Chapter 4

The entire population of the city of Serinda gathered to celebrate Pukah’s funeral. The arwat’s proprietor (a new one; the former had been dispatched during the night in a quarrel over the price of a room) discovered the djinn’s body in the morning when she made a tour of the rooms, throwing out any guests too drunk to stagger forth on their own.

Death came to view the body as it was being carried forth, accompanied by a mockery of solemn state and ceremony. The dancing girls preceded it. Dressed in sheer, filmy black silk, they wept copiously and disappeared rapidly; there being those in the crowd who offered to comfort them in their affliction. The arwat’s musicians played funeral music to a festive beat that started an impromptu street dance as the bearers carried the djinn’s corpse on their shoulders to the Temple of Death. Several fights broke out along the route—those who had placed bets on the time of death were arguing among themselves vehemently, since no one was quite certain when he’d died.

Death walked behind the body, smiling upon her subjects, who instantly cleared a path for her, scrambling to get out of the way of her coming. The hollow eyes scanned the mob, searching for one who should have been in attendance but was not. Death did not look for the assassin. She had taken Sond last night. Several immortals, convinced that they were the “Prince’s” bodyguards, cornered the djinn in an alley and effectively avenged the death of their imagined monarch. Sond lay once again in the Temple where he would be restored to life as a slaver, perhaps, or a thief, or a Prince himself.

“Where is the angel?” Death questioned those who gathered to watch. “The woman who was with the djinn yesterday?”

Since few to whom she spoke remembered yesterday or knew anything about the dead man other than that it was rumored he had sought to destroy their city, no one could answer Death’s question. Asrial had come to Death last night, bearing the amulet, and had given it into her hand without a word. Death promised that the angel should leave at sunset the following day, when the bargain was concluded. Asrial had seemed ill at ease, inattentive, and had vanished precipitously without responding to Death’s offer.

“Truly she loves that liar,” said Death to herself, and it occurred to her as she walked among the crowd that Asrial might have attempted to prevent the djinn’s assassination and could very well have fallen victim to Sond’s knife herself. Death shrugged, deciding it didn’t really matter.

Pukah was laid upon a bier of cow dung. The singing, dancing immortals strewed garbage over him. Soaking the bier in wine, they made preparations to burn it with the setting of the sun.

Death watched the proceedings until, bored, she left to follow the Amir’s troops into battle against another city in Bas. This city was proving obstinate—refusing to give up without a fight, refusing to acknowledge Quar their God. Death was certain to reap a fine harvest from this bloody field. The Imam had ordered every kafir—man, woman, and child—put to the sword.

She had all day until she must return to Serinda and see her bargain with Pukah completed.

Death had time to kill.