The Theft of Sunlight by Intisar Khanani (story reading .TXT) 📕

My hands clutch each other so tightly my nails dig into my skin. “What of Red Hawk?”

“What of him?”

I shake my head, not understanding this turn of events. “You said—”

“If we have not heard back yet, I doubt we will. This proposition, on the other hand, has merit. If I act on it before sunrise, you may still keep your neck intact. Or at least”—he smiles, a gleam of white in the near-dark—“I will not be the one to cut it.”

“I see,” I say, though I’m not sure I do.

“My honor,” he explains, his voice patient in the darkness. “The only way you live is if Red Hawk ransoms you, which apparently he will not, or this proposition goes through. If the proposition is not to my advantage”—he shrugs—“you die. But if it is, then I have every reason to consider it.”

“And the proposition?” I manage, my throat hoarse.

“That remains to be seen.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence. The carriage pulls up to an old building, the door before us made of solid oak, plain but strong. Two armed men answer, watching the Scholar and his men with grim faces. I glance either way up the cobbled street, but it lies empty of any who might help me, the few people present studiously ignoring us, and the Scholar’s hand is firm on my elbow. Not that I would attempt to run, surrounded as I am.

The guards escort us through a dark entryway, down a narrow corridor, and from there into a great atrium, the high walls open to the brightening sky, exquisite mosaics adorning the space. Halfway up one wall an iron railing abuts a closed door—an upper-room access to the light of the atrium. As we enter, a man rises from where he sits at a small table and chair, a pot of tea before him. His voice and bearing are equally hearty.

“Well, old man! It’s been some time, hasn’t it? How are your books keeping you? Not starting to molder among them, are you?” He laughs at his own jest.

The Scholar regards him icily. “It seems you are the same as always, Bardok.”

I start, my eyes finding out the man’s hands. His right hand lacks the final digit. I stare, unable to believe this. Why would we come here? What could Bardok Three-Fingers possibly want with me? And how did he hear about me?

“Nah, nah,” Bardok says, crossing to us. He is even bigger than I thought, a good head taller than the Scholar, and built like a bear. He wears light armor even here, in what must be his home. Or at least, a safe house in his own territory. “I’ve put on a bit more.” He pats his belly, which looks more muscle than fat from what I can tell. “It’s the women, you know. Or”—he snorts with laughter—“you don’t.”

The Scholar, done with such inanities, cuts to the chase. “Your message was intriguing, but I have only so much patience. This is the girl. What would you offer in return?”

“That’s her, eh?” Bardok looks me over. “Not much to her.”

I clamp my mouth shut, seething. What does he know?

“Now what does Red Hawk see in her?” he continues on, musing. “See that jaw? She’s no bed warmer.”

I make a strangled sound. The Scholar’s hand tightens into a vise on my arm just in time to keep me from snarling at the man. Which would be foolish. Suicidal, even. But oh, to wipe that smile from his mouth, even for a moment.

“I expect not,” the Scholar says, sounding bored. “What you would want with her is more to the question.”

“You put a price on her head, I hear,” Bardok says with a grin. “A bit too high to get your ransom. Me, I’m not so hard to please. I want something of Red Hawk, and he’ll give.”

“Will he?”

Bardok winks at me. “She might be able to charm her way into a quick death with you, old friend, but I won’t offer her death. Red Hawk may be stubborn, but he’s got his honor too. And like I said, I won’t be demanding coin.” He rubs his hands together. “I’m looking forward to a good game.”

The Scholar’s hold eases somewhat on my arm. “And why should I give up my game to yours?”

“I could tell you,” Bardok says, his hands coming to rest on his hips, one hand unconsciously caressing the hilt of his short sword. “But I’d much rather show you. This way.”

We follow Bardok out of the atrium and up a staircase to a second level lit by periodic luminae stones. Thief lords certainly don’t lack for money, or the connections to get what they want.

“Here we are,” he says, swinging open a door and stepping in. The Scholar pushes me in before him, as if I were a shield. I have a moment to take in the room before he steps through: an open window opposite, a guard seated on a stool halfway between door and window, his back to the wall, and across from him, two men. Chained. No mosaics here, just a small inset tile above the men’s heads, a strange design of connected curves and crisscrossing lines painted onto it. It looks oddly familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen it before.

I feel the Scholar start. Looking back, I see a fleeting emotion cross his features before his face ices over—disbelief? Or fury? “I see,” he says.

“Good men,” Bardok says cheerfully. “But they didn’t just wander into my territory; they tried to spy on my own. Now, normally I would slit their throats and be done. But then I thought, sure you wouldn’t want to exchange these two trespassers for your one. You can rough ’em up a bit, as you like, and so long as I’ve your word I won’t see them again, I’ve no problem giving them over to you.”

From the look of it, the men have already been “roughed