The Bird King(55)

“Please say something,” she whispered. He was gasping, his eyes wide and sightless.

“I see light,” he said. “I see light, but not you.”

Fatima put her cheek against his chest and closed her own eyes, battered by waves of hot and cold that seemed to break against her skin. It was impossible that Hassan should be hurt. Why had she come so far if not to avoid having to endure the world without Hassan in it? She thought of his narrow back as he hunched over his desk, his smile as he pretended not to notice her slip into his room and lift wedges of charcoal from the bowl beside him; he had been a boy, she barely more than an infant, and there had been a thousand other such moments, ordinary then but precious now, for they had been innocents together. She sat on her heels and howled, wondering if she could muster the courage to turn her knife on herself.

“Oh for the love of God—he’ll be all right.” The monk, smelling of wool and sweat, lowered himself to the deck beside her. He winced and rubbed his jaw. A line of blood was congealing across his clean-shaven cheek. “No reason to panic and carry on so. It’s only a bump on the head.” His Sabir was broad and accented, delivered with a singsong rhythm. “You can understand me when I speak like this, yes?”

Fatima forced herself to look up at him. There was no malice in his face, only a profound fatigue.

“Yes,” she said.

The monk nodded.

“I’ve a tooth loose,” he muttered, bending over Hassan. “You did me one better than I did this blev’ruz.” He cupped Hassan’s chin and turned his face one way and then the other. “You, friend. Does that hurt?”

“N-no.”

“I took you for brigands. Now I see you’re a couple of fops. You could have killed me twice over with those knives, as I’ve no weapon. But you can hardly even hold them properly.” He opened and closed his mouth experimentally, leaning sideways to spit a driblet of blood on the deck. “Your lover will live, madam, but he’ll shortly have a headache that’d make angels weep, infidel though he is.”

“It’s already here,” groaned Hassan, pressing his hands against his eyes. “It feels like being punished for something I didn’t do. I think I’d prefer death, all things considered.”

The monk laughed hoarsely. It was a good, full sound; an immodest sound; the laugh of a man who was not often afraid. Fatima felt her shoulders uncurl.

“I’m Gwennec,” said the monk. “Brother Gwennec, they call me. You’d best not move awhile, blev’ruz. If you think the pain’s bad now, wait until you get up and the blood rushes out of your head.” He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but his eyes traveled across the deck and out to the white-capped waves, and his smile fell.

“We’re at sea,” he said. The cog listed a little, as if to concur with him. Gwennec got to his feet, hitching up the skirt of his habit with one hand and nursing his jaw with the other. “Where is the harbor? Where is the lady Luz? What the hell have you done?”

Fatima groped for her knife again.

“I’m profoundly sorry to tell you this,” said Hassan, flat on his back, “but we’ve stolen this boat and have no immediate plans to return it. You’ll have to come with us, unless you’re a very good swimmer.”

Gwennec’s face darkened until his complexion was a shade of red Fatima had never seen before. He paced up and down along the deck railing, massaging his jaw.

“Stolen the boat,” he exploded. “Are you out of your minds? Which one of you is the crack sailor? Our delicate friend whom I laid out on the deck? Or you, madam? Where is your crew? Where are your supplies? Damn you both.” He sat down with a groan. His face, Fatima noticed, was swelling where she had kicked it.

“We had no choice,” she said, adjusting her grip on the dagger. “It was that or stay behind and be taken by the Holy Office, or go—” She almost said “back,” and realized, with some surprise, that the thought was abhorrent to her. Luz seemed a lesser punishment than returning to captivity, though captivity was surely pleasanter than death by burning was likely to be. Yet the internal logic of the palace, with its precise gradients of worth and worthiness, had failed her beneath that lonely tree on the Vega, at the feet of the dead Castilian scout, and would never be real to her again.

“The Holy Office,” muttered Gwennec. “I was wrong about you twice, and I was too kind in both instances. Here I thought, Ah, not brigands—running away, more like, perhaps their families wouldn’t let them marry or some such thing.’ But you’re worse than runaways and worse than brigands. What could you have done that’s so bad the Holy Office is after you?”

“I’m a sorcerer,” said Hassan.

“Aye, I can see that. You’ve transported us into open water without a damned idea where we’re pointed, all by cutting through a fucking rope. That’s magic.” Gwennec tucked the dirty hem of his habit into the cord at his waist, exposing a pair of shins covered in the same thick blond hair that populated his head, and divesting himself of his sandals, vaulted onto the mast to make for the rigging.

“You haven’t even set the mainsail!” he called down. “That’s why we’re keeling! Were you aiming to swamp the boat and drown? Take that rope that’s flapping about down there—yes, you, madam, since our friend is having a little rest.”