An Ember in the Ashes. Sabaa Tahir

wish I could do something.’

      ‘Try looking a little braver.’

      ‘What, like you?’ I arrange my face so it’s blank as slate, slump against the wall, and look off into the distance. Keenan actually smiles for a fraction of a second. It takes years off his face.

      I rub a bare foot across the hypnotic swirls of the thick Tribal rug on the floor. Pillows embroidered with tiny mirrors are strewn across it, and lamps of coloured glass hang from the roof, catching the last rays of sunlight.

      ‘Darin and I came to a house like this to sell Nan’s jams once.’ I reach up to touch one of the lamps. ‘I asked him why Tribesmen have mirrors everywhere, and he said—’ The memory is clear and sharp in my mind, and an ache for my brother, for my grandparents, pulses in my chest with such violence that I clamp my mouth shut.

      Tribesmen think the mirrors ward off evil, Darin said that day. He took out his sketchbook while we waited for the Tribal trader and started drawing, capturing the intricacy of the lattice screens and lanterns with small, quick strokes of charcoal. Jinn and wraiths can’t stand the sight of themselves, apparently.

      After that, he’d answered a dozen more of my questions with his usual quiet confidence. At the time, I’d wondered how he knew so much. Only now do I understand – Darin always listened more than he spoke, watching, learning. In that way, he was like Pop.

      The ache in my chest expands, and my eyes are suddenly hot.

      ‘It will get better,’ Keenan says. I look up to see sadness flicker across his face, almost instantly replaced by that now-familiar chill. ‘You’ll never forget them, not even after years. But one day, you’ll go a whole minute without feeling the pain. Then an hour. A day. That’s all you can ask for, really.’ His voice drops. ‘You’ll heal. I promise.’

      He looks away, distant again, but I’m grateful to him anyway, because for the first time since the raid, I feel less alone. A second later, Sana and the Tribesman come around the screen.

      ‘You’re sure this is what you want?’ the Tribesman asks me.

      I nod, not trusting my voice.

      He sighs. ‘Very well.’ He turns to Sana and Keenan. ‘Say your goodbyes. If I take her now, I can still get her into the school by dark.’

      ‘You’ll be all right.’ Sana hugs me tightly, and I wonder if she’s trying to convince me or herself. ‘You’re the Lioness’s daughter. And the Lioness was a survivor.’

      Until she wasn’t. I lower my gaze so Sana doesn’t see my doubt. She heads out the door, and then Keenan is before me. I cross my arms, not wanting him to think I need a hug from him too.

      But he doesn’t touch me. Just cocks his head and lifts his fist to his heart – the Resistance salute.

      ‘Death before tyranny,’ he says. Then he, too, is gone.

      * * *

      A half hour later, dusk drops over the city of Serra, and I am following the Tribesman swiftly through the Mercator Quarter, home to the wealthiest members of the Martial merchant class. We stop before the ornate iron gate of a slaver’s home, and the Tribesman checks my manacles, his tan robes swishing softly as he moves around me. I clasp my bandaged hands together to stop them from shaking, but the Tribesman gently prises my fingers apart.

      ‘Slavers catch lies the way spiders catch flies,’ he says. ‘Your fear is good. It makes your story real. Remember: do not speak.’

      I nod vigorously. Even if I wanted to say something, I’m too frightened. The slaver is Blackcliff’s sole supplier, Keenan had explained while walking me to the Tribesman’s house. It’s taken months for our operative to gain his trust. If he doesn’t pick you for the Commandant, your mission’s dead before it begins.

      We’re escorted through the gates, and moments later, the slaver is circling me, sweating in the heat. He’s as tall as the Tribesman but twice as broad, with a paunch that strains the buttons of his gold brocade shirt.

      ‘Not bad.’ The slaver snaps his fingers, and a slave-girl appears from the recesses of his mansion bearing a tray of drinks. The slaver slurps one down, pointedly not offering anything to the Tribesman. ‘The brothels will pay well for her.’

      ‘As a whore, she won’t fetch more than a hundred marks,’ the Tribesman says in his hypnotic lilt. ‘I need two hundred.’

      The slaver snorts, and I want to strangle him for it. The shaded streets of his neighbourhood are littered with sparkling fountains and bow-backed Scholar slaves. The man’s house is a bloated hodgepodge of arches and columns and courtyards. Two hundred silvers is a drop in the bucket for him. He probably paid more for the plaster lions flanking his front door.

      ‘I hoped to sell her as a house slave,’ the Tribesman continues. ‘I heard you were looking for one.’

      ‘I am,’ the slaver admits. ‘Commandant’s been on my back for days. Hag keeps killing off her girls. Temper like a viper.’ The slaver eyes me the way a rancher eyes a heifer, and I hold my breath. Then he shakes his head.

      ‘She’s too small, too young, too pretty. She won’t last a week in Blackcliff, and I don’t want the bother of replacing her. I’ll give you one hundred for her and sell her to Madam Moh over dockside.’

      A bead of sweat trickles down the Tribesman’s otherwise serene face. Mazen ordered him to do whatever it took to get me into Blackcliff. But if he drops his price suddenly, the slaver will be suspicious. If he sells me as a whore, the Resistance will have to get me out – and there is no guarantee they can do so quickly. If he doesn’t sell me at all, my attempt to save Darin will fail.

      Do something, Laia. Darin again, fanning my courage. Or I’m dead.

      ‘I press clothes well, Master.’ The words are out before I can reconsider. The Tribesman’s mouth drops open, and the slaver regards me as if I’m a rat who has begun juggling.

      ‘And, um … I can cook. And clean and dress hair,’ I trail off into a whisper. ‘I’d – I’d make a good maid.’

      The slaver stares me down, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Then his eyes grow shrewd, almost amused.

      ‘Afraid of whoring, girl? Don’t see why, it’s an honest enough trade.’ He circles me again, then jerks my chin up until I am looking into his reptilian green eyes. ‘You said you can dress hair and press clothes? Can you barter and handle yourself in the market?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘You can’t read, of course. Can you count?’

      Of course I can count. And I can read too, you double-chinned pig.

      ‘Yes, sir. I can count.’

      ‘She’ll have to learn to keep her mouth shut,’ the slaver says. ‘I’ve got to eat the cost of cleanup. Can’t send her to Blackcliff looking like a chimney sweep.’ He considers. ‘I’ll take her for one hundred and fifty silver marks.’

      ‘I can always take her to one of the Illustrian houses,’ the Tribesman suggests. ‘Underneath all that dirt, she’s a fine-looking girl. I’m sure they’d pay well for her.’

      The slaver narrows his eyes. I wonder if Mazen’s man has erred, trying to bargain higher. Come on, you miser, I think at the slaver. Cough up a little extra.

      The slaver pulls out a sack of coins. I fight to hide my relief.

      ‘A hundred and eighty marks then. Not a copper more. Take off her chains.’

      Less than an hour later, I’m locked inside a ghost wagon that is heading for Blackcliff. Wide silver bands that mark me as a slave adorn each wrist. A chain leads from the collar around my neck to a steel rail inside the wagon. My skin still smarts from the scrubbing I got from two