Scribes

by James Wolanyk

  A renewed round of cheers and jeers went up as Josip’s legs tangled and bowed, sending him sprawling to the tiles. His mug shattered nearby.

  Anna wanted to protest the tracker’s logic, her thinking mind adamant that vengeance was misguided passion, but she couldn’t muster the wisdom to fight back. This is Radzym’s fate. This was the fate of every wicked man in Rzolka, and if the tracker told the truth, then Bilge was the first of her wishes. “Is it just him? He’s the only one they’ll kill?”

  “Bilge, and anybody who stands in front of him,” the tracker said.

  Anna nodded, even as her thinking mind flared with the approaching violence of that reply. “I’m ready.” In the same breath she watched the Dogwood warriors shoving one another with primal noises, brandishing ruji and long knives and hammers. She saw her rune still pulsing beneath the tracker’s burlap. There was no way she could mark them all in good faith. And between Nacek and Teodor, drinking from his flask as though he’d never see another drop in his life, was Konrad. His manner mirrored those around him, as did his black paint, but he remained as handsome and youthful as he’d been on the platform, and Anna swore that he glanced in her direction. “I’ll only mark the captains,” she added as the tracker tried to turn away.

  The tracker scratched his burlap. “Sun have you cracked yet?”

  “Only the captains.”

  After a moment of hard gazing, the tracker hummed and rocked back on the heels of new boots. “That’s the southern way.” Before Anna could ask what he meant, he added, “Lead from the head of the spear. Right. That’ll keep them in place. Lowest rungs might be too prideful to like it, though.”

  “We don’t know if we can trust them yet.”

  “Nobody worth a pinch has heard of Dogwood betrayal. You can trust them.”

  “Until they desert you,” Anna said. She sensed the cracking shell of the tracker’s certainty, and she chipped away with concerned glances at the crowd. “If I mark them, they might just slip away. And they’d be safe too.”

  The tracker considered the scenario for a moment, surveying the warriors and their antics. Finally he gave a nod. “There’s some sense in letting the captains hold the whips.” He lifted the edge of the burlap and drained his mug. “Mark the captains, panna.” His voice became more ardent with every word. “This is where it begins.” He looked past Anna and toward the men at her back, raising his mug with a heavy swing. “This is where it begins, dibelka!”

  The warriors rattled metal against metal, let out wild screams, and pounded their heels against tile. Anna couldn’t center, let alone hear, her thoughts.

  But the tracker left her abruptly, wandering into the center of the clearing and letting candlelight form black tracts across his mask. He motioned for Anna to follow, using his mug-bearing hand to lead salutes, and sparked a chain reaction of belly-born cries.

  Anna stepped into the eye of the storm, swimming in the fervency and ocean of gazes. Tremors in her fingers niggled at her thinking mind and its illusion of detachment. Her heart, which now served only as a distraction, pumped faster and faster, reaching a crescendo as she noticed Konrad at the forefront of the circle.

  It’s only because he was kind to you. It’s only because he showed you attention and gave you a flower. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Somehow, to another part of her, it meant everything.

  The tracker addressed the crowd—with success, if waves of applause were any measure—but Anna’s attention was elsewhere.

  She thought of Radzym and Bilge and even Konrad, who had to survive because he didn’t deserve death. It will obey, she thought of hayat, unafraid of its abilities in spite of the day’s prior testing. Having made the marks, her compulsions were muted. There was only the familiar humming in her fingers, waiting to form another vessel through blood. Deeper still was the bitterness behind her gifts, the knowledge that she could always spare others, yet her own flesh was deprived of its power.

  That she might always be a victim.

  The tracker’s speech ended, masked behind a haze of shouting, and six captains emerged from the crowd. They formed a line, streaked in black and wordless, their only hint of emotion found in Konrad’s curled-lip grin.

  Something metallic glinted at Anna’s side, and upon hearing a distorted command from the tracker, she absently reached out and seized the object: a thin, clean blade. All other thoughts faded as Konrad stopped only a hand’s width from her. Youthful eyes shined, and the luminous triangles across his flesh, their edges rolling, formless, smooth, grew brighter by the second.

  He was staring at her, flashing those impossibly white teeth, encouraging her.

  He’ll come back untouched, Anna told herself as the blade touched his skin. She lost herself to the hayat and its staccato impulses. The wisps pulled her hand and lulled her out of thinking, out of feeling, out of concern for anything except perfection.

  Upon finishing Konrad’s rune the crowd erupted in cheers. A parting, boyish smile was all Konrad gave her before he fell back in line. The next captain approached, and Anna realized that he too would come back untouched.

  She lifted her blade.

  Chapter 16

  Her door was a reflective slab of tempered iron, or steel, or some alloy never seen in Bylka. The orza produced a small brass cylinder and traced a design across the door’s surface, concealing the exact pattern from the accompanying Dogwood guards using her body. In turn, mechanisms clanked and whirred, followed by slamming noises from the top to the bottom of the slab, sending tremors through the tiles.

  The slab swung inward.

  Anna stared at the now-empty space, her vision hazy with the lingering burn that accompanied hayat indulgence. The door was nothing like ruj, or the kator’s humming, and she hoped that her instructors would explain its workings in the coming days.

  The orza stepped inside, then glanced back over her shoulder. “Please, dear, do enter. It’s your home, after all.” A subtle sweep of her hand discouraged the Dogwood from accompanying them inside.

  Home. It was bizarre to hear the word after cycling through cities and quarters. After assuring herself that she had no home, and didn’t want or need one.

  All of that seemed irrelevant when she entered.

  It had high ceilings, opaque white curtains, cushioned couches and exotic skins across the floor. Tables with fruit-filled golden dishes filled the atrium. Through a curtained archway was a bed and desk. Her bed. Beyond that, a balcony stared out at the city, shrouded by a leather awning. Cardamom and honey filled the air. The walls were lined with alcoves, scroll cases and bookshelves, jars, vases, tapestries, mosaics.

  She was lost in the opulence of it all, but when Anna remembered Shem, reality returned like descent in the capsules, cold and sinking in the pit of her stomach.

  “The Huuri,” Anna reminded her. “He’s a friend of mine, and I’d like to know where he is.”

  The orza’s eyes lit up. “Ah, yes, of course. It’s a sweet boy. Bora was instructed to bring It back to these chambers once It had finished Its tasks. It should be in the private chambers, just over there.” The orza pointed to a small, gold-inlaid door across the room, nearly indistinguishable from the wall’s patterning.

  “He,” Anna snapped. “He’s my friend, not an It. His name is Shem.”

  The orza nodded slowly. “Such confusion is regrettable. The Huuri, in these lands, do not often progress beyond their natural role.”

  Anna thought to apologize, to blame exhaustion, but she thought better of it. Her head throbbed with remnants of cheering and the fatigue of hayat, but it wasn’t enough to pacify her. It broke her to think of Shem working all day, tireless though he was. In Shem’s stories of Nahora, the Huuri were architects and equals. Here, they called him It. Anna looked away and slumped into a nearby chair.

  “Things will be fine, dear,” the orza said. She mov
ed to the doorway, her smile flickering. “You’ll find comfort in these walls.”

  Anna studied the woman’s maternal eyes, her sheepish hands joined at her midsection. “I know.”

  “Anna,” the orza said with a guarded edge. “Could I extend a question to you?”

  “Of course.”

  The orza’s gaze roamed the wall tapestries. “Your attendant—”

  “He isn’t my attendant,” Anna said. She saw the orza’s unease burgeoning behind makeup and dim lighting. There was something coy about her question, and Anna was too tired to feign restraint. “Do you know his name?”

  “Dear,” the orza said curtly, “I’m sure you know that such men have preferences buried in their spirits. This man prefers to live without his given name. Does the understanding reach you?”

  “You know it?”

  “It has been heard,” the orza admitted. She cast a glance over her shoulder, scanning the empty doorway for visitors. “Yet I would prefer not to say it aloud. I can’t imagine that you would either, Anna. If we can cooperate without the minutiae of given names, then I see no reason to dig for the heart of his truth.”

  “You’re right,” Anna lied. She’d shelve the issue for another day. There was power in names, after all, especially for living creatures. Even children couldn’t love a hound without naming it. “I’m sorry. You wanted to ask about him.”

  “Just one thing, dear. I don’t mean to inquire too deeply, either. . . .”

  Studded boots clacked over tile, coming to rest in the doorway without revealing their wearer. A fragile silence crept over the orza’s words, her voice tapering off in a hum.

  “Merely gift suggestions,” she finally said, though there was no luster in her ensuing smile. She offered a shallow bow before moving to the doorway. “Dreams guard you, Kuzashur.” She exited without waiting for a reply, the door’s mechanisms giving a final shudder as the slab locked in place. Then all was quiet, and only the hum of Malijad’s nightlife remained.

  Anna stared at the space where the orza had been, anxieties churning, before turning toward Shem’s chamber. She moved quietly to the gold door, opened its latch, and stepped into darkness.

  A single candle threw light upon the low ceiling and windowless walls. It was suffocating, but its design mirrored that of the larger chambers, with gold furnishings and a desk by the bed. In some ways it felt like a mockery. Shem was curled up peacefully beneath a single cotton sheet, the smooth curve of his skull and ever-visible eyes illuminated. Red-splotched bandages covered his hands.

  “Do you see your teeth marks?”

  Anna’s body tensed. She recognized the impassive voice hiding among the shadows to her left, only detecting the northerner’s sigils and shaved head once her eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Did you bandage him?” Anna asked. She moved to Shem’s bedside and met his glowing eyes through the skin, wondering if he could still see in sleep. “Bora, did he—”

  “Six heshi of cracking coal, operating levers, and moving the iron rods that emerged from flame.” Bora stared at the boy’s hands. “They are instructed not to wait for the air to sap their heat, child. Their flesh eventually builds upon itself in time, so that they no longer feel the pain. Shem’s flesh does not have such training.”

  “I can take care of him, Bora.” Chills emanated from the darkness around Bora. “He won’t work anymore.”

  “I want you to look upon him,” Bora said. “See what he sustained for you.”

  “It wasn’t for me,” Anna said, even as she turned and examined the bright red stains leaking through the bandages. She frowned. “You don’t think I made him do this, do you?”

  “It was for you,” Bora replied. “Every hesh of his labor, he asked for you. He didn’t want my bandages, because he said that you would mend his broken flesh. He trusts only you.”

  “I didn’t ask for it to happen,” Anna said. “I stopped it.”

  “You cannot stop zeal,” Bora said, rising from her chair and taking a step toward Shem’s bed. “Even if you spare his hands, he will give his back for you. He will give his sight and his speech for you, child. Just as the men on the kator did.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “Not in any conscious sense,” Bora said. “But your shell bears responsibility. You were at fault from the moment you crawled out of the womb.” Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, sweeping back and forth over Shem’s body. “Fate may not be the truth of this world, but a swinging axe must eventually come to rest, whether in sand, or timber, or viscera. Violent things have predictable courses.”

  “You said you could teach me how to think. It was working too, I swear it. I’m doing my best.”

  “Perhaps,” Bora said, “but your best does not absolve your marks, child. I don’t seek to condemn you.”

  “So why accuse me?”

  “Part of my teaching is consciousness. How do you expect to see the truth of this world if you’re unaware of the harm that you cause?” Anna opened her mouth, but the thinking mind pulsed in her, latching onto Bora’s words and calming the anger they stirred. “He will not be the last. My lips moved with certainty when I told you about the flatlands. Many will kill for your markings, many more will die.”

  Anna frowned. “And you respect the orza enough to let me live?”

  “No,” she said. “It is not a matter of respect. If I saw a threat in you, I would seize your breaths. And if I saw evil, I would destroy you.” She looked at Anna from head to toe. “I see a mind in flux.”

  “So teach me,” Anna said. “Show me to the tome-men.”

  “It isn’t so simple.” Bora’s eyes drifted back to Shem. “Until today, I thought that you could be leashed, given proper time. You were reckless, but malleable. Your meditation was beyond anything I had ever seen, child. The way you centered . . .” She appeared steeped in reflection. “It is a rare thing to descend into the thinking world, but even rarer to remain for hours.” Bora tilted her chin up, the candlelight corrupting her features into grim shapes. “I saw what you did to the captain, child. There is no cage in the world that can stop this.”

  “He was wounded,” Anna said. “Without me—”

  “Truth is a murderous thing.”

  “I saved him.”

  “For what purpose?” Bora asked. “He wore the garb of a man who exists for pain, answers, and nothing more. Few shadows of this place are beyond my reach, and yet they stayed my hand upon his hood. What lies beneath his covering, child? Why has their brother been confined to darkness?”

  “Because he’s sick,” Anna said.

  “Not from the sun, I assure you.” Bora’s words were inescapable. “He is not of Nahora, surely. The orza is not foolish enough to take one of theirs.”

  “I only did as I was told,” Anna said. “Why does the man matter so much?”

  “Even I cannot be certain anymore.” Bora looked away. “Perhaps your next marking will blacken the fields beneath their feet. Perhaps it will make trees grow from their flesh.”

  “I can control it.”

  “Words are cheap, child,” Bora said. “A focused mind will only expand its grip on you. Enduring protection of the flesh is a rare but understood matter. Bringing new markings into this world will be seen as the work of gods, of prophecy. Blades from every stretch of land will march upon this place, once they uncover what your markings might do.”

  Anna glanced at Shem, then back at Bora. She spoke the truth: Her gifts would bring war, if discovered. But she couldn’t bear to lose Bora’s teachings, to risk returning to a terrified, primal state. She couldn’t immerse herself in darkness after days of light. “Do you know where they’re keeping the man?”

  “You will cause harm on your path, whether you spare or slaughter.”

  “Just tell me how to find him, and I’ll do the rest.”

  Bora’s brow
twisted into a rare angle. “It would be safer to continue to teach you,” she explained. “If I released you now, I would be freeing a rabid hound. Into the hands of assassins, no less.”

  Assassins. Anna shuddered at the word. “The orza isn’t wicked.”

  Bora folded her fingers. “No, but we are all beholden to masters. Your life is not solely within the orza’s control.” She drew a long breath to steady herself. “I have seen potential in your mind, child, but it would be a wasting of energy to force you onto a path. I can only show you the truths I detect.”

  Anna considered the northerner’s words carefully, realizing why she’d baited the tracker into his rage. Her thoughts settled around her like dying leaves, but there was no judgment in her perception, only understanding. “I marked their captains tonight,” Anna said softly. “Was it the right thing to do?”

  Bora’s eyes shone like glass. “Right and wrong are shadows of truth, child.”

  “Tell me,” Anna pressed. “Was it right if I want to help Rzolka?”

  “Such dreams are burdens.”

  “It’s all I have,” Anna hissed. She could feel her cheeks warming, the tears coalescing behind her eyes. “Just tell me what to do.”

  Without meeting Anna’s eyes, Bora moved for the small door out of the chamber. She stood as a silhouette for a long, wordless moment, as though forgetful of her intentions. Finally she replied in her enduring flat tone: “It will take some time to locate where they’ve moved this man. For now, meet me on the terraces at sunrise.” Her back straightened even further. “Alone.”

  Chapter 17

  She drank cold tea on the still-dark balcony, unable to sleep through the thumping of explosions and roars of collapsing setstone, the dreams of lolling tongues and pale bodies with bright blood. The wind pulled at her cotton nightshirt and bore the odor of smoldering metal. In the distance she noted the black monoliths of spires and buildings, but the barest sliver of orange wormed out from the horizon, creeping so slowly that it seemed frightened of what it might reveal. Sporadic popping eventually ceded to the whining desert breeze.