Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe

Inas, forgotten, huddled, soundless and scarcely moving in the alcove, listening as the talk moved from the meditation rooms to the wider history of the hill temple, to the progress of the report on which her father and Scholar Hafeez had collaborated, not so long since.

At some point, Nasir came in, bearing refreshments. The talk wandered on. In the alcove, Inas sank silently to her knees, drinking in the esoterica of scholarship as a thirsty man guzzles tea.

Finally, there came a break in the talk. Scholar Hafeez cleared his throat.

“I wonder, old friend—that curiat you bought in Hamid’s store?”

“Yes?” her father murmured. “A peculiar piece, was it not? One would almost believe it had come from the old days, when Hamid’s grandfather was said to buy from slavers and caravan thieves.’’

“Just so. An antique from the days of exploration, precious for its oddity. I have no secrets from you, my friend, so I will confess that it comes often into my mind. I wonder if you would consider parting with it. I will, of course, meet what price you name.”

‘‘Ah.’’ Her father paused. Inas pictured him leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled before his chin, brows pulled together as he considered the matter. In the alcove, she hardly dared breathe, even to send a futile woman’s prayer to the little god for mercy.

“As much as it saddens me to refuse a friend,” Reyman Bhar said softly, “I must inform you that the curiat had been purchased as a gift for a promising young scholar of my acquaintance.”

“A strange item to bestow upon a youth,” murmured Baquar Hafeez, adding hastily, “But you will, of course, know your own Student! It is only that—”

“I most sincerely regret,” Scholar Bhar interrupted gently. “The gift has already been given.”

There was a pause.

“Ah,” said Scholar Hafeez. “Well, then, there is nothing more to be said.”

“Just so,” her father replied, and there was the sound of his chair being pushed back. “Come, my friend, you have not yet seen my garden. This is the hour of its glory. Walk with me and be refreshed.”

Inas counted to fifty after the door closed, then she rose, reshelved the two remaining volumes, and ghosted out of the study, down the hall to the women’s wing.

Humaria’s wedding was blessed and beautiful, the banquet very grand to behold, and even the women’s portions fresh and unbroken, which spoke well for her new husband’s generosity.

At the last moment, it was arranged between Reyman Bhar and Gabir Majidi that Shereen would stay with her sister for the first month of her new marriage, as the merchant’s wife was ill and there were no daughters in his house to bear Humaria company.

So it was that Scholar Bhar came home with only his youngest daughter to companion him. Nasir pulled the sedan before the house and the scholar emerged, his daughter after him. He ascended the ramp to the door, fingering his keycard from his pocket—and froze, staring at a door which was neither latched nor locked.

Carefully, he put forth his hand, pushing the door with the tips of his fingers. It swung open onto a hallway as neat and as orderly as always. Cautiously, the scholar moved on, his daughter forgotten at his back.

There was some small disorder in the public room—a vase overturned and shattered, some display books tossed aside. The rugs and the news computer—items that would bring a goodly price at the thieves market were in place, untouched. The scholar walked on, down the hall to his study.

Books had been ripped from their shelves and flung to the floor, where they lay, spine-broke and torn, ankle deep and desolate. His notepad lay in the center of the desk, shattered, as if it had been struck with a hammer. The loose pages of priceless manuscripts lay over all.

Behind him, Scholar Bhar heard a sound; a high keening, as if from the throat of a hunting hawk, or a lost soul.

He turned and beheld Inas, wilting against the door, her hand at her throat, falling silent in the instant he looked at her.

“Peace—” he began and stopped, for there was another sound, from the back of the house—but no. It would only be Nasir, coming in from putting the sedan away.

Yes, footsteps; he heard them clearly. And voices. The sudden, ghastly sound of a gun going off.

The scholar grabbed his daughter’s shoulder, spinning her around.

“Quickly—to the front door!”

She ran, astonishingly fleet, despite the hindrance of her robes. Alas that she was not fleet enough.

Baquar Hafeez was waiting for them inside the front hallway, and there was a gun in his hand.

“Again,” Scholar Hafeez said, and the large man he called Danyal lifted her father’s right hand, bent the second finger back.

Reyman Bhar screamed. Inas, on her knees beside the chair in which Scholar Hafeez took his ease, stared, stone-faced, through her yell, memorizing the faces of these men, and the questions they asked.

It was the curiat they wanted. And it was the curiat which Reyman Bhar was peculiarly determined that they not have. And why was that? Inas wondered. Surely not because he had made it a gift to a daughter. He had only to order her to fetch it from its hiding place and hand it to Baquar Hafeez. What could a daughter do, but obey?

And yet— hidden knowledge has power .

“The curiat , old friend,” Scholar Hafeez said again—patient, so patient. “Spare yourself any more pain. Only tell me who has the curiat and I will leave you and your household in peace.”

“Why?” her father asked—a scholar’s question, despite his pain.

“There are those who believe it to be the work of infidels,” Scholar Hafeez said smoothly, and yet again: “The curiat, Reyman. Where is it?”

“It is not for you to know,” her father gasped, his voice hoarse from screaming, his left arm useless, dislocated by Danyal in the first round of questions.

Scholar Hafeez sighed, deeply, regretfully.

“I was afraid that you might prove obstinate. Perhaps something else might persuade you.”

It happened so quickly, she had no time to understand—pain exploded in her face and she was flung sideways to the floor, brilliant color distorting her vision. Her wrist was seized and she was lifted. More pain. She tried to get her feet under her, but she was pulled inexorably upward, sandals dangling. Her vision spangled, stabilized—Danyal’s face was bare inches from hers. He was smiling.

Somewhere, her father was shouting.

“Your pardon, old friend?” Scholar Hafeez was all solicitude. “I did not quite hear the location of the curiat ?”

“Release my daughter!”

“Certainly. After you disclose the location of the curiat . Such a small thing, really, when weighed against a daughter’s virtue.”

“Inas—” her father began, and what followed was not in the common tongue, but in that of her mother, and they were uttered as a prayer.

“It opportunity comes, daughter, be stout and true. Honor your mother, in all her names.”

Scholar Hafeez made a small sound of disappointment, and moved a hand. “The ubaie, Danyel.’’

Inas saw his hand move. He crumbled the fragile fabrics in his fist and tore them away, unseating her headcloth. Her hair spilled across her shoulders, rippling black.

Danyal licked his lips, his eyes now openly upon her chest.

There was a scream of rage, and from the corner of her eye she saw her father, on his knees, a bloody blade in his least damaged hand, reaching again toward Hafeez.

Danyal still held her, his attention on his master; Inas brought both of her knees up, aiming to crush his man-parts, as Thelma Delance had described.