“You see,” he told Deed, just before the magician blacked out, “I don’t want you remembering everything. Some, but not all. That might lead you to tell other people, especially under duress. So you just go back to that city, and do my bidding, and everything will become clear. Eventually.”
Returning to the Court, Deed felt as if he’d been gone for years. The Dead Road was like that: it was one of the most dangerous storyways of all. He doubted that anyone outside the Court even knew of its existence, although perhaps some of the Eastern mages trod their own version. Had Deed been truly human, it could have snatched him away, showing him its beautiful, flower-filled face, leading him lost and uncaring until the moment when it revealed itself for what it was and spat him out.
Good thing he wasn’t truly human. He thought back to the meeting with Loki. He remembered that the god had told him about a disir, sent into the city. That had to be a priority: he made a note on official parchment, and sent it to the Sept. But for the rest-try as he might, he couldn’t uncork the jar of memory. The old god had programmed him, as neatly as if he were a computing machine. Deed was disir enough to resent this, but man enough to recognise the sense behind it: any conscious information can be extracted under enough torture. The trouble was, how can you trust a trickster god?
The answer was: you can’t.
He sat back in the deep leather chair of his chamber, nursing the whisky. It tasted of peat, of age, of blood. He savoured it with disir senses humans did not possess. Even the disir needed down-time. Deed adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, meticulously picked a speck of lint from the black velvet. He was slightly disappointed when Darya walked in, her clicking heel-taps muffled by the thick carpet. She was smiling, and for a moment, Deed felt something that might almost be described as affection.
“I spoke to True. A dear old man,” she said. Her smile grew sharper.
“You’ve got the permit?”
“Oh, yes, Abbot General. He was so helpful,” Darya said. She sat down opposite, sinking into the seat and taking the glass of whisky that Deed proffered. “We had a most interesting chat and he’s given me a letter. Also he talked to the Librarian in charge of the collection and she’ll make sure that everything goes smoothly tomorrow.”
“Very good,” Deed said. He turned the glass in his fingers, admiring the glow of the whisky in the subdued light. “This Librarian. Do we know anything about her?”
“I’ve done a search of known… personnel,” Darya said. “I can’t find a reference to her. Her name is Nerren Bone.”
“Ah, Darya, Darya. If she’s in charge of a collection like the papers under discussion, then she’s almost certainly one of the opposition. But she won’t be able to say the same about us. People are interested in that sort of thing for all manner of reasons.”
“And you, Abbot General?” Darya asked politely, after a short pause. “How was your afternoon?”
He shrugged, thinking of the bone grove, the red-veined mistletoe, the blade-presence of one of the oldest and most dangerous gods of all. “Oh, you know. Quiet.”
Six
Shadow stood before the cage, looking in.
“Meteorite iron,” the Shah explained, giving the bars a light tap with an ivory wand. “It’s the only thing that will hold it.”
The cage shook as he tapped it, causing the floor to shudder. They stood in an upstairs chamber, fretworked windows looking out onto the roofs of the Quarter and across to its wall. Sunlight patterned the floor, chequered into diamonds and triangles by the carved wood of the shutters. The room smelled of spice, and smoke, and fire. The room was a prison.
“Let me guess,” Shadow said. “You found out the hard way?”
Suleiman gave his saddened smile. “You might say that. We lost… some personnel.”
“Oh, dear.” She looked at the thing in the cage. Impossible to see it directly: this was a thing to be glimpsed from the corner of the eye, and even then it was unclear, an amorphous shifting mass, boiling cloud, a localised storm. It had eyes.
“A djinn,” Shadow said.
“An ifrit, to give it the precise taxonomy. Not a common one, either. This is a rare species.”
“Then why isn’t it in the zoo?”
“People bring me things,” Suleiman said. “Things that they can’t… look after… elsewhere.”
“Ah,” Shadow said. “Now I’m with you.”
She was not inclined to elaborate. The Shah being a fence, a nexus point between worlds, people must bring all manner of stuff. Girls, guns, drugs, jewels. Stolen heirs. Missing spells. Ifrits.
“Does it have a human aspect? An animal one?”
“Almost certainly, but it hasn’t manifested it yet, despite efforts to force it to do so. A pity. It’s so much easier to engage with something that looks like a man. This is its natural shape-if they can be said to have a natural shape. You might have gathered that this isn’t my normal area of operations,” Suleiman said. “I’m not a naturalist.”
“They’re known to have sentience,” Shadow murmured. “That makes it doubly illegal. Did it come from Earth?”
“I don’t know. There are very few ifrits on Earth any more. The oil business, you know, and less… superstitious forms of Islam. Somewhere else, perhaps.”
“I am not a naturalist, either,” Shadow said, although she had a nasty feeling where the conversation might be heading.
“No. You are an alchemist. You change things, as we have mentioned, in the universe’s refining fire.”
“I change things,” Shadow replied, more sharply than she had intended. “Not living beings.”
“And yet,” Suleiman mused, “it is well known that the alchemy of the East is concerned primarily with the transformation of the human soul.”
“Something that the alchemist willingly undertakes,” Shadow said. “Not something that is done to someone. Besides-” She should not ask, she would not ask, and yet curiosity drove her to it, backed her into the corner of the question, “What do you want it changed into?”
“No,” Shadow said, an hour later, for perhaps the dozenth time. “I cannot do it.”
“Cannot? Or will not?”
“The latter. It’s against my vows.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the weakness in her voice, for she could not help wondering what if, what if? That was the problem with science; it was so rarely pure. But surely that was the essence of the battle, that one must struggle with the baser instincts of one’s own nature, transform them into the gold of mercy and compassion? In that, at least, Suleiman had been correct in his views on alchemy. If she had wanted to go down the left-hand route, she’d have joined the Court. Rumour had it that they had no such scruples and Shadow knew that rumour was right. She picked up her glass of tea, newly refreshed by the silent green-clad serving maid, and stared into it as if it might furnish answers. In the corner of the room, a plangent note came from the cage as the ifrit struck the bars.
“Against your vows? Or are you simply afraid?”
O Allah, thank you for not making me a man, Shadow silently prayed. She could afford not to sink under a weight of pride. “Of course I am afraid. What do you think, my Shah?”
Suleiman smiled. “I think anyone in your position would be afraid. Anyone who was either intelligent or sane.”
Shadow could not, however, say that what really scared her was the knowledge that he would force her to do it. The only question was how. She had isolated herself over the years: parents dead, family estranged, lovers nonexistent. Mariam Shenudah was her only real friend and Mariam, thank God, was well protected: as the Vice Chancellor of the quarter’s principal university, she was in too prominent a position for frivolous attacks. Shadow couldn’t afford to risk other people and that was an old sorrow. But that she had been brought this far, that the Shah had showed her what was within the cage of meteorite iron-that meant that Suleiman would not take no for an answer and no was the only answer she could give.