people. The end of Chenja.
He walked back to the taxi ranks. The call sounded for afternoon prayer, and he found the mosque nearest the ranks and knelt. He unrolled the prayer rug from his back. He submitted to the will of God and hoped he was not praying for the end of Chenja, and Nasheen, and the shifters; hoped he was not praying for the end of the world. After, he went for lunch at a Mhorian restaurant that served halal food; the bus was not due for hours. The afternoon heat kept the crowds away from the taxi ranks, and after lunch he sat out under the shade of the weather stalls at the ranks and waited.
He read from the Kitab and pushed away thoughts of Kine and bloody shifters. A bus pulled up ahead of him. When he looked at the sign in the window, he saw that it was headed for the city of his birth.
Rhys stared at the bus. He thought of what his mother would say if she saw him. Would she ignore him? Shriek? Turn away? He wanted to think that she would open her arms to him and invite him to her table. She and his aunts would cook a heavy meal—eight dishes—and his father would come home and laugh and smoke and tell him how proud he was to have a magician for a son.
“Rhys Dashasa?”
He stirred from his dream, then jerked himself awake. How had he done that? It was dangerous to fall asleep in public, even while sitting on your purse.
Rhys squinted up at the bulky figure in front of him. He did not recognize him. Two more dark figures stood off to the man’s right. Rhys saw very little. The sun was directly behind them.
“What do you want?” Rhys asked, raising his hand to his brow. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”
“No, I don’t think so,” the man said.
Rhys’s fingers twitched. He searched for a local swarm of wasps.
“Let’s not be hasty,” one of the other figures said, and something rolled toward him, blowing smoke.
Rhys coughed and raised his hands.
The large man grabbed Rhys by the burnous and dragged him to his feet. Rhys reached for his pistols, but the man twisted both of Rhys’s arms neatly behind him.
A magician stood just to the left of him, one hand raised, a swarm of wasps already circling her head.
“So you’re her beautiful boy,” the man said. “I didn’t see you much at the Cage. Thought you were just a rumor.”
“You’re mistaken—” Rhys began.
“No, I think not,” Raine said. “Let us see if she cares any more for you than she does her little half- breed.”
29
Khos sat outside the diner in a too-small wicker chair, a pistol at his hip and the taste of excrement still in his mouth. Children played in the dusty street beyond the cool shade of the billowing red awning that cloaked the sidewalk. Little Mhorian girls, too skinny and already veiled, scurried among the poles that propped up the awning, shooing hungry bugs from the twine grounding the poles. The girls slathered a thick bug-repelling unguent on both pole and twine. The acrid stink of the repellent made Khos’s eyes water.
It wasn’t much past dawn, but the day was already hot. Khos sweated beneath his burnous. A girl came by with a tray and served him a tiny cup of tea, black as pitch. She lowered her eyes as she served him. He was careful not to touch her. She tucked the tray under her arm, pressed her palms together, bowed, and backed away from him.
Khos wished the chair was larger. He stared out at the children and the passersby. This early, the only people on the street besides the dirty children were the creepers. They slunk along the sidewalk with giant nets over their shoulders, their faces hidden by their floppy hats.
He saw Mahrokh crossing the street. She stood out easily among the dregs of the blue dawn. She went veiled when she wasn’t working, and that was just as well. Chenjans—male and female alike—had been known to stone whores in the streets when they appeared during the day without an escort. But he marked Mahrokh by her significant height—nearly as tall as he was—broad shoulders, and confident walk which reminded him of Nyx. She carried a rectangular package under one arm, and the sight of it made his heart skip. He looked back up the street she had appeared from and into the long morning shadows between buildings, but saw no one following her.
She stepped around the refuse in the streets and up onto the sidewalk, and then he saw her eyes: blue-black and already squinting to make out his countenance, though he couldn’t imagine she would mistake him for anyone else, even with her fuzzy sight.
He stood and pressed his palms together, bowing.
Mahrokh set the package on the table, and did the same.
They sat, and Khos called over one of the Mhorian girls. “Another tea,” he said.
“No honey,” Mahrokh added.
When the girl had gone, Mahrokh turned to study him. “You look better. Still terrible, but better.”
“I hope that improves,” he said. He sipped at his tea to clear the taste from his mouth. Shifting into a dog to bathe had its advantages, but a clean tasting mouth wasn’t one of them.
Mahrokh reached beneath her burnous and pulled out several glossy papers. She pushed them across the table to Khos.
Khos stared at them. The edges were already beginning to disintegrate.
“They’re tailored to destruct in several hours,” Mahrokh said.
Khos fanned the images out on the table. A few pieces from the ends of each flaked away as he did. A beaming young boy, seven or eight years old, peered out from the pages. He was the color of the desert—far too pale and flat-nosed to pass as anything but what he was. And though his hair was dark, his eyes were unmistakably blue.
“We’ve had to transfer him,” Mahrokh said. “To avoid the Chenjan draft.”
“They’re drafting half-breeds here as well?”
“Yes. It started last year.”
“Where is he going?”
“Tirhan. They’ve been a neutral country since they broke away from Chenja. We send our highest risk boys there.”
Khos tentatively touched the face in the picture. He imagined what it would be like to grow up in fear. His heart ached. He pushed the pictures back at Mahrokh.
“Keep them,” she said. “They’ll be gone soon enough.”
“Is there danger in the crossing?” Khos asked. “I’ve never tried to get into Tirhan.”
“Our network extends deep into Tirhan. I already have an interested family. His look is a little off for Chenja and Nasheen, and no doubt he’ll be a little odd in Tirhan, but he will not stand out as much. I think he’ll be happier there. And certainly safer.”
Khos nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. He slipped the pictures into his vest pocket.
“And do you have news for me?” she asked.
“Three boys are coming in from Nasheen in three days,” Khos said. “One of my contacts will be escorting them from Azam to Dadfar. You’ll need to take them from there.”
“I will tell my women,” Mahrokh said.
Khos nodded at the package. “Should I ask about that?”
Mahrokh’s body seemed to shrink. She gazed long at the package. “That was sitting on our porch this morning. Addressed to your woman.”
The Mhorian girl arrived with Mahrokh’s tea, then pressed her palms together and bowed her head. Mahrokh returned the gesture and drank.
Khos continued to stare at the package. “You and your women need to be careful,” he said.
Mahrokh did not look at him. “We are careful. Those who trouble your woman would not trouble us. We have protection.”
