"An infidel?" Jasmina said.
"An apothecary."
Yasmin took it from her and left. Footsteps pounded down the stairs.
***
Clara laid the wedding dress on the table. She probed ruffles and other flourishes that belonged on a cake, brushed patches where threads frayed or hints of yellow stained the whiteness. Had a real bride worn it? It must've looked gorgeous among summer blossoms or winter snow…
She picked up the knife and slashed it. Fabric tore like flesh.
Clara wounded it a few more times. The bride's blood spattered purple blooms, reddened the snow. She tossed the dress onto one pile and took a tunic from the other. No, not a tunic… Embroidery unfurled across the table. Emerald dye had faded to grass, but the robe belonged on an emperor, or maybe a hero. Clara stabbed it, twisted the blade. Assassinated the emperor. Murdered the hero. They fell on the palace floor, raised their hands, and made long, silly speeches.
Her fingertips tingled.
Why was she using this stupid, clumsy knife? Her claws were keener, quicker, deadlier. They'd eviscerate the whole heap, slaughter all the princesses, witches, warriors, and kings. Strew the room with their guts and gore. Clara tugged the glove off her right hand, pinched the knot-
The door opened. She jumped back.
"Sorry." The man's head bobbed like a bird's. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"I was… I was just…"
"Hurt yourself?"
Clara's hand dropped to her side. The claws burned.
"Want me to take a look?"
"No! I… I'm fine. It's not… It isn't…"
"Ah. Disfigured?"
"Y… Yeah."
"Nothing to worry about. We get all sorts through here. When a performance is on, can't tell which bits are real and which are fake anyway. I'm Cyril, by the way. Those are my clothes you're ruining."
"I was just… Beth said…"
He grinned.
"I mean, I'm in charge of costumes."
He walked over to the piles, picked out the wedding dress, and held it up. The bride's corpse dangled in front of him.
"Very nice work."
"Thanks. I'm Clara."
"Right. Chriki's friend. She sent me. Would you like to see her rehearse? Seems a shame to slave away in this little cubbyhole while there's magic going on."
"Sure, but…" She glanced at the ones she hadn't butchered. "I've still got those to do."
"We can bring them with us."
He stooped and lifted the entire mound. Clara put her glove back on and followed him to the door.
"Knife. Can't slice these up without that, can you?"
Clara didn't know if the smile was forced or not, but it warmed her face. She got the blade and they went along a series of passages that wound through the building's innards. The last one brought them into a corridor with more of those wall paintings. Forests and throne rooms and the decks of ships. Then a blank, cream-coloured stretch. Cyril looked round.
"We ran out of paint."
"Really?"
"Nah. Every time a play does well, it goes up there."
"Will this one be next?"
"Heh. We'll see…"
Double doors opened into a cavern. Rows of seats cascaded away from them, down into darkness, then emerged in the aura of lantern-light before the stage.
"Sit where you want. Beth'll want me down with her, so she can complain about the outfits."
Clara found a seat in the shadows. Cyril dumped the clothes next to her and half-walked, half-skipped down a stairway. She took the topmost garment and draped it over the back of the chair in front. A shirt. A long, billowing shirt… Clara pulled it off the chair and stabbed the Kharji woman through her heart.
"Let's get this started then." Beth stood in front of the stage. She gestured to one of the wings, then took her seat. "Before Miss Playwright decides to write the scene out from under us again."
"Now look here!" Another woman sprang to her feet. The sleeves of a patchwork dress flapped. It might've been made from bits of Clara's victims. "Those changes were-"
Several people shushed her. She huffed and fell back into her seat. A harp played somewhere, and a woman strutted onto the stage. A purple gown swept behind her like a mystical river. The actress strode back and forth, crossed its full width three times before Clara recognised her. Even then, it was unreal. The face was almost Chriki's. But way she held her jaw, moved her limbs… An empress walked the stage.
"Where are my warriors?" The voice wasn't hers either. Not the girl from the pastry shop. "There's supposed to be a parade to celebrate my splendid victory!"
A man rolled in from the opposite wing. His belly bulged against his tunic.
"All dead, Majesty. They died in your splendid victory."
The playwright barked laughter. A couple of the others coughed.
"What? All of them?"
"Their spouses and children mourn as we speak."
"Then dress them in the warriors' armour. I want a parade, and I'm going to have one!"
Clara grinned and the drama bounced onward. Chriki's voice, her mannerisms, piped humour into the words like custard into a bun. Soon everyone laughed at the jokes. The playwright looked from side to side and Clara caught the edge of her smirk.
The knife continued its work. She murdered victim after victim, but didn't watch them die. The theatre really was magic. A place for strange and silly things. Even a girl with claws and scales. Maybe she'd live here, lurk beneath the stage. Pop out and scare little children until a heroine slew her. Then do the same night after night, play after play…
Clara sighed and shredded another dress.
***
Fatima paced the prayer hall. The carpet ate the sound of her steps, but each one still thudded in her head. What if the doctor's pokes, prods, and strange tests did nothing? If that apothecary's drug couldn't save her? The mawlana, Allat's chosen… If the One Goddess didn't spare her from this illness, wouldn't that be a sign? They might all perish soon after, when Allat's wrath crashed down upon them.
She knelt. Her thoughts spun, but her lips and limbs fell into the rhythm of prayer, and after a few minutes her brain and being submerged in those words, those motions. Fatima prayed for the Goddess' mercy, her blessing. She prostrated herself, touched her forehead to the floor, lifted it, and froze there on her hands and knees.
The carpet's pattern… Had it always been flawed? Fatima frowned. She'd prayed in this spot before, gazed upon those colours and geometric designs dozens of times. Maybe hundreds. How had she never noticed?
Fatima's index finger touched the splodge, then rubbed across the neighbouring fibres. She lowered her face, shifted around on all fours, and found more spots amid the dye. Fatima glared. Which idiot spilled wine in the prayer hall? She'd have to tell the imam and-
Wine.
There was…
But…
Fatima knelt there and a thousand things banged against the inside of her skull. When the study door opened, her muscles tensed. She almost spoke but bit down on her tongue let the burst of pain spread through her face. Fatima prostrated herself. Her lips fluttered but uttered no prayer. Imam Rashida passed through the chamber and headed to the washroom.
Everything in her head crunched into a single thought. If the imam performed the ritual wash before her prayers, she'd be gone for many minutes. Fatima's eyes narrowed. She sprang up, went into the study.
Several of the imam's books lay open on her desk, alongside an inked parchment, a quill, and her goblet. A single purple-black drop rested at the bottom of the cup. Fatima opened the cupboard, ran her fingers across jugs and bottles. Wine. Water. Ink. She plucked a smaller vessel from behind two others. Fatima pulled out the stopper, sniffed it, and swore. She blinked a few times. Sealed the bottle. Put it back where she'd found it. Closed the cupboard.
She knelt in the prayer hall when the imam returned from the washroom. Fatima's mouth shaped empty syllables. She gazed down at
the carpet as though she contemplated the greatness and mercy of Allat.
Her eyes and mind burned.
15
Rayya's hand trembled. She should call for Sachin. Have him come down, and… And laugh at her, like he did when she was small. Her eyes narrowed. After everything she'd been through, this wasn't going to beat her. Rayya Shimud gripped the top of the jar with her fingertips and lifted it. The spiders burst into motion. Finger-legs kicked and scuttled. One of the beasts fell off and disappeared among the bottles below. Another scurried to the bottom of the jar. A third came up towards her fingers.
"Argh!"
She shook the jar like a madwoman. Dust and spiders dropped into the junk. Rayya turned, then danced a jig when one of them appeared near her boots. She shuddered. Imagined the crunch, the goo… But she managed to get past without stepping on it.
Rayya put the jar into the box with the other things, took a deep breath. Spices, herbs, and something like melted wax, fought inside her nose. Apothecary perfume. She smiled, picked up her spoils, and went up the cellar steps.
"Spiders?" Sachin looked round from the table.
"No…"
She sighed. He grinned and her mouth widened with it.
"Vasile likes them." He got up. "They don't mess with the stock, and they eat the things that might."
He held out his arms.
"It's okay." Rayya went past him and set the box down. "Not that heavy."
She took out the jar she'd liberated from the arachnids, wiped it with a forearm. Greyness smeared her sleeve. Her grip slipped off the lid when she tried to open it.
"Let me…"
"I can do it." Rayya shifted her body and held it away from him. "Vasile will think I'm useless if I need you to do everything."
"He isn't even here."
"That's not the point."
She braced it on the table, rubbed both hands on her breeches, and got a better grasp. Her fingers hurt, but the lid popped. She put it aside and sniffed. Mushrooms and mould. Rayya shook a piece out into her palm.
"Mum used to make these into tea, when we were sick."
"Old wives' tale," Sachin said. "They don't do much in a tea."
"I loved drinking it."
"Yeah. Me too…"
She put it back in, closed the lid, and wrote the mushroom's name on a sliver of parchment. Rayya bound the label to the jar and put it on a shelf. Sachin peered over her head.
"He'll like that. Vasile says he can never read my writing. Yours always was neater."
She sorted through the rest, while Sachin chopped, soaked, and mangled herbs. Dried leaves. Desiccated berries. Something that floated in brine. Rayya lifted it, turned it around, and frowned. She'd mistaken it for a pickled pig's foot in the gloom below, but it looked more like-
"I'll…" Sachin coughed and snatched it away from her. "I'll take that."
"What is it?"
"It's from a hanged man. Used in love tonics."
They worked in silence for a while, until the shop door opened. Rayya went out behind the counter.
"Hi! How can-"
Her throat tightened.
"Is Vasile here?"
The Kharji's eyes bored into her. Rayya took a step backwards and bumped into a shelf. A sprig of rosemary tickled her cheek. She had a knife! The Kharji had a knife on her belt! Steel. Fire. Screams. Her parents, lying in the-
"Sorry." Sachin moved in front of her. "He's out gathering herbs. Won't be back till late."
The Kharji swore. Her gaze flicked from Sachin to Rayya, and Rayya looked away.
"The mawlana's ill. We need something to cure her."
"I'm Vasile's apprentice. Maybe I can help?"
The woman swore again, but she handed him a rolled-up piece of parchment. Sachin unfurled it and read.
"This is Doctor Zubeida's hand."
"You know her?"
"I've prepared things for her before."
The Kharji's shoulders unstiffened. Sachin pursed his lips, carried on reading, then looked up at her.
"I can mix an elixir. It should do what she wants."
"Should?"
"I can't promise-"
"If she dies…" Her eyes flashed.
"Wait here."
He went through to the other room. Rayya darted after him, leaned in close, hissed in his ear.
"She's a Kharji!"
"I know." Sachin pinned the parchment's corners to a board on the wall and read it once more. "So's the doctor."
"They killed mum and dad!" Rayya winced, glanced at the doorway. The woman was out of sight and she exhaled. "You can't…"
"Doctor Zubeida's a good woman. She helps people, even the ones who can't pay. She's never killed anyone."
"They burned our village. Our house."
"Other Kharjis did. Not the ones in Lemstras. Does that girl out there look like she goes around with a bunch of raiders in the wilderness?"
"No…"
She tried to grunt but it became a sniff and her eyes watered. Sachin hugged her.
"Sit down. It's okay."
Sachin whooshed around the room. His hands, his steps, didn't falter or fumble. She'd never seen him move like this in the Shimud house. He grabbed ingredients, measured, cut.
"Mind putting some water on the fire?"
Rayya nodded and filled a pot from the jug. Sachin ground pebble-like things under a pestle. Rayya shivered. When the water boiled, Sachin threw a handful of herbs into it. He brewed and poured, mixed and sprinkled. It might've been a game from their childhood. But his eyes and lips were firm. His fingers nipped and pinched motes of dried leaves or powders, and didn't drop a single grain.
He filled a bottle, smothered a wisp of steam with the stopper, and went to the counter. Rayya held back for a second or two, then followed.
"Here you go."
Sachin put the vessel down, held onto it as he named his price. The Kharji's hand went for her belt. Rayya's mouth opened. But the woman's fingers darted to the opposite side from her weapon and Rayya swallowed the scream. The Kharji's eyes widened. She groaned.
"I forgot to bring the money."
"Oh…"
She and Sachin stared at one another. Rayya's heart quivered.
"I'll come back with it later. I swear, by the Goddess."
"I…"
"The mawlana needs this!" Her eyes hardened. Her fingers scratched at the pouch, inched towards the sheath. "I-"
"Fine." Sachin released the bottle. "Just bring the money when you can."
"Thank you."
She snatched the elixir, strode to the door, and ran off. Sachin closed it behind her. He came back and Rayya threw her arms around him.
***
Apostates moaned. Their heads lolled, torsos slumped. Spikes transfixed their wrists and ankles. Eyes looked down as Fahmaia wove between the poles, but their gazes drifted like the wind.
"Help…" The woman's tresses hid her face.
"You renounced the Goddess." Fahmaia pressed onward. "I can't save you."
The mawlana ran. The shriek chased her.
"And you renounced all the others!"
"There's only one," she whispered. "Only one."
"One Goddess, One Goddess, glaring in the sky…" The children's song drew her though she didn't want to go. "Wherever she looks, little children die."
Leaves crunched underfoot. She walked among dead trees and their music echoed above.
"Mawlana, mawlana, glaring on the ground…" Their heads giggled and rocked the branches that impaled them. "Whenever she walks, horrors will abound."
Another crunch, then a crack. Bones broke beneath her boots. Fahmaia ran and they cracked, crunched, cracked forever. Someone else ran too. A girl.
"Clara!"
The girl looked over her shoulder and laughed.
"Mawlana, mawlana, couldn't save the world! Angering the Goddess, into fire hurled!"
Fahmaia leapt, tackled her. They crashed to the ground, smashed through ribcages and femu
rs and skulls. She went for Clara's throat but the skeletal tide swept them apart and Fahmaia screamed.
Bone dust filled her mouth. Herbs and honey and-
The mawlana thrashed. Faces hovered around her.
"Get the bucket! She's-"
"Mawlana, can you-"
Foulness surged up her throat, gushed from her nose and mouth. Voices blared but no words found her brain. Her head slumped back down into softness. The bottom half of her face stung. It didn't matter. The darkness took it all away.
***
"She was amazing." Clara pulled herself up onto the counter. "Like a real queen."
"Sachin said she was good."
Rayya bent over the collection of green things, picked one up, and held it closer to the candle. She mumbled an incomprehensible word, then put it into a jar. Clara's heels drummed on the wood.
"In this one bit-"
"Clara! Could you-"
"Oh. Sorry." Her legs went still. "Want a hand?"
"Sure."
She jumped down and surveyed Vasile's bounty. Clara didn't recognise everything, but she knew enough. Together they sorted them, piece by piece.
"They turn these things into cures and salves." Rayya plucked berries off a twig. "It's like magic."
"Which one turns cats purple?"
"I don't know. But I'll make Sachin teach me."
Rayya's smile shone. Clara sucked in the smell of herbs and her muscles softened. Her friend had landed. And Rayya's head was already growing back…
Clara grinned as she sorted.
Duck. Duck. Duck. Duck. Duck.
The stairs creaked. Vasile came down into the shop, rubbed his neck, and grimaced.
"When I said you had to work, I didn't mean all night. The rest'll keep till morning."
"Thanks…" Rayya glanced up long enough to smile at him. "But I want to get them done."
Vasile looked to Clara, but she just shrugged. Rayya Shimud didn't leave things half-done. The apothecary locked the front door and took the key.
"If you need to go outside…"
"Yeah, we know," Clara said.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight," they chorused.
He went back up the stairs and the girls carried on.
"I'll be the best apothecary." Rayya scraped a mushroom. Flecks peeled away and fell onto the counter.
Clara Mandrake's Monster Page 20
