The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [73]
Then he realized where he was. He used this route as part of a shortcut to scale the roof and then descend on the other side of the row of tiny houses, to get to the Gardens of Jesthe: he was just off Endicott’s Alley, verging the centrum.
He had been about to visit Octavia.
He remembered waiting, then, outside Jesthe, to see her, and the guards—
Nahid tried to get to his feet but the pain in his limbs was fierce. He shifted his shoulders and legs to ensure his spine was intact. There had already been morning today. During the night, he had entered Jesthe with Name of the Sun, released the cherub, gotten dumped at Hakim’s place.
And had been smashed backwards against the wall.
Nahid propped himself up on one elbow, though his body continued to protest, and the throbbing in his head so intense it threatened to make him pass out. Whatever had crashed into him lay still, in a heap, at the end of the alley. He saw a hand, part of a thin leg. To Nahid, trying to understand what he was looking at, it appeared as if a small, skinny teen had been stuffed into a black sack of some sort—with arms and legs poking out—and then wrapped in a large, shiny blanket before being thrown with considerable force at the wall.
Forcing himself into a crouching position and moving forward, Nahid put one hand on the crumpled heap—which felt very warm—and began to lift the thick material aside, searching for a face within. The sensation against his fingers was like none he had felt before: the odd covering was warm and thin, yet pliant as hide. It was also sticky with fluids, but whether this fluid was red or black or something else altogether Nahid could not be sure. His fingers became stained and clammy. In the dim light from the lanterns on the street, he saw the face, sunken and pinched. On the forehead, above a smashed mask (that Nahid thought might be tattooed there, until he felt it), was a grave wound. Very few teeth in the open mouth, and the few that were there were stained brown and worn down to the gum line. The stench of the man was like ripe refuse. Under the mask, the yellow eyes were half-open but rolled back, showing neither pupil nor iris.
The man was alive.
For an instant, like a fool, Nahid looked up at the low clouds, as if there might be more of these seraphim descending.
Nothing.
Smooth metal rods and cryptic pieces of hardware that flickered tiny lights at him caused inexplicable bulges Nahid could not fully access. With his knees pressed up against the unconscious man’s chest, he did manage to find—tucked into a pocket—an object roughly the shape and size of a child’s forearm. As he touched this gently, a chill made his body shudder. His pains ebbed.
Drawing in his breath, Nahid withdrew the artifact, icy cold, but quickly getting warm as his own flesh. The surface was impossibly smooth. He rubbed the device with his thumb and distant voices started to whisper in his head. A woman, speaking a different language? A child?
He turned the treasure around and the whispering ceased. On the sides, tiny engravings—writing of some sort—scrolled like marching insects. The letters glowed dimly. Thin white filaments extended as he watched, poking feebly against his wrist, tapping there, as if trying to get in.
Should he leave the body here, slink back to the ostracon as if nothing happened, to sleep and recover?
But there were poisons in everyone, spirits in their veins. . . .
His plan had been to kill the chatelaine.
The woman’s voice resumed, like a wind blowing through him.
He squatted over the broken creature for some time, until it began to moan. Then he slid the object into the waist of his shorts. As the whispering grew louder still, Nahid managed to stand.
Name of the Sun had hoped to sleep, for she had a shift in the evening at The Cross-Eyed Traveller, but she was already convinced she would not be able to function at work, nap or no nap. She