A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3) Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2011 by Prue Batten

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  Published August 2011 by Darlington Press

  ISBN: 978-0987330512

  WINNER OF THE SILVER MEDAL (2012):

  READER'S FAVORITE INTERNATIONAL BOOK AWARD FOR FICTION

  Author’s note:

  Glass flowers are known as millefiori and a millefiori paperweight is a staple of fine Venetian glassware. ‘Millefiori is a glasswork technique which produces distinctive decorative patterns in glasswork. The millefiori technique was developed in Murano, Italy in the fifteenth century.’ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Millefiori#History_of_Millefiori

  It should be noted that the word Færan (pronounced Far-An) was referenced from an internet site: (http://www.etymonline.com). The word was derived from the Old English færan meaning to "terrify, frighten." I first used it in The Stumpwork Robe (2008) where the meanings of panic and grief fitted the theme of the story and have chosen to continue its use through each of my novels.

  It should also be noted that the word Faeran, as opposed to Færan, was used by Cecilia Dart-Thornton in The Bitterbynde Saga (2002) and The Crowthistle Chronicles (2006) and no distinction of any sort should be drawn between the two.

  Acknowledgements.

  To my son for buying me a paperweight in Murano, Italy and thus inspiring the story.

  To Salt Studio for a stunning cover that is the very essence of the book.

  To Andrew Shepherdson from Andrew Shepherdson Antiques for providing the Syrian dagger used in the cover image.

  To Kathryn and her team of editors at Cornerstones Literary Consultancy, London, for advice and support over the last two years.

  And finally to my husband for his unending belief in me and my work.

  Glossary

  Aine: Irish folklore, a princess. In this novel, the Goddess-Creator

  Alfil: elephant piece in shatranj

  Arifa: Moroccan folklore, benevolent female djinn

  Afrit: a lesser level djinn

  Baduh: Arabic folklore, sprite responsible for speedy relay of messages

  Baghlet al Qebour: Moroccan folklore, a ghost who haunts graveyards and people wandering at night

  Bain As: Piss off

  Bitseach: bitch

  Cantrips: charms

  Cuju, dhada: games from the Middle and Far East, similar to football

  Diff Errebi: King of the Djinns

  Eldritch: enchanted

  Frisson: a sensation that can be felt by mortals and Others indicating a Færan is close by.

  Glamour: magical power

  Had Al’ Khorine: Moroccan folklore, polite way of referring to Others

  Hadduok Ennass: Moroccan folklore, ditto

  Hammams: communal bathhouses

  Kizmet: in the Raji tongue, a breeze from an Other source inspiring trepidation. Identical to the welkin wind in Trevallyn, the Pymm Archipelago and Veniche.

  Lalla Rekya Bhint Al Khamar: lady djinn of the bath houses

  Mesmer: enchanted magic act or magic power

  Muirnin: beloved, darling

  Sarbaz: shatranj piece similar to a chess pawn in shatranj

  Shatranj: chess-like game from the Far East, pre-dating chess

  Siofra: Irish folklore. Small sprites who can be benevolent

  Tellak: bathhouse attendant

  Vazir: counsellor piece in shatranj

  Veela: Balkan folklore. Can be benevolent or malicious

  Washi paper: cobweb-like paper from the Far East

  Welkin wind: a breeze from an Other source. So named in Trevallyn, Veniche and the Pymm Archipelago. Inspires trepidation

  Wight: enchanted person

  Ymp Trees: rows of trees that have been grafted to form an unbroken line. Believed to be one of the Gates to Færan

  Chapter One

  Lalita

  Thumping woke her, the dog growling from her bed. The bar across the door rattled and underneath her fingers the hackles on the animal’s spine stiffened. ‘Hush, Phaeton,’ she whispered. ‘He can’t hurt me.’

  'Lalita Khatoun.’ The hated voice boomed from the other side of the door. ‘Bestir yourself, my niece. We have much to do before the Grand Vizier graces the premises.'

  Get you gone, fat Uncle. I despise you. She swung her legs to the floor, the dog arching his back and stretching, the hackles flattening as the threat diminished. The floor trembled as Uncle Kurdeesh and his bloated ego moved away down the passage, the vibrations of the bar across the door settling. For the thousandth time she wished her guardian uncle and aunt were here to share the moment to come, not the gross man outside who lurked like an indelible blemish on her life. She grunted in disgust. I can’t believe he emerged from the same womb as my father and Uncle Imran. He’s a foul man, evil…

  Dismissing Kurdeesh with effort, she thought on the parents she had never known but who had loved her and she blessed the memory. Think of me, Mother and Father, and pray for me. But then she allowed the mechanics of rising and dressing to focus her mind for the momentous time ahead, strengthening her spirit as she pulled on each garment. A quick glance in the mirror revealed eyes bright with expectation and lips tense with nerves for this was the day that could change her life, a day that could alter her status beyond recognition. She looped a scarf around her neck, and bent to smooth her fingers over Phaeton’s head as if the action would settle her. ‘Come, dog,’ she said as equably as she was able and lifting the heavy iron bar from her door, she walked down the stairs to the small emporium, her thoughts centered only on this day of chances – perhaps the Grand Vizier would commission her.

  The Sultan Mohun was to send the gift of a book to the people of Veniche and there was talk this manuscript would be an illustrated copy of A Thousand and One Nights. For a week she had dreamed of how she would lay out the figurative work, the colours she would use, how she would copy the text, and now she scrutinised the shop display, eager it should represent her well. She unlocked the door to the street, pushing the heavy studded panel back. The townsfolk bustled past calling to her and she answered them with a smile and butterflies in her belly.

  Ahmadabad, the City of a Thousand Magnificences, glowed in the desert dawn. The pink walls of the palace and royal seraglio dominated a skyline interspersed with onion-domed minarets coated in gold leaf. The bureaucracy of the Raj squatted close by in marble buildings with shady colonnades and in one entire corner of the city the Academie spread itself under the shade of aged date palms. Water ran from fountain to rill and quiet porticos provided spaces for the men of the province to debate and philosophise. But like the rest of Eirie, it rested on the whims and wherefores of the Other world that laced through the rhythms of life like a heartbeat and Lalita prayed for such spirits to bring her good fortune.

  ‘Have you written your fingers to the bone yet, Lalita?’ The baker hurried past, tossing her a honeyed pastry.

  ‘Not yet, Sulieman.’ She grinned as he jogged on the spot. ‘But I shall try.’

  He laughed and winked at her and she watched him leave as she nibbled on her pastry.

  ‘Lalita,’ a voice called out and she swung the other way, wiping away the crumbs from her chin and brushing her clothes.

  ‘Mahmoud.’

  ‘Good morning, are you prepared?’ A young man of her age, studious in his black kurta and trousers, walked toward her.

  ‘Oh Mahmoud, I have such high hopes but I am merely a woman in a man’s world.’

  ‘Nonsense. In your heart you know your work
is beyond excellent.’ The son of the apothecary, he and Lalita had grown up together, studying flowers and leaves and all manner of things, he for their properties and she for their artistic value. When she needed to examine the famous books in the Academie, it was he who took her as his assistant, for to be a lone woman studying the tomes of men of learning was a difficult thing. ‘Can you remember my father’s delight when you handed him the copy of the Venichese Herbal? Every petal, every leaf and every stamen was detailed so well that you might as well have given him the original. Besides, how often have you said to me that it is the challenge. That you can accomplish this like no other.’

  ‘That was my ego speaking, Mahmoud, and well you know it. But I understand what you are trying to do and thank you for reminding me of your father. I’ll keep the memory close, if only to believe in myself for just this morning.’

  Mahmoud moved toward her, lowering his voice so that she leaned in to hear. ‘Lalita, I have been so worried about you alone with that man . . .’ he tipped his head toward the shop interior. ‘He is strong, you . . . ‘

  ‘I’m safe, honestly. Your iron bar works admirably on my door and only a djinn could enter my room. Kurdeesh dare not be obvious. Please don’t fret.’

  ‘I wish Imran and Soraya were here but as they are not, I wish you had agreed to stay in the women’s quarters at our home.’

  ‘Mahmoud,’ Lalita laughed in spite of her nerves. ‘Would you entomb me in a seraglio? My dearest friend, you have provided for my immediate safety and Aunt and Uncle will be home tomorrow.’ She gave him a tiny push. ‘Call in this evening when you are finished with your business and I shall tell you my news. Wish me good fortune.’

  ‘Always, Lalita.’ He touched his forehead and chest and bowed slightly over his hand. Lalita felt the eloquence of his gesture, knowing he had feelings for her and would ask her to be his wife. But she knew also that he understood her well and respected her desire for freedom.

  She turned back to the store, endeavouring to survey the emporium with the objective eye of a lordly customer. A simple space but one she had enhanced with the quality of its contents. Light glanced off the pure colours of the illuminations and seductive goldleaf glistened. Pots of inks were shelved with precision, the quills, pens and burnishers lying below them, evenly spaced according to size. Lalita walked to an open book displayed on a polished cedar lectern, the page turned to a workday illustration of some bucolic scene, rich in blues and viridians. Some instinct made her fingers flick the page over and there was the illustration of a room of houries in transparent garb, their skin lustrous and draped with silk organza. The piece had taken her two weeks of painstaking work with a brush that she had plucked, leaving only one or two hairs. She believed the painterly rendering of such sheer fabric might almost be considered the touch of a Master.

  Kurdeesh bustled into the shop tying a vast green sash around his middle. His turban gleamed white and his waxed and trimmed moustache flew up in two handles on either side of his face. ‘You’ve done well, my little flower,’ he grunted and reached to touch her, sliding his arm along her shoulder and then down so that his fingers brushed her breast.

  She stepped away, putting the lectern between herself and the man she abhorred, taking a risk to speak her mind. She grasped the lectern, her palms greasy with sweat. ‘Uncle, I would like the opportunity to speak to the Grand Vizier myself. I am the scribe and I understand what will be required. It makes sense.’

  He glanced at himself in the mirror behind his brother’s counter. ‘Perhaps to you, Lalita. But it’s not the way of men and most definitely not the way of the Court. I shall speak for you and for my brother’s emporium.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘No, Lalita.’ Kurdeesh raised his hand and slapped it down hard on a pile of journals and she shrank further behind the lectern as a shadow filled the open door. The street noise faded as the Grand Vizier stepped inside and Kurdeesh licked his lips. ‘Aah, Excellent Lord, we welcome you to our humble shop. You do this house much honour by entering the portals. May you be blessed with . . .’

  The noble brushed past. ‘Enough, I am here for a purpose. This is your niece?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Kurdeesh moved to Lalita’s side. ‘This is she. Our little scribe.’ His hand began its vile creep across her shoulder.

  ‘I am honoured, Lord.’ Lalita shifted away from the impolite grasp and lowered her head.

  The Grand Vizier tucked powerful fingers under her chin so that she was forced to look at his face; a strong face with slightly slanted eyes as dark and depthless as an oubliette. He was clean-shaven, his head polished to an unworldly shine and when he spoke, Lalita found she could barely stand, her knees as weak as a baby’s.

  ‘Pretty. Maybe more than pretty.’ The Vizier’s scrutiny burned into Lalita’s skin and her hands twisted together.

  ‘Ah sir, she is our little flower, a flower just waiting to be plucked by some lucky man.’

  Lalita wanted to yell at her uncle. Is it a commission we are selling Uncle, or my body?

  ‘Lord, please feel free to examine all that you wish.’ She drew the Vizier’s attention with a sweep of her arm, seeking the confidence that had vanished when the man had entered the emporium.

  He stepped away from her, the austerity of his black Raji jodhpurs and kurta arousing an image of some forbidding djinn. He moved with grace, his stride soft but powerful, his fingers careful as he examined the odoriferous papers and the tools of her trade, but his eyes lingered long on the page of houries. He flicked back and forth through the book with slow and careful deliberation, before returning to the page she had marked. ‘How long did this work take?’

  ‘Not so long, perhaps a week. The transparent fabric on the odalisques required some attention but I can see you appreciate the detail, sir.’

  ‘I am impressed with your hand here, the use of the quill and brushes, very elegant. And here, the curve of your capitals and your clever figurative design, it is excellent. The colours you have used too, they are very pure.’

  ‘I make my own sir, when I require a tint peculiar to my tastes.’

  ‘You handle linen paper well. Most scribes use parchment.’

  Lalita was surprised at the man’s knowledge. ‘Yes, but despite its cost paper is magnificent. The grain, the texture . . .’

  He glanced at her again. ‘And the binding, did you do it yourself?’ His long fingers ran back and forth over the indented, burnished leather.

  ‘I did, Lord.’

  ‘It is unusual to pursue such work. Surely the work of men.’

  ‘Indeed, but I found I had an affinity with the pen and with paper and binding.’

  ‘So I have heard. It seems half the well-to-do women of Ahmadabad crave your journals and herbals. Even in the Court. Did you know the Valide Sultan was presented with an illustrated herbal? Ah, I see you are surprised.’ He took the book off the lectern and weighed it in his hands. ‘In Fahsi, the paper and ink makers speak of your skill with an admiration they would normally use for a Master.’

  ‘I am grateful for their praise, Lord.’ Even though they are men and you believe I exist falsely in a man’s world.

  ‘Do you think you could scribe A Thousand and One Nights in a month?’

  Lalita’s spirits soared and as quickly plummeted at the fragile chance dangling in front of her. A month!

  ‘She could do it in two weeks with some urging.’ Kurdeesh’s voice dropped like a stone between Lalita and the official.

  The Grand Vizier turned and snapped at him. ‘Khatoun, you are not a scribe, not even close. Let the woman speak. Your chance will come later.’

  How so? Lalita stood perplexed, wondering what on earth her uncle could add that would make a commission more likely. ‘Lord, there are many stories . . .’

  The noble turned away.

  ‘But yes.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘It will be close run but I believe I could do it.’

  The Grand Vizier carefully
returned the book to the lectern, opening it to the page of houries, his eyes meeting hers. This is how a mouse must feel under the scrutiny of a cat. She could almost see a tail swinging mesmerizingly from side to side. His gaze slipped from her face, skimming over her person, quickly at first and then more slowly, examining every inch of her being until a blush burned its way to her cheeks. She was reminded of the earlier touch of fat fingers and as she glanced at Kurdeesh she almost choked to see a look of complicity in his eyes. The word trust danced before her as surely as if she had picked up a reed pen, dipped it in ink and written it on a piece of blank parchment.

  'Lalita,' Kurdeesh ordered as if he were the Sultan himself and she jumped. 'Go to the inn and purchase the best wine available. His Excellency and I have business to discuss. And we shall do it over a repast.'

  Don’t, Kurdeesh, you will lose this commission. She scowled at her uncle but he turned away and fingered some of the blank sheets she had piled up and suddenly she wanted to walk out and keep walking because intuition began to whisper. But she chided herself. Don’t be ridiculous. There can be nothing but good business at stake, that’s all. Please Aine, let it be the Sultan’s commission, nothing less.

  ‘Lalita, this is your big day, is it not?’ The innkeeper’s mouth twitched at her, his eyes as lascivious as any she had seen this day.