Chapter Fifteen
It was the poking that did it. A relentless, slow, rhythmic prodding to my side that finally made me claw my way back to daylight.
“Will you stop that?” I said, my voice sounding thicker and drier than I remembered.
“Finally!” said a voice. I felt a soft, warm pressure on my chest—a hand laid gently over me. “Took you f*cking long enough.”
I chuckled deep in my throat, coughed, and chuckled again. Fowler. That was good.
I opened my eyes to warm, slanting sunlight. I glanced toward the source of the light, and then back again when I realized it wasn’t the window to my cell at the caravansary—that it wasn’t an ordinary window at all. This one housed an intricate wooden screen of finely cut arabesques, done in what looked to be sandalwood. The inner shutters thrown back against the wall were just as elaborate, with a duplicate pattern set into wood with riveted wrought iron. From what I could see of the edges, the shutters were grooved to interlock, the overlap blending in with the overall pattern of the decoration.
It was gorgeous. It would also be almost impossible to crack from the outside when shut.
That last didn’t reassure me.
I lifted my head and looked down to see Fowler kneeling beside me, her hand on my chest. I’d been laid out on a well-stuffed mattress of some sort, which in turn was resting on the floor. There was a mixture of anger and relief in her gaze.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Well enough, considering—”
“Good.” And she hit me, hand to chest. Hard. “That’s for being out for two and a half days, you a*shole!” Another slap. “And that’s for trying to carry me when you were poisoned.” Her hand pulled back again.
“Enough!” I said, sitting up partway and holding my hands out.
Fowler lowered her arm and glanced back over her shoulder. There was an ugly bruise on her left temple. “Is that awake enough?” she said.
“It will do admirably, yes,” said a thin voice in Imperial. His smile was obvious in his tone.
I looked past Fowler and saw a slender, well-turned-out man standing at the far end of the room. From his olive skin and sharp features, he was clearly Imperial, which stood in contrast to his crisp yet simple Djanese clothing: small turban, tightly buttoned tunic with an open, flowing overcoat, and comfortably loose pants, all in a bone and pale purple brocade. The curled-toed slippers on his feet were the color of amethysts, and even looked to have buttons of that same stuff holding them closed.
I also saw that I wasn’t on the floor: rather, I was on a wide, slightly raised platform that ran along two sides of the room. The portion I was on was called the iwan—the resting and social area in most Djanese rooms. The iwan was covered in costly carpets and had damask bolsters against the walls in various spots, while the lower section was done with tile. I noticed Fowler’s shoes on the tile. I also noticed that the heavy, carved door on the other side of the room stood ajar, giving me a glimpse of not only the hallway beyond, but the guard stationed just outside the door. I doubted this was a coincidence.
I returned my attention to the Imperial and met his eyes, half expecting to find either arrogance or disdain within them. What I found instead was a challenge, but not based on authority or power; rather, it almost seemed as if he were daring me to do something—to say or see something based on our shared Imperial blood. I looked the challenge back. After a moment, he nodded; then he bowed.
When he straightened, the iron was gone from his eyes. Only calm, watery competence showed in his gaze, but I knew better. That glimpse hadn’t been an accident.
The man pitched his voice to carry the distance between us. It wasn’t a vast room, but it wasn’t small, either. “I need to apologize for Mistress Jess’s treatment of you—”
“No, you don’t,” said Fowler.
“—but I fear it was necessary to wake you,” he said. “Nothing else had been working, and it was dangerous to let you sleep longer.”
“Why?”
“The poison,” said the man. “It was of a type designed to put you into a progressively deeper and deeper sleep—one from which you eventually don’t awake. Your dose was mild enough that, had you simply stayed put, as was likely intended, you’d have woken up within six hours’ time.”
“Except you decided to carry me up the stairs,” said Fowler.
“Which made things worse,” said the man.
I reached up and rubbed at the tender spot on my chest where Fowler had been thrusting her finger for Angels knew how long. “As opposed to poking me, which apparently helps.”
“I insisted,” said Fowler.
“She was very . . . determined,” agreed the man. “She also refused to let any of the assistant physicians come near you.”
I looked back at Fowler. She shrugged. “Easier to keep an eye on one person at a time. I figured the physicker was the best one to let in.”
“Which reminds me . . . ,” said the man, eyeing Fowler meaningfully.
Fowler sighed and held open her outer robe. “See, Heron? No weapons.”
“And the bulge at your back when you came in?”
Fowler reached back and pulled out a curved Djanese blade in a copper scabbard. “What, this? It’s more a piece of jewelry than a knife.”
Now it was Heron’s turn to sigh. “We agreed on no weapons after the incident with Mah’ud.”
Fowler snorted. “What ‘incident’? I didn’t even cut him.”
“Only because he ran screaming down the hall.”
“What the hell did he expect, sneaking in here like that?”
“He expected to change Master Drothe’s dressing, ideally without waking you.”
“Well, now he knows better. Besides, this trinket’s barely a blade to begin with. If you wanted to actually kill someone, you’d have to—”
“Fowler,” I said, stopping her before she went down a path I knew wouldn’t help. “Enough.”
Fowler grumbled but returned the knife to her back. Heron, I noted, chose not to argue the point. Wise man.
I sat up farther, wincing as I put weight on my wounded arm. As promised, it was in a clean, fresh dressing. Scared or not, Mah’ud seemed to know his business.
I looked around the room and saw my clothes, looking freshly brushed and folded, sitting on a chest beside the door. Fowler followed my gaze, then looked back at me and tapped the wallet hanging at her cloth belt. Jelem’s letter and package, I took it, were safe.
I turned back to Heron, who hadn’t yet moved from his position across the room.
“You’re the physicker, then?” I said to the man, making a show of rubbing my forearm.
“Me? Oh, no. I’m just the secretary to the wazir.” He held up a leather-bound book that he’d been holding as if in proof. One finger was stuck between the covers, marking his page. “Heronestes Karkappadolis, but ‘Heron’ is acceptable.”
I looked at Fowler.
She leaned in close and dropped her voice. “He’s our leash,” she whispered.
“Leash?” I said, glancing back at Heron while keeping my own voice low. He’d opened his book, apparently content to let us lean together and murmur for a moment. I wasn’t in a hospital, then, or, at least, not the one Raaz had been talking about before I passed out. “Where the hell am I?”
“El-Qaddice,” said Fowler. “The Old City.”
I sat up farther. “You mean Tobin and his troupe pulled it off?”
“Maybe,” said Fowler, “but considering how fast the audition was arranged and held, I think they could’ve reenacted a pair of dogs rutting in a doorway and gotten patronage.”
“A fix?” I whispered. Then, “Raaz.” Or his master—assuming the shadow man I’d seen lose his fingers had survived. They were the only ones I could think of with both the resources and the reasons to smooth our way into the Old City.
“Someone sure has called in some favors,” said Fowler. “Not that I’ve been able to get anything one way or the other out of our friend over there.”
I peered past Fowler’s shoulder. Heron was regarding us over the binding of his tome. At my look, his turned his eyes back to the page.
Hmm.
“Any word from the mages, then?”
“Nothing.”
That didn’t reassure me. There should at least have been a message, if not a visit, by now. You didn’t pull strings the way they had and then walk away—not unless you had a damn good reason for not wanting to be associated with the string pulling in the first place. Which told me just how dangerous the package Jelem had sent along was, even in Djan. Not that they wouldn’t be wanting their bit of smuggled glimmer—they would: They’d just be very careful about when and how they asked for it.
And they’d be mindful of what they’d paid to get it, both in blood and in treasure.
It was that last bit that worried me.
I looked at the screened window, saw nothing but blue sky and the top of a palm tree. “So, where in el-Qaddice am I, precisely?” I said, my voice still low.
“Royal artist’s residence. I can’t pronounce the Djanese, but I’m told it means ‘Sanctuary of the Muse.’ All of the padishah’s potential performing toys seem to be kept here.” Fowler rubbed gently at her temple. “Tobin and company love it.”
“I’ll just bet they do. How’s your head?”
“I get headaches.”
I waited for more, but didn’t get any. The look Fowler gave me made it clear the situation wouldn’t be changing soon. I considered pushing the matter, decided I didn’t have the energy just now. Instead, I looked around the room again.
“This won’t do,” I said, my voice still low. “We need to be able to come and go as we please if we’re going to find Degan.” Not to mention deal with Jelem’s package. Staying in the padishah’s poet reserve would let us do neither.
“I’ve looked into that,” said Fowler.
“And?”
“We’re Imperials. We can stay in the Imperial Quarter if we want. In fact, I think they kind of prefer it that way.”
And the Imperial Quarter was in the Old City, which meant we’d have access to el-Qaddice without having to worry about answering to Heron.
“Well, then—” I began.
“But,” said Fowler, “we can’t leave until we’ve been given the padishah’s patronage.”
“Wait, I thought that’s how we got in here in the first place?”
“No. We’re under the wazir’s eye right now. Turns out the first audition just gets you in the door. We need to perform in front of Padishah Yazir to get his royal favor.”
I turned to Heron and pitched my voice to carry. “So we can’t leave? We’re on probation until the padishah sees us perform?”
“Not probation, no.” He closed the book—no finger to mark the page this time—and came forward. Fowler’s and my private time, it seemed, was at an end. “But His Highness feels, in his wisdom, that it’s best to keep his new prospects as close together as possible, especially when they’re new to el-Qaddice, let alone Djan.” He indicated the city outside the screened window. “There are many temptations in the Old City, and not all visitors are as . . . eh . . .”
“Experienced?”
“Well schooled as yourself and Mistre—as Fowler Jess here. Until you’re fully accepted by the padishah as one of his dependents, the actions of one will be seen to reflect on all, and be judged by the wazir accordingly.”
“Judged how, exactly?”
“Sternly. The wazir has little use for thespians.”
“And Imperials?”
“Actors are descendants of the gods by comparison.”
I gave Heron a skeptical look.
“I’m the exception,” he added.
“I’ll bet. What if I said I wanted to relocate to the Imperial Quarter?”
“I say you’re welcome to do so, as long as your entire troupe goes with you.”
“Tobin isn’t going to want to leave,” observed Fowler.
“You mentioned that,” I said. I shifted in bed and pulled my legs underneath me. They felt good. I reached out, put a hand on Fowler’s shoulder. She helped me stand.
“How do you feel?” she said, her arm lingering at my elbow.
“A little light-headed,” I said, “but otherwise ready to leave.” I tilted my head, trying to stretch my neck. I felt a familiar ache at the base. “I don’t suppose you have my ahrami bag anywhere around here, do you?” I asked Fowler.
“Allow me,” said Heron. He tucked the book under his arm and reached into a pocket, pulling out an ivory case the size of his palm. He thumbed open a panel on one end. Inside were four distinct compartments, each holding a collection of ahrami seeds. He poured some into his hand. “Do you prefer the yarenn, oto, barbaratti, or cho-lan regions?”
I stared at the bounty in his palm and felt my mouth begin to water. I think my eye even twitched.
Heron smiled and counted out a dozen seeds. “A sampling, then,” he said. “I suggest the oto to start, since you’ve been traveling and not had freshly roasted for a while. Then probably the cho-lan after that. Let me know what you prefer and I’ll arrange for more.” He put the twelve seeds in my palm and smiled. “A gift, for a fellow Imperial.”
I took one of the oto—a lightly roasted, dryer-looking seed—and slipped it into my mouth and then beneath my tongue. I felt my heart quicken in anticipation, and had a hard time preventing myself from simply biting down on the seed immediately.
Heron, I decided, was all right.
“Tell me,” I said as the clerk slipped the case back into his pocket, my eyes tracking its every movement. “How bad do you have to be to get your entire group thrown out of the Old City?”
Heron stared down at the floor, looking thoughtful. “It’s a fine edge,” he said. “Especially for Imperials. What might get a Djanese poet censure could get an Imperial cast out—or cast into prison. Social norms and customs, not to mention affairs of honor, can get confusing fast. Caste rivalries get ugly, too.” He looked back up at me. “If I were you, I’d stick to what you know. Imperial—foreign—matters, if you understand what I mean. Better for everyone that way.”
“All right,” I said. “And what if it was discovered that some members of a troupe were involved with, say, the Zakur? Or other criminals?”
“Such as Imperial Kin, perhaps?” said Heron.
“Sure, why not?”
Fowler knitted her brow. I shifted my chin slightly, signally her to bide.
Heron gave me an appraising look. “I’d say,” he said slowly, “that while it wasn’t enough to get that troupe’s audition canceled, I’d certainly feel better if they weren’t in contact with any of the padishah’s other dependents, if only for moral reasons. After all, we can’t have them trafficking with undesirables—at least, not openly.”
“In that case,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips, “I’m afraid I have some terrible news to relay to you. . . .”