Clara Mandrake's Monster

by Ibrahim S. Amin

  "Better than Sachin?"

  Rayya smirked.

  "Always. And if you like the theatre, you'll be an actress."

  "I can't act."

  "Just pretend. Everyone in Lemstras will go see your plays, cry their eyes out-"

  "Or laugh their guts out…"

  "Gross. Then they'll come here and buy something to make them feel better. We'll make a fortune."

  "I'll break them, you'll fix them."

  "Exactly." Her smile wavered. She looked at Clara's gloved hand. "Oh… I didn't…"

  "It's okay."

  The candle flickered. They worked in silence for a minute or two.

  "Is this one mugwort?" Clara said.

  "Yeah. Just…" Rayya turned her head and yawned.

  "Go to bed. I can do the rest."

  "It isn't your job."

  "You'll be an apothecary. I'll be a Rayya-looker-afterer, so you don't forget to eat and sleep. It's fine. I'm not tired. It'll give me something to do."

  "Thanks."

  Rayya touched her left hand. Coolness tingled through Clara's flesh. Would it still feel good when Rayya held scales instead of skin? She forced a smile and wished her friend goodnight.

  Wax dribbled down the candle.

  Clara closed the last jar, swept the debris away. Her eyes weren't heavy. Even inside the shop, the night air soothed them. She left the light and meandered through the shadows. Stroked herbs on the shelves. Picked up bottles, set them back down. She wandered into the other room. Smiled at Rayya's writing on the labels. Rolled her eyes at the mess on Sachin's table.

  She went down into the cellar, wrapped herself in odours and gloom. Spiders scuttled. Miniscule eyes watched her.

  "Will I be scarier than you?"

  Spider-steps answered her, but she didn't understand them anyway. Clara thought about rummaging through the stock. Maybe something interesting or sinister lurked amid all that junk… But she could already see Rayya's scowl. She climbed back up the stairs.

  A knock echoed through the shop. Then another, and a woman's voice.

  "Hello?"

  Clara went to the front door, turned the handle. It didn't budge. She brought her face closer to the wood.

  "Sorry. We're closed. If it's an emergency, I can wake up Mr. Zarabanov. But…"

  "I need to pay him. Or the boy."

  "Sachin?"

  "He made something for me. I said I'd come back with the money. Could you…?"

  "The door's locked, and I don't have the key. Hang on…" She unlatched the shutters and opened the window. "Over here. Just pass it through."

  "Thanks. I…"

  The Kharji appeared at the window. A pouch dangled from her fingers. She stared at Clara. Clara took a breath. This girl didn't kill Ella Mandrake, didn't burn Traverd to the ground. She was just a customer, and-

  "Clara?"

  "Huh?"

  Clara blinked.

  "Is your name Clara?"

  "Yeah… How…? Hey!"

  The pouch clinked on the floor. The Kharji grasped the edges of the window and pulled herself up onto the sill.

  ***

  Ink shone. The words dried and dulled under Rashida's nose. She tried to conjure up fresh ones, but they lodged in her mind and the quill remained in the inkwell like a sword in a soldier's corpse. The imam rubbed her eyes. Everything blurred, then settled, though a haze still hung around the edges.

  She opened the cupboard and her hand stopped an inch away from the wine jug. Rashida closed it again. She went back to her desk, sat down, and pondered Allat's lore. The same scripture that covered the mawlana's skin…

  The imam closed her eyes and cupped her hands.

  "Goddess, please end Fahmaia Hashad's suffering. She has strayed, and threatens the peace and prosperity of our brothers and sisters. But you once smiled upon her. May you show her mercy in the next life, and let her atone for her sins. But please, let this be over. Insha'Allat."

  She brushed her hands over her face, picked up the quill, and translated another line. The imam dipped the nib again. Eyes and mind flicked across the next verse, envisioned the shape it would bear in the infidels' tongue.

  The door creaked.

  Rashida's breath hardened. Ink dripped, but she yanked the quill aside and it bloomed on a piece of scrap parchment.

  "Imam?" Jasmina said.

  "Come in!"

  Rashida readied her face. Dreamt up words. She'd have to console the whole community… The door opened. Jasmina came into the study, and Rashida's intestines turned to stone.

  "Is she…?"

  But the woman's eyes told the tale.

  "The doctor says she'll recover."

  "Has… Has the mawlana spoken?"

  The imam's hand quivered. More ink drops blossomed. But she steadied it, formed a phantom smile. Jasmina hadn't come with a sword in her grasp, so…

  "Not yet. She's sleeping."

  "Allat be praised. Thank you for letting me know."

  Jasmina nodded and left. Rashida put the quill down, got up, and shoved her fingers into her mouth to stifle a scream. Fahmaia would wake, speak. Denounce the imam. Send Jasmina and Azim to hack her to pieces. Or else come herself, eyes blazing, scripture flashing…

  Rashida would die for Allat. She'd become a martyr, and feast at the One Goddess' banquets. But… The imam's jaws clamped together. Teeth grated. Her congregation would know nothing of that. To them, she'd be a traitor. Perhaps even an apostate! Generations would grow up cursing her name. She tottered, put a hand on her desk.

  Words hovered beneath her. The translation… Her gift to Allat and all the souls it might save… It couldn't perish! Her work and reputation were too important. Rashida took her satchel, laid the parchments inside. She closed each book and added them too. The bag hung like a sack of bricks. Its strap dug into her shoulder.

  Rashida Al-Taquba stood in the prayer hall. Her gaze swept its walls, followed the patterns on the carpet. She wiped her cheek. The imam left her masjid and strode through the night.

  One day she'd return. After Fahmaia's folly destroyed the mawlana. Her congregation would weep and embrace her. They'd speak of her books and letters, the salvation she'd brought to the Kharji people. Her eyes stung, but she thanked Allat for the vision, prayed it would come to pass.

  Rashida's shoulder ached. She switched the satchel to the other side. Not far now. She'd take her mother's prayer beads, money, and some clothes. Hire a horse? It'd been a long time since she'd ridden. Maybe a wagon…

  "Imam?"

  Footsteps echoed in the alley. Rashida turned.

  "Fatima? Is… Is something wrong?"

  "I know."

  "W… What do you mean?"

  Rashida took a step backwards. Shadows covered the girl's face, but the knife glinted.

  "You tried to kill the mawlana."

  "Wait!" The imam took off the strap. Her fists clenched around it. "You don't understand…"

  "Allatu Akbar!"

  She lunged. Rashida swung the satchel at her head. Fatima's left arm rose, blocked it. The young woman staggered a step. Rashida pulled it back, flailed again, and crumpled. Agony twisted through her guts.

  "Fatima…"

  The bag thudded by her feet. She grasped at the girl's shirt, but her fingers wouldn't close.

  "Death to apostates."

  Fatima's cheek glistened. Rashida's legs fell away, and the night closed around her.

  ***

  Clara backpedalled.

  "What're you-"

  The Kharji's eyes shone. It didn't make sense. This was stupid, crazy. But Clara knew that look. She tore off her glove, cast it aside. The woman struggled in the window, shifted her shoulders inside its frame. Clara undid the knot, gripped the sheath of bandages, and froze.

  Rayya…

  Not here. Not here. Not here.

  Clara ran. The woman swore. Clara dashed across the back room, to the rear door. Something thudded on the shop floor. Clara tore at the bolts. Ir
on grated, clunked. She yanked it open, ran through the yard. She attacked another bolt. It caught her skin, pinched and pierced. Footsteps pounded. Wood bashed the wall. Clara sprinted into the alley, through shadows and starlight.

  She turned down another passage. A gash between two houses. Her boots ate the ground and her heartbeat pumped fire through her muscles. Was the noise closer behind now? Didn't matter. Just needed to take her as far away as possible, through the tangle of backstreets…

  Clara turned again, hurtled onward. Bricks loomed ahead of her.

  "Stupid place for a wall…"

  But as good a place to fight and die as any. Clara took off her bandage-glove, shoved it into her belt. Footfalls echoed away as the Kharji appeared.

  Clara Mandrake angled her body, hid her right hand. She took a step towards the woman and the Kharji faltered.

  "I'm sorry." The Kharji's knife hand trembled. She planted one foot in front of the other, and her knee shook too. "I…"

  Clara smiled. Her own limbs didn't twitch, save for the curl and uncurl of her fingers.

  "How do you know my name?"

  The Kharji's feet shifted.

  "If you're going to kill me, I want to know why."

  "The mawlana…" Her knuckles whitened on the handle. "I have to…"

  Clara sniffed. How had she never smelled fear before, when it stank like that? A lake of sweat and piss. And beyond it, something else…

  "Did you follow me from my village?"

  "No… Not me. The mawlana, and… I'll make this quick. I promise. She doesn't want you to suffer…"

  "You mean the snake-woman?"

  The Kharji blinked at her.

  "The one with things that move on her face. I saw her… She told you to kill me?"

  "You're the last one. We have to save the world!"

  "What-"

  The Kharji lurched forward. Her blade shivered. Clara slipped aside and clawed at her. The woman flinched, cried out. Coppery perfume tingled in the air. Clara darted, thrust her fingers at the woman's face. The Kharji caught hold of her, behind the thumb. Twisted. A digit dug into the back of Clara's hand and pain shot through her joints. The Kharji wrenched the wristlock, drove Clara down onto one knee.

  "Djinn!"

  Clara growled, thrashed. But her elbow bent and she landed on her back. The Kharji's knee crushed her ribcage, pinned her down. The blade glimmered. And Clara grinned.

  The woman's head snapped round, followed the girl's gaze to the rooftop. She made a sound. It died when the purple shape landed on her, knocked her off Clara, ground her into the dirt. Pink talons slashed and she died too. Clara sat up, held her wrist. The monster's eyes gleamed over the Kharji's corpse.

  "Hello, Clara Mandrake." His accent made each word magic. "My name is Xerachus."

  Flesh ripped under his claws.

  "She's already dead."

  "And now her death will look like the work of weapons."

  "Oh."

  "We must speak, but away from here. Come."

  The monster sprang onto the wall that severed the alley.

  "I can't…"

  But Clara got up, coiled her legs, and jumped. Her hands latched onto the top, feet scrabbled till she clambered up next to him. Xerachus nodded and jumped down on the other side. He loped away, looked over his shoulder, and carried on going.

  Clara followed, through the city's bowels. Amid the rats and refuse. He vanished but the purple-pink scent lingered. She chased it to the gates of the park, over the grass. Into the copse where he waited.

  "I've dreamed about you." Clara sat in front of him. Close enough for claws, whether pink or black. "In my room. Inside the wardrobe."

  "Just dreams?"

  "I don't…"

  "Do you remember your father?"

  "No. He died when I was… Oh."

  Her eyes closed. The shadow-man leaned over her bed. Warm fingers stroked her and she shivered…

  "He… He…"

  "Touched you. Hurt you. I stopped him."

  "Mum said…"

  "My claws were thinner then." They fluttered in front of his face, carved the air. "I slid one into his brain. She thought he had a fit, like a deranged prophet, and bled within his skull."

  Clara waited for the inner girl to shriek, for the distant child to weep over her father. But that Clara was gone. Perhaps she'd never been there at all.

  "I stopped him, but I was too late. The damage was done. When I returned to Traverd, weeks ago… when I smelled your scent… I knew. So I waited."

  "In my wardrobe."

  "I can… melt… into dark places. To hide and heal."

  "Why didn't you show yourself? Talk to me?"

  "What would you have done, Clara Mandrake? What would you have done if I had revealed myself?"

  "Screamed and run for help."

  "I had to wait for the change. But you surprised me. Sensed my presence before that."

  "You saved me and Rayya. From the Kharjis."

  "You were my responsibility."

  "Have you come to cure me?"

  "There is no cure. You will continue to change."

  "To kill me then?"

  "Do you want me to slay you, Clara Mandrake?"

  "No."

  "Then I will not."

  She held out her hand, spread her fingers. Placed her claws against his.

  "Is this where all monsters come from?"

  "Some."

  "Like you?"

  "Yes."

  "So what happens now?"

  "You cannot hide your claws and your scales forever. You must abandon this place."

  "Like a duck…"

  "I do not understand."

  "Nothing. I'll live in the forests. With the wolves."

  "No. We will wander together, until you are strong enough for this world."

  "Oh…"

  "We can leave tonight, if you wish."

  "No. I… I can't. Rayya…" She sighed. "Not tonight."

  "You are in danger. If one Kharji found you…"

  "I know."

  "Very well. I will wait for you here. Finish your human life as you see fit. When you are ready, come to me."

  "What if someone sees you?"

  "They will not."

  Xerachus stood and went to an oak, touched the crack that marred its trunk. The monster poured himself into the blackness. In moments he was gone.

  16

  "That's from the Caracallan Empire." Silas pointed.

  Cracks and pockmarks scarred the arch, but its marble still gleamed in the morning light.

  "I suppose there's a Caracallan amphitheatre on your family's estate? Perhaps a set of baths, or a villa?"

  "No! Just a…. Well, a temple." He could've sworn she smirked, but when he looked round there was no trace of it. "More of a small shrine, really."

  They led their horses towards the stables. Grooms and porters were at work, brushing manes, re-shoeing a stallion, lugging baggage. Others sat around on crates, chewed and chatted. Silas went up to the nearest loiterers.

  "Excuse me. We're looking for a couple of girls. They're about ten or-"

  "Bit young for you, aren't they?"

  The man's nose split his grin. A few people chuckled, until Katrina glared at them.

  "They're called Clara and Rayya," he said. "Would've got here a couple of days ago, on a merchant's cart from Hogmire. One's got dark skin, wears her hair in a long braid. The other's olive-skinned. She had a cut on her mouth, where she got punched."

  "Oh!" A woman came over, clutching a horseshoe. "The little footballers."

  "Yeah. You talked to them?"

  "Had to, when I saw that one's face. Thought the bloke they rode with might've done it to her. Was all set to give him the stable special…" Her doublet flexed. The horseshoe-fist snapped a right cross. "But she said it was from the game and looked to be telling the truth."

  "She was. Do you know where they went?"

  "Asked the way to Zarabanov's. The apothec
ary shop."

  "Whereabouts?"

  "You head straight down the road, then…"

  Silas nodded along to each instruction and lodged them in his brain.

  "Got somewhere to stay in the city?"

  "Not yet," Katrina said. "Know somewhere decent?"

  "Marlow's place is just up the road. Your stuff'll be safe there, and you won't wake up with things scuttling around your privates."

  Silas coughed.

  "If you stable your horses with me, my lads and lasses won't walk off with anything either. You can come back for it later, or send one of Marlow's kids. They'll fetch and carry for a couple of coins."

  Katrina paid her price. The woman shook her hand, then Silas'.

  "Might want to leave those swords here. Or stow them in your rooms. New law. Knives and daggers are fine, but you can't wear swords on the street anymore."

  "Has there been trouble?" Katrina said.

  "Ever since Traverd. You two heard about that?"

  "We were there. When the militia burned the bodies."

  "Was it as bad as they say?"

  "Worse."

  The stable-mistress muttered something that might've been a prayer or profanity.

  "We have Kharjis in the city. People've been picking fights with them, and they're giving as good as they get. Harsh words and punches in the street mostly. But last night two of them bit it. Mayor's scared and the peacekeepers are too. If they catch you carrying swords, they'll come down hard."

  "Thank you for the warning."

  "Want me to hang on to them?"

  Silas touched his pommel, but Katrina shook her head and he took his hand off it.

  "We'll keep them in our room," she said.

  Katrina took a couple of bags off her horse. Silas did the same. The monster hunters went into Lemstras, skirted a cart heading in the opposite direction, and wandered along the road. Two women in blue and black tabards accosted them before they'd gone a dozen yards.

  "Halt!" The younger woman lowered her halberd and aimed its point at Silas' chest. "By order of the-"

  The other peacekeeper sighed, grabbed her companion's weapon, and pointed it skyward.

  "Sorry. This one's new. Blasted commanders made us rush all the recruits into uniform."

  The girl reddened.

  "But she's right. No-"

  "No swords on the street." Katrina nodded. "We're on our way to Marlow's."

  "We'll walk with. Not that we don't trust you, but…"