disporting chamber, took one look at his master’s body, and commanded his men to arrest the vizier Babera.
Babera’s supporters resisted; the civil guard was called into action. While violence echoed in the halls of the palace, propelling the vizier Meyd to the rule of Qatiis whether he desired it or not, I released Fetim from his bonds, swept the drugs from his mind, and guided him to a safe egress.
As we journeyed together away from the changed city, I said, “You learn well.”
“Learn?”
“You learn to think like one of the accursed.”
“Thank you,” he said. He did not sound notably happy. Yet he faced the desert ahead of us without quailing.
“You fill me with pride,” I said. “You have exceeded all my expectations.”
“Give me time,” he returned. His tone suggested mockery of my former manner of speaking. “I might have some more surprises for you. The world has a lot of opportunities.”
Had I been mortal, I would have laughed. If he continued to learn at this pace, he would eventually become one of the djinn.
The Killing Stroke
W hen he was returned to the cell we shared, he retained nothing except his short, warrior’s robe and his knowledge of
shin-te
. The years of training which had made him what he was despite his youth had not been taken from him. Everything else was gone. His birthplace and family, his friendships and allegiances, his possessions and memories—all had been swept aside. The faces of his masters and students had vanished from his mind. He could not have given an account of himself to save his life—or ours. Not even his name remained to him.
I was familiar with his plight. As was Isla. We had experienced it ourselves.
The look of bereavement in his eyes did not augur well for him. It had settled firmly into the strained flesh at his temples and the new lines of his cheeks, causing him to appear almost painfully youthful and forlorn. He might have been a small boy who had grown so accustomed to blows he could not avoid that he had learned to flinch and duck his head reflexively.
Weariness clung to his limbs, burdened his shoulders. His ordeal had been immeasurably arduous.
Still his skill, and the rigor behind it, showed in the poise with which he carried himself, in the quick accuracy with which he saw and noted everything around him. He had presumably been dealt a killing stroke, with blade or fist. Yet he remained lithe of movement, prompt of gaze—and centered in his
qa
.
So he had returned on previous occasions. That he could continue to move and attend as he did, in spite of defeat and death, moderated his air of bereavement.
His throat was parched from his various exertions. Studying us with his incipient flinch, he tried to speak, but could not find his voice at first. With an effort, he swallowed his confusion and fear in order to clear his mouth. Then he asked faintly, “Where am I?”
It was the same question he had asked each time he entered. With repetition, his voice had grown husky, thick with doubt, but his mind continued to arrange its inquiries in the same order.
That also did not augur well.
As she had each time before, Isla shrugged, glowering darkly from her smudged features.
As I had each time before, I spread my hands to indicate the cell. Its blind stone walls and eternal lamps, its timbered ceiling, its pallets and cistern and privy, were the only answer we could give.
Frowning fearfully, he asked his second question. “Who are you?”
Isla turned her glower toward me. Behind its grime, her face might have been lovely or plain, but she had long since forgotten which, and I had ceased to be curious. The shape of her mouth was strict, however, and the heat of her
qa
showed in her eyes. “Does he never get tired of this?” she demanded.
Her protest was not a reference to the young man standing before us.
“Or she?” I retorted. The debate was of long standing between us. It meant nothing, but I maintained it on the
Babera’s supporters resisted; the civil guard was called into action. While violence echoed in the halls of the palace, propelling the vizier Meyd to the rule of Qatiis whether he desired it or not, I released Fetim from his bonds, swept the drugs from his mind, and guided him to a safe egress.
As we journeyed together away from the changed city, I said, “You learn well.”
“Learn?”
“You learn to think like one of the accursed.”
“Thank you,” he said. He did not sound notably happy. Yet he faced the desert ahead of us without quailing.
“You fill me with pride,” I said. “You have exceeded all my expectations.”
“Give me time,” he returned. His tone suggested mockery of my former manner of speaking. “I might have some more surprises for you. The world has a lot of opportunities.”
Had I been mortal, I would have laughed. If he continued to learn at this pace, he would eventually become one of the djinn.
The Killing Stroke
W hen he was returned to the cell we shared, he retained nothing except his short, warrior’s robe and his knowledge of
shin-te
. The years of training which had made him what he was despite his youth had not been taken from him. Everything else was gone. His birthplace and family, his friendships and allegiances, his possessions and memories—all had been swept aside. The faces of his masters and students had vanished from his mind. He could not have given an account of himself to save his life—or ours. Not even his name remained to him.
I was familiar with his plight. As was Isla. We had experienced it ourselves.
The look of bereavement in his eyes did not augur well for him. It had settled firmly into the strained flesh at his temples and the new lines of his cheeks, causing him to appear almost painfully youthful and forlorn. He might have been a small boy who had grown so accustomed to blows he could not avoid that he had learned to flinch and duck his head reflexively.
Weariness clung to his limbs, burdened his shoulders. His ordeal had been immeasurably arduous.
Still his skill, and the rigor behind it, showed in the poise with which he carried himself, in the quick accuracy with which he saw and noted everything around him. He had presumably been dealt a killing stroke, with blade or fist. Yet he remained lithe of movement, prompt of gaze—and centered in his
qa
.
So he had returned on previous occasions. That he could continue to move and attend as he did, in spite of defeat and death, moderated his air of bereavement.
His throat was parched from his various exertions. Studying us with his incipient flinch, he tried to speak, but could not find his voice at first. With an effort, he swallowed his confusion and fear in order to clear his mouth. Then he asked faintly, “Where am I?”
It was the same question he had asked each time he entered. With repetition, his voice had grown husky, thick with doubt, but his mind continued to arrange its inquiries in the same order.
That also did not augur well.
As she had each time before, Isla shrugged, glowering darkly from her smudged features.
As I had each time before, I spread my hands to indicate the cell. Its blind stone walls and eternal lamps, its timbered ceiling, its pallets and cistern and privy, were the only answer we could give.
Frowning fearfully, he asked his second question. “Who are you?”
Isla turned her glower toward me. Behind its grime, her face might have been lovely or plain, but she had long since forgotten which, and I had ceased to be curious. The shape of her mouth was strict, however, and the heat of her
qa
showed in her eyes. “Does he never get tired of this?” she demanded.
Her protest was not a reference to the young man standing before us.
“Or she?” I retorted. The debate was of long standing between us. It meant nothing, but I maintained it on the
Similar Books
