Moon's Artifice

by Tom Lloyd

  Kesh ran her fingers down the billowing sheet before she pulled open the main door. It was damp, but had been out there a while. Her mother washed their linen on the pebble beaches of the Crescent, where there was less salt in the water than the sea. It meant a longer journey for each load, however, and most likely she would still be away with a second basket-ful.

  ‘Emari,’ Kesh called through the empty front hall, casting her eyes around at the floor to see if her sister had swept it as instructed.

  The hall looked clean enough to her exacting eye, the long table scrubbed and the dozen stools pushed neatly underneath. They had five out of six rooms occupied, but took a regular trade from deck officers off the larger merchant ships who could arrive at any time and would not stand for any disorder.

  ‘Emari, where are you ?’ Kesh called again after a long silence.

  Again there was no answer so she headed on through the hall. Beyond that was the staircase leading to the upper floors and the kitchen, but as she reached the stairs Kesh could see the kitchen was dark – the shutters still closed, the door to the yard beyond shut. Clearly Emari wasn’t out collecting eggs or tending their small garden, so Kesh grabbed the banister of the stair and hauled herself up to the third step in one hop.

  Something caught her eye up ahead, beneath the window they’d been staring out of the previous day. Kesh went up a second step and faltered, slowing as a cold fist of apprehension closed about her gullet. There was a sea-chest angled against the wall ahead, wedged under the window-sill. It was old and solid ; iron-bound wood with as sturdy a lock as Kesh had ever seen. And a thin brown hand caught in the leather handle.

  Her breath caught, her legs faltering beneath her. Kesh’s mouth fell open, to cry out or to scream, but only a tiny gasp escaped as she struggled up the remaining steps to the landing where the chest lay.

  ‘Emari ?’ Kesh whispered as the clamouring screams of panic filled her mind. With hands shaking she crept forward, enfeebled by horror and disbelief. ‘Emari, can you hear me ?’

  The little girl didn’t move. She lay down the stairs, face pressed against the wooden floor of the landing with her legs tangled behind her and one arm outstretched – caught in the grip of the chest’s handle. Kesh sank to her knees, keening faintly as she reached out a tentative hand to Emari’s face. The young girl was quite still, but when Kesh brushed her face she felt warmth there still – then a pulse in her jugular that made hope surge like lightning up Kesh’s arm.

  ‘Oh sweet God-Empress of Light,’ Kesh murmured as she gently slipped one hand under Emari’s chest and disentangled her hand from the chest. ‘Please, don’t take her from me now – don’t let her die. Lady Healer – bless my sister, I beg you.’

  She lifted Emari like a doll. The girl was so thin and light she seemed to barely weigh a thing. Kesh turned her over and cradled Emari in her arms. Her eyes were closed, her cheek faintly grazed from the rough wooden steps but beyond that Kesh could see no obvious damage. Brushing her coarse black hair back, however, Kesh found a welt on the edge of her hairline – a bruise as long as Kesh’s thumb.

  ‘Wake up, little one,’ she urged gently, stroking Emari’s face with a mother’s tenderness. ‘Please wake up !’

  Emari did not move. She lay limp in Kesh’s broad arms, but just as Kesh’s tears splashed on her chin, Emari’s chest rose a fraction. Relief sparked more tears from Kesh as she realised Emari was still breathing – albeit shallowly and feebly. She was still alive.

  ‘Emari !’ she said again, louder this time. ‘Emari, wake up !’

  No amount of pleading could make a difference ; the girl was as loose-limbed as a corpse in Kesh’s arms. Kesh bent closer to her sister, suddenly fearful she had imagined the sight of her chest rising. She put one hand on Emari’s chest, trying to feel the rise or fall, but in her anxiety pressed down on it instead. A small huff of breath brushed her knuckles as some air was forced from Emari’s lungs and with it came a faint trail of greenish mist, leaking from Emari’s mouth.

  Kesh gasped and snatched her hand back as though the mist had stung her, but before her eyes it dissipated into nothing.

  ‘What in the name of Jester is that ?’

  She stared down at Emari’s expressionless face for a while, then pressed on the girl’s chest again, but this time nothing more happened. She looked around at the stair and small landing where the tall window stood. Nothing resembling green mist was apparent, but the wooden floor around the chest was damp and greasy to the touch. Kesh looked up the stairs as though expecting to see someone looking down at her, then back at the dark chest that had dragged Emari almost to the grave. The empty stairway and strangely sinister chest seemed to spark a realisation inside her.

  ‘I have to move her, get her to bed. No, wait – does she need a bonesetter ?’

  Kesh ran her hands all over the young girl’s limbs, as gently as possible, looking for broken bones. After a while she could find nothing, no sign of injury beyond minor scrapes and that knock to the head. With a grunt she stood, Emari still in her arms, and gave the chest a hefty kick before heading up the stairs.

  From inside the chest came the clatter of broken glass, shards rattling against each other as she pushed the chest out of her way. Kesh hesitated and looked down. She could see nothing, but out of caprice gave the chest a second kick, one that rocked it back a little.

  More sounds of broken glass came from inside, but Kesh barely noticed. As the chest moved the lid jolted a fraction and a faint, green-tinted mist leaked through the gap. Half a dozen insubstantial trails spilled down the sides of the chest – each one seeming to continue on across the wooden floor like blind snakes seeking prey. Kesh took a step back up onto the stairs behind her. Her retreat displaced the air before them and the nearest trails curled forward in her wake, spreading and fading to nothing even as they followed her hurried footsteps.

  ‘Stars above, what is that ?’ Kesh exclaimed. She looked down at Emari’s face. ‘Is it some sort of poison ? Oh Emari, what’s happened to you ?’

  She backed away another pace, wary gaze on the chest. The last of the mist trails dissipated and she was left staring at the bare wooden floor of the landing. It was a short, half-flight of stairs – Emari couldn’t have fallen far even if she’d lost control of the chest right at the top of this section. A few yards, no more than three and a shallow incline to the stair.

  Now she had time to breathe, Kesh felt the tears well up again. Emari had been trying to help, to bring the chest down so the room could be cleared for a paying guest.

  ‘Oh Gods, I gave her the idea,’ Kesh said in a near-whimper. ‘I said we’d have to clear the room, get that chest out so another guest could take it. She was just trying to help. After all my chiding her for being slow about her chores she was trying to make it up to me.’

  The thought felt like a punch to the gut and Kesh curled over Emari’s helpless body as she sobbed, but with an effort fought back the guilt and the grief. Her sister needed her ; that was all that mattered now.

  ‘Unconscious or poisoned,’ she said with new determination, ‘she needs a healer. Healer’s temple ? No – the Gods forgive me, but I don’t trust those old women and their needles. Master Tokene was a goshe, maybe they can do more.’

  She closed her eyes and whispered a mantra to Lady Chance, hoping for a sign. None came but when she opened her eyes again her heart was more certain than before. The goshe were better healers than the Goddess’ own, they tended solely to the body and did not trust in prayer.

  ‘Lady Healer forgive me and bless me,’ she whispered, ‘the goshe are her best chance.’

  Carefully, she picked her way around the chest as though it was a chained guard-dog and crept back down the stairs with Emari in her arms. Once in the main dining hall she hesitated and looked at the fragile bundle in her arms.

  ‘The hospital’s in Raven District,’ she whispered. ‘Emari – it’s a long way, you need to hold on – please, be strong.’

/>   Sheti held the tunic up to the light, turning it one way then the other to inspect her work. With a satisfied nod she set it down again and rubbed her hands together to warm her fingers. The afternoon breeze was chilly and, despite her cropped gloves, an hour of sewing on the walkway outside Narin’s rooms was enough to leave her fingers cold and stiff.

  ‘Something warming,’ she announced to the salt-scented air as she stood, ‘then the joys of an afternoon of cleaning.’

  Easing open the front door to Narin’s room, Sheti peered warily inside. The injured man had not moved, but with Enchei’s dark utterances about the goshe’s past, she found herself creeping around him all the same.

  Once she had found tea and helped herself to the kettle keeping warm on the stove, Sheti made her way over to the goshe’s bedside. She bent and put a hand on his forehead. He was cooler than when she’d first seen him – clearly the fever he’d been suffering through had passed. She set her tea to one side and tugged his blanket straight so it covered his chest once more.

  ‘Last thing we need’s you catching a cold,’ she said to the goshe, patting his arm. ‘Still, you’re recovering and that’s the main thing. You looked dead yesterday, now you could be just sleeping.’

  The goshe gave an abrupt gasp, chest suddenly filling with air. Sheti shrieked and fell backwards as the man half lifted up from the bed in his effort to breathe in. The inhalation became a moan of pain as he instinctively tried to lift his bandaged arms. The left had been splinted as a precaution and bound to his tightly-wrapped ribs, so when he tried to move it he strained against both injuries. His eyes flashed open as the moan became a whimper and he sank back onto the bed, defeated by his efforts.

  The retreat spurred Sheti into action and she returned to his bedside without another moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Hush now, stay still !’ she urged the man, resting her hand lightly on his chest. ‘You’re injured, you’ve a cracked bone in your arm – ribs too.’

  She saw him look around wildly, seeing nothing for a while. Eventually, his darting gaze found her and his eyes widened fearfully. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a pained croak.

  ‘Easy, you’ve been unconscious a few days,’ Sheti continued, ‘don’t force it. Catch your breath while I fetch you some water.’

  She jumped up and filled a clay cup up from the pitcher. The goshe wheezed and tried again to sit up when she offered it, but this time she slipped one arm behind his back to support him. Sitting on the side of the low bed, Sheti grunted with the effort of holding up such a large man. Before she put the cup to his lips she twisted herself around and manoeuvred one knee behind his back to prop him up.

  ‘There we go. Hardly dignified but you’re less likely to crush me,’ she commented as she helped him drink.

  Half of the mouthful spilled down his front as soon as Sheti took the cup away, but enough went the other way that she heard him sigh with something akin to pleasure.

  ‘Now take your time,’ she continued, ‘there’s no rush for any questions here.’

  The goshe coughed feebly, enough to make him wince at his damaged ribs, but she could tell from the look on his face that he understood her.

  ‘Right, shall we slide you back to the end of the bed there, prop you against the wall ?’

  The goshe grunted so she took it as assent and half-hauled him backwards until his shoulders were against the plastered wall at the head of the bed.

  ‘Need …’ the man wheezed, the effort making him cough once more.

  ‘Take your time,’ Sheti said gently, offering him the cup again. He drank as greedily as he could manage, then took three slow breaths to recover himself again.

  ‘Need piss,’ he said eventually.

  Sheti laughed. ‘Well, aren’t you the charmer ?’ She stood and gave him an appraising look. ‘You’re not going make it to the outhouse, that’s for sure. I’ll fetch you a pot, that’ll be a nice surprise for Narin when he gets home.’

  To her intense relief, the goshe took the chamber pot in his one good hand with enough determination that Sheti realised he wouldn’t need her help. She turned her back while he fumbled at the wrap covering his crotch and waited until he’d finished before retrieving the chamber pot and putting it to one side.

  ‘Better now ? Good. Right – introductions first. Despite the best efforts of some, we still live in a beacon of civilisation. My name is Sheti Antash, you’re in the Imperial District – the rooms of a friend of mine, Narin. He’s the Investigator who found you in the street a few nights back.’

  The goshe looked blank as she spoke, face tight with puzzlement. Sheti waited a few moments and then cleared her throat pointedly.

  ‘Now it would be your turn.’

  ‘But … I …’ The goshe fell silent and slumped even more heavily against the wall. He raised his one good hand, bruised and unwieldy, and turned it to inspect. It was a broad hand, tanned and marked with both grazes and older scars. The palm was rough, she knew, the hardened skin of a man used to hard work of one sort or another.

  ‘Something wrong ?’ she prompted.

  He looked up, mounting panic in his eyes. His mouth fell open but no sound came out as he stared up at Sheti. Turning as best he could, the goshe looked at the tattoos on his own shoulder. She could see his lips move slightly as the man read what was marked there, but the effort seemed to only drain him further.

  ‘Can’t remember your own name ?’ Sheti said, half in jest until the man flinched at her words. ‘Stars above – your brains really have been scrambled, haven’t they ?’

  ‘I …’ The man cast around with desperation in his eyes. ‘I don’t know. How can I not know ?’

  ‘Your skull almost got smashed open,’ she said, trying to calm his alarm. ‘Your mind’s going to be more than a bit fuzzy for a while.’

  ‘What ? What happened to me ? I can’t remember anything !’ His voice was wheezy and unsteady, the words coming out slow and rather slurred.

  ‘Nothing ? You know where you are ?’

  Slowly he nodded. ‘You said Imperial District. I know what …’ The panic returned and he flailed at the blanket covering him as though trying to escape from whatever had affected his mind. ‘Gods, can’t remember my name. What’ve you done to me ?’ he gasped, hyperventilating as he pressed his free hand against his forehead. ‘What’s my name ? Fuck’s happened to me ?’

  ‘Hey now, calm yourself – you’re hurt, remember ?’

  The big man only struggled harder, so wildly Sheti kept her distance – mindful that even an idle blow from his free arm could knock her down. He wrenched around and succeeded in throwing himself off the bed, thumping hard onto the floor below. Once there he seemed to deflate, his strength spent.

  ‘Gods fucking damn. What’s going on ?’ he moaned piteously. ‘What’s my name ?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sheti said, trying to quell her own sense of alarm. ‘We’re going to find out though. We’ll help you find out – you hear me ?’

  She reached down and tentatively touched him on the shoulder. He twitched at the contact then settled and allowed Sheti to turn him onto his side so she could see his face again.

  ‘Feels like my head’s broken,’ he groaned. The goshe took a few frantic breaths, jaw tightening as he tried to fight the confusion in his mind. ‘Who did this ? What’s happening ?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened to you, I swear it, but we’re going to help you. My friend Narin is an Investigator for the Lawbringers ; he’s sworn an oath to help those in need.’

  ‘Lawbringers,’ the goshe coughed. ‘I know ’em.’

  ‘You remember them ? Well that’s good, maybe your memory’s returning ! What else do you remember ?’

  ‘I …’ He screwed up his eyes. ‘Don’t know.’

  She could see his hand shaking, weakness and anger combined. His face was flushed now, the veins on his powerful arms clearly visible as instincts kicked in and he sought a way to fight what had hap
pened to him.

  He’s a man of violence, Sheti reminded herself, he’s ready to hit out at anything. She kept very still, her voice low as she spoke slowly to try and calm him down again.

  ‘Very well, what about the Emperor – what’s his name ?’

  ‘Sotorian,’ he said without hesitation, ‘first o’ his name. Son o’ Kenerian the Poet.’

  She smiled. ‘Now just be glad it was me here when you woke. If Enchei had been in my place, most likely he’d have told you Sotorian died a century past.’

  He looked up, eyes wild. ‘Enchei ? Who’s that ?’

  Sheti shook her head. ‘Just some old fool who thinks he’s funny. He’s not important right now, getting you back into bed is.’

  The goshe looked around at the floor, the tangled blanket around his legs and the bandages on his body. Sheti left him to it a while, not daring to move, and eventually fatigue and weakness took their toll. His shoulders slumped as the anger visibly drained from his body and he lay back with his head angled awkwardly against the wall.

  ‘Shall I try to lift you ?’

  The goshe grunted so she stepped over him until she could crouch behind the man and slip her hands under his armpits. Pulling with all her strength, she could barely raise him, and with one arm bound to his chest the goshe could do little to help. Eventually, Sheti gave up and pulled over the clothes-packed sack Narin had given him for a pillow.

  ‘How about we just stay here a while ?’ she said, slipping the pillow under his head. ‘Nice and comfy on the floor.’

  The goshe didn’t reply so she turned to look at his face. His expression was completely blank, devoid even of the fear and panic she’d expected until she prodded his shoulder. Then it returned like a thunder-strike and he visibly wilted under the weight of it all.

  ‘Hey now, give it time. Tell me more about what you do remember.’

  ‘Remember ?’ he echoed in a rasping voice.

  Hearing him, Sheti went to fetch the water again and he drained the rest of the cup in one go. The effort left him panting, but once he caught his breath the man seemed stronger already.