The Bird King(48)

“Bring the man who pursued her,” called Luz, sighing in a weary way. “And bring my implements, please.”

There was a rattle, a shuffle, the squeal of an offended horse, and several sets of footsteps approached.

“Here he is, my lady,” said a rough voice. “One of the mercenaries who followed the girl over the hill.”

Luz slid from her horse’s back. There came a pretty sound, the clang of fine metal conversing with itself, like an anklet or a necklace unrolled from a velvet pouch, but the sight of it, whatever it was, made the mercenary whimper in fear.

“Please, my lady,” he begged, “I told the truth, the absolute truth—I ran after her on foot through the gully on the far side of the ridge, and when she came out onto open ground, she jumped—jumped, as plain as could be, into the trees.”

“Bind his hands, please,” instructed Luz, her voice impossibly gentle.

“Please!” echoed the mercenary. “I’m telling you the truth!”

“You’re lying,” said Luz in the same gentle way. “Why would the girl jump? And even if she did—that drop is sharp and high. She would be injured, perhaps even dead if she fell the wrong way, yet I see no sign of her. And where are her companions? A man and a dog on foot with an injured girl—they couldn’t get far, not in this terrain. Yet I see no sign of them either.”

“Why would I lie?” countered the mercenary, fear making him ambitious. “I’d never laid eyes on her before this morning; I owe her nothing.”

Metal rang merrily against metal again. The mercenary’s breath went ragged.

“Perhaps you felt pity for her,” said Luz. “A beautiful girl lost in the mountains—it would be only natural if you did.”

“She was a slattern,” spat the man. “Out on her own, hair loose, dressed in a fancy man’s robe. Not a respectable lady like you, my lady. I could never feel pity for a girl like that. She was probably a Moor, even pale as she was. She had hair like a Moor’s. They say they’re all feebleminded, the ones that come from south of the Great Desert, no more than animals some of them—”

“That is a vicious lie,” said Luz calmly. “There is an empire south of the Great Desert larger than any in Europe. The best doctors in the world are trained at its capital. All they lack is faith. If ignorant men like you would not stand in our way, sir, perhaps we could bring it to them.” She drew away to where Fatima could no longer see her.

“Please,” said the mercenary again, “please—” Metal clinked and sang and the mercenary shrieked in pain.

“Where did the girl go?” asked Luz. Her voice was soft, maternal.

“I told you, I’ve already told you—” The mercenary shrieked again. Fatima could smell his fear from where she sat: it congealed with the bittersweet resin of Luz’s perfume to form something rank and almost solid. Fatima felt light-headed. She dug her fingers farther into the earth and pressed the back of her head into the dirt, telling herself to take small breaths, small breaths, though she longed to gasp and run.

She had a fleeting impulse to reveal herself and spare the mercenary further pain, though she knew he would hardly do the same for her if their places were reversed. Yet the guilt was there nonetheless: she would live and he would not, and though she preferred her own life above his, it hardly seemed fair that he should die for telling the truth.

“Where is the girl?” coaxed Luz. “This could be over in a moment. I’ll bathe your wounds myself, with my own hands. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Yes,” wept the mercenary. “Yes.”

“Tell me, then.”

“She jumped, may God be my witness—”

There came a sound Fatima would remember for the rest of her life: the dull pop of bone forcibly dislodged from its slick cradle. An irreparable sound. Fatima was only half aware when the mercenary tried to scream and found he couldn’t. Stars rose and set in the sliver of sky beyond the ditch; the sun crossed rapidly before her eyes and was lacerated by clouds. She heard a muted exchange, an irritated sigh, and then the sound of horses turning, their iron-shod hooves grating like knives against the gravel road. The retinue moved off in the direction from which it had come, its clatter replaced by the little noises of the woods.

Dazed and thoughtless, Fatima got to her feet. There was no sign that Luz or her retinue had ever been there but the half-moon depressions of hooves in the packed gravel—that and a spatter of blood, small but ominous, pooling between the stones. She could think of nothing better to do under the circumstances than continue down the road. She climbed out of the ditch and limped away, following the trail of gravel as it spooled south between the sentinel cliffs. The sun had broken free of the mountains and hung low in the east, casting rosy shadows across Fatima’s feet. That she was alive and upright struck her as extraordinary. She lingered on the gold-flecked dust that dripped from the pines, the clumps of green reeds that lined watery depressions in the earth, presaging the sea. How had the brutality she had witnessed occurred on this very same road? Every time she blinked she saw the little spot of blood and heard the thunder of the birds, and wondered how it could all be cut from the same eternal cloth as the sun, the grass, the unseen ocean.

Fatima was so lost in herself that she did not hear the return of hoof beats at first. It was only a feeling of dread that made her stop and hold her breath. The road was flat there and the sun was high; there was no ditch in which to conceal herself; there were no shadows to protect her. She turned, preparing herself. A very lathered mare was cantering up the road from the north with her head high and her eyes rolling. A large dog, brindle-black, ran along beside her and nipped at her flank. And atop the horse, keeping his seat remarkably well, was Hassan.