Something had withered inside him at the news, and had never grown back. Some crucial part of his soul had shrivelled and blackened, and robbed the colour from the world. He tried to tell himself that it was ridiculous for him to be so affected by this. After all, he had been content in ignorance for years, and he had only known his true connection to Lucia for a very short time. How could he feel loss for something he had had so briefly?
But the words were hollow, and their echoes mocked him, and he stopped trying to apply sense to senselessness.
Misery spread like a cancer, killing other parts of him. Food no longer gave him joy. His companions found him saturnine and melancholy. He took little interest in the affairs of his family and his estates, delegating many tasks that should have been his to younger brothers and sisters. He was no less competent as a Barak, but he was disinterested, stripped of ambition. He maintained his family’s holdings well enough, but he had no passion for the political games and the jostling for status that were an integral part of Saramyr high society. He was merely treading water.
But something was to happen this morning that would ignite a flicker of something long forgotten in his breast, something so foreign to him now that he struggled to recall its name.
Hope. Foolish hope.
A woman had been detained by Blood Ikati troops after she had been found unconscious in the ruins of a building, having been struck on the head by a falling beam as the ceiling above her came down. That same beam had saved her life, for it had collapsed at an angle and sheltered her from the bricks raining around her. She had been uncovered by peasants who had begun to dig for survivors, and turned over to Zahn’s men along with a much greater prize: Xejen tu Imotu, whom the peasants eagerly denounced as the leader of the Ais Maraxa.
Though nobody knew who she was, her noble attire and hair were enough to mark her as not being of Zila, and her proximity to Xejen when she was found was damning. She was kept under guard and nursed until she awoke, at which point she demanded to see Barak Zahn tu Ikati, claiming that she was Mishani tu Koli.
‘I will see her,’ he had told the messenger who brought him the news. Then, remembering himself, he added: ‘Have my servants bathe and dress her first, if needs be. She is high-born. Treat her as such.’
And so he strode through the newly hushed streets of Zila, to where Mishani waited for him.
Mishani met him by her sickbed, but not in it. She was weak from breathing dust and badly bruised all over, and she had suffered a terrible blow to the back of her head that was causing her eyes not to focus properly. The physicians would not let her leave her room; indeed, they hovered about in case she should faint from the exertion of getting out of bed. The knowledge that she was noble and important to their Barak had turned them from imperious and haughty men into fawning servants. When Zahn chimed and entered, he dismissed them with a flick of his hand.
The physicians had commandeered a row of undamaged houses for their base of operations, and filled the beds with injured soldiers and townsfolk. Mishani, whether by chance or by virtue of her dress, had been put in the master bedroom of some wealthy merchant’s abode. The bed was plainly expensive, and the walls were decorated with charcoal sketches and elegant watercolours. In an ornate bone cradle there was a pattern-board depicting a seascape, the washes of colour suspended within a three-dimensional oblong of hardened transparent gel. Zahn idly wondered if the person who possessed all of this had been killed at the hands of the townsfolk during the revolt, in last night’s bombardment, or if they were still alive now and simply thrown out on the street. Revolution was an unpleasant business.
Mishani tu Koli was standing by her bed, dressed in borrowed robes with her voluminous hair combed and loose. She appeared to be entirely unhurt, but Zahn knew well enough that she was simply not letting it show. There were clues: she was wearing her hair in a style that covered her cheeks, to hide scratches on her ear; there was a faint patch of blue on the back of her wrist where the cuff of her robe did not hide it; then there was the telling fact that she had not strayed far from the edge of her bed, in case her strength failed her. He had met her several times before in the Imperial Court when she was younger, and her poise had always been remarkable.
‘Mistress Mishani tu Koli,’ he said, performing the correct bow for their relative social rank. ‘It grieves me to hear that you have been injured in this calamity.’
She returned the female form of the same bow. ‘By Ocha’s grace, I have not suffered as much as I might have,’ she said. None of the weakness of her condition bled into her voice.
‘Would you like to sit?’ Zahn offered, gesturing at a chair. But Mishani was not about to take any concessions.
‘I prefer to stand,’ she said levelly, knowing that there was only one chair and no mats in the room. He was well over a foot taller than her; if she sat then he would be looking down on her at a steeper angle than he already was.
‘My servants have told me that you wished to see me,’ he said.
‘Indeed,’ came the reply. ‘I have been wanting to see you ever since I was detained in Zila by the Ais Maraxa. Though in the end you had a somewhat violent way of bringing our meeting about.’
Zahn gave her a hint of a smile.
‘May I ask you a question?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘What has become of Xejen tu Imotu?’
Zahn considered that for a moment. ‘He lives, barely.’
‘Might I know where he is?’
‘Are you concerned for him?’
‘I am concerned, but not for the reasons you imagine,’ she told him.
Zahn studied her for a moment. She was a sculpture in ice.
‘I let Barak Moshito deal with him,’ Zahn said. He linked his hands behind his back and walked over to the pattern-board, studying it. ‘Moshito will undoubtedly turn him over to his Weaver. I cannot say I feel sympathy. I have little love for the Ais Maraxa.’
‘Because they remind you of your daughter,’ Mishani finished. ‘They make you believe in the possibility that she is still alive, and that is a raw wound indeed.’
Zahn’s head snapped around, his eyes flashing angrily.
‘Forgive my bluntness,’ she said. ‘I was heading to Lalyara to find you with the intention of divining your feelings towards her. Now I cannot afford the time to be delicate.’ She fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘Her life hangs in the balance. Xejen tu Imotu knows where she is.’
Zahn made the connection immediately. If Xejen knew, then the Weaver would get it out of him. And if the Weavers knew . . .
This was too fast, too much to believe. If he accepted that, then he accepted his daughter was still alive. He shook his head, running his fingers down his bearded chin.
‘No, no,’ he murmured. ‘What is your agenda, Mishani tu Koli? Why were you here, in Zila?’
‘Did Chien not tell you this?’ she asked.
‘Chien? Ah, the hostage. I am sorry to say he died the night he was brought out of Zila.’
Mishani’s face showed nothing. She felt no grief for him: he was merely a casualty. What did concern her was that it meant her father’s men were aware she was in Zila, and they would be very close indeed. She had to win Zahn’s trust now, in any way she could. It was imperative that she got out of the town in secret, and the only way she would do that would be under Zahn’s protection.
‘So, will you answer my question?’ he prompted. ‘Why were you in Zila?’
‘Misfortune,’ she said. ‘I was waylaid as I travelled to find you. Although it seems the gods have brought us together anyway.’
‘That is too convenient,’ he said. His tone had become a lot less polite now. ‘You know that your being here is enough to have you beheaded. And you certainly were not a prisoner; you were found with the leader of the Ais Maraxa.’
Mishani had feared this. If she had been able to meet him at Lalyara, then his suspicions would not have been aroused; but circumstances had forced her into
a position in which any play she made would seem like bargaining for her life.
‘You are correct,’ she said. ‘I was brought here against my will, but they did not keep me as a prisoner. I am something of a heroine to their cause because I helped to save your daughter. It does not mean I endorse it.’
‘Stop these lies!’ Zahn cried suddenly, grabbing the pattern-board and tipping the cradle. It hit the floor and smashed into coloured shards. ‘Lucia tu Erinima died five years ago and more. Her father was Durun tu Batik. I do not know what leverage you think you have over me, Mistress Mishani, but you are sorely misguided if you believe you will win your freedom by trying to resurrect a ghost.’
Mishani’s triumph did not show on her face, but she knew she had the advantage now. A man such as Zahn did not abandon his dignity easily; his skills at negotiation had kept Blood Ikati a major player in the courts, and his display of rage showed how sensitive the subject of Lucia was to him.
‘You could have me executed,’ Mishani said, her voice cold. ‘But then you will only learn that I was telling the truth when the Weavers kill your daughter. Could you live with that, Zahn? You have not been living with it well these past years.’
‘Heart’s blood, you do not know when to stop!’ Zahn cried. ‘I will not hear any more of this!’
He was heading for the curtained doorway when Mishani spoke again.
‘Zaelis tu Unterlyn was there on the day you met your daughter,’ she snapped, her voice rising. ‘It was he who organised the kidnapping of Lucia. On the very day that Blood Batik overthrew Blood Erinima, we stole the child and hid her. No corpse was ever found because there was no corpse, Zahn! Lucia is alive!’
Zahn’s shoulders were hunched, his hand on the curtain. She had not wanted to bring the leader of the Libera Dramach’s name into this, but matters were too critical. She could not let him leave.
He turned back to her, and his face was suddenly haggard again.
‘You know you believe me,’ she said. A sudden rush of lightheadedness took her, but she fought against it. It was stiflingly hot; she did not know how much longer she could go without sitting down.
‘I cannot believe you,’ Zahn croaked. ‘Do you understand?’ He knew how clever Mishani could be, he knew the ways of the court, and though he wanted more than anything to think that Lucia could be alive, he would not be manipulated. He was no friend to Blood Koli, and he had no reason to trust one of them. He would not lose his daughter again, by allowing himself to think he might regain her and then to discover it was a bluff. He could not go through that. He had been numb so long that it had become a shield against the world, and when it came to the moment, he found that he was afraid to discard it.
He turned to go again. This kind of torment could not be borne.
‘Wait,’ Mishani said. ‘I can prove it.’
Zahn had almost dreaded to hear those words.
‘How?’ he said, his head bowed.
‘Xejen will be interrogated,’ she said. ‘You must attend.’
‘What good will that do?’
‘He knows where she is, as I do. Sooner or later, we will talk. The Weaver will try to keep it secret; he will try to obtain the information for his kind alone. He will scour Xejen’s mind and then decide what to tell you. You must not let him. Make him share what he learns as he learns it. Have him make Xejen speak only the truth, and ask Xejen yourself. The Weaver cannot refuse you if you order him.’
Zahn was silent, his back to her. Mishani knew that this was a desperate play, but it was all she had. The lives of thousands depended on her. If she was unable to prevent the Weavers finding the Fold, then at least with Zahn on her side she might be able to get them a warning in time to do something about it. It was a slim chance, but better than none at all.
‘You will learn the truth at the same time as you condemn her to death,’ Mishani said. ‘But if I cannot persuade you to stop this, then that must be the price we all pay. If you will not believe what your heart knows, then you will hear your daughter’s name on the lips of a Weaver.’
‘Pray that I do,’ Zahn replied. ‘For if not, I will be back, and I will have you killed.’
‘I pray that you do not,’ Mishani said. ‘For I would give my life in exchange for all those who will die to convince you.’
Xejen tu Imotu thought that his story was over when the ceiling came down on him, but he regained consciousness to find that there was an epilogue, and it was full of agony.
He woke on a bed in the donjon of the keep, and woke screaming. The pain from his shattered legs propelled him out of oblivion, an idiot, senseless roar of breathtaking brutality. His trousers had been cut away above the knee. His legs were massive and blue-purple, obese with swelling and the terrible bruising of drastic trauma. Both of them kinked unnaturally in several places. No attempt had been made to set them, and the snapped ends of bone made bulges against the blotched skin.
He screamed again, and screamed until his throat was raw. At some point, he blacked out.
When he awoke again, it was to a new horror.
He felt himself pulled into awareness, his mind hooked like a fish and dragged out of the protective cocoon where it sheltered from the inconceivable pain. His eyes flickered open. Afternoon light misted in through the dusty air from a barred window high on one wall, scattering across his ruined legs and the bare stone cell. Figures surrounded him, but one leaned closer than the others. A Mask of angles, sharp cheeks and jutting ridges of chin and forehead, some of gold and some of silver and others of bronze; a mountainous metal landscape, crafted by a master Edgefather, surrounding the dark, black pits of the eyes.
A Weaver.
He sucked in a breath to shriek, but a pale, withered hand passed over him, and his throat locked.
‘Be silent,’ hissed the voice behind the Mask.
There were two others here. He recognised the Baraks: Zahn, tall and rangy and gaunt; Moshito, stocky and bald and grim-faced. They looked down on him pitilessly.
‘You are Xejen tu Imoto?’ Moshito asked. Xejen nodded mutely, his eyes tearing. ‘Leader of the Ais Maraxa?’ He nodded again.
Zahn shifted his gaze to the Weaver. This one was in the employ of Blood Vinaxis, a particularly vicious and sadistic monster if Moshito’s accounts were to be believed. His name was Fahrekh. Zahn’s own Weaver he had left back at his estates at the disposal of his family; he detested Weavers, especially since he suspected that the last Weave-lord, Vyrrch, had been responsible for the coup in which Lucia had disappeared.
He caught himself. Already he was amending his beliefs to suit Mishani. In which Lucia had died, he forced himself to think. Blood Koli was an enemy, Mishani was an enemy, and however they might have learned of his weakness, he would not let her exploit it.
But gods, what if she was telling the truth? If Xejen talked, then neither the Weavers nor the Emperor would rest until Lucia was hunted down. Was there any way to stop this? Was there?
He bit down on his lip. Idiocy. Foolishness.
Lucia was dead.
‘Are you sure he will do as you told him?’ Zahn asked Moshito, motioning at the bent and hooded figure crouching over the bed.
‘I have heard my Barak’s command,’ Fahrekh said, with a curl of disdain in his voice. ‘Nothing will be hidden. You will ask him your questions. I will ensure he answers and speaks true.’
Xejen’s eyes roved from one to the other in alarm.
‘It is as he says, Zahn,’ Moshito replied. ‘What’s got you so suspicious?’
‘Weavers always make me suspicious,’ Zahn replied, trying to keep the uncertainty and indecision out of his voice. Yet he wondered whether the Weaver might not simply scour Xejen’s mind in secret and take what he wanted, and whether there was any way they could tell. Heart’s blood, how had it fallen this way: that the only method he had to prove Mishani right would also put that same knowledge in the hands of those who would desire Lucia’s death?
It came down to a matt
er of faith. Could he believe Mishani? Could he believe his daughter was alive? Once, perhaps. But his faith had died along with the other parts of his soul, and he had to know. Belief was not enough. He had to know.
‘Begin,’ said Moshito.
Fahrekh turned his gleaming face slowly toward the broken figure on the bed, the afternoon light skipping from plane to plane in triangles of brightness.
‘Yes, my Barak,’ he muttered.
As the Weaver bored into his thoughts and will like a weevil into the bole of a tree, Xejen found his throat free to scream again. Fahrekh found that he worked better when his victims were responsive.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The science of predicting the orbits of the three moons was ancient. Though moonstorms came at apparently random intervals, over hundreds of years it was possible to see a pattern of unwavering regularity. Astronomers could now tell almost exactly when the three moons would be in close enough proximity to spark a moonstorm. Navigators relied heavily on their ability to plot the course of the moons so that they could assess what effect each would have on the world’s tides. Though it was only the learned who knew just when a moonstorm would hit, usually rumours carried far enough among the peasantry to make almost everyone aware of it.
None of which was any help to Kaiku and Tsata, who were out in the open when the moonstorm struck.
There had been developments since the night when they had narrowly escaped the ghaureg, and all thoughts of turning back for home had been cast aside. Though they had previously abandoned any hope of catching or killing one of the Nexuses, they had resolved to observe the flood plain and see if any more information could be gained about the foul, seething building that crouched near the banks of the Zan. They kept themselves at a distance, where the sentries were sparse enough to avoid. Getting close to the plain was impossible now, for it was too well guarded.
Kaiku’s determination to stay was rewarded sooner than she thought. The very next night, the barges began to arrive.
The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr, The Skein of Lament and the Ascendancy Veil Page 80
