A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3) (7 page)

With little thought and desperate speed,
Finnian mesmered a fatal bind.
The death mesmer – an indiscernable strok
e from an imperceptable blade.
In the awful quietness of the deck, three sounds rang clear and unmitigated – the man’s shallow breath, the boy’s weeping and the shiver of an invisible sword being drawn.

As the crew glanced around nervously, searching for a swordsman, the sailor
arched his body and screamed.
Finnian saw a hundred fingers make the sign of the horns, for the intangible and unanswerable had ju
st happened before their eyes. The cabin boy held tight to
his crewman friend crying, ‘No, no, oh no!’

‘He’s dead,’ Finnian closed the wide eyes and sto
od to tower over the Captain.
‘You shall pay.’
Ain
e forgive me, it was a game…

‘That was the law of t
he sea,’ the Captain answered.
‘Put him in a
shroud and give him a burial.’
Meeting no eyes, he brushed past the crew to retire to his cabin.

Finnian groaned
, a rising crescendo of anger.
He wanted to rip the man’s heart out and lay it pumping on the deck – surely a p
altry organ in that mean body.
He hurried aft and leaned over the rail as if the air
were cleaner and could purify.
But swimming back and forth in the water and waggling blade
sharp fingers was the merrow.
In an instant Finnian realized the dead man had been the vic
tim of the barbaric sea-wight.
He slumped to the deck and hung his head, his hands bloodstained and damp.

‘You alrig
ht, sir?’
The huge crewman who had held the cabin boy, trying to shield him from the terrible events on the deck, stood over him.

‘I don’t…
’

‘It’s t
he Captain,’ the man broke in.
‘Aint nothing you could’ve do
ne to help the situation, sir.
But I do tell you, it
’s the boy I’m worried about.’
The man’s thick fingers ran back and forth through the stubble on his crown.

‘The boy?’

‘Yes, sir.
You
see the fella was his father.
Awful thing to watch your father punished in such a terrible way for a crim
e of which he were innocent.
I’m telling you, I aint never seen anyone ripped open like t
hat and I don’t want to again.
I’ll never get over it and I doubt the boy will eithe
r, he’s speechless with grief. His Pa was a good man.
Had nothing but respect f
rom every one of us.
Anyhow sir, i
f you’re right I’ll leave you.
I want to
say a prayer as we bury him.’
He turned to leave and then, ‘Sir, I want to thank you for your considerati
on over the fellow as he died.
Some folk may have turned away from the sight as there was something of the od
dness in it, almost eldritch.’
He wiped a hand over the big, pale face and then smiled, an expression of gratitude that skewered Finnian as surely as if it had been the merrow’s talon.

He drank himself to oblivion for the rest of the voyage, refusing to join the Captain for meals, mesmering his own food
and avoiding Gio at all costs.
He sunk himself deep in reflection, dredging up all the hurts of his own life and dwelling on the painful and the unbearable as if to sc
ourge himself.
He had anticipated freedom as he escaped Isolde’s clutches, not the seering pain of guilt and he ran as far as he could, lifting the wine to his lips again and again until he heard faint shouts and the patter of feet followed by the clatter
and rattle of an anchor chain.
A tentative knock at the door preceded a muffled voice calling through the timbers.

‘Sir Finnian, it’s Gio.
Are you there?’

Aine, not the boy, please
, but he pulled the door ajar and looked down on the grim, young face.

‘Sir, we’ve just anchored off Marino, th
e Captain told me to tell you.
A tender will ferry you to the wharf and you can
catch a gondola into Veniche.’
He twisted his hands and then turned away.

The thin shoulders and the flopping curls tugged at Finnia
n.
He grabbed the boy and
squatted down in front of him.
‘Gio, do you like working on this boat?’

The curls shook as the head waggled from side to side.

‘Would you stay ashore if I pay off your ticket?’

The curls bobbed up and down.

‘What happens now, do all the crew leave?’

‘As soon as the vessel’s unloaded, all the crew are stood down, but the Captain lives on board till the next sailing.’

‘Get your stuff, Gio, and meet me on
the decks as soon as you can.’
Finnian’s mind began to work at another gameplan as he squashed a few
possessions into a carpetbag.
The rest he mesmered away and strode up to the decks to the side of the Captain who held out a hand to his passenger.

‘Well sir, an eventfu
l journey, I’m sure you agree.
No hard feelings?’

Finnian ignored the odious hand a
nd poured money onto the deck.
‘That’s for the boy’s
ticket.  I take him with me.’
He nodded at the cabinboy and they climbed down to the moored longboat w
ithout waiting for a reaction.
The big sailor hugged Gio as they stepped aboard the tender, looking over the boy’s curls at Finnian as he settled in the stern.

‘Thank you
sir, you’ve done a good thing.
Gio, be a brave lad now and tell your Ma I have your Pa’s things for her.’

A good thing?  You think?

‘Thanks be to Diff Errebi for my safe passage and return to the Light of My
Life and to my many children.’
The Raji Ambassador rattled a string of worry beads with one hand whilst adjusting his fringed turban with the other, looking back with obvious distaste at the ship as the tende
r progressed toward the shore.
The boy said nothing, just shrank between Finnian and the transom and Finnian felt grief bleeding through the layers of clothi
ng to soak into his very soul.
He had no qualms or conscience about placing a mesmer on the ship.

An eye for an eye.  My point, I thin
k, possibly my game after all.
At midnight the keel will split quietly and a hole wil
l appear as the planks spring.
Water will funnel in as
you sleep, Captain, and the Cullenen
will fill and eventually will not just wallow in the waters of Veniche but will sink like the proverbial stone.

Chapter Seven

Lalita

Taut with expectation, Lalita hurried behind a verbose Salah and the eunuchs. She ignored the beauty that surrounded her as her feet clacked on the tiles in hard-soled little slippers a
nd her fingers clenched tight.
Her throat choked and she wanted to scream at Salah to stop his inan
e chatter.
The one saving grace was that the afrit was nowhere to be seen.

She retraced her steps to the Door of a Thousand Promises and wished with all her heart that she could keep walking when the gates swept open, to leave with her uncle, to resume a
normal, plebeian life.
Chance would be a fine thing and she was well aware the Sultan
had made his desires obvious.
After this gift of a visit, she knew it was only a matter of
time before the summons came.
A cold nose pushed into her hand and she stopped for a minute to bend and hug the warm body of Phaeton, the gesture givin
g her time to collect herself.
For her uncle’s sake as much as her own.

Salah and the eunuchs led her to a small patio off the main colonnade to the side of the great gates and she stood biting the inside of her cheek, flanked on either side b
y the enormous djinn-like men.
Salah sat on a bench behind her, his graceful leg swinging up and down as he c
rossed it over a girlish knee.
She had no doubt he would be monitoring her every spoken word, that one hint of disloyalty and her future would be as short as the fringe on his robe.

Almost immediately she heard the locks grind and turn, one after another, and imagined the spider, the snake and the scorpion advancing and retreating.
What does Uncle think of this?
Then there he was, his robes shadowed and plain, his graying hair drifting in a warm breeze.

Phaeton bounded to him with a bark of joy, jumping up and resting h
is paws against Imran’s chest.
Lalita walked forward, tears falling, then ran into t
he circle of her uncle’s arms.
A violent jerk dragged her apart from him and she looked up in dismay as a scimitar swept between them.

‘No touching, Lalita!’ Salah called out.
‘You are the Sultan’s property and none but His Bright Light and those within the Seraglio may touch you.’

‘Oh my little niece,’ Imran’s voice cracked and his own eyes, so reminiscent of
his nephew Kholi’s, liquefied.
‘That Kurdeesh should have brought you to this.’

‘Uncle, no!’
Lalita butted in, aware of her uncle’s violent emotion and of the law of treason, and she prayed to Aine that he understood th
e subtle subtext of her words.
‘I am well looked after and Phaeton
and I have our own apartment.
I work hard, Uncle, y
ou would be proud of the book.
I dedicate it to you and to my aunt.’

Imran looked at her for a moment and she met him glance for glance, intui
tion drifting between the two.
‘I am gl
ad that you do well, my child.
You look be
tter than I have yet seen you.
Your aunt will be delighted you have finally come into the beauty she could s
ee hidden under paper and ink.
She is an opinionated woman your aunt, as you know, and asked that I give you all the love she has and to tell you that she
no longer cares for Kurdeesh.
That he has left our home.’

‘Truly? Where has he gone?’
She couldn’t help her delight.
Ma
y you suffer, you devil spawn.
Starve and suffer!

‘Mahmoud’s father saw you leave between the rows of janissaries and told us what had happened and Kurdeesh has apparently shouted his fisc
al triumph from the rooftops.
Thus now I believe he tries his for
tune on the streets, my niece. Perhaps with jackals and curs.
I know not nor care and we have we not seen him since the day we returned from our business.’

More subtext.
Lalita understood her
uncle had thrown Kurdeesh out.
That he hoped with a passion the man would be killed on the streets by the merciless djinn, Had al’ Khorine, and then eaten by carrion because he would never be forgiven
by Lalita’s diminutive family.
She could imagine Mahmoud’s heartache and the
horror and dismay of his family as they watched she and Phaeton walk away.
What must it have been like for them as they relayed the tidings to Imran and Soraya?

‘Lalita, you have five minutes left,’ Salah called from the benc
h seat.
‘Use them wisely.’

Imran’s questioning eyes flicked to the youth.

‘He is Salah.
He c
ares for the interests of…
those within in the seraglio.’

‘Your interests?’

‘I am often left alone, Uncle.
The commission is an enormous one and the book must be finished and bound by the end of the week when the Venichese Ambassador returns to his home.’

‘And then?’

Lalita looked at him and there was no need for any subtext between either of them.

His eyes glistened but no tears fell and Lalita was gra
teful.
‘My dearest child,’ he said so
ftly, ‘we have so little time so l
et me wish you a happy birthday and give you this.’

He held out a tissue wrapped gift fo
r inspection and Lalita waited.
Finally one of the eunuchs nodded his gleaming head and she reached forward and allowed her hand to touch her uncle’s as the weighty li
ttle gift rolled into her palm.
Never had she realized that just a finger grazing across one’s skin could
convey a universe of emotions.
Her eyes prickled as her uncle continued.

‘We
chose it in Fahsi in the souk. There is an antiquarian there.
He said, no disrespect intended to His Bright Light, that it could be worth a
Sultan’s fortune and I thought
value notwithstanding, that something from your family to convey the momentous nature of this day of your eighteenth birthday and of your skill as a calligrapher would not go astray.’

Another subtext.
A gift weighted with love and pain and pride, my uncle
.
Every time she felt ground down by circumstance she would look at it, hold it, whatever it was, and know that her family were beside her as if they were Hadduok Ennass themselves.

‘One minute only, Lalita!’

Desperation filled her as she looked at her uncle but he shook his head.

‘Say
nothing my child, it is here.’
He tapped his ch
est with two unsteady fingers.
‘And list
en while I tell you this next.
I beg your forgiveness for what I must convey on your special d
ay. My dear Lalita, Kholi…
’

‘I know, Uncle. He is dead.’
She brought a hand up to her forehead and rubbed.

‘You know?’

‘For many months.
As yo
u say,’ tears misted her sight. ‘It is here.’
She tapped her own chest.

‘The antiquarian in Fahsi said he heard it from a noblewoman
– a lady who preceded me by an hour to purchase so
mething akin to your own gift.
And she was of a mind to tell the merchant most gently of what she had heard.
He
, perhaps not so gently, passed the awful details to
me, saying the woman was odd.
Almost Other.’

‘Fifty seconds, Lalita.’

She shifted closer to her uncle but one of the eunuchs checked her back.

‘He was murdered.’
Her uncle
’s words thudded between them.
‘But his murderers were caught by Others and it is believed
just punishment was meted out.
It is a curious tale Lalita, and whilst my heart breaks for your brother, the tale has the sound of a romance and the scope of a le
gend and he one of the heroes.
I tell you child, that is how I want to remember him.’

‘Ten seconds.’

Don’t Salah, don’t.
Be sil
ent and let this be my moment. Mine and my uncle’s.
‘Uncle, I care only that he is
missed by those who love him.
It’s done now and we must grieve as best we can.’

‘Time, Lalita.’
Salah appeared by her side and took her arm, the eunuchs lining up on either side of Imran, their vast white robe
s flapping in a desert breeze.
To Lalita the cracking folds were cur
tains closing on her old life.
Imran walked backward, touching his forehead and his chest.

‘Salaam alaykam,
Lalita. Peace be with you
, my child.’

‘
Alaykem as salaam,
Uncle. And with you. Thank you.’
She needed him to know that her look spoke volumes and that even then there would never have been enough pages to contain the wo
rds.
Her eyes were blinded with tears as Imran turned and left through the Door of a Thousand Promises and Phaeton ran toward the empty spa
ce and back to Lalita barking.
Finally he stood at the huge gates as they closed, his whines almost subsumed by the n
oise of the locking mechanism.
He returned to his mistress’s side and filled Lalita’s hands with his nose and comfort but Salah jerked at her sleeve to lead her away.

‘Well
, little flower,’ he prattled.
‘It seems they have taught you much in a short t
ime within these walls.
You conveyed yourself with great dignity and it serves only to underl
ine what I have been thinking.
You stand to mak
e an enormous impression here.
Take some advice from me, howe
ver,’ he tapped her on the arm.
‘You must lock your doors and admit no o
ne without just cause, Lalita.
Many will be threatened by the brightness of your star.’

She heard nothing in the journey back to her apartments, her hand round the tissue
wrapped object in her pocket.
Salah gossiped and snickered and she was deaf to it all, lost in the wave of grief that threatened to brea
k over her head and drown her.
Loss of monumental proportions towered above – loss of her family, her freedom, happiness – and loss of the brother with whom she could almost have been a twin, so linked were they by the chains of kin.  She tried to rational
ize Kholi’s death in her mind.
That he had been a successful merchant, handsome and adored by women, that he
had been erudite and valorous.
And that in her heart she
knew
he had experienced the love of his life on that last fatal trip and that he had died with the knowledge he ha
d found a true kindred spirit.
She pushed away the overt fear that cut her throat in half and caused her to stop breathing.
That
was not how she wanted to remember her brother; it may well have been the way he died but it had no place in the hall of her memories.

‘So
I was right.  It’s as I said.
Disaster is your shadow.’

Lalita glimpsed the afrit walking backward in front of her, Salah completely obli
vious.
The self-satisfied tone in the Other’s voice cut her to the quick and she felt a sc
ream welling up in her throat.
She stopped dead so that it flew forth, her eyes closing and her mouth opening wide, h
er fists clenched by her side.
One word which
became a wail.
‘NO.’

Salah grabbed her as the afrit vanished, and dragged her
the last few feet to her door.
‘I shall tell everyone you cry because of the
death of your brother, Lalita.
But in truth I believe you are on the verge of one of your episode
s.’
He pushed her inside, Phaeton dragg
ing his lips back and growling.
‘There wi
ll be a tray in your workroom. It has all been deemed safe.
The Kisla Agha ordered you have a taster.’

‘Get out,’ Lalita’s voice whispered, her voice rising so that Salah
beat a hasty retreat. ‘Get out!’
She took her slippers off and threw them at the door, followed by a brass ewer clos
e at hand, then a ceramic vase. ‘GET OUT!’
But Salah had gone and as a mode of venting it did nothing for her mood, only inflamed it more.