The Darkest Bloom

by P. M. Freestone

  Ahead, it looks like the testing will take place over several rounds. At least that’s something I expected. We’ll only be allowed on to the second platform once we pass the entrance test, where the barley is sorted from the chaff.

  On the third level, work benches have been set up in a line. Mortar and pestle, and an assortment of presses and measures are neatly arrayed on each. At one end sits something I’ve long coveted – a full imperial-standard distilling apparatus.

  The fourth platform is for the judge and any observers. For Zakkurus, the Eraz’s representative when it comes to our province’s perfume regulation and trade. For Lady Sireth, the Eraz’s daughter, though given she’s more interested in trends than techniques, bets are she’ll be fashionably late.

  The summit belongs to nobody but the gods.

  Speak of the demon, Zakkurus emerges from the portico, clad in signature blue – today’s as light as summer sky. As his gaze sweeps the crowd, I wonder if I backed out now, could I return the dahkai? Find another way? If I worked day and night, if the seasons were kind and the foraging yielded plenty, I might be able to scrape enough together by selling to Zakkurus and his competitors. As long as none of them, or the tax collectors, found out.

  But then the sick-sweet rot of Father’s leg comes to mind – the bandages that need to be fastened higher with each passing moon.

  Turning back is nothing but wishful thinking.

  At the edge of the platform, Zakkurus spreads his arms wide. “Ours is a lineage from beyond the edge of memory,” the perfumer begins, his voice controlled and yet carrying. “Older than the Shadow Wars, the Founding Accord. We, fellow Aphorains, are caretakers of tradition. Beloved by the gods. The Emperor may rule us, but in the ways of the highest sense, Aphorai rules the Empire!”

  Most of the crowd erupts into a rousing cheer, though a staunch imperialist next to us mutters something about walking the line of treason.

  Zakkurus raises his hands, begging for order with false modesty. “But to preserve Aphorai’s legacy, to ensure we remain above all provinces, we must recruit the best. Who has the dedication, the talent, to continue our reputation for excellence?

  “Alas, I am but a humble perfumer,” he laments.

  The crowd titters.

  “This is not a judgement I alone can make.”

  The crowd shuffled aside for Barden. Now it cleaves in two as people rush to clear a path. A figure threads their way across the plaza, clad in a dark cloak despite the heat, full hood pulled up. I’d assume Lady Sireth, but she wouldn’t be seen in something so plain, even for the mystery. And for all the times she’s waved from the battlements at festivals or ventured into the streets to hand out silver zigs on holy days, I don’t recall her being so tall.

  The new arrival passes the line of would-be apprentices in a swirl of labdanum – sweet and smoky and dark as the underworld. A seed of suspicion sprouts in my mind.

  The figure glides up the ramp, hem dragging behind. For the briefest moment, it snags on a rough-hewn edge, revealing a glimpse of underneath.

  Feathers. Black feathers.

  No. It can’t be.

  Today is about perfume, not prayer. A competition of craft, not a consecration.

  But everything is falling into place. The smoke from the temple as I arrived in the city, today’s testing stage in tiers like a replica temple, Zakkurus’s talk of gods and tradition. I should have realized. A Flower Moon is on the horizon.

  And that means … it’s her.

  Scents abound, it’s her.

  Joining Aphorai’s chief perfumer on the second highest platform, the figure turns to face the crowd. Silence falls like a sword as she pushes back her hood. She shrugs out of the cloak and Zakkurus scrambles – actually scrambles – to catch it.

  Ordinary firebirds wear crimson. But this woman’s dress is the deepest black, feathers shimmering rainbow in the sun like oil on water.

  Her movements are as fluid and flawless as molten bronze. High cheekbones, elegant neck and full lips defy age. And if grey or white streaked her hair, nobody would be any the wiser – her scalp is shaven clean.

  Since before anyone alive can remember, Sephine has served as Aphorai’s Scent Keeper. Link between temple and palace. Mediator between the gods and the rulers of us mere mortals. The woman who has sanctioned half a dozen Aphorain Erazs. The woman who could revoke her blessing and turn the people against their lord, removing him as surely as a decree from the Emperor.

  An air of calm assurance surrounds her as she surveys the crowd. But what she sees with her Scent-Keeper eyes – completely black where others would have white and iris – I haven’t the smokiest idea.

  Does she see me?

  Does she see my unveiled hate?

  There’s as many myths and stories about Scent Keepers as there are feathers in their dresses. All I know is that they’d rather demonstrate what happens when someone goes against the temple than save a woman’s life. Even if that woman was once one of their own. Even if she had a husband, a newborn daughter.

  I clench my fists, resisting the urge to let one hand stray up to my mother’s locket.

  High on the judging platform, Zakkurus hands off Sephine’s cloak. “Now then, shall we begin?”

  A succession of the perfumer’s assistants lift cones of intricately decorated parchment to their lips, puffing pale pink dust into the air. Well before any of the billowing cloud has drifted over me, I catch the scent.

  Desert rose.

  The crowd lets out a collective sigh, the poorer among them trying to grab handfuls of the stuff, as if they could gather it and trade for something they really need. A wave of nausea washes over me – I’m breathing my own wares, the least of what I’ve gambled.

  With a flourish of the perfumer’s fan, two more servants step forward and set down a great bronze chest. Each of us in the line of hopefuls is handed a small slate and chalk-tipped stylus. We’re to take one chance at sensing what’s in the chest. To miss an ingredient, or to misidentify one, is to miss your chance until the next trials.

  It’s agony waiting this far back. In turn, each would-be competitor bends to the chest, makes a note and presents it to the scribe stationed at the entrance to the next platform.

  Some are waved through. Others are turned away. Some react with a shrug. Others have to be forcibly removed by the guards.

  The youth before me wears a robe dyed in rich magenta – the almost-purple of the minor branches of the five families. I wrinkle my nose and resist the urge to offer my condolences on his lack of access to a water well – he reeks so strongly of musky agarwood he must have bathed in it.

  At his turn with the entry test, he only gives the quickest of sniffs.

  “Be sure,” Zakkurus warns from on high. “Even up here I can barely smell anything but you.”

  A snicker escapes my lips.

  Rich boy casts his answer. The scribe doesn’t even glance at his slate before ushering him through.

  I can’t believe it. I had always thought a son or daughter of the five families won because they could afford the training, afford the materials. Not because they were handed victory on a platter.

  Fuming, I look at the guards. Most don’t bat an eye. Though one of the women shifts her feet, jaw tight.

  Then it’s my turn.

  I clench my fists harder, using the sting of my nails digging into my palms to centre myself and focus on the chest. It’s long been empty, but a careful inhale reveals the silk lining still carries the memory of what it stored.

  Melissa – citrus fresh but less vicious than lemon itself.

  Violets. Of course, given Zakkurus’s soft spot for them.

  Under that, an earthy balsam. Vetiver. A perfumer’s best friend, fixing fleeting scents in place.

  Prayer candles. These ones for the twin deities of the waterways, Zir and Tro.

  So far, so simple.

  At the base of the ramp, I hand the scribe my notes. He reads with a nod.

>   “Name?”

  “Rakel.”

  “Rakel who?”

  “Ana.”

  The guard leans forward to peer over the scribe’s shoulder, hair falling over a jagged scar on her forehead. “You’re Commander Ana’s daughter?”

  I nod warily.

  She snaps her heels together and thumps her right fist to her chest. “I served under your father. How is retirement treating the old boy? Still training those bizarre beasts of his?”

  I smile despite myself. “I expect he’ll be working with horses until the day he dies.”

  “And may the starwheel turn many times before. He saved my life. At the battle of Azutrai. Lozanak’s my name. I was in the fourth. Would you give him my regards?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “Appreciate it.” She lowers her voice. “Good luck up there. The way your father used to talk, you’d run rings around those uppity pups.” She claps me on the back in farewell.

  Above, Sephine stands still as a gate guardian, Zakkurus beside her. I want to believe Lozanak is right. But all I can think of is the noble kid being waved through, no questions asked.

  Zakkurus had warned me, hadn’t he? But he won mere turns ago, and he isn’t from an aristocratic family.

  It’s been done. It can be done.

  Nerves threaten to undo me, but I don’t have a choice.

  I step up on to the platform.

  Less than half the candidates have been welcomed on to the first level of the testing stage. Seventeen of us.

  This round will test etiquette and politics, history and scentlore.

  It’s my danger round.

  Unlike most of the candidates, I’ve had to glean what I know from eavesdropping and watching from afar.

  I try not to fidget as Zakkurus works his way down the line. “A merchant wishes to arrange a marriage,” he purrs. “He would see his daughter wedded to the third son of a noble family. He invites the son’s father to his house. What incense would you recommend, to receive his visitor?”

  Small mercy I didn’t get that question. Wouldn’t have the smokiest idea.

  Half a dozen competitors have been culled by the time Zakkurus stands before me, their answers bumbling or incorrect or just offending the perfumer’s so-called refined sensibilities. He fixes me in a stare as uncaring as a drought. “Candidate?”

  I play along. “Ana.”

  “Candidate Ana. Now then. An indentured servant has succumbed to the Affliction. Her condition is grave. What funeral incense would you advise her owner to burn?”

  This isn’t straightforward. Many people, especially those whose luxurious lives hardly ever come into contact with the Rot, are so terrified of it that they become irrational, exaggerating its progress, wanting only to be rid of it. The girl may still have options other than funeral incense.

  “Her wounds?” I ask. “Where are they?”

  “Excuse me, Candidate?”

  I grit my teeth. “Where are her wounds? Limbs? Torso?”

  “That has no bearing on this situation.”

  It’s all I can do not to punch him right in that cat-got-the-cream smile.

  “Frankincense,” I tell him.

  It has cleansing properties. Burned day and night, it may slow the progress of the Rot, some say it can even halt its progress if you apply it topically. If you can afford enough of it, of course. It’s no dahkai, but it’s worth more by weight than gold.

  “You would advise a master to waste such a rich ingredient on a slave?”

  Every life is worth trying to save, I want to shout at Zakkurus. But I don’t. Because I need to save one particular life, more than I need to save my pride, more than I need to call them out as richly robed monsters.

  I take a deep breath and swallow my shame.

  “Sandalwood and thyme,” I concede. “The first sweetens the air, the second invokes Azered, calling on the goddess to speed the patient’s journey to the sky, and in doing so protecting the higher priority visitors.”

  At least that’s what your heartless visitors will believe.

  I sneak a glance above. The Scent Keeper regards me and Zakkurus in turn. She blinks once and returns her gaze to the middle distance.

  The chief perfumer smiles. “You may advance, Candidate.”

  Shouts of approval fly from the crowd. From this distance, they can’t see the way Zakkurus’s blue eyes burn into me like the hottest part of a flame.

  On the third platform, there’s only one workbench left free. Right next to the rich kid I’d seen waved through. The boy’s hands hang loose and easy at his sides, unblemished with the burns and scars of the trade. Nothing about him suggests those fingers would ever strip thorns from stems. Ugh. Not only will I have to compete with the others as well as my nerves, but I’ve got to do it in a miasma of sweat-sticky agarwood cologne.

  The task is announced. We’re to make our most innovative perfume with the ingredients provided. Using our own supplies will result in instant disqualification.

  I inspect the array of jars and vials before me, discovering several are mislabelled. Tonka-bean crystals are never that pale. But there’s labdanum here. Violet water, too. A plan begins to unfold in my mind. I set to work.

  I’m almost done when I catch wind of something I’ve only ever come across once before, at a metal-workers. It has the most gorgeous notes of plum and nutmeg before it comes in contact with anything other than the glass jars used to store it.

  What in the sixth hell is Rich Kid playing at?

  I glance at Zakkurus, who paces the line of work benches. Has he even noticed? The smell must have reached him by now. Sure enough, he halts in front of my neighbour’s bench. “Why have you ceased work, Candidate?”

  “I’ve finished.” The boy puffs out his chest. Either it’s a fearless bluff, or he has no idea what he’s done.

  Zakkurus claps his hands, seemingly delighted. “Then let’s sample the fruits of your labour, shall we?”

  Rich Kid proffers the jar.

  The perfumer holds his palm up – a magnanimous “you first” gesture.

  The boy shrugs. And then it hits me. He really doesn’t realize what he’s made. I tense, torn between shouting a warning and staying silent.

  Too late.

  The boy dabs the concoction on to the triangle of bare chest at his robe’s neckline.

  “Oh, do be generous,” urges Zakkurus. “There’s that cologne to contend with, after all.”

  The boy rubs more liquid on to his skin.

  “Wonderful. Now you just hold tight until the others have finished.” The perfumer pats the boy on the arm and turns his back.

  Instinct shoves my thoughts away. In a handful of strides, I’m at my competitor’s side. “Fool! Open your robe!”

  He doesn’t make a move. “Excuse me?”

  The pretty silk ties lacing up his front would be worth more than my entire wardrobe, boots and all. I grab them in each hand and rip them apart.

  “How dare y—” His words cut off in a hiss of pain. He looks down at his chest, the outrage of a moment ago replaced with alarm. The skin has reddened. Then it begins to bubble. A smell in the same family as roasting pig reaches my nose. Rich Kid stumbles back a step, trips on his own bench and collapses to the floor.

  I ignore his howls as I douse the area in sak ointment, rubbing it in even though blisters burst and weep under my fingers. He tries to push me from him, but he’s weak with shock and it’s little more than a flail.

  When I’m sure I’ve neutralized the effects and contained the spread, I step back. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to steam-distil zesker essence? It turns caustic when heated to high temperatures.”

  A pair of burly servants appear. They half-carry, half-drag the now gibbering mess off the platform. To where, I have no idea.

  I look for Sephine. The Scent Keeper has gone.

  Slow claps ring out behind me. “Lovely performance, petal. On any other day I’m sure you’d be reward
ed for such heroics. Today, alas, we cannot tolerate interference with another candidate’s materials.”

  “What?” I gape at him.

  Zakkurus waves over a pair of guards. Lozanak is one of them. Though she doesn’t look pleased, she obeys the command.

  “Makes the heart sing when an investment pans out. Truly.”

  “You … you knew what he was making!” I sputter.

  Rage courses through me. I’ll give them interference.

  Zakkurus reaches out and pats my elbow, the same gesture he’d used on the boy before his flesh had started to burn. It makes my skin crawl.

  Then he’s replaced by the guards. They hustle me down each of the platforms and out into the crowd, one clearing a path while the other holds fast to my arm.

  I find myself surrounded and yet utterly alone. My breaths come quicker, shallow, the city’s stench suddenly too thick for my lungs. The sunlight starts to darken.

  Then Barden is there.

  I flinch. There will be questions. Oh-so-many questions. Barden knew I was selling. He knew I had a meeting with a source about the trials. But I hadn’t yet worked out a way to tell him about Zakkurus’s contract. I’d hoped I’d never have to.

  Now, holding it in feels like trying to carry sand in a basket.

  “Bar—”

  “Don’t struggle,” he murmurs in my ear. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  He sounds so sure of himself. “I’ll find you. I always find you.”

  And then he’s lost in the crowd.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ash

  On the barge, Iddo’s men play Five Cups and arm wrestle for coin or extra ale. I’ve never dared drink more than a watered mug. I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be in control of their mind, their body. For me it would be downright dangerous.

  Nisai spends most of the time on deck, scribbling in his journal, debating the finer points of Aphorain history with Esarik, or needling his friend to make a proper overture to Ami. I’ve never seen someone blush as furiously as the Trelian does whenever her name is spoken.

  On the third day, the horizon changes. The straight line of the plains wavers into blue-green foothills. Later, distant peaks appear, their heads and shoulders cloaked in white.