***
Dinner was yet another sumptuous feast and, regardless of their suspicions, the travelers ate heartily to make up for the boring meals they’d had to eat aboard Hauvarta’s Shield after the storm. Bin Abou was no more informative than he’d been before, but tonight he also seemed more nervous than at any time since he’d greeted them so oddly. His speech was hesitant and his eyes kept darting about, as though looking for something no one else could see. At other times he stared at them as though willing them to leave, even as his words entreated them to stay.
Verethran the monkey seemed particularly playful tonight, jumping around and leaping from one person’s shoulders to the next, doing somersaults and tumbles like an excited acrobat. Even bin Abou could not remain serious in the face of such antics, and chuckled occasionally despite the private woes that occupied his thoughts.
At last the meal was done and bin Abou led his guests down the confusing copper corridors to their suite of rooms. As the door opened and the party from the ship started to enter, the playful Verethran jumped onto El–Hadar’s shoulders and knocked the captain’s turban to the ground. Then, before the captain could bend over to grab it, the monkey had leaped back down to the floor, picked up the turban and started playing with it.
“Thrice–damned spawn of Rimahn!” El–Hadar swore. He reached down to grab the monkey, but the spry little creature darted into the room carrying the turban with him. The captain turned to bin Abou. “El–Hadar hopes your cook knows a good recipe for monkey stew!” Without further word he stalked through the door after the monkey. The others laughed and followed him inside, leaving bin Abou to close the door behind them for the night.
“Did it work?” Selima asked when the door had closed and they were sure bin Abou could not hear them.
“Take a look,” El–Hadar said, pointing at the doorway. “Your little friend performed his job quite cleverly.”
As Verethran had picked up the turban, he’d begun unraveling it from one end. A small piece of the long strip of cloth had been left out in the hallway, unseen by bin Abou; when their host closed the door, the cloth caught on the bottom of the frame and the door did not shut seamlessly the way it had done the previous night. A tiny crack ran the length of the doorframe, just enough to identify where it was.
“That’s one problem solved,” said Jafar al–Sharif. “But can we open the door now that we know where it is?”
That turned out to be equally easy. Because the door couldn’t close completely it hadn’t latched, and a gentle push was enough to swing it open. They were now free to leave their rooms as they chose.
Prince Ahmad poked his head out and looked both ways down the corridor. There was no sign of bin Abou or anyone else. The copper castle was dead silent, and might well have been completely deserted for all he could tell.
He stepped back inside and looked at his companions. “We’re free to explore as we choose,” he said.
“Aye, but we can hardly do it secretly,” El–Hadar said. “The slightest step echoes on the copper floor with a great clatter. Bin Abou and his master and everyone else in the castle will know where we are.”
“If there is anyone else in the castle,” Leila said.
“Then let me go,” Selima volunteered. “My footsteps make no noise at all, I am hard to see—and if they do see me, there’s nothing they can do to harm me.”
Prince Ahmad looked at her warmly. “Once again, O brave Selima, your curse works as a strange sort of blessing. You will make the perfect spy.”
“But you must still try to stay out of sight,” her father warned her, realizing how impossible it would be to talk her out of this course of action. “Although bin Abou’s master can’t hurt you, he might decide to take his vengeance out on us.”
“As always, my father’s wisdom shall guide my steps,” Selima said. She smiled warmly at him and at Prince Ahmad, then stepped out the doorway into the brilliantly reflective hallway beyond.
Her footsteps were sure and silent as she walked back in the direction they’d come. The halls were still and foreboding, with no sign of any servants tending to this huge castle. The corridors were brightly lit without a single torch present. Even with no training, Selima would have known the place reeked of magic.
Not only did she have to remember the way she’d come, but she also had to memorize the route she took now so she could return through the maze of corridors to the room where her companions were eagerly awaiting her discoveries. Several times she had to stop, close her eyes and think hard to remember the details. Bits of memory came back to her of the dingy tunnels of Punjar and her harrowing escape there. She doubted, however, that she would find anyone as sympathetic and helpful as Leila this time.
After a while she heard the sound of distant voices. This was a promising development, so she tried to find where they were coming from. The echoes from the copper walls were misleading, and twice she had to turn around and retrace her steps, but eventually the voices grew louder. She slowed her pace so she would not suddenly burst into view, and crept slowly up to the room where the conversation was in progress.
Fazil bin Abou was seated cross–legged on a blue and white carpet in the middle of a large room with many copper pillars and arches. He seemed to be alone, speaking to the empty air before him. “But these people have done you no harm,” he said. “In the name of Oromasd, let them go in peace.”
Then another voice thundered through the room, deep as a drumbeat. Selima could tell it came from up near the ceiling. “I care not for the name of Oromasd,” it said. “On my island, I say what is to be. Tomorrow is their third day here, and if they eat one crumb or drink one drop under my roof they will belong to me. I may keep some of them as slaves, to serve me as you do, or I may eat some as I did your companions. But tomorrow the fools will certainly be mine!”
“But master—” bin Abou implored, looking upward.
“No argument, slave, or tomorrow I’ll replace you with one of them. Your soft flesh will make good eating. Now go to your room and prepare for tomorrow, when my guests will become my captives.”
Selima had heard enough. Silently she stole back along the corridors the way she’d come, making only one wrong turn and then quickly correcting it. After far too long a time she saw the crack in the wall that signaled the room where her friends were lodged. “I’m back,” she whispered hoarsely, and the door opened to admit her.
Quickly she recounted what she saw—and what she hadn’t seen. “Now we know what bin Abou is so afraid of,” Leila said. “An invisible monster. That’s enough to frighten anyone.”
“But what sort of monster?” El–Hadar wondered. “What is its shape? What is its size? What are its weapons? Does it gore like a bull, claw like a lion or sting like a scorpion? How can we fight such a creature without knowing anything about it?”
“It’s obviously a creature of magic,” Prince Ahmad said. “That means we must fight it with magic. Fortunately, we’re properly armed in that direction.” And he looked, smiling, at Jafar al–Sharif.
The storyteller merely stood quietly, looking thoughtful.
Later, when they’d retired to their rooms, Leila spoke to Jafar. “Well, my clever fraud, they look to you one more time. Can you produce yet another trick of magic to save us?”
“Actually,” Jafar said slowly, “I may know a way of dealing with an invisible monster—if we can move quickly enough. Have you ever heard the story of Argun in the lair of Disfanir?”