Star of Cursrah Page 4

  Darkness engulfed her. Dragged inside the doorway, Star had an impression of a narrow, low corridor, probably lined with murder holes. Tafir was down on his back, and her captor tripped over him. Was her friend dead? Would she to follow?

  The black smoke suddenly parted like a sandstorm, and through the rent charged a big sergeant with a strawberry birthmark—Tafir’s friend, Star thought. Rosey streamed blood from a dozen cuts on arms and hands and face.

  Outraged, he roared, “Save her highness!”

  The veteran threw a knotted fist, too fast to see, that whistled by Star’s head. The man-killing blow crunched on something soft. Star felt the garrote loosen, and she yanked it free of her throat. Hard hands clutched her against a man’s sweaty, bloody chest. She smelled wine and onions and knew Rosey had rescued her—a good thing, for her legs went weak as jelly, her feet too numb to stand.

  Five stumbling steps brought light piercing the gloom. More hands caught and lifted her from the smoke that coiled like death’s touch. Star’s legs gave out, and her knees banged stone as she collapsed in the street, rubbing her throat and retching. Rosey hadn’t followed, and Star wondered why.

  Shadows flickered as someone hurtled over her head. Like sheep over a fald, five more bodies vaulted down the stairs. Star’s spinning vision couldn’t identify them.

  Noise exploded from below: shouts, screams, a rampaging trumpet like an elephant’s call. Forcing her eyes open, Star saw a woman in a blue tunic and kilt smash a spear haft against someone’s head. On her breast was painted an eight-pointed star—Amenstar’s own emblem. Her royal bodyguard had arrived.

  The trumpet blared again, and Star cried for joy. As the smoke dimmed, she beheld a ten-foot monster looming over cowering humans.

  The creature’s upper half was a black woman with a fist-sized bump on her broad nose and breasts like watermelons encased in a harness of blue leather. From the waist down, extending more than twelve feet, was the street-filling bulk of a rhinoceros draped with a star-painted mantle like a tent. M’saba, formerly of the bakkal’s heavy cavalry, was the biggest of Amenstar’s thirty bodyguards. Seeing the rhinaur’s savage fury directed at the assassins gave the samira a twinge of shame. She shouldn’t have ditched her faithful guards just to lark with her common friends.

  The smoke was exhausted. Amenstar’s bodyguards searched the thieves’ den while M’saba blocked the street in one direction and more guards blocked the other end. Captain Anhur, chief of Star’s bodyguards, snarled, “Everyone lie down immediately or I’ll personally ram a spear through your guts!”

  Citizens and soldiers dropped flat. Some people were already down, streaked with blood, dead or dying or wounded. Some thieves looked like bundles of rags soaked in blood, so viciously had they been pounded and stabbed.

  Yuzas Anhur crouched beside her mistress and gently offered a calloused hand. Still weak, Star rose meekly to distinguish friend from foe. Friends were hustled at spear point past the huge rhinaur to where the local populace goggled. Gheqet and Tafir went quietly. One by one Star tolled off the soldiers from the tavern, and they were also released. She felt a pang when her guards exited the thieves’ den dragging two of the bakkal’s soldiers by the heels. One was Rosey, slashed across the throat by a long curved knife, his blood redder than his birthmark. The man had given his life for hers. Star’s eyes stung, and fat tears washed runnels through the dust and smoke that darkened her cheeks.

  Star pointed out the assassins who’d initiated the attack, and Captain Anhur had them bound hand and foot and gagged. The captain said, “The bakkal’s chancellor will wish to know your motives, and our dark vizars will be glad to torture out your truths.”

  The captain summoned neighbors to identify the other suspects and so dismissed a few terrified civilians caught in the sweep. Left cowering on their knees were four men and a mere girl in dark rags who couldn’t account for themselves. Three were tattooed with the crocodile teeth bracelets of hatori.

  “Condemned, all,” the captain pronounced. “Roll up that wine barrel. Ges, Rhu, bring up a prisoner. M’saba, do the honors.”

  Pinned by the arms, the first hatori was draped across a wine barrel. M’saba’s four feet, each as big as the barrel, drummed forward. The rhinaur hefted a halberd long as a flagpole with a steel axe head big as a tabletop, raised it toward the sky, and swept it earthward.

  The massive axe lopped off the thief’s head like a chicken’s, shattered the oak barrel into splinters, and buried itself in the street three feet deep. M’saba loved her mistress Amenstar and hated her attackers. Her frustration showed.

  Captain Anhur snickered. “Roll out another barrel. Not so hard this time, ’Saba.”

  In a trice, the thieves’ bloody carcasses were stacked in the street with the heads plunked atop as a warning. Captain Anhur detailed six guards to watch the house until the palace chancellor could search it.

  “A lucky rescue, your highness,” concluded the captain. “Only three soldiers and two innocents were killed, and you were only grazed. We’ll return you home now.”

  It was not a request. Surrounded by guards, Amenstar went meekly.

  “… you could have been killed, darling, or held for ransom. That, you must understand, would upset your father’s plans terribly. With you prisoner, those hatori criminals could make outrageous demands, such as the release of their cronies from prison. These kidnappers don’t work alone, but they conspire with our enemies. Even some noble houses in this city plot against us. Their demands are more plebian, centering on money, of course. They scheme for lower tariffs, or trading favors against rivals, or that we install some vagabond to a high office.… Are you listening?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Amenstar resisted the urge to roll her eyes and sigh deeply. Her mother was cranky enough, awakened early: that is, just at sunset. Star slouched and stared through the tall windows at her courtyard. A fountain danced above a glittering pool laced with fading shadows. A servant fed tidbits to bug-eyed carp. On a perch near the window, two scarlet and blue macaws nuzzled. An ocelot rolled in its sleep, brass chain chinking. One of her saluqis, a slate-blue greyhound, yawned so widely that Star had to clamp her own jaw shut. Four maids, identical in simple linen shifts, square-cut black hair, and eyes lined with kohl in tribute to their mistress, waited along the wall like painted effigies—punished along with their mistress. Four personal maids comprised the day shift, and eight more attended Star by night, when the royal compound became active.

  Bored, Amenstar let her eyes roam over her quarters. Everything in sight was hers. One entire wing of the family compound, nine opulent rooms surrounding a courtyard with a pool, gardens, and fruit trees. Her father, the bakkal, or priest-king of Cursrah, had four wives, of which Star’s mother was sama, the first, or senior queen. Star had two elder brothers and twelve younger, and nine younger sisters, with more siblings on the way. Luckily, as eldest princess she enjoyed great privileges, as well as grating pains, such as her mother’s incessant harping. The daughter tuned in momentarily to see if the tirade covered anything new.

  “… is the duty of royalty to set a good example for the kingdom. How can we expect commoners to behave and exalt us as descendants of the most high genies, when you insist on crawling through gutters with low-born rascals—”

  “My friends are noble born,” Star interrupted, “and I think royalty should venture out occasionally and see how common people regard us. How can you and Father claim to rule this kingdom if you don’t know the people? Do the citizens love us, hate us, or not care at all? Do you know? All of Cursrah’s noble class lives by night while the commoners toil by day. How can you say that you understand them?”

  Star’s mother resembled her daughter but for greater girth and thicker makeup to disguise wrinkles, and like her daughter she rolled her eyes in exasperation. Having just arisen from a day of sleep, even the first sama wore the universal, simple tubelike shift. Her plump figure floated in a cloud of gauze filmy as s
pider webs.

  “Amenstar, dear, royalty relies on advisors to gather knowledge and give counsel—which always conflicts. We don’t tell the cooks how to salt the broth. Great Calim himself, all praise his name, assigned us each a specific role. The royal family tends to the highest chores: steering diplomacy between the city-states, interpreting the wishes of the gods, overseeing a balanced trade, monitoring our neighbors’ internal politics—”

  “You’re lax in that,” Star blurted. “Our soldiers fear Father, and you underestimate the threat from Oxonsis. Their scouts reconnoiter our borders and harry our outermost garrisons, I’ve heard. The wisdom of the marketplace is that we should bloody Oxonsis’s nose before they annex our eastern plains.” Star lifted her pointed nose, proud to score political points, but in fact she understood neither “reconnoiter” nor “annex.”

  “Don’t babble, Amenstar. Your parrots speak too, but no one seeks their advice.” The sama closed her eyes and added, “Don’t diverge from the subject, please. You must not slip out of the compound again. It’s simply too dangerous in these troubled times—”

  “Times are always troubled,” Star sighed.

  An acolyte shuffled up with a message from the bakkal, who had also recently begun his “day.” With a shaved head and brown robes bundled to her chin, speaking in a habitual whisper, the acolyte resembled a hairy-legged spider. Star looked away in disgust. These adherents of death seemed three-quarters dead themselves. As night settled, vizars crawled from their dens like bats or jackals or vampires.

  Glancing at the slate palette, the sama agreed to come, after blowing one last frosty blast at her wayward daughter. “Amenstar,” she said, “your abysmal naivete regarding our border crisis reveals dangerous gaps in your education. Your father and I have laid plans to rectify your ignorance. Remain here. I’ll send tutors to clarify your perception of the world—and your place and duties in it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Star said quietly. Agreeing put the quickest end to the harangue.

  “I wonder if that’s true,” the sama sighed. “Oftimes I wish Tunkeb were the eldest samira. She strives for obedience.” Turning a tubby circle, the sama swept out, trailed by eight maids and four standard-bearers.

  “Tunkeb is a kisser of warty, hairy bottoms,” Star muttered.

  Behind, an empty-headed maid giggled, but when Star turned, they all stared stone-faced. The princess wondered which honey-tongued traitor had squealed about Star ditching her guards and fleeing the royal compound. Servants were notorious for carrying whispers, plotting lies, and betraying anyone in order to inch up the social ladder. Star trusted none of the fawning fools and sensed their smug glee at her being grounded.

  Clapping her hands, Amenstar barked, “All of you, begone! I wish to nap.” The maids chirped in surprise. Usually, two maids watched the samira sleep.

  One objected, “B-but, your highness, th-the most high sama sends tutors—”

  Another clap made them jump. Star pronounced, “I determine what I learn and when, you fox-faced doxy. Now get out!”

  Still the maids hesitated, twittering like birds. Furious, Star reached for the nearest object, a china vase that some artisan had labored a year to glaze. Unmindful if she hit anyone, the royal daughter lobbed it hard. Maids ducked, and the vase shattered on the wall. At the noise, two guards bearing lyre-spears ran to the doorway.

  Star shrilled, “Leave me! I command it! Leave me, or I’ll loose the cat on you.”

  The maids shrieked, disliking the ocelot, who licked its teeth. Chittering, the servants scampered out the double doors, and Star slammed them in the faces of the guards.

  Huffing, the princess regarded her luxurious prison. Even nine huge rooms seemed cramped after the freedom of the city streets. She asked herself, “Well? Shall I languish here like the Trapped Terrors or follow my own advice and learn more about the commoners I’ll someday rule?”

  For months now, as she approached sixteen, the princess’s life grew more and more constricted. Lessons were piled on until Star smothered, and more demands were made each day. The upshot of every instruction and the moral of every story was the same: serve the kingdom, don your destiny, assume your responsibilities—until Amenstar felt crushed under invisible burdens. Loose on the streets, she had none.

  “Mother’s lessons will wait,” the princess concluded. “I’ll learn more outside the walls than within.”

  Striding to a lacquered armoire thirty feet long, Star flung open gold-handled doors to whiffs of cedar. Catching her shift at the neck, Star tore the gauzy film off. She never wore the same garment twice. Picking through a dizzying array of new clothes, she donned a loose cotton blouse hand-painted with bright flowers, and double-wrapped trousers tied at the waist. Braided sandals, a head veil of silk, and a poncho of yellow samite edged with white and black pearls completed her outdoor outfit.

  Amenstar, Samira the First of the Palace of the Phoenix in Cursrah, Heir to the Blood of Genies and Demigods, slipped into her privy chamber with its low step and frame holding a gold chamber pot. The opposite wall was painted with a scene from legend: at the bottom of the Mother of Rivers, the hippo-hero Khises battled Skahmau the Wolfshead. With slender fingers, Star poked the eyes of both figures.

  The wall swiveled to reveal a staircase of stone leading down. Weak sky glow from high above lit the chamber. Childishly thrilled with her escape, Star skipped down the stairs. She’d need to conjure another story about exiting the family compound in secret. Perhaps she could claim to have been spirited away by a djinn, or maybe she’d sleepwalked, only to awaken miles away, or she had been transported by a flying carpet with a will all its own … though her parents must have suspected a secret passage by now. Like most of central Cursrah, the royal compound was honeycombed with cellars. If Star continued to disappear, her parents might order architects and masons to find this passage and block it. Star should conserve her few secrets, but once more wouldn’t hurt.

  Treading in near darkness, she eventually reached a main passage leading outside. Two guards jerked to attention and stared quizzically, but they assumed her personal bodyguards would join her. Cutting across gardens and grass, Amenstar entered the stables and bullied the hostlers to saddle three horses, hang them with hunting gear, and open the gates.

  Riding, towing the other two mounts, Star entered a necropolis a quarter mile from the compound. Sarcophagi, steles, and obelisks stood mute amidst evergreen oaks and box-cut cedar hedges. Cursrah served an impotent genie and the distant moon, and worshiped the unspeaking dead, so this sprawling cemetery was always beautifully manicured.

  Two figures stepped from the shadow of a white-streaked sycamore: dark Gheqet and fair Tafir. This was their secret meeting place when Star could slip away. If she hadn’t appeared, they’d have waited a while, talking and loafing, then wandered back home.

  “Horses!” snorted Gheqet. “Where are you bound?”

  “To the countryside,” Star laughed. “Come, there’s lots to see.”

  “Weren’t you punished for skipping out?” Tafir caught a bridle and rubbed the mare’s nose to gentle her.

  “Punished? The first samira, eldest royal daughter, kin to genies and gods? Don’t be silly!” Star tossed reins to Gheqet and added, “Climb on.”

  “I’ve never ridden a horse in my life,” Gheqet admitted, then flinched as the white horse tossed its head. “Do they bite?”

  “Not if you show them who’s boss.” Tafir swung into the saddle easily. Horsemanship had been part of his cadet training. “You can learn to ride, Gheq. I did.”

  The architect’s apprentice nervously followed his friends’ instructions and plomped into the saddle. Now Tafir hesitated. “We can’t be gone long,” he said. “I must see the commander at dawn—”

  “Taf,” Star cut him off, “if they can’t punish me, they can’t punish my friends either. I’ll claim my captain is testing you for a palace guard. The army won’t argue with royalty.”

&nbs
p; “I suppose not.…” Tafir hedged. Both he and Gheqet hailed from noble families, but consorting with a princess kept the young men on tenterhooks, as if bodyguards might swoop from the sky and arrest them at any moment. “I’d rather just obey as ordered.”

  “Very well,” Amenstar huffed, “obey this. I, First Samira of Cursrah, command you my loyal subjects, to accompany me where I will. Is that better?” She laughed at her own pomposity.

  Gheqet and Tafir smiled crookedly, but Amenstar didn’t notice.

  Kicking her heels and whipping the reins, Star spun her horse and cantered for the gates. Hanging tight, the men lumbered along behind her.

  Amenstar vaulted into the street, pointing toward the surrounding hills, and crowed, “We’re off to see the kingdom, and none will dare stop us!”

  3

  The Year of the Gauntlet

  “Tack! Tack or we’ll stick on a sandbar!”

  “What does ‘tack’ mean?”

  “Shhh … they’ll hear us.”

  “We’re gonna capsize!”

  The three friends fumbled to steer the gig by meager moonlight. Reiver admitted he’d sloughed his sailing lessons, so their stolen boat zigged and zagged up the River Memnon. Mostly the incoming tide propelled them, for Reiver hadn’t realized that inland the wind dies at dusk. Hakiim leaned over the prow to spot the channel and saw only black water. Trying to capture the fading breeze, Amber grabbed the sheet away from Reiver and tied it to a cleat on the port side. Unexpectedly, the sail snapped taut, and the boom swung to the other side. The boat tilted left and almost pitched over. Hakiim yelped and grabbed hold with his toes, slung partway overboard, and Reiver cursed when the boom nearly brained him.