ever got exactly what she asked for—if she were lucky, it was only a world away in the same stellar neighborhood. She just asked. The more precise you were the less likely you would get what you wanted. A sort of fortune-telling for oneself. Surely, she’d considered all the portents, the planets, constellations, and elements at her disposal, chose which skirmish to project her soul into, weighed the risks of it backfiring. But it never mattered how much she calculated. It always came to a roll of the die. And she was an expert. There’s no way he could pull it off.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” said Tirdad. “I’ll see if I can find his home in Ecbatana. Could be that he left some clues behind. Does he have somewhere here he usually stays?”
Chobin shrugged. “You’ll have to ask around. Have enough to worry about without keeping track of some geezer who’s got it in his head that he should bounce between cities on the regular.” He scratched at his disheveled hair, looking as dirty as Tirdad felt, and cast about his surroundings. “Say, where’s the skink-slicker?”
Tirdad waved a listless hand at the direction she’d gone. “Sent her to the spring to clean up. Suggested it anyway.”
“You sent a half-div to rinse the blood of Eshm in our spring?”
“Well, when you put it that way, I guess I should’ve joined her and contaminated it in earnest.”
The marzban slapped his thigh, his trademark full-toothed grin cracking for a bellowed, “Hah! Pollute it all you please if it means you get yourself some—” His brow creased. “Would they be quarter-div? Wonder how that works.”
“Haven’t thought that far ahead.”
Chobin needn’t say a thing to that; he just beamed.
An Ill-Fated Sky Page 17
