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Author’s Note: Part One, I hope. I tend to have trouble writing serially, but it was either that or try to write a book in a month while finishing college apps and doing my Yule/Christmas shopping, so serially it is. I hope you enjoy!
A list of the more confusing name pronunciations, as I’ve stolen and modified a lot of Gaelic and Arabic, as well as the real-world correspondences of the countries/cities:
Alamenia--Germany
Ambriga--USA
Cathal--CA-el (almost one syllable; A is pronounced as in ‘cat’)
Ephrakeh--Africa
Eyrin--Ireland
Faolan--FEE-lan
New Iark--New York City
Samia--SAH-myah
Sarabia--Sah-RAH-bee-ah--Saudi Arabia, but it covers a much larger area, including much of North Africa
Scathlend Scotland
Queen of Bells
Part One: Welcome to Sarabia
By Myriad
Most Ambrigan women would find the prospect of spending six months digging in the deserts of northern Ephrakeh unappealing at best. To Ariel Connely, however, the Sarabian town of Saqueka and, beyond it, the ruins of the ancient city of Asepolis were a welcome sight indeed.
“Four hours,” she groused to Sam, her chaperone and best friend since the age of six as their SUV drove towards the outer wall of Asepolis. “Four hours on the ground in New Iark, and then another six to get through customs here—do I look like a terrorist?” she demanded.
Sam rolled his dark shoulders beneath the sleeveless tunic he wore. “From their point of view, who knows? It’s not like there’s a lot of civilian traffic between Ambrica and Sarabia.”
“Still,” Ariel protested. “I’ve followed all their stupid rules—what more do they want?” She plucked distastefully at the baggy kabru, or coat, that she wore over a sleeveless white top. It was the same sandy color as the wide-legged pants she’d bound tight around her ankles above her boots.
“If you were really following all their rules, you’d be wearing a hell of a lot more than that. You’d be so wrapped up in cloth we’d never see those pretty brown eyes—or this rat tail,” Sam said, tugging on the end of her auburn ponytail.
Ariel tugged her hair free, crossing her arms under her breasts and glaring at Sam. “I still say it’s ridiculous. This whole business about women covering themselves from head to toe is outdated and oppressive.”
“It’s not so long ago that Ambrigan women had to cover their hair, Ari,” Sam reminded her. “We may have gained our independence nearly a century ago, but the old ways are still with us. I’m proof of that.” He said it almost ruefully, tugging at the short, beaded lock of hair hanging before his ear.
Ariel bit her lip and didn’t say anything. They were such good friends that she usually forgot what the three white beads hanging before each of his ears told others so plainly.
Sam was her aba, a castrated man trusted to chaperone and protect the unmarried—and thus, theoretically, still virginal—daughter of any man rich enough to afford such protection for his child. Sam had never left her side for more than a couple of hours since the day he’d been assigned to her eighteen years before, a fact which she knew he resented, though he tried not to show it. Though as an aba, he was a third-rank abdu—the Abdu’s Rights movement of 1982 had made it illegal to call them slaves—and thus entitled to a degree of freedom, he was still bound to Ariel for life.
“I think we’re here,” Sam said, interrupting her thoughts. The SUV drew to a stop at the main gate.
“Asepolis, here we come,” Ariel said, sliding out of her seat as Sam opened the door for her. She shouldered her bag and led him to the gate.
“Hello,” Sam called to the guard in Sarabic.
“Hello,” the guard replied in Anglesh.
Sam winced. “Is my accent really that bad?”
“Yes,” Ariel said. “Hello. I’m Ariel Connely, Amos Connely’s niece. We’re here to join the Anglesh team.”
“We have been expecting you, Ms. Connely,” the guard replied. “May I see your papers?”
“What? I don’t mean to be rude, Mister—”
“Habib abn Nasser. It is a recent policy change, after the attack on the Alamen team two days ago.”
“What?” Ariel said again. “An attack? But it wasn’t in the paper I picked up in the airport, or on the news back home.”
“The government wishes to keep it a secret,” abn Nasser replied. “I tell you because you must know, but I trust you will not tell anyone else.”
Ariel and Sam nodded, and he continued, “There are many in my country who do not approve of colonials digging up what they believe is best left buried. Though Anglend, Alamenia, Ambriga, Scathlend, and Eyrin have all gained their independence, many of my countrymen see them as upstart children trying to undermine Sarabia’s power.”
“So they hate us. What else is new?” Ariel sighed, handing over her passport and visa, as well as Sam’s.
“They are especially displeased with your uncle, Ms. Connely,” abn Nasser said. “Scathlend was a colony of Anglend when Anglend still belonged to us. Many Sarabians resent that the Scathesh now have freedoms many of our citizens do not.”
“Uncle Amos said something like that. He said that’s why most of his team is Anglesh or Eyresh.”
“The Anglesh team is in the catacombs,” abn Nasser told them, returning their papers. “Amir will take you down.”
With a small bow of thanks, Ariel and Sam followed Amir as he led them into the palace ruins. Ariel forced herself not to look at the colorful mosaics adorning the walls and instead concentrated on
“Remind me to ask Uncle Amos for a map,” she muttered to Sam, who nodded fervently.
“Here,” Amir said, halting them at the top of a flight of stairs. “The Anglesh are below.” He stood waiting, one hand outstretched, palm up.
Rolling her eyes to Sam, Ariel deposited a two-ryal coin in his palm. Amir bowed and left them standing on either side of the stairs.
“So?” asked Sam, raising an eyebrow when Ariel didn’t immediately dash down the stairs.
“Just…savoring the moment,” she said seriously. Then she flashed him a wicked grin and took the steps three at a time.
“Ari—!” Heaving a sigh, Sam dashed down after her, nearly bowling both of them over when she stopped at the base of the stairs.
“What—” Sam began, then stopped, seeing Ari’s ecstatic expression. “Tell me when you can hear me again,” he muttered, leaning against the wall and watching her survey the room.
It was a large room, maybe a hundred meters long and thirty wide, with rows of elaborately carved sarcophagi running between huge stone columns. In the stark light provided by dozens of portable electric lamps, Ariel could see that the paint on the columns was fading, but the mosaics on the walls and the inlays in the sarcophagi gleamed through a coating of dust. The excavation team—twenty or so men and women aged twenty-five to forty—had only just begun to open the sarcophagi and clean the dust from the mosaics. Under the watchful eyes of the Sarabian and Anglesh security men who lined the tomb walls, seven of the team were sliding the lid off of the sarcophagus nearest to her. Ariel’s palms itched at the thought of what lay inside.
“You gonna come out of la-la land any time soon?” she heard Sam ask. Starting slightly, she sent him a mock-glare over her shoulder.
“I put up with you at that old missile silo,” Ariel reminded him as she led him further into the room. Her uncle was at the far wall, recognizable even from such a far distance by his shock of snow-white hair.
“We were in the missile silo for four hours. We’re going to be here for half a year,” Sam replied. “You’ll never get anything done if you go into a trance like that every time you enter the room.”
“Shut up,” Ariel grumbled. Ignoring Sam, she focused on the opposite wall. Her uncle was kneeling before an elaborate mosaic, carefully brushing dust from the brightly colored tiles. Leaning against the wall to Amos’s right, watching the room with his arms folded across his chest, was a man who could only be Amos’s cathal, or personal bodyguard—a first-degree abdu, nearly a free man.
The cathal’s eyes followed them as they approached. He looked to be about thirty, though Amos had told her he was younger, tall and rangy, with skin darkened by the hot Epharkehn sun. He wore his dusty brown hair cropped short but for the thin, abdu braids that hung before his ears, each bearing the single silver bead that marked his rank and position. The eyes that remained fixed on Ariel and Sam were icy blue, set over strong cheekbones and an unshaven chin.
The cathal murmured something to Amos, who turned and rose stiffly. “Ariel,” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Sarabia.”
A little unsettled by her uncle’s curtness—she’d forgotten how distant he was—Ariel took his hand a shook it. “It’s good to be here, uncle.”
“Nicholas Flayne, my cathal,” Amos said. “Faolan, my niece, Ariel Connley.”
“Miss Connley,” Flayne said formally, offering his hand as well.
“Faolan?” Ariel asked, lifting an eyebrow as they shook hands. Fluent in Gaelic, she recognized the word for wolf, but didn’t understand the connection.
“Mr. Connley’s name. He claims he sees something of a wolf in me.”
“And then some,” Sam said approvingly from behind Ariel. She grinned.
“Samuel Taylor, my aba.” Ariel said, extricating her fingers from Flayne’s firm, warm grip. The two men shook hands, and then Sam offered his hand to Amos, who appeared to think for a moment before taking it.
“So, Uncle,” Ariel said into the ensuing silence. “Looks like quite a project.”
“It is,” Amos said. “But you must be tired from your flight, so I won’t expect you to do much today. Why don’t you go and meet the rest of the crew?”
“But—” she began.
“Ariel.”
She sighed. “Yes, Uncle Amos. Come on, Sam.” Ariel led him to the nearest worker, a blonde woman in her late thirties. “Um—hi. I’m Ariel Connely, Mr. Connely’s niece?”
“Ariel!” the woman replied, turning around and engulfing her in a hug. “I’m Laura, Amos’ assistant. Basically, that means I do all the practical stuff so he can play in the dirt all day. But occasionally he lets me play, too.”
“Hi,” Ariel said again, rather off-balance from the hug. “Um—this is Sam, my aba.”
“Good to meet you,” Laura said, hugging Sam. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew.”
“I like her,” Sam whispered to Ariel as they followed Laura. “I like her a lot.”
“Abby, Larkin!” Laura called. “Amos’ niece is here!”
Abby and Larkin looked to be a few years younger than Ariel, maybe twenty or so, both short, slim, and dark-haired. “Abby Smith,” said the one with glasses, holding out her hand. “And this is Larkin, my sister. Before you ask, no, we’re not twins. I’m older.”
Larkin rolled her eyes at her sister as she shook Ariel’s hand. “By nine months. It’s not much.”
“It’s enough,” Abby replied. The two began to bicker cheerfully about the importance of birth order.
“They’re always like this; don’t pay it any mind,” Laura said to Ariel and Sam. “Fortunately, I know how to handle them—girls, do I need to call Faolan over to deal with you?”
“Oh, yes,” Abby and Larkin chorused. They grinned at each other, then at Laura.
“Have you met Faolan yet, Ms. Connely?” Larkin asked.
“Ariel, and yes,” Ari said. “He’s quite…”
“Yes,” the girls agreed, laughing.
“Even Laura will agree that he’s…”
“The sexiest man in the dig, if not in all the world? Damn right,” Laura said. “If only he were ten years older.”
“Seems you’re not the only one under the wolf’s spell,” Sam whispered to Ariel.
“I am not ‘under his spell!’” Ariel protested. “I just have a healthy female appreciation for his appearance.”
“You keep telling yourself that, honey,” said a new voice. It belonged to a stout redhead about Laura’s age with an Eyresh accent. “Sooner or later, every woman in the camp falls for him. Meredith Shanahan,” she said, holding out a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Shanahan,” Sam said, intercepting her hand before Ariel could take it. “Pay no attention to my young charge. She thinks she can fool us, but we know better. And at least I’m mature enough to admit I’ve already fallen.”
“You’re barely three weeks older than me!” Ariel protested. “I’m not your ‘young’ anything!”
“Children, play nicely,” Meredith said, laughing.
Ariel stuck out her tongue at Sam and grinned at the other women. “Anyway, I have a question about Flayne. What’s with the accent? He almost sounds like Uncle Amos, but he told me before we came that he was the only Scath in the crew.”
“Our sexy cathal is a northerner,” Laura explained. “People from up near the Scathesh border sound nearly Scathesh themselves, especially compared with the Londinium accent you’re probably used to hearing. And no doubt he’s picked up a bit of brogue living with Amos. He sounds a bit more Anglesh when he’s angry, not that I would advise you provoke him.”
“No,” Ariel agreed.
“And as much as I would love to spend all day discussing Faolan, we really should let Abby and Larkin get back to work. Besides, we’ve a whole host of single male twentysomethings who have been drooling over you since Amos said you were coming,” Laura said with a grin.
“Sounds like fun,” Sam said as they trotted obediently after Laura. “Hey, Ari?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I have the ones you don’t want?”
A bag of apples landed with a thud at Ariel’s feet. She yelped and started.
“Cooking duty,” Laura explained, grinning. “We all take turns. And since it’s your first day in Asepolis, it’s also your first day as a chef. You’ve got dessert duty with Faolan.” Her smile turned wicked as she added the last.
“Yay,” Ariel muttered, getting to her feet and hefting the bag. “What’ve you got Sam doing?”
“He’s got yak-roasting duty with Moritz and Hans from the Alamen team,” Laura said. “We pool our supplies and share the cooking duty.”
“Yak-roasting duty?”
“We leave pretty sparse here—buy all our produce and livestock from the natives. Besides, yak’s not bad if you leave it over the fire long enough.”
“Fire?” Ariel yelped. “Oh no. Ohhhh no.”
“What’s wro—” Laura began, but she was cut off by a trio of masculine shouts.
The two women dashed through the Anglesh camp, skidding to a halt at the edge where their tents gave way to Alamen tents.
“We’ve got it under control now!” Moritz called across the fire in accented Anglesh.
“Sam, you okay?” Ariel called.
“Fine,” he said sheepishly. “But I hope you like your yak well-done.”
“Never, ever put Sam in charge of a fire,” Ariel told Laura. “He nearly burned down Orangestone the last time we went camping.”
“I’ll make a note of it. Come on, you’re late for your date with Faolan.”
Ariel rolled her eyes. “Is there a woman in this camp who doesn’t think he’s the sexiest man alive?”
“Nope,” Laura cheerfully replied. “Come on.” She led Ariel around the main fire to a smaller one on the Alamen side. Flayne was sitting next to a white cloth, peeling apples. Judging by the size of the pile on the cloth, he hadn’t been at it very long.
“So,” Ariel said as she dropped to her knees, as close to him as she dared. “What are we cooking?”
“Cobbler,” was his answer. He tossed her a peeled apple; she fumbled and it dropped into the sand.
“Sorry,” she said, just a little too brightly.
“Chop it.”
“Yes, sir,” Ariel replied. She almost gave a mock bow, but didn’t want to provoke him. She picked up the apple and dusted it off, then began to chop. They worked silently for several minutes, Flayne peeling apples; Ariel, chopping.
“You and Taylor seem pretty cozy,” Flayne commented as he handed her another apple. “Is there anything I need to know?”
Startled by the question, Ariel said defensively, “I don’t see why you would need to know anything.”
He slid his gaze to hers. “Emotions complicate things, Miss Connely.”
“Ms. Connely,” she corrected, turning away in as dignified a manner as she could managed. “It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it? The rich man’s daughter falls in love with her aba, despite his…lack of equipment, shall we say? Believe it or not, Mister Flayne, I have seen a movie or two in the last decade.”
Flayne raised an eyebrow behind her back. “My apologies.” He didn’t sound very apologetic.
“Anyway, Sam’s gay,” Ariel said, turning back. She held out a hand. “Can I have that apple, or were you just peeling it to show off your blade?”
If Flayne caught the double entendre, he didn’t show it. “Bit of a cliché, isn’t it? The castrated aba, unable to…satisfy, shall we say? the fairer sex, turns to men.” He held out the apple.
“Sam’s been chasing after boys since he was old enough to walk,” Ariel replied, snatching the fruit from his hand. “Are we through with the cross-examination?”
“For now.”
Ariel glared at his back. “Whatever’s the most convenient for you, my Laird.”
He turned to her again. “I do my job, Ms. Connely. There’s no need for sarcasm.”
She bit her lip and returned to her work, but inside she was thinking, Oh yes, I really think there is.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Ariel complained after two hours of trying to read the hieroglyphics. “I know I’m translating the symbols right; I’m fluent in the language of this dynasty. But it’s gibberish.”
“It’s not a code,” Amos said. “There would be a key of some kind to indicate what kind of code it was. Not to mention this dynasty rarely encrypted anything.”
“It’s got to be something, though,” Ariel protested. “Maybe—wait a minute. That design up there, with the red border. I though it was just a corner decoration like the others, but the stone’s a slightly different color. Maybe—” She reached up and tapped the design, a snake wrapped around a brown sphere. The stone squares fell to the ground, revealing a second design painted on the wall.
“That’s a ribbon key,” Amos said, surprised.
“Yes,” Ariel said, pleased. “No wonder it didn’t make sense—I’ve just been reading it right-to left and top-to bottom. Let’s see…an H and plus, that’s the Lazy H pattern, and the three dots mean you make three Hs before you backtrack. And the dog means we start at whichever corner has a dog—that one,” she said, pointing to the lower left-hand corner and looking to Amos for approval.
“Good,” he said, which was high praise from him. “Read it.”
“Lessee…up, up, over, down, over, up, over, down, down, down…” Ariel chanted to herself, tracing the Lazy H pattern over the symbols with her finger. “‘In the year 843, the first year of the reign of King Qimat the Third, and the 33rd and final year of the reign of Queen Samia the First, First Queen of the Sarabic Lands, Queen of Bells, Keeper of Sun, Wind, and Sand, this tomb was sealed by Maliki, the Queen’s scribe, and one who loved her well.’ I think it’s safe to say that the Lazy H is the right pattern.”
“Yes,” Amos agreed. “Get a notebook—best to copy it down the first time so we don’t have to go through the pattern each time.”
“Right,” Ariel said, scrambling to find a notebook and a pen.
It took them another two hours to translate and copy down the message, speaking and writing quietly as the other workers excavated sarcophagi around them.
“My hand hurts,” Ariel complained, dropping the pen and flexing her fingers. “But at least we’re done.”
“Mm,” Amos muttered, studying the notebook. “It’s quite simple once it’s been translated. But as to how to get the crypt open—”
“It did say something about bells,” Ariel said, leaning in to look at the translation. “‘The music of the lesser bells release her from her prison.’ Whatever that means. Although we did drive past some kiosks selling bells on our way through town yesterday, and I think some of them were labeled ‘lesser bells.’”
“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Amos said dubiously.
“Great!” Ari said. “I’ll go get some.” And she dashed out of the tomb.
Translation is one thing, she thought as she climbed the steps, but spending four hours with Uncle Amos’s disapproval and Flayne’s lurking is another. I’m not running away; I’m taking a break, as most humans would need after four hours. Yeah, she believed that.
She jogged out of the palace and through the Anglesh camp, searching for Sam. He was reclining near the Alamen tents, reading Nicholas Nickleby for at least the hundredth time.
“Hey, Sam,” Ariel said, nudging his leg with her toe. “I need to go into town.”
“Nnnn…” Sam muttered.
She kicked him again. “Come on, Sam, we need to be back by curfew.”
“But Ari—Sir Mulberry’s about to kill Lord Verisopht! That’s the best part!”
Ariel rolled her eyes. “I’ll go alone,” she told him. She started off in the direction of the gate, sure that Sam would follow. He always did.
When she got to the gate of Asepolis’s outer wall, however, he still hadn’t caught up. Ariel waited for a minute, frowning, then rolled her eyes and sighed. I should wait for him, but…
She pulled a wide-brimmed hat out of her bag and put it on, tucking her hair up under it. Then she buttoned her kabru up to her throat—if she carried herself just right, the loose coat would hide her feminine figure.
Saqueka, here I come!
“Hey, Abby,” he called to the nearest archaeologist. He’d learned most of their names the night before. “Have you seen Ari?”
“Not since she was down in the catacombs,” Abby replied, shaking her dark hair out of her face. “I thought she left to get a bell from Saqueka.”
“What—oh, shit.”
“Everything okay?” Abby asked, concerned.
“No,” Sam said. “They are most definitely not okay. Laura!”
“What?” Laura demanded, poking her head out of her tent. “I was taking a nap.”
“Have you seen Ariel?”
“I thought she went to Saqueka. Why aren’t you with her?”
“That’s the problem—damn it, usually she gives me a bit more warning before she goes haring off on her own! If she’s not back by now, something’s gone wrong. Somebody tell Flayne—”
“No need,” Flayne said, appearing from between two tents with Amos behind him. “Anson, find abn Nasser, tell him she’s missing. Johnson, Cavanaugh, take your teams and start searching Saqueka. Taylor, you’re with me.” He spun on his heel and stalked off towards the gate as Johnson and Cavanaugh gathered their men.
“Why are we telling the Sarabian military?” Sam asked, jogging after Flayne.
“Full disclosure,” Flayne said shortly. “If we don’t tell them, and they find out, we’re out of the country. Probably for the next twenty years. We tell them, they pretend to help us search, and the diplomats are happy.”
“I see,” said Sam. They ran in silence for the next ten minutes, until they reached the edge of town.
Flayne stopped and put a hand to his earpiece. “Johnson, start in the east and work west. Cavanaugh, work east. Taylor and I will take the center of town.”
“Lucky Saqueka’s so small,” Sam commented distractedly, craning his neck impatiently.
“You look take the market. I’ve got the residential area. We’ll meet back here in twenty. Go!” Flayne barked, and Sam nearly snapped a salute before setting off again.
Flayne jogged quickly through the streets of Saqueka, his trained eyes searching for any sign of Ariel. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he called in Sarabic. “Have you seen a young woman, about half a foot shorter than me, slim, reddish hair?”
The woman glanced at him and tried to slink away, but Flayne caught her arm.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “I’m trying to find her before she gets in trouble—she forgets, sometimes, that a woman of her age should not be out unescorted.”
“Running around like a man,” the elderly woman muttered. “Like a no-good whore. Mayor’s son took her. Good for him.”
“Show me,” Flayne demanded. “I’ll pay,” he added before the woman could try to refuse.
She looked like she was about to anyway, but the temptation of coin was too great to ignore. “Come,” she said.
The woman led him through Saqueka into the slums on the northern fringe of the town. “In there,” she said, jerking a shoulder at one of the better-preserved buildings, a two-story house with tattered awnings over the boarded windows and a jackal carved over the door.
“Thank you,” he said, slipping a five-ryal bill into her hand. She said nothing as she slunk away.
Flayne circled the building, but there was no way in besides the front door or the windows. A quick test of the boards told him the windows wouldn’t work. He knocked on the door.
A young Sarabian, barely old enough to call himself a man, answered. “What do you want?” he demanded in Sarabic through the partially-opened door.
“I’ve come for the girl.”
The Sarabian’s eyes widened. “We have no girl.”
“I’m her uncle’s cathal, and hers as well. I can be trusted with her.”
“We have no girl,” the boy repeated shaking his head.
I don’t have time for this. Flayne shoved at the door, pushing his way past the boy and into the house.
Ariel was seated on the ground, bound hand and foot, glaring at the two men who stood leering at her. They turned as Flayne barged in. “What—” one began in Sarabian.
But Flayne wasn’t about to explain himself again. He dispensed of the two men quickly, tossing them out into the street before turning to Ariel.
“Are you mad?” Flayne demanded, hauling her to her feet. “Do you want to start a bloody war?”
She just stared at him, eyes wide. With a growl of frustration, he flipped a knife out of his pocket and cut her gag, then her bonds. “Just what the hell do you think you were doing? They could throw us out of Asepolis for this!”
“I—” she began. “I—I don’t know. I—” And suddenly she was crying.
“Christ. Pull yourself together; the military’s going to be here any minute.”
“I can’t exactly help it!” she wailed. “Damn it. Okay. Okay.” She closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath. “I’m better. Mostly.”
Flayne snorted. She still sounded like she was talking through a sock.
“I know I sound hysterical, but I’m not. My vocal cords just get weird when I’m upset. But I’m perfectly logical. See?” she squeaked.
He wasn’t sure whether he believed her or not, but there was no point in arguing now. The military had arrived, abn Nasser at the forefront.
“Where’s her aba?” abn Nasser demanded. “She cannot be seen with so many men unless—”
“I’m here,” Sam called, shouldering his way through to Ariel. “I’m here. Oh, honey.” He folded Ariel in his arms.
“Hi, Sam,” she said weakly, and began to cry again.
“Have you been bullying her?” Sam demanded of Flayne. “I’ll bet you have. Jesus, she can’t be expected to be much good for anything after being kidnapped.”
Flayne said nothing, only glared.
“You know what you need?” Sam said kindly. “Cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. That always makes you feel better, yeah? Though I don’t know where we’ll get any here…Laura might have some digestives or something.”
Abn Nasser cleared his throat. “As you have been so prompt in her recovery, we are willing to forget this slight for now. But I will have to report this to my commander, and there is a distinct possibility that someone higher than I will choose to investigate this further.”
“Thank you,” Flayne said.
“Yes,” Sam said. “But—”
“Let’s go, Mr. Taylor,” Flayne said warningly. He led them out of the building.
“Flayne.”
He slid a magazine into the pistol, checked the safety, and slid it into the holster at his thigh as his stood. Silent, he studied Connely’s niece, waiting for her to state her business. She’d started wearing her kabru again, though she still left it unbuttoned. Defiance, he thought, of Sarabia and of me. That same defiance was mirrored in her squared shoulders, her lifted chin, her gaze.
“I need to ask you a favor.”
Flayne lifted a brow but still said nothing.
“I—” She stopped, took a breath, sliding a sheathed knife out of her pocket. “I want to learn how to defend myself.”
He held out a hand for the knife. She deposited it in his hand, nearly dropping it in her haste to be rid of it. Flayne slid the blade out of its sheath and flicked it open. It was a good make from a good brand—he had one himself an inch or so longer.
“You have good taste,” he said as he sheathed the knife again.
“My brother gave it to me before we left.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t want to think I’d have to use it.”
Flayne jerked his chin, his version of a nod. “We won’t start with this right away. You need to be in control of your body before you can control a blade.”
Connely’s niece nodded, her eyes drifting away from his before snapping up again.
“Can I have my knife back?” she asked after a minute, voice loud to cover her nerves.
Flayne allowed himself a small smile of amusement as he handed it to her. “We’ll start tomorrow.”
“Good,” she said with a nod, turning to leave.
“Oh—Ms. Connely?”
She pivoted back to face him. “Yes?”
“Welcome to Sarabia.”