“Sending assassins to kill a Feyassin in Nanjidasé reeks of desperation,” he murmured.
“There’re only two reasons I can think of for somebody to want to act so rashly,” she said into his neck. “Somebody doesn’t want me to be Knight-Colonel of the Feyassin, or somebody doesn’t want me around to interfere with plans to disrupt the Assembly.”
“Who?”
“The most likely candidate for that is my father, but he wouldn’t have me killed,” she replied with certainty. The words felt right. Her father was many things, but a filicide was not among them. She hoped. “Though his allies might not scruple. The Imperialists are big on setting examples.”
Indris gently kissed the inside of her wrist. “What would you say if I asked you to come away with me?”
“Sorry?” she asked, surprised.
“Away.” He turned in her embrace, his eyes gentle as his look caressed her. “To leave once the new government is in place. Rosha, Nazarafine, the others… I think Avānweh might get sick of us and I’ve a mind to be anywhere but here.”
Mari felt a lump in her chest as her hearts skipped their beats. “Indris,” she said too softly. She frowned as she cleared her throat. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“I’m sorry, Mari.” Indris turned his face towards the window, where it became a mosaic of coloured panels across his high cheekbones and straight nose. The sun through the stained glass tinting his left eye yellow and orange. “I know it’s a lot to ask and we’ve not been together long.”
She looked up at him from under her shaggy fringe. Ran her fingers through his unkempt hair, amazed at how soft it was. Mari drew his head towards her own and kissed him as he turned in to her, relishing the taste of his lips.
“I can’t control, and don’t care, what people think,” she murmured into his open mouth. She felt his arms tighten around her. “There’s no crime in asking me something. Out of curiosity where would we go? What would we do?”
“Wherever we wanted and whatever we felt like,” he breathed into her. “Away from other people’s rules and expectations. Away from the past.”
The past. Nadir. Her father. Amnon. Pillars of memory that she was sorely tempted to have sink beneath the waves like the cities beneath the Marble Sea. The chance for names to be words, without the burden of emotion. Or hurt. She remembered her conversation with Nadir. His revelations of joining her father’s ranks. The inference of their experienced armies to be used to forward her father’s ends.
Of witches.
From somewhere outside their window, the metallic tones of a sonesette could be heard. Shar’s subtle way of telling them there were others aboard the Wanderer. The Seethe woman’s breathy voice rose in a song in her own language. Mari did not understand the words, though the low, windy sounds were soothing.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said as she pulled back from him. The touch of his lips drew her attention away. The way his thumb grazed the outside of her breast, or his fingertips the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. Mari took his hands in hers as she bit her lip. “Later.”
“What did you want to know?” he whispered into her ear.
“About witches.” Indris pulled back, his question clear on his face. “Because I do,” she said in response to his look. “I’ve seen what Wolfram can do. What would happen if they came back?” Tell me they are not the nightmare history makes of them. If you say it’s so, she thought, I might leave this behind and go with you anywhere.
“It’d depend,” he said cautiously, as if he could read her thoughts. “Not all witches are bad any more than all of most groups are bad. It was witches like Sedefke, Femensetri, Kemenchromis, Ahwe—and Yattoweh the Apostate—who helped found the various scholastic orders. It wasn’t until the witches tried to wrest control of Shrīan, during the early years of the Federation, they became a threat.”
“The Scholar Wars?”
“Hmmm,” he nodded. “Thousands of innocents died and the centre of the country is still a wasteland with no natural disentropy. It’s why they call it the Näq Yetesh—the Dead Flat.”
“But how are they different from scholars?”
“There are more similarities than differences. We both subscribe to the various schools of thought that form the Esoteric Doctrines. Both scholars and witches channel disentropy to cause an effect in the world around them. We both use the disentropy found in the ahmtesh, like dipping into a big supernatural sea. Such talents and the senses we use are called the ahmsah. Within the ahmsah, scholars follow an Intrinsic Precept, which means our power is channelled, focussed, and exercised from within. It’s based on the repeatable, predictable effects of the formulae we use.
“Much of the difference comes from the language used to express thought. The Sēq Arcanum is expressed in High Avān, which is a very complex, very subtle language similar to Seethe. However it has nuances that neither Seethe nor the common Avān languages have. Most witches these days would express their thoughts in Humanti, which is more about brute force and desire, than finesse.”
“Are scholars more powerful than witches?”
Indris considered the question, his gaze focussed inward, before shaking his head slightly. “What we do is more reliable. Witches use an Extrinsic Precept, more like a conduit of force with their powers coming from outside themselves. They have less restraint. Less control over what they do. But their Arcanum, wild as it is, can be terrifying. Less disciplined though no less powerful. To be a scholar requires an awareness of self and our place in the world. To be a witch requires an awareness of desire, or basic wants. At our cores we tend to think differently, though some manage to bridge the gap. One of the coven’s greatest universities, the Mahsojhin, was located here in Avānweh until the Sēq obliterated it. It wasn’t one of their more honorable moments.”
“Where did the covens go?”
“The Iron League, mostly. I know the pahavān in Tanis use them to help defend the Conflicted Cities. They’re not unheard of in Darmatia, or Ygran. Ondea has the death penalty for witchcraft. The witches of the Golden Kingdom of Manté effectively rule the nation in the name of the Catechism—the collected leaders of the covens. The Angothic Witches are a powerful force also, ruling alongside the monarchy. And I don’t doubt there are rogue witches in Shrīan and Pashrea. He leaned back to look at her thoughtfully, before grinning impudently. Indris asked her, “Why the sudden interest in all things arcane? I thought you were more about hitting things very hard, and often, until they didn’t get up again?” Mari jabbed him in the chest with her stiffened fingers, which made him grunt in pain. “Oh, so now we’re a funny bastard, are we? Indris, I… want to know more about what it is you can do.” She leaned in to kiss him, then again more deeply, losing herself in her own distraction. She stopped herself when her own hands started to wander, smiling at his rueful laugh when she pushed him back. When she spoke it was in a mock little girl’s voice, her eyes wide an innocent as she could make them. She knotted her fingers in his hair. “Maybe I can’t defend myself! What happens when I have to fight a witch one day? What if some dirty old man like Wolfram tries to take advantage of me, or steal my virtue?”
“I think the virtue boat sailed a long time ago. Ouch!” He winced when she pulled his head to the side by the hair. They both laughed as they wrestled, she eventually sitting on him and holding her hands in the air in a gesture of her well-earned victory.
“I surrender!”
Mari moved her hips in small circles, grinding into him, her smile slow and lazy. “And who wouldn’t? Ah! Hands to yourself. I may let you touch me later, but only if you’re very good, and tell me all those secrets of the universe trapped in that handsome head of yours.”
“What else can I tell you? The witches were, are, wild. Their art is extremely personal to them. I said witches are in touch with what they want. Part of this is reflected in the Disentropic Stain and the manifestation of their Aspect. Scholars call it the jhi, or Stigm
a, a visible sign of power. For me, it’s my left eye. Witches take on illusory Aspects, which are often terrifying to others. It can drive people insane simply to see one. There are those who are animists, who summon and bind spirits to themselves, to use as they see fit. I’d heard they had also starting making devices, similar to a Sēq Master’s mindstone, though I’ve yet to see one. It could all have been propaganda to justify the scholars trying to exterminate the covens.”
Mari closed her eyes. Felt the warmth of her inhalation. The way her lungs expanded, the muscles in her abdomen flexing. The sense of hope sinking in her belly.
“Now all jokes and distractions aside.” Indris’s voice was soft. “Why do you ask?”
“What would happen if the covens came back to Shrīan?” she repeated her question. It was all the answer she could give him.
“Are they back?” his voice was so quiet, filled with a dread she had not heard in it before.
She went on to give Indris the highlights of her conversation with Nadir, as well as her recollections of what her father had revealed to her in Amnon. As she spoke, she realized she never revealed Nadir’s name. For some reason discussing her ex-lover with Indris was something she could not do.
“This changes the Federationist’s expectations,” Indris said as he dressed rapidly. Mari followed suit. “Even if your father loses the vote to become Asrahn, he may still try to take control of the Teshri by force.”
“Wouldn’t the Sēq get involved if the witches made themselves known?”
“It would be a nightmare. In the name of all the blessed Ancestors, what’s your father thinking?”
Indris took up Changeling and slung her across his back, buckled his storm-pistol on and hung his dragon-tooth knife from his weapon belt. He frowned when he saw Mari had no weapon. “You still haven’t replaced your amenesqa?”
“The master smith hasn’t returned to Nanjidasé and the smiths I’ve seen can’t do the work I want.” Mari nodded towards the weapon rack on his wall. “Do you mind?”
“Take your pick.”
Mari quickly tried the weight of several long and short swords until she found a pair she liked. She thrust them through her sash, and made sure they were secure. She picked up the letter from Indris’s desk. “What about Roshana’s letter?”
Indris glanced at the envelope. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s in it. I don’t think it matters.”
“What are we going to do now?” Mari asked.
“We’re going to look for answers.”
“THOUGH WE ARE EDUCATED BY HISTORY, ARE GUIDED BY ETHICS, SEEK JUSTICE WITHIN THE LAW, AND ARE INSPIRED BY SELFLESSNESS, WE SEE THESE THINGS SUBJECTIVELY. WE NEED OBJECTIVITY TO UNDERSTAND HOW HISTORY WILL COMMENT ON WHO WE HAVE BEEN. THE BEST ADVISORS ARE THOSE WHO SEE US IN CONTEXT: THEY UNDERSTAND OUR PAST, HAVE THE COURAGE TO COUNSEL US IN THE PRESENT, AND WILL STAND WITH US IN THE FUTURE.”
—From In Service to the People, by High Palatine Navaar of Oragon, Second year of his reign (490th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
DAY 349 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
The faintest scent of citrus hung in the air. Eyes closed, Corajidin lay on his bed and let the cool afternoon breeze flow across his skin. Close by came the sonorous tick of a clock and the susurrus of the wind through the apricot and mandarin trees. Further away, the sound of heeled shoes on marble-shod floors. Somewhere between, the hypnotic drone of voices from another room, other lives heard through an unwitting, disinterested voyeurism.
He sat up, robe wound about his legs. The sudden motion caused his head to ache. Eyes still closed, he focussed on the messages his body sent him. A slight cramp in his calf. Dull throbbing in his temples. Tightness in his lungs. Throat swollen. It was only the beginning. Eyes open, it took him a moment to focus on the deeper shadows that lurked among the lighter ones. Lacquered wooden couches. A few small tables on bowed legs, their hexagonal tops seamed with mosaics. A calligraphy chair and table, ornate scrollwork little more than a tracery of curled black lines, like ink in water. Beside him, glowing gently, the amber face of his beloved Yashamin. The Pearl Courtesan who wore it lay supine, planes of light and shadow gracing the curves and hollows of her warm body. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts. Wanted, for a moment, to run his hands over the length of her thigh. The flat plane of her abdomen, where it curved into the shadows of her ribs. Try as he had to lose himself in the illusion, she was not Yashamin. He had not heard Yashamin’s voice and the afternoon light made a bitter fiction of his dreams.
Corajidin rose from his bed. Washed himself at the small golden basin nearby. Buckled himself into fresh clothes. He shrugged on his hooded over-robe as he limped the length of his long bedchamber. As he left the room, a squad of five Anlūki, banded armour and round shields sullen in the low light, fell into step beside him as he made his way to his office. Corajidin asked one of the Anlūki to ensure the courtesan in his chamber was compensated and escorted back to Venujoram, the Cloud Palace of the House of Pearl in Avānweh.
Nadir rose from his chair when Corajidin arrived, elegant with his lean lines and fine, if scarred, features. The light through the stained glass window shone bloody on his dark hair. Papers were scattered across the desk. Piles of gold coins and polished gems were stacked neatly on the desk near him, alongside several silk purses filled to bursting. The young warrior poured Corajidin fresh water from a silver urn, as well as aromatic coffee, which he flavoured with cinnamon and cardamom. Corajidin sipped gratefully, fingers heated by the porcelain cup, enjoying the hints of spice on his tongue.
Kimiya and Ravenet sat on a long couch in layered coat and trousers of Shrīanese damask, hair dressed with strands of precious gems. Kimiya, clothes in near wanton disarray, was reading from an old book. Ravenet, the older of the two and the one drawn to murder, listlessly tapped the hilt of the knife at her waist.
Moments later Jhem swept into the room with his swaying gait. The Blacksnake’s hands and forearms were covered in fresh blood, as were his lips and chin. With the hint of a smile he went to a copper basin and fastidiously washed the blood away before wiping his hands dry. Corajidin was about to ask the Blacksnake who he had killed and eaten when Wolfram limped into the room, deep in conversation with Kasraman. The Emissary followed, her hooded over-robe of black and silver threads like a billowing thunderhead. Other than Wolfram, the others had not seen her before. Wolfram looked at the Emissary with a combination of fear and loathing.
“Your Majesty.” Wolfram bowed his brindle head. “We’ve news from our allies in the Teshri.”
“Good news, I trust?”
“The Teshri have agreed to convene an emergency session at the Tyr-Jahavān to vote on your eligibility to run for Asrahn,” Wolfram said. “The vote will happen at sunset today, after the Arbiter’s Tribunal delivers its ruling on the various charges against you.”
“Nadir?” Corajidin looked at his adjutant.
“I’m confident the Tribunal’s ruling will be in your favour, my rahn. Kimi, Ravy, and I have arranged some insurance against an unfavourable ruling, so doubt you’ll need to worry.”
“There are a number of Arbiters with more than a few skeletons in their closets,” Ravenet said with disdain. “It gets boring hearing somebody say they have nothing to lose, though it’s always interesting pointing out exactly what they do have to lose.”
Kimiya looked up from her book to smile indulgently at her sister, before she turned a hungry glance at Wolfram.
“There was an Arbiter who had been questioning some of your sayfs,” Jhem said, eyes unfocussed as if he were looking elsewhere. He smiled, a chill and brittle thing, before looking to Corajidin. “They have been taken care of.”
“Not to mention Nix making them realize anybody could be killed,” Kasraman said dourly. “Like father like son. Though murder isn’t the way. We’ve enough attention as it is.”
“Nothing will come back to us,” Jhem said. He picked at his teeth, pulling a small go
bbet of flesh. “There are advantages to the old ways, young prince.”
Corajidin coughed, shaking his head for Kasraman to let it be. The others were looking at the Emissary with silent questions. Taking a deep breath, Corajidin introduced her.
“Friends, this is the Emissary.” His hand shook as he gestured to her. He dropped it self-consciously.
“If I may?” The Drear Emissary asked. The hood of her over-robe plunged her face into deep shadow, save for her mouth with its pallid angular jaw and chin. The octopus pommel of her sword poked out, and Corajidin half expected the tentacles to writhe. “I have been working with Rahn-Corajidin and Wolfram, and will continue to offer what assistance I, and my allies, can.”
“What allies would these be?” Kasraman asked. He narrowed his pale eyes at the Emissary, clearly troubled by what he saw. Corajidin shook his head when Kasraman looked at him. The Emissary smiled, a stretch of dead blue lips against slick, black teeth. “Powerful ones who’ve helped your father with his illness.” She sat on the edge of a table, slender hands gripping its edge. “And now I have promised to help revive Belamandris from his sleep.”
“And what will your help cost us?” Kasraman pressed.
“That’s between your father, myself, and my Masters,” she riposted. “But I will need your and Wolfram’s help. It’s not something easily done alone and there is no room for error.”
“The Emissary has already spoken with me,” Wolfram’s tone was cool. “We’ll do what needs to be done this afternoon, before the Assembly.”
“And the matter of my wife’s murderer?” Corajidin asked. Even as he heard the word, murderer, the Emissary’s promise slid like oil into his mind. Or, perhaps, have her restored—a much more difficult thing but not beyond my ability to deliver.
“Your Majesty,” Wolfram replied, “I’ve spoken with Sanojé regarding the matter of Yashamin’s death. She’s confident she can help.”
The Obsidian Heart Page 10
