The moment the youth appeared, Arakasi would leave the garden, pushing his barrow, and the scribe would pass him but for a brief moment, close enough to deposit his report among the tools.
Arakasi heard the sound first as a distortion upon the air, almost dismissed amid the rumble of a wine broker’s dray that ground over the cobbles beyond the gate. Then instinct had him ducking down behind his wheelbarrow before the vehicle passed, and his ears identified the disturbance for what it was: the bone-aching, arcane buzzing that preceded the appearance of a Great One.
An icy sweat drenched the back of his neck. Had they come for him? Traced his presence to a ploy of Lady Mara’s? Habit alone held Arakasi to his cover, that of a sunburned gardener putting up his tools at the end of his day’s labor. His heart raced and his hands shook like those of a man with the palsy. He had known fear in his life, many times; but never before had it held any power over him. It had never, until Kamlio, breached the guarded inner core of his heart.
The pair of Black Robes appeared an eyeblink later. The unnerving buzz died away, leaving a silence no longer filled with the drone of foraging bees. The sounds of the street seemed strangely removed, as if the world began and ended at the marble pillars that flanked the garden gates.
Arakasi did not have to feign awe as he threw himself down behind the wheelbarrow, his face pressed against the dusty furrows his own rake had scribed in the earth.
The Great Ones took no heed of him. As though he were no more alive than a carved statue, they moved down the garden path toward the gateway and stopped under the shadow of the arch. Their eyes stayed trained intently on the library’s front stair across the street. Their backs were turned; from Arakasi’s vantage, their feet were shod incongruously in velvet shoes better suited for carpeted indoor floors. They ignored the common gardener crouched behind them as if he were but another feature of the surroundings, not a person able to overhear them.
One dark, hooded head bent close to that of his comrade. ‘He should be along any moment now. The scrying showed he would cross the street and head in this direction.’
The magician so addressed returned a barely perceptible nod.
Arakasi felt little relief when he realised that the Black Robes had not come for him. Still trembling, nearly paralysed with fear, he dared a peek outward. Above the tines of the rake, framed between the enigmatic black forms of the magicians standing under the arch, he saw his messenger at last emerge from the library, a laden satchel slung from a strap across his shoulder.
‘There!’ The Great One who had spoken pointed at the young figure of the scribe as he moved at a normal pace down the steps. ‘There he is.’
A nod of the second hooded head answered, and in an unusually deep voice. ‘As you guessed, his satchel carries scrolls.’
‘Subject?’ The first magician’s voice was curt.
His fellow closed his eyes, placed one hand against his forehead, and gestured in the air with the other. His passes perhaps described a spell, or a symbol, or some incomprehensible ritual of power. The Spy Master felt his flesh prickle, as the tingle of magic visited him.
The low voice rumbled as the magician said, ‘It’s a list. The imperial requisitions for funds for the arts. Victory arches, commemorative statues, memorials …’ A pause while the two Black Robes seemed to ponder this. Then the cold-voiced one said, ‘The time period of these lists is sensitive to our interests. Very.’
Arakasi clenched his hands in his plain worker’s smock, fearful that the drum roll of his heartbeat could be heard over the stillness of the garden.
A lady’s litter passed, hurried along by bearer slaves adorned with silk headcloths. Delayed by the traffic, the scribe paused on the other side of the street. Traces of a woman’s perfume twined over the scents of blooming flowers, and the earthier odor of needra soil left by animal-drawn conveyances. The Black Robes whispered, craning their necks to regain sight of Arakasi’s messenger, who, all unsuspecting, now crossed the teeming main thoroughfare with the jaunty stride of a boy who anticipates a reward in centis to spend at the taverns.
‘Certainly he should be questioned,’ said the magician with the cold voice. ‘It’s unlikely the boy is conducting such research on his own. We must detain him and find out whether anyone might have hired or forced him to ferret out such facts.’
The other Great One murmured agreement.
Arakasi felt a jolt of near panic. If the scribe were forced to talk, his cover would instantly become forfeit. And, even before Kamlio, even without his awakened sense of vulnerability, the Spy Master understood he would have no chance of keeping secrets through an interrogation by those able to read thoughts. Mara’s hand would be revealed, instantly and inescapably, and the continuance of the Acoma be put in jeopardy.
He must act.
Cold under his worker’s smock, Arakasi felt the metal of his throwing knives. Propped up on one forearm, he groped to loosen his sash. His hands felt sweat-slick and numb as he reached under his robe and grasped the ebony handles of two blades: one for the hapless scribe, the second for himself. He must kill an innocent man in cold blood, and immediately cut his own throat. After that he must hope the Red God would take him before the magicians could bind his wal to his body and force him to speak in betrayal.
The Black Robes had stepped together, obscuring Arakasi’s view of the street. Fear bound his chest like a rope. The blade in his trembling hand, poised to throw, felt like a dead thing, a splinter. His belly was on fire with nausea. Almost, he hoped the worst might happen: that the magicians would not move, and that the scribe would step in through the arches to his garden rendezvous, unknowing.
‘He comes,’ murmured the first magician. The pair moved apart, deeper into the shadows. Like still, hooded statues, on either side of the gateway arch, they waited for the man who wove across the busy thoroughfare.
The press momentarily thinned. A cake seller walked by, trailing the scent of cinnamon. Two boys ran, chasing each other and shouting, while a puppy gamboled in and out between their legs. The scribe dodged around a portly water seller, his expression preoccupied, and his ink-stained fingers taut on the flap of his satchel.
He stepped into the shaded walkway before the garden gate.
Arakasi fought back revulsion. He had killed, many times. Never had he reacted like this. Mortality had held no meaning to his stone-hard heart, and he had felt no weakening rush of empathy for his victim. His will faltered, even as he cocked his arm to throw.
Sunlight flashed silver on the knife blade, drawing the scribe’s notice. His eyes widened, even as the Great Ones stepped into view, clearly intending to intercept him.
Arakasi bit his lip. He must act! He measured distance, aimed, and battled to banish his inner sickness.
‘Halt,’ the leftmost magician commanded in his ringing, metallic voice.
The scribe did as bidden, paralysed with terror.
‘We would question you,’ said the second magician, his voice a gritty bass.
In a state of trembling pallor, the scribe said, ‘Your will, Great Ones.’
Gripping the wheelbarrow as though his fingers might punch through weathered wood, Arakasi forced his clamor of feelings to stillness. Murder must have shown in his eyes as he rose to one knee to throw, for the scribe staggered back, panic written plain on his face. He saw certain death in Arakasi’s hand, and in a knife blade flashing downward into the beginning of a throw.
He broke and spun. His satchel banged against his hip as he dodged in desperation back into the crowded street, running as though his heart might burst.
The deep-voiced magician stiffened in surprise. The other shouted, outraged, ‘He defies us!’
The Black Robe nearest the gate raised his hands. A crash like thunder shocked the air, rattling the tools in the wheelbarrow, and flattening the flowers in a suddenly scything breeze. Arakasi was thrown flat against the earth. He shoved his blades under his prostrate body and hid his face behind his hands,
while blast after blast shook the garden, accompanied by flashes like lightning. Screams erupted in the street, and sounds of fleeing footsteps and the bawl of terrified needra. A carter snapped his goad to whip up a laden wagon, and the puppy that had been frolicking with the beggar boys began yelping. Shivering uncontrollably, Arakasi peered between his fingers.
Except for the passersby who ran helter-skelter away from the garden entry, the street looked little different; the setting sun still cast red light across the library stair, and temple incense wafted upon the air. Except that its sweet odor now mingled with a scent of charred meat, and a pitiful smoking lump lay on the cobbles, unrecognisable as anything human. Nearby, untouched by the blast, rested a spilled satchel of scrolls that turned and rolled, their ends flapping in the dying eddies of wind.
‘Why would the fool have run?’ ruminated the magician with the low voice. To his companion, he added, ‘You should have not been so quick to burn him to a cinder, Tapek. Now we have no idea who employed him. This time you’ve indulged your temper at the cost of information.’
The other Great One defended his act in disgust. ‘There are only two possible suspects, the Acoma or the Anasati. No one else has a motive to send for inquiry into the archives. And it is unthinkable that any lesser man should defy us, and be allowed to disobey.’ He turned from the gate, his downturned mouth clearly visible beneath his hood. His gaze flicked over the wheelbarrow, and the gardener’s tools, and settled, ice-hard, upon the prostrate figure of Arakasi.
Mara’s Spy Master felt the touch of that stare like a spear thrust in the back. He could not stop trembling, nor did he dare to move. With the breath stopped in his throat, he held his pose of submission.
The magician stepped closer. Velvet-shod feet stopped bare inches from his face. Mingled with the dust and the wet green scent of broken flowers, Arakasi could smell the pungency of ozone.
‘Did you know that man?’ demanded the Great One.
Incapable of speech, Arakasi shook his head.
The second Black Robe moved up to join his companion. ‘He could be lying. We must be sure,’ he said, his voice a thunder of doom in Arakasi’s ears. He stepped nearer.
Arakasi sensed motion, as if the magician made a pass with his hands.
‘Who was that man?’ came the deep voice of the mage. ‘Answer!’
The honed edge of spellcraft cut through the Spy Master’s mind. Trapped by undeniable power, he felt his lungs expel air, and his lips and tongue forced to speech. ‘He was but a scribe,’ he heard himself say. ‘His name was unknown to me.’
Arakasi closed his eyes in fear. Sadness at never seeing Kamlio again clashed against his most vivid memory of that afternoon they had shared in physical love, her languid smile and hard eyes trapping his heart forever. Across his jumble of recollection, the voice of a Great One said, ‘His mind is chaos. He thinks we shall kill him and … he longs to see a woman.’ Harsh laughter escaped the magician. ‘The fool dreams of a beautiful young courtesan he once knew. His only thought is to see her once more before he dies.’
Arakasi felt the compulsion born of magic dispel from his mind and body, even as the other Black Robe said, ‘A guilty man would be thinking of his master or escape.’ That Arakasi remained too stunned to move lent credibility to Tapek’s conclusion. ‘No, he is not our man. The scribe’s contact fled, no doubt. This witless old gardener knows nothing.’ His manner shifted toward irritation. ‘You were correct to chide me. Still, we now know someone seeks forbidden knowledge. We must return to the Assembly.’
The pair stepped away.
His sweat-drenched body coated with clinging dust, Arakasi lay still. His ears recorded the sharp buzzing sound, and the inrush of air as the Great Ones departed. But it was dusk before his strength returned. He rose shakily to his feet and stood for a long time with his weight braced against his wheelbarrow.
Outside the gates, in the street, Imperial Whites were directing slaves to clear away the remains of the scribe. A drudge hovered to one side with a bucket and brush, to scrub the charred mark from the cobblestones. Around this tableau the fine, sequined litters of the nobles carved a wide berth. The ragged street boys that gathered to stare at anything unusual were tonight nowhere in evidence.
Arakasi sat on the edge of his wheelbarrow and listened to the rasp of night insects, while the afterglow faded from the sky. The moon spread copper light over the wilting heads of shorn blossoms. He did not need to see the scrolls that the scribe had died to bring him. The presence of the Great Ones confirmed the truth behind his hunches concerning the histories. Soon he would have to slip away and make a report to Lady Mara.
Worse was the inward uncertainty born during the heat of his peril. Even now he could not determine whether he actually could have fulfilled his duty. Even now he did not know if he would have followed through and thrown the knife.
Mara, Arakasi thought to himself, Lady. I have become a liability to your cause.
But in the cool night, no answer came. He could do no more than his best, for his Lady had no one else who could approach the measure of his skills. And as well as he knew her, Arakasi believed that if his mistress were to face him now, there would be no reproach in her eyes.
She understood his conflicts. The gift of that, in a ruling mistress, almost moved him to tears. As he shifted to his feet and raised the dew-wet handles of the wheelbarrow, Arakasi wondered whether his Lady’s compassion would be great enough to break through Kamlio’s bitterness. Almost he laughed at his thought, in terrible, edged self-reproach. How very near the Assembly had come to learning everything about his Lady’s plot to thwart their decree. Long before Kamlio might find herself, all of them might be dead, charred and smoking like the corpse in the street, and with as little warning.
• Chapter Seventeen •
Advice
Mara sat quietly, her daughter a warm weight clasped against her shoulder. Fat, baby hands tangled in her hair, reaching for the carved bead earrings she wore. Kasuma was enchanted by anything red, and if she could close her hand around whatever object held her fancy, she would determinedly try to stuff it into her mouth. The Lady of the Acoma rescued her jewelry from the tiny Shinzawai heir by sliding her downward and bouncing her on her knee. The child’s coo of delight mingled with Justin’s shouts that drifted in through the screen. The boy continued to study a warrior’s skills, and under Lujan’s unforgiving tutelage was swinging a practice sword at a pell. Impatient as his barbarian father, the boy insistently cried to his teacher that wooden posts were stupid, that he should be permitted to strike at something that could move. Like the jigabirds he had been punished for harassing yesterday, Mara thought with a half-smile. The cooks would as soon be quit of Justin’s pranks.
The Lady savored the moment. Since her parting from Hokanu, rare intervals like these brought the only happiness she knew.
Kasuma gave her a wet smile. Mara touched the baby’s nose, intentionally slowing her movement to allow the little hands that thrashed to catch her bracelets and make them chime. Today, along with her everyday jade, she wore the priceless copper wristband once given her by Chipino of the Xacatecas, expressly to please her child. Kasuma’s glee warmed her. Is this how my mother would have felt, wondered the Lady of the Acoma, looking down into my face? How different the course of her life might have been had her mother lived. Would she have stayed on and vowed service in Lashima’s temple, while Lady Oskiro became Ruling Lady of the Acoma? Would her mother have ruled as Isashani had, through gentle female wiles? Or would desperation have driven her to try dangerous innovations?
Mara sighed. This endless circling of supposition served nothing. All that she knew of her mother was a painted portrait Lord Sezu had commissioned before the Lady’s untimely death in childbirth.
From the yard outside, Lujan’s voice called in reprimand, and the whack of Justin’s practice strokes resumed at a steadier rhythm. Mara could not hear the clack of a wooden sword without being reminded of Ayaki.
While Justin looked nothing like her departed firstborn, there came the odd moment when a glance, a turn of the head, or boyish laughter would call his older brother to mind. Ayaki would have passed his manhood ceremony, Mara realised. That many years had gone by. He would have been fitted for battle armor, not the pretty ceremonial regalia given to young boys – she twisted her thoughts away from useless dreaming. Aware of Kasuma’s fingers picking at her bracelets, Mara had to force herself not to brood upon the other child by Hokanu, the one taken before birth by the Hamoi Tong.
In another hour, her two remaining children would be gone, sent on the road with a trusted retinue to the Imperial Household in Kentosani. They would be safer there until Hokanu won free of his Shinzawai obligations and was able to return home to the lakeside estate.
Mara shut her eyes. Tomorrow would see her off on her own journey, one that would begin in known territory, but that could lead her far beyond the familiar. She took this last interval to savor her little daughter. The gods only knew how long she might be away. The years of Ayaki’s growing that she had missed while away on war campaign in Dustari hurt her the worst, in retrospect. Now that the boy was gone, she resented the years that politics had forced her from his side.
Worst, most poignantly, she did not want Kasuma growing up with no memory of her mother beyond a painted image.
A soft baby foot thumped her in the chin. Mara smiled, opened her eyes, and sighed to see the wet nurse return to collect her daughter. The day was passing too quickly. The large woman bowed, brisk in the face of her duty. Plainly she did not enjoy being witness to a mother’s parting from her child.
‘It’s all right,’ Mara reassured her. ‘I know there are things to pack, and Kasuma should have a chance to nap before she is bundled off in a litter with her brother. Justin won’t let her sleep, he’ll be so busy brandishing his stick sword at make-believe robbers through the litter curtains.’
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 169
