Secondhand Sorcery

The castle’s floor was cold and hard against her bare knees, but Nadia didn’t get up. It wasn’t even dinnertime yet, and Papa Titus had given the whole Family the rest of the week off to celebrate their success in Fatih. They could choose to spend their time however they pleased, and if Nadia chose to spend the rest of this day doing penance alone in her room, well, that was none of his business, was it? Whether he would have approved or not, he had no need to know.

She had only five icons on her wall: Christ, His Mother, St. Nicholas of Myra, St. Sophia with her daughters, and the great Prince Alexander Nevsky, her largest, which she had placed at the bottom. She could have had many more; even her puny allowance would have been enough to buy one every month, and after Fatih she had a hundred thousand American dollars in her account. But she refused to buy holy things with blood money. Every image on that wall had been bought with money earned by doing extra chores for the other children.

Five icons was enough. Even when she didn’t raise her head to look at them, she could feel five pairs of eyes staring down at the top of her head. But it was better to kneel on the floor with her head bowed than to try to look them in the eye. She had killed men last night, she didn’t know how many, and it was probably hopeless to think she could buy mercy before the Throne with a few hours of kneeling. But she had to try.

Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu. Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu. Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu.

Alexander Nevsky bore a sword in his icon; he had killed men with his own hand. But those men had been aggressors, invaders of his kingdom. Last night, Nadia herself had been the invader—and worse, a hired assassin. So what if the soldiers had had no right to be in the city either? A murderer of murderers was still a murderer.

Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu. Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu. Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu.

Papa Titus and Yunks were waiting to punish any disobedience. So what? Saint Sophia’s three daughters had been no older than Nadia, maybe younger, when they faced death. Was there really no way Nadia could have avoided killing? She could not think of one, but maybe she was just being lazy. Lazy, or a coward. Nadia had a hundred thousand dollars now, and it was her duty to see to it that every cent went to charity. Somehow.

Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu. Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu. Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomiluy mya greshnuyu.

Her knees were sore already, and it hadn’t been half an hour. She didn’t want to check the time. It was hard to keep down the thoughts that maybe she could do penance by degrees, starting small with a half hour one night and maybe doing a little more each night as her body got stronger. As long as she did not do anything pleasant after getting up, would it count against her?

Gospodi—

Her door rattled on its hinges as someone hammered on it, hard. Nadia hurried to her feet, or tried to. She got a few inches from the floor before her knees threw a fit and she fell over onto her bed, biting back curses. The door kept on banging, but she ignored it until the fire in her legs settled down enough that she could say “Who is it?” in a voice that was not too strained.

“It’s a party, and you’re missing it! The Tit’s putting on a hell of a show in the courtyard. Come on!”

Yuri. Of course. “I don’t want to go!” she shouted back. “I have a headache!”

The door rattled a little harder, but she’d been careful to lock it. “Headache, my ass,” Yuri said. “You’re just being morbid again, aren’t you? You need to leave that shit to the old babushkas. The wages of sin are ballin’ tonight.”

“Go away, Yuri.”

“This is for your own good. The Tit’s not going to like it if he catches you bailing on the spread he’s laid down there.”

“How will he like it if he catches you calling him ‘the Tit’?”

“So what if he does? It’s his name. Seriously, Nadia, move it. He’s gonna notice if you don’t show. And that’ll put heat on me, too.”

Damn it. “Alright, I’m coming,” she promised. “Give me a few minutes to get changed.”

“Yeah, you need to bandage the whip-marks on your back, I get it.” But she could hear his feet on the stairs.

Nadia threw a pleading glance at her icons, trying to pretend she didn’t feel a little relieved. After all, it wasn’t as if it would be a very fun party, especially if Papa Titus was going to be there himself, and it sounded like he was. She tried to make up for it by putting on her least comfortable dress—the one with the bow in the back that dug in whenever she sat down. It was kind of ugly, too. Maybe that would help.

Some of Fatima’s favorite American rap started booming out when Nadia was halfway down the stairs, shaking the dust off the ancient stones above her head. Lots of bass. Well, that could be a kind of penance too. Maybe she really would have a headache, by the end of the night.

It was louder, much louder, in the courtyard. There was a different kind of entertainment in each of the partitions, with Papa Titus looking down on it all from the watchtower in the middle. Nadia came out next to the bouncy castle, which already had Yuri in it, hopping around to the beat (more or less) with a bunch of much younger Metic kids. A table against the wall had a huge bowl of punch and a variety of snacks; probably Yuri had spiked the bowl already, and she hoped he made himself throw up.

Another section had a bonfire in it; Gulya was helping a few Metic kids toast marshmallows. Gulya was by far the nicest of their three minders, and Nadia considered going over to say hi, but she looked busy. A third partition had a big mat laid out where three of the Lictors were showing off their moves, grappling and throwing for the kiddies. Two of them would demonstrate a move, while the third helped two volunteers from the young and entirely male audience to do it themselves. The current pupil looked anxious, but also thrilled, as the grizzled veteran slowly and gently guided his fist in the direction of his prone friend’s throat.

The fourth partition had Master of the Flying Guillotine playing with subtitles on a huge screen for a few six-year-olds and a much larger collection of hooting and cheering Lictors. Nadia passed it by without regrets, and found Fatima and Ruslan up on a stage in the large area around the church.

Fatima had her best full-length embroidered green Afghan dress on her body, a black hijab on her head, and a microphone in her hand as she sang along with the music, belting out lyrics about the muthafuckas tryna roll in her hood while she strutted up and down the stage. The ladies in the video playing behind her weren’t wearing nearly as much.

Ruslan wasn’t looking at them, or anything else but Fatima, and danced so stiffly and poorly that Nadia almost died of sympathetic embarrassment just looking at him. He had his long, multicolored striped coat on, traditional Uzbek gear—so they’d match—and his round face was glowing with sweat. Nadia was sure the half-dozen children hopping in front of the stage felt nothing but sincere admiration for him anyway; after all, he was a war hero.

Nadia jumped as a hand came down on her shoulder. “You did good work last night,” a voice said in her ear, and she relaxed. It was only Hamza.

“Thank you,” she replied, in the quietest voice she could use while still being audible over the enormous speakers on the stage. “You were wonderful too.”

“Not really. I was sloppy. Could have got us all killed.”

“But you didn’t,” she reminded him, and leaned over to put her head on his shoulder. Well, his arm, anyway. He was tall. Her big brother. They were very fortunate that he was even still alive. She let her eyes and mind wander as she nestled against him, and chuckled a little to see decrepit old Varvara in the far corner, hunched defensively against the wall as she glared at Fatima and Ruslan. Did she notice that her foot was tapping to the beat?

“Was he angry with you?” she asked, after a minute. She had a vague memory of men scooping her out of Akritas’s boat, and of being carried onto a plane, but nothing else before waking up in her own bed that morning, still in her clothes.

“A little,” he said. “Not too much, since we got the kill and we all got out clean. He was kinda pissed about the dead dogs and shit in Galata, but he couldn’t pin that on me, could he?”

“Probably not,” she said, though she wouldn’t have put it past Papa Titus. “When will my debriefing be? Did he say?”

“No, but why do you care? You did great. Attacked twice on your first mission, and you still saved our asses. You came out looking the best of all of us. You’re golden.”

“Oh.” She wished that didn’t make her feel proud. How long would she have to pretend to have fun here, before she could go back to her room? “What’s going on in Fatih now?”

“Right now? Dunno. I hear the Russians are planning to pull out. They’re trying to negotiate terms of withdrawal or something. Akritas already ran for it, the little punk.”

“A ‘little punk’ who saved our lives,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, whatever. He’s still a traitor. Twice.”

Nadia thought of her conversations with Beelzebub, and her heart sank. “It sounds like the war is as good as over, then. Isn’t it? Are we still going to be staying here?”

“Probably not. But there’s always going to be another war, so don’t worry about it, okay?” He swung her around into a bear hug. “You did a good job, and I’m proud of you. You keep this up, you’ll get imperium sooner than I did.” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Besides, what’ll you be leaving behind here? Everybody we know will be coming with us.”

“That’s true,” she said, prying herself out of the embrace. Hamza was her brother and she loved him, but he simply stank of hash. He was right: there would always be another war, another home, another life. Another cage. Bah.

There was a table loaded with food across from the stage, and Nadia excused herself to check it out. Zeinab cut her a hunk off a leg of lamb, then shooed her away so she could continue making eyes at the Lictor beside her. It was the handsome one, of course—the young man with the strawberry-blond curls. Nadia couldn’t help feeling slightly jealous.

When she had eaten enough, and made a dutiful circuit of the whole courtyard’s entertainments, she retreated back to her room. Papa Titus must have noticed her among the ‘crowd’ of less than fifty people. If he thought so well of her after the mission, he would not be too peevish at her for leaving the party early with indigestion.

Her icons were still there, and the floor, and it wasn’t really time for her to go to bed yet. She laid down on the bed anyway, on her side. Tomorrow morning, if her knees were not too sore, she would get in another half-hour. Maybe then she would feel better, emotionally at least.

She had just closed her eyes when a quiet voice said, from right above her, “I’m very happy to see you made it through, Natasha.”

She refused to open her eyes. She knew she would see a bug landing on her pillow, right in front of her face. “Beelzebub, do you mind? I’m tired. Let me sleep.”

“In your clothes, at 1900? You haven’t been that busy today.”

“I’m sure you’ve been spying on me the whole time. Thank you for reminding me why I can’t trust you.”

“Not the whole time. Just a little bit. Enough to see that all three of you made it back safe, and that you’ve spent most of the day in your room.”

“All right. You’ve seen us. Now go away, before I smush you.”

There was a faint buzz, and Nadia opened her eyes a crack to see the familiar grey bug lift off and start circling around above her. “There. I’m safe, unless you feel like getting up.”

“Or calling Ézarine. I could do that too. Without getting up.”

“Or you could tell Papa Titus.” At that Nadia’s eyes flew open, and she really did sit up in bed, but the bug danced up higher, circling out of reach. “You’re a child, Natasha. You don’t have to feel guilty. Let alone spend half an hour hurting yourself.”

“What would you know, you dirty little sneak? Why are you bothering me, anyway? Didn’t your bosses get what they wanted already? Fatih will be yours soon enough.”

“I don’t care about that, personally—but it isn’t as certain as you make it sound.”

“Go on,” she said, crossing her arms. If he was going to be bothering her, he could at least give her useful information.

“You saw that big tower they built in Fatih, didn’t you? Akritas made it. They say it has a nuclear reactor inside, which they’ve been using to power their operations. Supposedly, they can rig it to vent radioactive steam all over the district, or even melt down.”

“They’d kill themselves?”

“As opposed to evacuating ten thousand people up the Bosporus and across the Black Sea, under fire, with no cover from Kostroma? We would have preferred Myriad for a reason. They’ll be extorting food out of us and negotiating terms for months.”

“Oh, did your plan not go perfectly? I feel so bad for you.”

“I wasn’t complaining. My plan went as well as I could have expected—you’re alive. That was all I cared about, and I did the best I could.”

“So you did take out the men and dogs in Galata.”

“Friends of mine. But yes. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you once you got inside.”

“Did you ever stop to ask yourselves what Papa Titus would think when he heard about it?”

“Did you?” the bug retorted. “You asked me for help, and I gave it. If you’d rather be lying dead with your throat torn open right now, just say so.”

Nadia was still trying to think of something to say to that when the door flew open with a crash, and a Lictor in camo fatigues came in with his pistol drawn. His eyes flicked around the room, then settled on her. Nadia forced herself to focus on him; the little fly would be all but invisible against whatever wall he’d landed on, and lying very still. The Lictor, meanwhile, had his gun pointed squarely at her chest. He was one of the older ones, over forty, and his jaw was clenched.

“Nadezhda Marshall,” he said. “I think you’d better come with me.”