Court of Fives

by Kate Elliott

  “Do you think they will betray us to Lord Gargaron?”

  “The minds of palace men are closed to me. Whatever happens here, we will be beholden to them and they will demand an accounting. Beware, for they are not generous men.”

  “Are you a generous man, Steward Polodos?” How I wish I could see his expression to judge the worth of his promises.

  Maraya leans a cheek against the bricks as if against his chest. “He is a patient, humble, and courageous man.”

  “Doma Maraya, I do not deserve such praise, and especially not from you, for I have done nothing to aid you when you were most in need.”

  Maraya tilts her head as she does when she is blushing. “You are here now. That is all that matters.”

  The march of the priests on their morning rounds nags at my ears so I break into their cooing. “Sing the offering prayers so the priests won’t be suspicious. After that you can come around to the oracle’s alcove and talk to Merry.”

  I hear him tap his chest twice, just as if my father had given the order. He intones the ritual prayer. “‘Oh merciful dawn, light of justice, rise over the pure waters of the afterlife. Slake the thirst of the just as they pass through the curtain between this life and the other world.’”

  The rope pulley scrapes, and a lacquered box appears from under the wall in the offering trough. I open it to find a feast of delicacies pleasingly arranged in decorated bowls and cups: ripe figs, chopped dates, almonds, walnuts rolled in honey and seeds, bread and barley beer, a wholesome lentil stew, and poached fish garnished with ginger. Polodos prays loudly for the judge in the court of the dead to bring a judgment of peace for all who are good-hearted and diligent.

  We take the tray to the oracle’s chamber. Amaya is still curled on the bed but sits up eagerly. The baby is nursing. Cook has wrapped Mother’s hair in a band of linen to keep it out of the way.

  “Figs are your favorite, Doma.” Cook presses a fig into Mother’s hand, but Mother lets it drop and sags listlessly.

  “The lentil stew smells delicious,” Cook says more desperately.

  “Let me.” Cook makes way so I can sit down. “Mother, you must eat so your milk will come in.”

  “Jessamy? Is that you?” She regards me as if she cannot quite recall who I am. Raising a hand she touches my face but after a moment slumps back.

  I hold her hand, shocked by how weak she is.

  Cook murmurs, “Ever since Captain Esladas left she has fallen farther into this cloud of confusion. There is a black dog on her shoulders eating into her head.”

  “We have to get her out of here,” I say, but when I look at the air shaft my courage wilts.

  Having finished his prayers, Polodos comes around to kneel in the oracle’s alcove, where he can without suspicion pretend to be asking for a sliver of wisdom or a glimpse into his future. Maraya boldly sits on the oracle’s stool. The gap in the wall is just wide enough to slide a hand through. She reaches in. I pretend not to hear their whispered declarations.

  Amaya snivels about her aching belly as she gorges on figs and dates and bread.

  “If your belly hurts maybe you shouldn’t eat so much,” I say.

  “But I’m hungry!”

  I turn away to see Coriander eyeing the food.

  “Eat what you want, and afterward feed the oracle.”

  “Why should we feed her?” she objects.

  “It isn’t fair she be punished for what others did to us. Gag her after so she can’t call out to the priests.”

  Getting food into Mother takes half the morning. Never in my life has Mother not nursed others, coaxed smiles out of tears, and settled every sour dispute in the household. She made Father laugh and encouraged him to sing in his melodious voice. She convinced him to give us rides on his back when we were little. When we were older she flattered him into tutoring us in reading and writing. By such means he, a man without sisters whose mother died when he was young, got to know his daughters.

  Now her bloody smell permeates the chamber. It stinks like the life draining out of her. When she closes her eyes I press a hand to her chest to make sure she is sleeping, not dead. I am so afraid she will die and be buried in this Saroese tomb forever. She doesn’t belong here. We girls have never belonged in the Patrons’ world, although we pretended we did. The harsh truth surfaces like a sea serpent rising out of the ocean to devour proud ships sailing the wide water.

  As Polodos makes his farewells I interrupt. “How soon is Lord Kalliarkos coming?”

  “Doma, I do not know. One day? Two days? More? I will bring an offering tray every day until you are free.”

  Mother could be dead in two days!

  Coriander stands under the air shaft, a hand on the rope. “You are so sure your Patron lord will help you, yet here we still are,” she says with an ugly laugh.

  “I would like to see you do better!”

  Cook looks between us and briskly says, “Come hold your sister, Doma Jessamy. What a sweet mouth she has.”

  I cradle the baby in my arms. She closes her eyes with a sigh that brings a little bubble to her precious lips. Her tiny face squishes up, and her belly makes a sound as she expels a load of soft waste into her linen wrapping. Cook chuckles and takes her away. We will have to ask Polodos to smuggle in fresh cloth. But what will we do with the soiled cloth? Word will get out to Lord Gargaron that people are alive in Ottonor’s tomb. A priest will hear the baby cry. The priests have to be Gargaron’s accomplices. As long as we are trapped in here we are at their mercy.

  My agitated thoughts propel me as I pace the limits of our world: three chambers, the offering and waste troughs, a few slits for air, and the stone bier with the coffin on top. A sweetening scent of putrefaction has begun to germinate within the coffin, blending with the musky odor of the many amulets and magic-sewn sachets hung around the sealed wooden lid.

  “Jes, you must eat and rest too,” says Maraya. “You’re no good to us if you get weak.”

  I crouch beside her, forcing myself to eat. “What will you do when we get out?”

  “Take care of Mother,” she says. “We will leave the city and start anew elsewhere.”

  “What about the Archives exam?”

  “Without Lord Ottonor to sponsor me I can’t sit the exam.” She grabs hold of my forearm. “Can you truly get us out, Jes? Polodos says so but he wants it so much that I think he is just trying to make the misery endurable.”

  I whisper into her ear. “I can get you and Coriander and Amaya out. But Cook and Mother won’t fit in the shaft, not unless they lose a great deal of flesh.”

  Merry begins crying. “I can’t leave her, Jes. I couldn’t bear it.”

  My face must look like Father’s did as he stared into the truth of Lord Gargaron’s offer. “We won’t abandon either of them. But Mother’s lost so much blood. We have to consider the worst. Can you raise the baby, if need be?”

  She leans against me, weeping silently.

  Arm around her, I hold her close until she falls asleep. I shut my eyes. The wind moans down the shaft like a harbinger of death. Slowly its wail quiets as the breeze drops outside. The tomb’s presence enfolds me. My awareness walks along its walls, tapping for the best place to anchor my thread. Another presence nags at me, a niggle of sound. Fingers are scratching again.

  Probably it is just rats, although that is bad enough. I shift away from dozing Merry and tiptoe to the arch. The dim light hazes the chamber. The bier shudders as in a slight earthquake but I feel no rumble through my feet. Rubbing my eyes, I decide I am imagining things.

  With a soft thump the coffin jolts a fingerbreadth sideways, and I jump back, slamming into the wall. My heart beats like a riot as my shoulders throb from the impact. Lord Ottonor’s flesh is going to shove its way out of the coffin and stumble around the tomb groping and grabbing.

  “Merry, light the oil lamp now,” I say. “Cook, give me the knife.”

  What if the spark the priests stole for Ottonor’s funeral p
rocession was that of a criminal, and the criminal’s shadow has wandered the night until it has reunited with its familiar spark? What if it means to claw its way out of the coffin to find living flesh in which to make a new home?

  Coriander steps up beside me, lamp in one hand and knife in the other. “What is it, Doma?”

  The coffin jerks so hard that it slides partway off the bier.

  Coriander yelps.

  Whom will I sacrifice to slow its blind rage?

  I grab my dead brother off the oracle’s lap. His dead flesh must be my shield against a walking corpse whose shadow might want to leap into my body, as it is said shadows can do. Let it jump into his flesh instead! He can’t be harmed.

  “Maraya, light the other lamp! Coriander, move to my right.”

  A wick hisses as a second lamp takes flame behind me. Maraya steps into the archway with a burning lamp. “What is it? What did I hear?”

  With a grind and a snap the entire top of the stone bier bursts up.

  A breath of cold hard air swirls out and then the stone lid slams down, too heavy to stay up.

  We all scream.

  The coffin slides, topples, and crashes to the floor. The seals crack, and the lid jumps open. Lord Ottonor’s waxy corpse sprawls over the mess of bloody shrouds.

  “Jes!” Maraya’s voice is a breath short of a shriek. “Get back from there. A shadow is trying to crawl out of him.”

  Coriander mutters curses or prayers; I can’t tell the difference, only that her voice is frantic.

  My breathing comes in staggered pants as I edge forward holding my brother in front of me. The lamplight throws shadows across the chamber, distorted by our figures. A long, grasping shadow oozes out of Ottonor’s flesh but that is surely only the angle of the light.

  The corpse’s fingers twitch as the body splays farther forward. A dead hand grabs for my leg.

  “Jes!” Maraya screams.

  I sprawl onto my buttocks, shoving with my feet to get away. The coffin heels over sideways and the corpse rolls toward me. Fingers drag down my ankle. His skin is cold, and yet a warm pulse throbs against my leg. I screech, drop the dead infant on top of the corpse, and scramble backward. My breath is coming in such ragged bursts that my sight blurs.

  With a crack the top of the bier heaves open to reveal a maw of darkness.

  “Get everyone back!” I cry as I look wildly around for a weapon, but Coriander and the knife are out of reach. Maraya holds out the lamp. Fire is better than fear. I grab it as I jump to my feet.

  A muscled arm hooks over the rim of the stone bier, and tries to heave itself out of its stone cage. The arm sports five parallel white scars below the elbow, like a savage’s. An unspeakable creature is alive in here, and we are trapped with it.

  It speaks in a man’s voice, in the language of Efea’s Commoners.

  “Curse it, Kori! Can you spare an arm to help me out of this cursed shaft before I fall and break my neck?”

  “Ro!” Coriander shoves past me and grabs the arm.

  Shaking with shock, I grab her from behind around the hips and use my weight to help lever him up. His head emerges, his chest, and he heaves himself over the rim. I let go of her.

  She throws her arms around him, sobbing. “I was afraid I would die in here!”

  He kisses her cheek but looks over her shoulder at me. It takes me a moment to recognize the young man from the marketplace because all his hair has been shaved off, but his broad shoulders and intense eyes are the same, as is his insulting tone.

  “If it isn’t the sullen schemer, just as promised,” he says in Saroese. “However did you get a lordly princeling to do your bidding, mule?”

  “Who is this, Jes?” Maraya asks.

  “Coriander’s brother. I guess his name is Ro.”

  “His name is Ro-emnu.” Coriander glares at me as she scrubs the tears off her cheeks. “You aren’t his kinswoman, to call him Ro.”

  “I thought you were exaggerating when you said they call you Coriander,” he says to her, switching back to Efean. “As if you are a plant.”

  I arch an eyebrow sarcastically, replying in the same language. “I believe Ro-emnu has forgotten he is here to help us escape. Instead he means to while away the time with contemptuous argument.”

  His mouth quivers as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or sneer.

  I stare back, unwilling to give way.

  “Ro!” whines Coriander. “Please, I want to get out of here before something worse happens.”

  From under hooded lids he glances at Maraya’s twisted foot, face so impassive I almost want to thank him. “Bring the light in here, if you will, Doma.”

  Maraya hangs the lamp from a hook over the bier.

  “Where can we anchor the rope?” He shrugs off a pack that looks to be stuffed with a rope and harness.

  “We’ll have to lower everyone down by hand,” I say. “How did you get up here from inside the earth?”

  “There is an entire complex of old Efean buildings buried underneath your Saroese City of the Dead.”

  “I never read of that in the Archives!” Maraya retorts.

  “Why would the Saroese Archivists write of what they wanted no one to know, Doma?”

  She nods slowly, a gesture that angers me, for it seems she is actually considering his explanation. “It is a worthwhile argument that the Archives can only record what the chronicler writes down. But then how do you know of this buried complex? You are not an Archivist.”

  “Who do you think was forced to bury the old complex five generations ago with rubble and dirt, Doma? Who built the tombs afterward? Patrons? No, they called the work unclean and corrupting, which really means it is too backbreaking and difficult. Efeans build all that your father’s people will not touch. Our masons’ guild knows of the existence of ancient buildings beneath the tombs, but they fear the underground spaces.”

  “We can’t go down there!” Amaya appears in the archway looking very like an ethereal sky spirit only half-tethered to earth and likely to float up into the heavens at any instant. Her hair is tangled all loose over her shoulders. The linen sheath gown hugs her shapely curves like it was tailored to her. She looks so beautiful and frightening that Ro-emnu actually takes a step back as his eyes widen. “Denya’s nurse says there are monsters and shadows hiding beneath the tombs that want to eat us! We mustn’t go!”

  My relief at seeing Amaya able to walk sweeps me with a wave of inexplicable anger. “You are welcome to stay here in the tomb because I don’t have the energy to coax you out!”

  “Don’t leave me, Jes!” Amaya begins to weep, not with the theatrical sobs she would often use to get her way but with exhausted hopeless tears.

  “I didn’t mean it!” I hurry over and embrace her. She sags into my arms. “We won’t leave you, Amiable. Anyway we have to get you out of here because you desperately need a bath.”

  She wipes mucus from her running nose and shakes with laughs that are also sobs. “I’ll never eat candied almonds again!”

  “I doubt that,” mutters Maraya, but she smiles just a little to hear Amaya’s complaints.

  “Lord Kalliarkos told me the offering was poisoned,” says Ro-emnu, watching us. “Is that true?”

  Amaya draws herself up with a pose stolen from the theater, popularly called ‘the Glare of Disdain.’ Even grimy and sick, she is quite magnificent. “For what other possible reason might you think to discover me in such dishevelment?”

  “Don’t say it, Ro,” says Coriander so suddenly that her defense of Amaya surprises all of us into silence, including her brother.

  In the distance we hear horns trumpeting to announce the temple gates’ opening.

  “We have to hurry!” says Maraya. “The High Priest will make his customary third-day visit to the new tomb. That’s us! He’ll demand a prophecy from the oracle.”

  Ro-emnu shakes out a harness and beckons to Coriander. “Little sister, you go first.”

  “No!” I objec
t. “Let the others go first, and her after.”

  “Don’t you trust me, Doma?” The lazy way he pronounces the title makes me want to punch him.

  “Sullen schemers never trust anyone, not if we want to succeed.”

  Unexpectedly he laughs. “I would demand the same were our positions reversed. Very well.”

  I uncurl my fists. “We need her strength to lower people down. Merry first, with the baby.”

  He glances at his sister, then at the door as Cook moves into view holding my baby sister.

  At the sight of the baby his sneer vanishes and he actually drops the harness from sheer shocked surprise. “Blessed Lady! Bad enough that your monstrous priests bury women alive but to condemn a newborn child to this hateful prison! My apologies for doubting you, Doma,” he finishes with so much gentleness that I blink. But he is speaking to Merry, not to me. Or maybe he is under Amaya’s spell, because she leans against the wall, studying him from under half-closed eyes.

  Despite his generous words, Cook measures him with obvious suspicion.

  I lean over the open bier. Its smooth-sided shaft is not too different from the air shaft that ventilates this tomb, except it will fit Mother and Cook. Light gleams below.

  “Lord Kalliarkos?”

  His voice echoes oddly along the shaft. “Jes? You can’t believe what’s down here! It’s like a vast tomb of old chambers, ones marked with mysterious writing.”

  His breathless tone annoys me as I struggle to comprehend that all this time I never suspected the truth. Why didn’t I ask my father what happened to the remains of the old Efean kingdom after the Saroese took over a hundred years ago? A cool earthy breath exhales out of the depths, touched with a flavor like dusty cinnamon that spices my tongue. For a wild instant I wonder if this is the scent of the stories my mother’s people told.

  With the baby bound around her, Merry bravely steps into the harness. Coriander, Ro-emnu, and I lower her down.

  “Shouldn’t you be frightened, Doma?” says Ro-emnu, looking at me as he hauls up the empty harness. “We are about to descend into a place haunted by the restless dead slaughtered by your father’s people long ago.”