Terrified, he followsThe Spider down the shadowy corridors. His feet slip on the polished stone, and the whispers of the other children echo after him. They avert their eyes as he goes by, as if from a corpse. He doesn’ t blame them. How many times has he done the same, how many times has he given thanks that some other child has been chosen, not him?
He follows The Spider down corridors he has never entered, into a part of the Palace he has never seen. Soon he is shivering with cold as well as terror.
At last The Spider leads him to a room with white walls. The room is empty. The Spider motions him to go inside. Dry-mouthed, the boy asks what he must do.
The sorcerer smiles a mirthless smile. ‘Nothing,’ he replies. He stands outside the room, and sings a droning chantment, and the wall seals itself.
The boy cries out. He is in pitch darkness. And once again he is a small boy, suffocated by musty black robes, borne away from his mother and father and everything he knows. He opens his mouth and gasps for air; his throat is dry with fear.
Blindly he walks forward, hands outstretched, until he bruises his hands on the cold stone. He feels his way around the entire room; it is small and polished and featureless. Blood beats in his ears. He feels the walls again. The room is smaller than before; it is shrinking around him, the walls are pressing in. He cannot sing, he cannot breathe, he cannot stand. Now he is on the floor. His mind is blank with fear. The room tips and spins around him. It makes no difference if his eyes are closed or open. He gasps like a fish out of water. He is dying; that is all he knows, and that knowing swallows him like the dark.
When he wakes, he is in a red-walled room. He sits bolt upright, gasping again for breath, his heart clutched by remembered fear. But it is not dark now. He can see, he can breathe, he is alive. Trembling, he rests against pillows. All around the walls are ranged black-robed sorcerers. The Spider stands beside the bed, next to a very old man the boy has not seen before. The old man’ s hands are clasped on top of an ebony staff. When the boy sees those hands, wrinkled and blotched like old leather, he knows who this is. The old man wears the Ring of Hathara, Lyonssar’ s Ring, with its great square red stone. This is the Lord of the Black Palace, the unseen ruler of the sorcerers. He bares his toothless gums in an imitation of a smile.
‘Well done, boy,’ he quavers. ‘You are one of us, now. You will join our brotherhood, and become a guardian of the secrets of chantment. For this you were rescued. For this you were brought to us. For this you were Tested.’
The boy gapes in confusion. He looks around; each of the sorcerers wears a look of grim pleasure. Uncertainly, he says, ‘I have passed the Testing?’
‘Yes.’
‘But –’ He is too afraid to tell them that he sang no chantment, in case somehow they do not know.
The Spider says, ‘You did what was asked of you: nothing. Even as the room grew small, and smaller still, you did nothing. The Testing is not a test of your skills in chantment. We know your skills. We watch you every day. It is a test of your obedience. You were obedient. Get up, boy. You may go. Or rather –’ The Spider gives his leering grin. ‘You may stay.’
three
The Palace of Cobwebs
‘BUT WHEN WILL you begin searching?’ asked Heben, his courtesy barely restraining his impatience. It was the third day after their arrival at the Palace. He and Calwyn were walking, slowly, because of Calwyn’ s robes, around the walled courtyard attached to their apartments. Far above their heads, a pocket handkerchief of blue sky was visible, but the garden below was all moist greenery and perfumed flowers. Not one direct ray of sunlight penetrated the lush patch of green.
‘We’ ve begun already,’ said Calwyn.
Heben frowned. ‘Forgive me, but all you’ ve done is walk the public galleries and the halls and gardens. The twins will be hidden somewhere, in a dark corner, in a dungeon –’ Have patience. Halasaa walked behind them, silent and soft-footed as a manservant should be. We have been listening.
‘Listening for chantment,’ said Calwyn.
Not here. Halasaa touched his ear, then his forehead, between his eyes. Here.
‘And have you heard anything?’
‘Not yet.’ Calwyn reached out a fingertip to the ivory- coloured wall. The walls of the courtyard were so delicate that they were almost translucent. Shadows could be seen moving within. As they approached one particularly transparent section, a skull-shape suddenly jumped at them: eyes, nose, an open mouth, dark hollows pressed against the other side of the wall.
This was a favourite game of the courtly gentlemen, to startle the ladies through the delicate screens, or to loom up behind the curtains that fluttered in every doorway. Their aim was to force an unseemly shriek, but Calwyn was hardier than the courtly ladies, and she had never yet uttered even a squeak, disappointing the pranksters. Now she merely passed a hand over the dark shape, and walked on.
The surface was rough to her fingertips. When she looked closely, she saw that it was carved with intricate figures, no bigger than her thumb, who danced in stately procession, their tiny hands interlinked, their skirts swirling. Each one had a different expression: this one proud, this one laughing. But most of them, thought Calwyn, looked rather sad.
There might have been a hundred little figures on this panel. Anywhere else in Tremaris, such a fine piece of work would be a treasure beyond price. Yet here it was just another panel on a nondescript wall in an ordinary garden, half-hidden with leaves; possibly she was the only person who had ever noticed it. In this courtyard alone there were dozens of panels, just as intricate, and everywhere throughout this vast palace it was the same. Every curving wall, right up to the arched ceilings, was covered in carvings, a miniature reflection of courtly life: tiny people hunting, dancing, feasting, stealing kisses, arranging their hair. . .
There was not a single plain surface anywhere in the Palace, nor any straight lines. Everywhere there were curves and arches and bends and twists, as if the Palace were a vast organism that had grown up out of the desert, rather than something constructed by builders and masons.
Heben had winced when the face appeared. When they’ d entered the Palace, he’ d posed as one of Calwyn’ s servants, his headcloth obscuring his face, and now he was confined to their apartments and the adjoining courtyard, lest any of his relatives see him and send word to Rethsec that his disowned son was flaunting himself at court. But even if he had been free to wander, Heben would have been as uncomfortable here as Calwyn. It was no wonder he had sought help. He was a fish out of water in this place – or a wasuntu caged, Calwyn thought wryly. All the confidence he’ d shown out in the desert had melted away.
Calwyn, too, found the Palace of Cobwebs unnerving. She had been raised in the simple dwellings of Antaris, and on Ravamey, she shared a two-roomed cottage. The endless rooms of the Palace and its corridors, its galleries, its unfolding courtyards, its slyly curved walls, its niches and alcoves and unexpected doorways, its screens and curtains bewildered her. The passageways echoed with secretive whispers and rustlings, as the courtiers and their servants tiptoed in their dainty slippers from room to room, passing snippets of gossip behind their hands, scrutinising the robes of other courtiers, sneering, smirking, scheming, snubbing one another.
This behaviour was not entirely strange to Calwyn. The closed community of Antaris had its share of gossip and intrigues, and there were those who sought favour with the High Priestess and those who sniped sarcastically at other women. Even so, this was beyond anything she had known in Antaris. There, at least everyone had useful work to do; here, idleness and inventing insults had been elevated to a way of life. Somewhere, she supposed, the real work of governing Merithuros must go on, though she was yet to see any evidence of it. It seemed that the rebels might indeed have cause to complain that the Empire was poorly ruled.
She sighed, and touched Heben’ s arm. ‘Don’ t worry. If the twins are here, we will find them.’
But privately she was not so certain
. At first, they had had some idea of conducting a systematic search of the Palace. Now she knew how immense and how convoluted the Palace was, she suspected that such a search would be impossible.
That afternoon, Calwyn planned to walk with Halasaa around the area that the courtiers called the Garden of Pomegranates: a long, colonnaded terrace with secluded nooks and alcoves leading from its shaded walkway. It was a favourite haunt of the minor members of the royal family, and Heben was nervous about them exploring it alone, though he agreed that it was an ideal place for concealment.
‘I pray you, don’ t speak to anyone if you can avoid it,’ he begged Calwyn. ‘Even as a country cousin, you’ re not yet ready for a conversation with one of the Imperial Family. And please, please, don’ t take Mica with you!’
‘Mica’ s searching the laundries today,’ said Calwyn. Posing as a maidservant, Mica had worked tirelessly since their arrival, scouring the immense labyrinth of servants’ quarters, kitchens and storerooms, cellars and sculleries that teemed beneath the fine rooms of the Palace.
‘I reckon there’ s more below than there is above!’ she’ d declared. ‘You got the easy job, you two!’
Heben looked relieved. Then his forehead creased with worry again, and he cleared his throat. ‘There is one more thing, Calwyn. Your hair.’
Calwyn raised her hands to her head in a fleeting, defensive gesture. She was proud of the effort she’ d made in transforming her thick plait into a twisted rope, fastened precariously in a knot on top of her head. ‘What about my hair?’
‘Your hair is beautiful,’ said Heben diplomatically. ‘But –’ ‘But?’
‘If it were arranged. . .differently. . .perhaps more people would appreciate its beauty.’
I will help you. Unexpectedly Halasaa’ s words sounded in her head.
Calwyn stared at her friend sceptically, but he smiled with gentle confidence. In Spiridrell, too, we arrange our hair. Let me try.
‘Well, if you like,’ said Calwyn doubtfully, and she pulled out the pins that held the shaky bun in place and let her thick mass of hair tumble down.
Halasaa’ s hands were deft and skilful. With the aid of pins and combs, he built a swift, complicated edifice of hair that towered high above Calwyn’ s forehead. Staring into the mirror, she had to admit that now she could pass for a lady of the court, though she felt wary of turning her head too quickly, lest it all come cascading down.
‘I still can’ t drape these robes properly,’ she complained, turning this way and that before the long mirror of polished silver.
But they all confessed defeat on that score. It was clear from the moment they arrived that the robes Heben had bought inTeril were not quite the right ones, and Calwyn didn’ t wear them in quite the right way. To a casual observer, she would pass as a noble lady. Unfortunately, there were no casual observers in the Palace of Cobwebs.
Halasaa picked up the folding stool of ivory that every servant carried for his master or mistress, for there was no permanent furniture anywhere in the Palace, and held back the door curtain for Calwyn to pass. Calwyn sighed, gathered her heavy skirts, and went through.
Many of the courtiers chose to nap in the afternoons, saving their energy for the evening revels that could last all night, and Calwyn and Halasaa found the Garden of Pomegranates almost deserted. They had already realised that this, and early morning, were the best times for searching, and they moved as rapidly as Calwyn was able along the sleepy, shaded terrace, alert for chantment.
Calwyn said in a low voice, ‘Sometimes I wonder if this quest is hopeless. We could wander this Palace for a lifetime and never find them. We don’ t even know for certain that they’ re here!’
There are chanters here, Calwyn. I sense them.
‘Are you sure that’ s not Mica and me you can sense?’ she asked tartly, but Halasaa only smiled.
The Garden’ s alcoves were perfect for secret assignations. Several times that afternoon, Calwyn and Halasaa stumbled upon a guilty-looking or languid pair of entwined lovers, and had to turn hastily away.
‘Don’ t they have their own rooms?’ muttered Calwyn in embarrassment, letting a curtain of ivy fall back into place.
Look. Halasaa dropped the word into her mind as quietly as a pebble slipping into a pond.
Calwyn looked.
A man stood in a patch of sunlight between the graceful pillars of the colonnade. He was tall, and his long face was as pale and waxy as a corpse’ s, but his eyes burned like coals. His hair was slicked back, reaching almost to his shoulders. He was austerely clad in black, with a collar of gold and silver lace. He was staring directly at them.
Calwyn held her breath. For a long moment there was no sound in the garden but the faint tinkling of an unseen fountain. The gentleman in the black robes held her gaze; there was infinite menace in that stare. Calwyn felt herself revealed and utterly vulnerable, as though his stare were a knife that gutted her like a fish. He looked at her, and through her, and beyond her. Only the presence of Halasaa at her side prevented her from falling to her knees, weak as a rag doll.
At last he curled his bloodless lip in a suggestion of a sneer, and turned away. In a heartbeat he had vanished behind the elegant rows of the pomegranate trees.
Calwyn let out her breath, and clutched at Halasaa’ s arm. ‘He – he –’ Come away. Halasaa propelled her to a shady nook; deftly, he unfolded the ivory stool and pushed her into it.
‘That man – he’ s a chanter, Halasaa!’
Yes. Halasaa’ s face was troubled. And he knows that we are chanters.
‘What will we do? He’ ll have us thrown out of the Palace!’ We should wait. Perhaps he too is here in secret. He cannot reveal us without revealing himself.
‘Yes. Yes, you’ re right.’ Decisively Calwyn stood up. ‘Let’ s finish searching. Perhaps Heben knows something about him. Or we’ ll see what Mica can discover.’
Heben did not recognise their description of the gentleman in black. Mica went away and talked to her new friends among the kitchen staff. Mica was enjoying herself. While Halasaa followed Calwyn about, carrying her stool, Mica was free to roam as she pleased. No matter where she was, she could pretend to be on some errand for her mistress. The Court teemed with intrigue, and the passages crawled with servants scurrying to and fro with private messages for this lady or that gentleman. No one ever questioned her.
She returned that evening with some information. ‘His name’ s Amagis. He’ s the Ambassador from Hathara, wherever that might be.’
‘Hathara is in the south, the harshest part of Merithuros,’ said Heben. ‘Hatharan Ambassador! That must be someone’ s idea of a joke. No one lives in Hathara. No one even goes there. There is nothing in Hathara but a dead, dry plain.’
Calwyn frowned. ‘Darrow’ s ring, the one he took from Samis, is called the Ring of Hathara.’
‘Perhaps the gem was mined there, long ago,’ suggested Heben.
I have heard Darrow call that ring by another name.
‘Oh?’ Calwyn looked up quickly at Halasaa.
‘We talkin about Darrow, or Amagis?’ demanded Mica. ‘Thought we was here to find them chanter kids, not moon about Darrow all the time.’
Calwyn flushed.
Mica helped herself to the platter of food she’ d brought back from the kitchens. ‘These pastries ain’ t bad. Shame they’ re cold by the time I get back here.’
‘Did you find out anything else?’ asked Calwyn.
Mica shrugged. ‘He come back from Gellan not long ago. That’ s all. Keeps himself to himself. He comes and goes. No one likes him. And he ain’ t got no servants.’
‘That is strange.’ Heben frowned as he paced up and down the room. ‘But if he had reported you to the Imperial Guard, we would all have been arrested already. I think we’ re safe for now.’
‘All the same, I think we should avoid him if we can.’ Calwyn plucked at the stiff embroidery of her skirt. ‘No more questions about him, Mica.’
‘All right,’ agreed Mica cheerfully. ‘I s’ pose if he is an ironcrafter, he don’ t need a servant, even with his gloves on. If he wants to pick up anythin, he can just sing it.’
One thing they hadn’ t managed to buy in Teril was a pair of the long embroidered gloves that the courtiers wore, ladies and gentlemen alike. Richly decorated with gold thread and jewels, and festooned with silk ribbons, the gloves were made of supple leather. Holding one’ s hands elegantly to show off one’ s gloves was an important art of the Court, and the gloves could only be obtained from the master glove-makers of the Palace. Calwyn had come to court without them. Every day she endured the titters of ladies who passed her in the corridors; she had learned to thrust her bare hands into the folds of her robes whenever a stranger approached.
‘It’ s so strange,’ she complained to Mica. ‘I’ ve never worn gloves in my life, except rabbit-skin mittens in the snow, and now I feel naked without them. I feel ashamed to walk around with bare hands.’
‘That’ s how they want you to feel. Like you don’ t belong here.’ Mica sniffed. ‘Stupid gloves. Do you think, if these fine sirs and madams get an itch, they ask their servants to scratch it for em?’
Calwyn laughed. ‘I haven’ t seen anyone do that yet. But perhaps they do.’ She lowered her voice, and cast an anxious glance at Heben. ‘I must have gloves. Even now my hair looks right, I’ ll never be allowed into the courtly gatherings until I have a proper pair of gloves.’
‘Can’ t Heben get you some?’
‘Heben has spent everything he had.’ She sighed. ‘Never mind. I’ ll manage without them. I’ ll just have to lurk around outside their story-tellings and their banquets.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’ t want to go to the banquets anyway. Did you know, Mica, because there aren’ t any tables and chairs, they sit on those wretched stools, and their servants fetch them food on a tray? Then the servants kneel down, and feed them with golden forks, so they don’ t soil their precious gloves! I’ d rather stay and eat here in our rooms where we can all be together, and sit on the floor, and eat with our hands if we want to.’
The Waterless Sea Page 8
