closer to the sea. Towering above Rioja was the
Alhambra, a fortress of steel, stone, and ancient organic matting built at the
top of a jagged thrust of rock of the same name. Rhys painted portraits in the cobbled
square that lay in the shadow of the Alhambra. He sold them for ten cents
apiece. At night, he slept in the steep, narrow streets among creepers, black
market grocers, and junk dealers. When he was cold, he called swarms of roaches
and scarab beetles to cover him. When he ran out of money for canvas and paint,
he sold bugs to creepers and the local magicians’ gym. And when he was too poor
to eat—or the creepers were no longer buying—he ate the bugs that made his
blood sing, the bugs that tied him to the world.
He dreamed of his father. Of his
house in Chenja. The smell of oranges.
A woman threw a coin at him one
morning while he sat huddled in a doorway in his stained, tattered burnous.
“Find yourself a woman,” she said.
She wore sandals and loose trousers, and her face had the smooth, well-fed look
of the rich.
“I used to dance for Chenjan
mullahs,” Rhys said.
The woman paused. The morning was
cool and misty; winter in Rioja. Damp wet her face, beaded her dark hair. He
suddenly wanted this strong, capable woman to hold him, Nasheenian or not. He
wanted her strength, her certainty.
“But you don’t dance for them
anymore,” the woman said. “Let me tell you, boy: Whatever you were in your past
life, you aren’t that any longer.”
She continued up the narrow street.
In the end, it was not so hard to
return to Yah Reza.
Rhys walked to the magicians’ gym in
Rioja and asked for her at the door. He waited on the street in front of the
dark doorway for some time while they found her there, somewhere within the
bowels of the twisted magicians’ quarters, the world with so many doors.
When she entered the doorway, she
was wearing her yellow trousers and chewing sen, unchanged though it had been
well over a year since he last saw her.
“Hello, baby doll,” Yah Reza said.
“Sanctuary,” Rhys said.
Yah Reza smiled and spit. “I put on
some tea for you.”
She gave him some tea and sent him
to Yah Tayyib.
Yah Tayyib dewormed him and cut out
the old scars from his assault in Amtullah. He did not ask about what had
happened.
“I have seen far worse,” Yah Tayyib
told him. “You were lucky they just cut flesh and not entire body parts—though
I have plenty of those to spare as well.”
Rhys ate his grubs and gravy. After
a time, he no longer urinated blood, and his persistent cough eased. One
morning he found himself in the locker room the outriders used, and he stood
there in the doorway thinking about the little dog-faced girl and her
beautiful, imperfect hands. The old stale smell of sweat and leather filled the
room.
Soon he would go back to teaching
magic to Nasheenian children. He would lose himself again to the dark bowels of
this prison. Hell on Umayma. But was it any worse than the hell outside these
walls?
“Rhys?” Yah Tayyib asked.
Rhys turned and saw the old man
approaching from the direction of the gym.
“I need you to wrap a woman for me.”
“You don’t wish to do it?”
Yah Tayyib pinched his mouth in
distaste. “I have no time for her.”
Rhys walked out into the boxing gym.
He saw Husayn in the ring, surely on her last legs as a magician-sponsored
fighter. The last year had not been kind to her either. She was well past
thirty, too old to make much more money for the magicians. She was gloved and
warming up.
It was the other woman who caught
his attention. She stood in the near corner of the ring, and she turned as he
entered. She was as tall as he was, broad in the shoulders, and heavy in the
chest and hips. She wore a breast binding, loose trousers, and sandals. Her
hair was jet black, braided, and belled. It hung down her back in one long,
knotted tail. She put both hands on the ropes and leaned forward, looking him
straight in the face. The
Alhambra, a fortress of steel, stone, and ancient organic matting built at the
top of a jagged thrust of rock of the same name. Rhys painted portraits in the cobbled
square that lay in the shadow of the Alhambra. He sold them for ten cents
apiece. At night, he slept in the steep, narrow streets among creepers, black
market grocers, and junk dealers. When he was cold, he called swarms of roaches
and scarab beetles to cover him. When he ran out of money for canvas and paint,
he sold bugs to creepers and the local magicians’ gym. And when he was too poor
to eat—or the creepers were no longer buying—he ate the bugs that made his
blood sing, the bugs that tied him to the world.
He dreamed of his father. Of his
house in Chenja. The smell of oranges.
A woman threw a coin at him one
morning while he sat huddled in a doorway in his stained, tattered burnous.
“Find yourself a woman,” she said.
She wore sandals and loose trousers, and her face had the smooth, well-fed look
of the rich.
“I used to dance for Chenjan
mullahs,” Rhys said.
The woman paused. The morning was
cool and misty; winter in Rioja. Damp wet her face, beaded her dark hair. He
suddenly wanted this strong, capable woman to hold him, Nasheenian or not. He
wanted her strength, her certainty.
“But you don’t dance for them
anymore,” the woman said. “Let me tell you, boy: Whatever you were in your past
life, you aren’t that any longer.”
She continued up the narrow street.
In the end, it was not so hard to
return to Yah Reza.
Rhys walked to the magicians’ gym in
Rioja and asked for her at the door. He waited on the street in front of the
dark doorway for some time while they found her there, somewhere within the
bowels of the twisted magicians’ quarters, the world with so many doors.
When she entered the doorway, she
was wearing her yellow trousers and chewing sen, unchanged though it had been
well over a year since he last saw her.
“Hello, baby doll,” Yah Reza said.
“Sanctuary,” Rhys said.
Yah Reza smiled and spit. “I put on
some tea for you.”
She gave him some tea and sent him
to Yah Tayyib.
Yah Tayyib dewormed him and cut out
the old scars from his assault in Amtullah. He did not ask about what had
happened.
“I have seen far worse,” Yah Tayyib
told him. “You were lucky they just cut flesh and not entire body parts—though
I have plenty of those to spare as well.”
Rhys ate his grubs and gravy. After
a time, he no longer urinated blood, and his persistent cough eased. One
morning he found himself in the locker room the outriders used, and he stood
there in the doorway thinking about the little dog-faced girl and her
beautiful, imperfect hands. The old stale smell of sweat and leather filled the
room.
Soon he would go back to teaching
magic to Nasheenian children. He would lose himself again to the dark bowels of
this prison. Hell on Umayma. But was it any worse than the hell outside these
walls?
“Rhys?” Yah Tayyib asked.
Rhys turned and saw the old man
approaching from the direction of the gym.
“I need you to wrap a woman for me.”
“You don’t wish to do it?”
Yah Tayyib pinched his mouth in
distaste. “I have no time for her.”
Rhys walked out into the boxing gym.
He saw Husayn in the ring, surely on her last legs as a magician-sponsored
fighter. The last year had not been kind to her either. She was well past
thirty, too old to make much more money for the magicians. She was gloved and
warming up.
It was the other woman who caught
his attention. She stood in the near corner of the ring, and she turned as he
entered. She was as tall as he was, broad in the shoulders, and heavy in the
chest and hips. She wore a breast binding, loose trousers, and sandals. Her
hair was jet black, braided, and belled. It hung down her back in one long,
knotted tail. She put both hands on the ropes and leaned forward, looking him
straight in the face. The
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