The Theft of Sunlight Intisar Khanani (red seas under red skies .txt) 📖

I shake my head. It takes all my courage not to back away from him.

“But how is it Red Hawk gave you his sign? He doesn’t share those easily.” He raises a brow. “Can’t imagine he cares for a girl like you.”

Like me? What is that supposed to mean? “You may have abducted me, thrown me in a vile little cell, and have my life in your hands,” I snarl, “but you can keep your insults to yourself. You don’t know the first thing about me.”

Bardok leans against the doorjamb and laughs, a great big belly laugh that rumbles through the room. “You’ve fire, at least. But you’re stupid, girl. Stupid to think you could poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong and not lose your head for it. Stupid to think that little pendant could protect you. Stupid”—he dips his head and smiles—“to think you were ever safe.”

I wait. I’m not sure that his words require an answer, and in any case, I don’t have one. I’ve most certainly been stupid. There’s no argument I can make regarding that.

“Wasn’t expecting you, though,” Bardok admits. “Thought you’d be some arrogant little chit I could ship off downriver without a thought. But this, now, this I can use.”

“Use?” I echo, even as my mind repeats ship off downriver.

“Mm-hmm. See, I don’t like sharing this city with other thieves. It’s uncomfortable. Never know when you’re going to rub elbows with another’s man. And here you are now, prettiest little present I’ve received in a while, even with that plain face of yours.”

“How do you mean?” I ask, my voice not quite steady. He nods, that wide smile back on his face, and I’m terrified of what he might say next.

“Red Hawk wants you alive, doesn’t he? That’s what that little pendant means. And we all know how the Black Scholar feels about you. So if I want to finish them both? Nothing easier! I send Red Hawk something of yours, make it look like it’s from the Scholar, and within a day I’m betting we’ll have a nice, bloody street war on our hands.”

And then Bardok will no doubt sweep in and kill whoever he can, once they’re weakened.

“He won’t,” I say. “Red Hawk’s not killing anyone over me. I’ve never even met him.”

Bardok hesitates, brow furrowed, and then he grins. “Ah well, you would say that! But you carry his sign, and there’s a promise in that. I see no reason not to make the attempt. So, what shall we send him?”

He steps forward again. I back up until I’m pressed against the wall. There’s nowhere else to go.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to harm me,” I cry desperately.

“Ah, orders. Who’s going to report back, tell me that?” Bardok shakes his head and takes another step forward, crowding me into the corner. He’s head and shoulders taller than me, and broad enough to fill the room. He grins, tilting his head, and catches one of my braids in a great meaty hand. I hold still, aware that I’m shaking, but there’s nothing I can do here, no way to fight him. At least I can hold on to my dignity.

“Every girl in the city has black hair but the princess,” he says conversationally, “so there’s no use in taking a bit of hair.” He drops his gaze to my ears, pauses over my earrings, and then tugs hard on my braid, forcing me to turn as he inspects the rest of me. “Ah, but how about this ring? Would Red Hawk know it?”

My stomach drops. My ruby ring. “N-no. I don’t think so.”

“Ha! Yes, he would, or one of his men would. The ring it is! Though if we want blood, I think we’ll have to send it attached, don’t you?”

“Attached?”

He rumbles with laughter. Turning, he hauls me out of the cell to the hallway. There’s not much here: just a bench shoved back against the wall, but that’s what Bardok wants. He whips me around, sending me crashing to my knees beside the bench. I try to push myself back up, but he shoves me down. Desperately, I try to twist away. If I can only reach my knife, I can cut him, stop him—but Bardok knows what he is doing, one hand closing on the wrist of my wounded arm and yanking it forward, around him as he turns his shoulder into my back, pinning my arm to the bench. I flail with my other hand, trying to get past my skirts, get to my knife, but my fingers are stiff and I can’t see what I’m doing, and pain ricochets through me as he leans into my arm.

He pulls his dagger from his belt, and with his other hand flattens my fingers against the bench.

“Wait,” I cry, trying to pull back, my free hand grasping wads of my skirt. “No—please!”

“Only take a moment,” he says kindly. “I suggest you don’t move, or you might lose more than you have to.”

His dagger slices down through my flesh. I scream, scream as blood spurts from my hand, scream as Bardok scrapes the dagger hard, cutting through the remaining muscle and tendon. Pain shrieks through me, flying up my arm, my voice separate from me now, a sound without control. Bardok releases me and turns. I stare as he lifts my little finger, the ruby ring gleaming wetly in the lamplight, a bit of bone protruding above it.

“That’ll do nicely,” he says in the ragged space between my screams. “Do be quiet, girl. It’s not that bad.” He raises a brow. “Nothing I haven’t lived through.”

He pulls me up by my elbow, shoves me back into the cell, and goes upstairs still holding my finger.

In the dark, I think of Mama. I hear her voice, calm and soothing, discussing the treatment of injuries and wounds. Keep open wounds elevated above the heart. Bind them to slow the blood flow. A