#qadim

“Carrom!” announced Zommoros, pleased. He placed his hands over the scattered pieces on the board and swept them all towards the center. “It’s been quite some time since I played.”

“Couldn’t teach your rodents how?” Qadim settled on the rugs and cushions opposite, arms crossed.

Zommoros placed the red carrom queen in the middle of the board and shaped the white and black pieces around it. “I really must insist you call them professionals. That is, after all, what they are.” 

A small white disk materialized and landed in front of Qadim; Zommoros turned another over between his thumb and index fingers. “They earned that distinction.”

“If you say so.” Qadim picked up the striker disk.

With his free hands Zommoros poured the wine. “I did show them a game or two some time ago. But,” he smiled, “they seemed more interested in picking up and sorting the pieces than learning the rules.”

Qadim huffed out a sound of sarcastic amusement, and accepted the half-full wine glass extended to him. 

“To be fair,” said Zommoros, picking up his own glass, “they are quite similar in size and shape to the many runes and sigils that get thrown down here.” He tugged his scarf down and took a sip. “Who can blame them for force of habit?”

“What’s the wager this time, Zommoros?” 

“Wager?” Zommoros set his glass down. “I hadn’t thought of one.”

“There’s always a wager.”

“That seems like a poor excuse for one,” Zommoros replied, but his smile was interested.

Qadim shrugged. “Not when there’s something you want.”

Two carrom pieces, one black and one white, flickered between Zommoros’s four hands. “And what do I want, Qadim?”

Zommoros closed two of his fists and held them out for Qadim. Qadim pointed to Zommoros’s left. “The creatures in my menagerie freed.”

Zommoros paused. “You’re not wrong.” He opened his palm: it held the black carrom piece. Both the black and white pieces were put back among the others in the middle of the board, and Zommoros put down his striker. “But I think you made it quite clear that was off the table.”

With a flick of Zommoros’s thumb and index finger, the striker scattered the black and white pieces across the board.

“Not when what I get if I win is you back inside my menagerie.”

“Qadim,” Zommoros said. His tone was almost chiding. He picked up his striker and lined it up a second time.

Qadim watched Zommoros scrutinize the positioning of the striker and the pieces that lay across the board. “It’s not a bad wager, Zommoros. You get something you want either way.”

The striker ricocheted a white piece off the side and sank it.

“I,” Zommoros began, flustered. He retrieved his striker once more and laid it on the board. “Maybe it’s time we talked about this.”

Qadim tapped the side of the board with his nails. “I’m listening.”

Another flick of Zommoros’s fingers. This time, the striker failed to find its mark. Zommoros picked up the striker and let it rest between his knuckles. He fidgeted with the stem of his wine glass.

“You’ve brought this up a few times now.”

Qadim unfolded his arms and placed his own striker on the board. “Only because you haven’t given me a direct answer.”

Flick. A bounce off the corner sank one of the black pieces. 

Zommoros took another sip of wine. His brow was even more deeply furrowed than usual, and for a time he gazed out at his realm beyond the pillars of the gazebo.

Qadim had a clear shot and sank the next piece easily. “Once I have you there, aziz’am,” he said, and lined up his next shot, “you won’t think of leaving.” His gaze moved from the striker to Zommoros.

Zommoros’s breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”

Flick. Qadim scored another of the pieces. Zommoros’s heart stuttered when Qadim next aimed for the queen and knocked the piece in.

“I have seen your collection, Qadim. Kept in cages made of fire, miserable, unable to die,” Zommoros frowned. “How can I…”

Qadim eyed the next piece. “You are different. You are djinn.” 

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with it.”

Qadim aimed. He released the striker. It ricocheted off the rim of the board and clipped the piece, but it wasn’t enough to knock it in. Qadim grumbled and fetched the queen, placing her back in the center of the board. 

The queen now lay within a maze of the remaining pieces. Zommoros aimed to one side of her. “If anything, djinn have a particularly good reason to desire freedom.”

The carrom pieces scattered away from the queen. Zommoros scored another white piece, and used his next turn to knock the queen back into the embrace of the other pieces.

“I can’t see why you, as djinn, would want to infringe on that,” he finished.

Qadim leaned over the board, rubbing his chin as he scrutinized the obstructions to the queen. 

Zommoros watched him. “Come to think of it,” he ventured, “you’ve never explained your sudden obsession with keeping other creatures.” 

Qadim’s hand moved from his chin to tightly grip the side of the carrom board. He fixed Zommoros with a sudden stare. “Tell me, Zommoros: How much debt were you in before you left Elona?” 

“I—” said Zommoros, caught off guard by the change of topic, “well, I knew it was more than I preferred–”

“Because,” Qadim’s voice was dark with ash, “Siamek and his little entourage came to me, saying they had enough of your debt to own you.”

Zommoros laughed, taken aback. “What? No. No, things were hardly that bad–”

“You just admitted you didn’t know how much debt you were in,” Qadim growled. He clenched his striker between his fingers but made no move to put it on the board. 

“Yes, but surely–” Zommoros shook his head, “I know I was avoiding a large debt. More than what was reasonable. But even if Siamek’s claim had basis, djinn don’t do that to other djinn.”

Qadim laughed derisively. “These weren’t your friends, Zommoros. They were your debt collectors.”

Zommoros looked at him, dismayed. “How do you even know about all this?”

The carrom board began to blacken where Qadim gripped it. “Who do you think they went to when you started avoiding them?”

Zommoros’s gaze fell to the burnt wood. His eyes widened. “Qadim, please!”

Qadim released the board. With some despair, Zommoros leaned over and examined the charred edge. When he pulled back, his fingers lingered along the burn. Qadim crossed his arms once more and glowered at the board. 

Finally, Zommoros raised his eyes to him. “What else did they say?”

Qadim placed his striker piece down, still tense. “They were tired of waiting for you to pay, what else? So they found an interested buyer.” 

“Who?”

Qadim snorted. “I didn’t pay attention. An inconsequential noble.” 

Silence. Qadim sank another piece. And then another.

“Well,” Zommoros tried lightly, “what’s the harm in what could’ve been? It goes without saying that I’m here and not somewhere like the Garden of Seborhin, serving nobles–”

“Only because I did something about it,” Qadim growled as he took careful aim. The way to the queen was clear. “Even after telling you, again and again, that I couldn’t keep bailing you out.”

“How is that my fault?” Zommoros said, his dismay returning, and Qadim drew back from his shot without taking it, irritated. “You weren’t supposed to be involved that time– I didn’t even know you were involved–”

Qadim’s hand came down hard enough to upset the carrom board. “Your actions forced me to be involved,” he snarled back. “They owned everything, Zommoros–they owned you! And you didn’t even say anything!”

“To be fair, you didn’t say anything to me, either.” Now Zommoros’s palms opened, pleadingly. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this while it was happening?”

“Because you would’ve insisted that there was another way out. There wasn’t,” Qadim said, waspishly. “It was either exile, or enslavement, or a bounty on your head.”

“But–”

“You needed to leave Elona.”

“But if you had just told me–”

“I am telling you now: You are djinn!” Another of Qadim’s fists came down; the carrom board jumped. “You are worth more than your debt, and you are worth more than a human’s plaything!”

Zommoros looked pained. “And I am worth more than a creature in a cage.”

Qadim’s hands withdrew. He simmered with frustration. 

Zommoros shook his head. “I just can’t condone being kept, Qadim.”

“Even if you want it,” Qadim asked, flatly.

“Even if I want it.” 

“Do you?”

Zommoros looked up at him.

“Want to be mine again,” Qadim clarified.

The little of Zommoros’s cheeks visible above his scarf deepened in color. He swallowed. “Of course,” he whispered. “But that’s a little different, isn’t it?” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” Qadim rested his elbow on the carrom board and the now-ruined game, his knuckles curling against his own cheek. “You used to enjoy being called mine.”

Zommoros’s cheeks darkened further. “Yes, well–” he cleared his throat and toyed with his scarf. “Is the menagerie truly the only way?”

Qadim picked up the red disk that represented the queen and turned it in his fingers. “The point is I won’t lose what’s mine again, aziz’am.” He placed the piece back on the board. 

Zommoros reached out and dragged one of his golden nails across the shallow grooves of one of the other carrom pieces, pushing the disk around. “It’s a pleasant surprise, hearing that word from you again.”

Qadim tapped his nails on the carrom board, just inches from Zommoros’s own. “I haven’t had a reason to stop using it.” He stuck out his pinky, halting the movement of Zommoros’s carrom piece. 

Zommoros gazed at the space where their fingers almost touched. Then, in a moment of impulsivity or bravery or both, his fingers darted across Qadim’s knuckles, a featherlight caress that burned pleasantly through Qadim’s veins. Just as quickly Zommoros withdrew to reach for his wine glass once more, although for the moment he simply rested his fingers against the base.

“There’s quite a bit to catch up on,” he said, and Qadim could tell that he was gazing at him in the reflection of the glass.

Qadim finally lifted his own wine glass for a drink. “The night is young,” he commented.