The Theft of Sunlight, Intisar Khanani [best book club books for discussion txt] 📗

“Aye. Put her in the first cell.”

I wait a painfully long time as the man locates a bar to pry the lid off with. Then I look up into the faces of two men, half-lit by a grimy lantern. We’re in a small, dank bricked hallway, smelling of must and the acrid stink of urine. At the other end, a darkened stairway leads upward.

“This one’s old,” the first says to the other.

“Same as the last,” his friend responds.

Kirrana. Surely that’s who he means. Whatever happened to her, at least now I’ll have some idea.

The first man hunkers down to meet my gaze. “We’re going to get you out, girl. You try anything, and you’ll go right back in. Got it?”

I nod.

They cut my wrists free and lift me out by my arms, which has me crying out in pain around my gag. Then I’m dragged forward, my legs too numb to hold me, and deposited inside a cell.

“Here,” says one, and grasps the gag, working it out of my mouth as I lie on my side, my hands too numb to use. I want to thank him, but all I can do is swallow down great gulps of air, my mouth aching. But no, I remind myself, I don’t want to thank him. His removing my gag doesn’t change the fact that he’s holding me captive and sending me on, most likely to enslavement.

“What’s this?” the man says, tilting his head.

He’s found my knife, the only thing I have left—

But instead of reaching for my leg, his fingers snag at the chain around my neck, tug. “Got yourself a pretty gold necklace, do you? Don’t think you’ll miss it if we—” He breaks off with a curse and drops the chain as if burned, the hawk pendant sliding down to fall upon the stone with a soft clink.

The other man lets out a low whistle. “Wouldn’t take anything off of her, if I were you. It’ll be your death, you try to sell that.”

“Not about to,” says the first man, wiping his fingers and backing away from me. “Best tell him upstairs as well.”

“He’s not going to like it,” the second says. “You found it; I think you get to do the talking.”

“You’re the one who accepted the delivery. Don’t see why I should have to report on it.”

They leave still bickering, shoving the heavy wooden door shut behind them. I hear the faint creak and snick of a bolt being slid into place.

The air is dank in my cell, moisture and decay filling my lungs. I look around slowly, forcing myself to take note of where I am. Light filters in through the gap beneath the door. The cell I’m in is no bigger than a closet, hardly large enough to sit in with my legs stretched out, should I manage to sit up. Instead, I’m curled up at the center, my legs barely able to unbend. There’s a scattering of moldy hay beneath me, and a bucket in the corner that adds a faintly putrid scent to the room, and that is all.

They knew the hawk pendant, at least. Whoever the man in charge is, he cares enough about Red Hawk that his men were concerned by my pendant. Which would suggest he’s a thief himself, or closely involved with them.

Not Red Hawk, not with how much he’s done, how dedicated Bren has been to helping me. Bren’s own history. But the Black Scholar, or Bardok? I could easily believe it of the Scholar, at least, remembering both his intelligence and his cool detachment. He’s been growing in power. Perhaps he’s funding his growth through the sale of children to the snatchers. And if he has me now—if he comes downstairs and discovers me—there’s no way I’ll live to see the inside of a slave ship. I stare across the room as the possibilities run through my mind, the stones damp and gritty against my cheek.

That’s curious. There hasn’t been much rain the last week; not since the day at the brickmaker’s yard. Where else would the water come from? The Black Scholar’s prison was dry as a bone: it would be, given his prized book collection. The Scholar’s prison also didn’t look like this. I force myself up to a sitting position, staring down at the damp gleam of wetness across the floor. Either it’s not the Scholar upstairs, or this is a separate prison he keeps.

I half crawl, half drag myself to the wooden door with its small, barred opening at face height. I force my feet under me and stagger upright, my good hand grabbing at one of the bars to keep myself standing. I look between them, out into the hallway, where a faint fall of light illuminates the opposite wall. On that wall hangs a plaque with a familiar ward. A ward I have seen not twice but three times, I now realize, though I didn’t recognize it that second time. I was too frightened, too distracted, and it was made differently then as it is now: a painted tile rather than carved wood.

I’m still standing there when a man descends the stairs, his tread heavy, the light from the lamp he bears gaining strength as he approaches. I back up a pace from the door and lift my chin. “I would speak with Bardok Three-Fingers,” I say, my voice strangely calm and collected.

“Would you?” A familiar chuckle rumbles in the hallway, and the door swings open. He wears the same light armor as before, his thick hair pulled back in a warrior’s knot, one hand lifting the lamp to light my face. “Well, who would have thought?” A grin stretches across his broad face. “If it isn’t the Scholar’s little runaway.”

Chapter

56

Bardok sets his lamp down just inside the doorway and steps forward, a smile on his wide face. “This just gets more and more interesting. So you’re a royal attendant, are you? Ha!