Chapter 18
In the dancing light of their torches, Falco’s men appeared almost comically loutish. There was a glassy red hue to their
eyes and a wild filth to their bodies that spoke of a breakdown of mores to which even most criminals cling. They were ridiculously
over-armed, not only with normal weapons, but with hammers, pickaxes, and hastily constructed contraptions of broken glass,
metal shavings, and rocks. Pieces of treasure and bones from the burial pit hung against their chests and around their wrists
in a twisted interpretation of protective amulets. Strung pearls, rotting silk scarves, and gold chains with rubies, emeralds,
and carved lapis beads looped their necks; gilded belts and gauntlets gleamed from bloody sweat-streaked skin.
Such a spectacle did not seem promising for me, and yet at the word “nakhudha,” the fearsome group seemed to exhale as one,
wonder widening their too-bright eyes. The men fanned around me, and my heart skipped. The way they moved—low to the ground,
their shoulders hunched as though they feared being seized by a spectral beast—was thoroughly unsettling. It felt more like
being surveyed by a pack of wary starving hyenas than people I might have once called kindred: fellow sailors who spoke my
tongue, many who likely once prayed in my faith. What had the Frank done to them?
“A nakhudha,” a man wearing a crown of teeth and moonstones whispered, his voice breathy as though he had screamed himself
hoarse.
“It has worked,” another intoned. A crudely sewn panel of rib bones was bound across his chest. “It is as he said it would be.”
“We bring her?”
“We bring her.”
Before I had time to question any of that, I was roughly grabbed and disarmed all at once.
Rib-Bone Man motioned to a pair of mercenaries. “Keep searching for the villagers. They can’t have gotten far.”
The chosen two did not look pleased to be sent deeper into the cave with only a single torch. I could only pray they found
nothing and be grateful I was deemed enough of a threat (a mystery? a foretold arrival?) to have the bulk of the men accompany
me.
I dawdled, loitered, stumbled, and generally made as much a nuisance of myself as possible while being bodily escorted out
of the cavern. The cave’s mouth came up quicker than I expected, and I blinked in the bright light of the enormous firepit
dug into the rocky soil. A dozen or so men were clustered in small groups, some drinking and eating, a few sparring. Their
camp was a mess; I suppose the Frank had little time between murder and torture to appreciate the benefits of a neatly maintained
base. They had no tents, and their supplies were disorganized: filthy blankets piled in a heap and the food they’d stolen
from the Socotran villagers spilling out of baskets. Plundered grave goods were everywhere: burial masks and treasure chests
littering the sand, ceremonial silver weapons and painted redware urns tossed in a pile.
My captors dragged me toward the bonfire. A single man stood there, tending the roaring flames with his back to us.
Rib-Bone Man shoved me to my knees. “We are saved , my lord.” Hope and fear commingled in his voice, like a hunting dog returning a prize to an abusive master. “Your magic
worked. We’ve been granted a way off the island.”
The other man didn’t bother turning around, instead continuing to root through the smoldering logs with a long iron poker. “You found a way off Socotra inside the cave?” he asked with weary doubt.
“ Yes ,” Rib-Bone Man said, more frantic this time. “We found the nakhudha you wanted! The nakhudha Amina al-Sirafi.”
When the man tending the fire first spoke, his stilted Arabic unlike any accent I had ever heard, I suspected. When he dropped
the poker and spun around at my name, I knew.
Falco Palamenestra and I had found each other.
***
Our stories always want to make villains larger than life. They should be snarling or scarred, hunchbacked or otherwise marred
in a way society doesn’t like. It makes them easier to demonize.
But life is not nearly so simple, and if you were expecting a cruel Frankish sorcerer to be looming and freakish, with pale
watery eyes and parchment-colored skin, I fear I will disappoint. Much of what was to come that night is mercifully blurred
in my memory, but my first glimpse of Falco Palamenestra remains inscribed upon my mind’s eye. There was no robe with warded
spells stitched into the fabric, nor even a tunic with a bloody cross. Instead, Falco was dressed in the custom of our men,
down to his sandals and jubba. Unsurprisingly for someone who’d made his living killing for others, he was largely built:
my height at least and with shoulders that could easily wield the heavy broadswords the Franks are said to favor. He had keen
brown eyes under a thick brow, a strong nose, and a cleanly shaved square jaw, his wavy brown hair streaked with silver. He
must have been at least a decade older than me, but he otherwise appeared healthy and strong if a bit pale.
But as he stared me up and down with open, curious appraisal, I could not help but notice there was something wrong, something
missing in his otherwise warm eyes. The gentle quizzical expression on his face didn’t fit the man responsible for the horrific scene
in the cave.
Because it’s a mask . Of a type I had seen before. Most criminals are driven by desperation and poverty, by circumstances they would change if
they could. But occasionally you come across someone who simply enjoys the violence of it. Someone who kills when he could
injure, who injures when he need not do any harm. The kind of man who could have consigned three elders to a grisly, lingering
death and slaughtered people like cattle as their loved ones watched and wailed.
Falco spoke again. “Show me her left arm.”
The men holding me complied, twisting my wrist and shoving up my sleeve to reveal the scarred flesh.
“It is as they say,” he murmured. “And her teeth?”
“If any fingers come near my mouth, I’m going to bite them off,” I warned. “Please don’t test me.”
A small smile played over Falco’s mouth in response. His gaze had yet to leave my body. I’ve been looked at any number of
ways by men: with desire and rage, bemusement and condescension. This was different. There was... happy delight in his
twinkling eyes, a weirdly childish reaction—if that child was the type to pull the wings off flies and drown kittens.
I strongly suspected it did not bode well for me.
“She certainly sounds like the nakhudha I’ve heard so much about. And at just the right time.” Falco tilted his head. “Fascinating.”
“My lord, the villagers...” Rib-Bone Man wrung his hands. “Forgive me, but they are gone. They must have fled deeper into
the cave.”
“Then I suppose they will get lost in the darkness and starve. They have served their purpose; if we are to find our wayward
scribe, the nakhudha may be all I require.” Falco briefly turned back to the fire, picking up the iron poker to retrieve a
covered cauldron from beneath the glowing embers. Then he walked off, beckoning me to follow. “Come, Amina al-Sirafi! We have
much to discuss.”
We do? I wasn’t sure how I had anticipated my first encounter with Falco Palamenestra going, mostly because I had hoped to find a way to avoid ever meeting the sorcerer who made Layth choke to death on a purse of dirhams. But being treated like I was his expected passage off Socotra was not it.
Then again, it was better than being murdered outright, especially when I was trying to learn more about Dunya and buy my companions time.
Besides, I had made small talk with worse people, right?
The slaughter in the cave flashed before my eyes. Well, no. Falco would probably be the worst.
“Do you care for wine?” he asked, nodding for me to sit on a rug spread before the bonfire. He dipped a cup into a half-buried
clay amphora. “Something to eat? I know how important guest right is to your people, and I would not wish to start our relationship
on poor footing.”
He had carried the cauldron over with the iron poker and opened it now, releasing a noxious greasy stench. There was a crackling
sound like splattering animal fat, and within the caldron’s molten crimson depths I would swear something writhed.
My stomach churned. “I do not drink. And my dietary restrictions are... comprehensive,” I decided, hoping that would encompass
whatever was wriggling in his pot.
“Alas.” Falco took a seat across from me. God forgive my old weakness, but as he drank from his cup, I ached for some wine.
I was giving my best effort at bravado, but I had walked into the camp of my enemy, even if Falco did not seem to consider
me that, with no plan other than stalling, and there was clearly something terribly wrong with these people.
Swallowing back as much fear as I could, I nodded at the amphora. “I found what was left of your ship. Odd you had the presence
of mind to save that.”
“A good wine is worth the risk.” He took another sip, appearing to savor it. “One I doubted the creature who attacked us would
appreciate.”
With little desire for the Frank to learn Raksh and I had crossed paths, I feigned ignorance. “You were attacked ? By what?”
“By something less picky than you in its food preferences. But you need not fear. The creature is now well sated and under
control. It would pose no risk to your Marawati unless I commanded it so.” Falco smiled, an expression that didn’t touch his eyes. “So where is your ship?”
It was my turn to be evasive. “She goes where she likes.”
“And the rest of your compatriots? Surely they are with you. Your Indian first mate and the female assassin? There is the
navigator as well, yes? The African they call Majed? I could not find him, but I hear he is brilliant.”
So the Frank had looked for Majed. I cursed Raksh anew in my head. “You went to a lot of effort to learn about me and my crew.”