The Champion (6 page)

She shook her head, as if she’d heard him. Walking toward the statue, she circled its base, stroking one hand over the carved stone, a fleeting touch, graceful in that singular way of hers. “The Goddess Mit, guardian of the civilization that once thrived in this valley. They had no wars here, no uprisings, no bloodshed. They lived in peace for five hundred years, with no kings, no tyrants, no divine rulers. The people chose for themselves, their ministers, their grand council of elders…”

“A republic,” he said.

“A what?”

“A government chosen by the people.”

“Yes.”

Jacob nodded, knowing of several in the ancient world, none of which had survived to the modern age. He couldn’t help but wonder why she found them so interesting.

“Kings and gods…” she murmured. “People prefer them to have a face, even if it is the wrong one. Most people need someone staring down at them, reminding them that life must have order, or they scatter into chaos. But these people put the burden of destiny on themselves. They were conquered, destroyed by their neighbors, but…”

She looked defeated. She couldn’t say it, whatever
it
was.

He watched her for a moment. “Where did he find you?”

“Among the tribes, close to here.”

“Osman is fond of visiting the Red Desert?”

“No, of course not. It was not him. He was always shut away in his private apartments and rarely seen. I was found by one of his lesser viziers, who was traveling back to the palace and looking for a gift.”

“He took you?”

“I was purchased from my father.”

“
Purchased.
”

She looked up at him, her face revealing shades of the girl she had been. “It is not as harsh as it sounds. Life in the desert is very difficult. My parents believed that I would be safe. I would never sleep in the cold, or go hungry. It was more than they ever had for themselves.”

“And are you safe?”

She closed her eyes. “It has never been that simple.”

He couldn’t imagine that it had been. Her expression, her withdrawal, was more than enough to demonstrate that.
What did he do to you?

“From the beginning, he was impossible to please,” she said, seeming to struggle with the words. “There were moments when he was happy, and he would call for a dance, or a game, and he laughed, the way a child might laugh, but if anything,
anything
, disturbed his calm, he was ruthless, unable to control his anger. He was tortured, cruel and…paranoid, and I grew to hate him. When he fell ill, I stood above his bed, hoping for it to end, hoping for him to die, even in that horrible way.”

The last word was a whisper, more emotion than breath. She looked away from him, ashamed in ways he knew he wouldn’t be, if he’d been in her place. He let the urge to reply pass, too familiar with human damage to make the mistake of patronizing or contradicting it with easy comfort. He closed the distance between them, reaching out to gently stroke the errant strands of hair from her cheek. “You’re safe now.”

She let out a soft whisper of gratitude, something in her own language, and turned her face toward his open hand, seeking the warmth of his palm. He watched in fascination as she nestled her cheek against it, her breath feather-light on his skin. “So many times, I thought I would be discovered. I thought of you, of how they couldn’t kill you. I thought of you and…this…”

She kissed his fingers.

Let her go. She knows how to survive. Let her go and don’t look back.

Her lips touched him again, offering peace, the deep quiet that came from exertion and release, from shared breath and shared intent. He couldn’t look away from it now, the soft light in her eyes, a trace of something tragic and fragile in her caress.

Leaning close, he kissed her, needing to warm her, to fortify her, welcome her. He heard the sharp intake of breath, felt the instant rigidity, another man’s cruelty still holding sway.

“I’m not him,” he said, the words warm on her lips, whispered between touches. “I’m not him.”

She closed her eyes, knotting her fists in his entari, as if he were holding her above a fast moving current. He brought his hands up to her face, cradling her gently, tasting her panic, slowing the rhythm of the kiss until her breathing mellowed to match his own.

He felt the tension in her ease, and took pride in that, allowing himself to imagine her unafraid, her slip of a body fitting to his hands, her head rolling back on her shoulders as he caressed her, as put his mouth on her, brought her slowly to a state of need. He imagined how she would taste, the sounds she’d make when he finally thrust himself inside her, her skin flushed, her lips parted and wet, her golden eyes glowing underneath him.

He resisted the urge to tighten his hold, to rush her as his cock hardened with the wanting of her, desperate to feel her, hear her whisper his name into the heated air between them.

Nadira.

She broke the kiss. “I dreamed of you, so many times…when I was alone, when it was safe. I dreamed of being like your other lovers.”

“I have no other lovers,” he murmured. “Not for years.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is true.”

“But, the reports—”

“Don’t mistake me for that man, Nadira,” he said. “I’m not him either. I would be careful with you.”

She stared up at him, her eyes glazing with tears. “I must tell you the truth, the truth about Osman.”

He pressed his lips together, confused.

“On the seventh night, he could not even drink water,” she said, looking away, staring into a past he could not see. “He was finally convinced that he would die and I…I told him that no one should see the dying pains of a great Sultan. He agreed and ordered everyone to leave his apartments, leave him alone, with me as his only servant. I held his hand as his eyes lit with all the wonders of the next world…” She shook her head. “And I became desperate. I knew what would happen with him gone, how women of the Harem are treated once the Sultan dies, taken to a place of isolation, where they may be imprisoned, tormented—”

Tormented?
His hand stilled on her. “If Osman dies, you will be imprisoned by his successor?”

“Osman will not—whenever any sultan dies, the women of his Harem may expect no particular mercy. That is why I—”

“You can’t go back,” he said, knowing what he risked by saying it.
I can’t tell you why. I can’t tell you what’s about to happen. I can only save you if you do exactly as I say.
“Not tonight, not ever. Escape this place, now, while it’s still dark. I can help you in a few days, meet you in Bhu Djazir.”

“You are leaving?” It was an accusation, her eyes widening in surprise. “You promised to help.”

He swore under his breath, knowing that he’d said too much, struggling to slip back into a role he’d never play well. “You can be certain that I’ll offer His Majesty everything I know on the subject of diamonds tomorrow, and then I’ll be gone before another word is said.”

“But the machine—”

“War machines start wars, and this is one he cannot win.”

She stared at him, blanching at the words. “I see.”

“I can explain further, in Bhu Djazir.”

“I cannot go.”

“It’s an easy ride. Once there, I can arrange for your protection.”

“No one can protect me, especially not a thief in exile. Once it is discovered what I’ve done, I will be accused. Each of the great sultans of the desert will pay a fortune for my head. Every mercenary, every assassin, will know my name. My family will be publicly put to death.”

“
What?
”

“There is no escape for me. There is only change, only the possibility to alter everything that is. Then there will be no more questions. There will be only the future. No one will care about the past.”

Jacob shook his head, hoping she didn’t really believe that. “There is no future here, Nadira. The Sultan has enemies circling both above and below, and he’s staring doe-eyed into a fool’s horizon that will vanish before his eyes. I cannot help you if you chose to stay.”

She took a step back, slipping out of his reach, her gold eyes burning in the glow. She was angry now, no longer the halting admirer, breathless and fragile, but a woman steeled in armor he hadn’t seen before, not nearly as powerless as he’d thought. “Of course. A thief must run while he can.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

He held her gaze, sick with the knowledge that he could say nothing more. He’d compromised his purpose, his own life, in telling her the few things that he had. If she walked away from him now, she walked into the grayed world of people he could not save, cries for help that he heard but did not answer, another face added to the nightmares.

“You would risk everything for a diamond,” she accused. “For treasure, for money, you would risk your life, you would challenge the world.”

Not for a diamond. Not even for duty, or for honor. For one less war, one less battlefield to cross.

“But not to help anyone, not to help—” she continued, backing toward the doorway. “You would not risk your life for that. And to think, how gentle you are, how sweetly you touch, before you turn your back and disappear. How cold you must be, Mr. Letoures. How very cold.”

Jacob stood where he was, accepting her condemnation, well aware that it was the truth in more ways than she knew.
I can’t help you, if you walk through that door, Nadira. I will follow my directives. I will kill your master and escape over the wall before I can be captured. And I will think of you, how I wanted you to take my offer, how it made me weak, how it felt like agony, when you refused. I’ll think of you, the way I think of many others, and I’ll go on.

“Don’t,” he heard himself say. “Please.”

“Please?”

“There’s nothing for you out there.”

She issued a bitter laugh, her eyes glittering. “It appears that there is nothing for me in here either.”

Don’t. Don’t walk away from me.

Pulling the hood of her cloak up to shadow her face, she ducked into the darkness beyond the temple door.

Jacob watched her go, his fists clenching at his sides, his heart stinging, left helpless at the foot of a goddess.

Nadira pushed under the small window grate protecting the stairwell to the Sultan’s apartments, her breathing ragged from the steep traverse across the adjoining roof. She dropped into the stone passage, catching her balance along the stairs. Adjusting the heavy cloak around her shoulders, she climbed the winding steps, lifting her face at the top so that the guards could recognize her in the torchlight—the Sultan’s concubine, back from her errand on the lower floors.

If they found it strange, or noticed the tear in her trailing hem, it did not register in their eyes. They merely stepped aside, opening the door and allowing her to enter the darkened solar. She walked forward and stood in one place until they closed her inside, holding herself up until she was alone.

The Sultan has enemies circling both above and below, and he’s staring doe-eyed into a fool’s horizon that will vanish before his eyes.

She sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands.

Enemies both above and below…What had he seen, what had he caught that she did not? Was it so obvious, so terrifyingly close, that even the world’s greatest thief was afraid to be caught by it?

She shut her eyes, rocking forward against her knees.
They’re going to drag me into the streets, tear the robes from my shoulders. I will die from their rage, I will bleed and I will be alone…

Nadira pressed her hands over her mouth, desperate to muffle gasping cries she couldn’t contain. She felt the dreams she’d taken such pains to protect now collapsing in the darkness around her, vanishing with a thief’s fleeting touch, the whispered promise of her safety. The Letoures she’d imagined did not exist, nor did the world of hope it had once offered, the world of triumph against all odds.

In reality, Robert Letoures only accepted the odds that favored him, and had already determined that the Sultan of Ruman was a dead man.

She shook her head, forcing deeper breaths through parted teeth, smearing the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Not yet. I am not dead yet. There is still the machine, still the possibility, however slight, that the Great Inventor of New Europa sketched a device that will work. I am not dead yet.

Shuddering, she felt the conviction take hold, though not all the pieces fit where they had before. There was emptiness where warmth had been, a tired ache for all dreams lost, for the fool’s horizon that had always been brighter for the shadow of the man standing against it.

T
he Star Tower stood apart from the old libraries, its structure designed and built by Mehmed the Wise to house the world’s first giant telescope, a device which had been promptly disassembled for the construction of the war machine. The building itself offered no windows, pillars or terraces, its smooth circular base extending up past the height of the defensive wall, its round parapet capped with a giant copper dome comprised of retractable doors. In the white light of midday, the doors shimmered with heat, their brightly riveted surfaces blazing under a thin sheen of turquoise patina.

The entrance had been fortified to ensure the safety of the machine, and was now protected by a shining metal door at least a meter thick, its heavy bolt locks turned by a dozen dogging wheels.

Nadira followed the Grand Vizier through the massive entryway, finding the interior of the tower to be a dark maze of metal stairs and platforms, walls of large pipes hissing with steam. Boilers chugged and clinked in the background. Small electric lights appeared haloed in the moist air, glowing from sharp niches and corners.

She placed her gloved fingers on railing, negotiating a flight of narrow steps to the catwalk above. The mechanical spine of the war machine appeared in shadows and pieces, a looming pillar of black magnets wired to a heavy base of batteries. Eight tiers of rotating wheels had been suspended on giant bearings around the pillar, each bracing a circle of mirrors facing the center. Some mirrors were curved and some flat, all adjusted at different angles. At the top, a thick ring supported a metal cradle, its bed containing a layered bloom of thick crystal lenses, with a sparkle of blue at its heart.

The diamond.

Altogether, the machine was enormous, braced by six levels of catwalks, its glittering crown almost touching the copper dome above it.

Nadira kept a neutral expression, willing the regal air of the Sultan in full costume as she climbed higher, ducking under warm pipes, and passing between benches of tools and hanging buckets stained with oil.

The old scholar Isban appeared along the highest catwalk, the dizzying drop to the tower floor appearing through the mesh of metal grates beneath him. He stared up at her and blinked through green-tinged spectacles, smiling in welcome.

The thief stood behind him, his tall outline appearing predatory in full black attire. His eyes set on her, devoid of sympathy or recognition. He nodded deferentially, even as the scholar bent at the waist in a full bow.

“Grand Vizier, Your Majesty,” the old man rasped. “All is ready for the test. We’ve repaired the batteries. The casing, it seems, was vulnerable to the corrosives, but now I think we are fully prepared. In terms of the light, the blue stone should make all the difference. We’ve tried all the other diamonds in Your Majesty’s diverse collection, pinks, yellows, even a brilliant red, but it is the blue we needed, and your collection, while greatly attractive, is sorely lacking in blue.”

If the thief understood any of this foreign diatribe, he didn’t acknowledge it. His attention slid to the lower catwalks, focusing on a group of guards that appeared on the stairs…members of her own security complement, no doubt.

The thief considered them a moment, then looked up, his eyes narrowing on the Grand Vizier. The fat man was talking in his usual way, oblivious to everything but his own safety. “Should we really be here, at the top of the device? It seems to me that this could be quite dangerous.”

“This is only a partial test.” The scholar leaned against the rail and directed a gnarled finger at the cluster of bright lenses beside the walk. “The machine requires full sunlight. We will retract only certain panels in the dome, thus providing only a modicum of power to observe the results.”

Her guards were coming swiftly, their steps ringing on the metal.

The thief glanced at them, his weight shifting, his movements measured and deliberate as he stepped to one side of old Isban. His hands flexed at his sides.

Nadira pressed her lips together, unable to take her eyes off him.
What are you thinking? What do see when you look at me?

“Proceed,” the Grand Vizier commanded. “Let it be done.”

The scene around her seemed to slow to quarter speed. She heard the professor call for the retraction of the upper doors, then the Grand Vizier urging her toward the guards for safety sake, the clatter of the security complement as they approached along the catwalk.

Still, she seemed to see nothing but the thief, the graceful way he moved past the professor, no longer drawn to the machine, or the guards, but focused completely on her.

Metal plates screeched under the dome, gears turning, chains snapping tight. The top doors ground open overhead, a crack of light spilling through a copper sky. The machine’s bloom of lenses glittered to life, the diamond flaring blue at its center. In an instant, the mirrors caught fire. The air inside the tower turned blinding, a thousand rainbows projecting through the haze.

Nadira caught her breath, seeing the thief materialize from the glare, catlike as he crossed the distance, a sliver of metal glinting from his fingers. Her guards were rushing up behind her. The scholar was yelling, a desperate warning, a distant call from a faraway place.

The thief raised his hand, then paused, his eyes widening through the prism of colored light. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She saw the recognition form in his gaze, a falter in his movement, a flash of surprise, then horror.
He can see it…he can see me.

He froze, his lips parted, his lashes glossed with light.

“Let it be done!” the Grand Vizier growled from behind her. “Kill them. Kill them all!”

Kill?

The thief’s gaze cut to the guards on the catwalk then he was on the rail, leaping up with the spin of blades flashing from his hands. She heard a scream of pain from the guards, a pistol shot, then he landed on the catwalk behind her, kicking her down on her knees.

Nadira dropped to the grate, releasing a harsh cry. She flipped onto her back, seeing him as a silhouette against the glow, brandishing a pistol he’d taken from the guards. Gunfire rang from the metal, hard echoes ricocheting between the catwalks. He disappeared from sight, chasing after two men who were already fleeing from him.

She heard more screaming, a thud of bodies crushed together and falling from steps. Beneath her, the rings of mirrors began to spin, their slow circling flashing light through the metal grate. The war machine emitted a snapping hum, a warning as dire as any she’d ever heard.

“Close the doors!” she yelled through her teeth.

The scholar stared at her in panic.

Shaking her head, she pushed up from the grate and ran for the bloom of lenses. She grabbed onto the rail and leaned out over the churning machine, forced to close her eyes and feel for the diamond in the brightness. Her gloved fingers slipped over its facets and she cried through her teeth, dislodging it from its metal setting. It came away with a clink, the intensity through the mirrors fading as if a cloud had blocked the sun, the rings beneath her now spinning without power.

Nadira staggered back and collapsed to her knees, the diamond gripped tightly in her hand. She drew a ragged breath.

“The Grand Vizier,” Isban sputtered. “He ordered your death. The guards… he…”

“He escaped.” The thief reappeared on the catwalk, breathing hard, his face tight with anger. “On that gray nag of his. I tried to shoot it down, but there were too many inconvenient scholars in the way. He’s headed for the gate along the outer wall.”

The scholar stared at him open-mouthed, his skin drained of color.

The thief gave a half-shake of his head. “So now, you must go and give the order to close it.”

“Close…”

“The soldiers under his command will spare no one.”

“There is bell, for alarm, and—”

“Go ring it.”

The scholar looked at Nadira, begging for reassurance.

“On the order of your sultan,” she said. “Ring it.”

Nodding, the old man pulled himself up from the grate and hurried down the catwalk.

The light from the machine had faded, shadows returning to the maze of walkways around them. Water poured from a ruptured pipe along the wall, showering over the railings, threading silver in the darkness.

“And you,” the thief hissed, closing the distance between them. Grabbing onto her wrists, he drew her up from the grate. “Who are you? Not a sultan. Not a slave.”

She bit back the pain, his hold on her wrists far too tight. “I am Nadira, once favored of the Sultan.”

“Where is Osman?” he roared.

“In the catacombs, under the palace,” she yelled back, facing the fury in his eyes. “Dead for years.”

“Years…” He shook his head, releasing her in disbelief.

From outside the tower, a bell began to ring, its clang echoing across the stone yard, quickly followed by more clanging bells, shouting voices.

“I didn’t kill him,” she said.

“No?”

“I didn’t poison him. I just…”

“Took his place.”

“There was no choice.”

“A disguise…and not even a good one.”

“No one ever saw him. No one knew.”

“You’re wrong.”

She stared at him, not knowing what to say to that.

“You commissioned the railroad,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And you organized the ministers.”

“I tried.”

“And then you decided to go to war?”

Nadira retreated a step. “No.”

“Who made the decision to attack Kiris?”

“No one. I attacked no one.”

“But you built this machine.”

She glanced down at its rings and magnets, its lenses now dark. “The Grand Vizier has many spies in New Europa. He said that we could acquire the plans easily, and then no one would attack us if we built it.”

“The same Grand Vizier who just tried to kill you?”

She felt the breath burn away in her throat.

He shook his head. “It didn’t occur to you that the man who actually poisoned Osman was still in your midst?”

“There was a search.”

“Oh? Was it headed by the Grand Vizier?”

She pressed her lips together, realizing for the first time how foolish she had been. The truth was too much. “He knew…”

“Of course.”

“But why would he pretend for so long?”

He looked down at her, focusing through the powder and clay, the shadowed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. “Stay here.”

She shook her head, watching as he disappeared down the catwalk.

Jacob slid down the stairways using only the rails, leaping to the stone floor and charging through the open vault entrance. The courtyard swam around him in the heat, the squared roofs of libraries and temples now white with sunlight, their steps dotted with scholars.

He broke into a sprint toward the gate, his breathing coming hard through his teeth, the sweat prickling his neck, his back.
Almost killed her, dropped her where she stood…not the target, not a sultan, not a war maker, but a woman…a dreamer with a painted face.

The slave. The Grand Vizier. The War Machine.
You’re not really a criminal, are you…
Fragments slid into place with the punishing rush of adrenaline, his body leaping up steps, between groups, racing for the gate.

The iron-clad doors protecting the inner courtyard creaked on their chains, swiveling closed with a loud thud. He slowed before them as they were bolted into place, secured with a beam the size of an oak trunk. Men ran along the wall-walks above, pointing and yelling at the scene outside.

Jacob climbed the steps and felt the breeze sweep over the parapet, carrying the sharp scent of campfires and horses. Isban stood at the wall, his expression horrified as he watched the figure of the Grand Vizier riding through a maze of soldier tents below.

“He will marshal them,” the old man croaked. “Won’t he?”

“Yes,” Jacob said.

“To kill the Sultan?”

“To kill all of you.”

“He wants the machine.”

“And the kingdom.”

“But—” The old man looked lost. “How will he convince them? Why would they all turn on Osman? He is very popular.”

“He is dead.”

The scholar looked at him in horror.

Jacob held his gaze. “That is what the Grand Vizier will say.”

“But we can prove—”

“No, we can’t. The Sultan is dead and we have killed him. We have just become conspirators.”

“That is ridiculous!”

“Nevertheless.”

Isban shook his head, his expression creased with fear. “We have so few weapons here.”

“You have the war machine.”

“The plasma generator?”

“The
what
?”

The scholar creased his thick brows. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Once fully activated, it will not discriminate. All who remain within these walls will die. A machine like that is not a defensive weapon. It must be built under the nose of the enemy in his seat of government, and detonated. That is its purpose, a single strike that will create chaos.”

Jacob stared at him, fighting the image of New Europa’s Parliament Hall, its great palaces and institutions, a hundred thousand faces upturned as the sky went white and streaked with brilliance.