Clara Mandrake's Monster

by Ibrahim S. Amin

  A dog sat outside the tavern. He sniffed at Clara, flinched, and stared.

  "Good dog…"

  The animal's nose pulled back from her glove, but he didn't try to run when she petted him. Clara rubbed the top of his head, the backs of his ears, and he settled down.

  "Do you have a dog at home?" Chriki said. The young woman's face changed. "Oh! I'm sorry… I… I didn't…"

  "The pastries smell good."

  "Yeah. Let's…" She pushed the door open and they stepped into sticky-sweet aromas. "Grab a table. I'll get them."

  "I don't have any-"

  "My treat."

  "Thanks."

  Clara annexed a corner while Chriki stood at the counter. She sat there and her senses reached out. It was like stretching an arm, letting its fingers roam. Details sharpened where they probed. Other sights, sounds, smells faded into the background.

  Two old women ate croissants. Cups steamed beside their plates, one mint tea, the other ginger. Fragrant ghosts mingled between them.

  "…broke up with his boyfriend…."

  "…such a shame. But, you know, my grandson…"

  "…get them together…"

  "…tomorrow, for dinner?"

  They chuckled and flakes stuck to their lips.

  A young man dabbed his moustache, which was little more than a line of fluff. He cleared his throat and spoke to the empty seat in front of him.

  "I think we should… Well, it's not working out, is it? You like… things… And I like… other… things. Other people!" He groaned and held his head in his hands. "Oh, gods… She's going to stab me, isn't she?"

  Over by the door, a-

  "Here we go."

  Chriki laid the tray down, shared out cups and dishes. The beautiful explosion underneath Clara's nostrils blotted out the rest of the tavern. She picked a diamond-shaped block up by its edges. Chriki glanced at the gloves on Clara's hands, and Clara dredged her brain for excuses. She needed to leave them on because… Open sores? Too gross. Maybe… But the woman just took her own diamond between her fingertips.

  Honey, blackberry jam, and crisp, airy layers stuffed Clara's senses. She munched and crunched her way through, and wished Rayya were there to taste it.

  When the last bit of pastry vanished into Clara's mouth, Chriki stopped nibbling and put the rest of hers down.

  "Sachin thought you were…" She dropped Clara's gaze, fiddled with the teapot.

  "Yeah…"

  Blood-coloured tea poured into Clara's cup. Sour, fruity. Shadows wobbled in its depths. Ella Mandrake had always loved rosehip and hibiscus. Clara drank, washed it around her mouth, and let it fill her from head to toe.

  "They said it was…" Chriki glanced over her shoulder. "Kharjis?"

  "Yeah."

  Chriki averted her eyes again, shaped the beginnings of questions but didn't utter them. Clara sighed and just told the story. The night raid. Kharjis and swords and screams and fire. But not the monster. Never the monster. Then the escape, through the forest, to Ghadi's house. The kind woman, the road to Hogmire. The Darthuns' farm. She bludgeoned Lencia to death a second time in her memories, but trapped her there and skipped to the town and its silly, brutal, glorious game. To the wagon that brought them to Lemstras, where Rayya cried but would be okay.

  The tale hung above the tea and crumbs. For a while they both just drank, while wisps played on their faces.

  "Do you have any family?" Chriki said.

  "Only mum."

  "I'm so sorry…"

  The woman's shoulders twitched, as though she'd lunge at Clara, pull her into a hug, squeeze her. Chriki's eyes glistened. Words half-formed and died on dark lips.

  "Would you…? Would you like another pastry?"

  Clara wasn't hungry, but nodded anyway and smiled when Chriki did. The woman bounded back to the counter. She returned with a pastry twice as large as the last one. Clara bit off a piece. Chriki still smiled, but wiped the corner of her eye.

  "What will…?" She swallowed. "Will you…?"

  The woman sipped tea. Clara filled the silence before she could try again.

  "Rayya said you're an actress."

  "Oh! Yes. I… I act. On stage. In plays and…"

  "What kind?"

  "I'm in a comedy at the moment."

  "Is it good?"

  "The playwright thinks it is." She rolled her eyes. "But her idea of humour…"

  Clara gnawed the pastry, coaxed her with a question or two when the stories sagged, and let the actress share all the trials and tribulations of her craft.

  ***

  A fresh round of sobs broke out above Vasile's head. He sighed at the ceiling, and wished he could go for a walk instead of eavesdropping on their grief. But he could hardly ask his apprentice to mind the shop…

  The apothecary whistled, and drowned out the worst of it. He kept the tune up until his cheeks hurt and the door opened.

  A Kharji woman came inside, adjusted her turban, and frowned at the idol. Would she storm back out? That'd happened once before, though it may've been because he'd dropped a bottle of stinkweed essence. The woman shook her head and came to the counter.

  Someone wailed upstairs. The customer looked from the ceiling to the apothecary.

  "Sorry. There's… My apprentice had some deaths in the family."

  "My condolences."

  "How can I help you?"

  The woman's eyes darkened.

  "There are rats in my cellar…"

  ***

  "Lunch?" the barkeep said.

  "Please." Silas leaned against the bar. One of his bruises groaned, and he shifted his weight. "What's good?"

  "Pork and beetroot stew."

  "Sure. Two bowls, when my… friend…" The word slotted into place easier than he'd expected. "…gets here."

  He handed over the money and crossed The Bleeding Boulder's taproom. A few drinkers and diners nodded at him from their seats, or raised a hand. All bore cuts and bruises. They might as well've been guild insignias. He returned each gesture and claimed a couple of spots at the end of a table.

  Katrina came through the door a few minutes later. The barkeep brought bowls and bread over before she'd even sat down.

  "Anything?" She prodded the stew with a chunk of crust.

  "No." Silas touched the skin beneath his eye. "How about…"

  "Too many people cavorted through those streets. Can't pick up any trails."

  Pork slid apart between Silas' teeth.

  "Do we ride on, or keep asking around?"

  "We'll spend one more night here. If we don't find anything by the end of the day, we'll leave at first light."

  "Hope she's okay…"

  They split up outside the pub. Silas wandered in a different direction from the morning, glanced at every girl's face. Maybe Clara and Rayya had eaten at that-

  "Oh! Sorry!"

  The woman's voice hit him at the same time as the rest of her. Something banged Silas' temple. He staggered, but his leg swung, the ball of his foot stamped on the ground, and he stayed up. The young woman sat down and books fell around her. One bounced off her head. She rubbed the spot and jumbled her hair into a haystack.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "At least there're no puddles…" She picked up a tome, laid another on top of it. "Mad Jess'd kill me if I ruined one of these."

  Silas gathered a few of the heftier volumes, then frowned.

  "Mad Jess?"

  "Oh… That's what we call the professor. Her name's Jessica, and…"

  "Long legs, with more muscle than most people's whole bodies? Talks like-"

  "Like this, what? That's the one."

  "She's a professor?"

  "Ancient history and languages. Speaks things most people don't know exist. Amy."

  "Amy?" Silas tried to recall if his tutors had mentioned such a tongue. "Oh… Right. Silas."

  He hefted his stack. Amy's inched upwards.

  "Just put them on top." Her knees and shoulders shook.


  "Why don't I carry them?"

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. I'd like to see your professor."

  Her face sank.

  "Look… I know I gave you a hard knock, but there's no need to complain. I wouldn't mind with any of the others, but Mad Jess makes us do sprints. Sprints! And sometimes-"

  "I just want to talk to her about someone."

  "Oh. Okay. That'd be great then…"

  Silas bent his legs and let her slide her books atop his. He wedged the portable library under his chin.

  "It's not far," she said. "Just up this way…"

  Amy led him down an alley. At the other end, mansions surrounded a courtyard. She unlatched a gate and held it open for him.

  "That's a noble crest." He tilted his upper body at the gatepost. "The Viovania family."

  "This used to be theirs, before they donated it."

  "A whole house?"

  "One of the Viovanias really liked ancient languages. Or the professor. Probably the professor. Unless she just beat it out of him."

  They went through a side entrance, into a corridor. Amy knocked on the second door along.

  "Come in!"

  The voice and volume were familiar. She might've been barking a command mid-game. Amy turned the handle, shoved it open, then stepped back. Silas carried the tomes inside.

  "Put them anywhere." Jessica leaned over the codices and papyri on her desk. She glanced up. "And… Silas? What the devil are you doing here, old chap?"

  "The books were heavy," Amy said. "So…"

  "Students…" The professor shook her head. "Weak as kittens, half of them. You can go."

  Amy shut the door behind her. Silas set the books down against the wall, beside a similar pile, and made a few adjustments when it swayed.

  "Fancy enrolling? Might be able to get a good school football team going."

  "No. Thanks."

  A red and black gown hung on the back of a chair. The hat that rested on the seat resembled a gateau. The rest of her attire was more practical, but just as fine. Silas tried to place her alongside the woman with a sackcloth tunic and blood dripping off her knuckles.

  "You're a… teacher?"

  She grinned.

  "Surprised, what? Can't make a living kicking the old bladder around and knocking people's teeth out. Look, I'd love to chat about the game… Talk both your ears off… But I have to be getting back to this. Texts don't translate themselves, worse luck."

  "Sure. I'll just… Listen, do you know what happened to Clara and Rayya? Are they still in Hogmire?"

  "No, they'll be off in Lemstras by now."

  "Lemstras? You're sure?"

  "That's where they wanted to go. Saw them onto the cart myself, not long after the game. Merchant took them. Chap named Simon."

  "Oh… Thanks."

  Jessica nodded. Silas went out into the corridor, left the school, and jogged back to the pub.

  ***

  Rayya, Sachin, and his master stood around the counter when Chriki brought her back. Redness threaded her friend's eyes. But Rayya held Sachin's hand, rested her head on his arm, and a smile played on her lips. Clara tried to match it.

  "If you're thirsty…" The apothecary fiddled with a sprig, plucked pale green buds one by one. "…there's still some tea upstairs."

  "I'm okay, Mr…."

  "Zarabanov. Don't try to say it. No one else does. Vasile." He finished stripping the sprig, put it aside, and picked up another. "So… You two'll need somewhere to lay your heads."

  Rayya looked up at her brother.

  "We thought… maybe we could stay with you?"

  Sachin and Chriki exchanged glances.

  "We…" he said.

  "It's just…" she said.

  Vasile snorted.

  "I've seen their place. Barely room for one person to lie down straight, let alone four. His old room upstairs is better, but youngsters will put up with anything so they can have a bit of-"

  Sachin coughed.

  "…privacy in the morning. And they weren't going to have that with my thin walls."

  Gazes drifted to jars, bottles, and floorboards.

  "Anyway… I haven't had any luck getting a lodger to fill it yet. You're welcome to it tonight…"

  "Thank you," Rayya said.

  "Yeah, thanks," Clara said.

  "But if you want it long-term, I can't afford to let it go for nothing. Room and board cost money."

  "We'll work," Rayya said. "If there's anything…"

  "Rayya's clever." Sachin squeezed his sister's hand. "Just like me. And you said you might need a shop kid, now I'm messing with mixtures all the time."

  "And turning things purple…" Vasile scratched his jaw. "The stuff in the cellar needs putting in order, for a start. I could maybe find enough chores for one."

  Clara's stomach murmured. This was it. Rayya had family, a place in the world. She didn't. But she kept her face steady. Maybe she'd prowl the alleys like a stray cat. Or run away into the forest and live with the wolves. Kill deer, squat by their carcasses, chew bloody chunks with the rest of the pack. Whatever happened, she wouldn't be a chicken. She wouldn't stumble around till she-

  "There might be something at the theatre." Chriki touched Clara's shoulder. "Odd jobs. Lugging things around, helping with the stage and props. I'll ask."

  "Thanks."

  Clara's fingers curled inside her gloves. Her claws tingled. She tore her thoughts away from murky futures, but her smile quivered.

  ***

  Rashida took a deep breath. It didn't help, but she took another, whispered a prayer.

  "Allat guide me."

  She composed her face, checked it in the mirror. Her smile wobbled. Her hands did too, and purple-blackness sloshed inside the goblets. The imam prayed until they stopped. Her smile returned, but it was a gash on the mirror-woman's face. She discarded it and waited till something better found its place there.

  "Allatu Akbar."

  Rashida went to the study door. She put the goblets down on her desk, turned the handle, eased it open a crack. Shadows covered the hall. Fahmaia Hashad knelt at their centre, hands cupped in her lap, gathering her prayers.

  The imam reached for the goblets and her heart thumped. Which way round? Had she put them down this way, or that way? If she got it wrong… No. She knew which was which. Djinn wouldn't vanquish her by whispering doubts in her ear, thwart her from doing Allat's will. Rashida Al-Taquba picked up both vessels and nudged the door further open with the toe of her shoe.

  Fahmaia murmured the last words of her prayer. The mawlana's hands rose. Palms, fingers, and pieties washed over her cheeks. She smiled at the imam. Her markings swam in shadow.

  "Did the One Goddess reveal anything new?"

  Rashida sat and offered the cup in her right hand. Fahmaia accepted it, mouthed a word of thanks, and gazed at the blackness within. The imam's heartbeat pounded through her body, echoed in every muscle.

  "No visions. Allat waits for us to fulfil our promise."

  Scripture snaked across her brow. Words flashed in Rashida's skull. That verse warned against false prophets and the evil they wrought in the name of piety. A sign? It must be! Allatu Akbar!

  "I know our presence troubles you."

  "No, mawlana! I…"

  "I understand, truly. Those of us who serve the One Goddess with steel as well as prayer must seem savage to you who dwell in the cities, and do other portions of her work instead."

  "Forgive me. I… We…"

  Her hand shook. She brought the goblet to her lips. A sip became a glug, then a quaff. Sweetness and fire filled her head and hit her brain faster than they should've. The world shone at its edges. Fahmaia drank too, just a taste. Rashida wanted to scream.

  "Allat asks hard things of us all. The sacrifice, the burden, has fallen on you as well as Barzik's warriors."

  The mawlana drank again. Rashida's throat tightened. She couldn't breathe! She'd picked the wrong cup! She was going to… to�
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  "Are you all right?"

  "I…" The imam's mouth widened and hung from her face.

  "Let us pray. Together."

  Fahmaia drained her goblet. Rashida's features froze. Her body shook.

  "Imam? You look… look…"

  The mawlana's brow creased. Her eyelids quivered. Fingers twitched and the goblet rolled on the carpet. Fahmaia thudded on her side. Spasms wrenched her body. Her spine bent backwards, forwards, stretched her out and crunched her up into a ball. Limbs flailed, drummed. They flopped like trout on the planks of a fisherman's boat.

  Rashida exhaled.

  The stairs creaked. Jasmina's voice floated down.

  "Mawlana? Are you…?"

  The imam snatched up her goblet, grabbed at the other, fumbled. She swore under her breath and grasped it. Rashida ran for the doorway. The balls of her feet launched her, almost didn't touch the floor. She tossed the cups into an armchair. Closed the door. Leaned against it. Sucked the whole universe into her lungs.

  Wood pressed on the back of her head, and the cry from the other side shuddered through her skull.

  "Mawlana!"

  Rashida Al-Taquba shut her eyes and prayed.

  14

  "That's a large camp." Katrina patted her horse's neck. "I didn't think any of the gypsy caravans were nearby this season."

  Campfires dotted the horizon. Flame and moonlight daubed wagons, far across the plain. Silas moved to tie the animals but she waved him back.

  "Let's pay them a visit. They might have decent rations to swap. Maybe a story or two."

  "If they wanted company, they'd've camped closer to the road."

  "Gypsies always have time for trade and tales."

  Silas shrugged and they tramped over the grass with their steeds. The nearest fire was some distance from the rest, away from where the wagons rested and horses grazed. Groups of men and women crouched around the others, but only two gypsies sat here. The pair stopped eating. They watched the monster hunters approach.

  "Sastipe." Katrina bowed her head.

  "Hello," the woman said.

  The man nodded to them and Silas did the same.

  "I'm Katrina, of the von Talhoffers. This is Silas, of the Renshaws. Which clan do we have the honour of meeting?"

  The two gypsies glanced at one another.