Beneath Ceaseless Skies #15 Read online

  The two men embraced and kissed on both cheeks. Then Axeface bellowed toward an adjoining room, “The Doctor is here, Mistress. You want me to beat him up?”

  Adoulla could not see Miri, but he heard her husky voice. “Not today, though I am tempted. Let the old fart through.”

  For one moment more, though, Axeface held him back. “She misses you, Doctor. I bet she’d still marry you. When’re you gonna wake up, huh?” With a good-natured shove, he sent Adoulla stumbling into the greeting-room.

  One of the regular girls, wearing a dress made of sheer cloth and copper coins, smiled at Adoulla. The coins jingled as she shimmied past, and he tried to keep from turning his head. Just my luck, he thought not for the first time, that the woman I love runs the whorehouse with the city’s prettiest girls.

  Then she was there. Miri Almoussa, Seller of Silks and Sweets, known to a select few as Miri of the Hundred Ears. Her thick curves jiggled as she moved, and her hands were hennaed. Adoulla had to remind himself that he was there to save a girl’s life. “When one is married to the ghuls, one has three wives already,” went the old ghul hunter’s adage. O God, how I wish I could take a fourth!

  Silently, Miri led him to a divan. She glared at him and brushed her hand over his beard, ridding it of crumbs he hadn’t known were there. “You’re a wonderful man,” she said by way of greeting, “but you can be truly disgusting sometimes.”

  A man’s slurred shouts boomed from the next room. Irritation flashed across Miri’s face, but she spoke lightly. “Naj is usually so quiet. Wormwood wine makes him loud. At least he’s not singing. Last week it was ten rounds of ‘The Druggist, the Draper, and the Man Who Made Paper’ before he passed out. Name of God, how I hate that song!” She slid Adoulla a tray with coffee, little salt fish, and rice bread. Adoulla popped a fish into his mouth, the tiny bones crunching as he chewed. Despite the urgency of his visit he was hungry. And Miri was not a woman to be rushed, no matter what the threat.

  She continued. “Unlike some people, though, Naj can be counted on to be here every week, helping to keep me and mine from poverty. It’s been a while, Doullie. What do you want?” She set her powder-painted features into an indifferent mask.

  “I’m wondering, pretty one, if you’ve heard anything about a stolen bride in the Quarter of Stalls.”

  Miri smiled a disgusted smile. “Predictable! Of course you already have your gigantic nose in this nonsense! Well. For the usual fee plus…five percent, I might remember something my Ears have heard.”

  “A price hike, huh?” Adoulla sighed. “You know I’ll pay what you ask, my sweet.”

  “Indeed you will. We may be more than friends here and there, ‘my sweet,’ but we’re not man and wife. Your choice, remember? Our monies are separate. And this, Doullie, is about money. Now, according to my Ears...”

  A name would’ve made Adoulla’s task easier, but Miri’s information was almost as good. A red riverboat with eyes painted on the prow had been spotted only two hours ago at an abandoned dock near the Low Bridge of Boats. And Hafi’s wife may not have been the first woman taken by the ghul. Two of Miri’s Ears said the ghul served a man, one said a woman, but none had gotten a close look.

  Still, Adoulla had a location now. Enough to act on. And so, calling himself mad for the thousandth time in his life, Adoulla prepared to leave a wonderful woman’s company to chase after monsters.

  * * *

  Raseed approached the well-kept storefront and allowed himself to hope. This was not Adoulla Makhslood’s home, but after Raseed’s “guide” had absconded, an old woman had led Raseed to this storefront, insisting that she had just seen the Doctor enter.

  Raseed paused at the threshold. He had journeyed far, and if it pleased God he’d have a new teacher. If it pleased God. He took a measured breath and stepped through the doorway.

  Inside, the large greeting-room was dim. Scant sunlight made its way through high windows. Tall couches lined the wall opposite the door, and a few well-dressed men sat on them, each speaking to a woman. And at the center of the room, on a juniper-wood divan, sat a middle-aged woman and an old man in a spotless kaftan. They stared as a massive man with a scar ushered Raseed in. Raseed looked at the man in white. Doctor Adoulla Makhslood?

  It had to be him. He was the right age, though Raseed had expected the Doctor to be leaner. And clean-shaven. This old man had the bumpy knuckles of a fist-fighter. Can this rough-looking one really be him?

  Raseed bowed his head. “Begging your pardon, but are you Doctor Adoulla Makhslood? The great and virtuous ghul hunter?”

  The man snorted a laugh. “‘Great and virtuous’? No, boy, you’re looking for someone else. I’m Doctor Adoulla Makhslood, the best belcher in Dhamsawaat. If I see this other fellow, though, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

  Raseed was confused. Perhaps he’s testing me somehow. He spoke carefully. “I apologize for disturbing you, Doctor. I am Raseed bas Raseed and I have come, at High Shaykh Aalli’s bidding, to offer you my sword in apprenticeship.” He bowed and waited for the Doctor’s response.

  * * *

  Old Shaykh Aalli? The only true dervish Adoulla had ever known? Adoulla had assumed that ancient Aalli had gone to meet God years ago. Was it really possible this Raseed had been sent by the High Shaykh? And might the boy be of some help? The Doctor sized up the five-foot dervish. He was yellow-toned with tilted eyes and a clean-shaven face. He looked like one who had killed but did not yet value life.

  A scabbard of blue leather and lapis lazuli hung at the boy’s waist. Adoulla smiled as he thought of the bawdy song that poked fun at an “ascetic” dervish’s love for his jeweled scabbard. The tune was as catchy as the words were blasphemous. Without meaning to, Adoulla started humming “Dervish Dressed In Blue.” The boy frowned, then bit his lip.

  God help me, he looks so sincere. Adoulla sighed and stood, avoiding Miri’s glare. “We’ll talk as we walk, boy. A girl’s life is in danger and time is short.” He paid Miri her fee, mumbled his inadequate goodbyes, and herded the boy out onto the street.

  A dervish of the Order. Adoulla decided he could not ignore the advantages of having such a swordsman at his side. After all, who knew what awaited him at the Low Bridge of Boats? He was easily winded these days, and he had no time to stop by his townhouse for more supplies. He needed help, truth be told. But first the boy had to be set straight.

  “The name of Shaykh Aalli goes far indeed with me, boy. You may accompany me for now. But we’re not in a holy man’s parable. We’re trying to save a poor girl’s life and keep from getting ourselves killed. God’s gifts and my own study have given me useful powers. But I’ll kick a man in his fig-sack if need be, make no mistake. A real girl has been stolen by a real monster. God forbid it, she may be dead. But it’s our job to help however we can.”

  The boy looked uncomfortable, but he bowed his head and said “Yes, Doctor.” That would be enough for now.

  * * *

  The thoroughfare the Doctor called the Street of Festivals was lined with townhouses separated by small gardens. A girl hawked purple pickles from a copper bowl. Raseed smelled something foul, but it wasn’t the pickles.

  Two houses down a human head had been mounted above the doorway.

  The Doctor spat. “The work of ‘His Greatness’ the Khalif. That is the head of Nassaar Jamala. Charged with treason. He made a few loud speeches at market. Meanwhile, young brides are abducted by ghuls and the watchmen do nothing.”

  “Surely, Doctor, if the man was a traitor it was righteous that he should die,” Raseed said.

  “And how is it that you are a scholar of righteousness, boy? Because you’re clean-shaven and take no wine? Shave your beard and scour your soul?” The Doctor squinted at Raseed. “Do you even need to shave yet? Hmph. What trials has your mewling soul faced, O master dervish of six-and-ten-whole-years? O kisser of I-am-guessing-exactly-zero-girls?”

  The Doctor waved his big hand as if brushing away his own word
s. “Look. There are three possibilities. One, you’re a madman or a crook passing yourself off as a dervish. Two, you are a real Lodge-trained holy man—which in all likelihood still makes you a corrupt bully. Three—” he gave Raseed a long look. “Three, you are the second dervish of the Order I’ve ever met who actually lives by his world-saving oaths. If so, boy, you’ve a cruel, disappointing life ahead.”

  “‘God’s mercy is more powerful than all the world’s cruelties’” Raseed recited. But the Doctor merely snorted and walked on.

  As Raseed followed through the throngs of people, his soul sank. Despite years of training he felt like a small boy, lost and about to cry. His long journey was over. He had made it to Dhamsawaat. He had found the man Shaykh Aalli named the Crescent Moon Kingdoms’ greatest ghul hunter.

  And the man was an impious slob.

  Doubt began to overwhelm Raseed. What would he do now? He knew that he needed direction — he wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t admit that. But what could he learn from this gassy, unkempt man?

  And yet Raseed could not deny that there was something familiar about Adoulla Makhslood. A strength of presence not unlike High Shaykh Aalli’s that seared past the Doctor’s sleepy-seeming eyes. Perhaps…

  He didn’t realize he’d come to a halt until a beggar elbowed past him. The Doctor, a dozen yards ahead, turned and hollered at him to hurry. Raseed followed, and they walked on into the late afternoon.

  * * *

  It was nearly evening when they finally approached the abandoned dock near the Low Bridge of Boats. There should be watchmen here, keeping the street people from moving in, Adoulla thought. But neither vagrants nor patrols were in sight. Bribery. Or murder.

  “Doctor!” The boy’s whisper was sharp as he pointed out onto the river.

  Adoulla saw it too: the red riverboat. He cursed as he saw that it was already leaving the dock. The owner had seen their approach—a lookout spell, no doubt. Adoulla cursed again. Then two figures stepped out from behind a dockhouse twenty yards ahead.

  They were shaped vaguely like men, but Adoulla knew the scaly grey flesh and glowing eyes. Water ghuls. And not one of them, but two!

  Adoulla thanked God that he had the little dervish with him. “Enemies, boy!”

  The ghuls hissed through barb-toothed leech-mouths, and their eyes blazed crimson. It was no wonder Hafi had run from them. Any man in his right mind would have.

  Adoulla dug into his kidskin satchel and withdrew two jade marbles. He clacked the spheres together in one hand and recited from the Heavenly Chapters.

  “God the All-Merciful forgives us our failings.”

  The jade turned to ash in Adoulla’s palm, and there was a noise like a crashing wave. The water ghul nearest him lost its shape and collapsed into a harmless puddle of stinking liquid, twitching with dead snakes and river-spiders.

  The drain of the invocation hit Adoulla and he felt as if he’d dashed up a hill. So much harder every year!

  The other ghul came at them. Raseed sped past Adoulla, his forked sword slashing. The creature snaked left. The boy’s weapon whistled through empty air. The ghul drove its scaly fist hard into the boy’s jaw. It struck a second time, catching Raseed in the chest. Adoulla was amazed that the boy still stood.

  Regaining his own strength, Adoulla reached back into his satchel. He’d had only the two marbles but there was another invocation... Where is that vial? The ghul struck at Raseed a third time—

  And the boy dodged. He spun and launched a hard kick into the ghul’s midsection. Its red eyes registered no pain, but the creature scrabbled backward.

  Adoulla marveled at the boy’s speed. Raseed’s sword flashed once, twice, thrice, four times. And Adoulla saw that his other invocation would not be needed.

  Ghuls fell harder than men, but they fell all the same. The boy had finished this one. Its hissing shifted into the croaks and buzzes of swamp vermin. Its claws raked the air. Then, its false soul snuffed out, the thing collapsed in a watery pile of dead frogs and leeches.

  Adoulla smiled at the puddle. So he’s not all bravado, then. Ten-and-six years old! “Well done, dervish! I’ve seen stone-hard soldiers run the other way when faced with those glowing eyes. But you stood your ground and you’re still alive!”

  “It…it wouldn’t die!” the boy stammered. “I cut it enough to kill five men! It wouldn’t die!”

  “It was a ghul, boy, not some drunken bully! Let me guess: for all your zeal, this is the first time you’ve faced one. Well, I won’t lie. You did brilliantly. But our work isn’t done. We’ve got to find that boat.”

  * * *

  ‘Brilliantly,’ he said. Raseed sheathed his sword, trying not to feel pride. He had killed a ghul!

  “Thank you, Doctor. I hope—”

  He heard a noise from the dockhouse. To his surprise, a scrawny young woman stepped from the shadows. Except that there was not enough shadow there to have hidden her. How could I not have seen her? Impossible! The girl wore a dirty dress with billowy sleeves. Her face was a small oval, her left eye badly bruised.

  “You killed them,” she said. “You killed them!”

  The Doctor smiled at her. “Well, not killed, exactly, dear. They never truly lived. But we stopped them, yes.” He bowed slightly, like a modest performer.

  “But he said they couldn’t be killed! He swore it!”

  The Doctor’s expression turned grim. “Who swore it? Are you not Hafi’s wife? Did these creatures not attack you?”

  The girl frowned. “Attack me? I…he swore,” she said dazedly. “They…gave me time.” She shook her head, as if driving some thought away, and raised a clenched fist. As she did, Raseed saw that she held two short pieces of rope, one white, one blue. His keen eyes noted intricate knots tied at the end of each. The girl raised the white rope—tied with a fat, squarish knot—to her mouth.

  “Damn it! Stop her!” the Doctor shouted. There was an unnaturally loud whispery sound as the girl blew on the white rope. As Raseed stood there confused, Adoulla’s shout twisted into a scream. The Doctor hunched over, gripping his midsection in agony. He spoke around gritted teeth. “Get. Ropes.”

  The girl blew on the knot again, and Raseed heard another whispery puff-of-air sound. The old man screamed again and dropped to his knees.

  Knot-blowing! Raseed had never seen such wicked magic at work, but he’d heard dark stories. He charged as he saw the girl raise the blue rope—tied with a small, sleek knot—to her lips. That one’s for me, he realized. But Raseed was too swift. He crossed the space between them and palm-punched the woman flat on her back. The little ropes flew from her hand. Before she could get to her feet, Raseed’s sword sang out of its scabbard. He held its forked tip to her throat.

  The Doctor shuffled up beside him, panting and still wincing with pain. “Let her stand,” he said, and Raseed did so. The Doctor’s tone was hard but strangely courteous. “So. Young lady. Blower-on-knots. Were these your pet ghuls we destroyed?”

  The girl sounded half asleep. “No. Pets? No. Zoud said that… Said that….” She eyed Raseed’s sword fearfully and trailed off.

  The Doctor took a deep breath and gestured to Raseed, so he brought the blade away from the girl’s throat. But he did not sheathe it.

  The Doctor’s voice grew infuriatingly gentle. “Let’s begin again. What’s your name, girl?”

  The girl’s eyes lost a bit of their glaze. She had the decency to look ashamed. “My name’s Ushra.”

  “And who has hurt you, Ushra? The magus who made these ghuls? What’s his name?”

  The girl looked at the ghuls’ puddle-remains. “He…my husband is called Zoud. He sent me to stop you while he got away. I’m his wife. First wife. I’ve…I’ve helped him catch others. Four…five now?”

  Wickedness, Raseed thought. This one deserves death.

  “Well, his girl-stealing days are over,” the Doctor said. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll help you, Ushra, but we also need your help.”

&n
bsp; Raseed could not keep his disapproval to himself. “And why have you never run away, woman? Or used your knots on this Zoud?”

  “I would never! I could never. You shouldn’t say such things!” Ushra looked terrified, and for a moment Raseed almost forgot that she was a wicked blower-on-knots who had just made the Doctor helpless with her magic. For a moment.

  “I must go back!” she said. “He’ll find me. He’ll make more ghuls! He’ll feed my living skin to them! He did it with his stolen wives…”

  The Doctor sucked in an angry-sounding breath. “We’ll stop him, Ushra. Where is he going in that riverboat? Where can we find him?”

  Raseed could not let this interrogation continue. “With apologies, Doctor, this one has worked wicked magics and must be punished. It is impermissible, according to the Traditions of the Order, to twist information from one who must be slain.”

  The Doctor threw his hands up. “God save us from fanatical children! We’re not going to slay her. We’re going to stop this half-dinar magus Zoud, and save Hafi’s wife. Whatever your Shaykhs taught you, boy, if you wish to study with me you will—”

  The puff-of-air sound again.

  Another rope. She had another rope hidden in those sleeves! As Raseed thought it, his vision went black.

  Blinded! It was so sudden that he cried out in spite of himself. He felt a soft hand on his face. Then his stomach twisted up and his mind stopped working properly. All around him was darkness and his thoughts seemed wrapped in cotton. What is this? What foul magic has she worked on me?

  Raseed could not ask the Doctor, because the Doctor was not there.

  * * *

  Adoulla heard the puff-of-air sound again, and suddenly he was alone on the dock. The girl had disappeared and, along with her, Raseed.

  Damn me for a fool! A whisking spell, no doubt, used to travel from the location of one object to another. Adoulla had seen such magic before—leaving an ensorcelled coin at home and carrying its counterpart to provide a quick escape—but he hadn’t known knot-blowing could be used the same way. She must have touched the boy, too. The girl’s power was great, if feral. Adoulla himself avoided such spells. It only took one bad whisking to break a mind, and the caster never knew when it was coming. No quick trip home was worth a lifetime of gibbering idiocy.