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Snare
A novel of the far future
Katharine Kerr
Copyright
Voyager
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2003
Copyright © Katharine Kerr 2003
Katharine Kerr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
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Source ISBN: 9780006480396
Ebook Edition © JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780007387229
Version: 2014-08-18
Dedication
For Howard, again and always
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: The Faithful
Part Two: The Lost
Part Three: The Damned
Epilogue: The Fourth Prophet
Keep Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
Part One
The Faithful
The great king Chursavva of the Chiri Michi said to the leaders of the Humai, ‘You have broken taboo. You have come to the forbidden country. Your power shall be deadened forever, and your trinkets smashed and broken.’ Thus said Chursavva on the first day of the council, and all the Humai wept and wailed in terror. Then the captain of the Humai rose and spoke boldly to the king’s face. ‘We did not mean to break taboo. Yet we will accept your terms, as proof of our kind hearts and pure minds.’
And the great king Chursavva of the Chiri Michi said to the leaders of the Humai, ‘You keep the spirits of many animals bound into the crystals in the jars and cabinets of your flying boat. You may choose two large ones and two small ones and two winged ones to accompany you into your long exile.’ Thus said Chursavva on the second day of the council, and all the Humai moaned in confusion. Then the captain of the Humai rose and led his chiefs apart into their fort so that they might choose the animals.
Over the two small animals there was no dissension, for all loved the beasts known as the eeka and the cat. Over the two winged animals there was no dissension, for all loved to eat plump fowl and to see hawks fly. Over the first large animal there was no dissension, for all agreed that the sheep would provide clothing as well as meat. But over the second large animal there was dissension. Some wished for a beast known as the cow, which gave much milk and meat, but which required much land on which to live. Some wished for a beast called the goat, which gave some milk and some meat, but which could live in the waste places of the wild lands. And so they argued, until an old woman rose and called for silence.
‘It is truly said that the cow and the goat, and yes, even the unclean pig, will give us food and give us skins for our clothes. But you are all forgetting the beast known as the horse.’
Many of the council members jeered, saying that the horse was tough and stringy and would give little food. The old woman called again for silence and continued her speaking.
‘Little food, yes, but it will give us something greater, something that Chursavva can never foresee.’
‘Indeed?’ said the captain of the Humai. ‘And what is this marvellous gift?’
‘Speed.’ The old woman paused and smiled. ‘And eventually, freedom.’
And the council members fell silent, thinking about ancient wars in the history of the Humai, until one by one they smiled, too, and pronounced the old woman wise beyond belief. And because a woman chose the horse, to this day among the Tribes women alone may own them …
From the Histories of Ahmed, the Last Hajji
In the warm night, the scent of true-roses hung over the palace gardens. Among the red spear trees and the obsidian statuary, water splashed in fountains and murmured in artificial streams. In a cluster of orange bamboid two persons sat side by side in the lush true-grass, one a young slender woman, shamelessly bareheaded, and the other a heavy-set soldier with a touch of grey in his dark curly hair. Anyone who saw them would have known that they were lovers, but Captain Idres Warkannan was hoping that this truth would hide another, that they were also plotting high treason. Lubahva Shiraz acted her part by giggling in the most vapid way she could manage. Her gold bangles chimed as she laid a slender, dark-skinned hand on Warkannan’s arm.
‘Do you see why I thought you needed to hear this?’ she whispered. ‘Right away?’
‘I certainly do. Send me another note if you hear more.’
‘I will. We’ll be doing the dinner music tomorrow for the same officials. They forget about us once we’re behind that brass screen.’
Lubahva kissed him goodbye, then got up and trotted off, hurrying back to the musicians’ quarters. Alone, hand on the hilt of his sabre, Warkannan made his way through the palace grounds. As an officer of the Mounted Urban Guard, he had every right to be in the Great Khan’s gardens, but he hurried nonetheless, cursing when he found himself in a dead-end, striding along fast when he could see his way clear.
The palace buildings rarely stood more than a single storey high, but they dotted the gardens in an oddly random pattern. Beautiful structures of carved true-wood housed palace ministers and high-ranking officials. Squat huts of pillar reed and bamboid sufficed for servants. In the warm night windows stood open; he could hear talk, laughter, the occasional wail of a tired child, but no matter how domestic the sounds, he knew there might be spies behind a hundred different curtains.
Beyond the buildings, low walls of filigree moss and high walls of braided vines transformed the hillside into a maze made up of mazes. Down some turnings, the cold pale light of star moss edged broad paths that ended in thickets of bamboid. Down others, fern trees rose out of artificial ponds and towered over him, their fronds nodding and rasping in the evening breeze. Among their branches, the golden-furred eekas whistled and sang; now and then two or three dropped suddenly down to dash in front of him on their spidery legs. Once Warkannan took a wrong turn and ended up caught in an angle of mossy walls, where half-a-dozen eekas surrounded him. They joined their little green hands and danced around him in a circle, squeaking and mocking. When he swore at them, they darted away.
The outer wall at last – he’d reached it without being challenged. Gates of gilded true-wood stood open in the living walls of thorn vine, woven into bronze mesh, that guarded the compound. Two guards in the white tunics over black trousers of the infantry stood at attention on either side. When Warkannan held up his hand in salute, one stepped out to talk with him: Med, an old friend, smiling at him.
‘I thought you were on long leave,’ Med remarked.
‘I am. Just came by to see one of the palace girls and pick up my salary.’
‘Those girls don’t come cheap, do they?’
‘No. She’s got her heart set on a necklace she saw in town, she tells me. God only knows how much that’s going to set me back! It’s a good thing I’m doing some investing these days.’
‘Well, good luck with it, then.’
‘Thanks. I’m going to need it.’
Warkannan sauntered through the gates while he wondered if his excuse would hold. Would someone high up in the chain of command learn that he’d returned to the palace in the middle of his leave?
‘Charity, sir, oh charity?’ A crowd of ragged children rushed forward and surrounded him. In the lamplight Warkannan could see their pinched little faces, their bony hands, the rags flapping around prominent ribs. ‘Oh please sir!’
Warkannan dug into the pocket of his uniform trousers; he’d taken to carrying small coins, these days. The children waited, staring at him. There was only one way to give charity without being followed and mobbed. He held up the handful of deenahs, glanced around, and saw a patch of well-lit grass.
‘Here.’ Warkannan tossed the coins into the grass. ‘Go get them!’
The children dove for the coins, and he hurried downhill, jogging fast till the street curved and hid him from their sight. Every day, more beggars, he thought. When is this going to end?
The Great Khan’s compound lay on the highest hill of Haz Kazrak, a city of hills. Far below to the west lay a sea-harbour, embraced by stone breakwaters where red warning torches glowed and fluttered, staining the water with reflections. In the cloudless sky the Spider was just rising in the east. This time of year the entire spiral would be visible by midnight as a swirl of silver light covering a tenth of the sky. Already it loomed over the eastern hills like the head and shoulders of a giant. Over the open ocean the two Flies, small glowing clouds, were scurrying to the horizon ahead of their eternal enemy. The rest of the sky stretched dark.
As Warkannan walked on, the Spider and its light disappeared behind a hill, but the soft glow of oil lamps bloomed in the twisting streets. The neighbourhood around the palace was safe enough. The compounds of the rich lined the wide streets, and most had lanterns at their gates and a doorman or two as well, standing around with a long staff to keep beggars and thieves away. Further down, though, the private lamps disappeared; the streets narrowed as they wound along the slopes. The squat little houses, made of bundled reeds or bamboid, stood dark and sullen behind kitchen gardens that smelled of night soil and chicken coops. Warkannan stayed out in the middle of the street, where the public lamps shone, and kept his hand close to the hilt of his sabre.
Down by the harbour the way broadened and brightened again. Here among the shops and warehouses people stood talking or strode along, finishing up the day’s business or drawing water from the public wells. A good crowd sat drinking with friends in the cool of the evening at one or another of the sidewalk cafés. In the centre of the harbour district lay a large public square, and in its centre stood a six-sided stone pillar, plastered with public notices and religious dictates from the Council of Mullahs. Whores lounged on its steps or strutted back and forth nearby, calling out to prospective customers. Warkannan noticed one girl, barely more than a child, hanging back terrified. She’d been forced onto the streets to help feed her family, most likely. It happened more and more these days.
Warkannan crossed the square, then paused to look up at the velvet-dark night sky. In the north he saw the Phalanx, as the Kazraks called them: six bright stars zipping along from north to south, tracing a path between the Flies and the Spider. Since they appeared every night at regular intervals, he could get a rough idea of the time, enough to figure that he was late. In the light of a street lamp he took out his pocket watch. Yes, a good twenty minutes late. He put the watch away and hurried.
Fortunately his destination lay close at hand, where the street dead-ended at a merchant’s compound. Over the woven thorn walls, the fern trees rustled as the breeze picked up from the ocean. The outer gate was locked, but a brass bell hung from a chain on the fence. When Warkannan rang, the doorman called out, ‘Who is it?’
‘Captain Warkannan.’
‘Just a minute, just a minute.’
Warkannan heard snufflings and the snapping of teeth, low curses from the doorman, and a collection of animal whines and hisses. Finally the gate swung open, and he walked in cautiously, glancing around. Huge black lizards lunged on their chains and hissed open-mouthed as they tried to reach his legs. When the doorman waved his staff in their direction, they cringed.
‘They can’t get at you,’ he said, grinning. ‘Just stay on the path.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ Warkannan fished in his pocket and found a silver deenah to tip him. ‘Thanks.’
The gravelled path led through the fern trees to an open space around the house, a rambling structure, all one storey, woven of bundled rushes and vines in the usual style, but overlaid with a small fortune’s worth of true-wood shingles. At the door, Nehzaym Wahud herself greeted Warkannan and ushered him inside the warehouse. Although she never told anyone her age, she must have been in her late forties. On her dark brown face she wore the purrahs, two black ribbons tied around her head. The one between her nose and upper lip marked her as a decent woman who observed the Third Prophet’s laws of modesty; the other, around her forehead, proclaimed her a widow.
‘How pleasant to see you, Captain,’ Nehzaym said. ‘I’m glad you could join us tonight.’
‘My pleasure, I’m sure. I’m extremely interested in this venture of yours.’
‘If the Lord allows, it could make us all quite rich, yes.’
Warkannan followed her across the room. Against the walls, covered with a maroon felt made of dried moss, stood a few lonely bales and sacks of merchandise left over from the winter trading season, a big desk littered with documents, some battered cabinets, and a tall clock, ticking to the rhythm of its brass pendulum. Nearby a bamboid door led into Nehzaym’s apartment. She ushered him through, then followed. In the middle of the blue and green sitting room a marble fountain bubbled, pale orange ferns in bright pots stood along the walls, and polished brass screens hung at every window. Just in front of the fountain stood a low table, spread with maps of pale pink rushi, where other members of their circle sat waiting for him.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Warkannan said.
Sitting on a heap of purple cushions, Councillor Indan Alwazir looked up. The old man kept his long white robes gathered round him as if he were afraid he’d be polluted by the incense-laden air. Warkannan’s nephew, Arkazo Benjamil, a young man with a beaky nose and a thin-lipped grin, was sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding a good-sized glass of arak between thumb and forefinger. When Warkannan frowned at him, Arkazo put the glass down on the floor and shoved it under the table in one smooth gesture.
Standing by the marble fountain was the most important man in their venture. Tall and slender, Yarl Soutan was wearing the white shirt and loose white trousers of a Kazrak citizen, but his blue eyes, long blond hair caught back in a jewelled headband, and his pale skin marked him for the infidel stranger he was, a renegade from the Cantons far to the east of the khanate. Although he looked Arkazo’s age, his eyes seemed as old and suspicious as Indan’s, squinting at the world from a great distance. As always, Warkannan wondered just how far they could trust a man who claimed to be a sorcerer.
‘We have been waiting,’ Indan said to Warkannan. ‘For some while, actually.’
‘I had to go up to the palace. You’re about to hear why.’
Indan raised an eyebrow. With a demure smile for the men, Nehzaym barred the door behind her, then perched on a cushioned stool near the councillor.
‘All right,’ Warkannan said. ‘Someone’s laid an information against us with the Great Khan’s Chosen Ones.’
Arkazo swore. Indan went pale, his lips working. With a little laugh, Soutan turned from the fountain.
‘I told you I saw danger approaching. These things always send omens ahead of them.’
‘You were right,’ Warkannan said. ‘This once, anyway.’
‘May God preserve!’ Indan was trembling so badly that he could hardly speak. ‘Do they know our names?’
‘Calm down, Councillor,’ Warkannan snapped. ‘Of course they do, or we wouldn’t have anything to worry about. They’re wondering if we’re really going to prospect for blackstone.’
‘Is this anything special?’ Arkazo broke in. ‘As far as I can see, the Chosen are suspicious of everything and everyone all the time.’
‘I don’t know what they know,’ Warkannan said. ‘All that Lubahva heard was that someone bragged about our investment group. He implied it might be more important than it looked. The Chosen don’t ignore that kind of rumour.’
‘Indeed,’ Indan said. ‘Who was it?’
‘Lubahva doesn’t know yet.’ Warkannan paused to glance at each member of the group in turn. ‘I’m not doubting anyone here, mind, but our circle’s grown larger recently. I knew we’d reach a danger point.’
The suspicion in the room hung as heavy as the incense. Everyone looked at Yarl Soutan, who strolled over and sat down.
‘And would I run to the Chosen after throwing in my lot with you? The Great Khan wouldn’t give me a pardon for spilling your secrets. He’d have me killed in some slow painful way for having come here in the first place.’ Soutan laid a hand on the maps. ‘I wonder – someone must suspect that I brought you something besides those old maps.’
‘That’s my worst fear,’ Warkannan said. ‘If they do, they’ll send a man east to the Cantons just to see what he can learn about you.’
‘Oh good god!’ Soutan snarled. ‘That could ruin everything.’
‘Exactly,’ Indan said. ‘Why do you think I’m terrified?’
Soutan nodded. For a long moment they all looked at each other, as if the information they so desperately needed could be read from the empty air.
The Crescent Throne of Kazrajistan ruled these days by the sword and terror. Gemet Great Khan had gained the throne by sending his Chosen Ones to kill everyone in his own extended family with a good claim to be a khan, a word that had come to mean a man fit to be the supreme leader by blood and so sanctified by the mullahs. Now Gemet lived in fear of revenge, and with good reason. His brothers and half-brothers had married into the best families in the khanate, and with their murders and the confiscation of their lands, those families had lost sons and property both. Since he knew that any more confiscations would make the armed aristocracy rebel, he’d turned on the common people with taxes for teeth.
The last heir, young Jezro Khan, had been serving on the border, an officer in the regular cavalry. The assassins came for him, as they had for all the others, but no one ever found his body. With his assumed death, the khanate had settled into ten years of paranoid peace. Just recently, however, Soutan had ridden into Haz Kazrak and brought Councillor Indan a letter in Jezro’s handwriting. Jezro Khan was alive, living as a humble exile far to the east. After some weeks of weighing risks, Indan had contacted Warkannan, who’d served with Jezro in the cavalry. Warkannan could still feel his shock, could taste his tears as he looked over the familiar writing of a friend he’d given up for dead. Together he and Indan had gathered a few trustworthy men and made contacts among those families who’d suffered at the current emperor’s hands. Soon they had pledges of soldiers and coin to support the khan’s cause if he returned. Things had been going very well indeed – until now.
‘If we’re going to prevent disaster, we have to move fast,’ Indan said. ‘We need to shelter Soutan above all else.’
‘Just so,’ Warkannan said. ‘And we’d better do it tonight. Councillor, you have a country villa, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, and my servants there are most trustworthy.’
‘Good. You and Soutan get yourselves there. I’ll stay in the city and keep in touch with Lubahva. If we all bolt at once, the Chosen are likely to draw some conclusions.’
Indan’s face went ashy-grey.
‘I’ll be sending you word as soon as I can,’ Warkannan said. ‘Lubahva’s group plays for every important man in the palace, and she hears plenty.’ All at once he smiled. ‘She’s always complaining that they treat the musicians like furniture. It’s a damn good thing, too. We’ll find this traitor yet.’
‘So we may hope.’ Indan sighed, looking suddenly very old and very tired. ‘But I see ruin ahead of us all.’
‘Oh come now, don’t give up so soon.’ Soutan turned to the councillor. ‘You forget that you have powerful magic on your side.’
‘Indeed?’ Indan said with some asperity. ‘But if it can’t read the minds of the Chosen, it’s not much good to us.’
‘Perhaps it can.’ Soutan gave him a thin-lipped smile. ‘Don’t mock what you don’t understand.’
When Indan started to snarl an answer, Warkannan leaned forward and cut him off.
‘Patience, Councillor,’ Warkannan said. ‘We don’t know what the Chosen are going to do. They may look us over and decide we pass muster.’
‘They might,’ Indan said. ‘Or they may have sent one of their spies east already. Or a dozen of them, for that matter.’
‘It should be an easy thing to find out.’ Nehzaym glanced around the circle. ‘Most of our allies are on the border. If we warn them, they’ll keep watch.’
‘The Chosen are very good at what they do.’ Indan’s voice seemed on the edge of fading away. ‘Doubtless, when they send off their man, no one will suspect a thing.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’ Warkannan got up with a nod for Arkazo. ‘Let’s go. Gentlemen, I suggest you leave with us. We’ll walk into the town square together and talk about our maps and our profits. Remember, we want to be noticed doing ordinary things.’
Warkannan, with Arkazo in tow, headed for the door, but when he glanced back, he noticed that Soutan stood whispering with Nehzaym near the fountain. What was the charlatan up to now? Indan joined him, followed his glance, and raised an eyebrow.
‘Soutan?’ Indan called out. ‘We’d best be on our way.’
‘Of course.’ Soutan strolled over to join them at the door. ‘Of course. Our lovely widow was merely asking my advice about a small matter.’
Nehzaym glanced at Warkannan as if inviting comment. He merely shrugged, then turned and led the men out.
The Spider hung at the zenith on her thread of stars by the time that Soutan returned to the compound. Nehzaym was reading in the sitting room when she heard the lizards outside hiss and the chains clank. She took a lamp, hurried into the warehouse, and crossed to the door just as the sorcerer opened it. With a little bow he stepped inside, then turned to shut the door behind him.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Soutan said. ‘Warkannan’s idea of acting normally is to sit around in a café and argue about anything and everything.’
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Nehzaym said. ‘He’s quite intelligent whether he acts it or not.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Shall we go in?’
‘By all means. I’m anxious to see this treasure of yours.’
‘I just hope you can tell me what it is.’
She led the way back into the apartment. They walked down a short hallway to her tiny widow’s room, which sported a window on one wall, a narrow bed at one end, a small threadbare rug on the floor, and little else. Out of habit she still kept her clothes, her jewellery, the chests of bed linens, and the like in the large room she’d shared with her husband. One of the treasures he’d given her, however, she kept here, where a thief would never bother to look for anything valuable. She set the lamp down on a wooden stand. Soutan sat on the floor, cross-legged, while she knelt by the rug and rolled it back to expose the sliding panel under it.
Inside the hide-hole lay a book, bound in purple cloth, and what appeared to be a thin oblong of grey slate, about twelve inches by nine, lying on a black scarf. As she was taking the slate and scarf out, Soutan craned his neck to look inside the hole; she slid the panel shut fast. He laughed.
‘By all means,’ Soutan said, ‘you’d best keep that book hidden. The Sibylline Prophecies, isn’t it?’
Nehzaym shrugged, then laid the slate down between them on the scarf. It hummed three musical notes and began to glow.
‘God is great,’ Nehzaym sang out. ‘The Lord our God is one, and Mohammed, Agvar, and Kaleel are His prophets. In their names may all evil things be far away!’
‘Amen.’ Soutan leaned forward, staring.
In the centre of the panel the glow brightened to a pale blue square, which slowly coagulated into the image of a round room with a high ceiling. Floors, walls, the dais in the middle, the steps leading up to that dais – they all glittered silver in a mysterious light falling from above.
‘Whenever I take it out, I see that picture,’ Nehzaym said.
‘Does it show you others?’ Soutan said.
‘Only this one. And look!’ Nehzaym pointed to a narrow red bar of light, pulsing at one side of the slate. ‘When this light flashes, a minute or two later the image fades.’
Already, in fact, the room was dissolving back into the pale blue glow. The red light died, leaving the slate only a slate. Soutan made a hissing sound and shook his head. ‘Where did your husband get this?’
‘In Bariza. He bought it in the marketplace from a man who dealt in curios.’
‘Curios? Well, I suppose the ignorant would see it that way. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Only that you have to feed it sunlight every day. I take it to the garden. In the rainy season it doesn’t work very well.’
‘No, it wouldn’t. Our ancestors knew how to bind spirits into their magicks. They feed on sunlight. When they’re hungry, they refuse to do their job.’
‘I can’t say I blame them. Are the spirits immortal?’
‘What a strange question!’ Soutan smiled, drawing back thin lips from large teeth. ‘Everything alive must die, sooner or later.’
‘And when all the spirits die?’
‘There won’t be any more magic, just like your Third Prophet said. No doubt you Kazraks will celebrate.’
‘We’ve chosen to live as the First Prophet wanted us to live, yes.’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘And how will your people feel about losing their magic?’
Soutan shrugged, his smile gone. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen for a good long while, a thousand years, say.’ He pointed at the panel. ‘What do you think that room is?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
‘I can’t, not for certain, but I’ll make a guess. You have a copy of the Sibyl’s book. Have you read the part about the empty shrine?’
Nehzaym felt her clasped hands tighten.
‘I see you have,’ Soutan said. ‘One of these days you might see the Fourth Prophet standing on that dais.’
‘If God would only allow, I’d happily die.’
‘You’d be happier if you stayed around to see what happened next. Now. Let me see if I can show you something interesting. May I pick it up?’
‘Certainly.’
Soutan took the slate and peered at it in the dancing lamplight. He ran one long finger down the side, paused, fingered the back of it, then suddenly smiled. He took a full breath, and when he spoke, the sound seemed to come from deep inside his body and buzz like an insect. The words made no sense to her at all. The spirit in the slate, however, must have understood them, because the panel chimed a long note in answer.
Soutan laid the slate back down on the floor. A new picture was forming of a different room, inlaid with blue and white quartz in a diamond pattern.
‘Another shrine?’ Nehzaym whispered.
‘Perhaps. Wait and see.’
Slowly the room became clear – a half round, this time, and just in front of the flat wall stood two slender pillars, one grey, one white. Between them hung what appeared to be a gauzy veil, yet it shimmered and sparked with bluish light. Nehzaym twined her hands round each other. A pale blue thing shaped like a man appeared in the centre of the room. He waved his hands and seemed to be speaking, but she could hear nothing. Suddenly the thing’s face filled the image. Its eyes were mere pools of darker blue; its purple lips mouthed soundless words.
Nehzaym shrieked, a sound that must have frightened the spirit inside the slate. Once again the red light began to flash. The image disappeared.
‘May the Lord preserve!’ Nehzaym said. ‘A ghost!’
‘Do you think so?’ Soutan looked at the panel for a long silent moment. ‘If I had gold and jewels to give, I’d heap them all in your lap in return for it. Unfortunately, I don’t.’ His voice dropped. ‘Unfortunate for you, perhaps.’
Nehzaym started to speak, but her voice caught and trembled. Soutan rose to his knees and considered her narrow-eyed, his hands hanging loose at his sides, his fists clenched.
‘Take it,’ Nehzaym said.
‘What?’
‘If you want the nasty thing, it’s yours. I work and pray for the coming of the Fourth Prophet, but this is evil sorcery. I don’t want it in my house.’
Soutan sat back on his heels and stared at her slack-mouthed.
‘I suppose I must look superstitious to you,’ Nehzaym said. ‘I don’t care. Take it. It’s unclean.’
