so bad?”
“A well-appointed prison is still a
prison,” Rhys said.
Yah Reza clucked her tongue. She
waved a hand toward his lamp and increased the light. Rhys felt the message she
sent the bugs, the chemical tingling in the air. Why did it take so much more
effort for him to produce the same reaction? Why gift this stubborn old woman
with enough skill to raise the dead but relegate him to the role of messenger,
with the occasional talent for staunching blood and fighting infection? God did
not grant talent indiscriminately.
Gift or curse, it was not enough.
“I keep you on for your protection,”
Yah Reza said. “Nasheen will eat you alive, boy. Even if you had the talent for
the real stuff, how long do you think you’d last in Mushtallah among the First
Families? How long before a gang of women cuts you up and feeds you to the
bugs? This isn’t Chenja, doll, where all you men get a free pass. Boys play by
rules here. Chenjan boys don’t play at all.”
“I’m going mad,” Rhys said.
“Weren’t you already? No sane man
would be sitting there in that chair—not unless I was interrogating him.”
Rhys met her look. Yah Reza was an
old woman, but how old? Always hard to tell in Nasheen. Sixty or more, surely.
“How long were you at the front?” he
asked. She had never spoken of it.
“Thirty years,” she said. “Give or
take. Intelligence, you know. Taught Yah Tayyib back when he was just Tayyib al
Amirah, eh? One of my best students.”
“You mean torture and
interrogation.”
“Oh, there was some of that,” Yah
Reza said absently. She sat across from him. Three cicadas leapt out of the
wide sleeves of her robe and crawled across Rhys’s letter. “Yah Tayyib lost
three wives to the war, you know it? And all of his children. You think he
would give you a license? If you were his charge,
he’d have turned you over to interrogation from the start. You’d be bleeding
out in the interior right now.”
“Why didn’t you do the same?”
“Me? Ah, doll.” Yah Reza spit on the
floor, and a dozen blue beetles scurried out from under the end table and
lapped at the crimson wad of spittle. “More death doesn’t cure the war, eh?
Just makes it drag on awhile longer. Yah Tayyib, yes, he would do whatever it
took to end the war. He would end it one Chenjan at a time. But then, so would
most men. Women too. That’s why this war never ends. Nobody lets go.”
“You’re letting go?”
“Completely? Ah, no. Maybe one
Chenjan at a time.”
He leaned toward her. “Then let me
go.”
She gave him a sloppy smile. “You
aren’t a prisoner.” She stood, and the cicadas flew back up into her sleeves.
“Go see Nasheen. But don’t expect it to love you.”
Yah Reza set him up with his
passbook and paid his train fare to Amtullah. The interior. He did not use the
space-twisting magicians’ gyms to travel. He had wanted to see the country, to
be on his own. If he’d made himself an exile, he needed to live as one.
When he arrived in the city, he set
up several interviews with merchants looking for magicians to accompany their
caravans north, through the wastelands.
During the day, Amtullah was a
raucous mass of humanity, full of half-breeds and chained cats and corrupt
order keepers and organ hawkers and gene pirates. He had trouble following the
accented Nasheenian of the interior, and the fees for everything—from food and
lodging to transit—were far higher than he’d anticipated. At night, the sky
above Amtullah lit up with the occasional violet or green burst, remnants of a
border barrage that managed to get through the anti-burst guns. The sound of
sirens sent him to bed most nights, as regular as evening prayer.
But when he went to his interviews,
he was cast off the porch or stoop or simply turned away at the gate more often
than not. His color was enough. They did not wait to hear his accent. A little
more talent, perhaps, and he could have perfected a version of Yah
“A well-appointed prison is still a
prison,” Rhys said.
Yah Reza clucked her tongue. She
waved a hand toward his lamp and increased the light. Rhys felt the message she
sent the bugs, the chemical tingling in the air. Why did it take so much more
effort for him to produce the same reaction? Why gift this stubborn old woman
with enough skill to raise the dead but relegate him to the role of messenger,
with the occasional talent for staunching blood and fighting infection? God did
not grant talent indiscriminately.
Gift or curse, it was not enough.
“I keep you on for your protection,”
Yah Reza said. “Nasheen will eat you alive, boy. Even if you had the talent for
the real stuff, how long do you think you’d last in Mushtallah among the First
Families? How long before a gang of women cuts you up and feeds you to the
bugs? This isn’t Chenja, doll, where all you men get a free pass. Boys play by
rules here. Chenjan boys don’t play at all.”
“I’m going mad,” Rhys said.
“Weren’t you already? No sane man
would be sitting there in that chair—not unless I was interrogating him.”
Rhys met her look. Yah Reza was an
old woman, but how old? Always hard to tell in Nasheen. Sixty or more, surely.
“How long were you at the front?” he
asked. She had never spoken of it.
“Thirty years,” she said. “Give or
take. Intelligence, you know. Taught Yah Tayyib back when he was just Tayyib al
Amirah, eh? One of my best students.”
“You mean torture and
interrogation.”
“Oh, there was some of that,” Yah
Reza said absently. She sat across from him. Three cicadas leapt out of the
wide sleeves of her robe and crawled across Rhys’s letter. “Yah Tayyib lost
three wives to the war, you know it? And all of his children. You think he
would give you a license? If you were his charge,
he’d have turned you over to interrogation from the start. You’d be bleeding
out in the interior right now.”
“Why didn’t you do the same?”
“Me? Ah, doll.” Yah Reza spit on the
floor, and a dozen blue beetles scurried out from under the end table and
lapped at the crimson wad of spittle. “More death doesn’t cure the war, eh?
Just makes it drag on awhile longer. Yah Tayyib, yes, he would do whatever it
took to end the war. He would end it one Chenjan at a time. But then, so would
most men. Women too. That’s why this war never ends. Nobody lets go.”
“You’re letting go?”
“Completely? Ah, no. Maybe one
Chenjan at a time.”
He leaned toward her. “Then let me
go.”
She gave him a sloppy smile. “You
aren’t a prisoner.” She stood, and the cicadas flew back up into her sleeves.
“Go see Nasheen. But don’t expect it to love you.”
Yah Reza set him up with his
passbook and paid his train fare to Amtullah. The interior. He did not use the
space-twisting magicians’ gyms to travel. He had wanted to see the country, to
be on his own. If he’d made himself an exile, he needed to live as one.
When he arrived in the city, he set
up several interviews with merchants looking for magicians to accompany their
caravans north, through the wastelands.
During the day, Amtullah was a
raucous mass of humanity, full of half-breeds and chained cats and corrupt
order keepers and organ hawkers and gene pirates. He had trouble following the
accented Nasheenian of the interior, and the fees for everything—from food and
lodging to transit—were far higher than he’d anticipated. At night, the sky
above Amtullah lit up with the occasional violet or green burst, remnants of a
border barrage that managed to get through the anti-burst guns. The sound of
sirens sent him to bed most nights, as regular as evening prayer.
But when he went to his interviews,
he was cast off the porch or stoop or simply turned away at the gate more often
than not. His color was enough. They did not wait to hear his accent. A little
more talent, perhaps, and he could have perfected a version of Yah
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