“Oh, that’s ghastly,” breathed September.
“She sends the black cat after us, to the far north where we live. He pounced on my mother, Rabab, and held her still while her fishermen closed me up in a cage. I was small. I could not help her. I wished as hard as I could, but I cannot wrestle myself. I owned a scimitar of frozen salt, and I slashed at the cat with it, but he seized it in his jaws and splintered it, and I shall never see it again, or my mother, or my sisters, or my beautiful, lonely sea, which is so far off I cannot even hear her breathing.”
Iago licked his paw and looked mildly at September. Go on, little human, his gaze seemed to say, tell me I am wicked.
“But I’ve heard of Rabab!” said September suddenly. “I saw her on the newsreel! But she’s so young! She’s just been married!”
The boy fidgeted. “Marids… are not like others. Our lives are deep, like the sea. We flow in all directions. Everything happens at once, all on top of each other, from the seafloor to the surface. My mother knew it was time to marry because her children had begun to appear, wandering about, grinning at the moon. It’s complicated. A Marid might meet her son when she is only twelve and he is twenty-four and spend years searching the deeps for the mate who looks like him, the right mate, the one who was always already her mate. My mother found Ghiyath because he had my eyes.”
“That sounds confusing.”
“Only if you’re not a Marid. I knew Rabab as soon as I saw her. She had my nose, and her hair was just the same shade of black as mine. She was walking on the shore; a cloud of mist followed her like a dog. I brought her a flower, a dune daisy. I held it out to her, and we stared at each other for a long time. She said, ‘Is it time, then?’ I said, ‘Now, we shall play hide and seek.’ And I ran off down the strand. She still has to have me, of course. It’s like a current: We have to go where we’re going. There are a great number of us, since we are all forever growing up together and also already grown. As many as sparkles in the sea. We are solitary, though. So as to avoid awkward social situations. But it does mean the Marquess can wrestle us and still have us whole and healthy. We are her cake and her having it. I think my older self is already dead.”
“Does that mean you’ll never have children or a mate then, if the older you is gone?”
“No, I shall be him presently. I need only wait.”
“You poor thing, how terribly strange your life is! What is your name?”
“Saturday,” the boy said. “And it is only strange to you.”
“Even so… my name is September. And I am not going to let you stay in there, Saturday. Not today, not after everything.”
Now, September might have left well enough alone if she did not feel so terribly guilty about accepting employment with the Marquess. If she were not already thinking of some way to tell the Wyverary (while not looking at his blistered skin under his chain) that they had to go and get a sword for the tyrant. If she did not want to leave some bit of mischief in her wake. She took a step back, drew the Spoon out of her sash, and with a great swing that nearly whacked into Ell’s kneecap behind her, she brought the Spoon crashing down on the cage’s lock. Splinters of lobster cage flew in a most satisfying fashion.
Saturday crouched back, like a hound certain the dogcatcher is just around the corner. September reached out her hand. The blue boy hesitated.
“Will you beat me if I say no?” he whispered fearfully.
September thought she might cry. “Oh… oh dear. Not all the world is like that. Well. I am not like that.”
The boy took her hand, after all. It was heavier than she expected, as though he were made of sea stone. September was struck by how dark his eyes were, how wide in his thin face. It was like looking into the darkest possible sea, with strange fish at the bottom of it. He stared at her, silent, wild.
“I suppose you fancy yourself brave now, hmmm? A knight?” Iago growled.
“Saturday,” said September, ignoring the Panther. She held the Marid gently around the shoulders. “Do you think, if I wanted to, could I wish us all away from here and someplace with a warm fire and cider for you and food for all of us and safe harbor and just everything?”
“I told you-”
“No, I know, but we could just pretend to wrestle. And you could give in. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?”
Saturday straightened a little. He was taller than September, but not by much. The looping black patterns in his skin made whirlpools on his skinny chest. He wore some sort of sealskin trousers, torn at the knees, worn at the cuffs. “I cannot cheat. I cannot pretend. And even now, I am strong. I must be made to submit. Like the sea, my grandmother, I cannot be changed-I can only be mastered.” His shoulders slumped. “But I would rather be gentle. And loved. And never wish for anything, ever.”
“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I’m sorry for you. You will be punished for freeing me. The cat will eat you, probably. Or me. Or both of us. He’s very hungry most of the time.”
“He cannot eat Ell. Ell will whack him if he tries, I am sure. And possibly roast him. Come with us, Saturday, come away from Pandemonium. Into the forest, into the wild places where she does not want to go. I am not very tall, but I have a Spoon and a sceptre, and I will protect you if I can.”
The Panther Iago regarded them in a vaguely bored way. “But I hoped you’d stay for luncheon,” he purred. “I would have laid my head on your lap.”
“Thank you kindly, but I don’t think I’d like that,” said September brightly.
“You’re stealing her Marid,” the cat said tonelessly. “Do you want one of her cannons, too? They’re about the same: stupid, dangerous, and useful.”
“He doesn’t belong to her!”
“Well, he certainly does.” Iago grinned. His pink tongue flopped out between sharp teeth. “But I won’t tell. Iago won’t, no.”
“Why wouldn’t you? She’s your mistress!”
“Because I’m a cat. A big one, the Panther of Rough Storms, in fact. But still a cat. If there’s a saucer of milk to spill, I’d rather spill it than let it lie. If my mistress grows absentminded and leaves a ball of yarn about, I’ll bat it between my paws and unravel it. Because it’s fun. Because it’s what cats do best.” He tried to smile, but his teeth got in the way. “If I have a mind, I could even help. After all, it would be much more efficient… more modern… if you could fly to your destination instead of walking all that way. Being a Lieutenant has its small pleasures. Very small, sometimes. I could grant special dispensation to your Wyvern and remove his chains. Temporarily, of course. She would approve of that.”
A-Through-L slowly sat back on his haunches, sending up a cloud of dust.
“I could fly? Really fly? Like when I was small?”
Iago rolled his eyes. “Yes, like when you were small. Like when you were a wee lizard with nary a care in the world, licking your eyeballs and sucking crows’ eggs. Just like life was in that distant Eden of your scaly, wormy youth. How wonderful it will be, I’m sure. Shall I remove them for you?”
Ell looked down at his chains. With his claws, he lifted them in awe and let them fall against his hide. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, but was overcome. Once, and only once, he allowed himself to look up into the forbidden sky. And at last, he shook his great head. The sun glinted on his horns. “I… I can’t,” he said wretchedly. “Not while my sister M-Through-S can’t fly. Not while my brother T-Through-Z can’t. Not while my mother wanders on foot. The Marquess is splendid-oh, she is so splendid! If she should appear right this second, I would abase myself in gratitude. But I cannot take her beneficence. I cannot bargain for my own joy alone-no one else gets to fly. Why should I? I am not special, or worthy. If she should appear right this very second, I would beg her, ‘Let your magnanimousness find some other soul who longs to fly and unlock her chains.’ I will walk wherever it is I wish to go. I will walk to my grandfather the Municipal Library, and he will praise me for my unselfishness. I have walked my whole life. More will not hurt me.”