sent her to Yah Reza and Yah Tayyib, two of the country’s most skilled
magicians. Nyx’s first memories of reconstituted life were of Faleen. The sound
of cicadas. Yah Reza’s eyes, the color of sapphire flies.
Fatima minced into the room with a
white raven on her shoulder… Rasheeda the raven. Fatima spent a moment fussing
with the gas lamp near the bed. Fatima was picky about things, and had gone so
far as to pose her bodies for pick up. She also dabbled her fingers in bel dame
politics. She had the patience for it, and the bloodline. Bel dames ran through
every generation of her family.
Gas lamps meant they were in
Mushtallah or Amtullah, one of the major cities in the heart of Nasheen. If
that was true, it meant Nyx had been out a long time—and she was in a lot of
trouble. Behind Fatima was a long, thin window that looked down onto a street
the color of foam. Extravagant figures cloaked in peach and crimson milled past
the smoky glass like burned jewel bugs. Nyx no longer wondered if she was still
half asleep. Her dreams were never so colorful.
“She’s coming around again,” Fatima
said to the raven.
The raven shivered once, hopped from
Fatima’s shoulder, and began to morph into her sister Rasheeda. A few minutes
later, Rasheeda was mostly human again, naked, covered in mucus, tossing her
head of dark hair and snickering. Feathers rolled out across the floor.
Rasheeda came alongside the bed and
wiped the worst of the mucus from her face and neck with one of Nyx’s
bedsheets. She had a peculiar way of cocking her head that put Nyx in mind of
the raven.
“You look terrible,” Rasheeda said.
“You helped,” Nyx said.
Nyx tried to sit up. Rasheeda
snickered again. Unlike Fatima’s illustrious line, Rasheeda’s was nothing
special—she’d been just another grubby kid from the coast whose mother was into
career breeding. Nyx heard that Rasheeda had gone mad at the front, ripping out
entrails and eating Chenjan hearts. There was only one suitable occupation for
a madwoman from the front after she was discharged.
Nyx gazed down the length of her own
body. She swam in the black nightdress of the Plague Sisters. She pushed up the
sleeves and saw her own tawny wrists and arms, like sticks. She dared not look
at her belly or legs. The bullets her sisters shot her with had been tipped
with bugs. They’d whittled her down to almost nothing.
“Get me something to eat,” Nyx
croaked, and Rasheeda laughed.
One of the Plague Sisters strode
into the room, white skirt trailing behind her. A cloud of spiders clung to her
hem, darkening the fabric.
The Plague Sister fussed with Nyx’s
bedding and probed at her arm with the puckered snout of a semi-organic needle,
which blinked at Nyx with half-dumb eyes. Nyx flinched. The sister gave her a
disapproving frown and pulled away from her arm, taking the blood sample with
her.
“I’ll mark her for final analysis,”
the sister said, “but the venom should be out of her system.” She walked back
out, her entourage of insects pooling behind her.
“Are you all they sent?” Nyx asked.
Rasheeda snickered again, still
sticky and naked.
“They couldn’t spare any more of us
to go running after a rogue sister,” Fatima said. She was tall, skinnier and
darker than Rasheeda, almost Chenjan in color, and stronger in the face and
shoulders. She bore a perpetual frown on her long countenance.
“Dahab’s here,” Rasheeda said
absently. “Luce went for sodas.”
Dahab and Luce. If they’d sent
Dahab, it was a wonder Nyx was still alive. Four mad, skilled bel dames had
tracked her across the desert. Why the fuck was she still breathing?
“What am I doing in the interior?”
“A suit’s been filed,” Fatima said.
“Catshit. You don’t have anything on
me.”
“I know a number of butchers outside
Punjai,” Fatima said. “One of them even bought a womb that matches your tissue
samples. She sold it back to us.”
“That doesn’t prove—”
“We
magicians. Nyx’s first memories of reconstituted life were of Faleen. The sound
of cicadas. Yah Reza’s eyes, the color of sapphire flies.
Fatima minced into the room with a
white raven on her shoulder… Rasheeda the raven. Fatima spent a moment fussing
with the gas lamp near the bed. Fatima was picky about things, and had gone so
far as to pose her bodies for pick up. She also dabbled her fingers in bel dame
politics. She had the patience for it, and the bloodline. Bel dames ran through
every generation of her family.
Gas lamps meant they were in
Mushtallah or Amtullah, one of the major cities in the heart of Nasheen. If
that was true, it meant Nyx had been out a long time—and she was in a lot of
trouble. Behind Fatima was a long, thin window that looked down onto a street
the color of foam. Extravagant figures cloaked in peach and crimson milled past
the smoky glass like burned jewel bugs. Nyx no longer wondered if she was still
half asleep. Her dreams were never so colorful.
“She’s coming around again,” Fatima
said to the raven.
The raven shivered once, hopped from
Fatima’s shoulder, and began to morph into her sister Rasheeda. A few minutes
later, Rasheeda was mostly human again, naked, covered in mucus, tossing her
head of dark hair and snickering. Feathers rolled out across the floor.
Rasheeda came alongside the bed and
wiped the worst of the mucus from her face and neck with one of Nyx’s
bedsheets. She had a peculiar way of cocking her head that put Nyx in mind of
the raven.
“You look terrible,” Rasheeda said.
“You helped,” Nyx said.
Nyx tried to sit up. Rasheeda
snickered again. Unlike Fatima’s illustrious line, Rasheeda’s was nothing
special—she’d been just another grubby kid from the coast whose mother was into
career breeding. Nyx heard that Rasheeda had gone mad at the front, ripping out
entrails and eating Chenjan hearts. There was only one suitable occupation for
a madwoman from the front after she was discharged.
Nyx gazed down the length of her own
body. She swam in the black nightdress of the Plague Sisters. She pushed up the
sleeves and saw her own tawny wrists and arms, like sticks. She dared not look
at her belly or legs. The bullets her sisters shot her with had been tipped
with bugs. They’d whittled her down to almost nothing.
“Get me something to eat,” Nyx
croaked, and Rasheeda laughed.
One of the Plague Sisters strode
into the room, white skirt trailing behind her. A cloud of spiders clung to her
hem, darkening the fabric.
The Plague Sister fussed with Nyx’s
bedding and probed at her arm with the puckered snout of a semi-organic needle,
which blinked at Nyx with half-dumb eyes. Nyx flinched. The sister gave her a
disapproving frown and pulled away from her arm, taking the blood sample with
her.
“I’ll mark her for final analysis,”
the sister said, “but the venom should be out of her system.” She walked back
out, her entourage of insects pooling behind her.
“Are you all they sent?” Nyx asked.
Rasheeda snickered again, still
sticky and naked.
“They couldn’t spare any more of us
to go running after a rogue sister,” Fatima said. She was tall, skinnier and
darker than Rasheeda, almost Chenjan in color, and stronger in the face and
shoulders. She bore a perpetual frown on her long countenance.
“Dahab’s here,” Rasheeda said
absently. “Luce went for sodas.”
Dahab and Luce. If they’d sent
Dahab, it was a wonder Nyx was still alive. Four mad, skilled bel dames had
tracked her across the desert. Why the fuck was she still breathing?
“What am I doing in the interior?”
“A suit’s been filed,” Fatima said.
“Catshit. You don’t have anything on
me.”
“I know a number of butchers outside
Punjai,” Fatima said. “One of them even bought a womb that matches your tissue
samples. She sold it back to us.”
“That doesn’t prove—”
“We
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