Chapter 11- Jawaad

(If you prefer Wattpad to read, you can find the novel here : https://www.wattpad.com/story/78722854-the-songs-of-loss-book-one-armanth )

 

Jawaad was consulting a cheap leather-bound notebook, slumped in an armchair that some would have considered Spartan given the luxuries he could have afforded. Legs crossed, one boot propped up on the desk, he enjoyed the light of the last evening rays, one hand turning the pages, the other stroking the ochre-gold hair of the young woman sleeping with her head and arm resting on his thigh, having pulled a thick cushion to her feet.

The slave was beautiful, even more so in her slumber; her face, lit by the softness of the last light of day, expressed sincere serenity. She was almost naked. The advantage of Armanth’s summer is that it’s so hot that anyone who can undress doesn’t mind.

Yet the little she was wearing would have paid for a few grams of Loss-metal. Her only garment was a saffron-hued tunic of diaphanous silk, slit wide at the sides, held together only by cords braided with gold thread, and deeply indented across her muscular chest and back. One could almost fit the entire fabric into a clenched fist. She wore light sandals whose laces, also of saffron silk, came up to mid-calf. Finally, the rest of her jewelry consisted of bracelets of braided bronze wire adorned with colorful jasper and beryl beads. Those on her ankles were embellished with small silver bells.

For a moment, Jawaad took his eyes off his reading and put them on Azur. The slave had belonged to him for almost ten years. He hadn’t bought her; she was still a free woman when he’d met her, not far from Allenys. She was an Ar’hanthia, from a pious nomadic people who follow the great herds of ghia-thunders on their peninsula, which they consider sacred. He traded with them and found her hidden in the hold of his ship. Her name was Her’eena at the time.

She had fled the arranged marriage where she was to be offered to the son of a neighboring clan chief, being herself the daughter of the chief of her tribe. The punishment that awaited her once she had committed this betrayal was, if she was lucky, enslavement, being sold away from her own people by her own father; if she wasn’t, a cruel death. The only choice left to her was to beg Jawaad to take her away from the wrath of her parents; the merchant had taken advantage:

– Do you know what it means, according to the laws of your people, for a woman to beg a man?

Her’eena knew very well; any woman who morally indebted to a man to the Ar’hanthia could be made to pay her debt by enslavement; a custom decreed by the Divine Council, it was said, and found as far north as the Hegemony, although it was rarely invoked elsewhere. She could only nod, before adding:

“But you’ll free me, if I accept?”

Jawaad gave a brief smile that the young woman, who didn’t know him, didn’t understand.

“I never free my slaves; on the other hand, I’ve already sold some.”

“But how can I ever be free again? If… if I ask you, will you sell me back to my grandfather? He’ll set me free, he’ll understand, he’ll even thank you for your gesture and he’ll pay you well!”

“All right then. But where I come from, the custom is clear: a free woman cannot be enslaved, unless she commits a serious crime… or submits to the one she wishes to belong to.”

Her’eena had accepted, naively. She had even gone down on her knees, bowing her head to her strange savior to show the resolution of her gesture, exposing her neck to him as she parted her hair. She gave herself to him according to her customs, believing she had chosen well in whom she would place her trust and her life, even though she had no other alternative left. So she never saw the second smile that made Jawaad’s dark eyes shine:

“You are mine from this moment on. One day I’ll offer to buy you back from your grandfather, as we agreed, but I don’t know when; after all, you forgot to tell me when I should make the offer.”

Her’eena had broken down and even tried to run away from him, but the merchant had grabbed her arm to stop her. In any case, one call from her and the whole crew of her ship would have come running. He added, staring at the distress of the young woman who was just beginning, panic-stricken, to realize her mistake:

“By the way, you no longer have a name…”

Ten years later, Azur was sleeping peacefully against his thigh. He could have kept his promise, since sooner or later he would have made his grandfather an offer to sell. But the young Ar’hanthia had proved a pleasure, a pleasant companion with a priceless talent to match, and she had learned to love her master with unwavering loyalty. She was no longer interested in her freedom.

She hadn’t aged one iota. The merchant had seen to that; the Linci that marked her thigh with a fine arabesque of copper highlights, evoking a discreet circle that might have been reminiscent of an astrolabe, was an Ambrose. That such luxury represented a fortune spent on a slave was of no importance to him. She belonged to him, and he wanted her to be like the one he’d taken such pleasure in owning, young and preserved forever.

Holding back his slave’s head, he withdrew his foot from his desk. Azur moved a little and, feeling the pressure against her skull, merely opened sleepy eyes before smiling back to sleep.

Jawaad was still consulting the notebook, which taught him nothing. Since the accident on the Radia Granateo three weeks earlier, he had been permanently accompanied by Abba or Damas, or both, and any risky trip was now subject to a quick reconnaissance by one of the Jemmaï’s most trusted men; precautions that Jawaad moderately appreciated: he hated feeling hobbled; but, despite careful rereading of the information Theobos had been able to provide on the men working on the site that day, he could see no clues providing him with a lead on who might have been compromised in the murder attempt.

Over the last few weeks, he’d worked to discreetly bribe and convince whoever could glean information on each of the names of those who’d been in a position to sabotage the wood package, to choose the right moment to erect it above him and Abba and attempt to crush them; but while the list of suspects had been whittled down to fifteen men, not one of them had shown the slightest sign of compromise. He would have expected one of these suspects to change his habits or lifestyle, but the man in charge was apparently very cautious, or hadn’t acted for money. There was still a lack of information, and gathering more would take even longer.

The other option was to wait for the next murder attempt, and for his adversary to make a mistake that would make him reveal himself. In any case, it was obvious that he would need to be patient, which didn’t bother him; patience was often – and rightly – considered his main quality. However, at this stage, he was considering provoking events by setting up a trap in which he himself would be the bait, in order to see what would fall into it and thus reveal the sponsor.

A distant noise accompanied the merchant’s reflections, along with a sudden drop in the evening light. The storm was rumbling. The first rains of summer were on their way, and would impose their domination for weeks to come, as they did every year. The Cages Market, like most open-air businesses, would close for the rainy season and Armanth would live in slow motion for the next month.

Jawaad’s office had none of the gaudy luxury expected of a wealthy merchant, and would even have been considered austere. Had the few paintings and sculptures that adorned its walls and corners been removed, all that would have remained were two carpets, a handful of cushions, his desk, two chairs and, finally, the surprisingly sober bookcase that covered the entire wall to the merchant’s left. Even with great effort, it would have been hard to see anything in the room that seemed truly superfluous, or testified to the intimacy of its occupant. The earth-toned ceramic tea service, perhaps, that sat on a coffee table, or the small crystal vase filled to the brim with glass beads and colorful pebbles on his desk. As a wealthy and discerning man, he nevertheless enjoyed a number of unusual and expensive comforts, such as a bedside lamp powered by a Loss-metal dynamo which, switched on by a gesture from the merchant, illuminated the vast room with a soft orange light and a discreet motor hum.

The storm was closer now. A wind carrying a fresh and welcome humidity blew through the large windows of the terrace opening onto the office. Jawaad could plunge back into his reading and reflections, his leg still serving as a pillow for an Azur who had no desire to wake up, but there was a knock at the door, which it opened immediately afterwards; only Damas or Abba could afford such a gesture. Given the massive shadow that obscured the entire frame of the open door, it was the black giant, without a doubt. His voice thundered, as always:

“Jawaad, I have the most curious visitor for you. You should come; it’s in the hall.”

Jawaad looked up, one eyebrow rising slightly in puzzlement. There were few things that could surprise him; and that his second-in-command should consider a visit at a late hour important, when the master merchant was reputed to refuse virtually any impromptu visit, was one of them.

 

 

***

Sonia’s time was short, but she put it to good use. Priscius’s dogs had known her for a long time. They were trained, but she was an Educator. She trained women; far more complex, rebellious, intelligent and devious than mutts. She could approach them without difficulty and without provoking the frenzied barking that would have aroused the curiosity of one of her master’s henchmen.

Once tamed, and if you got rid of the fear they might inspire, molosses were nothing more than big doggies eager for cuddles and attention; even so, she remained cautious. The smallest of the pack weighed fifty kilos and, even in play, his jaw would have crushed her bones when it caught her arm; but they were wagging their tails and drooling with joy, happy to find a friend who, as usual, had come to offer them some sweets stolen from the estate kitchens. It was perfect, she could come and harvest without risk what she had come for.

The operation would have disgusted many. She needed their urine, of which there was no shortage, in more or less damp patches in the corners of the kennels, amidst the pungent smell of the animals and their excrement. When night fell, she had a little half-hour’s respite for her work, before the dogs were released into the outer enclosure of the Slave Garden to carry out their vigilant guard.

They were trained to smell the Lincis, and they could smell it from afar, like all well-trained guard animals. Getting past Priscius’ estate was easy as long as the molosses were in the kennels, but when she returned they’d be on the lookout; she may have tamed them, but they’d still do their job faithfully: as soon as she approached, they’d bark and charge towards her.

There was no escaping the dogs. They were the most effective security measure, preventing any slave from escaping. Wherever she might be hiding, they kept watch on estates, villas, neighborhood gates and city gates. The Linci enslaved its wearer forever, by this simple and widespread measure. Given the fate reserved for runaway slaves who were caught, attempts to escape were extremely rare. They were desperate acts, a devious form of suicide; but the dogs could be fooled. Sonia had known how to do it for a long time.

A handful of minutes later, an agile shadow crept between the hedges that encircled the garden. A leap, the barely audible sound of shaking branches and, in three moves, she was on the first perimeter wall, where she remained perched for no more than a second, falling back to cross the parapet walk and cross the outer wall.

By night, Armanth was as calm and dark as the city could be bursting with life during the day. While the porches of bistros, taverns and delicatessens were still lit up for a while, dusk ushered in a silent truce in which the constant hubbub of activity in the immense port city disappeared. So much so that now the shouts, songs and calls, the barks and bursts of voices or the work of the later craftsmen were all clearly distinct, in the calm that settled over the streets.

The shadow, which had just crossed the enclosure delimiting the vast domain of Priscius’ household, didn’t linger in the wide street where a few townsfolk were still coming and going in a hurry to get home. The last of the sun’s rays had just painted the sky purple and mauve, making it seem surreal for a brief moment, but more importantly, cutting out the first storm clouds of summer like shadow puppets. The thunder announced itself theatrically.

A dirty, cluttered alleyway away, the shadow stopped, hidden from view by some garbage. Sonia opened the bag she had brought with her. It contained a large hooded black mantel, a pair of thin gloves, thick felt-soled sandals and two other bags, the smallest of which she pulled out not without a hint of cautious disgust. Inside were charpies of old sheets soaked in canine urine. The next procedure made her nostrils wrinkle; she rubbed herself all over to cover herself from the strong, nauseating smell. Now, as long as she could take shelter from the threatening rain, she had an unstoppable respite for a few hours. It would have worked just as well with horse or mora urine, but despite the presence of a stable, the only animals on the estate accessible to her were the guard dogs.

The stench covering the scent of Linci would be indispensable. She knew where Jawaad’s villa was, built on the heights at the foot of the cliffs, far from the hustle and bustle of the city; but the road was long and crossing Armanth was not so easy. The city is immense, and its wealth stems from its intense trade, including the Cages Market; its arsenals, which have no equivalent in modernity and engineering on Loss; and its outstanding craftsmen, who rather than passing on their knowledge from father to son, run schools with apprenticeships and journeymen’s courses, and even real universities. All this strategic and sensitive knowledge is jealously guarded so that no one can easily steal these industrial secrets. While the city’s security is organized by the local congregations, the Elegio imposes strict constraints, and all guard posts within the precincts obey its authority – more or less parasitized by the whims of master merchants and the local aristocracy.

Thus, especially at night, the neighborhoods are barred by checkpoints, the gates, which isolate them from one another like so many frontiers where the manant must prove his identity. In this way, despite the abundance of foreigners from all walks of life in the city, no one gets around without being, in theory, duly registered; and anyone unfortunate enough to appear suspicious to the guards at the gates is liable to a night in jail, while they find someone who can vouch for him or ensure the authenticity of his safe-conducts. A few andris placed in the hand, barring serious suspicions, easily solved these minor inconveniences, but no Elegiatori would let a slave pass through a door at night.

This left her with only one other option: the rooftops. Sonia had often done this, in Armanth and many other places, during her very long life. One constant – and one that had served her well – was that hardly anyone thought of looking up when on guard. The only constraint was noise; you had to remain silent and never leave the shadows, which, on rooftops several meters high, was of course a difficult maneuver.

In a few agile leaps worthy of a circus acrobat, Sonia, clad in her cape, had reached the tiled roof of the small building that sheltered her, climbing the three storeys with almost outrageous ease. She showed surprising skill, again totally unknown to Priscius, who was decidedly never curious enough about her slave. She reckoned that if she could keep up this trotting pace and not get lost, she could reach Alba Rupes, the residential district nestling at the foot of the cliffs, in less than an hour.

 

 

***

Raevo really didn’t think he was getting paid enough for the job he’d been given. A heavy rain, barely cooler than the air saturated with summer heat, came down to reinforce his opinion. He should have asked for much more when he’d negotiated this job a few weeks earlier.

Lurking on a rooftop in the cover of night, he spied on the vast Jawaad estate. Finding an observation point close enough and unobstructed enough had already been a challenge. In his line of work, one often came across men who were paranoid. He couldn’t hold it against them; their excessive caution was motivated by the simple existence of the profession he practiced: he was paid a lot of money to spy on the powerful, to note their habits, their comings and goings, their dirty little secrets.

Raevo didn’t care what his clients did with the information, but he had a pretty clear idea when, some time later, a libel suit condemned an aristocrat to the wrath of the mob, or when a wealthy merchant suddenly decided to sell his best bargains to his rival for a pittance. But the present specimen, whom he had been following for a few weeks and had already known for a while by reputation – who didn’t know the master merchant who refused to be elected to the Council of Peers? – cultivated a frankly impressive prudence; and without falling, it was most astonishing, into excessive paranoia.

The Jawaad’s villa was a six-hectare estate, organized into outbuildings and an immense garden, which was wild and lush only in appearance. Raevo must have sworn and invoked the Divine Council at least four or five times – he’d stopped being superstitious long ago – as he made several reconnaissance trips to find the best angle from which to approach the merchant’s private apartments and, above all, to see what was going on inside. The lush garden wasn’t there by chance. Between the thick hedges and the foliage of the trees, it broke every angle of view, forming an inextricable labyrinth for any ill-intentioned observer.

What’s more, the man seemed to love dogs. He had counted more than twenty of all breeds, some of them completely unknown to him, still at large in the gardens. In fact, the estate’s slaves were quite happy to play with them. Raevo had never seen this before. Slaves are often said to fear them; after all, these animals are all trained to react to Lincis and prevent them from escaping, even if it means pouncing on them and tearing them apart; but the dogs weren’t there just for company. At night, they prowled the property as efficient guardians, watching out for any intruders.

It was said that Jawaad didn’t like people, which seemed to be true. In over six weeks, Raevo had seen no more than four visits to the master merchant, and they had never lasted long. There was only one guard standing guard at the entrance to the estate and no one patrolling the property, but his two most trusted men lived with him, along with several servants and their families. Not a paranoid man, certainly; Raevo had seen far more security debauchery, sometimes bordering on the ridiculous, in other of his victims or clients; but he wouldn’t have bet a silver andri on an assassin trying to penetrate the mansion. Even with the world’s best pulse rifle, the garden’s tangled vegetation precluded any attempt to kill him from a distance. Only a truly exceptional archer or crossbowman might have had a chance, and even then, but Raevo wasn’t there for that; he had to find the weak points in the master merchant’s movements and habits. The one who would send him to report post-mortem to the Divine Lords of the Council, or any other god he wished, was another, and the spy had the prudence to stop his curiosity there.

It was at this moment that he noticed movement in the merchant’s villa, as the rain redoubled. Orienting his spyglass, he placed it on the entrance to the wide hall overlooking the building. There was a hooded figure, hood down, standing on the stoop, far inside the property, despite the dogs and, above all, despite his vigilant observation.

The anxious, angry expletive he let loose would have shocked the most jaded of Lowertown market gardeners.

 

***

Jawaad paused at the top of the stairs leading to the hall, his gaze on the almost naked woman, hidden under her overcoat, who had pulled down her hood. He recognized her immediately.

Damas stood behind her, not far away. He’d come out of the common room, where he’d been smoking quietly and enjoying the company of Abba and the estate’s slaves, who this evening had embarked on a wild game of Jhaemo, spiced up by the pledges the two men decided upon. He had immediately posted himself near the entrance to the hall, moving from the laughter of this moment of relaxation to the sharpest vigilance.

To Jawaad’s right, Abba preceded him down the steps into the wide hall, whose center hosted a pool adorned with lotuses, arums and water lilies and home to rare carp. The slaver looked genuinely disconcerted: that a woman, especially a slave, could shake his self-confidence, must have displeased him greatly. Sonia was on the other side of the pond, a few steps in front of the stoop, sheltered from the pounding rain. She raised her head at Jawaad, all pride and sensuality, but conceded a sign of deference by lowering it just after, almost humbly.

The master merchant scratched his beard, thoughtfully, before raising his voice a little, just enough to make himself heard; he wasn’t inclined to shout.

“I doubt your master knows you’re here, Sonia. Shall I have the incompetent guard who guards the door of my house and didn’t see you enter chased away, or have you whipped to punish you for the ruse that allowed you to set foot in my home without permission?”

“Without a doubt, master, I deserve punishment for daring to enter your home without any right to do so. But first, if you don’t mind, let me tell you that a discreet, well-hidden man is spying on your household. Over there!”

Without turning around, Sonia smirked and pointed with her outstretched arm behind her to the exact direction of the spy who, on a rooftop, had been scrutinizing the every move of the master-merchant and his family for days.

 

***

Raevo couldn’t miss a thing of the scene being played out a hundred meters away; his spyglass showed him every detail. So he didn’t miss the clear gesture of the woman who had appeared almost as if by magic on the stoop, pointing in his direction to perfection.

He let out a huge swear; what could be more natural? But his second reaction was a very big mistake: he straightened up to begin a cautious retreat, and the lightning that streaked across the night sky lit up his silhouette like a perfect Chinese shadow. He wouldn’t have been more noticeable if he’d been carrying a flaming torch and making grand gestures. Damas was already running towards him, barking a loud command to sound the alarm, without waiting for reinforcements.

In an instant, after Damas’s alarm call, the whole estate awoke as one. Abba had hesitated about what to do, but the look on Jawaad’s face told him to follow Damas’s lead; he was running much more slowly than the speedy marine foreman, who was revealing other, more particular talents here, including a clear gift for night pursuit in urban environments.

Amid the hubbub of the frantically active household, the few men of the estate draw their weapons and poured into the garden; who wondered what was going on, who provided the explanation, who finally set off in pursuit of the spy. Jawaad remained the same, calm and seemingly detached.

The hall glowed with the candlesticks lit by servants and slaves, and the master-merchant calmed the frenzy of his entourage with a snap of his fingers, followed by nods accentuated by his gaze. Flanked by a suddenly very awake and nervous Azur, he descended to meet Sonia, stopping just a few steps away.

“If you’re telling the truth about the spy, you’ll be rewarded, which doesn’t take away from the fact that you’ll be punished for entering my home without permission. Now, I doubt very much that you came here just to tell me that a man is spying on me. So?”

Sonia raised her head to set her blue gaze, which was blazing at the moment, on the master merchant. Still out of breath, she exulted in pleasure, her smile drawn on her soaked face oscillating between unhealthy enjoyment and a kind of indecipherable ecstasy. Azur, who was hiding behind Jawaad, his hands resting on her shoulder, hated her immediately.

“So, master, I’ve come to meet you and, indeed, my master doesn’t know. I’ve come here on my own initiative, to talk to you about the redheaded slave you wish to own. My master is in danger of getting rid of her, convinced that she’s worthless and that he won’t be able to do anything with her. He won’t sell her to you for fear of tarnishing his reputation.”

Sonia’s reply aroused the curiosity of the master merchant, who easily feigned nonchalant disinterest. What intrigued him here was not the information Priscius’s educator had come to bring him, but the fact that she had taken such an initiative and the risks she would run for having entered his home for this sole purpose. His other curiosity – but a pungent, animal stench wafting around the slave was beginning to provide the answer – was how she had been able to deceive the vigilance of the dogs on his property and so easily emerge on his stoop.

“So be it. And?” Jawaad left the question hanging.

“If this slave doesn’t matter to you, then I’m mistaken, master, but I’m convinced of the contrary; and as well as I’ve seen how you’ve looked at her and your interest in this captive and no other, as well as I’ve noted how she’s reacted to you. She’s already marked by you, I’ve made sure of that.”

At the same time, Sonia drew from her large bag the second package she had carefully wrapped. The one containing Jawaad’s dirty linen, which she had stolen a few days earlier to perfect her plan, and Lisa’s Languori.

“I borrowed this, which belongs to you.”

Sonia set the bag down.

“Of course, I wasn’t going to keep them; they’ve done their job.”

Jawaad listened, following the slave’s movements in detail; his dark, impassive gaze fell on the feline creature facing him. Their eyes gazed at each other for a moment, almost like a challenge. Jawaad knew little of Sonia, but enough to fill in the blanks of his explanation, or at least to envisage part of her motivation. He turned his head and, raising his arm, caught Azur’s wrist to pull her gently to his height, staring at her without a word. A command passed through his gaze that his slave understood immediately. She turned her head to Sonia to stare at her intensely, suddenly so concentrated that her face seemed for a brief moment to be made of marble. Azur after a moment returned to Jawaad:

“She’s not telling the whole truth, but she’s not lying and she hasn’t come to put you in danger, my master.”

Sonia immediately lost her arrogant smile, to glare hatefully at the merchant’s slave.

A psyke… Jawaad had a psyke as a slave. It was so rare and so sought-after, so unexpected that, on his part, she should have known better. Sonia took a deep breath to regain her composure, before her smile returned, staring again at the master of the house. After all, it served her purpose, so she could tell the unvarnished truth after all; his psyke would have no trouble confirming her sincerity.

The merchant smiled, having noted Sonia’s surprise, and ruffled Azur’s hair with one hand before continuing:

“Now that you’ve understood this detail, slave… – he purposely reminded her of her rank – I’d like to know why you’ve come to my house, at night, without your master’s permission, to teach me something I already knew, and to return some things you stole from me, after warning me that a man, apparently very well hidden, was spying on my every move.”

Jawaad paused for a moment, staring at Sonia:

“What’s in it for you?”

 

***

Raevo may have had a hundred-meter lead, but he was in a bad way. He had to change roofs as soon as possible and head down to the south of the district, so he could lose himself in the first alleyways. Here he was totally out in the open, in a part of Alba Rupes built entirely of large villas with extensive estates, all guarded. A rat trap for his profession, although he’d never seen rats; on Loss they were replaced by toshs, voracious, omnivorous marsupials that could easily weigh six pounds.

Damascus had clearly seen the spy and was running at full speed, followed by Abba who was struggling to keep up. The common reflex here would have been to grab saddled horses, of which there were several at Jawaad, and set off in pursuit. Damas knew, however, that this waste of time would mean the disappearance of the intruder and that, in any case, he would go faster on foot than on any horse; not least because he, too, could climb rooftops and, in the cover of this dark, rainy night, could see better than anyone else.

Raevo began tumbling noisily down the tiled slope from one roof to the next. The watchdogs of the property where he had found his vantage point began to howl at the top of their voices, and the first lights confirming that the inhabitants had woken up with a fanfare were already stirring.

His first leap was from the building to the inner courtyard, to run along the damp edge – and it wasn’t getting any better, the rain was lashing him hard – of the local owners’ stable roof. Another leap into the thickening darkness and he was in the first branches of the arched trees at the entrance to this estate, to propel himself with a lurch and a swing into the street.

The local shops were just down the slope, all he had to do was run down a small covered square and the alleyways would form a perfect labyrinth where they’d be hard pressed to find way back. He’d better be; after the dogs, the bellowing that followed him were those of men. Security around here could be summed up simply: shoot first, ask questions later. He was going to have half the Alba Rupes in hot pursuit.

Raevo swore again, running as fast as he could, having to guide himself by trial and error in the darkness, his face washed away by the downpour. He really should have asked for more.

 

***

Sonia was still looking down on Jawaad, who was also enjoying himself, with a mixture of respect and mocking arrogance that made you wonder which feeling was more important than the other. The educator’s mind, still drowning in the exhilaration of her rooftop escapade that had intoxicated her with pleasure, quickly concluded: when faced with a psyke, all her tricks were useless. She could fool men easily and make them believe what she wanted, but not one who was literally, it was said, able to decipher your thoughts, sometimes even before you had mentally formulated them.

The master-merchant snapped his fingers at one of the slaves in his house, who, like the others, lingered intrigued by the strange confrontation. A sign with his index finger pointing to Sonia, a glance and he had given a silent order. The next thing he knew, the young woman was running to fetch some towels so that the soaked educator could dry off a little. He turned to her, unsurprised by the sudden silence of Priscius’ slave.

Sonia hesitated as to her explanation. The weight of Azur’s gaze, still at the master-merchant’s side, weighed unpleasantly on her, and she would have no trouble sensing the educator’s heavy, unhealthy hostility towards her.

“My owner – Jawaad noted immediately that she had stopped calling him master – has become too ambitious and he’s going to fall. He’s never been aware of my abilities, never even had the curiosity to discover them or the intelligence to take advantage of them.”

Always pretense, but Jawaad was hardly surprised. Priscius’ educator was the exact opposite of what he looked for and appreciated in his wives; but she was no less useful for the breadth of her abilities.

“And you’re counting on me to have this intelligence…”

“I wouldn’t dare insult your discernment, master. Shall I complete my demonstration by doing a cartwheel on four fingers?”

The insolence was practically gratuitous, as was the provocation. Sonia couldn’t help herself, which in the face of most men would usually have ended in a masterly slap, and the educator would then have tasted the pleasure of her perverse victory. Jawaad remained so impassive that she might as well have presented him with groveling tributes of servitude, it would have had no other effect.

“Do you realize that I’m making a complete mockery of you and your qualities, slave? Addressing me in the hope of a gesture is proof that you’re not as sharp-witted as you pride yourself on being. What’s in it for me?”

“I know what the redhead’s true value is in your eyes. I know how you can have Selyenda without a flick of the wrist.”

Sonia smirked, then added, unable to resist the pleasure of the remark:

“And probably without paying a thing…”

 

***

Damas was no longer hot on the spy’s heels. Meanwhile, Abba, running at full speed along the cobbled street with his giant bulk, realized he had no idea where his comrade was.

The slaver braked into the night and the downpour, nearly landing on the slippery paving stones of the small square that demarcated Alba Rupes’ last residences and gardens from its first blocks of tightly-packed houses. Behind him, there was a hubbub of hurried footsteps, shouts and horse hooves clattering in the distance, which not even the barking dogs could cover. By nightfall, easily three households had emptied of their men pursuing… nobody really knew what or who, to tell the truth. There was a prowler, the alarm had been sounded and, following the movement, everyone had set off in pursuit, scattering in all directions.

The lightning was raging, the curtain of rain so dense you couldn’t see for thirty meters, but the last flash of lightning cut out the silhouette of two men running towards each other on the inky black sky, on the first rooftops of the block of shops. Abba sighed plaintively as he resumed his run with a violent burst of speed. It was going to be a long night.

Damas cut between gardens and fences, leaping over obstacles, crossing thickets without the slightest hesitation, and all the while the storm was turning the night into a darkness so dense you could have gotten lost in it. A cruel and common precaution in these vast domains of powerful and paranoid men was to plant hedges of sycores whose sharp thorns caused excruciatingly painful inflammation and serious infection; the kind of unstoppable trap that would discourage any intruder, especially in full darkness; but Damascus could see practically like daylight.

No symbionts here, for that matter, even if he knew that some were bred to be nyctalopic. Damas had the talent of some of the Rift’s inhabitants, those of the ancient Jemmaïs bloodlines: in twilight he could see perfectly, albeit with virtually no color. And in total darkness, if he concentrated hard enough, he could see heat and cold as spots and reliefs. In short, the worst mistake his enemies could make was to believe that night could shelter them; and hedges of sycores didn’t bother him in the least.

With another agile leap, he stepped over the two-metre low wall, which was hardly a serious obstacle for him, his cloak catching for a moment without slowing him down. Keeping his eyes on the intruder, he guessed where he was headed. Half bursting through a wooden palisade, he entered the small gardens adjoining the first houses in the lower district, and grabbing the railing of a balcony, he leapt up onto the roof.

He was now at her height, in the lightning-striped night. Each on one side of the alleyway, which narrowed into the maze of tightly-packed buildings, Damas and Raevo raced towards each other.

 

***

The master merchant stretched a smile once Sonia’s explanation was finished. She had accepted the cloths and Jawaad had sent the same slave to fetch a basin of soapy water so that the educator could rid herself of the distressing smell of canine urine. He made no sign of Azure, nor did he glance at her as he observed the soaked slave’s improvised toilet. She was focused on Sonia, looking for the lies and truths she was hiding. If ever she sensed real danger in her omissions and detours, she would immediately warn her master.

“I’ve taken note of your proposal, Sonia. What’s in it for you?”

Unsurprisingly for Jawaad, the educator responded with another provocative pirouette. She was competing with insolence, and even more so now that she knew she was under the gaze of a psyke.

“It seemed to me that the obvious was unmistakable, Master.”

“When I make a deal, it’s clear and nothing is left out. It’s up to you.”

“Your slave could tell you. Isn’t she reading my mind right now?” Sonia wore an ambiguous smile, the meaning of which, addressed to Azur, made her panic immediately. She continued: “certain abilities would inevitably arouse the interest of certain masters if they knew about them.”

Jawaad stretched out another almost invisible smile at the answer. With a faint glance of thanks, he accepted the cup of tea that Janisse, the groom’s wife, had just brought him. The woman was pregnant. She was in her early thirties, her black hair in an artful bun; concern was evident on her charming, round face, with its matte complexion, if a little puffy and blotchy. Her pregnancy hadn’t been easy, and she’d already lost three children, two of them to miscarriage.

“Jawaad, are you sure everything’s all right? They say a man was spying on you, and I’m afraid for the children…”

With his employees and their families, the Jawaad estate was home to their offspring, all of them young. The master merchant knew that Janisse was most afraid of losing her baby. He gave the worried mother a patient, peaceful look, and nodded lightly:

“Go into the living room with everyone else. It’s just a prowler…”

Janisse complied, but not without a wary, unwelcoming glance at Sonia. Female citizens of Armanth hardly feared enslavement; you had to commit a very serious crime to be condemned to it. Apart from the fact that, as was the case everywhere, it was customary to sell one’s own daughter into slavery when money was too tight and this was the only option left, the city’s laws practically protected women on an equal footing with men. It would have been retrograde to practice the Council’s habits and customs in this respect; but Janisse, like most women, saw creatures like Sonia as a kind of beast, despicable for their overt sensuality and the animal aspect of their femininity; beings who caricatured woman herself. Men took advantage of their slaves, and their wives were sometimes mortally jealous of them; but more often than not, free women were content to consider slaves for what they were in the minds of lossyans: pets with a purpose. It was also a way of denying reality: any woman could have known their fate.

Jawaad returned to Sonia:

“Your master doesn’t belong to me, and he doesn’t owe me anything. You are one of the possessions on which his trade depends, slave. So I’ll do nothing.”

It was the educator’s turn to smile.

“I don’t doubt it, master; directly you’ll do nothing. Indirectly… you know people.”

Jawaad nodded in his barely visible way.

“I’d still have to decide who’s going to buy you. You’re still a slave, no matter what you do to ingratiate yourself with me.”

“But I’m sure, master, that in your great indulgence you’ll agree to make a deal. After all, it was you who used those words, wasn’t it”

“Yes, Sonia, but you know that nothing forces me to keep my side of the bargain with a slave. You don’t own anything, not even your own choices.”

“Yet it’s one of my own choices that I’m here, master, and that I’ve offered you information that serves your interests.”

Jawaad let out a barely discernible smile, as his gaze lingered on the educator, eyebrows furrowed in an inquisitive pucker. Azur was briefly surprised, as she was unaccustomed to seeing her master so intrigued.

“I don’t make deals with slaves, but sometimes I reward them. So, since you’ve expressed your wish for the reward you desire, I’ll make a note of it and remember that what you’ve done for me deserves my generosity.”

Jawaad didn’t give Sonia time to reply, resuming in a harsher voice, taking a step towards the slave, almost towering over her:

“But you entered my home twice, without my permission; you ran away from your owner, you know the laws. You’re not going anywhere for the time being, I’m keeping you here.”

Sonia poorly concealed a brief moment of panic, which she hid behind a false, sinister, licentious smile, her gaze always provocative, almost demented, raising her head at the master-merchant who was glaring at her. Her voice became suave.

“If it’s the master’s wish; I’m only a slave, after all. But I daresay you’re already anticipating that this will make what happens next and your relationship with my owner even more… interesting?”

“You should have thought about it beforehand, and you must have.”

Jawaad snapped his fingers to attract Azur’s attention, who was breaking down to follow the train of thought his talent was reading on the educator’s face.

“Get me a leash.”

He returned to Sonia.

“You’ll spend the night in my bedroom.”

Jawaad reached into the bag the educator was carrying, which contained the stash of piss-stained linens that should have ensured the safety of her journey home. Sonia found it difficult, albeit brief, to conceal her concern; her mind dismissed such reactions with ease, leaving only her arrogant arrogance in the foreground; but she let go of her parcel and Jawaad kept it in his hand as he made his way to the common room where the women, children and slaves of his estate were gathered. He hardly seemed to be checking whether Sonia was following in his footsteps.

 

***

Abba nearly skidded off his feet again and collapsed on the sodden cobblestones. The driving rain was turning the narrow, steep alley into a stream, carrying mud and garbage. He grumbled, immediately straightening up to resume his run, breathless. He was almost at the spy’s level and could see Damascus silhouetted above him in the lightning-streaked waterspouts; at least, he assumed it was Damascus. If someone had bet him, he wouldn’t have taken it.

Raevo cursed the spirits three or four times when he realized that one of his pursuers was not only on the rooftops, too, only a few meters away, but was racing towards him to intercept him. He could have sworn it was impossible, but he should have refused what his eyes were seeing. Too bad for him. He briefly considered that he didn’t like having to eliminate such a talented colleague, but business is business. He drew his pulse pistol, cocked it and took aim, pointing it at the man who would be on top of him in a matter of seconds.

Abba heard a clap, like a thunderclap, echoing the sound of lightning being unleashed; but he was accustomed to the deflagration of a pulse pistol and looked up immediately to see a body falling, two floors above him. A body that, in the half-light, cloaked in a cape, could very well have been Damascus’. He lunged for the falling man.

Raevo had not seen it coming. He was about to shoot when a sharp pain combined with the unpleasant sound of something digging into his flesh told him he’d just been pinned like a butterfly. The dagger was lodged up to the hilt at the top of his thigh. Raevo pulled the trigger of his pistol, but he was already tumbling into the void with a stupefaction that followed him in his fall; thinking he’d land head first, two floors below, he wasn’t giving himself much of a chance.

His brief reflection was suddenly interrupted. He had expected to hit the ground, but instead realized that he had just fallen into a pair of arms which, with a violent « humpf », had caught him. He turned his head to see that a black face, with a bestial visage made all the more impressive by the rain soaking his tangled tresses, was staring at him with restrained anger. It almost showed its fangs.

Abba didn’t bite or snarl, although Raevo wasn’t surprised, but his voice did sound like the dull, menacing growl of a furious beast:

“You, we need to talk…”