City of Thieves
Umbar
(
Private)
The book’s stiff pages crackled gently as
Zôr flicked through them. The light from a nearby candle was reflected and magnified by the large mirror that sat atop her vanity and leaned against the wall.
Zôr rested her chin on one hand and leaned intently over the book as she scanned its contents. Black hair framed her focused features, marquise-cut rubies glittering at her ears. For such an important and closely guarded item, that this book had not been well cared-for. In contrast to the fine imported volumes she had admired or even stolen on occasion at the Market, many of its pages were water-stained, the edges of others having been nibbled at by particularly hungry rodents.
Several different hands - some cramped, some flowing, some erratic, some tidy - had inked the pages with notable names and events in the history of Umbar’s minor houses. Many of these histories were only to be found here, in contrast to the greater houses, whose power and notoriety made their stories much easier to find. The lesser families, most allied to one great House or another, had fewer local legends upon which to build their reputations and so someone, generations ago, had taken to documenting their plots and schemes and jealous, clawing bids for power. This unique item with its promise of information had long eluded her, and she had finally tracked it down in the chambers of a man loyal to House Ûrêzadan. She had taken both the book and his life.
As an adolescent, she had believed the explosion on the ship had been an accident. She had learned better several years ago from a political merchant while he enumerated the various shipwrecks from which he'd profited.
Zôr had lain next to him in the dark, bored, one arm cast lazily over her forehead. “Then there was the plot to bring ruin upon House Izrêphan,” he had said. "The wreckage from that one was not of particular value, but the explosion was quite a sight.” Suddenly, her whole body had tensed.
“Someone targeted them?” she had whispered, speaking slowly and softly to mask her fervent curiosity. “Why?”
He had been forthcoming but inconclusive all that night, and it was no different with this story. He knew that whispers and shadowy dealings lay behind it, but he could name neither the motive nor the perpetrators. And so she left, disappointed but alight with interest. Izrêphan was her house, her family. She had not heard the name spoken aloud in over a decade; she had not known anyone else to survive, and as memory of the accident faded, so did talk of her family in the city. That night spent with the merchant had impressed upon her that the destruction of her family had been intentional, her survival a fluke.
The candle guttered in a draft from the window.
Zôr stood, shuttered it, and returned to her reading. She found nothing of use in the sections devoted to other influential families she did not recognize - Azulzîr, Nûlukhô, Tarîkmagân, and others - many of whose long lineages, dating back to Anadûnê itself, were documented in excruciating detail here. She wondered vaguely how old her house might be. No one had spoken of its origins to her as a child - at least, not that she could remember. Where had the house originated? She could only dream that its roots stretched back across the sea to the great island. And was her family loyal to Balakân, Gimildâur, or Ûrêzadan, or perhaps some other long-defunct center of power in Umbar? Or - an even bolder thought occurred to her now - had the members of House Izrêphan stood on their own, without needing to exchange their loyalty for some patron’s support?
Finally, she found her house. She read hungrily, and amusement spread in her until she shook with silent laughter at the tale of her family’s rise in Umbar. It made sense that this story had been concealed from her as a girl. Now, she saw that she had, for most of her life, unwittingly mimicked her ancestors - albeit on a much smaller scale. They had found power and influence. What had she to show for it?
Her mother was named here as one of the ammîphanî - the great women of the house. Her father was mentioned considerably less, having married into the family.
Zôr’s throat tightened at the sight of their names. She rarely let herself miss her parents; the months in the wake of their deaths had been a whirlwind of pure, panicked survival, and the ensuing years had been a model of disciplined compartmentalization. How odd it was that, through this book, she now sensed a connection with them which had been absent for years. She ran a finger over their names.
Zimraphêl.
Sakalthôr. She could still hear them calling to each other from opposite ends of the house. Laughing. Fighting. Dancing.
“Ammîphanî,” she murmured, feeling the shape of each syllable and the weight the word carried. What made a zîni an-aphan? Allure? Exceptional powers of persuasion? The stature of her bedfellows?
Zôr had never heard her mother refer to herself as a zîni an-aphan. As a young girl at the time of the accident, she had only recently become aware of the politics and intrigue surrounding the constantly-striving houses in the city. She realized now that she had known her parents, but only what they had let her see - this book was evidence enough to suggest the hidden depths of their lives.
She learned the names of her ancestors, speaking them aloud into the night, too. She had, for so long, been alone and unmoored. The women’s names in particular were links in a chain going all the way back to
Azruzimril, founder of the house.
Zôr read on.
Azruzimril and her daughters had risen from relative obscurity to become powerful among the many houses of Umbar.
And all that power died with my mother, she thought bitterly. She felt the sting of bile at the back of her throat, a physical reminder of rage and sorrow long neglected. Those twin monsters had re-awoken inside her now.
The rest of the book offered nothing to further her search for her family’s killers. A chunk of pages at the back lay empty, no doubt reserved for future tales or in anticipation of new families who would rise to replace or war with the others.
Zôrzimril sighed. The thrill of reading about her family was replaced by deflation; she had arrived at a dead end. She stretched her arms over her head, arching her spine over the back of her chair. She really should begin packing her things: lifting this book and all its secrets from its proper place (not to mention leaving behind the bloodied body of its keeper) would have countless eyes looking for her in a matter of days, and so she would need to disappear for a while. When she grabbed the book to snap it shut, a folded piece of parchment fell to the ground. She picked it up, read through it twice in growing surprise, and turned swiftly to pack.
* * *
Two hours past midnight, the baker stoked the fires in his ovens, then turned to knead the day’s dough. Sweat beaded on his brow in the heat from the ovens, and soon his shirt was soaked through. At the very least these kitchens were more spacious and airy than his prior location, and the premises themselves were clean and tidy, a far step above the filthy and cramped shop he'd once run in The Warrens.
It had been many years since the girl with dark hair had wordlessly handed him a gold coin, kicking off a long season of prosperity which he could not have foreseen. But that was
Zôr’s way: her purse had been full from that day forward, and she had always been as full of surprises as she had been that morning. First, she became a regular customer. Gradually, she began meeting people in the dark alley behind the shop to sell contraband. She felt safe there with him nearby, somehow. Eventually, they came to an agreement in which he took a cut of her profits in exchange for his services as middleman. This final scheme had allowed him and his family (who were as in the dark about his dealings with her as he was about how she came by such fine items) to move here. He would always be grateful that they had escaped the rankness of The Warrens and landed in the vicinity of better-bred families with more coin to spare for fine baked goods.
He was lost in the repetitive motions of his daily routine when he heard a knock. Hands covered in flour, he walked to the bakery’s side door. It was not unlike some of his more insistent (or inebriated) customers to show up before dawn, but this was a soft, furtive knock and not the pounding of drunks in need of food. He wiped his hands on his apron and pulled open the door.
Zôr stood close to the doorframe, cloaked and hooded with her usual dagger at her hip. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, and at her feet lay a large bundle.
“Zôrzimril,” he whispered, eyes wide. “What brings you here at this hour?”
“Let me in,” she commanded shortly, and the baker moved aside without question in his surprise. This was unlike her; she was usually content to slip him a parcel, whisper instructions, and walk away. She hoisted up the bundle, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her.
“My darling, I need you to keep these things hidden - you have ample space for that, in large part thanks to me. In a few weeks’ time, it’s likely you will hear that a woman fitting my description has washed up near the docks.” He opened his mouth to question, but she held up a hand and continued. "No questions, and no arguing. Someone will come for my things when the time is right, and you will be paid well for it.”
This was different from any of her past schemes. He knew her tone well enough to simply shut his mouth and nod in silent agreement. Better to get on with baking the day’s bread. She smiled at him, the same smile that had spread across her face the first time she had handed him gold.
“No harm will come to you or your family.”
* * *
Gulls wheeled and cried over the docks as the fishermen drew in their nets, heavy with the morning’s catch. Waves lapped gently against the shore, and the rising sun shone weakly through the morning mist. One man paused and shielded his eyes at the sight of a dark shape bumping repeatedly against the docks. He called to his fellows and they hauled the woman’s bloated body up and out of the water. Her face was a ravaged ruin, lips and eyelids peeled back - apparently by the fish - so that her teeth and the hollows where eyes had once been were laid bare. The men would have recoiled had they not caught the glint of rubies in the sun; they would argue loudly over the earrings before giving up the corpse for whatever half-hearted investigation might be launched.
At the same time,
Zôr hastened out of the city. The unsent letter in the book had been dated just days before her theft of the tome.
We found it. We found the way into Kadar Schâdo at last. Followed him all the way there. Your lost treasure awaits you, if you are clever enough to find it. Perhaps we’ll tell you the answer to their little puzzle, too. If you pay us well enough.
Someone had lost something - a valuable something, at that. She cared less about the dispossessed owner and more about the treasure. What could it be? And what was this Kadar Schâdo? Or, more accurately,
where was it? She’d never heard of such a place in all her life, but its name suggested some connection to Umbar and perhaps even to Anadûnê itself. Could she find both riches and answers there?
The letter had been signed not with a name, but with an inscrutable riddle.
Zôr turned it upside down and front to back in her mind, rearranged all the letters and spun herself in circles trying to tease meaning from it. Still, she came up short. The man who could decipher it for her was, unfortunately, dead by her own hand. Luckily for her, the other agents of House Ûrêzadan were easy enough to track.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.
