“The tattoo? Yes, I know. Everyone does.” His face pinched. “If you don’t have anything useful to say, you’ll have to give it back.”
I hadn’t noticed tattoos on any of the guards, but they’d kept themselves covered to the wrist, to the ears, to the toes. “No, besides that—a hidden mark. I saw it with my own eyes.” He wrapped his hands around the bars, and I pitched my voice even quieter. “A ring of runes—magical protection against evil and a charm for invisibility. That’s how they move so quietly.”
He nodded slowly. “And the beast shapes? Did you see any of those?”
The what now? “I saw . . . a few animals around the Tower. I thought nothing of them. Were they . . . ?”
“Weavers,” he whispered. “They can change into cats and birds.”
I shivered dramatically. “A raven perched on my windowsill the entire time—they must have been spying on me. Thank goodness Order came to take me away.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Give the blanket back. I told them you wouldn’t have anything useful to say.” He reached through the bars, trying to catch the corner of the fabric between his fingers, but I pulled away.
“That’s not all!” I cried. “I have more!” I could feel my blood thawing a little, and I knew it’d feel even colder if he took the blanket back now. “It’s worse than—than rings and shape-changers. It’s so much worse than that. There’s . . .” I dropped my voice down to the barest whisper. “There’s a blackwitch in the Tower of Pattern. Right at the very top, where no one goes but the Queen of Pattern. You know she’s odd?”
He was pressed bodily up against the bars now, holding on to them with both hands. His eyes had gone wide. My little fishhooks had pulled him as close as he could get without coming into the cell itself. “A blackwitch?” he whispered. “In Pattern?”
“That’s why she’s odd. Because she keeps him prisoner. I heard him sobbing in the night—his cell was right above mine.”
“What is she keeping it for?”
“Hidden secrets. Charms against poison or violent death. I heard one of the Pattern stewards say that she makes him scry for her, that he can see you wherever you are, hear whatever you’re saying . . . even listen in on your thoughts. She’s got him all bound up in iron chains, but the evil magic seeps out, like water under a door. Soaks into your skin, like, and gives you nightmares and dark thoughts—that’s why Anfisa Zofiyat has gone so odd in the last year. That’s when she started visiting the blackwitch in the Tower. They have all sorts of magical protections around the Tower too. If one hundred Order guards approached with the intent to attack, a field of fire would spring up under their feet and burn them where they stood. Burn them to ash. Boil the air right out of their lungs. You’d be dead before you hit the ground, but your body would keep screaming—that’s what it’d sound like to anyone watching. But it’d just be the white-hot air rushing out of your dead mouth.” I leaned in. “Remember this. Don’t attack the Tower unless you feel like dying that day.”
There are times to run your mouth and make up anything that flits into your fool head, and there are times to use some judgment and prudence. Saying the words “a blackwitch in Pattern” was a deeply unfortunate move on my part, as it turned out.
“Who else have you told this to?” he hissed.
“No one! I told you, child, I’ve been trying to get the guards to pay attention to me. You’re the first one who let me speak long enough to get to the warning. The story was just to catch your attention, see? To tell you that I’ve faced down Death herself.” I emphasized the her. “To warn you, to save you if I can. To be honest,” I lied, “I really am so thankful that Order came to collect me when they did. That woman would have started torturing me in a few days.” I let my eyes fill with tears. “Thank you, lad. Thank the others for me, the ones who were there especially. You saved me from a fate worse than death. Praise be to Order and the noble men and women who uphold it.”
“Long live the Queen,” he breathed.
“Long live the Queen,” I echoed. I kept my blanket.
The guard gave me a significant look the first time he passed me the next day. The second time he passed, he paused, then stepped up to the bars and gestured to me. “Is there anything else you could tell me about what’s in the Tower of Pattern?” he whispered.
“Ohh,” I said. “I . . . maybe.” I shivered theatrically. “It depends. What do you want to know?”
“We know that woman is up to something,” he hissed, glancing around. “Yesterday my supervisor sent me back with the blanket to see if you really did have anything to say. And then she passed on what you said to her supervisor, and they passed it on to theirs. And . . . and so on. And now some very important people want to know what you know.”
I smelled an opportunity to win myself a few more creature comforts. “Lad. Lad, listen to me. It’s terribly important. I can’t remember all that happened to me when I was in that . . . that horrible place. I think the blackwitch enchanted me—but please, I know that if I could just get warm, I could work up the energy to fight it off. It comes over me like a sickness. . . .” I paused and gasped for breath. “It squeezes its shadowy fingers around my heart . . . I can feel it coming now. Ach, save yourself, child, save yourself. Or else bring me a fire, or some soup. . . . I fear the sickness may spread!” I clutched at my throat and wheezed for dramatic effect.
The guard looked conflicted. I could see the war happening in his face—he knew I was probably hamming it up for personal gain, but his superstition was nearly as strong. . . . If I was telling the truth about the blackwitch, it was entirely possible—nay, probable—that I had been tainted by dark magic, and it was therefore probable—nay, likely!—that I was suffering for it.
“Fine,” he mumbled, gesturing away the evil, almost unconsciously. “Will you die before I get back?”
“I can hold it off that long,” I wheezed. “If you hurry.”
I ended up with a brazier set just out of arm’s reach, piled with wood—not slabs or logs, but pathetic skinny sticks and straggly, twisted, dried bushes. It wasn’t a slight at me; Nuryevet is notoriously poor in wood, and so they conserve every bit of it they do have for building and toolmaking, and to keep warm they burn sticks and twigs, scrub and bushes, grass or straw twisted tight into hard little logs, or dried dung. Or coal, if there is enough ventilation. It had been no different in Pattern.
The young guard brought me another blanket as well, a decent one. I pulled the bench closer to the radiant heat of the fire and folded the horse blanket to use as a seat cushion. I tucked yesterday’s blanket over and around my legs, and hugged the newer one around my shoulders. Proper warmth, what relief!
“Ahhh, yes, I can feel the shadow balking already. I’ll be able to fight it off today, I think. As long as I have a fire.”
“Sure, good,” said the guard, clearly uncomfortable. “But you’d better give me something really good about Pattern—the Captain wasn’t too pleased at all this extravagance for one prisoner.”
I was, at this point, prepared to burble anything they wanted. “Lad, I can give you dozens of things. Let me think—I must sift through my memories, unlock the ones that were locked away to me. . . . I heard too many secrets in that dreadful place, child. Too many secrets. Bloody ones. It’d turn your stomach inside out to hear them, scorch your ears right off. . . . All the Pattern Guards are ensorcelled into absolute loyalty to Anfisa Zofiyat, so there’s no way to get them to betray her unless you find the way to break the spell. The blackwitch, you know. And if anyone gets past that ring of fire to attack the Tower, a huge thicket of briars will spring up from the ground, briars with thorns a foot long and as sharp as daggers, growing all around the Tower as tall as two men standing one atop the other’s shoulders.”
The guard nodded. “What about—what about other things? Things about the other Primes?”
“Ohh,” I moaned, clutching my head. “It pains me to think about it—I must have heard something dreadful
that that woman and her blackwitch don’t want me to remember. Aaarghh . . .”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s about . . . What do I see?” I grasped at the empty air before me, my eyes shut tight. “A book of some kind . . . There’s something written in it. . . .”
“Yes? Go on.”
“I—It’s—! No, I can’t. It’s vanished for now. It was something terribly important. Whatever it is, I know it will shock you. I will fight for it, lad, I promise you that.”
He settled back on his heels, clearly a little disappointed. “Well, I’ll tell them about the other things you said.”
“Good, yes. Do that, lad. Warn them . . .”
“The Queen of Order will appreciate your cooperation.”
“And I appreciate the help in fighting off the cold shadow that foul sorcerer cast upon me.” I nodded towards the brazier. “Long live the Queen.”
“Long live the Queen,” he said, and I saw a slight smile quirk the corner of his mouth.
That night I got a small roll of bread with my slop.
The young guard had a new assignment. His patrol had been shortened, I suppose—he now walked up and down just one corridor. I think they brought in another prisoner or two, because the smell got worse and I heard noises of protest down the hall.
I didn’t think much of them. I was coming up with stories to tell the guard about what had happened in the Tower.
I told him a little more that day—something offhand about how I thought Anfisa Zofiyat might have some kind of protective charm that she wore about her person, something about her paranoia against poison and assassination.
“Have they all been like that?” I asked the guard. “The Primes of Pattern. I ask because . . . well, who knows how long that blackwitch has been imprisoned there.”
“As long as I can remember. They’re not always as odd as Anfisa Zofiyat. Most of them just go a bit strange in the head, but usually it takes years.”
“Mmm. That’s what comes of knowing too many secrets,” I grumbled. “And of locking up a blackwitch, of course.”
“You’re making a good impression on the Queen of Order, all this information,” the guard whispered. “We both are—we could really . . . help each other out, if you think about it.”
“Oh . . . Could we?” I said guilelessly. “How d’you reckon that?” It had occurred to me at some point that I could win a few considerations more significant than blankets, bread, and braziers. In the dark moments of the night when despair came upon me, I thought to myself, What’s Consanza really going to do to help you? I thought, Help comes to the man who helps himself. I don’t remember exactly when I decided to set my sights higher; I think it must have been a gradual thing, like the turning of the tide.
He edged closer to the bars. “I know you’re keeping something big back from me. Maybe you haven’t remembered it yet, maybe you’re just drawing all this out. . . . I know you have something important, though. There might be other guards asking about it, especially tomorrow. I won’t be here tomorrow.”
“Day off?”
He nodded. “So if you remember anything . . . don’t tell the others. Actually, if . . .” He took a deep breath. “If you tell them I’m the only one you’ll talk to, I’ll bring you . . . another blanket?”
“Oh, I don’t know. . . . Sometimes I just burst out with things. You must have heard about my behavior when I was in court a few weeks ago. . . .”
“Another blanket and . . . and I’ll bring you some of the food they feed me and the other guards. Bread, meat. Nothing fancy—it’s just horsemeat, leaner than leather, but it’s better than the trash they serve you prisoners.”
I considered it. “Cheese? Fruit? Cleaner water?”
He winced. “Sure, I can try.”
“I suppose I can try not to talk to the other guards. It’ll be difficult, though, seeing as how I’m such an old man and my eyes are so weak, and seeing how all you young pups look the same in those garish uniforms. . . .”
“Fine. I promise I will bring you food.”
“And a blanket.”
“And a blanket, yes.”
“And . . . is there any way you could send a letter for me?”
At that, he looked troubled. “That I don’t think I can do.”
“Why?”
“We leave our uniforms here when our shifts end, and we’re patted down by the other shift before we go out. Anything—anything we have in our pockets is looked at.”
“Couldn’t you say it’s a letter from your sweetheart?”
“Everyone knows I don’t have a sweetheart. I’ve never been interested in . . . any of that.” He made a face. “Men or women. Not for me. Everyone knows that.”
“What if I gave you a short message and you wrote it down later, after you’ve left?”
“Can’t write or read.”
“What? Were you raised in the country? You don’t have a country accent.”
“No, here in Vsila. Born and raised.”
“Aren’t there schools in the city?” I thought back to the astonishing amount of seemingly at least semi-educated people I’d seen or heard alluded to while I was here: the students in the courtroom, everyone who had to carry a license to practice their craft, the amount of bureaucracy and paperwork in every aspect of their lives. . . .
“There are schools everywhere. It’s the law,” said the guard. I hadn’t seen any during the few brief weeks of liberty I’d had in Nuryevet; I thought perhaps I had simply overlooked them. “But a blackwitch cursed me cross-eyed when I was a baby. So I can’t read.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I look at something written down, the letters get all mixed up and it’s hard to focus on them. Sometimes they sort of squirm around. My parents tried all sorts of cures.”
“And you think it’s because a witch cursed you?”
“What else could it be? Anyway, it doesn’t bother me any. Must bother you right now, though.”
I sighed. “Could you memorize a message and have someone else write it down?”
“I’m not getting someone else involved in this!” he hissed.
I gave up. There was no way to make this avenue work. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Vasili Ansonsos Lienityat Negutesco.”
“And what do I call you?”
“Vasili Lienityat. Or . . . just Vasili, I guess. You only have the one name?”
“These days, yes.”
“You used to have more?”
I nodded, closing my eyes and leaning back against the wall.
“Did a blackwitch take them?” Vasili asked, very serious.
“No, I gave them away.”
“Why?”
“As a sign of devotion to my calling. A sacrifice.” I thought of something. “A question I’ve been wondering about, child: The Queen of Coin—Taishineya Tarmos, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“She uses her patronymic instead of her matronymic—but the other Queens use their matronymics, and so do you, and the King of Law uses his patronymic. Isn’t that right?” In most places, there’s some kind of system, but the Nuryevens seemed entirely random.
“Yes.”
“So why does she do that?”
“Her father was more well-known than her mother, I guess. Or she likes the sound better.”
These Nuryevens. No sense of drama.
For my hearing, I was transported to the House of Law in one of those small coffin boxes. I was beginning to develop an almost sickening aversion to them, and I spent the ride with my hands and eyes clenched tight, breathing carefully to keep from gagging and panicking in the close, confined space.
I heard us pass through a noisy crowd of people, heard the two huge doors groan open. The clamor of the crowd surged forward, but there were guards yelling at them to stay back, and then the doors swung closed again and silence fell.
When the guards opened my box, I stumbled out and found myself caught
in Consanza’s arms. “You stink,” she said, blunt as ever.
“Trim your nose hair,” I gasped, trying not to heave up the meager breakfast I’d eaten.
She just scowled at me and led me forward.
It was the same cavernous courtroom we’d used before—or one similar enough that I couldn’t tell the difference, which wouldn’t be surprising. They don’t care to make their buildings terribly distinctive here. The only thing different was that it was almost completely empty: just us, the Primes, and a small flock of attendants, assistants, and scribes.
Rather than sitting in a row behind the table on the dais, the Primes had taken chairs on the same level of the floor as I now stood, in the middle of the wide-open space in the center of the room, surrounded on three sides by benches where the students and witnesses had been sitting the last time I was here. The tall windows behind the dais streamed watery, wintry light into the room—in other places, there might have been tapestries hung on the walls, or murals painted on the high, vaulted ceiling. Here, there was almost nothing. Long green woolen curtains, the color of Justice, framed the windows, and the wooden doors were carved in a simple repeating pattern and fitted with shiny brass bands.
Anfisa Zofiyat was off to one side of the semicircle, flanked by no fewer than six of her guards. I recognized Zorya Miroslavat sitting opposite her, with the Duchess of Justice, Yunia Antalos, standing behind her.
Next to Zorya was a woman I had not seen before, but who could only be Vihra Kylliat, Queen of Order. She was a large woman; not fat, not at all, but large with strength. She had wide shoulders, thick arms—or arm, rather, as I saw that her left was amputated just above the elbow, as was her left leg, just below the knee, yet she wore cunningly made prosthetics of some pale-colored metal, undecorated and unadorned, and she had an equally plain walking stick leaned up against the armrest of her chair. She was somewhere in her late forties or early fifties, at my best guess—besides the white scar across her right cheek, she had lines on her face that suggested tension or anger, and she had touches of gray to her dark hair, which was cropped quite close to her head. A saber hung from her belt, and her right hand was gloved in white; her short coat and trousers were of a deep burgundy red, several shades darker than the crisp scarlet-and-white uniforms of Order. She sat quite still, without any attendants, without speaking, without moving. The red of Order stands out in any room, and on any street—the Nuryevens favor duller, drabber colors for superstition’s sake: blackwitches can’t tolerate the sight or touch of color. It’s Order’s little show of bravado, you see: Look how brave we are. We have nothing to fear.
A Conspiracy of Truths Page 9
