To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion by Diane Lee Wilson

long in his body?”
    The ashipu’s brow furrowed. “It is not your place to ask about demons!” he shouted. “What do you know about demons?” His breath caught in a faint gasp as an idea appeared to come to him, and the scowl melted away. “Perhaps these are more demanding demons than I realized,” he said in a suddenly smooth voice. “Perhaps they require a sacrifice. A royally bred stallion might appease them.”
    Soulai felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He glanced at Habasle, who was paler as well.
    â€œYou’re bluffing,” Habasle stammered. “What my horse needs is attention to his wounds. Perhaps—”
    The ashipu’s eyes sparked. “Perhaps,” he interrupted, “perhaps I should turn my attention to you. For you, too, I have come to understand, need attention to your wounds.” The corners of his mouth twisted upward.
    For the first time, a shot of undisguised fear flashed through Habasle’s eyes. “No, I am healing,” he said.
    The ashipu stretched out his arm. As if by sorcery it seemed to grow longer and longer until the curling nails of his fingers closed on Habasle’s shoulder. He smiled a wicked smile. “The king, in whose image the gods direct us, has ordered it. And one doesn’t deny a god, does one? You will come with me.”

9
    To Capture the Stars
    Soulai stood motionless in the unlit room until the footsteps of Habasle and the ashipu had faded. Only then did he try to make his way out. His uncertain steps through the library’s maze of rooms attracted the attention of one of the young scribes, who quickly led him back to the entrance. Delivered into the intense heat, Soulai stood squinting beneath the harsh light of midday. After a moment he noticed that Naboushoumidin, still clutching the leash of the mastiff, appeared to be waiting for him. The man nodded as he stepped from the shadow of one of the winged bulls.
    â€œWe are headed in the same direction, no?” he asked in his bright manner. The mastiff suddenly lunged after a turtledove, nearly pulling the old scribe off his feet. Several jerks on the leash hauled the huge animal back in line. When the three were again headed to the south side of the palace, Naboushoumidin cast a sidelong glance and said, “You’ve not been a slave long, have you?”
    Soulai, surprised, shook his head.
    â€œHow did he know? you are thinking.” Naboushoumidin chuckled. “You see, you are yet wearing that…um…unsettled expression. You are one foot here, one foot there,” he said, hopping from his left to his right. “I mean to say, you want to be elsewhere…but you must be here.”
    Soulai felt his head moving up and down.
    â€œI remember how it was,” Naboushoumidin went on. “I was already a young man—seventeen—when my city was captured. Because I had been taught the letters and could read and speak three languages, I was shelved in the library.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, it wasn’t much then. King Esarhaddon, who came before, only wanted his legacy to be conquering the pyramids. But King Ashurbanipal, now there’s a scholar. He demands the texts owned by every city he captures. And my work is to copy each and every one of them for the palace collection: lists of omens, incantations for illnesses, puffed-up tales of triumph told over and over.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Endless work, endless! When I was younger I imagined I would simply stop breathing from the awfulness of it all. Even tried it.” Pulling the dog to a halt, Naboushoumidin drew in his breath and puffed out his cheeks. His gray head bobbled as his eyes bulged. Passersby nudged their neighbors and traded smiles. Soulai began to grow nervous. Then the scribe let out his breath in a gush and grinned from ear to ear. “Still can’t put myself out of my own misery.” He