Сердце Лабиринта

Благодарности

Что вы говорите, когда достигаете конца столь долгого и изнурительного пути?

Вы благодарите людей, которые помогали вам на этом пути.

Конечно, мы благодарили их в конце каждой книги, но благодарность может пережить небольшое повторение. Адриенна Липома, Кайл Недзвецки, Венди Шаффер и Эмили Даре продолжают проявлять терпение, поддержку и даже (осмелимся сказать) энтузиазм в отношении этого отступления на шестьсот тысяч слов от скромных игровых корней. К ним следует добавить членов нашего Каррикмакросского Дискорда, они же «Кричащие персики, — которые сблизились из-за самого ужасающего «приветственного» GIF в Дискорде и обеспечили нам замечательное сообщество, пока мы боремся с этим кракеном сюжета до его завершения. Плачущая слива — для вас.

В этой книге особенно выделяется одна помощь в проведении исследований. После того как Мари пришла в голову мазохистская идея изобразить архаичную речь ижранцев с помощью среднеанглийского языка, она сразу поняла, что не сможет сделать это, опираясь только на словарь и справочную грамматику. На помощь пришел кандидат наук с кафедры английского языка Гарвардского университета: Ахмед Сейф, который вышел за рамки механического перевода оригинального диалога, ориентируясь в многочисленных диалектах среднеанглийского языка, чтобы найти варианты, которые позволят сбалансировать точность и приблизить ее к понятности для современного читателя. Если вы все еще испытываете трудности с ижранской речью, вините Мари в том, что она вообще придумала эту идею; она свободно признает, что это ее вина.

Когда дело доходит до издательского фронта... Вы представляете, сколько людей нужно, чтобы книга увидела свет? Даже мы, авторы, иногда теряемся в догадках, но в этот раз мы сделали все возможное, чтобы собрать полный список. С редакторской стороны к нашему славному и неутомимому редактору Приянке Кришнан присоединились Дженни Хилл, Тиана Ковен и Тим Холман; со стороны рекламы и маркетинга — Алекс Ленсицки, Эллен Райт, Анджела Ман, Паола Креспо, Наташа Хоут и Назия Хатун; со стороны управляющего редактора — Брин А. Макдональд, которая помогла всей этой истории перебраться с ноутбука на книжную полку. Наши великолепные обложки созданы Лорен Панепинто, Стефани А. Хесс и замечательным художником Некро. Никки Масуд проделала огромную работу со всеми меняющимися акцентами аудиокниг — мы приносим извинения (еще раз) за среднеанглийский! — а Том Мис и Кейтлин Дэвис донесли ее работу до всех наших слушателей. И мы также должны поблагодарить наших неутомимых агентов, Эдди Шнайдера и Пола Стивенса, а также Кэмерона МакКлюра, пришедшего на финишную прямую, чтобы помочь нам довести дело до конца.

Спасибо всем, кто отправился с нами в это путешествие. Пусть мы встретимся снова, когда дорога приведет вас домой, когда река встретится с морем.

Глоссарий

Адвокат Лицо, имеющее лицензию на ведение дел в Чартерхаусе, обычно от имени благородного дома.

альт/альтан: Титулы, используемые для дворян, не являющихся главами домов.

Аргентет Одно из пяти мест в Синкерате, к которому обращаются как «Ваша элегантность. — Аргентет следит за культурными делами города, включая театры, фестивали и цензуру письменных материалов.

ажа Наркотик, изготовленный из порошкообразных семян. Хотя о нем обычно говорят как о галлюциногене, врасценские жители верят, что ажа позволяет им видеть Сон Ажераиса.

Сон Ажераиса: Это место, называемое вкрашенцами «царством разума, — является многослойным отражением мира бодрствования, как в прошлом, так и в настоящем, как это может быть метафорически выражено.

Ча: Титул, используемый при обращении к врасценскому человеку.

Каэрулет Одно из пяти мест в Синкерате, к которому обращаются как «Ваша милость. — Керулет следит за военными делами города, включая тюрьмы, укрепления и бдения.

Церемония Соглашения: Ритуал, посвященный подписанию мирного соглашения, которое положило конец войне между городами-государствами Врасцан и Надежра, оставив последний под контролем знати Лиганти. В церемонии участвуют зиемец и члены Синкерата, она проводится каждый год в Ночь колоколов.

Чартерхаус Местонахождение правительства Надежры, где находятся офисы Синкерата.

Синкерат Совет из пяти членов, который является правящим органом Надежры со времен смерти Тиранта. У каждого места есть своя сфера ответственности. См. Аргентет, Фульвет, Прасинет, Каэрулет и Иридет.

Род: врасценцы традиционно делятся на семь родов: Аношкины, Дворники, Ижраны, Киралы, Месзаросы, Стрецко и Варады. Ижрани вымерли несколько веков назад после сверхъестественного бедствия. Каждый клан состоит из нескольких креце.

эра/ерет: Титулы, которыми называют глав знатных домов.

Лица и маски: Во врасценской религии божественный дуализм, характерный для многих верований, рассматривается как заключенный в одном божестве, каждое из которых имеет благожелательный аспект (Лицо) и злонамеренный (Маска).

Фестиваль Вешних Вод: Ежегодный фестиваль, проходящий весной к Надежре, когда туман покрывает город примерно на неделю.

Фульвет Одно из пяти мест в Синкерате, к которому обращаются «ваша милость. — Фульвет контролирует гражданские дела города, включая владение землей, общественные работы и судебную систему.

Великий Сон Священное для врасценцев событие, во время которого источник Ажераиса проявляется в мире бодрствования. Происходит раз в семь лет, во время Фестиваля Вешних Вод.

Илли: нумен, связанный с 0 и 10 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет начало, конец, вечность, душу и самость инскриптора.

имбутинг Форма ремесленной магии, позволяющая сделать предметы более эффективными: пропитанный клинок лучше режет, не тупится и не ржавеет, а пропитанный плащ может быть теплее, водонепроницаемее или более скрытным. Также можно, хотя и сложнее, напитать имбутингом представление.

инскриптор Практикующий нуминатрию.

Иридет Одно из пяти мест в Синкерате, к которому обращаются как «Ваше Поклонение. — Иридет следит за религиозными делами города, включая храмы, нуминатрию и паломничество к Великой Мечте.

Кайус Сифиньо / Кайус Рекс: см. Тирант.

Канина Врасценский «танец предков, — используемый по особым случаям, таким как рождение, брак и смерть. При хорошем исполнении он способен вызывать духов предков танцоров из Сна Ажераиса.

узел Термин, заимствованный из врасценского обычая, для обозначения уличной банды в Надежре. Члены банды отмечают свою верность амулетом в виде узелка, хотя от них не требуется носить или демонстрировать его открыто.

Кошень: врасценский платок, в узоре вышивки которого запечатлена родословная человека по материнской и отцовской линии. Обычно его носят только по особым случаям, в том числе во время исполнения канины.

Креце: (синг. куреч) Врасценский род, подразделение клана. Третья часть традиционного врасценского имени обозначает, к какому куречу принадлежит человек.

Лихоше: (псевд. лихош) Врасценский термин, обозначающий человека, родившегося женщиной, но принявшего мужскую роль, чтобы быть в состоянии вести свой народ. Отчества лихоше оканчиваются на множественное число и гендерно-нейтральный «-ске. — Их аналогами являются римаше, родившиеся мужчинами, но принявшие на себя женскую роль, чтобы стать шзорсами.

meda/mede: Титулы, используемые для членов домов дельты.

Ночь колоколов: Ежегодный праздник в честь смерти Тиранта. Включает в себя церемонию заключения соглашений.

Нинат: нумен, связанный с цифрой 9 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет смерть, освобождение, завершение, апофеоз и границу между обыденным и бесконечным.

Ноктат: Нумен, связанный с 8 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет ощущения, сексуальность, деторождение, честность, спасение и покаяние.

Нумина: (синг. нумен) Нумины — это ряд чисел, 0-10, которые используются в нуминатрии, чтобы направлять магическую силу. Они состоят из Илли (это и 0, и 10), Униат, Туат, Трикат, Кварат, Квинат, Сессат, Себат, Ноктат и Нинат. Каждый нумен имеет свой особый резонанс с такими понятиями, как семья или смерть, а также ассоциируется с богами, цветами, металлами, геометрическими фигурами и так далее.

нуминатрия: Форма магии, основанная на священной геометрии. Произведение нуминатрии называется нуминат (pl. numinata). Нуминатрия направляет силу от высшего божества, Люмена, которая проявляется в нумине. Для функционирования нуминат должен иметь фокус, через который он черпает силу Лумена; на большинстве фокусов изображено имя бога, написанное древним письмом Энтаксн.

узор Во врасценской культуре «узор» — это термин, обозначающий судьбу и взаимосвязь вещей. Он рассматривается как дар богини предков Ажераис, и его можно понять через толкование колоды узоров.

колода узоров: Колода, состоящая из шестидесяти карт трех мастей, называемых нитями. Прядильная нить представляет «внутреннее я» (разум и дух), тканая нить — «внешнее я» (социальные отношения), а резаная нить — «физическое я» (тело и материальный мир). Каждая нить содержит карты без аспектов и с аспектами, последние из которых указывают на самые важные Лица и Маски во врасценской религии.

Прасинет Одно из пяти мест в Синкерате, к которому обращаются как «Ваше милосердие. — Прасинет следит за экономическими делами города, включая налогообложение, торговые пути и гильдии.

Призматиум Переливающийся металл, созданный с помощью нуминатрии и связанный с Себатом.

Кварат Нумен, связанный с цифрой 4 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет природу, питание, рост, богатство и удачу.

Квинат: нумен, связанный с 5 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет силу, сиятельство, лидерство, исцеление и обновление.

Римаше: (псевд. римаш) Врасценский термин, обозначающий человека, родившегося мужчиной, но принявшего женскую роль в качестве Шзорсы. Отчества римаше оканчиваются на множественное число и гендерно-нейтральный «-ске. — Их аналогами являются лихоше, которые рождаются женщинами, но берут на себя мужские роли, чтобы вести свой народ.

Себат Нумен, связанный с цифрой 7 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет мастерство, чистоту, уединение, трансформацию и совершенство в несовершенстве.

Сессат: Нумен, связанный с 6 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет приказ, застой, учреждения, простоту и дружбу.

душа Во врасценской космологии душа состоит из трех частей: длакани, или «личной» души, сзекани, или «узловой» души, и чекани, или «телесной» души. После смерти длакани попадает в рай или ад, сзекани продолжает жить во сне Ажераиса, а чекани реинкарнирует. В космологии лиганти душа возносится через нумину в Лумен, а затем снова спускается для реинкарнации.

солнце/земля Контрастные термины, используемые в культуре лиганти для различных целей. Солнечные часы длятся с 6 утра до 6 вечера; земные — с 6 вечера до 6 утра. Солнечные — это правые руки, а земные — левые. Солнечные и земные часы означают «по часовой стрелке» и «против часовой стрелки, — или, когда речь идет о людях, — мужчина, рожденный женщиной» или «женщина, рожденная мужчиной.

Шзорса: Чтец колоды узоров.

Трикат Нумен, связанный с цифрой 3 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет стабильность, семью, сообщество, завершенность, жесткость и примирение.

Туат: Нумен, связанный с 2 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет другого, двойственность, общение, связь, оппозицию и край инскриптора.

Тирант Кайус Сифиньо, также называемый Кайус Рекс. Он был полководцем Лиганти, завоевавшим весь Врасцан, но, согласно легенде, его дальнейшее распространение было остановлено тем, что он поддался своим разнообразным желаниям. Считавшийся неубиваемым, Тирант был якобы убит венерической болезнью. Его смерть празднуется в Ночь колоколов.

Униат Нумен, связанный с 1 в нуминатрии. Олицетворяет тело, самосознание, просветление, сдерживание и мел инскриптора.

Бдение Основная сила, обеспечивающая закон и приказ в Надежре, прозванная «соколами» в честь своей эмблемы. Отдельное от армии города-государства, Бдение охраняет порядок в самом городе под руководством верховного главнокомандующего, подчиняющегося Каэрулету. Их штаб-квартира находится в Аэрии.

Врасцан: название региона и свободной конфедерации городов-государств, в которую ранее входила Надежра.

Источник Ажераиса: святое место, вокруг которого был основан город Надежра. Источник существует внутри Сна Ажераиса и проявляется в мире бодрствования только во время Великого Сна. Испив его воды, можно обрести истинное понимание узора.

Зиемец: (псевд. зиемич) Главы врасценских кланов, также называемые «старейшинами кланов. — Каждый из них носит титул, взятый из названия своего клана: Аношкинич, Дворнич, Киралич, Мешарич, Стрецкойч, Варадич и (ранее) Ижраньич.

extras

meet the author

John Scalzi

M. A. CARRICK is the joint pen name of Marie Brennan (author of the Memoirs of Lady Trent) and Alyc Helms (author of the Adventures of Mr. Mystic). The two met in 2000 on an archaeological dig in Wales and Ireland, including a stint in the town of Carrickmacross, and have built their friendship through two decades of anthropology, writing, and gaming. They live in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Find out more about M. A. Carrick and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at orbitbooks.net.

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LABYRINTH'S HEART

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THE PHOENIX KING

The Ravence Trilogy: Book One

by

Aparna Verma

In a kingdom where flames hold magic and the desert hides secrets, an ancient prophecy comes for an assassin, a princess, and a king. But none are ready to face destiny — and the choices they make could burn the world.

For Elena Aadya Ravence, fire is yearning. She longs to feel worthy of her Phoenix god, of her ancestors who transformed the barren dunes of Sayon into a thriving kingdom. But though she knows the ways and wiles of the desert better than she knows her own skin, the secrets of the Eternal Fire elude her. And without them, she'll never be accepted as queen.

For Leo Malhari Ravence, fire is control. He is not ready to give up his crown — there's still too much work to be done to ensure his legacy remains untarnished, his family protected. But power comes with a price, and he'll wage war with the heavens themselves to keep from paying it.

For Yassen Knight, fire is redemption. He dreams of shedding his past as one of Sayon's most deadly assassins, of laying to rest the ghosts of those he has lost. If joining the court of flame and serving the royal Ravence family — the very people he once swore to eliminate — will earn him that, he'll do it no matter what they ask of him.

But the Phoenix watches over all, and the fire has a will of its own. It will come for all three, will come for Sayon itself… and they must either find a way to withstand the blaze or burn to ash.

CHAPTER 1 Yassen

The king said to his people, “We are the chosen.”

And the people responded, “Chosen by whom?”

— from chapter 37 of The Great History of Sayon

To be forgiven, one must be burned. That's what the Ravani said. They were fanatics and fire worshippers, but they were his people. And he would finally be returning home.

Yassen held on to the railing of the hoverboat as it skimmed over the waves. He held on with his left arm, his right limp by his side. Around him, the world was dark, but the horizon began to purple with the faint glimmers of dawn. Soon, the sun would rise, and the twin moons of Sayon would lie down to rest. Soon, he would arrive at Rysanti, the Brass City. And soon, he would find his way back to the desert that had forsaken him.

Yassen withdrew a holopod from his jacket and pressed it open with his thumb. A small holo materialized with a message:

Look for the bull.

He closed the holo, the smell of salt and brine filling his lungs.

The bull. It was nothing close to the Phoenix of Ravence, but then again, Samson liked to be subtle. Yassen wondered if he would be at the port to greet him.

A large wave tossed the boat, but Yassen did not lose his balance. Weeks at sea and suns of combat had taught him how to keep his ground. A cool wind licked his sleeve, and he felt a whisper of pain skitter down his right wrist. He grimaced. His skin was already beginning to redden.

After the Arohassin had pulled him half-conscious from the sea, Yassen had thought, in the delirium of pain, that he would be free. If not in this life, then in death. But the Arohassin had yanked him back from the brink. Treated his burns and saved his arm. Said that he was lucky to be alive while whispering among themselves when they thought he could not hear: “Yassen Knight is no longer of use.”

Yassen pulled down his sleeve. It was no matter. He was used to running.

As the hoverboat neared the harbor, the fog along the coastline began to evaporate. Slowly, Yassen saw the tall spires of the Brass City cut through the grey heavens. Skyscrapers of slate and steel from the mines of Sona glimmered in the early dawn as hovertrains weaved through the air, carrying the day laborers. Neon lights flickered within the metal jungle, and a silver bridge snaked through the entire city, connecting the outer rings to the wealthy, affluent center. Yassen squinted as the sun crested the horizon. Suddenly, its light hit the harbor, and the Brass City shone with a blinding intensity.

Yassen quickly clipped on his visor, a fiber sheath that covered his entire face. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing them to readjust before opening them again. The city stared back at him in subdued colors.

Queen Rydia, one of the first queens of Jantar, had wanted to ward off Enuu, the evil eye, so she had fashioned her port city out of unforgiving metal. If Yassen wasn't careful, the brass could blind him.

The other passengers came up to deck, pulling on half visors that covered their eyes. Yassen tightened his visor and wrapped a scarf around his neck. Most people could not recognize him — none of the passengers even knew of his name — but he could not take any chances. Samson had made it clear that he wanted no one to know of this meeting.

The hoverboat came to rest beside the platform, and Yassen disembarked with the rest of the passengers. Even in the early hours, the port was busy. On the other dock, soldiers barked out orders as fresh immigrants stumbled off a colony boat. Judging from the coiled silver bracelets on their wrists, Yassen guessed they were Sesharian refugees. They shuffled forward on the adjoining dock toward military buses. Some carried luggage; others had nothing save the clothes they wore. They all donned half visors and walked with a resigned grace of a people weary of their fate.

Native Jantari, in their lightning suits and golden bracelets, kept a healthy distance from the immigrants. They stayed on the brass homeland and receiving docks where merchants stationed their carts. Unlike most of the city, the carts were made of pale driftwood, but the vendors still wore half visors as they handled their wares. Yassen could already hear a merchant hawking satchels of vermilion tea while another shouted about a new delivery of mirrors from Cyleon that had a 90 percent accuracy of predicting one's romantic future. Yassen shook his head. Only in Jantar.

Floating lanterns guided Yassen and the passengers to the glass-encased immigration office. Yassen slid his holopod into the port while a grim-faced attendant flicked something from his purple nails.

“Name?” he intoned.

“Cassian Newman,” Yassen said.

“Country of residence?”

“Nbru.”

The attendant waved his hand. “Take off your visor, please.

Yassen unclipped his visor and saw shock register across the attendant's face as he took in Yassen's white, colorless eyes.

“Are you Jantari?” the attendant asked, surprised.

“No,” Yassen responded gruffly and clipped his visor back on. “My father was.

“Hmph.” The attendant looked at his holopod and then back at him. “Purpose of your visit?”

Yassen paused. The attendant peered at him, and for one wild moment, Yassen wondered if he should turn away, jump back on the boat, and go wherever the sea pushed him. But then a coldness slithered down his right elbow, and he gripped his arm.

“To visit some old friends, — Yassen said.

The attendant snorted, but when the holopod slid back out, Yassen saw the burning insignia of a mohanti, a winged ox, on its surface.

“Welcome to the Kingdom of Jantar,” the attendant said and waved him through.

Yassen stepped through the glass immigration office and into Rysanti. He breathed in the sharp salt air, intermingled with spices both foreign and familiar. A storm had passed through recently, leaving puddles in its wake. A woman ahead of Yassen slipped on a wet plank and a merchant reached out to steady her. Yassen pushed past them, keeping his head down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the merchant swipe the woman's holopod and hide it in his jacket. Yassen smothered a laugh.

As he wandered toward the homeland dock, he scanned the faces in the crowd. The time was nearly two past the sun's breath. Samson and his men should have been here by now.

He came to the bridge connecting the receiving and homeland docks. At the other end of the bridge was a lonely tea stall, held together by worn planks — but the large holosign snagged his attention.

WARM YOUR TIRED BONES FROM YOUR PASSAGE AT SEA! FRESH HOT LEMON CAKES AND RAVANI TEA SERVED DAILY! it read.

It was the word Ravani that sent a jolt through Yassen. Home — the one he longed for but knew he was no longer welcome in.

Yassen drew up to the tea stall. Three large hourglasses hissed and steamed. Tea leaves floated along their bottoms, slowly steeping, as a heavyset Sesharian woman flipped them in timed intervals. On her hand, Yassen spotted a tattoo of a bull.

The same mark Samson had asked him to look for.

When the woman met Yassen's eyes, she twirled the hourglass once more before drying her hands on the towel around her wide waist.

“Whatcha want?” she asked in a river-hoarse voice.

“One tea and cake, please, — Yassen said.

“You're lucky. I just got a fresh batch of leaves from my connect. Straight from the canyons of Ravence.

“Exactly why I want one, — he said and placed his holopod in the counter insert. Yassen tapped it twice.

“Keep the change, — he added.

She nodded and turned back to the giant hourglasses.

The brass beneath Yassen's feet grew warmer in the yawning day. Across the docks, more boats pulled in, carrying immigrant laborers and tourists. Yassen adjusted his visor, making sure it was fully in place, as the woman simultaneously flipped the hourglass and slid off its cap. In one fluid motion, the hot tea arced through the air and fell into the cup in her hand. She slid it across the counter.

“Mind the sleeve, the tea's hot,” she said. “And here's your cake.”

Yassen grabbed the cake box and lifted his cup in thanks. As he moved away from the stall, he scratched the plastic sleeve around the cup.

Slowly, a message burned through:

Look underneath the dock of fortunes.

He almost smiled. Clearly, Samson had not forgotten Yassen's love of tea.

Yassen looked within the box and saw that there was no cake but something sharp, metallic. He reached inside and held it up. Made of silver, the insignia was smaller than his palm and etched in what seemed to be the shape of a teardrop. Yassen held it closer. No, it was more feather than teardrop.

He threw the sleeve and box into a bin, slid the silver into his pocket, and continued down the dock. The commerce section stretched on, a mile of storefronts welcoming him into the great nation of Jantar. Yassen sipped his tea, watching. A few paces down was a stall marketing tales of ruin and fortune. Like the tea stall, it too was old and decrepit, with a painting of a woman reading palms painted across its front. He was beginning to recognize a pattern — and patterns were dangerous. Samson was getting lazy in his mansion.

Three guards stood along the edge of the platform beside the stall. One was dressed in a captain's royal blue, the other two in the plain black of officers. All three wore helmet visors, their pulse guns strapped to their sides. They were laughing at some joke when the captain looked up and frowned at Yassen.

“You there, — he said imperiously.

Yassen slowly lowered his cup. The dock was full of carts and merchants. If he ran now, the guards could catch him.

“Yes, you, with the full face, — the captain called out, tapping his visor. “Come here!”

“Is there a problem?” Yassen asked as he approached.

“No full visors allowed on the dock, except for the guard,” the captain said.

“I didn't know it was a crime to wear a full visor,” Yassen said. His voice was cool, perhaps a bit too nonchalant because the captain slapped the cup out of Yassen's hand. The spilled tea hissed against the metal planks.

“New rules,” the captain said. “Only guards can wear full visors. Everybody else has to go half.”

His subordinates snickered. “Looks like he's fresh off the boat, Cap. You got to cut it up for him, — one said.

Behind his visor, Yassen frowned. He glanced at the merchant leaning against the fortunes stall. The man wore a bored expression, as if the interaction before him was nothing new. But then the merchant bent forward, pressing his hands to the counter, and Yassen saw the sign of the bull tattooed there.

Samson's men were watching.

“All right, — Yassen said. He would give them a show. Prove that he wasn't as useless as the whispers told.

He unclipped his visor as the guards watched. “But you owe me another cup of tea.

And then Yassen flung his arm out and rammed the visor against the captain's face. The man stumbled back with a groan. The other two leapt forward, but Yassen was quicker; he swung around and gave four quick jabs, two each on the back, and the officers seized and sank to their knees in temporary paralysis.

“Blast him!” the captain cried, reaching for his gun. Yassen pivoted behind him, his hand flashing out to unclip the captain's helmet visor.

The captain whipped around, raising his gun… but then sunlight hit the planks before him, and the brass threw off its unforgiving light. Blinded, the captain fired.

The air screeched.

The pulse whizzed past Yassen's right ear, tearing through the upper beams of a storefront. Immediately, merchants took cover. Someone screamed as the crowd on both docks began to run. Yassen swiftly vanished into the chaotic fray, letting the crowd push him toward the dock's edge, and then he dove into the sea.

The cold water shocked him, and for a moment, Yassen floundered. His muscles clenched. And then he was coughing, swimming, and he surfaced beneath the dock. He willed himself to be still as footsteps thundered overhead and soldiers and guards barked out orders. Yassen caught glimpses of the captain in the spaces between the planks.

“All hells! Where did he go?” the captain yelled at the merchant manning the stall of wild tales.

The merchant shrugged. “He's long gone.”

Yassen sank deeper into the water as the captain walked overhead, his subordinates wobbling behind. Something buzzed beneath him, and he could see the faint outlines of a dark shape in the depths. Slowly, Yassen began to swim away — but the dark shape remained stationary. He waited for the guards to pass and then sank beneath the surface.

A submersible, the size of one passenger.

Look underneath the dock of fortunes, indeed.

Samson, that bastard.

Yassen swam toward the sub. He placed his hand on the imprint panel of the hull, and then the sub buzzed again and rose to the surface.

The cockpit was small, with barely enough room for him to stretch his legs, but he sighed and sank back just the same. The glass slid smoothly closed and rudders whined to life. The panel board lit up before him and bathed him in a pale blue light.

A note was there. Handwritten. How rare, and so like Samson.

See you at the palace, it said, and before Yassen could question which palace, the sub was off.

if you enjoyed

LABYRINTH'S HEART

look out for

THE JASAD HEIR

The Scorched Throne: Book One

by

Sara Hashem

In this Egyptian-inspired debut fantasy, a fugitive queen strikes a deadly bargain with her greatest enemy and finds herself embroiled in a complex game that could resurrect her scorched kingdom or leave it in ashes forever.

Ten years ago, the kingdom of Jasad burned. Its magic was outlawed; its royal family murdered down to the last child. At least, that's what Sylvia wants people to believe.

The lost Heir of Jasad, Sylvia never wants to be found. She can't think about how Nizahl's armies laid waste to her kingdom and continue to hunt its people — not if she wants to stay alive. But when Arin, the Nizahl Heir, tracks a group of Jasadi rebels to her village, staying one step ahead of death gets trickier.

In a moment of anger, Sylvia's magic is exposed, capturing Arin's attention. Now, to save her life, Sylvia will have to make a deal with her greatest enemy. If she helps him lure the rebels, she'll escape persecution.

A deadly game begins. Sylvia can't let Arin discover her identity even as hatred shifts into something more. Soon, Sylvia will have to choose between the life she wants and the one she left behind. The scorched kingdom is rising, and it needs a queen.

CHAPTER ONE

Two things stood between me and a good night's sleep, and I was allowed to kill only one of them.

I tromped through Hirun River's mossy banks, squinting for movement. The grime, the late hours — I had expected those. Every apprentice in the village dealt with them. I just hadn't expected the frogs.

“Say your farewells, you pointless pests,” I called. The frogs had developed a defensive strategy they put into action any time I came close. First, the watch guard belched an alarm. The others would fling themselves into the river. Finally, the brave watch guard hopped for his life. An effort as admirable as it was futile.

Dirt was caked deep beneath my fingernails. Moonlight filtered through a canopy of skeletal trees, and for a moment, my hand looked like a different one. A hand much more manicured, a little weaker. Niphran's hands. Hands that could wield an axe alongside the burliest woodcutter, weave a storm of curls into delicate braids, drive spears into the maws of monsters. For the first few years of my life, before grief over my father's assassination spread through Niphran like rot, before her sanity collapsed on itself, there wasn't anything my mother's hands could not do.

Oh, if she could see me now. Covered in filth and outwitted by croaking river roaches.

Hirun exhaled its opaque mist, breathing life into the winter bones of Essam Woods. I cleaned my hands in the river and firmly cast aside thoughts of the dead.

A frenzied croak sounded behind a tree root. I darted forward, scooping up the kicking watch guard. Ah, but it was never the brave who escaped. I brought him close to my face. “Your friends are chasing crickets, and you're here. Were they worth it?”

I dropped the limp frog into the bucket and sighed. Ten more to go, which meant another round of running in circles and hoping mud wouldn't spill through the hole in my right boot. The fact that Rory was a renowned chemist didn't impress me, nor did this coveted apprenticeship. What kept me from tossing the bucket and going to Raya's keep, where a warm meal and a comfortable bed awaited me, was a debt of convenience.

Rory didn't ask questions. When I appeared on his doorstep five years ago, drenched in blood and shaking, Rory had tended to my wounds and taken me to Raya's. He rescued a fifteen-year-old orphan with no history or background from a life of vagrancy.

The sudden snap of a branch drew my muscles tight. I reached into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the hilt of my dagger. Given the Nizahl soldiers' predilection for randomly searching us, I usually carried my blade strapped in my boot, but I'd used it to cut my foot out of a family of tangled ferns and left it in my pocket.

A quick scan of the shivering branches revealed nothing. I tried not to let my eyes linger in the empty pockets of black between the trees. I had seen too much horror manifest out of the dark to ever trust its stillness.

My gaze moved to the place it dreaded most — the row of trees behind me, each scored with identical, chillingly precise black marks. The symbol of a raven spreading its wings had been carved into the trees circling Mahair's border. In the muck of the woods, these ravens remained pristine. Crossing the raven-marked trees without permission was an offense punishable by imprisonment or worse. In the lower villages, where the kingdom's leaders were already primed to turn a blind eye to the liberties taken by Nizahl soldiers, worse was usually just the beginning.

I tucked my dagger into my pocket and walked right to the edge of the perimeter. I traced one raven's outstretched wing with my thumbnail. I would have traded all the frogs in my bucket to be brave enough to scrape my nails over the symbol, to gouge it off. Maybe that same burst of bravery would see my dagger cutting a line in the bark, disfiguring the symbols of Nizahl's power. It wasn't walls or swords keeping us penned in like animals, but a simple carving. Another kingdom's power billowing over us like poisoned air, controlling everything it touched.

I glanced at the watch guard in my bucket and lowered my hand. Bravery wasn't worth the cost. Or the splinters.

A thick layer of frost coated the road leading back to Mahair. I pulled my hood nearly to my nose as soon as I crossed the wall separating Mahair from Essam Woods. I veered into an alley, winding my way to Rory's shop instead of risking the exposed — and regularly patrolled — main road. Darkness cloaked me as soon as I stepped into the alley. I placed a stabilizing hand on the wall and let the pungent odor of manure guide my feet forward. A cat hissed from beneath a stack of crates, hunching protectively over the half-eaten carcass of a rat.

“I already had supper, but thank you for the offer,” I whispered, leaping out of reach of her claws.

Twenty minutes later, I clunked the full bucket at Rory's feet. “I demand a renegotiation of my wages.”

Rory didn't look up from his list. “Demand away. I'll be over there.

He disappeared into the back room. I scowled, contemplating following him past the curtain and maiming him with frog corpses. The smell of mud and mildew had permanently seeped into my skin. The least he could do was pay extra for the soap I needed to mask it.

I arranged the poultices, sealing each jar carefully before placing it inside the basket. One of the rare times I'd found myself on the wrong side of Rory's temper was after I had forgotten to seal the ointments before sending them off with Yuli's boy. I learned as much about the spread of disease that day as I did about Rory's staunch ethics.

Rory returned. “Off with you already. Get some sleep. I do not want the sight of your face to scare off my patrons tomorrow. - He prodded in the bucket, turning over a few of the frogs. Age weathered Rory's narrow brown face. His long fingers were constantly stained in the color of his latest tonic, and a permanent groove sat between his bushy brows. I called it his “rage stage,” because I could always gauge his level of fury by the number of furrows forming above his nose. Despite an old injury to his hip, his slenderness was not a sign of fragility. On the rare occasions when Rory smiled, it was clear he had been handsome in his youth. “If I find that you've layered the bottom with dirt again, I'm poisoning your tea.

He pushed a haphazardly wrapped bundle into my arms. “Here.”

Bewildered, I turned the package over. “For me?

He waved his cane around the empty shop. “Are you touched in the head, child?”

I carefully peeled the fabric back, half expecting it to explode in my face, and exposed a pair of beautiful golden gloves. Softer than a dove's wing, they probably cost more than anything I could buy for myself. I lifted one reverently. “Rory, this is too much.

I only barely stopped myself from putting them on. I laid them gingerly on the counter and hurried to scrub off my stained hands. There were no clean cloths left, so I wiped my hands on Rory's tunic and earned a swat to the ear.

The fit of the gloves was perfect. Soft and supple, yielding with the flex of my fingers.

I lifted my hands to the lantern for closer inspection. These would certainly fetch a pretty price at market. Not that I'd sell them right away, of course. Rory liked pretending he had the emotional depth of a spoon, but he would be hurt if I bartered his gift a mere day later. Markets weren't hard to find in Omal. The lower villages were always in need of food and supplies. Trading among themselves was easier than begging for scraps from the palace.

The old man smiled briefly. “Happy birthday, Sylvia.”

Sylvia. My first and favorite lie. I pressed my hands together. “A consolation gift for the spinster?” Not once in five years had Rory failed to remember my fabricated birth date.

“I should hardly think spinsterhood's threshold as low as twenty years.

In truth, I was halfway to twenty-one. Another lie.

“You are as old as time itself. The ages below one hundred must all look the same to you.

He jabbed me with his cane. “It is past the hour for spinsters to be about.”

I left the shop in higher spirits. I pulled my cloak tight around my shoulders, knotting the hood beneath my chin. I had one more task to complete before I could finally reunite with my bed, and it meant delving deeper into the silent village. These were the hours when the mind ran free, when hollow masonry became the whispers of hungry shaiateen and the scratch of scuttling vermin the sounds of the restless dead.

I knew how sinuously fear cobbled shadows into gruesome shapes. I hadn't slept a full night's length in long years, and there were days when I trusted nothing beyond the breath in my chest and the earth beneath my feet. The difference between the villagers and me was that I knew the names of my monsters. I knew what they would look like if they found me, and I didn't have to imagine what kind of fate I would meet.

Mahair was a tiny village, but its history was long. Its children would know the tales shared from their mothers and fathers and grandparents. Superstition kept Mahair alive, long after time had turned a new page on its inhabitants.

It also kept me in business.

Instead of turning right toward Raya's keep, I ducked into the vagrant road. Bits of honey-soaked dough and grease marked the spot where the halawany's daughters snacked between errands, sitting on the concrete stoop of their parents' dessert shop. Dodging the dogs nosing at the grease, I checked for anyone who might report my movements back to Rory.

We had made a tradition of forgiving each other, Rory and me. Should he find out I was treating Omalians under his name, peddling pointless concoctions to those superstitious enough to buy them — well, I doubted Rory could forgive such a transgression. The “cures” I mucked together for my patrons were harmless. Crushed herbs and altered liquors. Most of the time, the ailments they were intended to ward off were more ridiculous than anything I could fit in a bottle.

The home I sought was ten minutes' walk past Raya's keep. Too close for comfort. Water dripped from the edge of the sagging roof, where a bare clothesline stretched from hook to hook. A pair of undergarments had fluttered to the ground. I kicked them out of sight. Raya taught me years ago how to hide undergarments on the clothesline by clipping them behind a larger piece of clothing. I hadn't understood the need for so much stealth. I still didn't. But time was a limited resource tonight, and I wouldn't waste it soothing an Omalian's embarrassment that I now had definitive proof they wore undergarments.

The door flew open. “Sylvia, thank goodness,” Zeinab said. “She's worse today.”

I tapped my mud-encrusted boots against the lip of the door and stepped inside.

“Where is she?”

I followed Zeinab to the last room in the short hall. A wave of incense wafted over us when she opened the door. I fanned the white haze hanging in the air. A wizened old woman rocked back and forth on the floor, and bloody tracks lined her arms where nails had gouged deep. Zeinab closed the door, maintaining a safe distance. Tears swam in her large hazel eyes. “I tried to give her a bath, and she did this. - Zeinab pushed up the sleeve of her abaya, exposing a myriad of red scratch marks.

“Right. - I laid my bag down on the table. “I will call you when I've finished.”

Subduing the old woman with a tonic took little effort. I moved behind her and hooked an arm around her neck. She tore at my sleeve, mouth falling open to gasp. I dumped the tonic down her throat and loosened my stranglehold enough for her to swallow. Once certain she wouldn't spit it out, I let her go and adjusted my sleeve. She spat at my heels and bared teeth bloody from where she'd torn her lip.

It took minutes. My talents, dubious as they were, lay in efficient and fleeting deception. At the door, I let Zeinab slip a few coins into my cloak's pocket and pretended to be surprised. I would never understand Omalians and their feigned modesty. “Remember—

Zeinab bobbed her head impatiently. “Yes, yes, I won't speak a word of this. It has been years, Sylvia. If the chemist ever finds out, it will not be from me.

She was quite self-assured for a woman who never bothered to ask what was in the tonic I regularly poured down her mother's throat. I returned Zeinab's wave distractedly and moved my dagger into the same pocket as the coins. Puddles of foul-smelling rain rippled in the pocked dirt road. Most of the homes on the street could more accurately be described as hovels, their thatched roofs shivering above walls joined together with mud and uneven patches of brick. I dodged a line of green mule manure, its waterlogged, grassy smell stinging my nose.

Did Omal's upper towns have excrement in their streets?

Zeinab's neighbor had scattered chicken feathers outside her door to showcase their good fortune to their neighbors. Their daughter had married a merchant from Dawar, and her dowry had earned them enough to eat chicken all month. From now on, the finest clothes would furnish her body. The choicest meats and hardest-grown vegetables for her plate. She'd never need to dodge mule droppings in Mahair again.

I turned the corner, absently counting the coins in my pocket, and rammed into a body.

I stumbled, catching myself against a pile of cracked clay bricks. The Nizahl soldier didn't budge beyond a tightening of his frown.

“Identify yourself.

Heavy wings of panic unfurled in my throat. Though our movements around town weren't constrained by an official curfew, not many risked a late-night stroll. The Nizahl soldiers usually patrolled in pairs, which meant this man's partner was probably harassing someone else on the other side of the village.

I smothered the panic, snapping its fluttering limbs. Panic was a plague. Its sole purpose was to spread until it tore through every thought, every instinct.

I immediately lowered my eyes. Holding a Nizahl soldier's gaze invited nothing but trouble. “My name is Sylvia. I live in Raya's keep and apprentice for the chemist Rory. I apologize for startling you. An elderly woman urgently needed care, and my employer is indisposed.”

From the lines on his face, the soldier was somewhere in his late forties. If he had been an Omalian patrolman, his age would have signified little. But Nizahl soldiers tended to die young and bloody. For this man to survive long enough to see the lines of his forehead wrinkle, he was either a deadly adversary or a coward.

“What is your father's name?

“I am a ward in Raya's keep, — I repeated. He must be new to Mahair. Everyone knew Raya's house of orphans on the hill. “I have no mother or father.”

He didn't belabor the issue. “Have you witnessed activity that might lead to the capture of a Jasadi?” Even though it was a standard question from the soldiers, intended to encourage vigilance toward any signs of magic, I inwardly flinched. The most recent arrest of a Jasadi had happened in our neighboring village a mere month ago. From the whispers, I'd surmised a girl reported seeing her friend fix a crack in her floorboard with a wave of her hand. I had overheard all manner of praise showered on the girl for her bravery in turning in the fifteen-year-old. Praise and jealousy — they couldn't wait for their own opportunities to be heroes.

“I have not.” I hadn't seen another Jasadi in five years.

He pursed his lips. “The name of the elderly woman?

“Aya, but her daughter Zeinab is her caretaker. I could direct you to them if you'd like. - Zeinab was crafty. She would have a lie prepared for a moment like this.

“No need. - He waved a hand over his shoulder. “On your way. Stay off the vagrant road.”

One benefit of the older Nizahl soldiers — they had less inclination for the bluster and interrogation tactics of their younger counterparts. I tipped my head in gratitude and sped past him.

By M. A. Carrick ROOK & ROSE

The Mask of Mirrors

The Liar's Knot

Labyrinth's Heart

Praise for the Rook & Rose Trilogy

“The characters are fun, the setting is magnificent, and the writing is smart and accessible.

— Los Angeles Review of Books

“Lush, engrossing and full of mystery and dark magic… sure to please fantasy readers looking to dial up the intrigue.… Jump in and get swept away.”

— BookPage

“Immersive.… A feast to savor slowly.

— BuzzFeed News

“Utterly captivating. Carrick spins an exciting web of mystery, magic, and political treachery in a richly drawn and innovative world.”

— S. A. Chakraborty, author of The City of Brass

“A web of intrigue, magic, and the art of the con, this novel will catch hold of your dreams and keep you from sleeping.”

— Mary Robinette Kowal, author of The Calculating Stars

“Ushers you into the fascinating city of Nadežra, replete with complex politics, intricate magic, and mysteries that readers will be racing to unravel. Wonderfully immersive — I was unable to put it down.”

— Andrea Stewart, author of The Bone Shard Daughter

“For those who like their revenge plots served with the intrigue of The Goblin Emperor, the colonial conflict of The City of Brass, the panache of Swordspoint, and the richly detailed settings of Guy Gavriel Kay.”

— Booklist (starred review)

“An escape into a vast, enchanting world of danger, secret identities, and glittering prose.”

— Tasha Suri, author of The Jasmine Throne

“The richly layered city of Nadežra, combined with the deeply intertwined politics and rivalries of its residents, creates a perfect backdrop for the enchantment of Carrick's plot and characters. A fantastically twisty read.

— Fran Wilde, author of The Bone Universe trilogy

“An intricate, compelling dream of a book that kept me turning pages, with a world and characters that felt deeply real and plenty of riveting twists and turns. I loved it.”

— Melissa Caruso, author of The Tethered Mage

“A tightly laced plot dripping with political intrigue. Carrick has built a strong foundation for things to come.

— Publishers Weekly

“This book was like nibbling my way through a box of gourmet chocolates curated just for Reader Me. A large box of gourmet chocolates.”

— Fantasy Literature

“Has it all: complex, believable characters; a fast-moving, intricate plot; rich details of attire, cuisine, religion, and so much more, all of which lead the reader to believe that Nadežra exists in more than dreams. This novel starts off strong and only gets better.”

— Jane Lindskold, author of The Firekeeper Saga

“A terrific heroine, intricate worldbuilding, and a bewitching combination of comedy-of-manners and action hooked me from the start and never let me go!”

— Sherwood Smith, author of Inda