by Sarah Ash
‘Ah.’ Ophar did not turn around yet from his stillness, Melmeth was aware that he was listening to him with utter attention.
‘The rites of Mithiel. They are barbaric.’
‘Hardly barbaric when condemned criminals are granted the chance to gain their freedom in hand-to-hand combat.’
Melmeth faltered a moment; he was still in awe of Ophar. But even as he faltered, he heard Laili’s clear voice, saw her eyes, blazingly blue with anger, accusing him …
‘Is there no other way to let them earn their pardon? No other way to requite the god?’
There was a pause. Then Ophar asked acidly, ‘What precisely are you suggesting, lord?
‘A contest of skill. But the killing must stop. No more deaths.’
To his surprise Ophar began to chuckle, a dry, mirthless sound, as if he had almost forgotten how to laugh.
‘My lord, this is absurd. The people expect a fight to the death. It is a necessary part of our judicial system. It is also a deterrent. If they want to amuse themselves with a harmless contest of skill, they can watch a bout of Jhered-nai any time they wish—’
‘You are not hearing what I’m saying, Ophar. I want it to stop. I’m putting an end to it.’
‘And the god?’ Ophar said in the softest of voices.
‘Surely the god can still be honoured with incense and prayers. Is that not more fitting than the shedding of blood?’
‘And what has brought on this sudden crisis of conscience?’ Ophar asked still softly, oh so softly. ‘You cheered on your Memizhon champion to victory as loudly as any of the rabble.’
‘I see matters differently now.’ Melmeth tried not to sound defensive.
‘You have invested so much in the training of your champions. You’ve always taken such an interest in their selection,’ persisted Ophar. ‘Are you going to deny them their chance of glory?’
Melmeth found himself seized with a violent desire to strike the old man.
‘Are we always to be at cross-purposes?’
‘Whilst you neglect your duty to the god of your House, yes.’
‘So you’re going to oppose me.’
‘It is my duty as High Priest to oppose you. What you are proposing is an insult to the god. And Mithiel is a warrior’s god. It pleases him that the blood of warriors shoud be shed in his honour. The spilling of warrior’s blood onto the earth in spring ensures a good harvest—’
‘I will not be opposed this time!’
‘Melmeth, my son.’ Ophar had not called him by his first name since he was a child; this sudden benevolent tone was unsettling. ‘I understand your desire to make changes. Changes which you consider to be for the better. Only consider the consequences of your actions. Don’t do anything rash, anything you might later regret.’
Melmeth said nothing.
‘Tomorrow, I am confident you will see the whole matter in a different light.’ Ophar bowed to the Arkhan and withdrew, his robes dragging a trail through the drifting charnel dust.
‘By tomorrow,’ Melmeth said in a whisper, ‘all Perysse will know what I have done. And there is nothing you can do to change it, old man.’
Ymarys made his entrance into the Arkhan’s audience chamber. He had dressed with exaggerated ostentation for the occasion and heard, to his satisfaction, little gasps of envy and admiration from the assembled exquisites and courtiers. His tailor had excelled himself. Metallic-sheened silks embroidered with threads of gold and bronze were set off by tassels of a shockingly vivid mulberry-pink adorning his razhir-sash and tight-fitting breeches. He looked dazzling. Dazzling – and dangerous.
If this was to be his last official appearance at court, he wanted it recorded in the annals, right down to the last detail of his tasselled shoes.
He approached Melmeth’s throne and bowed with a lazy grace, flicking his silky hair back from his face.
‘Is it true what they are saying in the barracks, zhan? Have you banned the rites?’
‘Not banned. Altered. Now I realise that your role in this will be significantly diminished … But I want you to remain at Myn-Dhiel and retain the title of Memizhon Razhirrakh – as my official blademaster.’
‘You are very generous, zhan,’ Ymarys said, one elegant brow lifting slightly. ‘But what about Lai Dhar? Surely he has first claim to that title.’
‘Lai? I thought you knew. He asked to be released from his court duties – and I released him. He has gone to seek a passage home.’
If his years at Myn-Dhiel had taught Ymarys anything, it was how to conceal his feelings. And he was a consummate courtier, well-skilled at concealment. He contrived another graceful bow, hiding the sudden gleam of pain that flashed through his kohl-lined eyes. Lai – leaving Perysse. Without even telling him.
‘And what will my official duties entail, zhan?’ Ymarys heard himself asking in a tone of supreme self-control whilst his mind tried to make sense of the hurt.
Lai. Gone forever.
‘We will still require your skills as bladetutor to the Tarkhas Memizhon. But you are no longer required to risk your life in the arena. There will be no more bloodletting on Mithiel’s Day.’
The courtiers broke into a chorus of shocked whispers.
‘He’s banning the rites …’
‘And what about the brandslaves?’
‘Orthandor will take charge of the contest. The slaves will compete for their freedom in Jhered-nai.’
Did I mean so little to him? So little I didn’t even merit a word of farewell?
‘Well?’ Melmeth said. ‘Do you accept?’
Ymarys started. He became aware that all eyes in the chamber were fixed on him, awaiting his response; Sarilla, in particular, was staring at him with fixed attention above her fan.
‘We should miss you, Ymarys, if you were to retire. You, our arbiter of court fashion.’
Ymarys acknowledged the Arkhan’s compliment with an elegant obeisance.
‘When you put it so graciously, zhan, what can I do but accept?’
A soft sigh of approval greeted his words. But as he bowed his way from the Arkhan’s presence, he caught Sarilla’s eye once more. Her elegant painted mouth, bright as japonica petals, framed one word.
‘Traitor.’
The sky was sheened with faint, high cloud, sheer as finest silk as Lai went towards the river. To the west, the dipping sun glimmered, pale and pure, a glaze of liquid gold, promising fair weather on the morrow.
All day he had aimlessly wandered the streets of the city, trying to make sense of it all.
How could Laili do this to him? How could she stand in the moonlit gardens and tell him, ‘Forget me’?
How could she have changed so in the passing of a single year?
Night after night he had crawled exhaustedly back from the armoury to his bare cell and sworn that he would give up, he could take no more … and then her wan face had haunted his dreams, her eyes swollen with weeping. Next morning at dawn, that vision had driven him, bruised and stiff, back to the armoury.
He had killed to set her free.
Swallows dipped and skimmed over his head: he looked up, a smile of regret twisting his lips. So many things he had not noticed for so long, so many simple things that would have once delighted him: the fluting dusksong of a merle perched high on a carven weathervane; the first bright flowering of the quinces festooning the crumbling walls of Sulirrian’s ancient summer palace near the quay …
Yet what was there left for him here? Laili was far beyond his reach, the favoured darling of her royal master. And Clodolë, opulent Clodolë … she had merely used him for her own purposes.
He was not to be used.
All that remained was the promise of Ael Lahi … and the tenuous hope that, in the service of the Goddess, he might find some way to atone for the blood he had shed.
He stood a moment on the river-bank, watching the anchored ships dipping gently on the river-tide. Even the dilapidated, tar-caulked hulks of the shabbier vessels seemed tran
sformed by the golden light of the setting sun.
A shack at the end of the quay served as a recruitment office for the river barques; as Lai approached, a light flowered at the window as someone inside lit a lantern.
Lai pushed the leathern curtain aside and went in. A grizzle-bearded sailor was lighting his clay pipe from a tinder, hands cupped to shield the flame.
‘Closed for the night.’
‘I want a passage to Ael Lahi.’
The sailor removed the pipe from his mouth and gave a short grunt of laughter.
‘No one goes that far. No one but madmen – or castaways.’
‘The Spice Isles, then. I’ll do anything. Scrub decks, mend sails, push a galley-oar—’
‘You seem very keen to get away from Perysse. In trouble with the law?’
Lai did not answer.
The sailor bent over a stained parchment chart on the table, squinting at the writing in the fading light.
‘You’ll have to wait for the El’Thera; she won’t be back till the new moon rises. There’ve been storms out in the straits. I could put a word in with her maistre, if you made it … worth my while.’ He stared at Lai suggestively in the fading light.
But Lai had begun to learn the ways of Perysse …
‘I’ll make it worth your while when the El’Thera’s back in port.’
‘Can’t guarantee anything …’ the sailor called after him.
So even in this he was frustrated. Now that he was free to return home, the only ship going anywhere near Ael Lahi was caught in storms …
Am I never to get out of this place?
As Lai walked slowly back along the quay, a faint, delicious spicescent drifted towards him. And with it came a memory, achingly vivid, of bee-tawny eyes, soft skin, luscious-fleshed as apricots …
Boskh …
Above his head a trail of moonmoths came darting towards the rising moon, leaving a cloud of dust shimmering in the warm air.
‘Quick! There they go!’ Children ran out from an alleyway, laughing and waving nets, making vain leaps as the moths fluttered high into the air.
Lai stopped one of the children, a boy in a tattered jacket several sizes too big.
‘Lemme go! They’re getting away!’
Lai held an enith in front of the boy’s eyes.
‘Tell me – why are you trying to catch the moths?’
‘Because you can sell ’em for a hundred of these!’ The boy snatched the coin and scampered off across the cobbles in pursuit of the fleeting moths.
‘It’s true.’
Lai looked around and saw Arlan Azhrel, the scars on his ruined face weirdly lit by the flame of his lantern.
Daemon-mask. Lai was sucked back into the pit of his donjon nightmares, into that dark delirium of fever dreams from which Azhrel’s physic had rescued him.
‘They’re fetching exorbitant prices. Especially at Myn-Dhiel, I hear. D’you want to accompany me on a moth-hunt?’
‘I—’
‘Good. Hold the lantern. I’m onto something, I think.’ Azhrel strode off across the quay. ‘I heard reports that they were seen clustering over here …’
A foetid stench drowned out the faint sweetness of boskh.
‘The middens!’ Lai said, drawing back.
‘Indeed so. The smell is less pungent by night. Also there are fewer curious onlookers …’ Azhrel began to poke around with his stick in the rotting rubbish heap.
‘But why are you searching for moonmoths?’
‘This is the most fascinating natural phenomenon to occur in Perysse in my lifetime. Besides, there’s something I don’t quite understand—Ah. Bring the lantern closer, Lai.’
In the circle of lantern light, Azhrel pointed with the stick tip.
‘What do you make of those?’
‘Dead leaves.’
‘Maybe … but have you never seen chrysalises before?’ Azhrel knelt down and carefully extracted some of the dry fragments, holding them up to the light, sniffing them.
‘Chrysalises? You’re saying that the moonmoths hatched in a midden!’
‘Maybe …’ Azhrel slipped the fragments into a glass jar and stoppered it. ‘It may be the clues are right beneath my eyes and I cannot see them.’
‘A midden,’ Lai repeated. Was this the mystery of mysteries that the Eldest One had kept from the youngest adepts? That the sparkling-winged messengers of the Goddess hatched in dung and detritus? ‘No,’ he whispered, revolted at the thought. ‘It must be a coincidence.’
‘What must be?’ Azhrel said.
Lai found Azhrel staring intently at him, his dark eyes lit by the lantern flame.
‘You know something of these moonmoths?’
‘I come from the island of Ael Lahi. We believe the moonmoths to be sacred, the gift of the Goddess.’
‘And Ael Lahi lies far from here?’
‘East of the sun and west of the moon,’ Lai said wryly.
‘If you could just spare me an hour or so of your time, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I live in the Old Quarter, not five minutes’ walk away.’
Lai shrugged. There was no ship leaving for the islands … and time seemed to stretch ahead, empty and purposeless. What had he to lose?
Galingal Lane led away from the river, its houses hidden by a high, crumbling stone wall overgrown with vines and jasmine; the poignantly sweet scent from the creamy flowers enriched the drowsily warm night. Azhrel stopped at a little door set in the wall, half-hidden by creepers, its warped timbers silvered with age and, unlocking it with an iron key, ushered Lai inside. Within the tangled garden, the winding path fragrant with herbs, nestled Azhrel’s house.
‘So … what brought you down to the quay tonight?’
‘I came to book a passage home.’ Lai tweaked a leaf-tip from a coriander plant and sniffed at the sharp green scent it left on his fingertips.
‘Home! But of course – you must have family in Ael Lahi.’
‘Family?’ The word pricked at his heart. His only surviving relative was Laili. And now she would never return to the island. He would be the last of their bloodline on Ael Lahi. ‘Not still living—’
‘Dr Azhrel! Dr Azhrel!’
Someone banged on the garden door.
Azhrel went hurrying back down the path. Lai followed, curious. A ragged boy stood in the lane outside.
‘Can you come to the dye works? There’s been an accident.’
‘How bad an accident?’
‘A vat-spill. There’s boiling dye everywhere. Please come quick.’
‘Run back and tell the foreman I’m on my way.’ Azhrel turned to Lai. ‘Forgive me—’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Lai said on impulse.
‘Wait here.’ Azhrel disappeared into the house. A few moments later, he appeared at an open window holding a leathern bag.
‘Catch!’ He threw the bag down to Lai.
A moment later he had slammed the house door shut and was hurrying down the path towards the lane.
‘Why were they working at this hour?’ Lai asked, hastening to keep up with Azhrel’s swift stride.
‘Slave labour. They work shifts throughout the night. The silk trade is the beating heart of Perysse, hm? It never stills.’
A sudden waft of dye fumes blew down the dark street, rank as rotting vegetation. They turned a corner and Lai saw the high spiked railings black against the dull glare of fires beyond. Shadowy figures hurried to and fro in confusion; greasy smoke belched out, fouling the sweet evening air.
Azhrel went up to the gates and called, ‘Who sent for a doctor?’
Lai peered into the billowing smoke. From somewhere within he thought he could hear a faint, insistent moaning.
‘Come in, Dr Azhrel.’ A man appeared through the smoke and with a clanking of keys, unlocked the gates to admit them. His face was shiny with sweat.
‘How many injured this time?’ Azhrel asked.
‘One’s dead. Fell asleep whilst he was supposed to be watchi
ng the vat.’
‘If you fed and rested your workers properly, these accidents wouldn’t happen,’ Azhrel said quietly.
The foreman spat.
‘Workers! Condemned criminals, every one, Dr Azhrel. Scum of Perysse. Look at this mess. We’ll be days clearing it up.’
The hard-trodden dirt underfoot was pooled with leaks of congealing, cooling dye. Steam hissed and wisped from puddles and still-running rivulets.
‘And not just any dye, oh no. Only the most expensive, the Llyrian purple.’
A miasmic cloud hung over the works like fog; condensation ran in rivulets down the sides of the walls, the dye-encrusted metal vats. In the warm damp air Lai felt his clothes begin to stick to his skin.
Torches lit the shed where the injured had been laid on sacking. Lai faltered on the threshold, overwhelmed by the sight that confronted them. Some of the casualties were groaning, others lay still. There was an all-pervasive smell of burned flesh and vomit.
‘And you remembered what I told you last time this happened?’ Azhrel stripped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves.
‘Yes, yes, sponge them in cold water. Mithiel knows, we’ve little enough fresh water to spare in this heat …’
Brandslaves, ankles still shackled together were dipping rags in buckets of well-water, ringing them out and laying them over their injured companions.
‘Scalds, steam burns,’ Azhrel muttered, moving down the shed, glancing from left to right, assessing the situation. He stopped by one brandslave who lay motionless; only the thin hiss of pain that issued from between his clenched teeth gave any clue that he was still conscious.
The foreman caught hold of Azhrel’s arm, steering him towards a pallet set apart from the others.
‘Pheryn, my nightshift overseer.’
Lai saw Azhrel stiffen, the muscles tightening in his neck. He pulled his arm free and turned back.
‘This man first. Pheryn can wait. And get some strips of clean linen. These filthy rags will only cause infection!’
The foreman hesitated a moment, then left the shed.
Azhrel bent over the brandslave, lifting up the sodden rags. Ribs and hip bones protruded through the emaciated flesh. Boiling dye had stained the skin lurid patches of purple. Beneath the slave’s filthy loincloth Lai glimpsed a tracery of ill-healed scars of the gelding knife.
