Nour frowned, fingers gently clasping the front edge of her scarf in what looked like a habitual pose, assumed when she was deep in thought. “Where have you been living?” she asked.
“In the Segulist Quarter, with a Bayitist family,” I said.
“And where have you been taking your meals?”
“Largely at the House of Dragons—it is an estate not far outside the city walls. I eat a little something when I wake, but lunch is always out there, and often supper as well.”
She considered this for a moment, then gave a little nod, as if an interior conversation had concluded. Turning, she called out to Mahira, who had been sitting on the far side of the room to give us some privacy. When Mahira joined us, Nour asked, “Would it be possible to keep Umm Yaqub here for a day or two?”
“What?” I exclaimed, sitting up on the sopha. “I am not that ill!”
Nour regarded me soberly. “I do not think you are ill,” she said. “I think you have been poisoned.”
I could not have been more shocked had someone thrown a bucket of ice water over me. “That—is not possible.”
“How do you obtain your food?”
“From the market,” I said slowly. “They send a man to fetch something in. Maazir, I think his name is.”
Nour looked grim. “I would not like to accuse this man without proof. But if you stay here, and your condition improves…”
Despite the warm, close room, I was cold to the bone. “Tom eats the same meals I do. He has not felt unwell—or only a little so.” But Tom had the constitution of an ox. He had been bitten by a wyvern in Bulskevo and shrugged it off. “God in heaven.”
“He must not eat the food, either,” Nour said.
If it were true—if someone was indeed poisoning our meals, with Maazir’s knowledge or without—then they had gone to some lengths to be subtle about it. There were any number of things they could have put into it that would have seen us both dead within the hour, however resilient Tom might be. Instead they preferred to weaken us, in a fashion that could be mistaken for illness. In time we would die; or perhaps it would be enough simply to disrupt our work. Either way, we had an opportunity to catch the culprit … but only if we did not scare him off.
“I will warn Tom,” I said. “If I take food to him, secretly, he can eat that in place of what Maazir brings from the market. What time is it?”
The room’s piercework shutters made it difficult for me to gauge the hour. And although the call to prayer sounded throughout Qurrat at regular intervals, I had not incorporated that into my mental clock, as the Amaneen do. “The sunset prayer will begin soon,” Mahira said.
“Then I must hurry.” Tom would want to finish the necropsy before the light went, which meant he would not have taken supper yet. His hardiness might allow him to go another day without serious ill effects—but I could not knowingly allow him to eat poison, not if there was any risk that Nour was correct.
The physician put her hands on my shoulders when I tried to rise. “You will go nowhere. Someone else can take the message, and the food.”
“I felt well enough to come here,” I said, pushing against this restraint. It did not take so very much pressure for her to keep me in my seat, though, and I knew she could tell that as well as I.
Nour said, “What if someone overhears the warning, and decides to take more direct action?”
“All the more reason for me to be there with Tom. Or do you suggest I should abandon him, when he is in peril?”
Mahira intervened before our argument could grow any more heated. “Umm Yaqub, I will have our cook prepare a basket for him. If it is a gift from the sheikh’s household, no one will think it odd that he declines supper from the market. He can be warned once he is safely away.”
The mulish part of me wanted to insist on my original plan … but I had to admit that Mahira’s suggestion was more sensible. “I should prefer to sleep in my own bed, though,” I said.
Nour required me to stay on the sopha a while longer, so she could be sure my condition was not worsening. When I departed at last, shortly after sunset, I had both an escort and a basket of my own, with food enough for not only my supper but also my breakfast and lunch the next day, and strict orders to stay home from Dar al-Tannaneen.
The difficult part would be finding a reason for both Tom and myself to be absent. (Well, one of the difficult parts. I was not very good at sitting still when trouble reared its head.) Pondering this over my supper, which I was taking alone in my room, I found myself laughing wryly. “I suppose,” I said to my ground chick peas, “that I might just say we are ill. Then the poisoner will think he is succeeding in his aim.” Always supposing he did not take that as his cue to bring the drama to a sudden and unpleasant close.
Aviva knocked at my door before I had finished. Putting her head into the room, she said, “Your brother is downstairs.”
“Oh dear,” I said involuntarily, getting to my feet. “Yes, he would be. I’ll come.”
Andrew was pacing restlessly, and wheeled about when I entered the courtyard. “Are you all right?” he asked. Then, before I had a chance to answer: “No, of course you aren’t. I heard you collapsed at the sheikh’s house. For God’s sake, sit down.”
“‘Collapse’ rather overstates the matter,” I said. “I got dizzy, is all. I am perfectly capable of standing, and walking, too.”
“Well, sit down for my peace of mind, won’t you?” This I obliged him in, if only so we could converse about something other than my stability or lack thereof. “It isn’t malaria, is it?”
He had suffered from that disease in Coyahuac, and knew its signs well. “No, it isn’t. In fact—” I hesitated. Would it be better or worse to tell Andrew about Nour’s suspicion? He would certainly find it even more alarming than rumours of my collapse. On the other hand, if it was poison, then we needed to inform Pensyth as soon as possible, so the culprit might be apprehended. Could Maazir be behind this? Or was he working for someone else? Was he a knowing accomplice, or an unwitting tool?
These thoughts had paralyzed my brain all through supper, and I was no closer to finding answers now. I wished Tom had arrived before Andrew, so I could put them to him before involving my brother. My silence, however, had alarmed Andrew. He crouched at my feet, peering up at my face. “What is it? Something worse than malaria?”
“In a manner of speaking.” I scrubbed my hands over my face, which did little to clear my thoughts. “Nour—the physician—she thinks, ah. That my illness may not be … an accident. That someone may be arranging it deliberately.”
He worked through the implications of this one blink at a time. “You mean—” He sat back on his heels, staring. “That’s absurd. Who did you say suggested this? The physician who saw you is a woman?”
“Don’t say it,” I warned him. “She knows her business very well. I intend to test her theory, by abstaining from the food brought to the House of Dragons—the timing of my bad spells makes her think the problem is there. If she is wrong, then very well: I will seek a second opinion.”
“But who would poison you?” Andrew said. “No Scirling man would do that. And we’re allied with the Akhians. Why would they sabotage you?”
“Politics?” I suggested, my tone heavy with irony. “Someone paid the Banu Safr to kidnap us; it is hardly a stretch to think they might try other methods. Or it could be a single madman who believes we’re subverting the natural order with our efforts. There’s no way of knowing—not yet. But first we need to know if it is poison. Until then, everything else is speculation.”
Perhaps my condition had dulled my wits; perhaps I was too preoccupied with the task of persuading Andrew. I had not heard the sounds behind me, and did not realize someone else had joined us until Tom said, “Poison? Are we talking about wyverns?”
“No,” Andrew said, rising. “We’re talking about somebody poisoning Isabella.”
“And you,” I said hastily—which, in retrospect, was not the bes
t way to soften Andrew’s declaration. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Tom listened, appalled, as I outlined Nour’s theory. “So that’s why I got a special supper,” he muttered when I was done. “I thought that was unusually generous of the sheikh.”
Andrew said, “If Maazir is poisoning you, the sheikh will be disgraced. I don’t think he’s Aritat himself—but the Aritat hired him.”
“One worry at a time,” I said. “I have felt no particular improvement in my condition yet—but I expect it will take more than one round of safe dining before change can occur. Can we come up with a reason not to go back there tomorrow?”
“Or just take food with you,” Andrew suggested. “The two of you closet yourselves away often enough; you can hide what Maazir brought in a basket or something, then feed it to the dragons when no one is looking.”
I stared at my brother in horror. “I most certainly shall not! We have no idea what such fare would do to a dragon—poisoned or not.” The thought of putting Lumpy at such risk, or any of the adult drakes, was appalling. If I were to experiment with their diets, I would do so in a controlled fashion, with full knowledge of the ingredients.
Tom was pacing, hands linked behind his back. “How long will it take before we know whether the food is at fault? Will a day be enough?”
“Nour said two days, to be certain.”
His mouth compressed. “By all means, let us be certain. But then what? Tell Pensyth?”
Andrew looked up, startled, from the task of retying his boot. “You’re going to wait? I was going to tell Pensyth tonight.”
Tom and I exchanged a swift look, confirming that we were in accord. “Don’t,” I said.
“Why ever not?”
Tom snorted. “Because Pensyth isn’t a subtle man.”
“He won’t wait two days,” I said. “He’ll clap Maazir in irons and start a row with the sheikh. And Maazir may be innocent; perhaps the problem is with the man selling him the food. Or it might be nothing! Perhaps I am only suffering from exhaustion in the heat. I want proof, before we start Pensyth baying like a hound.”
“But—” Andrew clamped his jaw in the way that said he wanted to argue, but couldn’t think of any useful points he might bring to bear. It made him look nine years old, which I had good enough sense not to say.
“We will take food with us,” I said. “And see what happens. I will take no further action without data.”
FIFTEEN
A dirty labourer—An alley in Qurrat—Suhail’s captive—Suspicious powder—Allies of the Banu Safr—Colonel Pensyth’s news—What we were not told
Other people, however, were not so restrained.
When Maazir departed the next day on his usual trip to the market, I happened to be at a window overlooking the front gate. (Very well: it was not coincidence.) I do not know what I thought I might see—a pouch of poison swinging from one jaunty hand?—but I felt obliged to watch.
What I saw was one of the common labourers slipping out after him. There were any number of these around the compound on any given day; we had a great many menial jobs that needed to be done, such as tending to the livestock that fed the dragons and mucking out the enclosures, and the men who performed these tasks came and went. Some of them were city-dwellers, while others were nomads, earning a small bit of coin to purchase something before returning to their people in the desert.
The fellow I observed was of the second type, and not a particularly fine specimen of the breed, either. His clothes were patched and frayed, the scarf and veil on his head filthy with dust. He had been shuffling about as if one leg were less than hale—but as soon as Maazir was gone, his gait changed entirely. He crossed the courtyard with swift strides and was out of the compound almost before I could blink.
I stopped breathing as a suspicion formed in my heart.
It is not easy to fling oneself down stairs in a skirt; there is always the risk that you will tangle your legs and go headlong. But I made it to the courtyard and cracked the gate, peering out through the opening.
In the distance I saw Maazir. Between him and myself, the labourer, following.
Either Maazir was innocent, or he had been doing this for long enough that he no longer feared detection. (Or he was skilled enough that he knew not to look behind himself until he could make the action look casual. At the time, I did not know to consider that possibility.) As for the labourer, he was intent on his own quarry; he did not look behind, either, and so he did not see me following him.
Dar al-Tannaneen was not far from the gates of Qurrat. I nearly lost the labourer in the crowds there, and had to draw much closer than I felt comfortable with. Had he glanced over his shoulder, he would have seen me, for a Scirling woman is quite noticeable in that district, even when her dress is made of sedate khaki. I was glad to be following the labourer, rather than Maazir: the latter would not recognize the former, and I was far enough back to escape his eye.
And so we went, a daisy-chain of suspicion, wending our way through town. But not through the crowded market: Maazir turned off into an alley just before he reached that plaza. The labourer hurried to keep up, and I knew why. In the winding back ways of Qurrat, it would be easy to lose one’s quarry entirely. Now my steps slowed, for avoiding detection there would be exceedingly difficult—even impossible. I had come out here without thinking, but continuing onward in the same manner was not advisable.
But the two men had not gone far. I peered around the corner in time to see the labourer lunge through a doorway. From within came the sound of shouts. Then Maazir hurled himself back out into the alley and came charging straight toward me.
I stepped into his path, my head empty of anything resembling a plan. I was no brawler, to tackle him to the ground. How did I propose to stop him? I was still standing there, indecisive, when he reached the mouth of the alley. He slammed into me—I do not think he even recognized me, despite my garb—and knocked me into a wall in his haste to reach the main street.
In that instant, I did the only thing I could think of. I raised my arm, pointed at the fleeing man, and shouted in the clearest Akhian I could muster, “That man just assaulted me!”
Let no one slander the gentlemen of Qurrat. Several looked up in startlement; one, understanding, took up the cry. Maazir did not make it twenty meters before someone had him by the collar and began dragging him back toward me.
I stood in the mouth of the alley, torn. Having accused Maazir, now I had to deal with him—but I suspected the true business was taking place behind me, in the building Maazir had fled.
“Bring him this way, please,” I said, when captor and captive arrived. “My escort is just down here.” I am not a pious woman, but I prayed with all the devotion I could muster that my suspicion would not prove incorrect.
Maazir twisted and squirmed, shouting for the other fellow to let him go, as we went down the alley. Half the market followed, it seemed; the commotion had drawn a great deal of curious attention. I stepped through the open doorway, and all the breath went out of me in relief.
Suhail was kneeling atop another man’s back at the far side of the room. He had removed the dusty scarf from his head, and was using it to bind the fellow’s wrists, cursing as his prisoner fought him. When I entered, it distracted him; the man got one arm free. A knife lay on the ground nearby, and the captive scrabbled for it, but it was just out of his reach. He tried to throw Suhail off, his body heaving. Suhail slammed the palm of his hand into his opponent’s shoulder, flattening him to the ground, and got him tied up at last.
In that moment of struggle, I glimpsed his face. For all that the man wore the caftan and turban of a local, his features were Yelangese.
The room was rapidly filling up behind me. It did not take many people to crowd the place; the chamber was less than four meters on a side, and Maazir was still flailing about. I heard the men from the market speculating amongst themselves: this dirty labourer was my escort? Why was the other fellow tied up on the
floor? Suhail got up long enough to drag the scarf from Maazir’s head and use it to tie the feet of the Yelangese man, ensuring he could not escape. Then he looked at me and demanded in Scirling, “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” I said, a little breathless. “Why were you following Maazir?” Then common sense, rendered tardy by the excitement, caught up. “Mahira told you what happened.”
Suhail dragged one hand through his curls, made unruly by his struggle with the Yelangese. He was out of breath himself, and a bit wild in the eyes. “You’re being fed poison, Isabella.”
That had not been proven—but it had become a good deal more likely, with the probable culprit lying at Suhail’s feet. A culprit he had gone after, on his own, without warning me. “You could have been killed.”
“So saith the woman who followed me here.” His hands twitched at his sides, and I cannot blame the heat for the sensation that came over me then. I recognized that motion: he wanted to reach out, grip me by the arms and make certain I was unharmed. I recognized it because I wanted to do the same, and my inability to do so made me light-headed. I had lost my husband to a single thrust of a knife, not much different from the one lying at Suhail’s feet. But we had an audience; I could only curl my hands until my nails cut into my palms.
Suhail collected his wits and addressed the crowd in Akhian too rapid for me to follow well. Someone bound Maazir’s hands; when that was done, our erstwhile employee sagged in defeat, and dropped to a crouch in the corner as soon as he was permitted. Some of the men departed, and I caught enough of the conversation to know they had been sent to fetch a magistrate.
I occupied myself searching the room. It was a bare place, with only two small chests and some battered cushions on the floor. Wherever the Yelangese fellow was living, it was not here. The chests contained nothing of interest, just a few bundles of cloth and some cracked dishes.