Star of Cursrah by Clayton Emery Page A

what the soldiers guarded.
    Below even the dank catacombs of the creepy vizars, the bottommost levels under the palace held tombs of the royal dead, where Star’s ancestors lay in state as mummies, carefully wrapped in bandages and sealed in tombs, forever preserved as future attendants should Great Calim ever call them, or so she’d heard, but never seen. There might be many rooms, or who knew what, in the dark depths.
    Star’s father, as bakkal, descended those depths often, sometimes gone for days. Assisted by high vizars, he communed with the quiet dead to gain knowledge unguessed by the living. Star shuddered, glad she’d never have to pry into dead, desiccated, and probably angry brains for secrets. Still, the princess wondered.
    “Vrinda,” she asked, “have you ever been to the lower levels? The very bottom?”
    “I?” fluted the genie. “Never. That’s the bakkal’s domain. Your esteemed father holds many irons in the fire and toils for the good of the city. Even the most lasting dynasty may wither if not tended regularly, same as an olive orchard.”
    “Olive orchard? I wanted to know—uhh!” Her leg panged so sharply Amenstar cried out, despite her stubborn pride. “Those useless vizars! May the Chariot Maidens whisk those lepers to the Mother of the Nine Hells.”
    Gliding alongside, Vrinda made a tiny boosting motion with one hand and Star suddenly felt light as a bird, almost skipping on tiptoes. The giddy sensation made her stomach flutter.
    “Mustn’t keep the dressmakers waiting,” bubbled the genie. “They’ve brought enough bolts to clothe every woman in Cursrah.”
    “We have to wrap the package neatly,” grumbled Star, “to bring a high price at auction. Did ever anyone suffer as much as I?”
    “Suffering, she speaks of,” Vrinda said, her voice gaining an icy edge. “She who was swaddled in cloth-of-gold and fed caviar from a silver spoon.”

5
    The Year of the Gauntlet
     
    “Gold!”
    First into the dim tunnel, Reiver pounced on a glimmer on the sand-strewn floor. Only pure gold could lie untarnished for centuries. Reiver held the coin to the light. It was round like a Calishite tardey; on one side frowned a king with a head cloth and serpent headband, big nose, and thin lips.
    “A bakkal,” murmured Amber.
    “A what?” asked the two.
    ” ‘He Who Rules from On High,’ ” Amber translated, taking the coin from Reiver. “Nowadays we call them pashas, but bakkals were thought to be genie-kin, or even demigods. What’s on the obver—ooh!” On the coin’s back glowed a ruffled bird rising from fire. “A phoenix… .”
    “This’ll cause a flurry in the gold seller’s bazaar,” Reiver said, grinning, teeth bright in his tanned face. He took the coin back from Amber. “We might have wandered into a dragon’s lair. They drag in treasure and coins fall out of their scutes.”
    “So do people’s bones,” sniped Amber.
    “Don’t speak of dragons,” Hakiim hissed. “It’s bad luck.”
    “You must have elven blood, Reive,” Amber said, happy to change the subject, “you’ve the eyes of a lynx. I can barely—Vipers of Kalil!”
    Her eyes having adjusted, Amber shifted her capture staff to pick up a white oblong. The skull leered at her, either a dog or wolf with a blunt muzzle and bone-crushing teeth. She tossed the relic away.
    “Awful,” she said. “This place is like a tomb.”
    Ignoring Amber, Hakiim raised his eyebrows at the coin in Reiver’s hand and said, “Share and share alike?”
    “Certainly. Next one’s yours,” Reiver said and slipped the coin into one of many pouches. “Let’s hunt up another.”
    Edging past the men, Amber squinted down the tunnel, which descended slowly but steadily. How far and how deep? she wondered. “First,” she said, “let’s strike a li—Bhaelros take me!”
    The daughter of pirates had brushed something with her hip. It moved. Wary of snakes, she flinched.
    Too late. The tripwire parted with a