Chapter Twenty-Five

The Little Bears

Miss Marsh, Vara could see, was fascinated by the resura, both her own Akil and the new unfettered souls she found herself allied with. They were so different from ordinary humans.

For instance, the matter of food. Vara watched the woman chew the flat-bread and greasy salted mutton that Akil had scrounged for her and felt no hunger. Not that this meal looked or smelled particularly appetizing. She could barely remember the delight she’d once felt at tucking into a tasty dinner, or selecting sweets at the shops.

And even if she could eat, her little boy body would not grow. It was inconsequential. Weak. She had been stupid to pick this form. Vara indulged in a few moments of bitter regret. She should have been a snake, though the thought of slithering on the ground made her sick. She could have chosen to be a wolf, who could rend flesh. Even a goat, who wore sharp horns, could rip open a belly. Too late now.

Another long, hot afternoon, and the four of them had gathered, as had become their custom, in the deserted nook in the market. They should leave the city, but they needed information. With her skills in high demand now, Knife Woman had found employment at a barracks near the palace, and had spent the day quietly working away among the other craftsmen attending to the soldiers’ needs, pretending deafness, until the men grew used to her and understood that she knew her trade. As she had known they would, they stopped paying attention to her and went back to their jokes and games and gossip. She had gambled that Petru would take his falci sniffer with him on his campaign, and she had won. No one suspected her.

Much of the talk was about the growing legends of Petru. They were many and varied. He was everywhere at once. He was resura himself, and was jealous of all others of his kind. He could turn into the wind and travel faster than a racing camel. He was the son of the God of War, sent to the world to sow strife.

The men nodded at this tale, for there was obviously strife everywhere now, and they shut up for a while. But soon their mouths were flapping again.

Knife Woman learned that the men were ordered to report to the East Gate shortly after sunset that very day, as Lord Petru was expected to arrive. He had quickly conquered the city of Montpelier, up until now the fastest-growing town in the south, killed its ruling family and confiscated everything of value. A load of rich booty was being shipped in. It would need to be sorted, archived, and either sold to buy more war equipment, or hoarded. Some of it would, apparently, be distributed among Petru’s loyal troops, which would attract new troops and more loyalty.

“As you can imagine,” Knife Woman reported, “there was a lot of speculation about what will be shared. Coins, fine weapons, spices… that sort of thing. I pretended not to hear a thing. They say there’s a string of high-born girls coming in, probably the daughters of those he killed, and the most beautiful one will be awarded to the winner of a contest of marksmanship.”

Akil grunted and turned away. He knew what happened to beautiful slaves.

*

With Petru returning to Perpignan so soon, they could not stay in the city. There were too many spies, too many weak-willed folk who would gladly tell whatever they knew or imagined in exchange for safety, or food. And the longer they were stuck here, the less chance they’d have of reaching Jameel before it was too late.

However, they had a small, mundane problem to solve. How were they to get a human woman out of the city?

Vara, Ragna and Akil could simply fly away, but Miss Marsh’s corporeal form would be stopped for certain. And Petru Dominus knew her. He would undoubtedly want her for ransom or interrogation, and his men knew that.

Carolina Marsh sat disconsolately, picking shreds of gristle out of her teeth. She was obviously chagrined at her new status as drag upon any plans they might have to find and free Jameel. She said, “Perhaps Akil could pull or push me out in a small cart, hidden beneath something…”

“Like what? Dead bodies?” Knife Woman snorted. “You wouldn’t like that, my friend. And everything, no matter how small and rattletrap, is being thoroughly searched. You’d be discovered right away.”

“Oh. Yes.” She thought some more. “I guess bribes not working these days, not that I have bribe money to give… Why cannot I simply stay here? I be safe, I think. I doubt the Sisters would betray me.”

“Can you be sure?” asked Knife Woman. “Don’t underestimate a madman’s thoroughness. Do you want to put them in danger?”

“But I’m useful here, among sick and old. What could I do to help search for Jameel al-Kindi?”

Boy spoke up. “You’re clever, Miss Marsh, and you have a silver tongue. You are an expert in survival, and you speak many languages.”

“As do you, my dear Vara. I mean, Boy. You really should think of a name. Mere survival is not what we to seek… and there is another problem. What of my resura?” She looked at Akil, who wore a sour look. “Would you return to me each night, after your travels? How far and fast can you fly?”

“Quite far, and quite fast,” Akil said. “But eventually the city’s guards will notice an eagle swooping in and out, or even a cat creeping along the walls. Some of them are not as stupid as you might hope… their commander has warned them of resura folk and what we can do. They’ll try to capture me just for sport. Though we can’t be killed, we can, unfortunately, be captured. And exist forever caged in stone.”

Or in a mesh of wire, recalled Vara. The strange mixed-up creature in the market, that day of the Sisters’ feast. It was caught and helpless. Unless a form was physically small enough to slip out of a cage, it was trapped. There were rules to her new existence, and she had better learn them fast.

Miss Marsh nodded reluctantly. “And there is yet one more problem…”

This, thought Vara, was why Akil looked so… cramped. He was caught between two needs: to help his friends, and to serve his alanbir. She watched him shift uncomfortably.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Our pact. That I will be by your side when you die.” He shrugged, a gesture very much like Miss Marsh’s own shrugs, Vara noted; offhand, fatalistic. They were bound by much more than love. Each was in thrall to the other, there was really no owner and slave. She had felt that helpless, unquestioning attachment herself, during the few brief moments when Josef had owned her.

Miss Marsh said, “Since I took Akil’s life before its time, I owe him mine in exchange. It is my theory that should an alanbir order her resura to kill her, then obey he must. It’s only logical—every order obeyed must be. And once that bond is broken—by wish of the alanbir—the resura should be free as well, of all obligations and bonds to the living.”

Yes, thought Vara. It did make a certain kind of sense. And there was the risk that if another were to kill Miss Marsh—Petru most likely⁠—he might acquire the resura soul. Akil, used to a kind and loving master, might very well find himself handed over to a monster.

Or to a God.

Which fate would be worse?

Knife Woman looked shocked. “But… it’s unthinkable! How could a resura do such a thing?” Vara saw her mother’s knobby old fingers form a circle, partially hidden in her lap. Did she imagine the Eye of Uzma would ward off a God?

She knew her mother feared that being free resura was somehow terribly wrong, and that they must pay somehow. Vara’s instinct was to side with her Pada in his belief that mortals owed nothing to Gods who alternately neglected and tortured them.

“It is just idea,” the little Briton said. Her command of the language waxed and waned, Vara noted, depending on her level of distress. “And of course, for Akil to kill me would be resort of the last.” Though her voice was conciliatory, her grey eyes retained their cool assurance. She was not, Vara saw, willing to challenge her theory by letting Akil stray far from her side. Nor was she asking to be killed at this very moment.

“So we are back at the problem’s gate again,” said Knife Woman reluctantly. “And it’s the gate that’s the problem.”

Then Vara, drawing little circles in the dust of the market’s pavement, heard Miss Marsh draw in a sharp breath. She looked up to observe a crafty expression stretch those thin, scarred cheeks.

“I think I have an idea. It depends on I do a thing most people cannot.”

“Oh? And what is that?” asked Knife Woman.

“Let me think it for a while… I need to gather a few items.”

Akil, Boy and Knife Woman looked at each other in puzzlement.

Miss Marsh said, “We agree that I cannot stay here in Perpignan while the rest of you flee? Yes?”

Reluctant nods all around.

“Very well.” She clambered to her feet and dusted off her skirts. “I must first make some excuse to the Uzmite Mother. Perhaps a sick family I must attend.” Her face and posture told Vara of the joy this woman took from action. She was like a man that way. Direct, courageous, indomitable: she was a woman whom Vara had no doubt would prevail. Her spirits lifted a bit.

Miss Marsh vanished into the streets.

Knife Woman sat, looking pensive. “We are running out of time,” she said. “I’m having little luck getting useful information from the soldiers, but I’ve been thinking of how to do it better.” She looked at Boy. Boy, seeing the glint of ice in her eye, wanted suddenly to run.

But Vara, within that little body, sat firm. “And what have you thought of, Knife Woman?”

“A plan that is probably foolish. But it’s the only one I can think of. Boy, do you have the courage to get so close to Petru’s men that you could smell their sweat?”

Of course she didn’t, but if it was her mother’s wish, she could and would do it. As a nimble street urchin, she could sneak close to them easily. Boy nodded.

From a net bag hanging on the side of her barrow, Knife Woman pulled out a big handful of sheep’s wool. The lanolin-filled wool was used to buff a shine onto armour, leather trappings and sword blades. She teased the handful into two balls, then formed each ball of wool into a sort of nest, two halves of a hollow sphere. “Do you think, as Bird, that you could hide in this ball, perfectly still and soundless?”

At once, Vara regretted her agreement. She’d be a tiny spy, protected only by a fluff of sheep’s wool. A cage, and though its walls were soft, still it was a cage, and could be flattened, burned, or ripped open to reveal her. But who else could do it? Her nightingale form was the smallest. After a few moments of trying to think of a way out, Boy got to his feet and said, rather faintly, “Yes. I will do it.”

Knife Woman nodded once. “Good.”

“But wait,” she blurted. “Before I do this, I must ask one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“I need to see my home once more.” One way or another, she might never glimpse her old life again. It was time to say goodbye, time to stride firmly into her new existence.

Time to stop longing for a past that was dead and gone.

Knife Woman’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, but you must be quick. Akil, you will accompany my daughter. Don’t let her linger.”

Akil bowed, changed to his cat form, and ran along in the shadows as Bird flitted through the maze of deserted streets to their old neighbourhood

Vara had to steel herself to approach the ornate metal gate at the main entrance to their villa, which hung open as if someone had been trying to pry it off its hinges. A bad sign. Of course the place must have been looted; it looked also like part had been burned.

A fire smouldered fitfully in the courtyard. Scattered evidence of cooking lay everywhere. Empty wine jugs, small bones picked very clean. She recognized broken pieces of their furniture in the fire, scorched and splintered. Vara felt a hot surge of anger. Her home had been vandalized, probably by the very neighbours who had once been friends. But no. Their friends and acquaintances had abandoned them at the first sign of trouble.

She felt a pang of concern for the animals that had once lived sheltered lives within these walls. Amjad was probably safe in someone’s hands, as he was valuable. But the other horses, their hawks, their cattle, goats and fowl… all dispersed, stolen. Or killed and eaten. She’d really liked some of those poor creatures, and had watched many of them being born. You grew to love something, even a lowly hen, when you cared for its everyday comfort. Of course, later you killed and ate it… but you showed its tiny spirit gratitude and respect.

Fuming under her breath, she ducked behind a screen of vines and changed to Freewoman. As the stately and untouchable woman, she could spin a believable tale of why she was within the gates of a house not her own, should anyone be watching the place and challenge her. She could claim to represent an insurer, performing an inspection of the property. Akil could be her scribe.

That thought made her wonder what had become of all Papa’s extensive staff. His scribes, his lawyers, his translators and accountants. Too valuable to work to death in a slave camp, they might by now be annexed to Petru’s government. But perhaps they’d had enough foresight to scatter with whatever they could carry.

Freewoman strode to the villa’s main door, then stopped. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go in. The thought of revisiting her once happy home, where murder had been committed only days ago, nauseated her. Her own dried blood, and her grandfather’s too, would still be all over her bedchamber. Who would have cleaned it?

Her gleaming brown shoulders sagged. “Let’s go, Akil. There’s nothing left here, nothing important. We have better things to do.”

What she wanted to do was fly as fast as she could to find her father. But fly where? Petru had many prison camps, several palaces with ample slave quarters and dungeons. He owned ships, mills, mines and manufactories. By now, if his attempted coup was going well, he would control many more. Jameel could be held in any of them. Or he might be dead already. If he had no more information to give…

An image of poor bleeding Eneko Saratxaga flashed behind her eyes. She knew something, now, of interview techniques. Seeing the man being eaten alive in the vat of eels had stripped away what remained of her childhood.

Vara knew most of Jameel’s trade routes, and the timing of his travels. He’d most likely been apprehended at a port city on the Mediterranean coast of Askain, as soon as he’d made landfall on his way home.

She stopped. Her father was not a trader, he was a warrior. She understood that now, the need for him to be other than what he seemed. Perhaps he hadn’t been following his normal routes. In fact, it was unlikely. He could have been travelling anywhere, contacting allies, formulating plans and strategies for the war he’d known was coming.

Petru’s men would have been waiting for the best time to pounce, no matter where Jameel was. Then he’d have been locked away until Petru had opportunity to practice his techniques of persuasion. They might have months to find Jameel, or they might have only days. Or they might already be too late. All they could do was listen for loose talk.

Could one little bird, hiding and hoping for good luck, be their only hope?

Her eye was caught by a fragment of charred wood at her feet. She picked it up. Carved into the dark wood was a familiar little figure—a bear cub.

Her hand began to shake. The wood was from her parents’ bed. Papa had told her many stories of that little bear and her family. The bears, and the other animals carved into the frame, had wonderful adventures. They travelled the world, they entered into spirited discussions with philosophers and kings, they made friends with exotic animals. Vara had loved those evenings, cuddled between her mother and father, waiting for Papa to say And now I shall tell you a story… 

She dropped the broken fragment, squared her shoulders and strode away. Akil slouched along in her wake.

*

Akil could tell that his alanbir was pleased with herself.

“What have you got there?” he asked, as they sat on the bottom step of the Minotaur stairs. Named for the hulking beast, which Akil knew must have been resura, it was once a favourite gathering place for students and lecturers, prophets and salesmen.

Carolina Marsh had brought a small parcel with her, and handed it to him. He could smell it, something meaty and acidic. His nose wrinkled as he opened it and pulled out the contents. “What under the sun…?”

“It’s a pig’s bladder. Don’t be squeamish, I’m not asking you to eat it.”

The rubbery, sagging membrane looked nauseatingly… internal. She took it from him, and Akil wiped his hands on his baggy grey trousers.

He had to close his eyes as she put her lips to a puckered orifice, like a person’s navel, and blew into it. He could hear her puffing away lustily as the bladder began to inflate. She let go, grinning at his disgusted expression, and it sagged into flaccidity.

“Can you guess what I want this for?”

Akil refused to play her game. He was annoyed with his alanbir and her damned cleverness; with Ragna Svobodová and her relentless desire for revenge; even with Vara. Why had the girl chosen such foolish shapes? A small, helpless bird—idiotic. Had she not realized she would be stuck with these forms forever? And now she was playing spy, tucked in a wad of wool—the most foolish idea he’d ever imagined. He might never see her again.

What did he care about some stupid pig guts?

Miss Marsh clucked her tongue. “Well then, I’ll tell you what it’s for.” She bundled the bladder back into its wrapper and stuffed it into a pocket slung from her leather belt. “But we will wait for Knife Woman. She might have news.” After a pause she patted Akil on the knee and said, “Don’t worry, Akil. I am sure dear Vara will be all right…”

*

Vara, as Bird, had to remind herself that she really didn’t need to breathe. She could remain as still as death within this soft cocoon and not reveal herself with movement or gasping for air. But she very much wanted to gasp for air. The ghost of her human lungs demanded it.

Knife Woman, using the trembling voice of a harmless crone, had presented the ball of wool to the lead man in Petru’s guard as they mounted up. They were meeting their master at the East Gate, as had been ordered, and the man had brushed her off at first. “Take it, young man. It is very fine! Polishes up the armour very well indeed. Just tuck it into your saddlebag… there you are…” She must have dipped into Akil’s well of indifference, for the man merely grunted and let her have her way. Vara felt the wool compress around her as it was pushed down into the darkness of the bag. She couldn’t hear perfectly, but she could hear enough. If she had needed to breathe, she wouldn’t have been able to, for the space was very tight. Then came the men’s voices, the clinking of harnesses, the clop of horses’ hooves. The shifting echoes as the squad moved along the city streets to the gate. Then the waiting.

A certain rising tension in the air, and the groan and rumble of the gate opening, let her know when Petru approached. Suddenly there were many men nearby, with their horses and mules and dogs. And that familiar, nauseating smell of burning trash.

The little bird squeezed her tiny eyes shut, the better to hear. Oh Sisters, help me now! 

Vara would know Petru’s voice anywhere, but didn’t hear it until they were very near the palace. An advantage of being a bird, you knew where you were all the time, as if visible stars wheeled overhead. She could feel the streets and buildings wheel around her like the points of a compass.

The guards halted outside the palace, and performed the ritual of handing over responsibility for their leader to the inside men, preparatory to returning to their barracks.

She despaired of learning anything useful, but then she heard Petru’s voice, rough and leaden with fatigue. The Gods, she thought, were driving him hard. She wished they’d kill him. “I stay only one night. Have fresh horses ready at dawn, and send word that more must be waiting at Montpelier, for I will go on to Arles.”

“Yes, Sire… Arles? The siege progresses as planned, but…”

“I am going past there, into the mountains.” Vara heard him emit a sort of laugh, if a person made of nothing but bone and bile could laugh. “There is a trader there with whom I must talk.”

A lance of ice went to her heart. That was it. He must—must!—be referring to her father. How many other important traders could there be? It might be nothing, but it was the only hint they had. They could trail Petru around forever waiting for him to interrogate Jameel, but what good would that do? If they didn’t get there ahead of Petru and his instruments of persuasion, Jameel would be doomed.

This was their only chance.

Vara almost shoved her way out of the wool right then, but stopped herself in time. Later, as the horses clopped along, she stealthily forced first her beak, then the beads of her eyes, through the clinging mat of wool. At the next turn, far from the nearest torchlight, she flitted free, a strand of wool clinging to her tiny foot.

*

Akil sat hunkered onto his haunches, waiting. His years of captivity as a child, with its hours of boredom among the harem women, and the monotony of the revels he had been forced to attend, had prepared him for the tedium of waiting. He could endure it.

Vara had been gone for hours. Knife Woman paced back and forth, conferring now and then with Miss Marsh. Neither of them looked happy.

Night was well advanced. They had left the Minotaur stairs for a secluded alley, knowing that Bird would find them.

Akil was settling into a trance-like state, his mind smoothing into a blank field, when he was startled by a bird landing on his shoulder.

Its bright little eyes were inches from his own as it shifted its wings into place, hopped to the ground and began to stride around like a small warrior. It was Vara. He felt himself grin, and reached out a finger to stroke her glistening brown feathers.

But Knife Woman slapped his hand aside. “Don’t touch my daughter. You have no right.” He gave her a look, but she stared him down. Akil dropped his eyes. It was true, he had no right. No right at all.

The nightingale began to speak. Her words hissed and trembled; having a sharp beak in place of soft lips hampered speech, as Akil knew. But her meaning was clear.

“I know where he is.” She leapt into the air and beat a quick circle of the area, scanning with her sharp eyes, then landed beside them once more, changing immediately to Boy, complete with tousled hair and grubby loincloth. And a big grin. Akil closed his eyes for a moment, remembering slender ankles and blistered feet that needed his touch. She needed nothing from him now. She was mastering the art of being resura very well.

“Where is he?” demanded Knife Woman, grabbing Boy’s hand to hold him still.

“I’m not exactly sure, but Petru told his men he was going into the mountains northwest of Arles, leaving at dawn. To talk to a trader. He said nothing more, so I don’t know exactly where my father may be, but at least we can get close.”

Knife Woman’s eyes blazed. “It has to be him, and I know where he is! He’s in that limestone quarry Petru and his Sarafites took over last year. He is no more than thirty leagues from here.”

Boy exclaimed, “They’ll work him to death in there! We must go to him at once!”

Knife Woman said, “The mine is no longer active. Only prisoners and guards are there now, I’m sure. But my Jameel could be anywhere within its tunnels and pits.”

“We can find him! We can fly overhead and see, or we can bribe the guards—”

Knife Woman held up a hand. Boy shut up, seething with frustration. “We must think of a plan.”

Akil looked at his alanbir and saw only a look of chagrin on her face. Miss Marsh knew her human limitations. “You must go, now. I will stay here, for I’m much too slow. You three can fly to him. If Jameel al-Kindi is to be found and freed before Petru has a chance to tort—question him, you must act quickly.”

Knife Woman shifted back to hawk form, a blur of dust twisting so fast that Akil barely followed it. And he knew how to see a resura… Ragna Svobodová was frantic with impatience, and the hawk’s movement betrayed it. She sprang about from ground to ledge to fountain’s lip and back, her beak snapping.

“You shall not stay behind. It is too dangerous. For you, and also for us, should you be captured and made to talk. You said you had a plan to get past these walls. You had best set it in motion, my friend.” She spread her wings, gave a great leap, and shot into the air to vanish among the stars.