Snare. Katharine Kerr
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for Arkazo. ‘Let’s go. Gentlemen, I suggest you leave with us. We’ll walk into the town square together and talk about our maps and our profits. Remember, we want to be noticed doing ordinary things.’
Warkannan, with Arkazo in tow, headed for the door, but when he glanced back, he noticed that Soutan stood whispering with Nehzaym near the fountain. What was the charlatan up to now? Indan joined him, followed his glance, and raised an eyebrow.
‘Soutan?’ Indan called out. ‘We’d best be on our way.’
‘Of course.’ Soutan strolled over to join them at the door. ‘Of course. Our lovely widow was merely asking my advice about a small matter.’
Nehzaym glanced at Warkannan as if inviting comment. He merely shrugged, then turned and led the men out.
The Spider hung at the zenith on her thread of stars by the time that Soutan returned to the compound. Nehzaym was reading in the sitting room when she heard the lizards outside hiss and the chains clank. She took a lamp, hurried into the warehouse, and crossed to the door just as the sorcerer opened it. With a little bow he stepped inside, then turned to shut the door behind him.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Soutan said. ‘Warkannan’s idea of acting normally is to sit around in a café and argue about anything and everything.’
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Nehzaym said. ‘He’s quite intelligent whether he acts it or not.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Shall we go in?’
‘By all means. I’m anxious to see this treasure of yours.’
‘I just hope you can tell me what it is.’
She led the way back into the apartment. They walked down a short hallway to her tiny widow’s room, which sported a window on one wall, a narrow bed at one end, a small threadbare rug on the floor, and little else. Out of habit she still kept her clothes, her jewellery, the chests of bed linens, and the like in the large room she’d shared with her husband. One of the treasures he’d given her, however, she kept here, where a thief would never bother to look for anything valuable. She set the lamp down on a wooden stand. Soutan sat on the floor, cross-legged, while she knelt by the rug and rolled it back to expose the sliding panel under it.
Inside the hide-hole lay a book, bound in purple cloth, and what appeared to be a thin oblong of grey slate, about twelve inches by nine, lying on a black scarf. As she was taking the slate and scarf out, Soutan craned his neck to look inside the hole; she slid the panel shut fast. He laughed.
‘By all means,’ Soutan said, ‘you’d best keep that book hidden. The Sibylline Prophecies, isn’t it?’
Nehzaym shrugged, then laid the slate down between them on the scarf. It hummed three musical notes and began to glow.
‘God is great,’ Nehzaym sang out. ‘The Lord our God is one, and Mohammed, Agvar, and Kaleel are His prophets. In their names may all evil things be far away!’
‘Amen.’ Soutan leaned forward, staring.
In the centre of the panel the glow brightened to a pale blue square, which slowly coagulated into the image of a round room with a high ceiling. Floors, walls, the dais in the middle, the steps leading up to that dais – they all glittered silver in a mysterious light falling from above.
‘Whenever I take it out, I see that picture,’ Nehzaym said.
‘Does it show you others?’ Soutan said.
‘Only this one. And look!’ Nehzaym pointed to a narrow red bar of light, pulsing at one side of the slate. ‘When this light flashes, a minute or two later the image fades.’
Already, in fact, the room was dissolving back into the pale blue glow. The red light died, leaving the slate only a slate. Soutan made a hissing sound and shook his head. ‘Where did your husband get this?’
‘In Bariza. He bought it in the marketplace from a man who dealt in curios.’
‘Curios? Well, I suppose the ignorant would see it that way. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Only that you have to feed it sunlight every day. I take it to the garden. In the rainy season it doesn’t work very well.’
‘No, it wouldn’t. Our ancestors knew how to bind spirits into their magicks. They feed on sunlight. When they’re hungry, they refuse to do their job.’
‘I can’t say I blame them. Are the spirits immortal?’
‘What a strange question!’ Soutan smiled, drawing back thin lips from large teeth. ‘Everything alive must die, sooner or later.’
‘And when all the spirits die?’
‘There won’t be any more magic, just like your Third Prophet said. No doubt you Kazraks will celebrate.’
‘We’ve chosen to live as the First Prophet wanted us to live, yes.’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘And how will your people feel about losing their magic?’
Soutan shrugged, his smile gone. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen for a good long while, a thousand years, say.’ He pointed at the panel. ‘What do you think that room is?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
‘I can’t, not for certain, but I’ll make a guess. You have a copy of the Sibyl’s book. Have you read the part about the empty shrine?’
Nehzaym felt her clasped hands tighten.
‘I see you have,’ Soutan said. ‘One of these days you might see the Fourth Prophet standing on that dais.’
‘If God would only allow, I’d happily die.’
‘You’d be happier if you stayed around to see what happened next. Now. Let me see if I can show you something interesting. May I pick it up?’
‘Certainly.’
Soutan took the slate and peered at it in the dancing lamplight. He ran one long finger down the side, paused, fingered the back of it, then suddenly smiled. He took a full breath, and when he spoke, the sound seemed to come from deep inside his body and buzz like an insect. The words made no sense to her at all. The spirit in the slate, however, must have understood them, because the panel chimed a long note in answer.
Soutan laid the slate back down on the floor. A new picture was forming of a different room, inlaid with blue and white quartz in a diamond pattern.
‘Another shrine?’ Nehzaym whispered.
‘Perhaps. Wait and see.’
Slowly the room became clear – a half round, this time, and just in front of the flat wall stood two slender pillars, one grey, one white. Between them hung what appeared to be a gauzy veil, yet it shimmered and sparked with bluish light. Nehzaym twined her hands round each other. A pale blue thing shaped like a man appeared in the centre of the room. He waved his hands and seemed to be speaking, but she could hear nothing. Suddenly the thing’s face filled the image. Its eyes were mere pools of darker blue; its purple lips mouthed soundless words.
Nehzaym shrieked, a sound that must have frightened the spirit inside the slate. Once again the red light began to flash. The image disappeared.
‘May the Lord preserve!’ Nehzaym said. ‘A ghost!’
‘Do you think so?’ Soutan looked at the panel for a long silent moment. ‘If I had gold and jewels to give, I’d heap them all in your lap in return for it. Unfortunately, I don’t.’ His voice dropped. ‘Unfortunate for you, perhaps.’
Nehzaym started to speak, but her voice caught and trembled. Soutan rose to his knees and considered her narrow-eyed, his hands hanging loose at his sides, his fists clenched.
‘Take it,’ Nehzaym said.
‘What?’