Tiger Thief (9 page)

T
he sword lay on the wooden counter in a box lined with purple velvet. Fonke bent her turbanned head over the shining metal and her bracelets jangled as she reached down to pick up the weapon, taking care not to touch the blade. Slim, straight and perfectly balanced, it shimmered like magic in a shaft of sunlight from the windows above, silvery-white against the dark skin of her hand.

The woman next to her stood waiting quietly, with the patience of the poor. Her head was covered in a scarf and her face was pale and uninteresting.

“Is this the sort of thing you were looking for?” she asked.

For a moment Fonke didn’t reply. Only yesterday Rookh had been in her shop.

“I need you to find me a sword,” he’d told her. “A sword that kills jinnis. Use every contact you’ve got. Once you find it let me know. I’ll be back to pick it up personally.”

As soon as he’d left, Fonke had sent out her agents to spread the word. She was looking for objects, antiques, anything made of jinni metal. She knew which channels to approach, of course. Pawnshops, criminal networks, guttersnipes, and those that lived outside the law. She prided herself on being able to provide whatever her customers ordered, no matter how obscure, but even she hadn’t expected results so quickly. Now, as she raised her head to look down at the woman who stood before her, she tried to veil the excitement in her eyes.

“What did you say the sword was called?” she asked.

“It’s called the Sword of Shiva,” the woman told her.

Fonke felt a flutter in her stomach, but her face remained impassive. She was almost certain that the woman was telling the truth, but it wouldn’t do to believe her too soon. “Are you sure?” she snapped.

The woman nodded. “It’s been in my family for generations,” she promised. She lowered her voice. “I’ve got jinni blood…”

Fonke looked up at her sharply. That wasn’t an admission that came easily to most. Dropping her head, she pursed her lips as she examined the finely honed silver blade once more. If this really was the Sword of Shiva she might never have to work again.

“Tell me again what it does,” she demanded.

“It’s a sword that kills jinnis,” the woman said. “But only a jinni can use it. It’s very dangerous for human beings. In the hands of a man, any injury he inflicts will be directed straight back at him.”

Fonke felt a thrill of triumph, but she still didn’t look impressed. “What good is that?” she asked. “There are no more free jinnis left. Who’s going to want to buy a sword nobody can use?”

The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I just heard you were looking for old weapons, and I need the money.”

Fonke’s eyes were hard. She looked down at the sword. Then she looked back at the woman. “Two gold crescents,” she said, her voice sharp. “That’s all I’m prepared to pay.”

The woman’s face was a picture of disappointment. “Surely the metal itself must be worth more than that,” she begged. She lowered her voice. “It comes from
Aruanda
.”

Fonke paused to think about it. “All right, then, two and a half crescents,” she said at last. “That’s my final offer.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, mutely, the woman held out her slim, pale hand. “I’ll take it,” she whispered.

Fonke felt the thrill of success as she took out a
well-used
purse and handed over the money. “Such a pleasure to do business with you,” she said.

To her surprise, a faint smile crossed the woman’s
lips. For the first time Fonke noticed that she had eyes like a cat.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied.

S
harat and Aya followed the river into the old town. Above them, Shergarh loomed, its sheer walls as forbidding as ever. But this time they weren’t heading for the fortress.

Before long they reached an arched gate festooned with banners advertising clothing, perfumes, medicines, skin lighteners, eye brighteners, incense, unguents, and credit to pay for it all. Outside the gate were scores of buskers and beggars, snake charmers, ear-cleaners, gamblers and shoe repairmen, all hustling for business.

“This is the market,” said Aya. “Come on.”

They dodged past the hawkers and in through the gate.

Cucumbers, carrots, rich green leaves, aubergines as black as night, mangoes, bananas, papayas and coconuts
were piled high on the stalls, each one as perfect as the next. Sharat couldn’t help staring.

“Where does it all come from?” he wondered.

“This is the food that’s imported for the rich,” Aya told him. “It comes from the lands the Empire conquers.”

Sharat frowned. “What about the poor?” he asked.

Aya’s mouth twisted in disgust. “They
make
food for the poor,” she said. “But I wouldn’t eat it.”

Sharat remembered the white stodge he’d bought the day before, but before he could ask more a haughty servant wearing royal livery almost knocked him over. Aya grabbed his hand.

“This way!” she hissed.

They hurried through lanes lined with fruits and vegetables. Then they turned a corner and found themselves in the meat market.

Carcasses hung above every stall, all of them sweating slightly in the heat of the sun, and buzzing with flies. There was a rank smell in the air.

Aya grimaced, quickly leading Sharat through a space between buildings into a quieter alleyway lined with mounds of powdered pigments, mala beads, prayer flags and holy parchments. Here the air was sweet with sacred oils and resins.

A small painting caught Sharat’s eye. A woman in a green cloak stood under a tree. Above her head hovered a tiny bird. The colours of the painting were like jewels, and the figure looked almost real. The storekeeper, a woman in a veil, saw him looking and
snatched at his arm.

“It’s the Queen of the Forest,” she hissed in his ear. “Do you like it? I can give you a good price.”

For some reason, Sharat found it difficult to tear his eyes away from the painting, but just then Aya’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Down here!” she called, dodging to the left.

Quickly, Sharat muttered his apologies and hurried to follow Aya through an alleyway lined with stalls selling bundles of silk and velvet. Soon they arrived at a square where bored horsemen were watching the coaches and palanquins of the rich.

Aya pointed towards an avenue of proper shops made of marble and guarded by slaves. “That’s the jewellery market,” she said.

Sharat glanced at the glittering wares.

“We’d better hurry,” he said, conscious of his shabby clothes. “People will be wondering what we’re doing here.”

“Keep an eye out for a picture of the goddess Kali,” Aya told him. “Fonke lives nearby.”

They kept their eyes lowered, trying not to catch anyone’s attention. Finally they reached a side alley, where someone had painted the face of a black goddess with a long, purple tongue, wild hair and terrible eyes.

Sharat stopped. “Here’s Kali,” he said.

They faced a dead end between two tall buildings. At the end of the alley was an arched wooden door covered with metal studs. As they approached, a mangy dog got
up and limped out of their way.

There was a head set into the door in the shape of a monster with bulging eyes and sharp fangs.

Sharat lifted his hand to knock, but before his fist reached the door, the monster’s mouth flew open.

“What do you want?” it demanded in a high, thin voice.

Sharat jumped back in alarm.

Aya laughed. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s only a house-marshal.”

“What’s that?” said Sharat, eyeing the little monster with suspicion.

“It’s a kind of jinni,” Aya told him. “But don’t worry, it doesn’t have any power. It’s trapped in the door. It can’t hurt you.”

“Yes, I can,” protested the monster angrily, gnashing its fangs.

Aya stepped forward impatiently. “We’ve come to see your mistress,” she said. “Let us in.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure?” teased the monster. Then, before either of them could answer, the door swung silently open. Sharat glanced at Aya.

“Does that mean we’re supposed to go in?” he asked.

Aya nodded.

As they stepped across the threshold the door swung shut behind them, and the house-marshal’s head swivelled to look in at them. Sharat glanced back at it nervously, but it had fallen still.

They found themselves in a room with high ceilings. Dim light filtered in through cracks in a double doorway
at the back of the room.

“Hello?” called Sharat.

The only reply was the sound of rustling and whispering, like dry leaves shaking in the breeze, so they stepped forward and stood blinking for a moment to allow their eyes to get accustomed to the gloom. One wall of the shop was lined with shelves, on which were arranged a selection of statues, scrolls, daggers and other miscellaneous objects. In front of it stood a polished rosewood worktop, and there were also a couple of display cabinets. The first was filled with a collection of odd little dolls and the other contained charms, vases, oil lamps and bottles. Among these fairly innocuous objects there was also a more macabre collection, including what looked like a mummified baby, a pair of shrunken heads, a skeleton with four arms and several stuffed animals. Worst of all, a desiccated ghul stood propped up against the wall, its long white robes grey with dust, and its bony, twig-like hands poking out from the sleeves.

Sharat stifled a gasp, but the ghul didn’t move.

“It’s dead,” Aya whispered.

Letting out a breath of relief, Sharat stepped into the room.

Sitting on the worktop was a long thin box. Whatever was inside was glowing faintly and Sharat found himself drawn towards it. Curious, he flipped open the box, and his eyes widened as he looked down at a beautiful silver sword, but before he could examine it more closely, Aya let out a gasp.

Sharat turned to look.

She was standing in front of a pedestal. On top of the pedestal was a small wooden drum, and on the drum’s surface were mounted two delicate silver hands that glowed with the same light as the sword.

“What’s that?” asked Sharat.

In the dim light Aya’s face seemed transformed with joy. “It’s a musical instrument,” she said in wonder.

Sharat frowned. “That’s not a musical instrument,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” insisted Aya. “Listen.”

She placed the drum between the heels of her hands, lined her fingers up with the silver fingers, and as she plucked their metal tips a sweetly chaotic sound filled the dusty air. “See?” she said with a grin.

Sharat’s scalp began to prickle. “Don’t!” he said. “Someone will hear you!”

It was too late. All at once the skeleton had begun to move, its joints creaking. With a crack it detached itself from its stand and stood quivering unsteadily as it turned its empty sockets in search of the source of the music. Just then, a gust of stale air spread the smell of decay as the mummified baby woke up and a gurgling phantom floated above its cradle. The eyes of the shrunken heads snapped open. With a cackle of delight they began to rise up into the air, their tiny mouths glittering with pointed teeth. The ghul stirred, a stuffed wolf let out a howl and they heard the flapping of invisible wings. Then ghostly creatures started popping out at them from every nook
and cranny, some big, some small, some sleepy, some alert. Glowing faintly in the darkness, they advanced on Aya, reaching towards her with half-seen hands.

Aya let out a cry as she ran for the door to shove it open. It didn’t budge. The house-marshal opened its mouth and began to cackle with glee.

The phantoms surged forward.

Aya knocked into one of the display cabinets, dispersing the dolls with a clatter as she backed into a corner.

“Do something!” she cried.

Sharat’s eyes flicked towards the countertop. Without thinking he snatched the sword and as he touched the metal he felt a rush of power shooting up his arm. With one swift move he swung the shining blade towards Aya’s phantom attackers.

“GET OFF!” he shouted.

As the sword sliced through the ghostly forms it made a sizzling sound like flesh being branded with a hot-iron. The apparitions disappeared in a puff of steam and the skeleton came crashing to the ground.

Aya was still clutching the instrument.

“Let’s get out of here!” she gasped.

Sharat dropped the sword back on to the countertop and ran over to the door.

“Let us out!” he snapped, but instead of letting them out, the house-marshal began to shriek:

“Thieves! Thieves! Thieves!”

Moments later, the double doors at the back of the shop were thrown open, and the room was flooded with light.
Silhouetted at the centre of the doorway stood a tall, imposing figure.

Her skin glowed like oiled ebony against a sweeping turquoise dress that made the most of her voluptuous curves, and a turban was perched on top of her extravagantly curled hair. Enormous earrings dangled from her ears and her arms clattered with bracelets.

Sharat and Aya glanced at each other in dismay. This could only be Fonke.

F
onke stood with her hands on her generous hips as she surveyed the mess in her shop. Then, before Sharat and Aya could say anything, she marched over and seized their ears.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded, glaring down at them.

“It’s my fault, madam,” said Aya quickly. “I’m sorry.”

Fonke let go of their ears and looked down at Aya with distaste. “What have you done?”

Looking guilty, Aya held up the instrument that she was still clutching in her hands. “I accidentally played this, and all these
ghosts
started attacking us,” she said.

Fonke snatched the instrument away from her.

“What do you mean you
accidentally
played it?”
she snapped.

Aya’s eyes were round and innocent. “I just knocked the fingers and it made a noise,” she said. “I didn’t know it was a musical instrument. It doesn’t
look
like one.”

Fonke eyed her with suspicion. Then she shook her head. “You shouldn’t play with things you don’t understand,” she said. “Even
I
don’t know exactly how these things work.” With a jangle of her bracelets, she put the instrument back on its pedestal. “Be glad it was only ghosts,” she added. “You never know what you could have brought creeping up from the underworld. What if you’d summoned a
demon
?”

“Yes, madam,” said Aya. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” She sounded sincere, but she couldn’t help glancing back at the instrument with a look of longing.

Fonke scanned the rest of the room and caught sight of the sword lying carelessly on the countertop. With a gasp she strode over and seized it. “Who’s been playing with
this
?” she demanded.

This time it was Sharat’s turn to look guilty.

“That was me,” he admitted. “I used it to frighten away the ghosts.”

Fonke glared at him. “Do you have any idea what this
is
?” she said.

Sharat shook his head, mute.

“This is a very special sword,” Fonke told him. “Only a jinni can use it safely. It’s not a weapon for human beings. Any injury it causes is directed straight back to the one who uses it. You could have killed yourself.” She
placed it carefully back into its box, and closed the lid with a snap.

“I’m sorry,” said Sharat. “The house-marshal let us in but nobody was here so we decided to look around. After all, it
is
a shop.”

The monster in the door let out a chuckle.

Fonke threw it a look of disgust. “Call yourself security?” she snapped. “I’ll have your fangs removed if you’re not careful. Or perhaps you’d like a job in Shergarh?”

The house-marshal clamped its mouth shut and swivelled so that only the back of its head could be seen from the inside of the room.

Impatiently, Fonke marched over and propped up the skeleton. Then, with a few swift moves she tidied up the rest of the pieces that had fallen to the floor. When she was finished she turned to glare at Sharat and Aya. “Now are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or shall I have you arrested?” she demanded.

“No! Please don’t,” said Sharat. “We’ve come to ask for your help.”

Fonke eyed him with distaste. “What do you want?” she said. “You must be selling something. You don’t look like customers.”

Quickly, Sharat pulled out the golden bee. “I’m trying to find out what this is,” he said.

Fonke looked bored as she held out her hand, but her eyes flashed with interest when she saw the diamond.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

Sharat hesitated. “It’s a family heirloom.”

“We were wondering if you could tell us something about it,” said Aya. “We might want to sell it.”

Fonke took the amulet to look at it more closely. “Well, all right,” she said, her voice sounding reluctant, “but I’d better warn you there’s not much of a market for this kind of thing.” With a rustle of silk she turned and took the piece over to the countertop.

Sharat and Aya stood watching nervously as Fonke cleaned the jewel with a soft cloth. Then she set it on a block of wood and subjected the stone to a variety of tests: tapping it gently with a small pointed hammer, rubbing it against various materials, dunking it into a series of liquids and finally looking at it through a magnifying glass.

“I hope she doesn’t break it,” whispered Sharat.

Aya was watching Fonke carefully. “Don’t worry,” she whispered back. “She knows what she’s doing.”

A moment later Fonke raised her head. This time she couldn’t hide her excitement.

“Do you have any idea what this is?” she demanded.

Sharat shook his head.

“Come here,” Fonke told him.

Both Sharat and Aya hurried over.

Fonke lifted the amulet into a beam of sunlight.

“Look into the stone,” she said.

They peered down. For a moment all they could see was the dazzling surface, but as Fonke twisted the stone they caught sight of a fleck of gold deep in the centre of
the diamond, trapped like a fly in amber.

Aya gasped.

“What is it?” asked Sharat.

Fonke’s eyes widened dramatically.

“This, young man, is the stuff that dreams are made of,” she told him. “There’s a jinni in this amulet.”

Sharat’s heart jumped. “A jinni?” he asked, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

There was a look of triumph on Aya’s face.

“I knew it!” she said.

Sharat tried to keep his voice calm. “Do you mean a jinni that can grant
wishes
?” he asked.

Fonke inclined her head. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

Sharat caught Aya’s eye. She looked as excited as he felt.

“A jinni that can grant wishes!” she said. “That’s very rare!”

“Very rare,” agreed Fonke. “Of course, we have no guarantee how
powerful
the jinni is,” she added quickly. “I’d be happy to take it off your hands if you’d care to sell it.”

Sharat’s heart was pounding. With a jinni to grant him wishes he could rescue Emira! He shook his head.

“No. I’m not selling it,” he said. “All I need is to know how to use it.”

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Fonke’s face, but she nodded. “I can help you with that, too,” she admitted, “but before I can do anything we need to discuss a price.”

“A price for what?” asked Sharat, looking at her blankly.

“A price to summon the jinni, of course!” replied Fonke. “You didn’t think I would do it for free, did you?”