Chapter 2

As it turned out, Pukah’s suggestion led them straight to Nedjma. Unfortunately, the djinn never had a chance to gloat over it.

It was with some difficulty that they made their way through the dead city of Serinda—now possibly the liveliest city in this world or the next. The two djinn and the angel were continually accosted by merrymakers seeking to draw them into their revels.

“Thank you,” said Pukah, disentangling himself from a throng of Uevin’s Gods and Goddesses who were weaving through the streets. Clothed in nothing but grape leaves, they carried jars of wine that they lifted to purplestained mouths. “But we’re a girl short, you see. We’re looking for one for my friend!” he explained to the countless pairs of glazed eyes focused—more or less—on him. “Yes, that’s right. Now if you’d just let us past. . . No, no! Not you, I’m afraid, my dear. We’re hunting a specific girl. But if we don’t find her, I’ll bring him right back.”

“I’m not your girl,” said Asrial coldly, attempting to pry her hand loose from Pukah’s.

“Fine!” returned the djinn, exasperated. “When I’ve rescued my master and your madman from whatever difficulty they’ve managed to land in without me, then I’m coming straight back here!”

“Mathew isn’t mad!” Asrial cried indignantly. “And I don’t care where you go—”

“Shhh!” Pukah held up his hand for silence, something practically impossible to achieve amidst the hubbub around them.

“What?”

“Listen!”

Rising above the laughter and the giggles and the shouts and the singing, they could hear—very faintly—the shrill, offkey, sinuous notes of the quaita, accompanied by the clashing jingle of the tambour.

Sond glared at Pukah.

“Very well!” The young djinn shrugged. “Ignore it.” Without saying a word, Sond turned and crossed the street, heading for a building whose shadowy arched doorways offered cool respite from the sun. Roses twined up ornate lattice work, decorating the front. Two djinn in silken caftans lounged around outside the doorways, smoking long, thin pipes. Sond looked neither to the right nor the left, up nor down, but pushed his way past the djinn, who stared after him in some astonishment.

“Eager, isn’t he?” said one.

“Must be a newcomer,” said the other, and both laughed. Raising his gaze to the upper levels of the building, Pukah saw several lovely djinniyeh leaning seductively over the balconies, dropping flowers or calling out teasingly to the men passing by in the street below.

Pukah shook his head and glanced at a grave and solemn Asrial. “Are you sure you want to come in here?” he whispered.

“No. But I don’t want to stay out here either.”

“I guess you’re right,” Pukah admitted, scowling at the redbearded barbarian who appeared to be following them. “Well”— he grasped her hand again, smiling as her fingers closed firmly over his—”just keep close to me.”

Tugging Asrial after him, Pukah stepped between the two djinn lounging in the doorway.

“Say, friend, bring your own?” commented one, tapping Pukah on the shoulder.

“I know that voice!” Pukah said, studying the other djinn intently. “Baji? Yes, it is!” Pukah clapped the djinn on his muscular forearm. “Baji! I might have known I’d find you here! Didn’t you recognize Sond, who just walked past you?”

“Friend, I don’t even recognize you,” said the djinn, eyeing Pukah calmly.

“Of course, you do! It’s me, Pukah!” said Pukah. Then, frowning, “You aren’t trying to get out of paying me those five silver tumans you owe me, are you, Baji?”

“I said you’re mistaken,” returned the djinn, a sharp edge to his voice. “Now go on in and have your fun before things turn ugly—”

“Like your face?” said Pukah, fists clenching.

The shrill, anguished bleep of a quaita being cut off in midnote and the clattering of a tambour hitting the floor mingled with a female scream and angry, masculine voices raised in argument.

“Pukah!” Asrial gasped. Peering into the shadows of the entryway, she tugged on the djinn’s hand. “Sond’s in trouble!”

“He’s not the only one!” said Pukah threateningly, glaring at his fellow djinn.

“Pukah!” Asrial pleaded. The voices inside were growing louder.

“Don’t leave!” Pukah growled. “This will only take a moment.”

“Oh, I’ll be right here,” said the djinn, leaning back against the archway, arms folded across his chest.

“Pukah!” Asrial pulled him along.

Crystal beads clicked together, brushing against Pukah’s skin as he passed through them into the cool shadows of the arwat. A wave of perfume broke over him, drenching him in sweetness. Blinking his eyes, he tried to accustom himself to a darkness lighted only by the warm glow of thick, jojoba candles. There were no windows. Silken tapestries covered the walls. His foot sank into soft carpeting. Luxurious cushions invited him to recline and stretch out. Flasks of wine offered to make him forget his troubles. Dishes heaped high with grapes and dates and oranges and nuts promised to ease his stomach’s hunger, while the most enticing, beautiful djinniyeh he’d ever seen in his life promised to ease any other hungers he might have.

An oily, rotund little djinn slithered his way through the myriad cushions that covered every inch of the floor and, glancing askance at the angel, offered Pukah a private room to themselves.

“A charming little room, Effendi, and only ten silver tumans for the night! You won’t find a better price in all of Serinda!” Catching hold of Pukah’s arm, the chubby djinn started to draw him across the room to a beadcurtained alcove.

Pukah jerked his arm free. “What’s going on here?” He glanced toward the center of the room, where the shouting was the loudest.

“Nothing, Effendi, nothing!” assured the rotund djinn, making another attempt to capture Pukah’s arm, urging him onward. “A small altercation over one of my girls. Do not trouble yourself. The mamalukes will soon restore peace. You and your lady friend will not be disturbed, I assure you—”

“Pukah! Do something!” Asrial breathed.

Pukah quickly assessed the situation. A flute player sat gagging and coughing on the carpeted floor; it appeared he’d had his quaita shoved down his throat. The tambour player lay sprawled amid the cushions, unconscious; one of the drummers was attempting to bring him around. Several patrons were gathered together in a circle, shouting and gesticulating angrily. Pukah couldn’t see between their broad backs, but he could hear Sond’s voice, bellowing from their midst.

“Nedjma! You’re coming with me!”

A shrill scream and the sound of a slap was his answer, followed by laughter from the patrons. Irritably shoving away the grasping hands of the rotund rabat-bashi, Pukah ordered, “Stay here!” to Asrial and shoved his way through the circle.

As he had expected, Sond stood in the center. The djinn’s handsome face was twisted with anger, dark with jealousy. He had hold of the wrist of a struggling djinniyeh with the apparent intent of dragging her out of the building.

Pukah caught his breath, forgetting Asrial, forgetting Sond, forgetting why they were here, forgetting his own name for the moment. The djinniyeh was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on, and there were parts of her on which he longed to lay more than his eyes. From her midriff up, only the sheerest of silken veils covered her body, sliding over her firm, high breasts, slipping from around her white shoulders. Honey gold hair had come loose in her struggle and tumbled about a face of exquisite charm that, even in her indignation, seemed made to be kissed. Numerous long, opaque veils hanging from a jeweled belt at her waist formed a skirt that modestly covered her legs. Noticing several of these veils wound around the heads of the onlookers, Pukah guessed that the djinniyeh’s shapely legs, already partially visible, wouldn’t be covered long.

“Nedjma!” said Sond threateningly.

“I don’t know any Nedjma!” the djinniyeh cried.

“Let go of her! On with the dance! Pay your way like everyone else!”

Pukah glanced behind him and saw the rabat-bashi make a peremptory gesture. Three huge mamalukes began to edge their way forward.

“Uh, Sond!” Shoving the unsteadyfooted patrons out of his way, Pukah tripped over a cushion and tumbled onto the cleared area of the dance floor. “I think you’ve made a mistake!” he said urgently. “Apologize to the lady and let’s go!”

“A mistake? You bet he’s made a mistake.” A huge djinn that Pukah didn’t recognize and thought must be one of Quar’s immortals thrust his body between Sond and the djinniyeh.

“The girl doesn’t know you and doesn’t want to,” the djinn continued, his voice grating. “Now leave!” Pukah saw the djinn’s hand go to the sash he wore round his waist.

Sond, his gaze fixed on the djinniyeh, saw nothing. “Nedjma,” he said in a pleading, agonized voice, “it’s me, Sond! You told me you loved—”

“I said leave her alone!” The large djinn lunged at him.

“Sond!” Pukah leaped forward, trying to deflect the knife. Too late. A quick hand movement, the flash of steel, and Sond was staring down at the hilt of a dagger protruding from his stomach. The huge, djinn who had stabbed him stepped back, a look of satisfaction on his face. Slowly, disbelievingly, Sond clutched at the wound. His face twisted in pain and astonishment. Red blood welled up between his fingers.

“Nedjma!” Staggering, he extended the crimsonstained hand to the djinniyeh.

Crying out in horror, she covered her eyes with her jeweled hands.

“Nedjma!” Blood spurted from Sond’s mouth. He crashed to the floor at her feet and lay there, still and unmoving.

Pukah sighed. “All right, Sond,” he said after a moment. “That was very dramatic. Now get up, admit you were wrong, and let’s get out of here.”

The djinn did not move.

The patrons were gathering around the djinniyeh, offering comfort and taking advantage of the opportunity to snatch away more of the veils. The huge djinn put his arm around the weeping Nedjma and drew her away to one of the shadowy alcoves. The other patrons, wailing in protest, demanded that the dance continue. Other djinniyeh soon appeared to ease their disappointment.

Clucking to himself about blood ruining his best carpets, the rabat-bashi was pointing at Pukah and demanding payment for damages. The tall mamalukes, faces grim, turned their attention to the young djinn.

“Uh, Sond!” Pukah knelt down beside him. Placing his hand on the djinn’s shoulder, he shook him. “You can quit making a fool of yourself any time now! If that was Nedjma, she’s obviously enjoying herself and doesn’t want to be bothered. . . Sond.” Pukah shook the unresponsive body harder. “Sond!”

There was a flutter of white wing and white robes, and Asrial was beside him. “Pukah, I’m frightened! Those men are staring at me! What’s Sond doing? Make him get up and let’s leave—Pukah!” She caught sight of his face. “Pukah, what’s wrong?”

“Sond’s dead,” said Pukah in a whisper.

Asrial stared at him. “That’s impossible,” she said crisply. “Is this more of your antics, because—” The angel’s voice faltered. “Promenthas have mercy! You’re serious!”

“He’s dead!” Pukah cried. Almost angrily, he grabbed Sond’s shoulder and rolled the body of the djinn over on its back. An arm flopped limply against the floor. The eyes stared at nothing. Pulling the dagger from the wound, the djinn examined it. The blade was smeared with blood. “I don’t understand!” He glared around the room. “I want answers!”

“Pukah!” Asrial cried, trying to comfort him, but the ma- malukes shoved the angel aside. Grasping the young djinn by the shoulders, they dragged him to his feet.

Pukah lashed out furiously. “I don’t understand! How can he be dead?”

“Perhaps I can explain,” came a voice from the beaded curtained entryway. “Let him go.”

At the sound, the mamalukes instantly dropped their hold on the djinn and stepped back from him. The proprietor ceased his lamentations, the patrons swallowed words and wine, several nearly choking themselves, and even this sound they did their best to stifle. No one spoke. No one stirred. The light of the candles flickered and dimmed. The fragrant air was tinged with a sweet, cloying smell.

A cold whisper of air on the back of his neck made Pukah’s skin shiver. Reluctantly, unwillingly, but completely unable to help himself, the djinn turned to face the doorway. Standing in the entrance was a woman of surpassing beauty. Her face might have been carved of marble by some master craftsman of the Gods, so pure and perfect was every feature. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Hair, thin and fine as a child’s, fell to her feet, enveloping her slender, whiterobed body like a smooth satin cape of purest white.

Pukah heard Asrial, somewhere near him, moan. He couldn’t help her, he couldn’t even see her. His gaze was fixed upon the woman’s face; he felt himself slowly strangling.

The woman had no eyes. Where there should have been two orbs of life and light in that classic face were two hollows of empty blackness.

“Let me explain, Pukah,” said the woman, entering the room amid a silence so deep and profound that everyone else in the room seemed to have suffocated in it. “In the city of Serinda, through the power of Quar, it is at last possible to give every immortal what he or she truly desires.”

The woman looked expectantly at Pukah, obviously waiting for him to question her. “And that is?” he was supposed to say. But he couldn’t talk. He had no breath.

Yet his words echoed, unspoken, through the room. “Mortality,” the woman replied.

Pukah shut his eyes to blot out the sight of the empty eye sockets.

“And you are—” he blurted out.

“Death. The ruler of Serinda.”