by Jaine Fenn
Once they were out of the firelight Dej asked, “So you’re a pathfinder too?”
“I navigate, yes.”
“Does that make me your apprentice?” Dej liked the idea.
“One of them, yes.”
“But still your apprentice.”
Kir sighed, then relented and smiled, her teeth pale in the darkness. “Yes. I suppose you are.”
On the following day they circled south and skirted a steep valley, found yet more high bogland – this stretch too treacherous for the rhinobeast so they had to go around it – and passed through a wide bowl-shaped valley of reddish rocks, with caves along one side. In the next valley, as evening fell, they came across one of the hunt’s targets, though it didn’t require much hunting.
Clampers were flat-shelled snails the size of a clenched fist. When smoked, their flesh kept for months, and their empty shells were used as utensils. In the days before the hunt left, Dej had tasted, if not enjoyed, their chewy, smoky meat.
Now she helped prise them off the underside of rocks in a field of fallen stone slabs.
She made no mistakes in her navigation that day, though she’d found it hard to keep a straight path through the red valley.
That night she sat near Cal; not too close, just enough that he’d spot she was paying him attention. He had a Shenese accent: looked like they had something in common.
The hunt looped northward again, back towards the settlement. This took them onto shallow slopes of jumbled rocks: the best rockslither country, according to campfire talk. The rhinobeast, walking with delicate care, fell behind; the four trackers, including Lih, went ahead.
The morning brought plenty of false alarms, as the trackers circled or froze or crawled between rocks; but no prey. Kir admitted that, being this close to home, the area was heavily hunted.
The trackers finally uncovered a rockslither nest early in the afternoon. One moment they were edging forward, peering into crevices and exchanging handsignals, the next the rocks came alive. Hunters pounced, knives and spears at the ready. Dej hesitated as Kir sprang forward. The action was fast and silent: blows struck, writhing beasts raised on spearpoints, all in frantic moments. Dej, who’d only taken a couple of steps forward, contributed nothing to the hunt.
When, just before evening, the trackers came across another nest, Dej was ready. As the creatures exploded out from their rocky pinnacle she rushed forward, dagger in hand, heart pounding. Something sinuous swept past her foot. She struck out. Missed. Another target, between two rocks. She jabbed at it, and felt the point of her dagger snap. The rockslither escaped.
She looked up to see Lih standing on a rock above her, a dead rockslither baby in one hand. The look the other girl gave her was pure contempt.
Chapter 31
That night Rhia’s bad dreams returned: pale hair in bloodied water; the lone terror of the break-in; the brutal charge of the city militia. Whatever spell the skyland had cast on her had worn off. The cares of the last few months had returned, and now, confined to a single building in a strange city, she had nothing to distract herself with. She had at least hoped to continue her celestial observations, but the cloud had been constant, and the rain frequent.
However, the next morning was fine, so she went out into the guesthouse’s courtyard – which was not, technically, leaving the premises. The maids had hung washing up to take advantage of the dry weather. The Zekti, with their surfeit of water, cleaned both themselves and their clothes often, a habit Rhia approved of, although thanks to the wet climate the guesthouse had a permanent odour of damp washing.
Rhia walked through the miniature maze of flapping linen, looking for the best place to stand. In her room she had tried to deploy her sightglass by day, but the single high window showed only sky or, more often, featureless cloud. Out here she could see the grey bulk of the distant mountains beyond the guesthouse’s roof, though when she trained the sightglass on them they simply appeared as less distant grey bulks. She needed a closer target. She moved to the far corner of the courtyard. Yes, she could see the top of the Eternal Isle from here. An apt choice, given she could have ended up living there. She trained her sightglass on it, steadying her arm by cupping her elbow in the other hand.
She made out individual buildings, low but solid, built of small blocks of golden stone, many of them roofed with ochre and black tiles; the overhanging eaves were curved to funnel the water towards the corners where – ah yes – it would be channelled away in stone conduits, down to the lake. Ingenious. Father would have been impressed. Some of the terraces were green with gardens, tiny manicured patches cut into the slopes–
“Ahem.”
She lowered the sightglass to see Mam Jekrey next to a linen frame, staring at her.
“Yes?” she snapped, annoyed at the interruption.
She saw her mistake in Mam Jekrey’s frown. Rhia thought of their hostess as “staff”, like a housekeeper at another House’s villa. But that was not quite the relationship here. She smiled and said quickly, “Sorry, I was…” She waved the sightglass, at a loss to explain her actions.
“What is that thing?”
“It’s nothing. A toy.”
“Oh. You were pointing it at the Eternal Isle.”
“I was trying to see. It’s a device to help you see distant objects. Like I say, just a toy.”
“Which you were using to look at the caliarch’s halls.”
“I was curious and my, ah, cousin doesn’t want me going outside.”
“Our streets are safe enough.”
“I’m sure they are. He is just being protective.” Defending her confinement stung but she wanted to divert further questions. “I should go back inside, really.” She ducked past, keeping her eyes down.
Given the interest Mam Jekrey had shown, perhaps she should be more careful in future, and stay indoors.
Her resolve did not even last the night. When the weather improved further and the Sun went down in a cloudless sky Rhia could not resist. She waited until everyone had retired, then crept out.
Mam Jekrey’s empty linen frame made a perfect rest for her sightglass. A gibbous Greymoon rode high above the thatched roofs. Through the sightglass the dark patches on the Moon’s face she had sketched as a child gained new form and substance. Here were mountains, vast high plains, shadowed ridges. No sign of the celestial skykin settlements she had heard spoken of; then again, the skykin did not build cities, and not everyone agreed they even went to heaven when they died. Had Whitemoon been up she might have seen cities of the blessed shadowkin dead on its surface. But she doubted it.
The Maiden was too low to see from here, and though the Matriarch would rise later she could not stay out all night. She made some brief observations of other stars, then, not wishing to push her luck, went back inside.
Writing up her night’s observing occupied the next morning. When she took a break and went to the commons to fetch a drink, she was surprised to hear high laughter coming from beyond the curtained doorway. When she stepped through she was even more surprised at its source.
Captain Sorne sat on the rug-covered floor with two Zekti children; the young sons of fellow guests. The three of them were arranging Mam Jekrey’s horn beakers and plates into a rough square, beakers at the corners, plates forming the sides. One of the boys looked up and said proudly, “We’re building a manor house.”
“So I see.” Rhia swallowed. “Actually, I need one of those beakers, please.”
“I think we can spare one, can’t we, boys?” said Sorne with a smile.
The boy who had spoken nodded; his younger brother picked up a beaker and held it out to her. When Rhia took it, she looked Sorne in the eye. “This is… good of you.”
“The boys’ parents needed some time alone and I’ve no appointments until later.”
“Yes. So I see.” If he was not busy he could have offered to show her around. No: she would not get angry at him, no matter how frustrated she felt. He was not here to
serve her.
But the unexpected moment of domesticity left her too restless to return to her room. At home she might seek out the comfortable disdain of her cats, but most Zekti did not appear to keep pets; the practice of caging songbirds which Meddler of Zekt had written of, and which Alharet favoured, must be restricted to the nobility. She ventured back out to the courtyard, where Mam Jekrey’s two maids were hanging out more washing. She sat on a bench in the fitful sunlight, pretending to doze in what she hoped was a non-suspicious manner, though she kept her ears open, listening, in the absence of other diversions, to the maids’ gossip.
She also considered her unease. She had not, until now, thought about the soldiers’ lives, and family situations. Were they missing their wives, their children?
She had never played with Etyan like Sorne played with those children. She had never once sat on the floor and made a mess with him. She wondered if she might, one day, play with children of her own. It was not a strong desire and the idea of Mercal Callorn as a father made her frown. But regret for lost chances added another strand to the tangled ball of emotions lodged in her chest. There had been good reasons for not playing with Etyan, of course: their age difference; the constant presence of nurses and nannies; the fact that he had been more than capable of making a mess all by himself. But she could not escape the thought that Captain Sorne had been more at ease with these strangers than she had been with her own brother.
That evening she reached a decision. While listening to the maids’ chatter, she had overheard something interesting. Over dinner she said to the soldiers, “There is a market tomorrow, two squares across from here. I need more ink so I will be visiting it.”
Sorne’s lips twitched. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“It would not be wise to go alone.”
“Our hostess thinks it would. Nonetheless I will accept an escort.”
Breen chimed in, “I’m free in the morning.”
Sorne nodded heavily. “In that case we may be able to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Meaning?” asked Rhia.
Sorne’s gaze flicked to their hostess, who was chatting to the Zekti family two tables away. “I’ll explain later.”
Chapter 32
The meeting was not accidental; Sadakh knew that much. Coincidence was rare on the Eternal Isle.
He had arrived via the causeway from the priory, alone save the permitted servitor, actually a bodyguard in clerical robes. By the time they had passed through the eastgate and climbed the first set of steps they had acquired an entourage: four court guards and a pair of administrators, one of whom insisted on briefing Sadakh on the caliarch’s current disposition.
The party coming the other way was smaller, just two guards flanking the prince.
They met in an open-sided cloister. The wall to the right was covered in faded murals depicting the deeds of whichever previous caliarch had built or renovated this section of the palace. To the left, staff trimmed low hedges in a terrace garden. Beyond, the clotted mass of islands which made up the rest of the city lay hazy in the low evening Sun.
On entering the cloister, Sadakh noted the number and disposition of the gardeners: three, all carrying diamond-bladed handsaws which could serve as weapons. All, apparently, engrossed in their work.
Prince Mekteph’s party descended the steps at the far end of the cloister and stopped. The prince waited for Sadakh’s group to approach, then, as a laconic afterthought, sketched an obeisance, hand not quite touching his throat, wrist dipping to miss his heart. Studied disrespect at its best.
“Highness.” Sadakh clipped the word.
“Holiness.” Prince Mekteph mirrored the eparch’s curt intonation.
He wants you to know he watches you whenever you set foot on the Isle.
His ghost was right: Sadakh was in dangerous territory.
“I understand you experienced some disruption at your most recent initiation ceremony.” The prince did a passable imitation of concern.
In his head, his ghost laughed, a delicate cadenza of triumph. Sadakh said, “Yes. Unfortunate, though easily dealt with.”
The prince’s guards tensed. Sadakh felt the change in his own entourage. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the gardeners straighten. Could this be the moment civilized deception was swept away, and open conflict broke out? Sadakh, weighing up the pieces in play, the failsafes in place and the current odds, judged it unlikely.
Apparently oblivious of the building tension around him Prince Mekteph enquired, “How go things, generally?”
The prince’s concern worried him. His ghost voiced his doubts: How much does he know? About the experiment, she meant.
“Things go very well, Highness.” Sadakh smiled, “As I am sure they do with you. However, I shan’t detain you further. I imagine you have important business to attend to, and I would not want to keep your uncle waiting.”
Mekteph gave a courtly nod. “Indeed so. The blessings of the day upon you, Eparch.” As the prince swept past, Sadakh’s bodyguard kept a position which would allow him to block any attack on his master.
Sadakh wondered if the meeting had actually been contrived by the damn court administrators, setting the two sides against each other, seeing how the field stood. Sometimes he wondered if they weren’t all pawns in the eunuchs’ games. The eunuchs themselves appeared to think so.
The caliarch was in the Hall of Eternal Guardians. As Sadakh climbed the steps to the highest point of the Isle one of the sacred gyraptors circling overhead gave a forlorn cry. It was probably hungry. With no nobles of sufficient rank passing away recently, the birds were reduced to a diet of fish and kitchen waste.
Numak the Seventeenth, lord of the Eternal Isle, Glory of the Ancestors, caliarch of Zekt, was sitting cross-legged at a small table; there was no other furniture in the long hall. On the table was a hand-loom.
“Come in, Holiness!” The caliarch’s voice echoed off the walls.
Coloured lamps hung from the ceiling and lit walls lined with long niches, each containing the jewelled skeleton of a previous caliarch, bedecked in silks and brocade, accompanied by models and images of people and things important to him during life, and posed to recline in perennial, macabre splendour. Two hundred and thirty-six of them, every caliarch who had reigned long and well enough to warrant the dubious honour of remaining tied to the world to watch over his people. To Sadakh’s knowledge no other shadowland employed such a practice, but here it had gone on long enough that the hall had been extended twice.
His bodyguard stayed with the guards at the door. However distasteful Sadakh found this place, it had the advantage that very few were permitted to enter it. The caliarch spent much of his time in the Hall, and Sadakh encouraged him to hold their weekly meetings here where they would not be disturbed or overheard.
The caliarch worked the delicate loom while Sadakh approached. The fabric on the loom was three-quarters finished. It was a design of fish, birds and the noon sky, commissioned from a court artist and woven in priceless gold and silver thread. The caliarch’s hand was steady, although the lamplight revealed the wrinkles and spots blemishing the well-cared-for skin. Numak parked the shuttle and sat back; although he did not stand, he gave a rather fuller obeisance than his nephew had. In return, Sadakh bowed low. “The blessings of the First upon you, Majesty.”
“Sit down, sit down.”
Sadakh obeyed, though he knelt rather than sat, in deference to the presence of a superior. “The piece is almost finished,” he observed as he settled back on his heels. “It will be complete in time for Your Majesty’s birthday celebrations.”
“Quite possibly. Won’t be presenting it at the revels, though. Don’t want to show favouritism to the weavers.” One of Caliarch Numak’s many foibles was a desire to know what his subjects actually did. To this end he had learned to make bread, to brew, even to gut fish. The people loved it. The eunuchs tolerated it, because Numak was their favoured ruler,
and popularity encouraged stability. After the recent misfortunes – natural and manmade – that had divided and reduced the Zekti royal family, the eunuchs were all for stability. Sadakh remained thankful he had backed the right player, however questionable Numak’s sanity might be these days.
“Very wise, Majesty.”
“So, how goes the Great Search?” The caliarch’s emphasis might be comical in other circumstances, but the evasions and euphemisms of court life persisted even up here.
“The news is mixed, Majesty. One of the men died three days ago.”
“Oh dear. So that leaves a man and woman, yes? And their state is unchanged? Any signs of recovery?” Numak searched Sadakh’s face for reassurance.
“They receive the best care my people can give, and are watched at all times.” And guarded, just in case.
“But,” said the caliarch slowly, “is it too soon to know if it works – even if these last two do not die?”
Sadakh heard doubt in the caliarch’s voice, and was quick to quash it. “I am confident, Majesty, that if the essence of the animus can be extracted then its longevity will be passed on.”
The caliarch’s gaze drifted to the niches. “I do it all for them, you know,” he said.
In another time and place this might be the cue for Sadakh’s ghost to chip in, but she was always silent here – or perhaps her voice was lost amongst the myriad of other dead voices Sadakh was not attuned to.
“I know,” replied Sadakh softly. Numak told him often enough. The caliarch’s dream of smashing the decorated skulls to release the trapped spirits of his ancestors was a radical, almost heretical aspiration for which he constantly sought approval from the highest spiritual authority in the land.
The caliarch looked back at Sadakh. “You have all you need.”
“I do. Your Majesty’s generosity is a constant boon.” The eunuchs knew Sadakh was up to something. Perhaps they were even aware of his procurement of dead skykin. But no one person had all the facts. And Sadakh must ensure it stayed that way.
