Page 18 of The Simurgh

‘Silas, I don’t recall where I took them. Truly. But I know it is where they are meant to be, and they are safe. Iknowit. I’ve been allowed that much at least. I hope you believe me.’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you think Sanu is with them?’

Lalassu tossed her head, nickering gently. She tilted her great head, and her strange, subtle yellow eye took them both in. The moment was fleeting but sure. If she could have spoken, it would not have been said more loudly. Sanu was with Charlie and Edward.

‘There we are then,’ Sybilla pressed her fingers into her temple. ‘I take that as a yes, don’t you?’

He did. And it was good news, of course, but Silas could not help the pang of disappointment, knowing now the mare was not at Pitch’s side.

Perhaps she was commanded to stay where she was. Or perhaps she was no more able to find the prince than Silas could his bandalore.

Absorbed in his troubled thoughts, Silas followed as Lalassu led them across the courtyard. They were almost at the delivery ramp, normally used for barrels of grain and wine but perfect for a wheelchair, when Tyvain burst out of a door across the way.

Benedict was right behind her.

‘We’ve got a problem,’ the soothsayer called, her limp lost beneath her haste. ‘They’ve gone and feckin’ locked us in ’ere.’

Lalassu snorted, her head lifting.

‘What?’ Cold dread swept over Silas. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just what I said.’ She jerked a thumb at Benedict. ‘Tell ’em, Benny.’

The djinn’s expression was dark. ‘I need to get to the apothecary and I can’t get out the front door. It’s locked tight and giving me the mother of all headaches just to hold on to the handle. They are using magick to seal us in.’

‘Before you say it’– Tyvain held up her hands– ‘we tried a few doors, not just the front, some windows too. This Sanctuary is locked up tight. And ain’t no sign of Lucifer, or Mr Ahari neither.’

CHAPTER SIX

SILAS RACEDacross the courtyard, boots slipping against the damp stones. He ran towards the black-lacquered wooden gates, the side entrance into Cumberland House wide enough for horses and their carriages.

He grabbed at the bolt, twisting it so it would shift the wooden beam that held the gates closed. The iron did not move. He grasped it with both hands. A tingling ran across his skin, a hint of the headache Benedict spoke of, coming at once. Silas threw his weight into drawing back the bolt.

‘Shit.’ Silas slammed his boot against the black-lacquered wood. ‘No, why would they do this?’

He hurled his weight at the door again only to find himself thrown back, bounced away as though made of rubber. Tyvain replaced him, pounding her fists against the wood.

‘Let us outta here, ya pissheads,’ she hollered.

There was no indication any passersby heard them, the regular, but muffled sound of passing traffic carrying on without pause.

The rap of Lalassu’s hooves against the stonework told Silas she was close by, but he was too preoccupied to pay her much attention. That is, until she rose up on her hindquarters and lashed out with her front hooves, levelling a mighty blow at the gate. Tyvain squealed. The strike should have, at the very least, chipped away a sliver of the painted wood. Instead, the mare recoiled, staggering back.

‘Whoa, easy now.’ Silas gave up his own battle to go to her. Lalassu snorted, dancing on her hooves, clearly unhappy with the circumstances. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

‘I’m awfully sorry. It’s for the best, you understand, Silas.’

‘Mr Ahari?’ Silas spun on his heels, scanning the courtyard.

‘Out there! The little bastard is outside.’ Tyvain was pressed up against the gate, peering through the narrow gap between the two panels. ‘What the fuck, Ahari? Let us the feckin’ ’ell out of ’ere.’

‘Can’t do that, I’m so sorry.’ Mr Ahari’s voice was crystal clear. ‘I have rather strict instructions.’

Silas leaned over Tyvain so he too could peer through the sliver. Mr Ahari stood a few feet from the gate, clad in a Norfolk suit of Harris tweed. One hand was slotted into the bellows pockets, the puff of the knickerbockers giving him a bloated look. He held a cane before him, fingers splayed atop the silver fox-head handle. A near-exact replica of the cane he’d passed on to Pitch. The one long lost at the greensward.

‘Instructions from who?’ Silas demanded.

The world passed by Mr Ahari without a care, barely seeming to notice him at all, conversations continuing as lunchtime strollers walked by. The road behind him was busy with carriages and carts being hauled by an array of steeds, but every stomp of hoof, every roll of wheel was distant.