An Ill-Fated Sky

by Darrell Drake

  “Well, that’s six down the hatch,” he said after eating another apricot. As with the days before, scuffling followed. He’d went out to check every time, always to no avail, and always with that uncanny feeling in his gut. Tirdad figured today would be equally fruitless, so he didn’t bother. He pivoted to get back to work, only to find that Shkarag had drawn up beside him and was watching the door with a blank face. “So you hear it, too?” he asked.

  “. . .” She canted his way.

  “The scuffling.” He indicated the door with the hilt of his sword, which his palm had found instinctively, like those troubled souls who, so accustomed to its grip, flock to misery. “You’re looking right at it.”

  “. . .” She canted further, attention split between him and the door. “Why aren’t you with your family?” she asked, limping back to a pile of scrolls to resume her search. “Family is important.”

  Tirdad eyed her back, watching the caftan as it bunched and shifted alongside her movements. Dodging questions came as no surprise with Shkarag; asking them did. The normal ones anyway. They were as rare and as powerful as a five-planet conjunction.

  When he didn’t reply, Shkarag cast over her shoulder and said, “Don’t have to answer.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, and she returned to her task. In truth, it was a sore topic, and she likely knew as much. But she’d asked, so he would answer. “I’m . . .” He ran his fingers through his hair and screwed up his face at the memory of them turning him away. “You’re right. Family is important. That’s why I volunteered to become Ashtadukht’s guardian all those years ago. If it wasn’t me, someone less accommodating would have—and it was the honourable thing to do besides. Back when I was fucking stupid and thought of honour as this be-all and end-all. My part in her travels, namely in not putting a stop to her downward spiral, led to the fall of my family’s House. Our standing, our name, our assets, our history—everything.”

  “. . .” Shkarag kept her quiet but for the crinkling of scrolls.

  “Now, well, I suppose I do miss them, especially the deepened sense of belonging during festivals. It’s more the . . .” He trailed off, still watching her back, and tried to find the words. “It’s the guilt that eats at me. That I might’ve done something to prevent their fate.”

  “. . .”

  “That aside, I’m with my family. I’m with you. I’ve spent the better part of my life by your side. What are we if not family? They were never unkind to me, and Ashtadukht’s father was caring beyond reason. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re more my family than any of them.” When she kept sorting without the hint of a response, he drew up beside her. “Shkarag?” he asked. “You know that, right?”

  “. . .” She unrolled a length of leather, and her scrutiny flicked from top to bottom. Her lips belied the thoughts behind words, but she squirrelled them away before they could take shape.

  “You come before anyone, including myself,” he told her. “Part of you knows that, even if the other part thinks I’m out to get you.”

  She opened her mouth, glancing his way and seeming as if she’d actually reply this time, when there interrupted a hurried rapping at the door.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Tirdad grumbled.

  “Star-reckoner!” a hoarse yet homely voiced called when he didn’t immediately answer. “Star-reckoner! Get yer arse out here!”

  Tirdad groaned, recalling the occasions when Ashtadukht would have them stop off in a town or city during those months-long breaks between missions. There was always someone who needed a star-reckoner—or more often someone who thought they needed a star-reckoner. He sucked in a steadying breath to prepare for whatever absurd request or complaint was coming and opened the door.

  “Took ya long enough,” said the woman on the other side of the door. With her shawl over her head, straight back, and slouched shoulders, she seemed ancient—a stubborn sort of ancient, like an ironwood that refused to bend. “What’re ya waiting fer?” she asked, waving and starting off without him, grousing all the while. “Fucking young’uns are lazy as all get out. If it was ole Valash what did the reckoning, he’d a showed up of his own volition. Got an old woman going across town when it’s cold and dark as Jeh’s cunt. Fingernail-swallowing . . .” Her grousing became unintelligible when she passed between the cisterns.

  “I guess I should probably follow,” Tirdad said with a groan of a sigh. He stepped out and turned to face Shkarag. “Coming? She could have me divining with horse shit for all I know.”

  Shkarag disappeared into the house and returned soon after with her spear. She passed in silence, limping and leaning into it, and he followed close behind.

  “Get yer arses moving,” snapped the old woman once they’d passed between the cisterns. She waved them on with her torch. “Come on, come on. I’ll light a fire under you if you don’t get a move on.”

  “What’s the hurry?” asked Tirdad.

  “Not fer digging around in guts, are you?” she asked. “Always seemed messy that divination, but yer forebears did it, and that got them to the task.”

  Tirdad hadn’t the slightest clue what she was going on about, and she never bothered actually answering his question—just more grousing.

  “Got three what knows the blade,” she said upon drawing to a stop before a house. “Got a fire stoked, too. You do yer part, and we been around long enough to know the rest.”

  Childbirth. She was describing the protective rites of childbirth that warded off divs due to the proximity of death and puerile fever, and the divination that followed. Tirdad didn’t need his cousin’s memory to know as much; he’d joined her for this routine task dozens of times. He drew his starling-black blade and turned to Shkarag. “Let’s get to it then.”

  She followed him through the door, past the shadow-still entry room where the darkness felt thicker than normal, and toward the warm glow of fire. A brazier burned in the centre of a common room, and at the far end, a woman who hardly looked old enough to claim the term had been made comfortable on the floor. She stared at him, wide-eyed and with a sheen of sweat, when he entered. He offered her the most disarming smile he could manage. “I’m Tirdad,” he said. “We’ll get you through this.”

  She jerked her head in a nod, plainly frightened. He signalled to the three men who loitered to one side, and they all moved to surround her. None of them looked like they knew how to use the swords they were carrying.

  “Hurry yer arses,” shouted the old woman as she entered. “Baby is due yesterday!”

  Tirdad found Shkarag waiting just outside the ingress, scales polished with firelight. “Are you staying out here?” he asked. “You know it isn’t safe.”

  “. . .” She canted at him, then at his waist. She touched his sacred girdle, which elicited a hiss from both her and her fingers, and leveled them on the common room. “Worse,” she said simply.

  Tirdad nodded. Come to think of it, she’d never been around for these in the past. He tested the waters by lifting a hand just shy of the side of her neck. When it was clear she wouldn’t object, he placed it just below her ear where scale met flesh and gave her a brief kiss. Her breath reeked of eggs, but he revelled in it all the same. More than that, he was happy to see the almost indistinguishable slant her lips wore just beneath the rim of her hood. She covered his hand with her own, lips parting to the cadence of some unspoken thoughts.

  “Four directions,” she said at length. “Four directions and three, three šo-burning nights.”

  Tirdad gave her another nod. He remembered the ritual well enough, but that she cared to remind him was a welcome gesture all the same. “I’m afraid you’ll have to eat those apricots yourself until I’m done here,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she replied.

  With that, Tirdad returned to his duty. By reaching out to the celestial theatre he was able to position the three sword-bearers around the pregnant woman such that their blades, directed at her stomach, faced east, west, and south. Tirda
d took up his position in the empty spot, completing the ward by pointing his sword northward.

  “Now, we wait,” he said to everyone in the room. “Keep your swords where they are, and keep the fire stoked.” The old woman shouldered her way into the circle where she knelt beside the mother to be. With everyone else having left the house, he figured she was the midwife.

  Hours would pass before the delivery, during which Tirdad and his assistants stood mostly motionless—besides some fidgeting that drew rebukes from both star-reckoner and midwife. For the duration, Tirdad felt an oppressive weight, as if the darkness outside the room were pressing in on it, and in turn, the room compressed him. It reminded him of the first few weeks following his broken ribs, when he often found himself having to focus on breathing, and the frustration that came with being unable pull in that last bit of air that would top off his lungs. Always feeling as if what he did get was somehow inadequate.

  So, with the newborn delivered, he sucked in a hefty lungful, revelling in that comfortable pressure before easing it through his lips. “All right,” he said to the men who had joined him. “You can go now. The rest is up to me.” Two left without complaint, but the third stuck around to join the woman and her bawling newborn. The pair shared a smile, each of them exhausted and doused in sweat, and doting over the infant.

  That made him think of Shkarag. He glanced at the exit, but saw no signs of her. She’d likely left for her twilight penitence. Tirdad frowned at the thought, and again at the newborn. He wondered if she wanted to have children with him. If she could. They hadn’t been in the relationship long, but he was old enough to know this was serious. And, well, he was old. With that on his mind, he sheathed his sword and leaned against the wall, sliding down until he sat facing the fire.

  “Three nights,” he whispered to himself, staring blankly into the flames and wondering if it’d be wrong of him to bring a child into a world in which his House had been dismantled. Or one in which its lineage was universally feared.

  With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes. The next three days would have him confined to the room with the family, and while the riskiest step was behind them, there still remained the threat of attack by opportunistic divs. More often than not, it wouldn’t come to that. The monotony would make him wish it had. Tirdad completed his charge without incident, spending the days that followed sitting by the fire, isolated with the parents and their child. This gave him time to reflect, which was the last thing he needed. So when Shkarag invariably dropped by to insist he ate the day’s sun-dried apricot, it was a welcome reprieve.

  When at last the third night had passed, he had one final task to wrap together the ritual. He would read the skies to divine the destiny of the newborn. That it was day was of no consequence: planet-reckoners could read the sky just fine while the sun was out. Calling to the theatre, on the other hand, was impossible.

  Tirdad exhaled, and with it, reached out. Three planets were in the Ear of Grain; another wasn’t far off. Come dusk, they would wreak havoc on the constellation, and the only solace to be had in that configuration was that Jupiter would be isolated on the opposite end of the celestial theatre. Their combined efforts meant a lousy life for the child, but not one beyond redemption. Tirdad had his doubts when it came to fate. The word inspired as much good as it did evil. When used carelessly it had the power to ruin lives. As far as he was concerned, people put too much stock in readings and prophecies. That came as no surprise given the abysmal lot he’d drawn—according to the star-reckoner who’d overseen his birth anyway. Looking back, he saw, or thought he saw, a pattern in the way his parents and uncle had treated him. Not negatively, especially not in the case of Ashtadukht’s father. Just different.

  With that in mind, he approached the mother. Her colour had been fully restored during his stay, which made her youth all the more apparent. He fashioned an affected smile. “You can rest easy. The young one is favoured by the Ear of Grain, unaccosted by the planets, and his years will come and pass as the harvest: a challenge with the promise of reward.”

  A circumspect answer that stopped just short of a lie. The challenge would surely appear, only to have sown a crop ruined by flood or insect.

  The woman gave him a smile brightened by ignorance. Tirdad found some comfort in that, and in the hope she turned on the newborn.

  “Farewell,” he said, not expecting the least bit of gratitude. If there’s anything he’d learned in his travels with Ashtadukht, it’s that being a star-reckoner was thankless.

  After spending three nights cooped up with strangers, the first thing Tirdad wanted was a bit of privacy, so he headed home, restless legs enthused to stride again, and wondering if Shkarag would have an omelette ready.

  What she had prepared would outclass any omelette.

  • • • • •

  A hiss penetrated the front door as he approached. “Eat the šo-damned—eat it!” A crash followed, a thud joined by the rattle of something shattered. “Don’t spit! Swallow, you star-fucker!”

  Dread rising in his throat, Tirdad opened the door. Inside, Shkarag had an elderly man flat on his back, her hand on his mouth with something black smeared beneath. From where she straddled the man’s chest, she craned up at Tirdad, mouth agape and eyes darting as if in search of an escape.

  Tirdad clammed up, blinking and taking in the scene. The dread that had set in when he opened the door increased by magnitudes. He saw himself standing before Ashtadukht on the night he’d ruined her ritual. The man tried to struggle, which Shkarag dealt with by bearing down on his neck with her other hand. Tirdad parted his lips, and though his thoughts were storm-livened with questions and accusations, none wanted to be the one to take the plunge. He did have the wherewithal to step in and close the door behind him, but only that. He just stared, mind racing. Now faced with the scenario that had, as far as he was concerned, set in motion so much misery, Tirdad was petrified.

  Shkarag broke the hush. That would have been all well and good if she hadn’t done so by snapping the man’s neck. “He . . . wouldn’t . . .” She cast at the shards of a ewer that were strewn across the floor, and the wine that pooled around them as if they were an ill-fated fleet.

  “They say,” she began, “they say, you can only lead a horse to a flight of stairs. But he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t climb, wouldn’t drink.” Shkarag went quiet and stared past Tirdad as if in anticipation of a response, but he had none to give her. Minutes passed, tense as heartstrings and precarious as plucking them, before she backed off the man and sat on the floor, scrutiny darting from one thing to another.

  “Don’t want, was trying to—” The hiss that took purchase on her voice was tremulous. “Don’t want you to become like her, so I thought, thought, they say, say you have to break a few eggs if you want to—” She raked one claw over her skull, and the remainder came out in a hurried jumble. “—keep making omelettes for the person you love.” Shkarag lifted her hood to hide her eyes, and sat there motionlessly.

  The still that poured in was enduring. The sort of still that rallied itself, grew more oppressive for no other reason than because it went on unchallenged. So the longer it endured, the harder it was to disrupt—like grief too far gone.

  After a time, Tirdad eased himself to the floor. He’d gone over the scene countless times by now, trying desperately to piece it together, but he couldn’t get further than the man whose life had just been snuffed out before him. This wasn’t war. This was murder. Shkarag had never stooped so low in all their years together.

  An hour must have passed in that mounting still before Tirdad managed to break through his haze of fear. Immediately, the black smear jumped out at him as if it had been primed. Shkarag had been eating black berries recently, had warned him against their toxicity. This was utterly unlike her. It strode against everything he knew of her and her lineage. In poisoning the man, she would have easily deflected suspicion. She’d called him a star-fucker. That gave Tirdad somewhere to start, but it would
take many an attempt before he could gather the courage to do so.

  “Was this man a star-reckoner?” he asked. Succinct as it was, the question was as stubborn as an onager in coming out.

  Her cant was only a few degrees, her reply thin. “Maybe.”

  Tirdad exhaled. “Did he threaten you?”

  “Maybe.”

  He closed his eyes. Poorly phrased. “Did he attack you?”

  “Maybe.” Not nearly as certain this time.

  It felt as if he were reliving the past, as if he were a single misstep away from repeating it. That constant foreboding maintained his calm by suffocating him with his own mistakes. “Did—” It caught in his throat.

  She loved him. She had said as much. Tirdad wanted dearly to be thrilled—he almost smiled!—but no, not yet. This had to be settled, not merely defused.

  “Did—” It caught again.

  She saved him the trouble by confessing. “Gave Adur-mah the wine. Star-fucker told a golden thread, but . . . I had to. The . . . the others, too.”

  Tirdad put his head in his hands. The constant pressure of the ritual had drained him, leaving him ill-prepared for what was already precarious. He would have nodded off if not for the anxiety. “I don’t understand why,” he muttered. “You know these star-reckoners are the only chance I have at getting to the bottom of this conspiracy. So why in the seven fucking—” Tirdad sucked in a steadying breath. That would not do. “All this time I’ve been so relieved to have you back. I thought we were in this together, and took pride in our path because I was privileged enough to share it with you. Only to find out it was a lie. Why would you sabotage it? Why work against me all this time, Shkarag?”

  Her lips moved to an inner monologue that went on so long it became rodomontade. “Not against you,” she replied at length. “Not against you. Don’t want to stand by and, like some—” Though her mouth moved, the words were once again lost. Eventually, she pressed on. “Never against you,” she hissed, which had already softened before she finished the sentence. “Never. Always thinking, thinking, ‘Does he want me gone? Is this a šo-biting prank?’ But I’m never against you.”