Alphabet of Dreams Page 5

  They were throwing stones … at us

  “Rudabeh?” Babak stepped forward. “Why are you throwing stones? You could hurt somebody. You could—”

  I snatched his hand, yanked him back, kept moving away from the caves. Rudabeh—the woman with the hump and the withered leg. Once, Babak had found a large, thick-soled boot lying in the street and had offered it to her. She had cut away the sole and affixed it to the bottom of one of her sandals, to extend her shorter leg. In return she had finger-knit a cap for Babak out of some string she had found.

  “Babak, ’tisn’t safe for you,” she called, and her voice seemed less harsh now. Seemed sad. “’Tisn’t safe for us, with you here. The Eyes and Ears of the king …”

  I stumbled, caught myself, turned back to stare. What about the Eyes and Ears of the king?

  More people appeared in ones and twos and threes in the openings that pocked the cliff. Usually these caves were silent, with lonely, shuffling figures, few of whom wanted to draw notice, except those whose minds had come unmoored. Never before had I seen a congregation—a mob.

  Another smack, and another—this one hit my foot.

  “Ouch!”

  Then a hail of them, all at once—bigger stones and chunks of hardened mudbrick—striking my shin, my knee, my shoulder. Babak cried out; I picked him up, spun round and, hunching my back against the volley, began to flee.

  “Cease with that!”

  It was Zoya, hobbling up the road from Rhagae. She must not have been far behind us. Now she brandished her walking stick up at the mob. “Shame on you! It’s little Babak you’re stoning. Leave off!”

  The chink sounds of rock-against-dirt dwindled. Out of range, I turned round, tried to make out who the other stone throwers were. Some had slunk back into the blue-blackness inside the caves; the others shimmered in the glare of the sun. The one-armed storyteller? The woman who conversed with a husband who wasn’t there? The emperor of Rome?

  “They’ve drawn the king’s spies, them two,” protested a querulous voice. “This is our last safe place, and they’ve spoilt it.”

  Spies. The Eyes and Ears of the king, Rudabeh had said.

  Here?

  “I told you, nothing’s spoilt,” Zoya said. “I’ll see to the Eyes and Ears. By the morrow you’ll have nothing to fear.”

  Then, “Go,” she commanded under her breath, giving me a shove. “Quick—before the wind shifts again. To my chamber—not yours.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE EYES and EARS of the KING

  Zoya clucked and fussed over Babak, checking him for bruises by the light that seeped into her cavern. “My brave little man,” she said.

  They were stoning me as well, lest you didn’t notice, I wanted to remind her. But even more, I needed to know about the Eyes and Ears.

  As I bandaged my cut leg with Babak’s dreaming cloth from the night before, Zoya explained that two men dressed as merchants had come earlier to the City of the Dead, asking to know about a small boy named Babak and an older brother or sister. “But they didn’t fool me,” Zoya said. “How often do you see a merchant with a bow case on his saddle or a bow ring on his thumb? And I’ve never seen a merchant with eyes that hard.”

  The Eyes and Ears of the king. I had been so certain they were through with us!

  Once, not long after we fled Susa, I had seen them. Suren had motioned us to crouch behind a heap of baskets in a crowded marketplace and told me to watch two riders who were passing on the street. The Eyes and Ears usually traveled in pairs, I had heard, and often dressed as these were—as prosperous merchants. But these merchants moved with a muscular grace, like soldiers. Daggers flashed at their belts, and their eyes, as they swept through the crowd, were searching and pitiless.

  “Are they looking for us?” I’d whispered to Suren.

  He had shrugged. “Might be.”

  “But why? We’re not a threat to Phraates—we’re only—”

  “You know better than that. The children of Phraates’ enemies … tend to disappear.”

  I had said, “Surely he wouldn’t send his spies across the country to search us out,” and Suren had just looked at me.

  “Sister?” Now Babak scooted next to me, looked up at me with eyes gone wide with worry. I tucked him under an arm.

  “I never thought to see you short of words, Mitra. Ramin,” Zoya amended, with more gentleness than was her wont. She shook her head, made a little hunh! sound in her throat. “Eh, you must be noble. Very noble, to prick the interest of the Eyes and Ears.”

  “Did one of them have a slit in one nostril?”

  “No,” Zoya said. She shot me a sharp, searching look, one I could not interpret. “Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. Her no had seemed startled but had had the ring of truth.

  “Did you tell them where we were? Did the others?”

  “Eh, the others all slunk away, too scared to say a word. I told the spies that I recollected you but hadn’t seen you for weeks. I told them you must have found another place to live. Then, once they’d left, I went to find you, to warn you.”

  Another favor. What would this one cost, I wondered.

  “Tell me,” Zoya said. “Who are you, in truth? What happened to you and your kin? Suren told me some, but … why do the king’s Eyes and Ears want Babak?”

  Because of Father. Because he had plotted to overthrow Phraates, to take the crown for himself.

  But it had been three years!

  “Ramin? I asked you, why?”

  “Why should I tell you? So you can betray us?”

  “Don’t be a thick-wit! I’m your friend. Your only friend. If I weren’t, I’d have betrayed you long since.”

  True, she had kept some secrets. About our noble birth. About my sex.

  “Maybe the Eyes and Ears heard something about Babak’s dreams,” I said. “That Scythian who stared at us, the one I told you about—he’s been flapping his tongue. I saw him! He pointed at Babak, and then another man chased us.”

  “Chased you? Who?”

  I described Slit-Nose vaguely—leaving out that he was a servant of the Magus. I didn’t want her running to the caravansary, selling Babak’s dreams. The Magus had power, and power did as power pleased. He could force us to go east to Margiana with him, take us yet farther from Palmyra.

  Zoya frowned. “A scar, you say? A slit in one nostril?”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully. “Be that as it may. Folks here don’t want the Eyes and Ears sniffing round. We all have secrets, Ramin—and none of us craves the notice of the king’s spies. No. You can’t stay.”

  “But they didn’t find us. They don’t know we’re here. We could lie low for a while, until Suren—”

  “Suren is not here!” Babak flinched and stiffened under my arm. Zoya continued less harshly, but her eyes were fierce. “You don’t know when he’ll return. The Eyes and Ears of the king have come looking for Babak—here, to these very caves! They’re a different breed of steed from the Scythian that searched for you before, Ramin. They will find you if you stay. They’ll lace folks’ palms with silver till they find their way back here. It’s only a matter of time till they return.”

  “But …”

  Where could we go? Although I’d been planning to leave—eager for it—the prospect now felt like stepping off a precipice. Nothing to catch on to. Nowhere safe to land. I didn’t know another place, know the ways of it. Snug places to hide. The best spots to beg or steal or scavenge. And Suren. How would he find us? I clutched at something Zoya had said earlier. “But you promised you’d take care of the Eyes and Ears. By tomorrow, you said, we wouldn’t have to worry.”

  “They needn’t worry. You must. Listen. Have you put by passage to Palmyra?”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t sure how much it would take, but Suren had spoken of quantities of gold—not just silver and copper.

  “But you’ve put by some. I’ll take you to the Magus, ask for protect
ion.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Mitra. He’s all but made of gold. He could keep you safe.”

  “And we would be forced to go where he is going—not where we need to go. We would live at his pleasure; he would command us. We couldn’t book passage for Palmyra, we couldn’t slip away—”

  “Mitra, you misjudge your peril. The Eyes and Ears—”

  “No. Not with the Magus.”

  Zoya opened her mouth, seeming about to reply, then shut it. “Eh, well. As you wish.” She bowed down before me, mocking. “But you’ll need to hide somewhere till nightfall. I know a place for it. Then we’ll see.”

  “And we’re not leaving Rhagae. Not until Suren returns.”

  I knew I was being mulish. I knew we had to leave—and soon—but I didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to go with the Magus, and I didn’t want to have to be grateful to Zoya, and I didn’t want to be pushed.

  Zoya was shaking her head. “Mitra,” she said gently. “Why do you think the king’s Eyes and Ears thought to ask for Babak here?”

  “The Scythian! I told you, he’s been talking!”

  “To this city, Ramin. Why would they come here?”

  “I … I don’t know. They’ve likely been to many cities, they—”

  “They said they had—to come to this city—traveled far.” Zoya waited a moment, waited for the word to come to me.

  “Suren.” It came out in a whisper, like breath.

  “Mmm.” She nodded. “And why now, after all this time? And,” she said, holding up a hand to hush me, “if they asked for Babak by name, why didn’t they ask for Suren as well? You—you’re a girl. Not like to come avenging your kinsmen one day. But Suren … how long is it he’s been gone?”

  “A little more than two months.”

  “Well.” She shrugged. “It’s my guess … Suren’s been captured.”

  CHAPTER 11

  CAPTURED

  Captured.

  The word rang in my ears as Zoya pushed aside a tall basket set against a far, dark corner of her chamber, revealing a low opening. Suren—captured.

  Something was wrong with my mind; it was like polished marble, with no soft, porous places for captured to seep in and penetrate. There was only the light of Zoya’s lamp, moving before us through the dank and airless passage, and the feel of Babak’s small hand in mine. There was the smooth, hard rock against my feet, and baskets of dried fruit and nuts along the walls.

  Captured. Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine it. I could see him only as he had been years ago in Susa—the older brother I had adored, had followed like a puppy. I could see the lock of hair that fell across his eyes as he bent to untangle a halter rope knot I had botched. I could feel his strong hands lifting me out of an olive oil jar where I had hidden and become stuck. I could hear his patient voice defending me to my mother after I had committed some offense—lost my temper, perhaps, or stayed out too long riding, or ruined yet another gown.

  A whiff of fresh air restored me to the present. A little way ahead, a different kind of radiance: an opening. Drawing near, I saw that a boulder stood a short distance outside the cave mouth, blocking the entrance from prying eyes.

  So this was where Zoya stored her cache. This was how she managed to get in and out without anyone’s seeing.

  “Sit down now,” she said. “We’ll bide here till dark.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’ll see.”

  “We’ll see? Don’t treat me like a child; I want to know. Perhaps Babak and I will find our own way.”

  It was dim in the faint sunlight that leaked into this place. Still, I caught her look of scorn. “Your own way. And I wonder what that might be. Listen: I’ve a friend, not two hours’ walk from here. I … did her a favor once. She owes me.”

  Of course she did. But, “Two hours’ walk. There is no city, nor even a village within two hours.”

  “Her husband’s of the marsh folk.”

  The marsh folk. I had heard tell of them. It troubled me, though, to put our fate in Zoya’s hands. For so long I had trusted no one but Suren and myself.

  Captured.

  Could we trust Zoya?

  She didn’t wish us ill, I didn’t think. Though desire for her own gain pulled her hard, she did seem fond of Babak. Her brave little man. And she truly could have betrayed us before now.

  “When can we go home?” Babak asked.

  I flashed Zoya a silencing look. “In a while,” I lied. I rubbed his back, as my mother used to rub mine. To Babak, home was a tiny cavern in the City of the Dead. And now he was denied that as well.

  Zoya stayed with us for a time. She leaned against a wall and began to snore so loud, I was certain we would be discovered. I poked her to make her stop; she grunted and thrashed at me with her stick. Babak curled up against me, and soon I felt his body breathing in the slow cadences of sleep. Dreaming? What would it be like, to dream? To escape this life and dwell, for a time, in another? It had been so long, I could scarcely remember. I closed my eyes for a moment or two but opened them when I heard a soft rustling. Zoya was tucking something beneath Babak’s tunic.

  “You’ll need coin for the journey,” she explained. “Once you’re gone, there’ll be no more from the Scythians. Here.” She pressed four coppers into my hand. “Your portion, and Babak’s. I’ll collect for the whole after you’re safe away.”

  I took the coins. I found it oddly comforting that Zoya was trying to squeeze out one last bit of profit from Babak’s dreams. It made me less wary of her kindness. And we would have need of coins. Of that I had no doubt.

  Soon, Zoya told me she was going out to seed the rumor that Babak and I had gone east with the earlier caravan—through the Caspian Gates to Margiana. “With luck,” she said, “the Eyes and Ears’ll fall for it.”

  “Why would they?” I demanded.

  She regarded me with an expression I could not quite fathom. Pity, perhaps, but with a flinty bite of judgment. “Suren told me what you would not hear—you were so intent upon his going. He told me he feared the Eyes and Ears—”

  “He told me he feared them!”

  “Feared they would force him, by means of … pain, to tell where you and Babak lived. And so, when not in pain, he would also tell them you had gone to Margiana. Which they might believe if, once here, they also heard rumors to that effect.” With that she hobbled outside.

  I slumped against the cave wall, feeling a chill wrap itself around my heart.

  By means of pain.

  Oh, Suren!

  He had not wanted to go. I had quarreled with him, cajoled him, pressed him without mercy. I had accused him of being soft, of settling for the brutish life of the City of the Dead, of growing content with the companionship of the caves’ lowborn dwellers. If you care nothing for yourself, I had flung at him, think of Babak. Think of his birthright.

  My birthright. Thought, but never said. How could I survive without hope, without dreams of reclaiming our old life?

  Once, Suren had been strong. He had rescued us in Susa, had gathered us up and hidden us from the soldiers in a secret chamber beneath the house. He had led us away at night, through many nights, through many weeks, through many months. But in time, it seemed, something vital had leaked out of him. He would spend all day in the City of the Dead, sleeping, wandering through the passages, gossiping with this pathetic old beggar, listening to the woes of that one. It was I who stole or scavenged all our food, I who kept our lamp in oil.

  You can’t have your old life back, he would say to me. It’s over. Done.

  But I had shamed him into leaving.

  And despite that, he had laid plans to protect us?

  Something was drifting apart within me, like a tattered old spiderweb, snapping one thin strand at a time—some false hope that kept me strung together so long as I pretended to believe in it. That Suren would go to Susa, find the gold, lead us all back to Palmyra, as he had led us here. That he woul
d reunite us with our kin and the life we were meant to live.

  Now we were alone, with no one to care about us—only those who would shun us, or use us one way or another, or …

  Captured.

  A shudder passed through me.

  And what the Eyes and Ears of the king wanted with Babak, I did not care to think.

  CHAPTER 12

  STAR DANCE

  At last, when the light from outside had faded, I heard a scraping sound. A faint glow of lamplight seeped into the passage to Zoya’s chamber. I sat taut and coiled—wondering if I ought to wake Babak, wondering if we ought to flee—but soon my ears recognized Zoya’s shuffling footsteps, and soon after, my eyes found the shape of her stooped form.

  She came to squat beside me. “The seeds are planted,” she said. “Let’s hope they bear fruit.” She reached into her sash and pulled out Shirak, who opened his one eye wide and let out a protesting mew. “See what I found.”

  I groaned but took the kitten. I had forgotten all about him.

  Zoya reached into Babak’s tunic for the cloth she had put there and secreted it into her sash so quickly I caught only a flash of white. She held up her lamp to illuminate his face. “Has he dreamed?”

  “I don’t know. He was peaceful all this time.”

  “Best wake him now. Time to go.”

  “Babak,” I said, gently shaking his shoulders. “Wake up.” His eyes blinked open, then shut. “We have to go now, Babak. Look.”

  I set Shirak beside him; the kitten purred and butted his head against Babak’s belly.

  “Ask him about his dream,” Zoya murmured in my ear. “Ask him.”

  “No,” I whispered. “He’ll balk.”

  “Babak,” Zoya said, ignoring me, “did you dream?”

  He rubbed his eyes and frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Think, my brave little man,” she said, flinching as I poked her but continuing nonetheless. “Those dreams you had for others. Did you wake from one just now?”