LONG after the green fire had died away, Hashim sat hunkered in the near-dark of the labyrinth, staring at the place where Rion had lain, so still. If it hadn’t been for Smith and his witch-doctor friend, Rion could have died. Unpacking that, if Hashim hadn’t been determined to taste Smith once more, yet hide the degradation of his enslavement, they’d never have been in the labyrinth in the first place, and Rion would have died alone.
Tracking it back further, if Hashim hadn’t succumbed to temptation with Smith at the Consort Race and volunteered to accept indenture as a way to repay Yashar for the loss of the fire gem, Hashim would never have met Rion, and he would have died not only alone but friendless.
Consequences. Remove any one of Hashim’s poor decisions, and Rion would have died. How ironic that I’m thankful for the very thing about my life I hate the most.
But the longer he stared at the dark stains in the dirt, his warped gratitude morphed into something else, something darker, as anger coalesced in his middle like an ember awaiting a single breath of air to ignite.
Ringmaster. Smith had been certain Ringmaster had set this up, and he was probably right. He usually was.
Rion shouldn’t have been that seriously injured. It was one of the articles of their indentures—that at the end of their term, they must be returned to their home in the same state they’d arrived. But my articles were circumvented by Yashar. Since Yashar signed the original contract—the indentured weren’t allowed to negotiate on their own behalf—he was the only one who could alter the conditions. And he must have, to allow Ringmaster to purchase Hashim as if he were nothing more than a goat or a camel or a horse. No, less than a horse. He’d never part with one of his horses.
Could Rion’s indenture articles be different too? He’d said that it was the king, his stepfather, who’d sold him to Ringmaster. Was His Asshole Majesty trying to get rid of his wife’s inconvenient aitcher son in a more permanent way?
It shook Hashim to the core. One of the bedrocks of his world view was the sanctity of the contract—every djinn or ifrit based their lives on it. If contracts could be diddled or broken by third parties, what did that mean?
Maybe it means you don’t have to abide by the terms either.
Hashim had always considered the bargains he entered as sacrosanct. Yashar had given him flesh, so he owed Yashar at least minimal loyalty during their arrangement. He’d never asked himself what would happen at the end of the arrangement.
Would I return to the djinn crèche, just one more wisp of smoke, one more spark in the eternal flame? Did I somehow imagine that I would earn the right to keep this body, this life? How would I even know the arrangement had reached the end?
He’d allowed Yashar to alter the terms of their pact when Hashim had broken his part of the bargain by choosing Smith over his duty. He’d followed Ringmaster’s rules—for the most part; ifrits were supposed to be troublemakers, after all—because his honor demanded it.
But what were debts of honor worth if the other party had none?
Ringmaster must answer for this.
Hashim pushed himself to his feet and took the quickest route from the center of the labyrinth to burst out the back door and storm across the grounds to Ringmaster’s tent. He didn’t bother to scratch deferentially and wait for permission to enter—he simply barged in and planted himself in the middle of the latest Persian rug.
Ringmaster had an iron-banded wooden casket open on the desk before him, and he was counting gold coins from the stacks on his desk into the little chest one by one.
“I’ve just come from the labyrinth.”
“Then go back,” Ringmaster growled. “One thousand six hundred seventy-two. One thousand six hundred seventy—”
“Were you aware that Rion was in there, bleeding out, when the Carnival is supposedly closed to visitors?”
Ringmaster smashed his fist on the desk. “Fuck. You’ve made me lose count.”
“Were you?”
Ringmaster’s nostrils flared, rendering his nose far more snout-like. “I don’t answer to you.” He poked at his wristband and a gout of pain shot through Hashim from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet.
Hashim gritted his teeth until it faded, his fingers and toes still tingling in the aftermath. “You answer to the terms of his contract. To his family. To decency.”
“Pfaugh. His family was happy enough to rid themselves of an embarrassment, and his contract”—he loaded the word with scorn—“was more a bill of sale.” He smirked. “Somewhat like yours.”
Hashim’s breath came fast and hard. “I’d think you’d want to protect your investment.”
“He wasn’t a satisfactory maze monster, anyway. The players complained about him all the time.” Ringmaster shrugged. “No great loss.”
“No great loss? How many minotaurs do you think there are?”
Ringmaster slammed the lid of the casket closed. “Look, if some human female wants to get busy in the bull pen or some human male in the cow pasture, that’s on them. I’m not keeping count, and I don’t want to know. If they want to handle things by unloading the consequences on me? I’ll consider it, for the right price, and with the right concessions.”
“But the protection spells on the maze. There’s obviously something wrong with them or Rion wouldn’t have bled out.”
“There’s nothing wrong with them. The Vegas wizards can alter anything if I pay them enough, and I had some players who were willing to pay for a retro-realistic minotaur experience.”
“So you knew they’d be armed?”
He shrugged again. “It was their choice how to play, as long as they didn’t damage the labyrinth. I mean, obviously I wouldn’t have let them take explosives in there.”
“Couldn’t you have granted Rion the same? Arm him with his own sword or a baseball bat or a fucking warning. He had no idea the rules had changed.”
“So?”
Spots danced in front of Hashim’s eyes. “Do you truly not give a shit about anything except profit? What about the people who work to make that profit for you?”
“You’re not people. You’re commodities. Misbegotten abominations like the minotaur or mindless animated dirt like the golems or jumped-up campfire smoke like you. You don’t have feelings like real people. You only think you do.”
For the first time in his life, Hashim went ice-cold—with fury, with shame, with ambition. The ambition to separate Ringmaster’s head from his shoulders, then burn him—flesh, bone, and overdecorated outfit—to cinders.
“I suppose you’re a real person.”
Ringmaster snorted a laugh. “Of course.”
“How do you know? Maybe you only think you’re real.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You’ve proved my point for me. Your kind always tries to twist people’s words because they don’t have any original thoughts of their own.”
If we’re lesser entities to him, not worth his concern, no wonder he doesn’t take me seriously. Hellfire, Yashar took better care of his goats than Ringmaster did of his… his…. His what? Hashim couldn’t call them employees because most of them couldn’t quit and were only getting paid by shaving days off their indenture period.
But no matter what Ringmaster thought, Hashim refused to forgo his personhood, his essential self, any more than he would dream of denying Rion’s or Omisan’s or Sphinx’s. The golem who manned the Ferris wheel. The pixie who spun the cotton candy. They were all people, all deserving respect, and should damn well expect to come out of their indentures alive and well.
If Ringmaster won’t deliver that, I guess it’s up to us. How to manage that, Hashim wasn’t sure, but one thing had changed for him at the moment when he realized Ringmaster saw him as nothing more than chattel.
He was no longer bound by honor. Which meant he didn’t feel guilty at all for lying.
“I hope you’re pleased with your bargain, because you don’t have a minotaur anymore.” And that was mostly true anyway—Rion was safe with Smith and Dr. Makori for the moment. If Hashim could swing it, Rion would never set foot in the Carnival again. “Should I clear out his room?”
“Suit yourself.” Ringmaster waved him away. “I’ve got better things to do.” He opened the casket and dumped the gold out onto the desk, then began stacking it again, his greedy gaze riveted on the gleaming pile.
If only I could kill him. I wouldn’t feel the least remorse. And if that sent me back to the eternal flame as an oath breaker, I wouldn’t care as long as all the realms were rid of him.
But the spells in his cuffs prevented him from even touching Ringmaster without permission. I wonder if it would stop me from throwing a knife straight at his heart? Hashim made a mental note to try it even if it got him staked out in the Interstitial desert for eternity.
He tossed open the tent flap and strode across the deserted grounds. A few brownies in gray and navy Enchanted Occasions livery, a stylized EO blazoned on their breast pockets, scurried about with mops, brooms, and wheelbarrows. A crew of gnomes maneuvered a ladder against the new ring toss sign, and a trio of golems was hauling the fried dough stand away. He avoided them all.
Skirting the labyrinth—he never wanted to go in there again—he entered the dorm by way of the mess hall. Rion’s room was on the ground floor, for better access to the labyrinth as well as because the width of his shoulders prevented him from climbing the stairs.
Hashim slipped inside—it wasn’t locked. None of the carnies’ rooms locked. That should have been a clue regarding Ringmaster’s opinion of our rights.
Rion’s room held the same furnishings as all the carny rooms: a chair, a table, a low bookcase, a mattress on the floor. A closet that was nothing more than shallow alcove behind a flimsy curtain. A three-drawer dresser.
The only difference between Rion’s furnishings and Hashim’s own was the size of the mattress in the corner—and the fact that Hashim’s were all fireproof.
The place was scrupulously neat but heartbreakingly impersonal. There were a dozen or so battered paperbacks lined up on the top bookshelf, held upright by a fist-sized rock. Rion’s My Little Pony lunch box sat on the lower shelf. A currycomb sat on the dresser next to a chipped glass that held a single wilting daisy. Where did he get the flower? Nothing grows in these gods-forsaken grounds.
Hashim pushed aside the curtain. The closet held an empty knapsack. A half-dozen pairs of leather pants were folded neatly on the shelf. On the floor, a pair of battered boots was lined up next to corduroy bedroom slippers embroidered with a stylized R and a daisy.
His breath hitched at the sight of the worn slippers. His mother must have stitched those for him. He told me she liked needlework.
He shoved the slippers in the knapsack but didn’t bother with the boots and pants—those were Ringmaster’s idea of what his maze monster would wear, nothing that Rion would choose for himself.
Sure enough, when he opened the dresser, he found a couple of pairs of flannel sleep pants, much mended, and a Team Charybdis T-shirt in size octuple-extra-large. He took those, the currycomb, and the books. He’s never coming back here again. Not if I can help it.
He closed the door behind him, ran up the three flights of stairs to the fireproof floor, and hurried to his room at the end of the hall. When he opened the door, his breath stalled in his throat because his room wasn’t empty.
Smith stood next to the narrow window in his stocking feet, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.
“How—how did you get here?”
Smith tapped the side of his nose. “Demon senses.”
“Oh.” Hashim closed the door behind him and set the knapsack on the floor. He toed off his sandals and nudged them into line next to Smith’s boots. “Rion?”
“He’ll be fine. He’s resting in the clinic now.”
Hashim nodded jerkily. “Good. I want him to—” He swallowed. I have to make my case. I have to make sense. I have to get rid of him before he learns the whole truth. “He can’t come back here.”
“Don’t worry. There’s no way either Evan or I would allow that.”
“Good.” Hashim leaned against the door, despite the nearly overwhelming desire to throw himself against Smith’s chest.
But I can’t be that selfish.
He’d been thinking only that he desperately wanted one last encounter without regard to what Smith might want. It wouldn’t be fair to promise something he wasn’t free to deliver. Nor should he expect Smith to rescue him.
However, he was more than willing for Smith to rescue Rion. After all, he stood a much better chance of succeeding than Hashim did.
Smith paced forward until he was a handsbreadth away, until Hashim could inhale his scent, bask in his radiant heat. Don’t come any closer. Please. I can’t resist. It’s not fair.
“Hashim?” he murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
HASHIM flattened himself against the door. “What do you mean?”
“You know.” Smith glanced down at the cuffs circling Hashim’s wrists. When he’d first seen them, he’d thought they were a little over-the-top for a place so obviously down-at-heels as the Carnival.
Now, he fucking hated them.
Hashim lifted his chin in a travesty of his old self-possession, his lips trembling. “I fear you’ll have to be more specific.”
Smith sighed, running his hands through his hair, his fingers bumping his horns. “Rion told us. You’re indentured to that asshole. Everyone who works here is doing so under duress.”
“Not entirely. Many of us enter indentures of our own free will. To pay a debt. To provide for our families. To escape an unfriendly realm.” He looked down his nose in a fairly decent impression of disdain. “I believe demons are quite notorious for it.”
“We don’t call it indenture. It’s a bargain, a partnership with advantages on both sides. We don’t have to accept the bargain if we don’t like it.”
“Maybe that’s what I did.”
“Is it?”
Hashim’s gaze slid to the side. “Yes.”
Okay, that’s not the whole truth. Maybe not any of the truth. But we’ll roll with it. “Why?”
He sighed. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
“Trust you?” Smith leaned closer, resting his hand on the door above Hashim’s shoulder. “Our relationship isn’t exactly defined by trust. If you expect me to grant it, you need to earn it by telling me why in blazes you’d sign up for this. Give up your freedom—”
“I was a conjured ifrit. Freedom was entirely relative.”
“Whatever. This seems like a step way, way down. So why, Hashim? Why do it?” Why leave me with no word?
“You asked for it.” He took a deep breath. “Because of you.”
Smith jerked his hand back and stepped away. “Me? What the devil— Are you saying you enslaved yourself just to get away from me?”
Hashim’s eyes widened, and he reached out, stopping short of actually touching Smith. “No. Not that. But remember, I had a duty.”
“To ensorcell the prince with the fire gem.”
Hashim nodded. “And I failed. That duty was part of my bargain with Yashar. In exchange for him materializing me, giving me flesh to clothe my spirit, I agreed to do his will. By failing to capture the prince’s soul in the gem, I failed in my part of the bargain. By my honor, I owed him restitution.”
“So who sets the fucking price?” Smith paced across the tiny room, barely three of his long strides. “Is there some kind of base value for each deed?”
“In this case, the value was easy to determine. The price Yashar paid for the fire gem. They are… not cheap.”
Smith frowned, pausing in his pacing. “Why not just give it back?”
“I couldn’t. It held your name. It might have given him power over you, and I couldn’t risk that.”
Smith’s mouth dried as his palms started to sweat. Ordinarily, fire demons—even defective ones like Smith—were proof against other fire magic. But like a fool, he’d given Hashim his name. “He could… enslave me.”
Hashim reached out, but Smith dodged the touch he would have bargained with Lucifer himself for not ten minutes ago. “Smith. Please. I wouldn’t allow that. I didn’t. That is the point I am trying to make. When Yashar demanded the gem, I told him the prince had discovered the scheme and confiscated it.” He hung his head. “That’s why no one from Yashar’s clan was at the prince’s wedding.”
“He was afraid of retribution.” Hashim nodded again. “So you’re saying it’s my fault you’re stuck here.”
“No! If anyone’s, it was mine. For agreeing to be Yashar’s stalking horse, for not properly safeguarding the gem, for concealing the truth from you before it was too late. You must not blame yourself.”
Smith snorted. “Fat chance. How much longer are you bound to that asshole, Ringmaster?”
Hashim looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hells it doesn’t. For how long, Hashim?”
Hashim sighed, running a finger along the chased pattern in his jeweled cuffs. “As of yesterday morning? Forever.”
Smith’s head threatened to explode. “You what? You agreed to for-fucking-ever?”
Hashim glared at him. “I’m not an idiot nor so self-destructive. I was not given the choice. Yashar apparently wanted money. He sold my name to Ringmaster. I’m no longer a conjured ifrit. I am now bound.”
“Bound. What does that mean?”
“You are familiar with the tale of Aladdin and the djinn in the lamp? That djinn was bound to the lamp. I am bound to the Carnival.”
“Bound.” Smith remembered how Hashim had edged out of the circle, not accompanying them to the infirmary, although he clearly wanted to stay with his friend. “You mean you can’t leave?”
Hashim shrugged. “As you say. This is now my entire world.” He glanced around the room. “I suppose I should be grateful. Aladdin’s djinn had to be content with much smaller quarters.”
Smith stopped pacing and faced Hashim. “Do you think he was? Content?”
“Based on my experience?” Hashim’s smile was heartbreaking. “I would have to say no. When one is deprived of choice, every breath at the whim of another, there is very little contentment involved.”
“Damn.” Smith sank down on the edge of the mattress. Seriously? Ringmaster couldn’t spring for a bed frame? “This sucks.”
Hashim glided across the room with his usual grace and settled beside Smith. “Yes. It most definitely sucks. But what can we do? You, more than anyone, should understand the power of a bargain. Although….” Hashim’s voice took on a dangerous edge. “While Ringmaster might technically own me—”
“He does not,” Smith said fiercely. “I don’t give a shit about whatever deals Yashar and Ringmaster cooked up between them. Nobody owns you but you.”
Hashim’s lips quirked. “I thank you for the sentiment, but we must accept reality nonetheless.” He held up his wrists. “Let us say, Ringmaster wields ultimate control over me. However, I consider that he has broken his own bond to others, Rion most of all. Therefore, I owe him nothing more than what he explicitly demands of me. I do not owe him loyalty or duty or truth. He is master in name only.”
Hashim’s tone was fierce, his eyes kindling, sending hunger and desire shooting through Smith. “Y-y-yeah?”
“Yes. And to Yashar, I owe nothing at all. We had a bargain. He failed to keep his side of it.”
“No. You don’t owe him squat. Although I am curious. Where’s the damned fire gem?”
“Don’t worry. No one will find it.”
“Why? What did you do? Swallow it?”
Hashim glanced up through his lashes, and for an instant, Smith glimpsed the same glint of mischief that had snared him in the first place. “As a matter of fact, yes. I did. Although perhaps not in the way you mean.” He touched a spot on his chest. “It’s here. Nestled under my heart.”