Beasts Made of Night Read online

  I stand and walk toward the window. Kos looks so small from up here. I could fit it all in my hand. The stonesmiths, the seamstresses, the miners, the farmers, the aki, all of them seen from this high up are ants. From where I stand, you can’t make out any people in Kos. Just things. Only things.

  “I’m going for a walk.” When I turn, my robe billows, and it’s so dramatic. I hate it. I make it to the door, and Arzu’s right behind me. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re not permitted to leave the Palace grounds unaccompanied.”

  I really can’t get rid of this girl. “Well, what if people think you’re my”—I lean in and try my sultriest gaze—“my heart-mate.”

  She keeps her eyes steely, but I swear I see a faint smirk. “Trust me. They won’t.”

  Defeated again.

  I open the door, and right in front of me, close enough to smell my breath, is Princess Karima.

  I freeze. My mind goes blank.

  Arzu steps next to me and bows at the waist.

  I notice and do the same.

  When I look up, a small smile plays on the princess’s lips. She wears a dress emblazoned with emerald gemstones. Her obsidian-colored skin, the same color as my daga, shines. She seems to glow from within.

  I stand there and don’t even realize for how long before I notice her hand, stretched out to me, palm up.

  “To you and yours, Taj.”

  Slowly, I slide my hand over hers. “To you and yours, Princess.”

  Her smile broadens as she withdraws her hand. “It is impossible for me to express how delighted I was to learn that you’ve joined us.” She peeks into my room and looks over the chambers: the walls, the ceiling, the furniture. “If the room is not to your liking, please let me know, and I will personally look into filling your needs.”

  “Thank you, Princess.”

  When she chuckles, she shows her teeth, perfect pearl-colored teeth. But then she quiets, still smiling. And staring. Like she’s waiting for me to say something.

  Arzu tightens the leather straps on her wrist gauntlets. “He was just preparing to leave.”

  “Oh?”

  “An outing.” Arzu nudges me with her elbow.

  “Oh, yes,” I say, finally snapping out of it. “The Palace food is wonderful, but it’s not like home.”

  The princess smiles and steps aside. “Do let us know and we will have our people prepare exactly what you need, how you need it. Spare no expense. We are at your service, Taj.”

  Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

  “Enjoy your outing.” Before she turns to go, the princess leans in and places her hand on my forearm. “I very much look forward to seeing more of you,” she whispers into my ear.

  I watch her go. My skin tingles where she touched me.

  CHAPTER 14

  PEOPLE IN THE Forum clear a way for me now.

  Not because they can see my sin-spots or my white pupils. Not because I’m aki. This time, it’s not because of anything I do or anything I say. No one calls me Sky-Fist anymore, or Lightbringer. People see the fine metal threads and cower. They see my clothes, and they fear me. Even the booktraders pretend not to see me.

  The books look just as I left them. Some cylinders carry more elaborate golden script than others, some covers are bound tighter than others, some have gilt lining their edges. But I haven’t been away long enough to forget how to tell which ones contain forbidden gossip about the royal family. Long-lost twins, revenge plots, bumbling relatives, and scheming children. There’s one toward the right in a pile in the middle, buried under a couple of other books. I can almost hear it calling my name. As I reach for it, the booktrader tugs his robe at the shoulder, and, behind me, other traders shuffle their wares. With a hand I can barely see under the table, the booktrader in front of me slips a book out from the bottom of the pile and the whole tower collapses. He stoops to fix his book display, but the one I’m looking for doesn’t reappear. It’s gone.

  I look around and don’t see any guards. Any Agha Sentries or Palace guards around are too far away to notice anything over here between the jewelers’ stalls. What did they see that I didn’t?

  Arzu.

  She’s standing too close to me and has that griffin-going-hunting look on her face. She may not be dressed like a Palace guard, and, in her leathers, she’s not wearing the Palace colors, but her back is straight enough, and her hand rests on the pommel of the knife at her waist to signal that she’s not a Forum-dweller. Judgment is written all over her face. Guess she has enough disdain in her reserves for all of us and not just me.

  I back away from the reassembled pile of books. I nod an apology to the booktrader, but he doesn’t react. Probably doesn’t even notice it.

  No one bothers me now that I’m completely covered. The scarf around my neck bunches to hide the dragon’s head that rises up my spine and into my hair. Nobody can tell I’m an aki, and the Palace colors demand respect. I can walk through the Forum without getting sneered at or spat on or kicked by some errant foot. Nobody’s going to try to push me to the ground, pretending they have to rush somewhere.

  It makes me uneasy, but I force myself to relax, to enjoy it. Don’t I deserve a little respect? I catch sight of some Palace guards and want to test just how good this protection is. Arzu breathes right down my neck. I strut, and the crowd splits before me. When I get closer, I realize that I know this one. This guardsman in particular. He’s one of Costa’s guys. A local, hired out to work the Forum. Whenever we try to redeem our markers, he’s one of the first to start cracking heads. Sometimes, he doesn’t even wait for us to speak up or get mad about getting shorted again. His club hangs at his waist. The leather wrapped around that wooden bludgeon is dark from all the blood that’s stained it. I make to walk past him and bump my shoulder into his stomach. Hard.

  He grunts and stumbles a few steps back, then straightens again. The Palace guard goes for his club, but I don’t flinch. I stare him straight in the eyes, and he freezes. The only people milling around us are regular Forum-dwellers. No Agha, and all the other guardsmen are elsewhere, lounging around or looking for other aki to beat up on.

  “Who am I?” I ask through gritted teeth. I know this guy remembers me. He has definitely seen me before, when I’ve complained to Costa or made a scene in front of him and the other guardsmen and the aki collecting their pay, promising to burn this whole thing down if he and the Mages didn’t start doing right by us. I’d occasionally overhear Costa conferring with some hired-out guardsmen, the Bulls, discussing what to do about me like I was some kind of leader or like I would head any sort of rebellion. Felt good to live in the lie, for them not to know any better. Now this guardsman in front of me is holding himself so tight he’s starting to tremble.

  “Who am I?” I ask him again.

  “Respectfully, sir, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  He might be telling the truth. How many people as brown as me wear Palace colors in the Forum? He might not recognize me in this new outfit. So, smirking, I pull up my right sleeve, just far enough to reveal the lion tattoo I’d gotten from Eating Prince Haris’s sin. I know he’s seen this before.

  “Who am I?” It feels so good to do this. Every single time a Bull like him has sneered at me or chased one of us down or beaten us within an inch of our lives and shown no remorse, all of it is right now getting balanced in the ledger. This feels like Nazim righting accounts in his book. It’s all starting to even out. “Who. Am. I.”

  “Your name is Taj, sir.” Then, more softly, he repeats it. “Taj.”

  My head is still foggy with power. I let the sleeve fall and step back. The smile won’t leave my face, even as I turn to go.

  Without looking, I can tell that Arzu is frowning again. Maybe she doesn’t approve of me getting whatever small piece of revenge an aki can get in this city. Or m
aybe this is just how she is all the time.

  Once I get away from the Bull, my mood turns. This walk has turned out to be not nearly as pleasant as I’d wanted. I need to get rid of Arzu. She’s getting in the way of my fun. Auntie Sania and Auntie Nawal might see us together and get the wrong idea. And I can’t walk through Kos all dressed up like this and have girls thinking my heart-stone is no longer on the market.

  The alleys we pass only lead to dead ends or are too narrow to squeeze through. I’ve never seen Arzu run, but from the way she’s always tensed up, I can tell she’s ready. She’s probably fast too. I don’t want to take any chances. Nothing will probably happen to me, but she doesn’t care about Forum-dwellers, and I don’t want anyone accidentally getting in her way and getting cut down just because I wanted to get some real fresh air.

  Toward the end of the main thoroughfare is a food stall, and on hooks hanging from wooden beams that cover the eating area dangle red and yellow and green peppers. Perfect.

  “I want to get something to eat,” I tell Arzu. “Let’s go.”

  We find an open table, and she sits across from me. As soon as we settle, two merchants sitting at a table behind Arzu see us, get up, slap money on the table, and leave, vanishing into the crowd. Another small group does the same, then a small huddle of men whose auto-mail legs creak and groan as they get up from their seats, until we’re the only ones left. I nearly duck my head in embarrassment. For the first time since I can remember, I don’t have to walk around with my sin-spots out there for everyone to see, and Arzu has to ruin it by following me like a Forum-fly that won’t quit.

  The foodseller brushes his hands on his dirty apron and comes to our table. The thing about being associated with the Palace is that now everybody trembles when they realize they have to talk to us. Already, I hate it. “To you and yours, oga.” He doesn’t wait for my reply. “How may I be of service today, sir? Madame?”

  Arzu looks to me. She’s never been here before. I was counting on that.

  “Two plates of chicken-sticks. Ten for each of us.” I look to Arzu. “Trust me, you’re going to love these. You may not think you’re hungry now, but chai . . .” I snap my fingers, grinning, then look back to the foodseller. “Different peppers.” And I count them off on my fingers. “Wahed sauce for the first, then ithnaan, thalatha, arbaa, khamsa, sitta, sabaa, thamanya, tisa, and ashara.” I beam up at him. “Thanks.”

  Arzu watches him leave, then focuses on me. “Those are the names of the dahia.”

  I wink at her. “You learn quick. Yes, I just asked for different sauces on each of our sticks, so you can see which ones you like. Have you been out to the dahia? No? None of them?” When she’s silent, I shake my head with disappointment. “Well, each dahia does theirs differently. I personally think they’re all good, but I’m a peacemaker, and I only fight when I have to.”

  It doesn’t seem like she registers sarcasm either.

  Neither of us talks until the wings are brought on two wooden boards, one for each of us. I act like I’ve only got eyes for my wings; meanwhile, I’m scanning sight lines and gauging the width of alleyways, memorizing paths and noting the direction of traffic up and down each side street.

  I take the first wing and point to the corresponding breaded chicken wing on her board. “May the Unnamed preserve us,” I say, blessing the food. I tap my wing against hers. “To health.” It tastes so good. It has rough texture, and the sauce is sweet on my tongue. “The wahed sauce,” I say through a mouth full of white chicken meat, “is flavored with various fruits. That’s why . . . when you’re in that dahia . . . you see orchards.”

  I swallow in one gulp, catch my breath. “They put fruit in everything. They’ve got orange-flavored this and lemon-peppered that.” I clean mine to the bone, then toss it into the thoroughfare. The chicken wing remains vanish in a parade of sandals and boots.

  It’s fascinating to watch Arzu chew mechanically through these. She chews a line horizontally, rotates the skewer like it’s a spit, then chews another line. She eats like a gear-head put her together. And when she finishes, she arranges the sticks in a perfect line.

  I’m halfway through the fourth wing when I look up. She’s stopped eating and is staring at a half-eaten wing like it has slapped her in the face. I quickly stop smiling. “Oh, that’s the arbaa. It kicks a little bit. It’s still sweet like the wahed, but if you eat it too quickly, it’s like someone stabbed nettles into your tongue. Sorry, I should’ve warned you. The others are much less deceitful.”

  Arzu nods and doesn’t finish the fourth wing, places it half-finished alongside the others. That stick doesn’t line up.

  We both start on the one with khamsa sauce, and I chew a little more slowly than she does. She does her line thing once, rotates, then does it again, then mid-rotation, she stops. It takes almost all of my energy to keep from laughing.

  “My . . . my stomach.”

  “Oh, it’ll pass. You must not be used to these. Don’t worry.”

  She reaches for one that’s farther along, skipping several.

  “No, don’t do that! You can only really appreciate them if you go in order.” I reach for her half-eaten khamsa wing. “Here, I’ll take that off your hands.” I blaze through both hers and mine.

  We each take our sitta wings, and I tap hers with mine. “To health!” I didn’t believe it was possible, but her face has gotten even paler.

  She starts licking her lips. Mechanically. “I can’t feel . . . I can’t feel my lips. What has happened to my lips?” Tears bloom in her eyes. She swipes at her nose. “My face.” And now she’s turning red. Red as the sauce on these wings. Red as peppers.

  I have my hand over my mouth, but I can’t hide my laughter this time. “By the Unnamed, you’re crying real tears.”

  “I have been poisoned.” She sucks in air, but that only makes her mouth burn hotter. “Water.” Sweat pours down from her forehead. Her sleeves darken with each pass she makes to wipe it all away.

  “It’s not poison. It’s just the sauce. You’re not used to it. Don’t touch your eyes!”

  But it’s too late. With sauce-covered fingers, she tries to rub away her tears. She howls and flails about, knocking into the table and falling over. This is the point where I’m supposed to make a run for it, but I have to at least help her get inside.

  “Here,” I say as I pull her up. She walks with arms outstretched, blinded. I lightly push her toward the restaurant. “He’ll get you some help. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Hopefully, the foodseller will find her some milk and help her flush out her eyes. I wait a few seconds, till she vanishes around a corner, then I’m off.

  I sprint around a few corners and down some darkened side streets, jumping puddles I don’t even have to look for because I still remember them. Then I slow down and dare to look behind me.

  I can finally let go of that breath I’ve been holding. She’s gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  WHEN I LOOK up, I see where the sun is and catch the angle of shadow the Wall casts, and then the call to prayer sounds. The city becomes so quiet that my footsteps are the loudest things I hear. Slowly, however, I wind my way through the edge of the Forum toward the Arbaa dahia, the darkness growing thicker until I make it to a thicket of shrubbery near the base of the Wall. I know there’s an opening in the hedging somewhere, and when I find it, I get low and crawl through. Free at last.

  When I come out on the other side, there’s dirt all over my white robe. My red sash is wrinkled, and the thick blue stripes coming down from my shoulders to my waist are all twisted and askew. At least I feel more like myself this way. I’ve never kept clothes clean for very long.

  I hear voices ahead of me.

  The wall that circles Kos, that keeps us safe, is a massive expanse of gray before me, going on infinitely in both directions, but after my eyes adjust, colors bloom to life
against the stone. Some of it looks like letters, but the pink and red and orange and blue have been splashed on to create beasts. Inisisa that tattoo the Wall like they tattoo my skin, some taller than me, some battling one another, some making their way in flight over the Wall. It’s the work of the Scribes.

  I follow the trail, and, sure enough, there’s a group of them huddled together and talking from behind their scarves. The shimmering cloth is tied loosely around their heads, and when they paint, they pull the cloth up over their mouth and nose to keep from inhaling the pungent fumes. The Scribes claim it’s worse than walking through inyo-infested dahia where the uncleansed souls of the dead wander. I think they’re right. I’ve gotten used to walking among the inyo, breathing them in. If your dahia has ever been Baptized, you’ve done it before, been surrounded by inyo. You’ve had to live with them.

  My scarf, when I pull it up, won’t stay over my mouth and nose, so eventually I give up. When I get close enough, everyone stops. The conversation cuts dead like it fell off a cliff.

  I realize in the dark they can’t recognize me, so I pull my scarf all the way down and slip my hairband down to my neck so that my hair breathes freely.

  “Taj?” It’s Marya. She’s got her hood up, and strands of dark hair peek out and frame her face. Her gloved fingers, with the tips poking out, are covered in blue and orange paint. Her still-wet brush dangles at her waist. “Taj, is that you?” I can hear joy in her voice, and for the first time since before I fought that dragon, it feels like I’m home again, like the city of Kos recognizes me.