Chapter Thirteen
Three days later, as promised, I found the yazani squatting in the shade of a wall in the Lower City, making shadow puppets dance and perform on the street. A group of children and teens were gathered around, shouting and laughing at the spectacle. The fact that the silhouettes moved and pranced on their own, with his only input being the occasional word and gesture with a thin olive branch, didn’t seem to bother anyone. As we came up, he tucked the branch under his arm, reached both hands out into the sunlight, and formed the shadow of a rooster on the dusty bricks. A few mumbled words, and the shadow-rooster hopped away from the confines of his shadow to join the dark dog, elephant, dragon, and man in their silent street performance.
The crowd hooted and applauded, and the man smiled. Then he looked up and saw Fowler and me.
“And that is all for now, my friends,” he said as he stood up. The teens made nasty, sulking sounds while the younger children pleaded, but the man shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve work to do. Go plague someone else for a while.”
The crowd dispersed, with one or two of the older boys casting us accusatory glances. I returned the looks, making sure to keep my eyes hard but my face neutral. Pups and young wolves, yes, but they could take you down if you didn’t handle them right, especially if you were unknown.
The man chuckled to himself as he brushed the dust from his pants. He was dressed in what I was coming to think of as the “urban” style here, with bloused pants, a knee-length tunic, and a short vest. The coloring was all rust and red, with a creamy kaffiyeh wrapped turban-style around his head. Matching pale tassels hung from the bottom edges of his sleeves and vest—used, I’d been informed gravely by our caravan master on the trip here, to distract the djinn that supposedly lived throughout, and wandered in from, the desert.
As for the Mouth—or yazani—himself, he was smooth and wily as his shadow puppets. When he bowed to me, it was dutiful; when he bowed to Fowler, it was something more. And she blushed.
Hmm.
“Your Grace,” he began in accented Imperial.
“Excuse me?” I said.
Confusion passed over his easy features. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re an emir—a prince—of your kind, yes? Is there some other honorific you’d prefer?”
Fowler snorted.
“‘Drothe’ is fine,” I said.
“‘Drothe,’” he said, playing with the sounds and accent in his mouth. I knew Jelem had mentioned me in the letter he’d sent ahead, but that didn’t mean what I said matched the sounds he’d read. “Drothe. Yes. Excellent. I have the pleasure of being Rassan ibn Asim bé-Mahlak, cousin to Jelem bar-Djan, formerly named Jelem ibn Abu Jhibbar el-Tazan el-Qaddice.” He paused, then added, “But you can call me Raaz.”
I was opening my mouth when Fowler gave me a quick elbow to the ribs. I looked down. She arched an eyebrow at me and nodded toward Raaz.
“This is Fowler Jess,” I said.
Another bow, another lingering look. “My apologies for my Imperial being too imperfect to do your ears justice, Fowler Jess.”
Another blush from Fowler.
I cleared my throat. “Jelem’s cousin, you say?” I said, remembering what Jelem had said about his family; about how they’d be happy to see him only if it meant seeing him dead. My left hand drifted down to hang at my side, ready to be filled with steel at the flick of a wrist. I wondered which would be faster, my hand or his mouth, if it came down to it.
“On his wife Ahnya’s side,” said Raaz, turning back to me. “Via her sister’s husband’s uncle. I am cousin, at best, by name and law, but not by blood. Unlike his own people, my tribe has had no reason to disown Jelem, even after his banishment.” He glanced down at my arm. “Or want him dead.”
“But you still call him family,” I said. “I didn’t think Djanese called anyone family after they’d been cast out.”
“It’s tribal,” he said, waving a hand. “Very complex. Some of my own people would agree with you; others would not. Jelem helped me gain admittance to the wajik-tal in el-Qaddice, so I had a great deal of respect for him even before he married Ahnya and became a distant relative. When his own people cast him out, I chose to continue calling him family. As for the Tazan . . .” He turned his head aside and spit casually in what I was sure was not a casual gesture. “They are petty fools. Their tribal elders have no say over what I hold in my heart.”
Fowler and I exchanged a look. She lifted her shoulders, clearly saying, Hey, you’re the boss; you make the call.
From what little I knew through my conversations with Jelem, Djanese society was a confusing tapestry of blood ties and social strictures, the two not infrequently at odds with one another. Extending vertically through society were the tribal affiliations, with each Djanese calling one group his home and family. There could be clans and other groups within a tribe, but at the end of the day, it was the loyalty to the tribe that defined which way a Djanese was supposed to jump when it came to political interests. Meanwhile, extending across those tribal lines were the various castes that existed within society. These defined the day-to-day reality of most Djanese, determining everything from how a person earned a living to where you lived and who you interacted with. A man was born into a caste, lived his whole life there, and died in the same place. The only exceptions were the two learned castes—the Path of the Pen and the Path of the Light—scribes and magicians. Anyone with enough talent and dedication could theoretically enter into these castes and improve their station through diligence and patronage. But it was a hard road according to Jelem, and one guarded by the elite against incursion from below.
If Jelem had helped Raaz get into the wajik-tal—the magician’s academy—in el-Qaddice, I expected there was a sizable debt there. And Jelem was never one to forget, or forgive, a debt.
I crossed my arms, making sure as I did so that my hands were visibly well away from my blades. Raaz smiled.
“Now come,” he said. “Your meeting is already arranged.”
“Meeting?” I said. “But the message said to meet you here.”
“I’m merely the messenger. I don’t have the rank or status to negotiate what you desire. You will need to speak to my elders if you wish to talk of influencing an audition and its price. Now, come.”
Raaz headed off into the twisting streets, and we dutifully followed. After a few turns, I said, “Tell me: How does the Despotate feel about what you were doing back there?”
“What do you mean?”
“The glimmered shadows,” I said.
Raaz looked at me for a moment, then laughed. “Glimmer? You mean the magic?” He clapped his hands. “Wonderful! I must remember that: ‘glimmer.’ Very good.” He shook his head, smiling. “I was trained in the wajik-tals. Like all yazani, my magic is pledged to the despot.” He held up his left arm and pushed back his sleeve, revealing an iron shackle fixed around his wrist. “This signifies my obligation to the despot in all things. It is his patronage that makes the academies possible. By using my gifts to entertain his people, I’m doing a service for him—repaying my debt, to some small degree.”
“And what does the despot get in return?” I said.
“He gets to call upon the wajik-tals and its students, of course.”
“For anything?”
“For most things.”
I nodded. It made for one hell of a power base. “And how does the despot feel about it if you use more permanent magic? Or more powerful?”
“One does what’s necessary and needed. There are proscribed limits set forth by the High Magi of the Fifteen Splendid Wajiks, in consultation with the despot and his wazirs, of course, but a fair amount is left to the discretion of the practitioner; otherwise, how could we fulfill our pledge to the despot?” Raaz looked at me sidelong. “Is it not the same in your empire?”
I chuckled. “Not quite. Oh, there’s street mages that mend pots and put on a bit of a show here and there, but the better-trained Mouths—the ones who know their stuff, like Jelem and you—walk a narrow path. You can speak spells just fine in Ildrecca, for a price, but crafting anything more permanent or powerful will get the empire after you.” Which was why the trade in things like portable glimmer and the most potent spoken spells were the province of the Kin. The magical black market was what had made the Kin, and its first and only king, Isidore, possible.
Raaz shook his head. “But your Imperial Magi—your Paragons—are feared across Djan, and beyond. How can an empire that so closely limits magic produce such potent magi?”
“Paragons are different,” I said. “They’re the emperor’s personal magicians. They know the spells no one else knows, have access to the kinds of knowledge that would get any normal Mouth killed.” Or Nose, or Gray Prince, for that matter. “From what I understand, the kind of magic they tap is beyond what other Mouths can reach.”
“Are you speaking of your Angels?” said Raaz, sounding politely dubious. “Saying they somehow help your Paragons achieve their power?”
“That’s the imperial line on it,” I said.
“And?”
“Do I look like a priest to you?”
We fell silent after that, but I caught Raaz studying me from time to time as we walked. I knew the truth behind the power of the Paragons, knew the truth about Imperial magic: about how the men and women who used it used their very souls to focus and control the power, and how it scarred and ate those souls in the process. I’d read it in an ancient journal, but I wasn’t about to tell a Djanese Mouth about that.
Raaz led us along the curving, twisting side streets that seemed to be the standard for most Djanese cities. Clean or dirty, crowded or empty, they were the common thread that ran through all the towns of Djan I had visited. The exceptions—the broad, straight boulevards that led from one public space to another, be they temples or parks or markets or communal ovens and more—were all the more notable because of their seeming uniqueness.
Straight and true in public, turning and subtle in private: That certainly seemed to fit the Djanese way.
We ended at a small doorway set partway below street level. An iron key and a string of muttered words gained us access. Three steps down, five forward, then four up. Another door, this one only needing a key. A large Djanese man wearing a curved sword stood there. He nodded to Raaz as he opened the door, glaring at me and Fowler. Beyond, there were spiral stairs going down.
The light coming in from the room above vanished as the guard shut the door behind us. More shone up from below, but it was faint. I could sense my night vision coming to life as we descended.
A small taper burned in a sconce at the bottom—not enough to blind me, but enough to hurt. I averted my eyes as Raaz opened another door, this time not even bothering with a key.
The room beyond was long and low, with a barrel-vaulted ceiling extending off into the darkness on either side. It felt more like a tunnel than a room. Between the columns, deep alcoves had been built into the walls, easily the height of a man and four to five times as wide. A wine vault, if I had to guess, except without the wine.
A pair of clay oil lanterns sat on the stone floor. They were already lit. Otherwise, the space was empty. I blinked in the light and lingered in the doorway, letting my eyes burn and adjust.
“Please, come in,” said Raaz, this time in Imperial.
Fowler entered, looked around the space, and nodded. I came through.
“You have to understand,” said Raaz as he stepped forward, putting himself between the far wall and the lamps, casting two shadows. “Jelem is . . . not a favored person in Djan, and especially not in el-Qaddice. Since you’re delivering something of his, we have to be careful. To be found in possession of messages or packages from one cast out as Jelem has been is dangerous indeed. We have to be careful.”
“We?” said Fowler, placing her hand on the hilt of her long knife. I didn’t discourage her. “I don’t see any ‘we’ here beyond us.”
“I say this so that you understand what I do next is a precaution, and not a slight against you, O Sheikh of the Kin.”
My hand went to my own blade now. “What precautions?” I said, peering into the darkness on either side. The amber of my night vision was, at best, a washed-out gold hovering on the edges of things in this light, but it was still enough to see that dark space beyond the lamps were empty. “When people start making speeches about ‘precautions’ and ‘slights,’ I get worried. For that matter, I don’t much like it when the people I’m supposed to meet aren’t where I’m supposed to meet them. Those kinds of things usually mean blood.” I turned back to Raaz and cleared a hand-span of steel. “Where are your elders, Mouth? Where are your magi?”
Raaz’s eyes narrowed in the dimness. “I said nothing of magi.”
“No, but others did, and I’m not about to think for a moment that you’d go through all this just so I could talk to a couple of tribal elders.”
Raaz looked from me to Fowler and back again. Then he nodded. “Jelem said you were sly. Yes, you are going to speak to members of the Majim—two of them. Both are sympathetic to Jelem’s plight.”
“And what plight is that, exactly?” This was starting to sound a hell of a lot more complex than a simple banishment.
“I cannot say. You have to understand that you’re dealing with Djanese politics now, and that you’re not of our tribe or clan. While Jelem spoke well of you, we cannot trust you fully in this—there is no blood or bond between us. Hence, our precautions.”
“And yet, despite this . . . gap . . . between us, your masters are willing to help me get into the Old City. Isn’t that just as hazardous?”
Raaz let loose a soft laugh. “There are hazards and there are hazards, O Sheikh. What others see as an obstacle, the Majim see as an inconvenience. But don’t assume you will get what you want: My masters have only agreed to speak with you. They will hear you and they will make their decision based on many things, not just your needs. Or theirs.”
I took a deep breath, let it out. The place smelled of damp and dust and mold, and at least two of those things seemed out of place in Djan. I knew exactly how they must feel.
“All right,” I said, sliding my sword home. “Take you precautions and let’s get on with this.”
“As you wish.”
Raaz turned to face the wall and spread his arms wide, causing his two shadows to look as if they were linking hands, speaking softly as he did. It wasn’t Djanese, but I recognized it—if you could call having heard the same rhythms and sounds pass Jelem’s lips “recognition.”
As we watched, Raaz’s two shadows began to shift and change. One seemed to grow shorter and broader, while the other took on a more willowy shape. The lamps flickered, making the shadows dance, adding to the sense of change. One—the leaner form on the right—was clearly a woman’s silhouette, with long flowing hair and sharp shoulders. The other shadow had grown a bulge on top I recognized as a turban, as well as a thickness around the neck that could have signified a beard.
They were moving independently of the Mouth now, but still following the general flow of his movements. When his arm fell, their arms fell, but at their own pace, and each stopped in a different position: one on a hip, the other folded in at the side. When he swayed left, they moved left—only one stepped, and the other leaned.
The lamps flickered again. This time, the light’s movement didn’t affect the shadows at all. It was clear that someone else was casting the shadows now—someone not remotely near this room.
Fowler leaned in next to me. “Has Jelem ever . . . ?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” I said.
“Huh,” she said.
Raaz cast a dirty look over his shoulder while still murmuring the incantations. We shut up.
A minute or two later, Raaz stopped speaking. He dropped his arms, bowed to the shadows, and then turned to us.
“May I present . . . well, the people you wished to speak to, I suppose,” he said, flashing the hint of a grin. “You will understand if I don’t use names, O Sheikh of the Dark Paths.”
“For your sake, or mine?”
“Let us say ‘both’ for now; it sounds more caring, yes?”
I smiled despite myself and turned to the shadows.
They were completely distinct now—two independent silhouettes on a wall where different shadows should be. One—the man—waved jauntily, while the woman’s shape seemed to cross her arms and wait. She might have been only a shadow, but I could see impatience writ large in the outline of her body language.
I looked down, curious, and saw that each patch of darkness still extended from the base of Raaz’s feet to the wall. He followed my gaze and nodded.
“Yes, I’m still casting them,” he said. “Just as they are casting shadows of me where they are.”
“Can they hear me?”
“Once you join your shadow to theirs, they will.”
“What?”
“You will have to step into the light and cast your own self upon the wall,” said Raaz. “After your shadow crosses theirs, you’ll be able to speak.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Fowler. She was staring at the two shapes on the wall, frowning. She shook her head. I could almost read her thoughts: We didn’t know this Mouth well enough, didn’t know what his glimmer would do to me once I stepped into its path.
I turned back around.
The man’s shadow had put a hand on either side of his head and was now waggling them back and forth, his fingers extended.
Somehow it didn’t feel like a trap.
I still wasn’t sure how I was supposed to hand over the package like this—or even if I could—but I knew I had to at least make contact with them. Jelem had said they’d be willing to help me once I got into the Old City, but I needed more than that now: I needed them to help get us into the Old City to begin with or, barring that, then pull some strings when it came to the audition. Assuming they had the clout to do either.
I looked from the shadows to Raaz. “So I just . . . ?”
“Step into the light, yes. I would recommend you keep your arms beside you until your shadow is distinct and the same relative size as the other two.”
“Better contact?” I said as I took a step forward.
“No. Because if your shadow is too large, you might rip a hole in their physical bodies.”
“What?” I said, stopping.
“I jest. Yes, better communication.”
Raaz chuckled as I turned back around. He was Jelem’s cousin, all right.
I took a step, another. The light wavered again, the oil-fed flames dancing in the dark.
“Do they do that often?” I said as I came even with the lamps.
“Do what?” said Raaz.
“The lamps. Is the flickering going to be a problem when I try to make contact?”
“Flickering?” said Raaz in a tone that made me stop. “The lamps are still; have been kept still since . . .” His voice trailed off.
Something was wrong.
My hand was still going for my rapier when I saw the figure run out of the darkness and leap into the space between myself and the wall. He was little more than a silhouette himself, dressed in deep blue-black robes, his face covered by a closely wrapped cloth. About the only thing I could make out for certain as he sailed through the air was the short, curved blade that he extended toward the wall midleap. I heard the scrape of metal on stone, saw his shadow pass over the woman’s and the man’s, and then he was landing and rolling into the darkness on the other side of the pool of light.
I was moving to go after him, my own sword clear now, when I heard a scream behind me. I glanced back and froze. One of the shadows, the woman, was teetering over, her head clearly separating from her neck as she did so. The other was pulling back a hand that, while it might look like a closed fist, I knew was now missing its fingers, if not more.
As for Raaz, he was clutching at his own neck with one hand, gagging and choking, even as he reached out for the lamps with the other. The fingers of the hand he extended were black and seemed to be smoking. Or dissolving.
I leapt back and kicked at one lamp with my foot, slashed down on the other with my rapier. I connected with both, and the room went dark.
Then someone else yelled.
Fowler.