Shadowscent

by P. M. Freestone

  “If I lose, I’ll give you ten turns exclusively. I’ll supply you and you only. Still off the books. Tax collector none the wiser.”

  Zakkurus taps one long finger against his thigh, my bargain hanging between us like noxious smoke.

  I clench my jaw.

  Four taps.

  Five.

  He leans forward. “I’d want full indenture. Nothing less.”

  My stomach churns. Indenture. Typical that someone who no longer struggles can speak the word so easily.

  “I know I’m the best.” I manage to sound more confident than I feel, now that this unfamiliar room in only-stench-knows what part of the city, has become a cliff edge.

  His eyes search the shadows. “You’re not the only one to have stood there and said those words.”

  “And back then the risk was worth it, wasn’t it?”

  He doesn’t flinch at my stab at the truth. “Let’s say I do decide to help you. What is there to keep you from tragically suffering memory loss and wandering off to a distant oasis?”

  With no small measure of guilt, I wonder if Father has discovered his seal gone. I wish I hadn’t needed to take it, but if he had any idea what I’d planned he would have forbidden me from leaving the house.

  “I have people I care about.”

  He sniffs. “I deal in scent, not sentiment.”

  I reach into my robe for Father’s seal. “That’s why I’ll put it in clay.”

  We both stare at the object in my hand—the stone carved with a series of pictograms—a rose, a battle helmet, the zigzag of a mountain range—our family name and crest. For the thousandth time, I wonder if there’s another way.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp clap of Zakkurus’s hands. The servant girl reappears, nods at the perfumer’s instructions, and scurries away.

  Soon after, a table sits between us.

  Most of the contract’s language is beyond me, but the phrase “ten turns” is clear as freshly distilled water. I’m gambling on a decade of my freedom, and yet I’m strangely numb as I press the cylinder seal into the unfired tablet, rolling it until Father’s full signature is indisputably indented at the bottom of the contract. Next to it, I press my thumb into the clay, the swirled lines confirming my identity.

  It’s done.

  The servant whisks away the tablet. In its place sits a blue faience bottle.

  “Go on,” Zakkurus says. “It won’t bite you.”

  I work the tiny stopper out, waiting for its contents to greet me.

  There’s simple enough topnotes. Star jasmine. Honey vine. Purrath blossom. So far, so good.

  The base is … amyris? Interesting. I would’ve thought it too plain. Then again, it wouldn’t overpower more delicate ingredients like a sandalwood base would. Spicy midnotes are overlaid through. Cinnamon? Yes. And something earthy grounding it. Carrot seed is my guess. Good. I’ve got enough of those in my stores.

  But there’s something else.

  It’s barely traceable. Yet it lends a distinctiveness. Lifts the perfume above the common. Something about its combination of tart crispness and lilting sweetness tickles at my memory.

  I was very young. Father still served the Eraz, leading a campaign to put down border skirmishes in the foothills of the Alet Range. I’d stayed with Barden’s family, night after night clutching my locket and wishing on anything—the stars, the gods—that he would return safe. They didn’t listen. And I vowed I’d never ask them for help again.

  Instead, I wished on the lost memory of my mother.

  I’d grown a half hand taller by the time we were at the palace, where they’d put a new sash on him. The Eraz had his own daughter do the honors; Father knelt so she could reach. Lady Sireth and I were of an age, yet the scent she wore set us worlds apart. At first crisp and sweet like a pomegranate in early autumn. But then more, so much more. I no longer believed, but I understood how others could think anyone who smelled like that could only be descended from the heavens.

  That’s it. Next season, the Eraz and his family will remind everyone of the source of their power, beyond their imperially sanctioned rule in Aphorai. They’ll anoint themselves with the perfume of a god.

  “Dahkai,” I breathe.

  Zakkurus regards me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yes, yes, petal, the darkest bloom. Though calling it that seems—how should one put it—disrespectful. It’s the prettiest, most darling little flower for those fleeting hours.”

  A darling flower that has started wars and ended dynasties since the edge of memory. A flower worth more than a lifetime of indentured labor. And a flower I now need if I’m going to help Father.

  I choose my words carefully. “I can’t get dahkai in the markets.”

  Rounding his lips into an O of mock horror, the perfumer produces the tiniest vial I’ve ever seen. No bigger than the tip of my little finger to the first knuckle, it’s in the same signature blue as the perfume bottle. He gestures to the jars of desert rose, so plain and unassuming next to the showy faience. “I’ll consider these, and your contract, a down payment.”

  “That’s a moon of food and—” I stop shy of saying “medicine.” And I bite down on the other things I want to say—that I thought we had an understanding, that we recognized each other. That Zakkurus remembered what it was to be desperate.

  “I’ll take a risk on you, petal. But I’m no charitable benefactor.”

  Charitable benefactor. The bartender’s words chime a duet with Barden’s “be careful.”

  I’ve traded everything for a vial of the most valuable substance in the Empire—so precious that every last drop is regulated. Try to sell it and I’m more likely to find myself in a dungeon than find zigs in my purse. But what else could I have done? What else can I do? If I leave the dahkai essence, I’ve lost the trials already. I scoop up the vial and snatch my now-empty satchel from the table.

  The perfumer waves a manicured hand and the servant girl slips once again from the shadows, her face downturned as she hands me a cup. One sniff is all it takes this time. I never forget a scent. Mandragora masked with bitter melon.

  Zakkurus smiles his snakelike smile. “Now be a good girl and take your medicine.”

  I still don’t understand why you have to be the one to go.”

  Nisai gives me his “I thought we’d already settled this” look before lunging into his next spear strike.

  It’s a predictable move, easily deflected. I circle him, my feet drawing lines in the sand, shadow stretching behind me as morning sun edges over the top of the arena. “Would it not be more appropriate to have Garlag represent you in this?”

  What I really mean is, what’s the point of paying exorbitant wages to a dandy of a chamberlain if you can’t send him scrabbling around the Empire at your bidding?

  “You heard the Council. It’s time I took on more duties.” Nisai feints toward my right. His eyes give him away, and my left arm is up well before the real strike. My gauntlet takes some of the impact, but it still jars along my bones.

  Maybe his heart is in this after all.

  He presses his attack. “It could be tomorrow, it could be turns away. I might wish it weren’t so, but coronation day will come. When it does, I’ll need to know my lands.” Another strike, this one parried with a crack that reverberates around the empty spectator terraces.

  My feet keep moving cautiously, my thoughts racing ahead. It’s been turns since we last left the palace. Yet I can’t help but think this expedition premature. Is he ready?

  Am I ready?

  “Wouldn’t missives keep you up to date more efficiently than spending the best part of a moon on the road there?”

  “Missives tell but one man’s story.” The butt of Nisai’s spear, aimed to wind me, passes just by my left hip.

  I eye him critically. “Keep your weight balanced.”

  “I am keeping balanced.”

  There’s my opening. With a spin, I crouch behind his guard and sweep a kick that ta
kes his feet from under him.

  He lands on his back with an oof, though the river sand cushions his fall. If he were egotistical, his pride would bear the worst of his injuries. But Nisai? He just props himself up on his elbows and grins at me. “Is Aphorai rustic? Perhaps. Antiquated? Quite possibly.” He taps his nose. “But honoring tradition means my uncle still finds himself presiding over the only dahkai plantation in the Empire. Half my father’s court would turn on him if they lost access to the main ingredient in their most precious perfumes and prayers.”

  He stands, dusting sand from his plain-spun tunic. It’s probably the only thing he enjoys about physical training—not having to wear the imperial purple silks he’s expected to don the rest of the time. “Aren’t you remotely curious? We’ll probably only see two Flower Moons in our lifetimes. Three, if we’re lucky enough to be long-lived.”

  I shrug. One flower is the same as the next.

  “Imagine watching dahkai petals unfurl. And that first breath of perfume.” His focus drifts to middle distance. “It’ll be magical.”

  “Magic belongs with our shadows. Behind us.” The proverb escapes my lips without a thought. After so many turns, it’s become reflex. A necessity.

  Nisai shoots me a narrow look. “It’s important to the people that their ruler attend a Flower Moon. A good omen. Even my father attended one.”

  I grimace. Important, yes. Dangerous? Absolutely. The very thing I’m supposed to protect him against.

  “Trip or no trip, no need to miss a session.” I hand Nisai his spear. “Let’s go.”

  He groans. “Couldn’t I just slip away to the library?”

  I reply with a flat stare.

  “Fine, fine.”

  But he barely defends the simplest of attacks, even the ones we danced when we were children, bashing at each other with felt-cushioned poles and wooden swords, before Blademaster Boldor singled me out for Shield training. “Keep your guard up!” I snap. “That’s thrice dead. Do you want to join the gods before you’ve even left the city?”

  “Of course not. That’s why I have you.” There’s that easy smile again.

  “You should at least try to show some sign of strength. You’re about to go halfway across the Empire. You don’t want enemies thinking you’re an easy target.”

  “There are other sources of strength than a blade. Hope. Empathy. Compassion. Love. Kindness.” He counts off the words on one hand.

  “Are you trying to make me bring up my breakfast?”

  “Information. Knowledge. Intelligence. Cunning. Wisdom.” He drops his spear so he can count them off on the other hand.

  “Enough already.”

  Nisai grins. “To the library, then?”

  I look to the sky. “Oh, Mother Esiku, grant me patience with this wayward urchin.”

  The imperial library is divided in two—clay and parchment.

  Clay tablets for trade contracts and laws proclaimed by Emperor or Council. Longer texts are committed to parchment—history and military tactics, celestial events, and even myth from beyond the edge of memory—nearly all destroyed in the Shadow Wars and the turns of chaos that followed—except for the records salvaged and reassembled in the capital by the scholar Emperors, kept under lock and key ever since.

  We pass under the library’s great portico, Nisai making a beeline for the scroll collection. If anyone ever inquires, he says it’s to make sure he’s informed when it comes time to rule. History is the best teacher.

  But it’s more. He’s looking for an answer. Forbidden knowledge. To explain what happened that day when we were boys, what he thinks he saw. To explain who he thinks I am. What I am, beyond the legends and the bedtime stories parents use to scare their children into good behavior.

  The manuscript room is wall-to-wall with shelves, ladders leaning against each bank. Light streams through the single window, illuminating the dance of dust motes. The rest of the room is lit by citrus-scented candles to aid concentration. The clean scent mingles with aging parchment and the cinnamon the curators use to ward off mold, or so I’m told.

  Nisai takes a deep breath, eyes closed, like he’s sampling the most exquisite perfume. “Hello, friends,” he murmurs to the shelves. “I’ve missed you.”

  “We were only here yesterday.”

  “Are you saying it’s not possible to miss someone for a day? I pity your shriveled heart.”

  I smirk. But I’m hoping Nisai’s parchments aren’t the only friends we meet today. And I’m hoping that the others will do better than I have, to dampen his enthusiasm for the proposed expedition.

  Sure enough, a willowy young woman perches at the top of one of the shelf ladders, one hand trailing along the scroll cylinders. Nisai waves and Ami, one of the library’s curators, smiles absently as we pass.

  Farther ahead, a familiar, pale-faced figure jumps up from Nisai’s favorite table. As we near, Esarik Mur bows to us both in turn, mine shallower than the one directed at Nisai, but still far more than is required from a noble to a bodyguard. “My Prince!” he exudes, Trelian accent trilling over the title. “If I may say, you’re looking well.”

  “Liar.” Nisai embraces his friend.

  “No luck with the Scent Keeper issue, then?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Bias truly is a brute.”

  “Afraid so.” Nisai cocks his head to the side. “You’re early this morning.”

  “What do they say? The first drop of dew is the sweetest.” Esarik grins, pushing chestnut-and-gold locks from his eyes. A haircut wouldn’t go astray with that one.

  “This newfound dedication wouldn’t have anything to do with rumors from the university that a certain someone is in the running for valedictorian, would it? Soon to be snapped up by the Guild and fast-tracked to full physician?”

  Esarik shrugs. “Rumors? All smoke and no scent, I’m sure.”

  “Speaking of rumors …”

  “I heard! You’re bound for the desert!”

  Here we go. Watching these two converse is like trying to keep up with a game of bodko ball.

  Esarik clasps his hands in utter glee. “I was going to ask if I could—”

  “Pack your bags, my friend!” Nisai grins.

  I suppress a groan. Not Esarik, too. I thought he’d have more sense.

  “Most certainly! But first I was going to read over—”

  “Zolmal’s Journeys? Volume eight? When he attends the first Flower Moon after the Accord?”

  Esarik rubs his chin. “I think you’ll find it spills over into volume nine. They don’t call him Master of Minutiae for nothing.”

  “Ugh. I prefer Tek the Losian. Eminently readable.”

  “Likewise. We could cover one each?”

  Nisai pulls a gold coin from his robe. “Flip for the Zolmal? Emperor or Temple?”

  “Heads.”

  “Pyramid it is.”

  Esarik groans and reaches for an ancient scroll.

  The rest of the morning is spent reading. Well, the Prince and the scholar read, and I play fetch for them—locating the next text as they delve deeper into the past. I can’t say I mind. The library is secure, familiar, with manned exits at opposite ends of the building. A bodyguard’s ideal scenario.

  And Esarik is good for Nisai. Truth be told, I’ve always been a little envious of their friendship. Not for coveting Nisai’s attention, but for wondering what it is like to be at ease and on equal footing with someone you care about.

  The most devastating outcome of being named First Prince was the seclusion order squashing his dream of attending Ekasya’s university. So, the Council brought university to Nisai, commissioning the most talented young scholars and tutors from the five provinces to study at the palace. Most moved on when their official term ended. But the young Trelian aristocrat has never let a week go by without a study session with the Prince.

  It also doesn’t hurt that Esarik’s been sweet on Ami since he first arrived in the capital. He tries to keep it secr
et; his father has ambitions for his eldest son to marry high and Ami’s family doesn’t make the cut. But as he watches her thread through the shelves toward us, one arm loaded with scrolls, the other balancing a tray of food, Esarik’s face lights up like dawn.

  “How are my favorite scholars on this fine day?” Ami sets down the tray and gives Esarik’s shoulder a squeeze that Nisai and I politely pretend not to notice. “It’s high sun, I thought you could use a bite to eat.”

  “It’s kind of you to take a moment from your work to bring us refreshment,” Esarik says with a stiff play at formality.

  “The Head Curator has been watching me like a hawk today,” she murmurs, leaning in to remove the cloth from the tray. It’s Nisai’s preferred library meal, a simple platter of bread and white Edurshai cheese, Trelian grapes, and steaming hot cups of kormak, the stimulant drink from the terraced foothills of Hagmir. “And I hadn’t had the chance to ask you about the Dasmai lectures. Are you going? They’ve discovered a heretofore unknown translation of the Gen texts. Third century pre-Accord.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Esarik’s eyes shine with enthusiasm.

  “Save me a seat?”

  “With pleasure.” Then he seems to realize where he is and blushes.

  “Great!” She inclines her head to Nisai. “First Prince, I’ll take my leave. But do seek me out if you need any assistance.” Then she’s off as quickly as she appeared.

  Esarik stares after her until she’s left his line of sight. Then he rolls his shoulders, clears his throat, and gets up from the table. “Time for volume nine,” he says, moving off in the same direction Ami took.

  I swallow a smile.

  Nisai absently chews his bread and returns to the scroll he’s been poring over. He runs his fingertips over a passage, squinting as he translates from Old Aramteskan, then reaches for his journal. Bound in aurochs leather, it’s full of notes and sketches of plants and animals familiar and fantastic—the sum of his research.