Ilyria moved quickly down the alleyway, trying to sidestep the worst of the dirt, trying not to think about what type of muck might have passed through it. Her feet, soft from years of walking on marble floors or gently manicured lawns, were soon bleeding from the sharp cobblestones of the street.
She felt foolish when one alleyway led into another and then another until she realized that these alleyways were the streets of the city of Idixat. How had she paid so little attention riding through the city on her horse or in a carriage?
She also felt stupid carrying the bag of wine and bread. The bread was at least a day old and probably too hard for her to even hazard a bite without breaking a tooth. As for the bottle of wine … she shook her head. She brought wine but no shoes. If she was Haris’ widow’s only hope for justice, then the widow would not have much comfort.
Haris’ widow! She tried to recall the name of the pretty, inane woman Haris had married. In truth, she had spent little time with Haris’ wife or even her own godchild. She had always been too busy prying secrets of the merchant craft from Haris since her own mother denied her any training. Still, she knew where Haris’ mansion was.
The way was much longer on foot than on horseback. Especially barefoot. By the time she reached the door of Haris’ mansion, her feet were numb with pain, and splattered black with mud and other filth.
Early morning sunlight bathed the pristine white porch of Haris’ home and Ilyria thought nothing of climbing the stairs as she had so many times before. She paused before ringing the bell, deciding to knock instead. She did not want to wake the entire household, who were perhaps still dreaming innocently, not yet knowing of Haris’ murder. Better she should ask one of the servants to show her in to wait for Haris’ wife to wake.
The door was answered after her third tentative knock. A tall man with the tattooed markings of an Orenian answered the door. He looked down at her and his nose lifted. Ilyria was conscious that it was no longer just her feet that were dirty. Nonetheless, she pulled herself upright. She was Ilyria Agrio, daughter of Daria. Even if she didn’t look it at that moment. She cleared her throat.
“I am here for Mistress,” she paused, “Gavara.”
“Get away from here, boy. Who do you think you are?” He said, closing the door and clipping one of Ilyria’s toes painfully.
“No, you don’t understand,” she said, holding out her hands to try to stop the door’s unyielding path, “I’m …” But she could not go on, she dropped her hands. She was trying to run away, to hide from her mother, from Dirk. She could not go around telling people who she was. The door slammed in her face. “I’m a friend,” she said to the closed door.
At least he had thought her a boy. But what would she do now? She eyed the row of shoes on the shoe rack outside the front door with envy. If only she had remembered shoes for her poor aching feet! Something caught her eye. The gleam of soft kid leather boots such as only one man she knew wore. A terrifying possibility presented itself to her.
No, she breathed, that cannot be. She knew a way to find out though. She knew where Haris and his wife’s bedroom chambers were and that they could be reached from the drains that ran down the far side of the building. This had been his family home for generations and she and Haris had shimmied down and back up those drains enough nights that the route was ingrained in her muscle’s memories.
Hoping that the household would stay silent and resting for a while longer, she slipped through the gate that led to the courtyards at the rear. The drains were as she recalled, though a little more worn. Leaving the bag on the ground, she urged her tired, bleeding feet forward, trying to bear most of the weight of her ascent in her arms. At Haris’ bedchamber window, she stepped onto the balcony.
Though the drapes had been drawn, there was enough of a sliver for her to see more than she had ever wanted. Haris’ widow atop Dirk’s prone form, her hands entwined in his thick black chest hair. Her groans reached Ilyria through the window. As she watched, Dirk lifted one beringed hand and brought it down hard on Mistress Gavara’s rump. She squealed with happiness and Ilyria felt ill.
There would be no refuge for her here.
She slipped down the drain, landing with a crash on her knees, her hands and feet both bleeding. There were the sounds of stirring from inside the house. She retrieved the bag and limped her way around the house and out the gate. At the stairs she stopped, looking around. The street was yet deserted so she darted toward where the shoes stood and grabbed Dirk’s beloved boots.
It was the least he owed her, she thought, putting them on over her battered feet.
She walked as the city began to wake, for a time amazed by the sounds of lives she had never imagined. Dogs barked at a rooster that stood on a rickety fenced and crowed its wake-up call. A small child staggered out of a house, carrying an earthenware pot bigger than he was. The smell of roasting cinnamon nuts made her mouth water and she thought about trying to gnaw on her loaf of bread. Gradually, the narrow streets of houses gave way to broader spaces where market traders were setting up their stalls. Each stall seemed to compete with the next for the brightness of the fabric tented over it, or the smell of incense that wafted from within. Traders hummed their market tunes as they laid out their wares: swathes of fabric from finely woven linens to exotic filigreed silks; long necklaces wrought from the precious metals of Itoulp; dates and moonfruit; dragonseed that snapped at her as she passed. Ilyria took it all in hungrily. She wished she could have been one of the merchants to bring these wonders to the market. She tripped over a box fallen from a trader’s table and went sprawling into the dirt. Something chittered and rattled against the sides of the box.
“Idiot boy!” A trader scooped up the box and glared at her. Then his eyes narrowed as he took her in. He stepped closer and Ilyria edged backwards, the wounds on her hands newly opened and leaving red trails in the sand. “I have not seen you here before,” said the man, “Why I don’t think you …”
Ilyria did not wait around, she struggled up and turned and fled, her bag and its contents banging painfully against her hip. She kept running until she had passed all the market stalls and turned into a quiet street. There she stopped and tried to catch her breath, one hand on the wall, the other on her knees as she bent over almost double. Dizzy with fright.
Then she felt a hand on her waist, and she was hauled roughly backwards. Her arms flailed as her unseen assailant put his hand over her mouth. Her back had to arch uncomfortably to accommodate his large belly. Another man appeared in her line of vision. He had a heavy beard, and his head was wrapped in fabric in much the same fashion as hers.
“Check his pockets,” he snapped at the man holding her.
The grip on her mouth loosened as the man behind her grunted and began rummaging in her pockets. He hauled out the jewels she had packed, and the bearded man stepped forward to take them. His eyes shone in the reflected light of the jewels.
“These are good quality,” he said, looking more closely at her, “Where did you …”
“Master,” interrupted the other man, his hands now back in her empty pockets had continued their rummaging journey toward her most private parts. His master shot him a look of irritation but he went on, “Master, this is no boy. It’s a girl.”
“A girl!” said the bearded man. He pocketed the jewels and stepped in closer and pulled the fabric from her head and her hair spilled out. He laughed softly, “A pretty girl can be worth more than jewels in these parts if she is … intact.”
Ilyria took advantage of their distraction and lashed out with her foot at the bearded man’s shin. The man holding her had loosened his grip just enough for her to twist around. She dug one hand in her bag and pulled out the bottle of wine which she brought down hard on his head. His eyes rolled back comically, and he staggered and then fell forward, his belly cushioning the force of his landing.
The second man circled her, holding his arms out as if she were a wild beast that needed corralling. “Softly, softly,” he cooed to her, “There’s nowhere for you to go from here.” Then he leaped forward and Ilyria reached again into her bag, pulling out the stale loaf of bread and smacking him across the face with it as his hands were about to make contact with her. It was just enough to throw him off balance and he too went down, holding his cheek and looking in astonishment at the unlikely weapon with which he had been hit.
Ilyria didn’t wait, she threw down the bag, thanking the gods for her foresight in bringing the bread and wine and started off down the street. She didn’t get far before she barreled into a perfumed, jiggling mound.
Ilyria looked up at the fragrant shape and saw a set of double chins that shook with laughter. She stepped back, dusting down her trousers, trying to get her bearings. When no one emerged from the street behind her, she allowed herself a sigh of relief. The large woman with the chins finally managed to stop laughing. She smiled at Ilyria and the thick makeup caked around her eyes and mouth cracked and flaked. She wiped her watering eyes. “Sweet Oren’s gods, child,” she said, “You fight with the wiles of a desert cat.” Ilyria was silent, uncertain how to answer this strange woman. The woman went on, “But you are no child are you,” her eyes dropped to Ilyria’s chest, and she raised one painted eyebrow, “nor no boy.” Embarrassed, Ilyria pulled the shirt closed. The buttons must have come off during the fight with the robbers. And her pockets were empty. Ilyria realized that she had run out of ideas. “I need help,” she said to the woman. “
That evening, Ilyria, led by Miasma, joined the girls—“companions” Miasma insisted they were called—in the large salon off the courtyard. Filigreed lamps warmed the room with light while breezes flowing through air channels in the walls, kept it cool. The girls had shown Ilyria how to wash down their bodies and apply scented oils so that now the room was filled with the heady scents of all the desert’s hidden flowers. Softly cushioned divans sprawled around low tables sagging with sweet fruits and spicy savoury pastries. Ilyria felt her mouth watering at the sight even though she was still sated by the generous midday meal. Mirrors lay along the walls, their gaze softened with hazy draped silks. Ilyria could not resist glancing at herself. Her long dark hair hung loose to her waist and the translucent tunic she wore fluttered around her slender limbs. She had allowed the girls to help her with a touch of kohl around her eyes and the effect was, well, she had to admit
Ilyria woke the next morning to the sound of the birds fluttering across the courtyard. Her eyes flew open. That sound last night! Just before the room went dark, a shadow had passed across the moon, just as it had a few nights before, the last night she spent in her mother’s mansion. This time though, there had also been the sound an enormous pair of wings would make as they swept through the air; a rippling, fluttering sound as if the air itself were being parted. Then there had come that long, strange silence when everything slowed down, and she had felt herself—or some part of herself—weave the gossamer strands of the glamour that mesmerized the merchant. Was it the Lightning Bird? What did it mean? She tried to recall other times when she had willed a situation to bend a little, for a person to … She sat up. A time when she had willed a person to not see her. Of course! in the courtyard in her mansion after overhearing Haris’ certain murder, she had been
Miasma could not stop talking. Ilyria laughed to see her so animated and lively when she had only known her as sweet, sleepy, charo-loving Miasma. Now she was buzzing with talk of the trinkets and gadgets she planned to buy. She held onto Ilyria’s arm as they walked, her other arm looped through Flame’s, a girl with coppery hair and skin pale as goat’s milk. She wore a gold and silver striped mask, like a tiger. Ilyria thought their names were a little obvious, but she could see how they were easy for the clients to remember. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing the three other market goers and behind them, Bonbon and their guardian. Ilyria caught her breath. It was just a moment, but something about it caught Ilyria’s attention and with her attention came that slowing in which she could conjure the glamour. Now though, she had no need of a glamour, only a closer understanding. And it came more quickly perhaps because once you saw it, it was obvious.
Ilyria felt as though she had been waiting for this moment all her life. Her eyes locked onto his and she stepped forward. The Lightning Bird folded her toward him, his arms strong and steady. She felt the heat of his body and his fragrant breath on her face, “Don’t be afraid, Ilyria,” he whispered to her as her body become light and they left the ground. Her eyes never left his. She heard the powerful whoosh of his wings as they rose high up into the night air until they were enshrouded in the chill damp of the clouds. Only then did she look down below her to where Idixat was only a place of scattered lights in the vast indigo velvet of the desert. She felt unafraid, even when he wrapped his legs around hers and changed their position, holding her close to him in a lover’s embrace as he flew them both away. Ilyria believed she must have fallen asleep in the arms of the Lightning Bird as they crossed the night sky, as improbable as that seemed. Yet she woke in the warmth of
Dirk looked directly at Ilyria. She reached again for the sensation of flickering shadows as she had done all those nights ago, desperately searching for the glamour that would conceal her but feeling it slip away from her like sand. He saw her, there was no doubt. His eyes widened and his lips parted to call out to his henchmen, but something seemed not quite right. Slow. It was all too slow. Her own movements felt trapped in thick honey, each breath came and went as measured and inexorable as the tides of the desert. Her panic, her terror of moments before felt as far as the moons. She tore her eyes away from Dirk and saw that Madame Skia had pushed herself up on one elbow. She had raised up her face to the sky and her usual thick mask of make-up wavered like a thin veil over her face. Through the veil, Ilyria saw a face of such heartrending beauty she thought it would forever be seared into her memory. Madame Skia’s mouth was open as she sang without voice.
Thassa and Ilyria followed Madame Skia to her office. This time Ilyria looked carefully for even one clue to Madame Skia’s identity. Madame Skia, like Thassa, had a story and Ilyria was more than curious. Her life may depend on her understanding. Thassa was the last to enter, he closed the door behind him. Light and air streamed through the upper vents in the room and there was a feeling of pervasive calm that was not charo-induced. Ilyria took a breath. “You said I might be able to help? What do you mean? Help with what?” Madame Skia sat at her desk, her hands fluttering. Her fingers were pale and soft. Yet Ilyria was certain she had large, calloused hands with long red nails. Ilyria had the dizzying impression of seeing two things at once. Perhaps the clue to who Madame Skia was, was not in her office, but in the odd feeling that Ilyria had that whatever she thought she was looking at, it was not the real Madame Skia. “First
Ilyria and Thassa entered the palace through an unobtrusive gate further along from the palace gates. The guards there lowered their swords as soon as they saw Thassa, nodding their heads in deference. It was the first time she understood that Thassa was much more than Bonbon’s lover or Madame Skia’s unofficial security. Thassa carried real authority within the walls of the palace. She followed him into the first courtyard of the palace, looking around her at the bustle of activities taking place, relieved to be distracted from the horrors of the execution she had just witnessed. Here, people moved with purpose that felt joyful. They balanced trays overflowing with fruits on their heads; or aired bedding so overstuffed that feathers floated up into the air with each flap; or chased a small dog running off with a bone still dripping with gravy; or stole kisses in doorways; or sharpened kitchen knives while eying the kiss-stealers. She had to smile at the abundant life of it a