The girl frowned again. “You are a ghul hunter? And this one is a dervish?” she asked brusquely, without taking her eyes off Raseed.
Adoulla arched a displeased eyebrow at the ill-mannered child, though he wasn’t sure she saw it. “I am, and he is. But I thought that even the rudest of Badawi would have better manners than to nose into a stranger’s business before even giving their name.”
No hint of embarrassment crossed the girl’s features. “I am Zamia Banu Laith Badawi, Protector of the Band of Nadir Banu Laith Badawi.”
Adoulla glanced at his assistant. It was only then that Adoulla really saw the blood-stained slashes in Raseed’s blue silks. The cuts didn’t look deep, but Adoulla knew from experience how they burned. Of course, the stoic boy would show no sign of complaint. But herbs were needed there—ghulsbane and lavender. Adoulla was no healer, but his friends Dawoud and Litaz had taught him some little bits. “You’re hurt,” he said to his assistant, reaching into his satchel and producing a poultice pouch. He tossed it to the dervish, who sheathed his sword with clear reluctance and began mashing the pouch in his hands, preparing it for application.
Adoulla’s nose twitched at the floral pungency of the herbs being crushed. He looked back to the girl. “Zamia here can take the lion-shape, boy. You do recall my lessons on the old powers of the Empty Kingdom’s desert tribes? She just destroyed the largest ghul I’ve ever seen.”
The dervish’s eyes widened, and his hands stopped squeezing the pouch. He frowned slightly. “Impressive, Doctor. But the Traditions of the Order say ‘Being my enemy’s enemy does not make you my friend.’ ”
“Well, do a little dance, boy—for once those old hypocrites of yours had something wise to say. But I am not calling her a friend. I’m simply saying that she saved my life.”
The girl spit. “Vile men! Do not speak of me as if I weren’t standing before you!” Tribesmen’s speech had always sounded to Adoulla like rocks talking. This rough-looking girl sounded like a grating rain of pebbles. She focused her angry young glare on Adoulla. “What are you doing out here, old man?”
“Doctor, girl! You will call me Doctor or Uncle or something more respectful!” Angel-chosen or not, Adoulla had had enough of this rude little girl’s tone.
“The Badawi owe no allegiance to city titles,” she said sneeringly. Then, reluctantly, “But I will call you Doctor if you wish.” An even more arrogant expression spread across the girl’s homely features. “You say with your own tongue that I saved your life—this means that you owe me a debt of death.”
Adoulla barked out a laugh. Such notions these people have. “Does it, now? I am a ghul hunter, girl. Do you know how many lives I have saved? How many men and women and children I have kept from the claws of monsters? Did they pledge their lives to me? Did they become my slaves? No. This is a relic from one of your people’s ridiculous six-hour six-night story poems.”
The girl growled again but said nothing.
Adoulla sighed. “Look. You asked in your mannerless way what we are doing here? Well, as it stands, this ghul pack slaughtered a marsh family a few days ago. My assistant and I—”
“I saw them,” Zamia interrupted, and it was as if all of the arrogance had been bled from her voice. “I have been tracking these creatures for almost a week now, since they left the deep desert of the Empty Kingdom. I found the marshmen after they were killed, their ribcages cracked open, their hearts ripped from their chests. And their eyes… I’ve seen dead men before. I’ve killed men! Watched life’s light die in their eyes. But this was… There was no brown or black or white in their eyes—only red! Not blood. A glowing red like… like nothing I’ve ever seen. If that is what it means to die beneath a ghul’s claws….” The girl shuddered, folded her arms around her boyish frame, and fell silent.
Adoulla, as well, found himself momentarily speechless. Eyes bright with the color of the Traitorous Angel—more evidence that there was something here even grimmer than the hunting of ghuls. His insides clenched in fear. “Bone ghul or water ghul, sand ghul or night ghul, the unholy monsters eat the still-warm hearts of men. But this… This business with the eyes is something still more horrible. A cruel kind of magic, a form that the old scrolls say has vanished from this world. A sign that not just the flesh, but the soul itself has been sucked away and swallowed like marrow.”
The girl’s green eyes widened with shock. “Such a thing is not possible!”
Raseed, whose hands had been moving beneath his tunic as he applied the poultice, spoke before Adoulla could answer her. “The girl is right. God would not allow such a thing! The Heavenly Chapters say ‘Yea, though the flesh is scourged, the soul of the believer feels no—’ ”
“Please, boy, no scripture quoting! Your inadequate interpretations help nothing here, and my energies are needed for more important things than enlightening you through exegesis. Now—”
Zamia tilted her head and sniffed. “You’re telling the truth,” she said in a suddenly weak voice. “I smell no trace of deceit upon you.” And tears began to well up in her eyes.
Adoulla was perplexed. “And I smell no deceit upon you, Zamia Banu Laith Badawi. Though, despite its prominence, I’m sure my nose is not quite so accurate as yours. But now it is my turn to ask questions. Why these tears now? And how is it that you came to be here alone, stalking these monsters? Where is your band?”
“That is none of your concern,” Zamia said, her words wooden and heavy as she wiped a few tears from her plain face. The wind whipped up for a moment, the sound blending eerily with the harsh call of a hunting night-kite.
“We clearly share an enemy, girl. Surely even a tribesman can see that we should share information as well.” The girl’s eyes tightened, and Adoulla recalled a favorite saying of Miri’s: Bees and beetles alike love honey more than vinegar. That Miri rarely followed this dictum herself meant little. Adoulla needed to try a different tack. “Zamia, I don’t mean you any insult. I know what it is to lose your happiness to the ghuls. And I can help you, girl. If you let me.”
When the girl spoke it was with the voice of a dead woman. “I lied. When I spoke of finding the marshmen’s bodies, I said that I had never seen such a thing. I lied. I had seen it days before. It happened to my band.”
So that’s it. Adoulla reached out a comforting hand to the girl, but she stopped him with an angry look. She swallowed, wiped away another tear, and continued. “I was out scouting one night, far ahead of the rest of the band. The next morning, when I returned to where they’d set their tents… What I found…” The girl’s matter-of-fact tone slid away. She fell silent, her eyes wide with remembered horrors. Then she smothered her pain again and went on.
“Bodies. All of their bodies. All seven and fifty of the Banu Laith Badawi—old Uncle Mahloud and spoiled little Wazzi. Faziza, who believed that she really ruled the band. My father. My beautiful young cousin, who would have been chieftain—his body had been burned. All of them, do you understand? I am the last.”
It had the sound of something the girl had been repeating to herself. Adoulla did not speak, hoping the girl would go on.
“There were foul, puzzling smells everywhere,” she said after a moment. “Jackal-scent where no hair could be found. Fresh spilled child-blood that smelled of ancient buildings. But these scents led nowhere. The only sign I could find was this.” Reaching into her tunic the girl drew forth an ornate curved dagger. The blade was stained with what looked like dried blood.