The Book of Wonders (2 page)

“But we have no ink,” a voice piped up from the crowd.

Sinbad flashed his teeth again. “Do not fear.” He took a slender golden tube from the folds of his loose-fitting trousers. “This is an invention I picked up on my travels. It's called a
pen
. There is no need for a reed and inkpot. The ink is already in the cylinder.”

One of Sinbad's crewmen produced a piece of parchment and Sinbad signed his name with a flourish. The crowd gave a collective gasp as they saw the pen form the curving characters.

“Now
that
is pretty impressive.” Rhidan stood on tiptoe. “I wonder how it works.”

Zardi shook her head. “I can't believe you're more excited about a writing instrument than a tale about a quest, a monster, and a wizard. You're so weird sometimes.”

Rhidan ignored her.

“So, which lucky soul should get this autograph?” Sinbad called out. Forty hands went up at once. “Ha! It is impossible to decide,” he cried, and threw the parchment into the crowd.

The audience watched, mesmerized, as the paper floated down toward them. A woman well past her sixtieth year broke ranks first and leaped upward, snatching the autograph out of the air. Zardi winced as another woman dived at the old lady's legs, taking her to the ground. Within seconds several other people had piled on top of them. The old lady was not down for long, though. A few well-placed blows with her elbows, and she was free, scarpering off down the riverbank with her prize.

Zardi winked at Rhidan. “That lady's as determined as my grandmother.”

“True,” Rhidan agreed, as the crowd finally started to form a line, “but Nonna would never be pulled in by this charlatan.”

Zardi grimaced.
Why does he always have to use such big words?
she wondered with annoyance.
And why must he always ruin things with logic?
“How do you know he's a
charlatan?
” she challenged. “Maybe he
has
defeated a vicious beast with three heads and been in a cave full of magical treasures.”

“Now, that's extremely doubtful.” Rhidan dismissed the idea with a wave of his milk-white hand. “He has no knowledge of real magic. He's just a smart sailor who can spin a superior yarn. I guarantee the only thing he is selling today is junk and dreams.” Rhidan looked round at the jostling crowd. “He's a good salesman, though, I'll give him that. Somehow, he's convinced everyone here to forget that it's a crime to think about magic in Arribitha, let alone try to buy a piece of it.”

She was just about to reply when Sinbad sidled up to them.

“Greetings, my young friends. Can I interest you in an autograph?”

Zardi disguised her laugh at the look on Rhidan's face with a cough. Suddenly, she was struck with a rather brilliant way to get back at her friend for being so grumpy. “I have no paper, I'm afraid,” she told Sinbad. “But I'd
love
to hear more about your adventures.”

Rhidan narrowed his eyes at her, not impressed with the game she was playing.

“Ah, a young lady with a taste for thrilling quests and breathtaking escapades,” Sinbad said. “Let me see if I can think of a new story.” He rubbed his chin. “You know, it's a shame you're of the fairer sex, otherwise you could join us on the
Falcon
. We're always looking for new recruits.”

A dull ache pooled in Zardi's chest. Sinbad could not know it, but she'd spent countless hours at the docks, watching the ships sail down the mighty Tigress River, envy making her throat close up until it was reed-thin. Her future was already written. She'd stay here in the city of Taraket, as certainly as the river rolled across the land and out toward the ocean that lapped Arribitha's south coast.

Yet despite this, the world beyond the riverbank called to her, making it impossible to be at peace with her fate. More than anything, she wanted to be a part of a ship's crew, to sail on the open sea. But such a thing was unheard of for a girl, much less for the daughter of the sultan's vizier.

“Don't look so sad, my lady.” Sinbad rummaged in his pocket and took out a small wooden carving of a proud-looking bird. He folded it into Zardi's hand. “If you can't come to the
Falcon
, then let it come to you. You know, a falcon is the most loyal of birds. Her cry fills grown men with fear, for they understand that she'll fight for her master until her last breath.” He winked at her. “The falcon will look after you.”

Zardi smiled up sadly at the tall captain as she thanked him. For the first time, she noticed a tiny, crescent-shaped scar near his left eye. She wondered what had made the mark. A sword? The claw of a beast…?

Sinbad turned to Rhidan. “Pale one, maybe you would you like to join me? After all, you are far from home. Strange, I didn't think your people left the Black Isle.”

Rhidan made a sound as though he'd been punched in the stomach. “Y-you've seen people who look like me before?”

Zardi met her friend's surprised look with one of her own. No one had ever been able to identify Rhidan's origins. He didn't mention it often, but his need to know why his parents had abandoned him—where he came from—was as much a part of him as the dimples in his cheeks.

Sinbad chuckled. “With hair and eyes like yours, how could I mistake you? You have classic Ilian features. It's just a shame that—”

A member of the
Falcon's
crew suddenly dashed up to them. “Capt'n, we've got to move.
Now!
” The sailor's mouselike face was ashen. “Sultan Shahryār's guards are coming this way and—” He faltered and then swallowed hard. “It'll be our heads if they find out we've been selling these fake charms and telling stories about wizards.”

“No, don't go!” Rhidan's plea was hoarse. “The Black Isle. Please, tell me about the Black Isle.”

“Mirzani, you imbecile, keep your voice down!” Sinbad glowered at the crewman, oblivious to Rhidan and Zardi. “Must all of Arribitha know our business? Start to pack away the goods and lift the anchors. I'll tell Musty we're moving out.”

“But—” Zardi began.

The captain interrupted her. “I'm sorry, young ones. Our time is up. And if you have any sense, you'll get out of here before the sultan's guards arrive.” With a final nod, Sinbad and his companion threw themselves into the crowd and were instantly swallowed up.

“S
inbad!” Rhidan dived after the sailor. “Wait! Please!” Rhidan turned to Zardi, his eyes wild. “I've got to speak to him.”

Pain and want was scored into her friend's face, and in that split second Zardi remembered all the times Rhidan had walked up and down the riverside docks, showing sailors and merchants his amulet—asking if they recognized it, or whether they could tell him where he was from. There was no way she was going to leave him without answers, not when they were so close. “Don't worry,” she said. “We're not finished with Sinbad yet. Come on.”

They tried to follow the captain, but the swarm of people in front of them was impossible to penetrate. Word of the sultan's guards had reached the crowd, and fear spread like a sickness, making the citizens of Taraket whimper and shake. Many tried to flee the approaching menace, but the crush of bodies made it difficult to move. All around her, Zardi could hear the whispered predictions of what would happen to those caught by the sultan's men, of the blood that would be spilled on the executioner's block.

Rhidan gave a low growl and tried to shove his way through.

“Rhidan, stop!” She grabbed his arm. “The guards are coming. We've got to get out of here.”

“No, I can't. You heard what Sinbad said.” Rhidan's voice rose with each word. “On the Black Isle there are people who look like me … just like me.”

“I know, I know,” Zardi soothed, even as fear pinched at her skin. In the distance, she could see the steady advance of the sultan's guards marching along the riverbank. Curved sabers hung from their waists, and Zardi knew that they needed little reason to use them. Crimson tattoos of staring eyes covered their faces, necks, and arms. The ink left their expressions stiff, a red mask of judgment that told every man, woman, and child that the sultan's guards were always watching. They moved in perfect unison, standing shoulder to shoulder like bricks in a wall.
The wall! That was it. That was how they could get to Sinbad!
She dragged on Rhidan's arm. “We need to get to the sultan's arch.”

He looked at her in confusion.

“Don't you see?” she said. “All ships have to pass under the arch to leave Taraket. If we get on it, we'll be able to see the
Falcon
go through.” She paused, not quite believing she was about to say her next words. “And when it does, we'll jump down onto the deck. We'll be able to ask Sinbad everything he knows about the Black Isle!”

“You're a genius.” Rhidan's violet eyes blazed. “Let's go!”

Pushing along with everyone else, they eventually broke free of the frantic throng and sprinted along the riverbank, but the way ahead was heaving with yet more people. Beggars pulled at sleeves and held out hands for a coin, while skinny urchins in rags watched the crowd with calculating eyes. Traders from all over Arribitha had traveled along the Tigress River to Taraket, eager to sell their wares, and Zardi and Rhidan found themselves dodging street sellers proffering mirrored glass from Azra, sidestepping women trading animal skins from the northern Ice Plains, and finally barging past men selling musk, fireworks, and porcelain from the distant kingdom of Mandar.

Over her shoulder, Zardi could see Sinbad's ship. The
Falcon
was striking a course down the middle of the Tigress, doing its best to avoid the other boats. For a moment her breath was stolen as she looked at the majestic vessel. Its sails were jade, ruby, and amber, and the hull was made of a rich ebony wood that proudly reflected the eddies and swirls of the river. Zardi blinked hard. She didn't have time to be mooning over the ship. She and Rhidan had to get on top of the sultan's arch before the
Falcon
passed through it.

They charged on, the soft ground of the riverbank squelching beneath their sandals, and finally arrived at the arch. It reared up in front of them—a huge stone structure stretching over the Tigress. Its curving surface was made of massive, spaced columns that jutted upward. The arch had never been stepped on; it was a whim of the sultan's, a symbol to show that all were beneath his greatness. Under their breaths, some dared to call the arch the widow reaper because of the countless men who had died during its construction, some slain by the guards for not working fast enough, others crushed beneath falling rocks.

Rhidan's and Zardi's fingers instantly began to search for handholds to climb to the top of the first pillar, but they found none. Zardi hunkered down and formed a cradle with her fingers. “Hop up,” she said.

Rhidan didn't hesitate and placed a foot in her hand. As Zardi vaulted him up onto the widow reaper's lowest column, she marveled at the transformation of her usually cautious friend. He normally had his nose in a book of riddles or mathematics and certainly never climbed walls. He hadn't even questioned what would happen to them if they were seen on the arch or how they were going to get off the ship once they got the answers he needed, not that she'd quite worked that out either. He seemed so different that, for a heartbeat, she wondered if he might leave her behind. But without pausing, Rhidan offered his hand and pulled her up beside him.

With a glance Zardi saw that Sinbad's ship was coming swiftly to the widow reaper, its multicolored sails swelling with the wind. She surveyed the columns ahead, each one sitting a bit higher than the last, huge rocky steps rising upward.

All we need to do is reach the middle
. She looked down at the river and the spiky clusters of rocks that stabbed out of the water within the shadow of the arch.
And not fall off
…

Zardi took a deep breath and leaped for the second column. She landed safely, and after a moment Rhidan appeared beside her. Without pausing, she jumped for the next column of stone and then the one after that. The river wind buffeted them fiercely, doing its best to bully them off the edge of the arch, but they gave it no quarter.

They climbed higher, their pace slowing as the columns began to get narrower. Zardi took the lead but found that she had to be even surer of her leaps, her footwork more controlled. Mid-jump, a strong gust tore the silk scarf from her head and pulled some of her hair from its long braid. The strands blinded Zardi for a moment, forcing her to use instinct rather than sight to land safely.

She watched her silk scarf dance away on the breeze. On the same wind, from the tallest watchtower of Taraket, she could hear the sultan's praisemaker reciting the rules of Arribitha in a high, pure voice:

Subjects will think not, know not magic
.

Subjects will report any that seek to undermine the sultan's will
.

Subjects will not walk the streets after dusk
.

Sultan Shahryār shall be respected at all times—for even with his eyes closed he can see
.

All will praise him. Praise him all
.

There was a sharp blow of a horn and then came the daily call of names of those who had disobeyed the sultan's rules. Names of those who'd been executed that morning.

“Maysa Amari… Aida Kalil… Jamal Temiz… Salam Nas—” The praisemaker's voice faltered on the last name, as if the horror of all these deaths flowing and tumbling over each other had stolen her ability to speak.

Zardi turned to stare at the watchtower. She could see the silhouette of the praisemaker standing on the ledge of the window, the shadow of a guard looming behind her. The wind that came off the river made the girl's dress flap around her like an angry bird, and her shoulders were hunched as if she was trying to fold into herself.