My father hasn’t stepped into the stables for four years now. But the horses know me. They recognize my smell, the sound of my voice, even the most difficult of Jwaliyan mares, who nuzzle my hand, their rough tongues licking up the lumps of sugar I offer.
“You’re late today.”
I feel my shoulders stiffen at the sound of stable master Govind’s voice. “Papa was ill,” I say—not really a lie.
Govind frowns. “It’s a marvel he’s lived this long through the Fever. Some stable boys have wondered how he’s doing so without proper medicine. I deflected them by giving them more work.”
“Thank you,” I say, grateful for the warning. I know people talk about such things at the palace when they’re idle. But I also know I can count on Govind to back me up. Despite being a magus himself, Govind has always been on Papa’s side.
“I knew your father as a boy,” Govind told me once when I asked why. “Long before non-magi were segregated into tenements, your father and I were neighbors. Friends.”
Though they haven’t seen each other since Papa was struck by Tenement Fever, Govind always asks after Papa and looks out for us when he can. When Papa’s illness took a turn for the worse a year earlier, it was Govind who arranged my first meeting with Latif. “There is a man,” Govind said. “His name is Latif. He used to work at the palace before as head gardener. He can help you get medicine for your father in exchange for a price.”
“What kind of price?” I asked, feeling uneasy.
“He didn’t tell me in his letter.” Govind’s lips grew thin. “Be careful around him, Cavas. Don’t agree to anything that makes you uncomfortable. I would go to the meeting with you, but Latif and I didn’t part on good terms. Either way, I know he’d want to meet in private.”
To my surprise, Govind pressed a swarna into my hand. A coin no different from any other, except this one was a bright, shimmering green instead of gold. “Rub the green swarna, and whisper Latif’s name when you’re alone. He will be there.”
Govind is aware of my monthly meetings with Latif even though he does not know where we always meet. He’s also aware of the herbs I buy with Latif’s swarnas, though he doesn’t know what I’m offering Latif in exchange for the money.
The medicine isn’t a cure, of course, and the woman selling it at the black market warned me as much. There is no cure for Tenement Fever for those who continue to live there, so close to the pits that accumulate the city’s wastewater, to the stench and dust from the firestone mines.
“Tell me if you need a day off,” Govind tells me now. “I can try and make arrangements.”
I nod, even though I know I won’t. A day off from work can very well mean a day General Tahmasp returns—a chance lost to give Latif the information he needs and get coin for Papa’s medicine.
“How is the new foal?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Running through the pasture outside, nibbling on grass. Happier than his mother, at any rate. She’s still not letting anyone near him. She grew agitated last night and then again early this morning when General Tahmasp came in to see his horse.”
The mother, a wild Jwaliyan mare, mated with a palace stallion the previous year and birthed a foal a couple of days ago. But it’s the other piece of information that makes me grow still. General Tahmasp wasn’t supposed to be here for at least a fortnight—according to what I heard the stable boys say. But Govind is definitely a more reliable source of information. If he said the general was at the palace this morning, then it is true.
In the years since I began working in the stables, I’ve learned to track people’s movements by their horses—if they’d been anywhere dry and dusty, or if the journey had been long. The general, however, has always made tracking difficult, appearing and disappearing with a finesse that can rival Latif’s.
I’ve often heard jokes that compare General Tahmasp to a living specter—a spirit that remains chained to our world partly due to an inclination to remain alive and partly due to an unfulfilled wish. Though I laugh at these jokes, my humor is often forced. I don’t like to remember how, as a boy of five, I had imagined seeing my mother in the tenements, how I thought she had turned into a living specter just to come and see me.
“You can hear a living specter, but you won’t ever see one,” Papa said firmly when I asked him about it. “The only people capable of seeing specters are the half magi: people who have both magus and non-magus blood in them. Your mother died a long time ago, Cavas. If she were a living specter, she would have tried to contact you long before today. And you would have only heard her.”
I didn’t believe Papa at first. I even dragged him to the spot where I thought I saw my mother wandering. I called out for her over and over again. But she didn’t answer. No one did.
Papa’s strong arms held me when I cried.
“There are days when I wish I could see your mother, too,” he said softly. “But you’re a non-magus, Cavas. You can not see the spirits of the dead. In fact, neither can any of the magi. It’s why some people turn themselves invisible during the moon festival and play pranks on others by pretending to be specters. It does not help to dwell on dreams, my boy.”
I now push aside the memory and force myself to focus on the matter at hand: General Tahmasp.
“Will the general be riding Raat tonight?” I ask Govind casually.
“Not tonight,” Govind says. “The stallion needs some rest.”
I nod. So the general is staying at Ambar
