Then S’ami turned, breaking our unseen connection, and I collapsed in a heap, Amaniel beside me, trying to right me so I could sit up. I felt dizzy and ached in places I shouldn’t mention. I dreaded Babba’s reaction; I didn’t think I could filter his heated disapproval through my reeling brain and body. But he only held me, making shushing noises and stroking my back. I dared myself to meet Babba’s gaze and found a thoughtful and sad expression, his voice low and comforting. “I believe you’ve been rejected as a sacrifice, if it’s any consolation.”
I hoped he was right. Babba was pious; he would know. I struggled to my feet, leaning on Babba in a weak attempt to get my bearings.
Below me, the soldier kept his eyes on me. I adjusted my dress, my kerchief, a loop of hair, an earring. I turned my entire head toward Babba.
A clerk whispered to him: “She held her ground, though. Didn’t faint. I’d heard that’s good.”
For whom? Me or Nihil? I wanted to storm out, or loop a headscarf around the Azwan’s throat and pull. Hard. He’d turned back toward Reyhim and pointedly ignored me. Maybe the moment had passed. Maybe, please, oh, blessed, protecting Kuldor, our sacred planet, let the moment have passed. I hovered closer to Amaniel. Below me, S’ami scanned the pier with a scornful grimace and addressed the crowd. I kept my eyes on him, until the soldier was a blur in the corner of my eye.
“The demon’s here,” the younger Azwan said. “I sensed it from far offshore. But it’s weak and afraid. It won’t take long to find it and crush it.”
I instantly hated the emphasis he placed on the word crush and how he squinted at me when he said it. I wondered if he was talking about the supposed star-demon creature at all.
He held up the glittering object from his pouch: it was a wisdom knot cast in gold, and it gave off iridescent rays of light in every hue. The crowds below us gasped as streams of color lifted and swirled in a tight gyre and then exploded in showers of sparks above our heads. A soft, low music thrummed in our ears, like a continuous chime, pleasant and soothing. It was a magic I hadn’t deserved to see, with my twisty tongue and foggy brain.
“This is my music,” S’ami said in his lyrical voice. “My magic, my lore that protects us.”
The older man harrumphed and muttered. If I weren’t standing over them, I might not have heard his rasping voice. “It’s Nihil’s magic, Nihil’s lore, in case you’ve forgotten. Put that away. You’ll draw the dybbuk.”
S’ami continued at full volume. “It’s a demon, to use the proper term. Let it come. I will vanquish it.”
“We.” Reyhim’s expression was flat. “We will vanquish it.”
I recalled the piece Amaniel had said about one being in charge but the other being number one. I was willing to bet two coppers those two holy men didn’t understand it any better than I did.
But both men were gone, headed down the wharf past genuflecting crowds. Our high priest followed after a single backward glance toward the balcony, a pained and disbelieving look on his face. I’d likely never be allowed back in school again, a thought I found oddly deflating. I’d never set out to be the class laughingstock; it was just so hard to reconcile all that book learning with what I envisioned for my future at Mami’s side.
I had no time to dwell on it.
With a sudden boom of drums and the stomp of oversized boots, hundreds of soldiers poured down the gangplanks. The balcony shook from the pounding cadence of Feroxi feet on the wooden pier below. These men were soldiers, not sailors, and as different from their barefoot brethren as fish and sharks. Nihil had sent a contingent of his elite guards, the likes of which had never been seen here. I spied the glint of bronze helmets, black plumes arching back, oval shields taller than my entire body and painted to resemble swooping night raptors, their beaks and talons bloodied.
Babba gave my shoulder a squeeze in a feeble attempt to cheer me up. “How many do you count? I say about four hundred.”
I squeezed my legs tighter, if that were possible, though what threat the soldiers presented, I didn’t know. Just the same, I clenched my whole body, every muscle. The balcony began to close in on me, though I had only cloudless sky above me.
Everyone seemed ready to forget the Azwans, so I nodded along with the chatter. I hadn’t bothered to count the individuals in the long columns. I’d been too busy imagining a flock of night raptors descending upon Port Sapphire, black and crimson, fierce and unforgiving as they stormed the wharf.
The careful astrologer must distinguish between a shooting star that flames out in the sky and portends fleeting good fortune, from a falling star, whose plummet to Kuldor must, by its force, carve for itself a terrible niche.
—from Anatomy of the Heavens: Common Interpretations of the Stars and Planets, by
Shmulai, Astrologer to the Court of King B’rakh of Tengal
Maybe there was a demon, and maybe it would crawl out of the marsh and creep into someone’s head. That was the talk—of a possession of some sort by a creature who would war on Nihil. I wanted so much to believe the star was a different kind of magic, a lovely flame-out from the night sky, a tiny spark from the great infernos that twinkled beyond our reach.
Not that I dared open my mouth again. I did what I do best and kept busy. I hustled about the outdoor hearth we shared with several other families. I rinsed tea glasses and refilled them, set out plates of cut fruit, bussed old aunties and hoary uncles, waved greetings at cousins and friends and cousins’ friends. I adored every loud, gossipy moment.
The Ward had declared a holiday in honor of the Azwans’ visit. They’d set out for the fens at first light, leaving the town to its wagging tongues. It’s easier to stop the rain than a rumor, the saying goes. So I listened in on the gloomy murmurs and scare-mongering whispers and tried to keep from laughing. Of all the hazards in the fens, a fallen bit of meteorite likely wasn’t one of them.
Folks took up every seat by the outdoor hearth. They came for company and gossip and for Mami, smiling even now with all the worries, welcoming people and sitting the older ones down with a fuss and a hug. People sipped Mami’s teas from coarse, jewel-colored glasses as they traded rumors. The drinks were more properly called tisanes, or infusions of carefully selected herbs. Mami was serving one of her more soothing brews today, probably to calm her own nerves as much as anyone’s. A few people asked in hoarse whispers if this or that tisane was medicinal. I shook my head and held a finger to my lips. No one wanted trouble with religious men out and about.
The talk was of Reyhim, especially.
“Handsome, he was,” recalled an old auntie.
“Not so much anymore,” said her husband. She elbowed him.
“His sermons, those were something to hear,” she continued. “So full of fire.”
Others nodded. The sermons, the Sabbath prayers, how he looked in his vestments, all dignified and solemn, they remembered it all.
“So he got promoted?” I asked. “From high priest of our little island? All the way to Azwan?”
I was impressed.
Oddly, though, my questions quieted down everyone. I received no answer, just strange looks and awkward silence. Mami handed me a platter to refill.
“That’s your cue to mind your mouth,” she said. “Go.”
“But I didn’t say anything!”
“Go anyway.”
Talk turned back to aches and pains and the sudden absence of medicine. The old folks looked troubled. For them, it was a battle between their aching bodies and their battered souls. A widowed neighbor complained of boils the healers had only made worse. That was typical, as was a newly married cousin who’d already miscarried after a spell misfired and rid her of more than her morning sickness. My cousin’s pained look added another mark to my mental tally of reasons to hate the whole Temple, or at least avoid anyone religious.
With the Azwans here, there’d be no poultice from Mami’s store of tart citrine and pungent hydrocanth for a while, or the cooling effects of witch’s wort and pai
n balm for the other aches and ills people pointed out to me. In the best of times, it was a risky business trading in herbs and tinctures and such. I shooed the curious away from jars and potted plants, tucked some in hideaways, and sent my youngest sister, Rishiel, inside with armloads of clay vials.
An uncle grabbed my sleeve. He was my father’s great-uncle, the oldest of the old, but his grip was firm. “Your father’s gone with the search party?”
“No, just to the city’s edge.”
“Along with the usual dignitaries and such, I suppose. Official entourage and all?”
I nodded.
The uncle regarded me with a gleam in his eye. His voice carried an unstated request when he spoke. “I’m sure it’s insufferably hot out there by the fens. Probably could use some refreshment by now.”
“You mean like tea?” Then his meaning hit me. He wanted me to bring the entourage some tea—and return with news. The sly lift in his smile told me I’d jumped to exactly the right conclusion.
“Mind you don’t give them any of your sass,” the uncle said. “Just show them the gracious Hadara we all know.”
I dropped my chin, my chest caving in. He spoke the truth, of course, and tempered it with a compliment, but it stung anyway. My sass—only the elderly could get away with being so blunt, I suppose. Pious girls were supposed to be quiet and deferential and wide-eyed, like Amaniel. A flush crept across my chest as I thought again of how the teacher kept trying to punish Amaniel to get me to listen. I did listen. I just didn’t think all that tree-sappy sweet behavior worth my time.
But my uncle had given me a mission, and I was off before I could keep second-guessing myself. Amaniel loaded some fresh brew into the largest jug I could carry while I nestled tea glasses in a soft towel. Only once did she hint at any jealousy.
“Wonder why great-uncle asked you to go,” she said.
“He didn’t ask; he roundabout suggested it in that way of his.”
“Still.”
“I suppose it’s safer for me to go.”
Amaniel looked offended. “I know the way as well as you. It’s not like I’d get lost or drop anything.”
“No, I meant I seem to have some invisible tattoo marked REJECTED BY NIHIL. You’ve forgotten?”
She thought it over. “I hope they reconsider after you bring them refreshments.”
That wasn’t quite the reassurance I wanted, since my goal was to never, ever be at risk of getting anywhere near a sacrifice altar, but I didn’t want to sit and argue. I balanced the jug on my head, where it wedged against the knot of a floral hair wrap I’d made myself. I hoped I looked modest enough; fashionable, but modest. It was an almost impossible trick to pull off, but the more stylish women could do it. I glanced over at Mami in her best dress, with its riot of colors and patterns, her long neck glittering with beads, her raven hair tucked beneath an embroidered scarf that tufted above her high forehead, making her seem even taller and more elegant, if that were even possible. Everyone told me I had a high standard set for me. It chafed to be constantly reminded, even as I acknowledged the truth of it: Mami was beautiful.
With no more time to dawdle, I tucked the tea glasses gingerly under an arm. The search party was out in the fens, which meant a long hike through the city, out along the winding boardwalks if I wanted to skirt the waterfront and a whole new set of gossips and worriers.
I arrived overheated and winded to where the boardwalks gave way to wild marsh grasses. A crowd of women apparently had had the same idea, and we all were carrying jugs. Some had wine in theirs. I wish I’d thought of that. Those women were at the front of the group, where men in the jade green of the Customs House and the rich blues of Ward Sapphire sipped from sturdy cups, their heads bent toward one another, their voices a studied hush that signaled some Very Important Business.
I didn’t see Babba among them. I tried to push my way forward and got an elbow to my ribs, then another to my shoulder. I couldn’t see how the other women could manage to attack me with their hands on the jugs on their heads, elbows at right angles. Both of the women who’d jabbed me kept their eyes forward, faces blank. Yet another useful life skill that school didn’t teach. At least I had one advantage. Being a tall man’s daughter isn’t always a curse. I swung my own elbow straight at the jug atop one woman’s head. It lurched enough to send the woman reeling in a panic to right it. By then, I was one body closer to the front of the crowd.
I used the same move to slip past one, then another, then another woman who gave me a squinty glare as she wiped droplets of wine from her sleeve. Then there I was, in front of a short, sturdy man in a constable’s cheery yellow long-coat, a pike by his side. He gave me an appreciative up-and-down look, even though he barely cleared my shoulder.
“That pringle mint I smell?” he asked.
“A mix of stuff,” I said, brightening. I tapped the jug. “Want some?”
“You have the prettiest eyes.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. My eyes were an odd shade of hazel, almost golden, not the usual luscious brown. I thanked him and dropped my gaze.
“Aw, don’t be like that, golden girl. You can give me a glass of tea, and I’ll give you a kiss and a secret.”
“What kind of secret?” I pretended not to hear the kiss part. The constable wasn’t going to play along, though.
“No objection to the kiss? Your father not around?”
“He’s the Chief Port Inspector,” I said, leveling my coolest glare at him.
“Ah. You’re House Rimonil. Not my lucky day after all. But no kiss, no secret.”
“And no tea.”
“You’re haggling? With a thirsty constable, out here doing his duty, guarding your lovely golden-eyed self on the hottest day of the year? With some sort of horrible something out in the swamps?”
His tone suggested he didn’t believe anything was out there. I smiled. “I think that sums it up.”
I figured his secret was something to the effect of you-have-a-tea-leaf-in-your-teeth. I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth to be sure. I lost interest in the flirty constable and looked around for someone who might know what was going on. A commotion drew everyone’s attention to the marsh. I could only make out shouting and splashing and more shouting. Deep voices and angry ones, making the throng of us women pull closer in our shared worry. The constable was once again all business, holding his pike horizontal with both hands to push us gently away from the edge of the boardwalk.
“They didn’t find anything.” The constable’s voice had dropped to a low growl.
I tried to focus on him. “What?”
“That’s the secret. I heard it earlier from a lookout.”
“Then why all that hollering?”
“They didn’t come here for our fine beverages, yes?”
I didn’t answer. A flotilla of punts and canoes pulled up to a boat launch at the end of the walkway. Guards perched awkwardly in some, while others waded ashore lugging sacks. They were soaked head-to-toe, and what wasn’t muddy was sunburned an angry red. Pale complexions don’t do well here, and I felt a brief instance of sympathy, quickly shattered by the first scream.
The women around me shrieked and covered their mouths with their free hands. I was in front but didn’t see what they had seen.
Then I did. A pit opened wide inside me.
The guards weren’t carrying sacks, but bodies.
They dumped three men—human men—on the boardwalk with a few grunts.
“Their guides,” said a woman. “Those were their guides.”
Lamentations rose around me, adding to the confusion and noise. The men were known—I spotted one who sometimes rowed out to the fens with Mami and me for some light fishing. Why had he died? I struggled for air. The heat closed in around me, the other women pressing against me, the wails insufferably loud in my ears. I don’t shed tears easily, and I fought them off with a few determined blinks. My stomach was another story. I had to look away finally to wrestle dow
n its contents. The nausea left a bitter taste behind.
The side of the constable’s pike pressed against us. “Back. Back now.”
We listened and crept backward, the mound of bodies already giving off a sickening smell. The shouting grew louder and came from the boats. The two Azwans sat in the front punts, S’ami shaking a fist at the older one, Reyhim, who waved his arms in an exaggerated way, mocking his younger colleague. His voice was unnaturally raspy and grating, as if it had been hollowed out with a pitted knife, all jagged edges and danger.
“Oh, Nihil’s Ear, are you? I’d love to hear what he whispers in it when you tell him you brought us all the way here for a muddy hole in the ground.”
S’ami seemed too busy with his own bluster to have heard. “It’s your pernicious, money-grubbing, barbaric little tribe out here that’s to blame.”
“This ‘tribe’ was taming this jungle when your people were still crapping in the sand.”
They swapped even more shocking insults this way, words I’d never be allowed to repeat, while their sweaty guards came ashore. Several helped the Azwans out of their punts, but the men didn’t pause in their verbal duel even as they stepped ashore—and around the bodies. It was as if the dead men were a pile of rags in their way or an uneven plank in the road. The Azwans switched languages a few times to tongues I didn’t speak, but anyone who lives in a busy port long enough learns a foreign phrase or two. I recognized Tengali and some references to the stars and a man. A star man? Could that be? Oh, an astrologer. They were talking astrology.
The Temple of Doubt Page 3
