The Wages of Magic

She arrives just as I am finishing the Fourth Prayer. I am still kneeling on the prayer mat on the balcony when I hear the door open behind me. My thoughts are still on The One True, as should be the case for any of The Faithful at all times but most especially now.

Prayer is a time to give thanks for all Her Mercies but the sound of her footfall dispels all gratitude as surely as a crack of thunder disperses pigeons. I watch my thoughts spiral away into the darkness and feel something altogether less godly settle over me.

Few would have access to my chambers once the sun had set. Fewer still unannounced. I know it is her.

Though my heart leaps, I do not move except to settle back on my haunches. My knees creak. Age is creeping into the bones as surely as the night. After a moment, when the discomfort grows, I settle onto the floor, legs crossed. It is better.

I hear her settle behind me. She does not speak and neither do I.

We watch the moon together for a moment. It is blood-red tonight, tinged with a silver halo. Wise men say that foretells danger and disorder. There would be no coin for that prediction tonight. Danger is the air we breathe, disorder its wake as we move through the world we have ripped apart.

"Welcome back, Child," I say.

I hear the rush of air through her clothes. She is prostrating herself, as is custom. I shake my head. That will not do.

I rise, with some difficulty and little grace. I rub my knees then turn to face her.

"Rise," I say. "Rise. I will not have you grovel like some petty courtier. You are my Child, my Favoured One. Rise, Safia. Rise as an equal."

Her figure is a slight one there on the tiled floor, a gash of shadow in a pool of moonlight, speckled with the firelight from the braziers. She wears a silk icentari, the robe fashioned the colour of heart's blood. Her neck and arms are bare. Her hair is short, cut like a boy's. Her fragrance is of mountain roses and attar. She has bathed, this tells me. I am pleased though I would have been as glad to see her had she entered shaking sand onto the carpets and smelling of horse sweat.

"Rise," I say again. "Come now. No more of this."

In one fluid motion, she is on her feet. She is so fleet I cannot discern the individual movements. Though I have seen her move before, still it takes me by surprise that one so slight could be so swift. Upright now, I can see more of her: dark eyes, the half-broken nose, the perpetual slight smile. The cevberi belt about her waist is embellished with scimitars and lions. It is one I gave her when she joined our Order. This pleases me as does the other gift, a jewelled dagger that glints at her hip. Her feet are bare. There is some dirt between her toes. Bathed, yes, but hurriedly. This, too, pleases me.

The neckline of the robe plunges almost to her navel. She is small-breasted, almost a man in that regard as she is in span of hip and shoulder; there is no immodesty exposed. In the expanse of her skin, I can see, glowing in the moonlight, the khatt, the Runes, etched into her. I remember them being Written into her flesh before she left. Tattooed in liquid silver, the Scribe working fast before the molten liquid burnt his hand. She did not make a sound or move. Now, some of those characters are blackened into scars. Blackened by the taint of Magick. The Runes have worked to protect her, as we had hoped they would.

"I give thanks to The One," I say, softly. "For your safe return."

"Peace and salutations to you, my Master," she replies. Her voice is low. There is something like delight in it. "I give thanks that mine eyes are able to behold you again."

I spread my arms and she rushes into them. I crush her to me but it is like a crab encircling an anchor. She is as unyielding as iron. My limbs ache. I ease my clutch and kiss the top of her head then hold her at arms length.

"Have you eaten?" I ask. She shakes her head. "Then come. We shall eat. Together. Like the old days. And then you can tell me of what you have brought home."

I pause. The quivering is back. The thought of what she has brought back, held fast now in the dungeons of this citadel, has unmanned me. I am instantly ashamed. I make to pull away to hide my shame.

She senses it. She grasps my arms with her lean hands.

"It is her," she whispers to me. "We have her. The task is complete. We have nothing further to fear."

The apartments I occupy now are one of several on the very highest heights of this fortress, itself carved out of the rocky headland that overlooks the bay. Though the citadel is a place of war, it is fitted out for debauchery and excess as well, as if the mailed fist might, once the vultures have descended on the corpses, insert its bloodied self into the quim of a panting harlot. No doubt such things have passed here but no more. Except perhaps once again.

There is a master bedchamber, bedecked in gilt and ivory, mirrors set into its walls and ceilings for the vanity of gaze and pools in its floors to rinse off the secretions of sin. The manacles and chains I had removed, so too the repository of ungodly implements in their ebony cases that I cared not to consider more than the once.

The bed is vast, the size of a battlefield, sufficient for several to wage war or make love. I chose one of several smaller chambers instead and sleep on the floor. It does not do to ape those we have despoiled lest we succumb to the same vices.

The dining area is just past, set on the largest of the five balconies. This faces inwards to the courtyard below, overlooked by none except the balconies of the other apartments around the square. This space is quieter and immune to the khamsin carrying sand into soup. Down below, the murmuring of horses mingles with the clanking of arms and the tinkle of plates. It is meal time everywhere, now that the Fourth Prayer is done.

The dining rug is already set. There are cushions for four around its periphery. I seat her at my left, the Place of Honour, the side least defensible from an assassin, the Position of Trust. No sooner are we seated than servants enter bearing platters. These are placed swiftly before they leave. The Housemaster, a dignified man of middle years, a slave once but free now, bows low.

"As your Excellency wished," he says. "Figs and oranges from the orchard. The fish is hamoor, caught this very morning, grilled and served on wild rice. Breads, of course, and oil of olives, repatriated from the Felon's very cellars." The Housemaster grins. "And, as you ordered, for The Lady, meat from a desert gazelle shot this very morning by our Chief Hunter. And wine." He pauses. "For warriors."

Safia has sat motionless throughout this, her gaze on me, mine on her. She starts at the last.

"I will eat as the Mushir," she says. "It is wrong for a servant to-"

"Hush," I say, raising an arm. She stops. "You are a warrior. Your body is your weapon. Do you keep your blade clean and keen?" She nods slowly. "Then, so, feed your body. As for us old men," I glance at the Housemaster, "we will make do with things that help us cling to this perilous life. What say you, Iqbal?"

The Housemaster bows low. I hear his back creak. "As Your Excellency says. There is truth in it."

He leaves. We eat in silence. I have no hunger but make a show of helping myself. My chief delight is in watching her.

Here, free and at ease, she eats like a child. Though she has been schooled in manners and courtly traditions, now she eats with both hands, eschewing the rule that permits only the use of the right. She rips the meat from the bone and chews at it with relish. The slurping sounds are as delightful to me as music.

When we are finished, the servants return. We wash our hands in warm water strewn with rose petals. The servants depart. We recline.

It is peaceful in the moonlight. Peaceful and cool. I toss her a fig which she catches easily. She rips it open with her teeth.

"Tell me, my Child," I say. "Tell me of your quest."

She grins at me, swallows once and begins.