LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 1)/Faith and Flame

A week earlier, in Al-Sahaf City...

"Allahu akbar!"

The Emerald Mosque's minaret was like the hilt of a gigantic sword driven deep into the world. The thick yet elegant column of green marble rose high above the city streets, against the dawning pink sky, where it culminated in a dome that resembled an immense gemstone. It was from those gleaming facets that the muezzin's voice seemed to come.

"Allahu akbar!"

The call to prayer, intoned almost as music, rolled through the streets and across the rooftops of the Muslim quarter. It reached into each home and business, alerting every ear -- waking those who slept without adequate countermeasures -- until it came up against the sonic barriers which prevented it from spilling into the sprawling city's Christian and Jewish quarters.

"Allahu akbar!"

That voyaging call drifted through a pair of arched balcony doorways, into a chamber where a man and two young boys stood upon three identical prayer rugs. Each blue mat was a lavish Persian style work, decorated with gorgeous calligraphic designs spun around a central, many-sided space. Two cyan slits shone in that expanse, like eyes driving the golden artistry back with their unblinking glare.

"Kalaxiahu akbar!"

The man's dark, handsome face was serene. But his voice was firm and strong. It drowned out the muezzin, even before his sons lent theirs in accompaniment.

"I bear witness that there is no god but Kalaxia," he said in Arabic, "and that Judith Ashdown was her messenger."

Al-Husam prayed. His sons echoed his piety, mirrored his movements on either side. The three knelt and prostrated themselves in the manner of the worshippers who filled the Emerald Mosque and the Muslim quarter's other homes. But their words were of their own faith.

Three dusky foreheads were pressed against soft blue prayer mats, three lips mouthing words of praise and entreaty to the azure wyrm, when a chime sounded. Three heads rose from the luxurious fabric. If it had been a different chime, that of the doorbell or any other device in their house, they would have ignored it and finished their prayers. This noise heralded something even more important, however. Pious words were all well and good, but when it came time for holy deeds...

The boys scrambled to their feet, seized their rugs, and left the room. Al-Husam waited till they'd withdrawn down the hall before he went to the terminal on the other side of the chamber.

There was a flash of cyan light as it scanned his retinas and brainwaves. Then he spoke the words of the Kalaxian shahadah, the same he'd voiced during his prayers. This time the reward of faith was immediate. A screen appeared in the air, and Emera Tresc's face obscured the calligraphic depiction of a dragon on the wall behind.

"Grandmistress." Al-Husam bowed his head.

Emera returned the gesture.

"Lady Victoria has had a vision," she said.

The Arab's eyes glittered.

"What has Lady Ashdown seen?"

"Fire..."

Some minutes later, Al-Husam was donning his keffiyeh. And his scimitars clicked into place on his back.

The present day...

Alison Haelia was the best. Granted, there were no ranking tables in her profession. No award ceremonies where excellence could be recognized and suitable prizes bestowed upon the deserving. But in the world of urban courier work, bad couriers' careers could be measured in hours. So could the remainder of their lives. And since Ali wasn't dead yet, she believed this was a point in her favor. Still alive, and the jobs kept coming. The credits kept flowing. Yes, she was the best. Or at least damn good. Too good to be zipping across the muddy countryside in the pouring rain.

Her short orange hair was soaked. Water ran in rivulets down her top and red pants, along her bare arms and lower back. It splashed across the animated tattoo on her left arm, dampening the moving flames.

They wanted to know why she hadn't brought a jacket. If she'd brought a jacket, they wouldn't be so cold...

"Shut up!"

They didn't like the rain. And they didn't like being out here in the sodden countryside, among the grass and trees. They made sure Ali knew about this.

"It's not my fault!" She gave the bike's handles a sharp wrench as she turned to avoid a small pile of masonry. An arc of mud sprayed through the air. "This is where the jerk wanted to do the handover..."

In truth, she was just as annoyed about that as they were. The client was probably some idiot who'd read too many spy novels. Clandestine meetings in the middle of nowhere... Stupid. It meant that a simple job was eating up most of her day. On the other hand, Ali mused, she hadn't ridden like this in a while. Oh, she enjoyed racing down highways and swerving through streets and alleys. But there was something fun about carving up a rustic landscape instead -- like a lunatic taking his scalpel to a beautiful woman's face. If she treated it as a day off, it wasn't so bad. Or at least it wouldn't have been, if it wasn't for their constant whining...

There was water all over her! Terrible wet stuff, usurping their place -- embracing her body. That was their job! Stupid rain...

"Just a little further," she muttered.

But what about the journey back? More rain! More cold! Maybe she could find a jacket?

"Out here? Don't be stupid."

Oh, yes... We're the stupid ones. We're not the ones who went out in the rain without a jacket!

"If you don't like the cold, do something about it!"

What? She expected them to exhaust themselves dealing with her mistake? That was just... Fine! But she'd better make it up to them...

Warmth rose through Ali's body, a glorious internal conflagration that heated her blood, organs, and bones. It seeped through her muscles, before finally tingling on her skin.

Steam rose from her, before being swept behind by her motorcycle's speed. It billowed in a long trail, as though she were being pursued by an army of ghosts.

You owe us for this, they informed her. You'd better let us feed...

"I will. As soon as I can."

They grumbled a little, but subsided when something appeared on the horizon -- half-hidden by the overcast gloom and the pouring rain. As the bike devoured the distance, scarring the grass and spreading its gore on either side, the object sharpened into focus as the remains of a small brick outbuilding. And there were more behind it.

Is that it? Are we finally there?

"Yeah. That's it."

Good! Hurry up and find him!

The bike slowed to a stop beside the first broken structure. There were bricks and God knew what else scattered across the ground, lost amongst the tangled plants. She had no intention of putting her wheels through it. So Ali jumped off her bike and walked.

"Don't move! I'm armed!" It was a man's voice, from somewhere on her left. And it seemed to shake as though battered by the downpour.

"That's great..." she replied. "Now can we just-"

"Are you the courier?"

"No, I'm a tourist... My hobby's taking pictures of ruined farmhouses."

"Oh..."

"I'm joking. Yeah, I'm your courier. And I know you're the client. We're probably the only two people dumb enough to be out here in this weather."

"Prove it! McManus said you'd..."

They didn't like this man. Who was he to speak to their mistress like that? Perhaps they should teach him a lesson...

"No!" she exclaimed.

"What?"

"Not you... I..." She sighed. "You want proof? Watch the tattoo."

Ali waved her left arm. The animated fire danced up and down her bare flesh.

"Come on!" she whispered.

Why should we? We could just destroy that twerp instead! Why... Oh, fine...

The tattoo burst into flames. Red-orange-yellow tongues surged and roared around her limb. Then they vanished.

A gasp told her the man was suitably impressed.

"That's what McManus said I'd do, right?"

"Y... Yeah."

"Great... Then I'm going to turn round."

The man scrambled out from behind a fragment of wall that reminded her of a chipped tooth. He was wearing a hat and a trench coat. Yes... He's definitely been reading too many spy novels, she decided.

At least he's warm, they replied. We should rob him and take that coat. And maybe the hat...

"Here it is," Ali said.

She pulled a small plastic-wrapped packet from her pocket and offered it to him. The man looked left and right before scampering towards her. He reached out and took it from her hand.

He brushed the raindrops away and inspected it with wide eyes.

"This is it!" he said.

"Yeah, that's kind of how this job works. I bring people the things they want. It's what they pay for. So if you're satisfied, I'll be heading back to-"

"Hand it over!" someone cried.

The man whirled round. Ali sighed. She'd heard that demand innumerable times over the course of her career. It seldom led to anything pleasant.