The Jasad Heir — Chapter no 6

CHAPTER SIX

The morning of the waleema dawned in complete, unbridled chaos.

Daleel, one of the few good cooks in the keep, had baked loaves of fino for breakfast. I hurried to slice the steaming bread along the side and spoon scrambled eggs into its lumpy center. I escaped with my sandwich just as the horde of girls descended on the kitchen.

At the bottom of the hill, Sefa spotted me just as the first wagon destined for the main road departed with her aboard. She pointed a warning finger at me as it rumbled away. “Behave!” she shouted. I hadn’t spoken to her and Marek for more than a few minutes since the night in the woods. I usually struggled to secure alone time at the keep, but I had recently found myself with an excess of it. They’d been missing from dinner yesterday, and I’d caught Marek in the hall whispering urgently to Sefa the night the Heir arrived. At my approach, they had both hurriedly straightened and bid me good night.

Their strange behavior worried me. What if the Heir’s arrival had sent them into a panic? They might be tempted to turn me in and protect themselves. After all, helping me hide a murdered soldier was not much better than committing the killing itself.

I waved down the next wagon. I’d keep an eye on both of them, lest the bonds of friendship find themselves mysteriously frayed.

The wagon rattled over the bumpy ground, crates sliding with each dip and lean. I hopped out as soon as we reached the outer throng of the square.

Booths lined each side of the main road, backed by merchants dressed in the colors of their kingdoms. They shouted as I passed, pointing at their fruits and jewelry and scarves. The crisp air carried music and the notes of burned sugar and grease. The visitors from the Omalian lower villages swarmed the main road in shades of white and blue. A mass of children sat in a circle, playing with dolls in the images of the Awaleen. A woman with a red triangle scarf tied over her curls slapped a few thieving hands from her

ghorayeba platter and hollered for Yuli. Yellow coins sewn into the scarf jangled with her motion.

“I wonder if I sing the beautiful woman a song, will she dance?” A man roughly my age plucked his lute as he approached. The sweet strum of the instrument transported me to quieter nights, standing barefoot in Hirun as the river flowed around me. Several paces behind him, his partner giggled as she drummed her tubluh. “Will you give my music the honor of moving your spirit and body?”

“Certainly,” I said. “I am going to move my body far away.”

Skirting the crestfallen lute player, I almost knocked over a young man holding a tray full of steaming cups of reddish chai above the crowd. The sounds of the lute and tubluh followed, the melody weaving through the air, twining with the cries of the hawking merchants.

“An ula for your kitchen, ya anisa? Engraved by the finest artist in Lukub!”

“Abayas, abayas, come try on your new abaya! Embroidered by Orban’s Hany Barrow himself!”

My brows shot up. What merchants with the full privilege of their sanity would come to Mahair all the way from Orban or Lukub? The closest border for Orban required six weeks’ travel west, not including the voyage through the desert flats. Three weeks if they cut through Essam, but such shortcuts were rarely taken. Over thirty years later, and the siege of monsters remained too fresh. Stuck between Nizahl and Orban, a border- locked Lukub had recently expanded its territory south, into the woods. The trip to Mahair from Lukub would take a mere week traveling south—but only by braving the woods. Otherwise, any Lukubi merchant with eyes on Omal’s lower villages would need to circle through Orban or Nizahl to reach us.

Perhaps they intended to remain in Omal until the waleema in the upper towns. I heard the Omal palace preferred to host their own waleema a day or two before the Alcalah’s second trial.

Rory had given me permission to explore the booths before joining him.

I didn’t have much interest in purchasing trinkets I couldn’t take with me when I fled, but circling the road would give me an opportunity to scan for Arin and his guard. I compared daggers from Gahre masons, sampled powdered jellies, and chewed on nuts hardened in sugar syrup. I was

maintaining my frugal self-control until I reached a merchant with barrels full of sesame-seed candies. I had devoured the pile Sefa and Marek gave me in a fit of stress.

Oh, what did it matter? I filled my basket and poured ten coins into the merchant’s palm. Either the Commander would transport me to Nizahl to die at trial or I would flee this village as soon as he left. His arrival had plunged my already uncertain future into bleak nothingness. I had earned the right to fill my belly with as many of these candies as I could.

Marek hustled behind the tavern’s collar-shaped booth, pouring ales faster than should be possible. Yuli must have loaned Marek out for the day.

He waved, gesturing invitingly at an overflowing cup of ale. I shook my head at the offering with a shudder. Intoxication had always lacked any appeal. My uglier insticts were difficult to control on the best of days; I dreaded to think what could happen with my inhibitions lowered and my tongue loosened.

Since I had already planned to spy on Marek and he appeared on the verge of collapse, I heaved a sloshing barrel into my arms and set up a serving space next to him. I lost myself in the routine of scooping and pouring. The attention of so many strangers scraped against my nerves, but they were better than Mahair’s residents, who had taken it upon themselves to try to gossip with me about the Nizahl Heir. Increasing the general inebriation level of the crowd would serve me well.

When the surge lapsed, Marek flung himself to the ground, pressing his cheek to the well-beaten rug. “Sylvia, I love you,” he said. “I will bring you flowers and sesame-seed candies until the day I die.”

I nudged his head with my boot. “I would rather have the candies and a portion of your earnings.”

Marek laughed, rolling onto his back to look at me with dancing eyes.

“How un-Omalian of you to ask me for money.”

“How un-Omalian of you not to accept.”

His smile slowly disappeared. A solemnity passed between us, heavy with words unsaid. Neither of us belonged to Omal, yet neither of us laid claim to our true kingdoms. I doubted Marek or Sefa had considered the possibility I was a Jasadi. I had not performed a single act of magic in the entire time they had known me. But they must have suspected I was more than I claimed.

Marek’s replacement arrived to relieve us. We lounged in Nadia’s borrowed chairs and watched two men grappling on the platform. The fights were my favorite part of the waleema. Mahair’s craftsmen constructed a raised platform for the matches taking place between the first and last hour of the waleema, with the last hour reserved for serious contenders.

Buckskins and boiled leather cushioned the platform, preventing a hard fall from cracking open any skulls. Men and women hoisted themselves into the ring for a chance at victory. There could be no celebration of the Alcalah without a competition, and Mahair preferred the physical kind.

“Are you competing?” I asked Marek.

He lifted a shoulder. “Could be.”

I stifled a snicker. He’d be in the ring within an hour. I’d always wanted to compete. Indulge the tempting opportunity to win the prize and buy myself a new cloak with nothing more than an hour’s effort. But I could not risk exposing my skill.

You mean exposing your savagery, Hanim said. Would they treat you the same if they knew you could snap a man’s neck without a thought?

I shoved a candy into my mouth, crunching until I drowned out Hanim’s voice. I wound my way back to Rory’s booth. A cheer rose as performers leapt from roof to roof, swiping long torches to light the lanterns hanging over the road. A rosy haze illuminated the mosaic of fire above us. Children chased each other, dodging legs and swinging baskets, their laughter ringing louder than the lute players’ cheery melody. Mahair in its full glory.

For the next hour, my voice grew hoarse explaining the purpose of each oil and ointment to the visiting Omalians while Rory snored lightly on my right.

By the time Fairel crashed into the booth, I was ready to hurl a jar at the next person who asked why we used frog fat in the plaster. Someone had tried to braid Fairel’s short hair into twin tails. The resulting braids curved over her ears like a ram’s horns. A smear of what I fervently hoped was chocolate covered her nose, and she wore a clean, lovingly tailored frock woven in Omal’s white and blue. I had seen her running between the booths all afternoon, dragging around the chairs Nadia loaned to the Gahre merchants. Her Orbanian work ethic at full play.

“Are you busy?” She vibrated with anticipation. “Raya said I can watch the matches if I have company.”

A lemon would shudder at the sour pucker on Rory’s face. “Why would you go with Sylvia? There are plenty of small urchins gathering at the matches.”

Fairel lowered her eyes. “Sylvia is my only friend, and I want to watch them with her.”

Rory and I glanced at each other, sharing in the unease of me being anyone’s only friend. He waved a hand. “Off with you, go.”

I gritted my teeth before taking Fairel’s small hand and weaving through the crowd. I had on loose white pants that rose high on my abdomen and cinched at my ankles. Two slits cut into the sides of my tunic allowed me to knot it just above the band of my pants. Though gowns were the standard fare for a festival, I had dressed in case of a sudden need to flee.

Each person on the platform dedicated their fight to Kapastra. No Omalian Champion had triumphed in the Alcalah for over ten years, but reality did not prevent excitement from buzzing around the villagers. Even if their Champion lost, the Nizahl Heir was choosing his Champion from Omal. An Omalian had twice the chance of winning the Alcalah, even if they did so in Nizahl’s name.

The crowd undulated, crowing as a short woman with shaved hair knocked Yuli’s son to the leathers. Odette, the butcher’s daughter and the waleema’s reigning fighter.

“Why don’t you fight?” Fairel asked. “You’re strong. I helped you clean Yuli’s stables one summer, remember? You carried the heaviest crates and controlled the biggest horses.”

I glanced at Fairel, surprised. I took care not to reveal my strength; she must have snuck up on me.

I was at a loss. Why didn’t I fight? The Nizahl Heir was already in Mahair. He knew me as a swindler, an orphan, a liar. Discovery arrived in my village despite my best behavior—recent murder of a Nizahl soldier aside. Why not join the challengers? My magic certainly wouldn’t react one way or the other.

I shook away the petulant musings. I planned to save self-pity for my deathbed, and not a minute before.

“It wouldn’t be kind to the others,” I said.

Fairel speared me with a glance entirely too mature for her age. “Since when are you kind?”

My mouth opened. Fairel said it matter-of-factly, without skipping a beat. “I like it about you. Sometimes, I do not want to be kind, but Raya says we must treat others better than they treat us.” She scrunched her face to mimic Raya’s characteristic scowl. “We must value our differences and lead with a welcoming hand. If someone slaps my welcoming hand, why shouldn’t I slap them back?”

I laughed so hard I snorted, startling the couple ahead of us. I caught my breath, nearly descending into a new fit of giggles at Fairel’s braided horns.

“Oh, I need to check on the chairs!” Fairel yelped, dashing away before I could stop her. Wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, I debated whether to follow Fairel or hunt down the girl selling basboosa studded with roasted almonds and drenched with so much sharbat I’d smelled it from three stalls away.

My neck tingled. I brushed my fingers over my braid.

Someone was watching me.

I scanned the crush of revelers moving through the main road. I would bet my right elbow the Nizahl Heir had joined the waleema. He was here somewhere.

If my suspicions about Marek and Sefa were true, Sefa might have information about the Nizahl Heir. I needed to understand how exactly he possessed an ability to sense magic. Did it require his hands, or was it any skin-to-skin contact? Was he immune to magic?

I tracked down Marek, cheerfully bruised after his beating from Odette.

“Where is Sefa?”

He sobered instantly. “Why? What’s the matter?”

I suppressed a groan. Were it not so infernally annoying, I might find his constant protectiveness over Sefa sweet. “I ask your leave to speak to her, oh wise Marek.”

Marek rolled his eyes. “I saw her with Raya. A patron is trying to halve the price of a gown with ‘wobbly stitching.’ She would probably appreciate a rescue.”

I swiped my basket from under the booth and edged around the crowd, straining to find Sefa’s head. But Sefa was not the person I saw approaching me, a gray hood pulled over his telltale silver hair.

As it had by the river, the rest of the world bled its colors, turning gray to outline the Nizahl Heir in sharp relief. He glided through the throng. The

cacophony of the waleema faded as my senses narrowed on the threat.

His guards wore similarly bland clothes. The disguises would crumble under any scrutiny, but people were moving around the Nizahl brigade without a second glance.

“Your Highness.” I bowed my head. “An honor to see you taking part in

our humble waleema.”

“The honor is mine alone, Sylvia.”

He said my name with subtle contempt. A five-letter accusation. An acknowledgment of my most successful lie.

Arin’s attention slid to my basket. “Quite the bundle of sesame-seed candies you’ve acquired.”

I eyed him. A predilection for tooth-rotting sweets was hardly unique to Jasadis.

“I seem to have come upon my own sample of the candy.” He reached into his pocket and I tensed. Surely he would not try to injure me at a crowded waleema?

The Nizahl Heir pulled out a sesame-seed candy. Its distorted pink wrapping plucked at my memory. Unless requested, these candies weren’t typically sold with individual paper wrapping. The wrapping protected the hardened sugar from melting, but the onerous task of folding the paper

dissuaded most merchants.

“I believe it belongs to you.”

At my bewilderment, Arin flipped the candy onto his gloved palm. “I found it floating in a puddle two miles past the raven-marked trees. Strange, is it not? How might such a candy have fallen so far into Essam?”

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Sour fear surged into my throat. I had dropped a sesame-seed candy the night I crossed the raven-marked trees. I’d hesitated to fish it from the pungent puddle. Seconds later, the Nizahl soldier had confronted me. I never retrieved it.

His expression was a study in civility. He might have been inviting me to tea instead of accusing me of trespassing. Where the Supreme manipulated with charm and grand speeches, his son could be chiseled from pure ice.

Everything inside me screamed at me to act. Shove my blade into his chest, hurl coins into his eyes and run, something. We’d taken the soldier’s body not too many miles from where the candy fell. All I could do was

hope Hirun had done its job and carried the corpse to a different part of the river. Without a body, this piece of candy alone couldn’t link me to the soldier’s disappearance.

Adopting a guileless, unaffected tone, I said, “Am I the only person in Mahair who enjoys sweets? Perhaps one of your soldiers had a craving.”

The scar cutting across his jaw caught the lantern light when he tilted his head. A wound made doubly disturbing by the fact that it was meant to kill.

And by appearance alone, it should have succeeded.

“Try again,” he said.

“What?”

“Think of a better lie. You’re capable of it.”

I gritted my teeth. If he aimed to prick my temper into revealing the truth, he needed a stronger arrow. “I apologize if my honesty is without adornment.”

He tucked the candy back into his pocket. I wanted to snatch it away and dash it under my boot. Thanks to my cuffs, exposing me as a Jasadi would be a lofty task. But I had concealed the soldier’s death hastily, without a quarter of the care I’d spent on concealing my identity. Either offense ended with my death.

An invisible noose tightened around my neck. If he intended to slowly chip at my sanity, his progress could not be faulted. I had always imagined my discovery as a brief, brutal affair. Like Adel’s. I had prepared myself for the lion, not for the circling vulture.

His implacable demeanor infuriated me. Enough for my tongue to loosen and say, “When will I have proven my innocence to you?”

“Your innocence?” Though his smile didn’t falter, the veneer of detachment dropped. He looked at me like sheer willpower alone prevented him from tearing me limb from limb.

This man is going to kill you, Hanim whispered. If not today, then someday soon.

Arin raised a gloved hand. I didn’t flinch as he drew a leaf from my braid. When he spoke, it was almost soothing. Rueful. “You cannot prove

what doesn’t exist.”

A faraway shout. “The horses!”

The Commander turned his head. He paused, features going blank as he listened for something beyond my ears. I remained fixed to the spot,

struggling to convince my pounding heart we were not seconds from death.

“Sire?” Jeru shuffled closer.

The musical troupes abandoned their instruments, plunging the festival into a confused silence. The blare of trumpets shook the air.

Movement rippled around me as one by one, the people of Mahair, drunks and children alike, dropped to their knees. Arin swept his hood back.

“Visitors,” Arin said.

OceanofPDF.com