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  Shackles of the Storm

  Spirits of Seiran, Volume 1

  D. & L. Kardenal

  Published by D. & L. Kardenal, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SHACKLES OF THE STORM

  First edition. June 13, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 D. & L. Kardenal.

  ISBN: 978-6150106694

  Written by D. & L. Kardenal.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1. | Crystal Smoke

  2. | Aspis

  3. | Laughter in the rain

  4. | Intrigues

  5. | The demon and the mercenary

  6. | Perfume, silk and steel

  7. | Magic in a glass

  8. | Secrets of the trade

  9. | The marid of Kahlaran

  10. | A nest of snakes

  11. | Wings and wind

  12. | Once a thief...

  13. | Deal of demons

  14. | The Seir Council

  15. | Fox hunt

  16. | Wish

  17. | Nobody’s son

  18. | Shadows

  19. | Love of the Sea

  20. | The City of Wonders

  21. | Resurrection

  22. | Embers

  23. | Brothers

  24. | The power of the moons

  25. | Real magic

  26. | Encounters

  27. | The Ancestral Land

  28. | Sharp wits and sharper blades

  29. | Turning point

  30. | For Kahlaran

  31. | Freedom

  32. | Inevitable

  33. | Arrival

  Preview | The adventure continues in the next book of Spirits of Seiran

  Glossary

  1.

  Crystal Smoke

  Crystal dens, they called it, weren’t against the law. Not since Prince Charta sat on the throne, at least. They were horrible, indecent places where people went to forget sorrow and misfortune for the cost of a full pouch and yesterday’s memories.

  They were profitable, though. The one Inspector Rashad had to enter now was essentially a small palace, supposedly belonging to a wealthy nobleman, even though the owner himself was nowhere to be found.

  Rashad walked past two stone fountains—a particularly great luxury in the dry season—, then entered through the main door. He could only see silhouettes of the dozen or so people lying on the carpet because everything else was clouded by a sweet-smelling mist.

  Suddenly a crooked, impossibly thin man appeared beside him with a bland smile and reddened eyes. “Good evening, my lord. Care to join the event?”

  “Not quite. I’m on duty.”

  The man’s gaze wandered downwards to notice the sword hanging from Rashad’s waist, then took an unwilling step back.

  “Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t know you’re a soldier.”

  “I’m an inspector, tasked to find a girl that said to be here. About twenty years, working at the Asbith perfumery. Do you know her by any chance?”

  “I think you’re looking for Zaira, my lord. At the end of the room, next to that short water pipe.”

  Rashad followed the man’s directions and saw a lean girl half-lying, olive-skinned with a pointy nose and free-flowing dark brown hair. Their eyes met for a brief second, and the iridescent silvery gaze stunned him. They were otherworldly, like two tiny suns with dark silver and bright platinum rays shining forth from the middle. The eyes of people intoxicated by dream crystal often gleamed, but not as much as hers did.

  Rashad thanked the doorman with a modest bow and cut through the smoky room. There were empty cushions next to the girl, so he settled down on one of them. She took one glance at him, then blew out a ring of smoke from the hookah.

  “I’ve done nothing,” she said in a clouded voice.

  Rashad smiled. “I see my uniform betrays me once again. I’m Rashad Hazra, an inspector of Kahlaran’s city guard. There’s a matter I must speak with you about. If you are indeed Zaira, the perfumer’s assistant.”

  The girl took a long look at his face for a few moments, before her gaze narrowed.

  “I am. Did something happen to the workshop?”

  “I hope not. The matter I wanted to ask you about concerns the provincial treasurer, Saleel Aarif, a dear friend of Prince Charta. Does his name sound familiar?”

  “Aarif...” Zaira recited to herself, but the memory seemingly slipped out of her grip. “That sounds... familiar. I think we sold perfume to one of his female relatives.”

  “The treasurer and his wife are both dead. Apparently, someone poisoned them with a concoction that squeezed their throat and killed them before they could call for help. It’s up to me to find the culprit. Do you remember when you sold perfume to the treasurer’s family?”

  “No, I don’t. But there’s a book which holds every detail about what we sold, when we sold it and to whom, you know, to keep track of our spending. I’m sure my father is more than willing to look into it. Why didn’t you start with him?” she asked with a prickly look.

  “Lord Aarif’s son remembered a woman he saw on the day of the murders, and as far as I know you are the only female worker at the shop. I wasn’t born yesterday, miss, and I don’t want to draw quick conclusions about anyone’s guilt. However, the prince is furious and makes abrupt decisions. Do you understand what I mean by that?”

  “You think they’ll blame it on me for a quick end,” she replied, giggling as if there was some hidden irony in all this. “Check the book if you want answers. My father is a very pedantic man, at least with numbers. Don’t be fooled that he doesn’t know what day is it.”

  Zaira stood up and took a step forward with the natural elegance of a dancer. “Come. I’ll lead you there.”

  Rashad bowed and quickly followed her. “Thank you for your cooperation, miss Asbith.”

  Zaira just rolled her eyes. “I have no right to that name. I’m adopted. Did the one who told you about me leave that out?”

  As they walked outside into the chilly night, the inspector took a deep breath to clear his lungs of the crystal smoke. The heavy scent of night-blooming flowers made the air sweet, but it still felt much clearer than the fumes inside.

  “Do you attend these occasions regularly?” he asked.

  “You could say that. What counts as regularly?”

  “Knowing the price they ask, I’d say more than once every few years. But you don’t look tight on money, if I’m allowed to say that. How is business going for you and your foster father?”

  “Well enough. Customers are satisfied and return with company. We’re not the cheapest shop in town, but they can be sure they’re not getting mass-produced junk.”

  “I see. Sheezan be praised for your luck,” Rashad said. “Tell me, is it possible that you have people envious of you? Someone who doesn’t cherish your success?”

  Zaira ‘s forehead creased. Rashad could practically hear her lining up the name of their rivals in her head.

  “Now you mention it, it’s possible. We’re not the only workshop in Kahlaran, and unfortunately, it’s no secret that Osmi’s wits aren’t as sharp as they used to be. I’ve been taking care of everything for a while now. He just mixes the ingredients because he forgets things all the time. He tried to send me to school yesterday, imagine that.”

  “Age can do that to a man,” Rashad said. “Sadly, we’re not immune to time. But these are too spectacular methods for simple jealousy. Someone’s playing with fire carelessly. You know, miss, I believe in clarity and straightforward answers. His Majesty doesn’t. He cares about results.”

  Zaira look
ed up at him almost judging. “Spectacular things are the best distraction. What if it’s just that? Smoke and mirrors to deter attention?”

  “All I know is, if that’s the case, it’s working,” he replied, stroking his short beard.

  It all came together too well. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was walking home with the culprit, but his every instinct said otherwise.

  If this girl wanted to kill the treasurer, she needed a motive. She wasn’t lacking money, as the circumstances the inspector found her in confirmed. In his research, he could not find any known relationship, be it family or friendship, between her and the victim, so revenge remained the only option.

  “You mentioned you are adopted,” he said.

  The answer was quick, as if she found it hard to speak about it or didn’t find it relevant.

  “Yes. Osmi found me begging on the streets.”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  Zaira shrugged. “Never knew them. Ran away with a caravan so long ago I can’t remember anything else.”

  It wasn’t an unfamiliar story, nor the first of its kind Rashad heard. People were rash and irresponsible in asking the Great Divine for children, only to deny them the love of a family. Whether they couldn’t or didn’t want to spend the time and money required to raise Zaira, it didn’t matter. Not for her.

  “Your life must have been difficult. Master Osmi is a very benevolent soul. That’s why I doubt he could be capable of hurting anyone.”

  She laughed, trying to mask her obvious relief. “You think that until you see him bargaining. But I know he’d never get involved in murder, ever.”

  “Well, now is your chance to prove it, miss.”

  They had arrived at a simple two-story house. A painted board hung above the entrance, proclaiming that a perfume-maker lived here, although the building itself couldn’t be more against the image of a wealthy merchant’s home.

  The room where Zaira led Rashad was simple and elegant, without even a hint of luxury. It looked like a lobby used to welcome guests and customers, with a huge counter taking up most of it. As Zaira lit a candle, the light sparkled on glass cabinets and tiny vials of perfume samples offered by the shop. Rashad didn’t hear any movement, so he believed old Master Osmi was either away or asleep.

  Zaira walked behind the counter and picked up a chunky, leather-bound book from under it.

  “When were the murders?” she asked.

  Rashad approached her to help, but the answer was tricky. He had been a soldier all his life, so he had no idea how quickly a perfumer could create a personalized scent. He knew the haughty pride of the rich, though, and didn’t think they’d wait for long. “They found the victims’ bodies yesterday, so maybe two days since they were here.”

  There was a soft creak behind his back. The noise came from a particularly well-fed cat with gray fur, rubbing against the girl’s calf as she went through the book.

  “All right, Purrcy, I know you’re hungry. Just a moment,” she said, stroking the animal’s head, while her eyes jumped from line to line.

  The writings said nothing useful to Rashad. As far as he knew, they were popular scents, albeit in an interesting and daring mix. The names on the page were somewhat familiar, and the dates followed one another in an orderly manner, so nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No hastily written scribble to mask a switch, no rubbing to get rid of evidence. If she had something to do with the murders, she was careful about it.

  “Ah, there. Lady Sethia Aarif,” she said, pointing at the relevant line. “But it’s nothing special, just the usual perfume. It could hardly kill anyone, but the bottle I used is a dime a dozen. There was nothing distinct about the color of the liquid either, so someone could easily replace the perfume with something else.”

  “Does anyone else work here? Besides your foster father,” he asked, to buy some time while memorizing the names and dates.

  “No one. Just me and my dad.”

  Rashad was thinking so hard, he unwittingly started chewing on the end of his moustache, then tried to mask it with a caugh. Something bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out what.

  “I think I took enough of your time. Thank you for the help. I’ll try to keep you informed if there’s any progress, but in the meantime, please avoid any unnecessary ruckus,” he said, stepping back from the counter.

  “Like I’ve ever been involved in any ruckus,” she said. “Goodbye, inspector.”

  “Take care, Miss Zaira.”

  Rashad bowed and left the household. The coolness of the Kahlarani night found the gaps in his coat, so he took quick, jumping steps towards his home to keep warm. There was something in this huge, overly simple-looking story that wasn’t making sense to him, but it slipped his attention every single time.

  But Rashad wasn’t going to give up just yet. What was the worst that could happen?

  2.

  Aspis

  The city’s detention cell made quite an echo, despite the many cracks in the time-worn board walls. A melody rolled around in the room like a gust of wind, dancing and jumping as the musician—a young man on the doorstep of his twenties—dictated. He played a shingara, a weird instrument ending in nozzles both ways, mixing the attributes of a tin whistle and those musical sticks you could buy in the ramashi bazaar that beeped and cooed when you twirled them.

  Visitors from over the sea couldn’t understand how could someone play such a flute, and a skilled shingarist fascinated even the locals. Ezair, the temporary occupant of the prison, considered himself extraordinarily skilled.

  The sole soldier guarding him let out a sigh and dropped his head on the table. From how eager he looked with his post, Ezair guessed he must have lost in a dice game and this was his punishment.

  “Will you ever stop?” he asked.

  Ezair took the flute from his mouth, spinning it around between his fingers to draw out the last note.

  “I told you. I’ll stop when I get what I asked for,” he said.

  The guard just grunted, while his gaze wandered towards the saber lying in the corner for a moment. The twirling got faster and faster, heightening the sound, but the guard was more stubborn than Ezair thought.

  “Don’t fool around. You know I can’t give a prisoner a weapon.”

  Ezair shrugged and turned the flute back to his lips. He was in jail for the second day, and he had no intention to eat his third lunch here. Picking on the guard’s nerves was the only amusement he got, and if they dragged him in for such a paltry thing as a street brawl, then he deserved it.

  The door opened and a man walked into the room. He wore a grey shawl and spotless blue uniform complete with a silver wave motive: the attire of the city’s inspectors. The tone-deaf guard jumped up and saluted, holding his clenched fist to his heart. So, fhis newcomer was no loafer, rather a high-ranking officer to cause such a panic.

  He walked past the guard, approached the bars of the holding cell, but then stopped two feet away.

  “Are you the mercenary from the Two-Headed Viper, known on the streets as Aspis?”

  Ezair leaned against the coarse boards behind his back.

  “Might be, might be not. How should I know what they call me on the streets?”

  “If you want to play it that way, fine. I’m looking for Ezair Hazra. Is that more familiar?”

  “Now, you see, that’s even more difficult. The only man who could confirm that is my uncle, and his house is really far from here,” Ezair said, shaking his head.

  The man’s face became even stricter than before. Ezair wondered if he practiced it in his free time, or he was born this way.

  “There won’t be anyone in your uncle’s house to confirm it, boy. Rashad Hazra was arrested for conspiring against the prince.”

  The shingara fell to the floor with a quiet whistle, the dozens of holes and grooves carved into the flute turned the sound of it dropping into an endless, slow hum.

  Ezair froze, then closed his eyes. Th
e previous cheeriness disappeared from his face, replaced by a deadly calm.

  “You know, I rarely give law enforcement any unnecessary trouble, just out of professional honor...” he said walking up to the bars to look the officer in the eyes. “But say something like that again, and I will break your nose on these bars.”

  The officer didn’t even flinch. He stood with a calm look, daring Ezair’s amber gaze, and even took a step forward. He was brave, no one could deny that.

  “Think what you want, Aspis. I was unlucky enough to consider Rashad a friend, so it was up to me to let his family know. Which, since he was unlucky as well, involves scum like you.”

  Ezair kept his promise. He pounced like a viper, grabbing the collar of the officer’s uniform and pulling the man towards himself. He was taller and stronger than Ezair, but less careful.

  He couldn’t flatten his nose on the bars like he first intended, but the force of the blow bruised the man’s skin and split his brow around one eye. The soldier guarding the cell immediately jumped closer and tried to support the officer, but he shook him off.

  “You have no right to call yourself his friend!” Ezair hissed. “My uncle would never betray the prince, or the city, and he broke no law in his life.”

  The officer staggered to the table and took the shawl off his head, pouring some pungent alcohol on it and pressing it against his wound.

  “Think what you want, snake,” he repeated with more emphasis. “My task is finished here.”

  “Finished? And? Heading home to weep for your friend rotting in jail? Or drink to his health?”

  Ezair threw every curse he knew at the officer until the fist of the guard forced his mouth shut. He staggered back, fell against the wall, but he didn’t calm down.

  The officer walked out the room. The door closed with a loud bang, which further fueled Ezair’s anger.

  “Are you going to tell my father how good of a friend you are to his brother? Answer me!” He pressed against the bars and shouted so loud his throat started aching.