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

up”: both sport bruises, split lips, and black eyes. One man cradles his arm awkwardly in his lap, the other sits hunched, one hand at his temples. Their eyes, dark and glittering beneath the purple bruises, appear half-crazed with desperate hope as they look at the Scholar.

I avert my gaze, my stomach tight as a fist. The guard against the wall catches my eye. He tilts his head toward the window and mouths one word: Jump.

I stare at him, hardly registering the conversation continuing around me. The guard looks toward his charges as if I were not there at all, but I didn’t imagine what he just told me. Why would he help me escape the thief lord he serves? It makes no sense. On the other hand, he can’t truly have been serious. Jump? From the second story? With the Scholar holding me tight and Bardok Three-Fingers between me and the window?

But Scholar’s grip has slackened somewhat, and Bardok has moved forward to kick one of the prisoner’s ankles. The man scrabbles away, pressing against the plain plaster wall.

“They’re your men,” Bardok says with disgust. “Why not trade for them?”

“I don’t sanction trespassing,” the Scholar replies. “You can kill them as well as I. Why should I give up the girl for that?”

I’m dead. I’m dead if I stay, and dead if I jump. I might as well jump. But I have to get away from the Scholar first. With my bone knife wrapped up tight at my waist, I have no weapon to turn on him, not without fumbling about for it and losing any element of surprise I might have had. I will have to find another way. My mind flashes over the single defensive lesson I’ve had, what way I might best break the Scholar’s hold on me.

“She’s useless to you,” Bardok says. “The men you can make an example of.”

“You’re right,” the Scholar says suddenly. With a vicious twist, he yanks me around, changing his grip from elbow to wrist, a dagger flashing out of his robes. “She’s no use to me. But I don’t give up bargaining pieces to anyone, Bardok.”

The dagger presses against the pale brown of the inside of my wrist. The world goes quiet in my ears, though I am aware of Bardok speaking, the Scholar smiling as he looks up, past me.

I won’t be able to pull my wrist away without slitting it. But oh, he won’t expect me to move toward him.

With a shout, I piston my wrist in, landing a rather weak punch to his chest. The dagger slides up my arm, cutting sideways. I step in, snapping my knee up between his legs as he shifts his grip on his dagger. He shouts, hunching over in pain.

I twist my wrist free and use that same move Matsin taught me, slamming my other palm into the Scholar’s shoulder and sending him half falling backward. I dart around Bardok, who is doubled over with laughter, and throw myself at the window, tumbling over the sill and down, limbs knocking against the wall as I fall.

I land with a bone-jarring thump, then slide sideways a pace or two before hands grab me and ease me—down? I gasp for air, my vision spinning as I find my feet. A hay cart. I landed in a hay cart.

“Run,” my helper says, shoving me forward. I can hear shouting above me. I sprint as best I can down the road, still struggling to breathe, knowing that any of the Scholar’s men could catch me while going at a steady jog. Curse my stupid foot! My breath sobs in my chest as I reach a cross street.

“Here, Rae,” a man says, standing a pace down the alley to my right. I stumble, staring at him. He whips back his hood, gesturing to me impatiently. Artemian. The moment I turn the corner, he is beside me, one arm wrapping around me to carry me forward. Two more paces and he pulls me through a doorway and down a connecting hall to another alley. Darkness swirls around me, but I think it must just be the running. And the fall.

“Get in,” Artemian says, pushing me forward again as we exit the hall. In the alley, a small carriage waits, its door open. I scramble up, Artemian following and yanking the door shut behind him. The driver whips the horses into a gallop, jerking the carriage forward and sending me to my knees.

“Easy,” Artemian says, catching my elbows and raising me to the bench. “What’s this?” His hand is slick with something dark. He grabs my hands, bending closer to inspect me in the dim confines of the carriage. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh,” I say. Right. “The Scholar had a dagger.” I take a shaky breath and find that I’m trembling all over. “Shock, probably,” I add. I don’t think the cut is deep.

“Hold on, Rae,” Artemian says, his voice grim. “I’m going to wrap this up. We’ll get you patched up in no time.”

“Right,” I say, holding my arm up as he directs. I can feel the wetness now, soaking my sleeve and dripping onto my skirts. I think of the Scholar, the darkness in his eyes, and of Bardok’s laughter booming through the room.

“Gonna take a pretty big patch,” I say, and try not to let out the half-hysterical laugh caught in my breast. I don’t quite succeed.

Chapter

30

It’s her snoring that wakes me. The old woman sits on a woven cushion a few feet away, her back against the wall and her head tilted sideways, mouth gaping, giving all her breath and voice to a stream of snores that could wake the dead. Certainly worked on me.

I shift, inspecting the room, and a slicing line of pain runs up my wounded arm. My memories come tumbling back: the brickmaker’s boys, the Black Scholar, the archer’s journal, Bardok Three-Fingers, the dagger, jumping from the window. I squeeze my eyes shut for a breath. I’m