“I don’t know, I don’t know. I’m not a magician, sire. I can’t simply open a portal. It’s too far. It’s two hundred miles, more than two hundred miles. Sire—”
“I need my children.” The sultan’s voice was shaking. “My wife is half dead with weeping. Make a map. Close the distance. Do something, or I will run mad.”
There was a scuffle. Fatima could not see exactly what was happening, but as far as she could guess, the sultan had seized Hassan’s hand, or perhaps his arm, as if to direct the strokes of his pencil. Hassan made a wild, despairing sound. It was then that the corridor in which Fatima stood, water pooling at her feet and bloating her slippers, went dark. She turned around and around in dismay. The windows had vanished. They had been swallowed by the walls, or so it seemed; there was only stone where there had once been wooden latticework and open air. The door at the end of the corridor had also disappeared. Fatima was standing in a long stone tomb that was sealed at both ends. She heard terrified screaming leaching up from the floors and through the walls.
It had lasted only a minute. Through the wall, Fatima could hear the sultan’s muffled voice shouting orders. Hassan had become hysterical. She would never know what passed between them, but it had the desired effect: after an instant of pressure, a rapid condensation of air, the windows and doors were there again. The sultan walked back into his quarters with a curse. Hassan was left alone, bawling over his lap desk. Fatima did not go to comfort him. She was too frightened of the sound of grief.
“Never mind,” said Vikram. He slapped Fatima on the shoulder, startling her. “Your thoughts are naked enough. I understand what you are afraid of. Here is what we’ll do: I will drag this dead fellow away for the crows to play with. If we’re lucky, the main force following behind him will find the body and realize you are not as defenseless as you may have seemed. You will rest up here in the boughs of the tree—it’s so thick near the crown that you will be invisible to human eyes, though not, unfortunately, to a dog’s nose. Do your eating and sleeping. I will walk around and see how close the hunters are. We’ll move out in the dark hour before dawn, unless I need to wake you earlier.”
Hassan gave a sigh that was almost happy. Vikram pressed a rabbit into his hands and gave him an encouraging pat on the bottom.
“Up you go,” he said. “Vikram will give you a boost.”
“Am I supposed to eat this raw?” asked Hassan, waving the rabbit.
“Up,” said Vikram. “As high as you can.” He put his hands out for Hassan to step on and half threw him into the lowest branches of the tree, where Hassan landed with a shriek, clinging to the wide trunk with both arms.
“You next,” said Vikram to Fatima. “Have a rabbit. It’s perfectly clean and tender. You must eat the heart and the liver. You’re a predator now.”
Fatima did not see fit to respond. She took the rabbit with as much dignity as she could muster and climbed into the fat lower branches of the willow tree. She could hear Hassan shaking the limbs above her, his awkward half leaps raining ashy bits of bark down on her head.
“Up here,” came his voice. “There’s a sort of V where we can sit without falling off, or at least I hope so.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Fatima held her rabbit between her teeth and hauled herself farther into the crown of the tree. Hassan sat with his legs draped over one of its uppermost branches. The long, whip-thin fingers of the willow splayed out around them in a pungent wreath, obscuring the world outside. The only identifiable object was the young moon, which was cut into pieces just beyond Fatima’s head. She settled onto the branch next to Hassan’s, which did indeed grow outward at a convenient angle, allowing her to wedge herself next to him as a kind of counterweight.
Hassan was tearing the flesh off his rabbit with his teeth, separating muscle from bone with a wet, adhesive sound. Fatima was suddenly ravenous and began to do the same. The meat of the rabbit was soft and not at all bloody; the taste was like grass and iron and earth. She finished off the little ribs and flanks, and when she was done, fished in the expertly gutted cavity of the creature’s chest with one finger to remove its heart, which she popped into her mouth, eyes shut, the single, metallic burst of sweetness flooding over her tongue like dark honey.
Chapter 8
Vikram returned when the moon was high. Fatima did not wake when he arrived but rather saw him in her sleep: a dark mass of fur and teeth and eyes that ascended the tree in darting motions and settled across her knees like a grotesque lapdog. Being asleep, however, Fatima was not afraid, only grateful for the feverish warmth that radiated from the creature’s body.
“Are we safe?” she asked.
Vikram was silent for a time.
“They know things they shouldn’t know,” he said finally. “Your pursuers. That woman. And I’m not sure how, or why.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes. But don’t wake up. There’s very little you can do about it, at least for now. Sleep is the best medicine for you.” Vikram sighed and rolled on his back, closing his own eyes.
“Tell me a story,” begged Fatima.
“What kind of story?” muttered Vikram.
“A nice one. Without dead things in it.”
“All stories have dead things in them eventually, assuming they start out with live ones. But very well. Choose a bird.”
Fatima smiled without waking.
“You know about our game,” she said.
“I was present for your birth, little sister. I know most things about you. So choose.”
“Falcon,” said Fatima automatically. Vikram snorted.
“You’re predictable in your sleep. I sometimes forget that dreams are where you banu adam sort out your waking lives. Very well, I’ll sort it for you. Once upon a time, all the birds of the world gathered at a secret meeting place for a great moot.”
“I know this part,” said Fatima.
“Shut up and listen. For many years, they had been without a king. They were beginning to forget the ancient paths through the air and water and could no longer understand the First Speech of the angels and the jinn. Times had grown desperate. As the wren and the crow quarreled over seating arrangements and the peacock insisted he must speak first, the hoopoe, with her striped crest and sacred words carved into her beak, stepped forward. ‘My friends!’ she said. ‘I have good news. The Bird King lives. He is hidden beneath an ancient mountain called Qaf, which sits on an island far across the Dark Sea. If we marshal all our strength, we may yet find him and restore our race to greatness.’ Many of the birds scoffed at her, but they all died of cowardice long ago, so they aren’t important. A smaller band, thirty birds in all, believed the hoopoe, and pledged to follow her. And so the party set off toward the sea, following the red crest of the hoopoe, who flew ahead. The autumn mists were gathering. The birds were uneasy, but the hoopoe led them on, following her secret sense.
“They had been flying for several days when the falcon grew restless. Why did the king have to live so far away? It seemed a very unreasonable distance to travel. Spotting something glimmering in the grass below, the falcon veered away from the party and swept down to investigate. There, wedged between the rocks and tufts of dry reeds, was a bracelet of beaten gold.
“‘Oh,’ cried the falcon. ‘Come back, come back, look what we almost missed.’ The other birds turned back and flew down when they heard the falcon’s cries. The falcon wrapped her talons around the bracelet and fluttered her wings, trying to wrench it free. The bracelet was stuck fast between the rocks.