A page on the corner of the table caught my attention. The whole thing was taken up by a drawing of a mountain, a single grey peak that stretched up from the bottom of the page, and invaded the sky. Except this mountain was hollow, and inside it was a man with crimson skin, like shifting fire, and chains around his arms. In bright gilded letters the words inscribed below him glinted at me: The man below the mountain.
I ran my finger along the jagged edge of the paper, where it had been torn out of a book. I had seen this image before, though never this finely done. There was a pale illustration in cheap water paints in one of Tamid’s books back in Dustwalk. In his, the man was an angry, violent shade of purple, and he had huge, sharp teeth that protruded from his mouth in a snarl. Not a man but a monster. But otherwise, the image was the same, down to the particular peaks on the mountain.
‘This is a story they used to tell to scare us back home,’ I said, pulling out the page from the pile. I was six years old and being scolded by Tamid’s mother. Be good, or the monster in the mountain will get you. He eats naughty children alive, you know. ‘They told us there was a monster who had done such a great wrong to the Djinn that he’d been locked under a mountain for all eternity. That he survived by eating children who disobeyed their parents.’
Bilal shook his head. ‘Trust them to get it wrong all the way south.’ He said south like it was an insult. ‘Not a monster, just a man. And he didn’t wrong the Djinn; they wronged him. They stole his true love. Like many Djinn steal good men’s wives.’ His eyes danced across me pointedly. ‘But this man, unlike the others, dared to take vengeance on them. Or he tried. The Djinn put him in chains and locked him below the mountain until he repented. But if any man freed him early, that man would be granted his heart’s greatest desire.’
So that was why Bilal had this. Another way out of death – a wish granted by some impossibly immortal man below the mountain. ‘You shouldn’t trust stories,’ I said. But I was still holding the page. I’d never seen the picture like this. He didn’t look like a monster, but not quite like a man either. He looked like a creature made of fire. ‘They’re never true all the way through.’ It reminded me of the game we used to play as children, where one child whispered a sentence into the ear of another, who whispered it on and on, until the last child spoke aloud some distorted version of the original. Only I didn’t know which one was the copy. The man or the monster.
‘Is it just a story, though?’ Bilal was watching me intently. ‘Because I sent a dozen soldiers down south to find this man below the mountain, and they didn’t come back. And I don’t think it was make-believe that killed them.’
No, it was probably Skinwalkers, or a foreign army, or the Sultan’s army, or hungry Mirajin people, or any other number of things they could have encountered on their fool’s errand.
I put the page down reluctantly. ‘There’s no such thing as just a story.’
Another coughing fit seized Bilal, doubling him over, and this time he didn’t have the strength to wave away the servant who stepped forward. The coughing didn’t abate. The servant and the soldier helped Bilal to his feet, supporting him through a door that led to the more private areas of his chambers.
His coughs echoed noisily back down the hallway long after the door had closed behind him, leaving me alone in the room with the fox-haired Albish captain.
I dropped down heavily into the seat that Bilal had indicated I ought to take, at his other side, across from the captain. I picked up a stuffed vine leaf and shoved it in my mouth. ‘So,’ I addressed the captain in Mirajin around the mouthful of food. I hadn’t been raised finely – that much Bilal had been good enough to remind me of – so there was no point acting like I had been. ‘Are you really going to cure him? Or is this some story you’re peddling to get a foothold in my country?’ The captain watched me for a moment, the studied blankness slipping before reappearing. But I wasn’t in the mood to play games. ‘I know you can understand me,’ I said. ‘And if you want to pretend you can’t, I’ve got my own translator I can bring in here. But be warned, he’s more annoying than me.’
‘Yes, well.’ The captain cleared his throat. Even with those few words I could tell his Mirajin was near perfect, tinged with even less of an accent than Sam’s. ‘I hope you’ll forgive the attempt at deception. It was not for your benefit. I learned your language in the first Mirajin war, two decades past, when we regrettably lost this country to your current Sultan and his Gallan allies.’ The captain picked up a pitcher and started to pour wine into a clear glass. ‘And my wife makes sure we use Mirajin at home, of course, for the children’s sake. They should speak both their parents’ languages.’ He extended the glass of wine out for me. ‘Do have some; it really is very good.’
I took a sip of the wine. He wasn’t wrong. It really was very good. And I was thirsty. ‘And this is your second stab at taking the desert is it?’ I asked. ‘After you lost the first time? That’s why you’re using Bilal, and pretending you can save him?’
‘We’ll certainly do our best to cure him.’ He stepped neatly around my question. ‘Our druid is trying to draw the sickness out of his blood. Though it may be in his bones now, in which case … But it is not my intention to let an ally die for no good reason. Though, as you say, sometimes intentions mean very little when death comes to the door.’
‘So, what is your intention?’ I asked.
The captain didn’t answer right away, pouring himself a glass of wine to match mine, buying himself time to think. ‘Miss Amani,’ he said finally, in a very proper tone of voice that didn’t sound like he was going to answer my question straight. ‘I heard with great interest what you said to good Lord Bilal. But – and I hope you won’t mind me putting this so indelicately – according to our intelligence, the Rebel Prince is dead.’ Ah, damn. I hadn’t exactly meant him to know that part. But it was too late now.
‘Well, your intelligence isn’t all that intelligent then.’
The captain turned his laugh into a polite cough. ‘If our intelligence is indeed flawed … do you truly believe your Rebel Prince can win the throne?’
That was the question, wasn’t it? Did I believe that Ahmed was capable of something his father reasoned he wasn’t? Did I believe that he could be the ruler this country needed, both for his people and against our enemies? When all logic said that a regime change now would doom the desert? But belief was a funny thing, foreign to logic. ‘If I didn’t believe that, it would be an awfully strange thing for me to risk my life trying to save him.’
‘I see.’ Captain Westcroft contemplated. ‘And am I right in understanding you need assistance to rescue him?’ I watched him warily, not sure exactly what he was getting at, but I nodded.
‘You asked me our intentions.’ Captain Westcroft sighed. ‘I don’t know how much you know about the history of Albis, Miss Amani, but we have a mutual enemy.’