Crystal Doors #3: Sky Realm (No. 3) (6 page)

Sharif’s face darkened. “Who knows what my father will demand of me once he knows we are here? We will see him soon enough.”

Sharif carefully rolled up his embroidered purple rug, aligning the edges and making certain that the tassels did not get tangled. On Elantya, he was the only person who had a flying carpet, but they seemed rare even here on the floating city of Irrakesh, presumably owned only by the highest class of nobles.

Their group attracted quite a crowd. Some of the merchants came out to see the cause of all the fuss. Children poked their heads out of second-and third-story windows. A murmur went up from the crowd. “Prince Ali! Prince Ali el Sharif has come back to us.”

Blushing, Sharif drew a breath, lifted his chin, and held up his hands. “Yes, I have returned to Irrakesh, but I also have responsibilities in Elantya. There is still much to do there.”

Piri bobbed along beside him, glowing a colorful pale blue. She caused as much of a stir as the Prince did. “The nymph djinni has grown. See how changed she is?”

“Piri has been through a hard time,” Sharif said, “but she is stronger. And I am stronger. I have come to see my people and to see my father.”

Vic thought the other boy was showing off a bit. Before becoming close friends with him, Vic had thought Sharif somewhat conceited, full of his own importance. Now, though, he knew that the young man had never wanted to be the leader of Irrakesh. However, since Azric had killed his brother Hashim, the Prince didn’t have much choice but to take on the role.

With his flying carpet tucked under the billowing sleeve of one arm, Sharif strolled forward leading his friends. Some of the people cheered him, others simply stared. At one booth, Sharif stopped to examine a rack of long, thick walking sticks made from polished wood tipped with iron. Selecting one, he handed a coin to the seller, who thanked Prince Ali profusely. Sharif then gave the stick to Tiaret and said, “Use this while we are here in Irrakesh. You can take it with you into the palace. It is not a weapon — though I believe you could use it as such, if the occasion arose.”

Tiaret nodded her thanks, hefted the staff, and tapped it once on the cobblestones. It gave a pleasing thump, and the girl from Afirik smiled and looked far more at ease.

“Kinda reminds me of Little John’s quarterstaff in Robin Hood,” Vic said with a grin.

“Was this quarterstaff used for defense, or to assist a feeble person in walking?” Tiaret asked.

“Definitely defense,” Gwen assured her.

Vic chuckled. “Little John was anything but feeble.”

“Excellent. Then this is my quarterstaff,” Tiaret said.

They walked past the tent of a food vendor whose colored awning was electric green and vibrant pink, bright enough to make Vic’s eyes ache. But what really caught his attention were the delicious smells. His stomach growled loudly.

Sharif laughed, seeing the hungry look in his friends’ faces, and he went to the vendor. “Are these the best skewers in the city?” he demanded.

“Indeed, they are, my Prince.” The man puffed his chest with pride. “I guarantee it on my mother’s life.”

“And is your mother still alive?”

The man hesitated. “They are nonetheless the best skewers in the city.”

Sharif chuckled, generously handing over coins. “We will have to see about that.” He passed the sticks of savory-smelling meat to Vic, Gwen, Tiaret, and Lyssandra, and they each sampled a bite of the tender flesh.

Vic guessed it was some kind of bird, maybe pigeon or chicken. “It’s the best skewer I’ve ever had in Irrakesh.”

The vendor slapped his chest. “You see? My customers are satisfied.” The man raised his voice and shouted, “Best skewers in the city! Even Prince Ali el Sharif eats my food.”

Pleased, Sharif led them onward, up the steep hill toward the palace. “My world was mostly desert, with many lush oases. Many of our people were nomads, and caravans plied the sands carrying goods from tribe to tribe. At the intersection of these trade routes stood Irrakesh, the one great city, with paved streets and tall buildings, minarets and domes. Long ago, the founders built it near the salt mines and irrigated fields and thick palm forests. But countless generations ago Azric put a curse on Irrakesh. Our water wells and aqueducts went dry. The air filled with dust. Oases shriveled and turned brown. There was no water for anyone. Our people would have died, had the Air Spirits of Irrakesh not helped our Viziers to work a powerful and complex magic. The spell uprooted my entire city, down to its foundations, and lifted it high off the ground, complete with its minarets and spires, domes and arches, palace and bazaars. Since then, Irrakesh has drifted across the open skies, riding the desert winds. Borne aloft, we glide far above the arid, trackless dunes and harvest our water directly from the clouds.”

Vic was panting by the time they climbed the last one hundred steps that led to the Sultan’s palace. “I think the air is too thin up here.”

“What
is
the sky but air and water?” Sharif asked.

Vic thought of a few answers, but he didn’t have the breath to argue.

In front of the palace entrance, a keyhole arch was tiled with ornate enameled pieces and crusted with large gems. Guards stood outside, holding tall spears whose jagged tips were made of bronze and surrounded by bright feathers. The guards wore gold-scaled armor over their chests and around their waists. Each captain had a tall, crested helmet and a bright purple cape.

The men snapped to attention, straightened their spears. The foremost soldier, with a square-cut black beard, raised his voice and announced, “Prince Ali el Sharif has returned.”

“I have come to see my father,” Sharif said, striding between the guards. “And these are my friends.”

Vic walked close to Lyssandra, and both of them stared wide-eyed at the vaulted main chamber, a place designed to accommodate huge crowds when the Sultan himself stepped forward to make pronouncements. At the moment, the palace seemed empty except for a few court functionaries. Several bright green and ruby moths fluttered through open windows and drifted up to the high dome overhead. The bright sunlight cast a sapphire glow as it filtered through the translucent gemlike vault overhead.

Piri flitted ahead, lighting the way. Runners had gone across the vaulted chamber into the many other halls and rooms of the palace. Curtains stirred, and hangings drifted in the breeze. Vic couldn’t stop looking around. His neck ached.

Finally, a man glided out, radiating an aura of calm competence that Vic found reassuring. Neither short nor tall, dark nor light, young nor old, handsome nor ugly, the otherwise plain man had glossy golden hair, and his long beard was plaited into a thick braid. He wore a cream turban, and his lightweight enchanter’s robes were streaked with the colors of sunset: sky blue, lavender, peach, and rose.

Sharif grinned. “Vizier!” He turned to his friends. “This is Vizier Jabir, my father’s most respected and knowledgeable wizard. We will discuss Elantya’s needs with him.”

“First I must tell you of your father’s needs,” Jabir said in a reproving tone.

Sharif walked forward. “Yes, my father summoned me, and we came as quickly as we could. He said it was important.”

The Vizier nodded somberly. “There is little time. We may have a month, certainly no more, and we have much to do. Hurry.”

“Much to do for what?” Gwen asked, but received no answer.

Sharif’s expression did not seem troubled as they all hurried in the old wizard’s wake. When Jabir’s robe swirled behind him, its pastel colors had a dizzying effect. The Vizier pushed thick hangings aside, working his way through one row of curtains after another. Vic felt as if he were struggling through a crowded dress shop as it was getting ready for a sale. He wrestled the cloth out of his way, trying to clear a path forward.

Sharif explained, “These hangings are more than just decorative. They provide a colorful defense against assassins.”

“They cannot protect against all assassins, unfortunately,” Jabir said as they finally emerged into the Sultan’s bed chamber.

Sharif’s father lay stretched out on an enormous bed surrounded by plump silk cushions, all of them tasseled and embroidered. Tapestries and open-weave mesh hung around the bed. Sharif stopped, staring in disbelief at the sticklike figure amongst all of the pillows.

The old man looked shriveled and drained. He lifted his head and blinked his eyes, at first not even recognizing his own son. The Vizier leaned closer to Sharif. “Your father the Sultan is dying, and you must take his place to save Irrakesh.”

7

SUDDENLY SHARIF’S COMPSURE FELL away, and in his reaction to the news, Gwen could see a lonely vulnerability. She wanted to reach out and put an arm around him to show her support. They had all come along on this mission to convince Sharif’s father that the prince could do more good for his people by staying in Elantya. None of them had guessed, however, that the Sultan was so close to death.

“What has happened? Who did this to him?” Sharif demanded. He went to the bed and flung aside the thin hangings with such vehemence that he knocked the rings loose. With a sound like a sigh, the cloth crumpled onto the embroidered crimson carpet that covered the tiled floor beneath the bed. Piri floated behind the prince, glowing a sad dull blue.

Tiaret thumped the end of her quarterstaff on the floor. “Is there danger here?”

Lyssandra said, “He looks sick. Why would you think anyone did this to him on purpose?”

“He was so healthy when last I saw him,” Sharif insisted, then lowered his voice. “It has been too long.”

The Sultan stirred on the bed. His eyes were at first blurry and distant, but then like a candle being lit, they grew bright. Gwen could see similarities between the father and son. Though the old man’s eyes were sunken, they were still dark and evenly set below arched eyebrows. His face was thin, emphasizing high cheekbones and a cleft chin.

The Sultan drew a deep breath and struggled to push himself into a sitting position with birdlike elbows. He swung a heavy head and his gaze locked with Sharif’s. “Ah, my son . . . but not Hashim. You are my son Ali. At least
you
have come.” He heaved a great sigh, drew another breath, then struggled into a straighter sitting position. With a surprisingly strong voice, the Sultan barked at his Vizier. “Jabir, you should have given me notice. I did not wish for them to see me like this.”

The old wizard shook his head sternly. “They must know, Sultan.”

“They do not need to know everything all at once. Sharif will have enough to deal with.”

“These are my friends,” Sharif said. “I brought them with me to Irrakesh.”

“You no longer need friends,” the Sultan said. “You need advisors.” Then he began a long succession of coughs accompanied by a rattle in his throat.

“But . . . what happened to him?” Gwen whispered. She could think of all sorts of sudden illnesses, debilitating diseases.

The Vizier said plainly, “Poison. An assassin got past our testers.”

“We caught the assassin,” the Sultan coughed, sounding angered at the thought of the man. “But it was too late. The poison was already inside me.”

“Poison.” Tiaret looked around, on her guard. “Has the prisoner been interrogated?”

“Yes, and executed,” Jabir said.

“But why would anyone want to kill your father?” Vic said.

From his bed, the Sultan let out a dry chuckle. “I do not have time enough left to live to explain all the reasons. Imagine hundreds of different factions and families, all of whom have their own needs and desires.”

“Our flying city has been plagued by more and more frequent attacks by leathery demons called the terodax,” the Vizier explained when the Sultan could not summon the strength to continue. “The batwinged creatures were once primitive predators but are now advanced enough to build aeries. They want to attack and kill everyone on Irrakesh and take our city as a great floating nest for their own kind. There is no reasoning with the terodax.”

“And one of these things poisoned the Sultan?” Gwen asked, trying to follow the story.

The Vizier shook his head. The Sultan leaned forward on the bed. “No, it is because I sent messages to the aeglors, hoping to form an alliance to protect Irrakesh. Their leader King Raathun said that — for a price — the aeglors would help defend our skies.”

Gwen looked from the Sultan to the Vizier to Sharif. “Are they from this world? And what are aeglors?”

“Both terodax and aeglors share this world with Irrakesh,” Sharif said. “The aeglors look human, but with large feathered wings on their backs. They are also more barbaric than our culture here, though we have much more in common with the aeglors than we do with the terodax, who are not at all human.”

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Gwen said. “First, these terodax are preying on the city, right? Second, you’re asking the eagle-winged people to help you protect Irrakesh. Third, someone poisoned you because of that?”

The Vizier tugged on his braided beard. “There is a longstanding feud between the aeglors and Irrakesh. No love is lost between us and the eagle-winged men. Many of our noble families resent the very idea of striking a bargain with them.”

“Sheesh. Security first, pride later, I say. If it saves Irrakesh, who cares?” Vic asked. “Can’t they agree to fight a common enemy?”