There were no servitors, he was naked and the water in his bath had turned cold. So cold that a scar on his wrist had grown blue and the skin around his nails become frayed and white. The fingers of his right hand, the one that gripped a knife, were so pale they seemed to belong to someone else.
It was a very beautiful knife, with a wavy line along one edge from where it had been forged, and fragments of room reflected in the blade's surface as if looking into a river or a bowl. Zaq had a feeling the knife might have been given to him by someone; he found it hard to remember.
Actually, Zaq found it hard to think, full stop. In locking him into this moment the Library had trapped him inside such pain that it overwhelmed his sight and hearing, his sense of smell and his very self.
"Hell," said Tris.
The Library nodded.
"Remember now?" Tris said.
She was talking about the room and the cold bath and about the boy who came through a door, a plate of dim sum on his tray and a rat perched on one shoulder. Through the eyes of that rat had peered a brain of a rodent and more billions of people than Tris could imagine. The servitor was about Tris's age. In fact, Zaq was pretty certain that the servitor was--
"Wrong," said Tris. She could feel the knife in Zaq's chest as clearly as he suffocated beneath her struggle to draw breath, both frozen into each other's pain on the wrong side of death.
"Look again," she demanded.
It was as if he refused to recognize himself or found it hard to care about what had happened to the boy with the rat. As if he saw life through a sheet of glass. Except... Tris corrected herself. It was a sheet of darkness and ice. And then, as Zaq finally remembered sitting in the bath, Tris understood everything. (Something she could have done without, really.)
"What?" Zaq said, looking up.
The boy grinned, shut the door behind him and looked around at the ornate room and whistled. "Wow," he said. "Fucking neat."
"Out," said Zaq.
"Zaq," said the boy, "it's me. I've blagged you some dim sum." He held out the tray as if he expected the Chosen of Heaven to join him in eating congealed food.
"There was this weird guy in the kitchens," he added, oblivious to Zaq's fiercest scowl, "wanted me to--"
"Don't," said Tris.
Zaq rose from the water, blade in hand.
He was naked and so was the blade which took the boy's head from his shoulders. As a spout of arterial blood pissed itself almost to the ceiling, Tris screamed and the boy began to crumple, his knees buckling as the torso toppled forward to hit the floor.
How could you?
From the far corner, the rat and the servitor's head both stared at Zaq with looks that only grew less accusing when the rat blinked and death began to soften facial muscles and glaze the boy's eyes.
"But he's not even--"
"Of course he's fucking real," Tris shouted, her voice a wind which scoured the edges of Zaq's mind. "They were all real," she said. "Every servitor you killed, that concubine you raped..."
She stopped, considered what she now knew. "You really didn't--"
"No," said Zaq. "I didn't know."
He saw it all now. The horror of what he'd done, which was as nothing to the horror of what he had been. A monster.
"Who was he?" Zaq began to ask and realized he already knew. Tris had been too young to watch it happen on feed, little more than a baby. No, Zaq knew that was untrue. She'd been unborn when her--
"Your father?"
This didn't seem possible, yet it was true and there was something else, something obvious.
Eli ate the apple, said the Library, as if this explained everything. And strangely enough it did. Both of them instantly understood why it was always this fruit that tradition demanded. And with the memory of juice running down Zaq's chin and Eli reaching out for his share the final piece fell into place.
"My brother," Zaq said. "Your father."
She's your half niece, said the dark. You had different fathers. This seemed possible, even likely. Although, since Zaq could barely remember his mother, how anyone might expect him to remember the man who...
I can still save you.
"How?" said Tris, knowing it was to the Chuang Tzu that the strange voice had been speaking.
I can loop time back to when you were young. Or we can let your flame pass to the next candle. The Library sounded regretful, as if things really hadn't been meant to end like this.
"Save us," Tris said.
The Chuang Tzu said nothing. He felt sick and stupid, ignorant to the point of wanting to disappear, to be anything other than what he was. He didn't want to be young again or inflict his memories on the next Chuang Tzu. He wanted everything to be different.
The Library thought about that.
"Billions will die," said Tris.
"No," insisted Zaq. "They will simply become someone else."
"Right," said the Library. "Let me find the tipping point."
CHAPTER 59
Marrakech, Summer 1977 [Then]
Hassan sat back in his chair and pulled out a wallet, counting ten-dollar bills onto the table. The total got to forty dollars before he hesitated, added one more to the pile and slipped his wallet back inside his jacket.
"Fifty dollars," he said.
It was an incredible sum for a boy who once scraped a living delivering bread and now survived on trading odd snippets of information with the police. For a girl who kept house, swept, cooked and spent most evenings persuading the drunk who was not her father that he didn't want to hit her it was enough money to fund an escape.
"Half now," said Hassan, "and half later." Pulling a small cigarillo from a leather case, he waited for Idries to produce a lighter. It was brass overlaid with chrome, the name of some Essaouria nightclub in enamel along one side. "We can meet at Café Lux afterwards."
"After what?" Malika demanded.
"After you deliver this." Hassan lifted a plastic bag onto the café table.
"What's in it?" said Malika.
Idries snorted. "You don't want to know."
"We do," said Malika, "don't we?" She stared at Moz, who looked doubtful.
"It's fifty dollars," he said.
"Well." Malika's voice was firm. "I want to know." Moz and Malika looked at each other, Idries and Hassan temporarily forgotten.
"Can we talk?" Moz said.
"Talk all you like," said Malika. There were tears in her eyes and her bottom lip jutted so far that she looked like a petulant child.
"Give me a minute," Moz said and Hassan raised his eyebrows, then shrugged and lolled back in his chair.
"Don't take all night."
"We've been through this," said Moz, as soon as they turned the corner into a palm-lined side street. "I owe Hassan."
The eyes watching him were huge, magnified by a lifetime of unspilt tears. "Owe him what?" Malika asked.
"I don't know," Moz said. "I'm just tired," he added. "Tired of the fights and tired of watching my back. I'm tired of being locked into something I can't win."
"And this will end it?"
Moz shrugged. "It's a start," he said.
When they got back inside, Moz sat and Malika stood behind him, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. Only Hassan and Idries were fooled.
"Okay," said Moz, "we'll deliver the package."
"Good choice," said Hassan.
"Only first Malika and I get to look inside."
Hassan stopped smiling.
"Why?" demanded Idries.