When Rushes was passing a mosaic of Pomegra, done in jade and amber, the lantern light flickered up and down the long corridor as if buffeted by a strong wind she could not feel. The guards outside Nessaket’s room murmured to one another, hands on their weapons, eyes sharp. Rushes didn’t like to be near the guards when they were tense-it was then that they reminded her of Gorgen-so instead of trying to move past them she turned in a slow circle, looking up and down the corridor lined with bright paintings and sparkling tiles. She thought she saw someone fair and slim stepping back into a shadowed niche, so she called out, “Hello?” No answer came; one of the guards, a grey-haired, burly man, leaned that way and said, “Hey, there!”
Still there was no answer. Rushes took one step, then another, towards the niche, cautious of the guards, cautious of whoever was hiding there. But the niche lay empty. She looked from the pointed arch to the carpeted floor. Nobody was there.
A scream rang out from the other end of the hall, causing the guards to curse under their breath and draw their weapons at last, but they would not leave Nessaket’s door. Their job was to guard little Daveed, not protect the other women. There were others, stationed outside the heavy gilded entrance, for that. Just as they took defensive stances the concubine named Banafrit came running down the long red carpet. “It’s Irisa!” she cried, “Her colour…”
In moments the corridor filled with a dozen or more women, all of them perfumed, bangled, their lips every shade from pink to blood-red, all moving towards where Irisa lay near a gurgling fountain, and Rushes was pulled along with them, stumbling, her shoulders knocked by their elbows. Irisa was shown to her in parts, through the bend of an arm or the narrow space between two concubines-an arm, a hint of a cheek, the end of her flowing hair. And all of her was white, faded, the colour of a pretty dress left out in the sun too long.
Sickness. Rushes backed away, the stone turning in her pocket. The pattern had begun with just one person and spread, until they all became the tools of its Master. She would not fall victim to another plague. She put in her hand to keep it the stone from falling and it was so hot that it burned her fingers; it had turned against her, just as she feared. She backed away, into the soft silks of one of the concubines.
“Watch where you’re going!” the woman snapped, pushing her away by the shoulder, speaking with the tones of the north, like Marke Kavic or his priest.
“I…” Rushes turned and looked at her, at her pale skin and hair, at the turquoise silk draped from her shoulder. Three other women stood by her, each one just as beautiful, and indignant on her behalf. But Rushes’ eyes were drawn back to the woman who had pushed her, for she was the woman from the Ways, and Rushes knew her name. She was the one who everyone whispered about, who had made love with Emperor Sarmin. Jenni.
Turn away. Turn away. The Many would have told her how to protect herself, to pretend. But instead she stood and stared, and understanding dawned in Jenni’s eyes. She had not heard Rushes behind her in the Ways- that was impossible. She would have given some sign. And yet she knew.
Rushes ran, dodging between the fine ladies and past the paintings and fountains to Nessaket’s room. But there the guards stopped her.
“If there’s disease, we can’t let you in,” said the older one, holding his hachirah across the entryway, the wide steel of his blade catching the light of a thousand gems and gleaming tiles. Brighter than all of them blazed the outline of a person, but it was not Jenni who stood behind her. White and indistinct, the reflection showed no eyes or mouth. It was not part of any painting or tapestry, and not a man but a thing-formed from imagination more than flesh, with arms, legs and a head shaped to trick the eye. As she watched it opened its arms and moved towards her.
She dodged behind the guard.
“Hey, now!” he said, pulling her up by the shoulder of her livery. He had not seen. The ghost had been visible only in the reflection.
“Tell Nessaket,” she said, letting him push her away, “tell Nessaket it was Jenni.” She felt something cold against her legs, something like the feel of snow or cold water, and she readied her feet, obeying that ancient edict, the primary rule of survival. Run. “Tell her!” she repeated, and then she ran.
“Wait,” the old guard called after her, understanding something of her urgency at last, but she only ran faster.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
RUSHES
Rushes had thought herself safe, but now she remembered: the palace was never safe. The snake should have told her that those happy days in the throne room with Beyon had been an illusion, as was everything else that felt soft and comforting. Only his protection was real. She should throw the stone into the abyss as he had asked; she did not want to betray him again.
Getting into the Ways had become more difficult. Since the snake incident most of the exits had been sealed, but she knew of another, forgotten, in an unused corridor. Once inside hurried along the familiar dark paths, making her way to the secret platform where she liked to hide. It was a long way from that platform to the bottom, where rats ran among bones and coins. The stone could go missing there for centuries. She climbed the final stairs and pressed her back against the damp wall, her fingers clenched around it. She should throw it. Now. Maybe if she did as the emperor asked, Irisa wouldn’t be sick and the ghost she had seen would disappear. But it pricked along her fingers like needles, telling her it didn’t want to be lost in the Ways.
She sat on the cold rock, brought her knees up to her chin and held the stone to her forehead. She needed to throw it; she had to throw it. Emperor Beyon had commanded it. And yet her arm would not move. Her fingers wrapped protectively around the smooth edges. Only the emperor’s stone could save itself thus. She remembered the way Beyon had looked from Sarmin’s eyes into hers that night in the dungeon. It was not for her to ask how he could return from the dead, or how he could know so much just from looking. The emperors were near to gods; if nothing else proved it, this did. Surely heaven’s light fell upon them and granted powers a mere slave could not understand.
She held the stone, Beyon’s stone, a thing of power and intelligence. A longing to return to the oubliettes, where she had first seen it, filled her mind. Those night-filled corridors called to her the same way as her memories of the plains, heart to heart. They called her home.
A trick; it was not safe there. It could not be safe. But no place is safe. She stood, tucked the stone into her pocket and moved down, tracking a path to the halls behind the Little Kitchen. Nobody moved through the Ways this night. Ever since Helmar these passages had become a shortcut for those who lived in the palace, even with many exits blocked. No matter where Rushes stood, she could always hear someone else moving, even if it were far in the distance. Guards patrolled, servants carried messages and nobles sneaked to one anothers’ rooms. But on this night the dark stairs and bridges lay forgotten. She hurried her steps.
She took a breath of relief once she exited into the bright corridor and began the short walk to the dungeon stairs, slowing her steps. If the guards heard running they might come to see what was the matter, and then there would be questions. The stone felt warm in her pocket, pleased that she had chosen the dungeon. But it would not be easy. Nothing was ever easy. A man approached from the other end of the corridor, moving fast. He would meet her before she could dash down the steps, and so she slowed, hiding her destination. As he drew closer she recognised Mylo. She felt no pleasure in seeing his handsome face, his easy smile. She did not want to be alone with any man, in a pantry, a hallway or anywhere else.
“Our little Rushes,” he said, “Where have you been?”
“I work for the empire mother, now,” she said, looking around. Mylo had a gentle manner, but she was frightened nevertheless.
“Really? And the little prince?”
Not wanting to talk about Daveed she asked a question. “When is your next meeting?”
“It’s…” A noble wrapped in a dark cloak approached, and they bowe
d until he had passed. “…tomorrow night, if you can make it. After lanterns’ turning.”
Lanterns’ turning was no longer a time of day that Rushes understood; the women’s halls were always lit, even in the middle of the night. Bright and safe. She moved her shaking hand from her mouth and nodded, nevertheless, her feet already moving.
Mylo smiled again. She wondered if anything could put a frown on his face in its place. “Will you be there?” Behind him she saw a flash of red; the Fryth priest was skulking along the corridor, keeping to the shadow of doorways, as if he needed to hide, as she did. Were he and Mylo together?
She backed away. “Maybe,” she said, “I have to go.” She turned, anxious to leave the priest behind her, but Mylo called, “Wait!” and she stopped.
“Did you hear they killed the envoy?”
She stared at him. “No. Who did?” She remembered the Fryth man and his kindness. She thought he was one man she would have liked to know.
“The silk-clad,” he said, as if it were obvious, and all silk-clad were the same. “Remember the secret signal.” He drew his finger across his chin. “Mogyrk will claim the palace soon.”
Rushes did not understand him. She hurried on towards the dungeon, reaching the stairs and passing through the doors with no further incident. The dungeons were better lit this time, and filled with the combined scents of night-jars and rotten meat. Rushes descended the stairs, keeping an eye to the room at the base. It was a shorter climb than she remembered. The luck stone vibrated against her leg; it could sense that it was almost home. Men were talking, and women too, and the lower she climbed the louder it was, a babble of voices, like the market, or the slaves’ hall on a festival day. Two steps from the bottom she stopped and peered around the edge. There were no guards in this room, though she could see a man in the room beyond, his back to her. She lifted her skirts and rushed across to the cells.
They were full. Each contained three or more people-dirty, hungry, stinking, they clutched at the bars and begged her in their own language. She did not understand them, did not know whether they needed food, water, or just a glance, a touch, to let them know they still existed, and could still be heard. Tears came to her eyes as she stopped before a little girl, just a few years her junior, red-haired and blue-eyed, her hands clutching the bars. “Where are you from, little girl?”
The girl stared at her without understanding. Of course. She had been speaking Cerantic. She asked the same question in Fryth, or tried, but the girl still did not answer.
Rushes moved on, hesitating at the turn, facing the long, empty hallway that led to the oubliettes. She could not remember which one it was. The stone twisted and warmed in her pocket. As she walked, the prisoners called to her, still begging from where they stood packed together in the corridors behind. She counted to fifteen. The Many always had been divided into five, and three was her favourite number, the number of times to hit a stone for good luck or walk in circles for a blessing. Three fives is fifteen. Fifteen is the number of the first priests of Mogyrk. Fifteen is how many days it took Mogyrk to die. The Many had known this, but she had not remembered. Not until now. She stopped before the fifteenth cell.
The door was made of wood, but a little window had been cut through and fitted with a grill. Rushes couldn’t reach it the opening, even standing on tiptoe, but she found an old pail, turned it upside down and climbed up. Inside sat a woman, all alone, shoulders drawn up against the cold. She was old, older than Sahree even, skin sagging over her eyes, wrinkles hiding the flesh of her lips. Her spine curved and her knees stuck out, bony and swollen at once. She turned to Rushes and pointed towards her with a hand that had become a claw.
“The stone,” she said, “you have the stone.”
Rushes felt the trembling at the core of herself. “You know about the stone?”
The old woman shuffled to the door. “Put two hundred years behind you and you’ll realise we none of us know anything. But I feel the stone. I see it. More clearly than I see you, child. He made it. Helmar. And once upon a time he was mine.”
Rushes drew it from her pocket and hissed at the heat of it. She nearly threw it at the old woman, so much did she want to get rid of it. How a stone could know things, make itself warm, she did not understand. The mages of the Tower used elementals for their magic, borrowing power from another place and time. This stone thought for itself, behaved for itself. She pushed it through the grill; it was nearly too large to fit.
The woman cradled it between her palms, cupping it like a child might hold a mouse or a chick. The stone, searing in Rushes’ grip, did not bother the woman at all. “Oh, yes,” she said, nodding to herself, “yes. Meg has you. Meg has you.”
Rushes backed away. The need to leave the stone behind, to leave the old woman and the Fryth prisoners, overcame her.
“Girl!” shouted Meg, pointing at her again, and she froze. “You must take it back.” Her stare held Rushes, a communion of a kind as if the two of them were Many, rich with emotion, each conflicting the next.
“I can’t. I brought it here as I was supposed to, and now…”
“Take it. It is in the design that you will. His design. Be brave. Take what comes.” She held out the stone to Rushes, her arm thin as a stalk of cat-grass. Rushes stepped forward and accepted it, tears running down her face. “It’s all right to cry,” said the old woman, “I know you’re scared. But it’s the emperor’s stone, now. He needs it.”
“I can’t…” She remembered what Beyon had said to her on the balcony, using Sarmin’s lips: He wants this, and I can’t let him have it. He had meant his brother. The emperor.
The stone had turned cold and lay inert in Rushes’ hand. “Take it,” said Meg. “Be strong. You can be strong. We’re none of us one thing.”
Rushes wiped her tears and put the stone in her pocket. “You’re from Fryth?”
“I’m from Mythyck, girl, but as far as they’re concerned I’m from Fryth.”
“Is there fighting there? War?”
“There was blood and fire and hangings and all of it. But there is much worse to come. All this horror these children think is so important… and it’s all just a dance on a knife edge none of them can see. Now go on, girl, before I drop dead and can’t do anything more for anyone. Tell the emperor I know who put it here in the oubliette. Remember to say oubliette. It rhymes with forget. Now go on. Go!”
Rushes hurried to the Ways, past the prisoners, past the dark corners, past a thousand other stones that looked like stones but could be anything else, could trick a person and change into something with a will. She would need to get past a great many soldiers to speak with the emperor, and she would not know whether it was Sarmin or Beyon until they spoke. If it were Beyon she found, he would be angry; he did not take disobedience and betrayal lightly. He had kept his promise to her, though violently; but she would fail him.
And yet that was not really Beyon, the Beyon who was sad and kind as well as angry. The Beyon who hid inside his brother had left parts of himself in heaven, she thought; perhaps the rest of him stood with Mirra even now, urging her to help his brother. She thought maybe that was so.
CHAPTER THIRTY
SARMIN
“Who could have done this thing?” Only Sarmin and his vizier stood upon the steps of the dais, and the throne room lay empty save for the ever-present guards. Lit in haste, only one in three of the many lamps sconced along the walls held a flame and the room ran with shadows. Sarmin paced, unable to sit, and Azeem followed, careful always to be a step lower. “Who?” Sarmin could think of a list a yard long, the person who brought the snake to Daveed at the head of it and himself close behind.
“Why is the question that may answer who, my emperor, and more importantly will give us the hand behind whatever knife was used.”
Sarmin found himself looking at his own hand, sore from tearing at the ropes that bound him in his sleep. The image of Kavic lying twisted in his blood on a patterned rug returned to hi
m. How could he see it if he were not there? But then he had been absent witness to so much of late.
“There is a question still more pressing than that of guilt, my emperor,” Azeem said. The jewels on his robe of office caught the lamp light, returning it in deep reds. Had Tuvaini worn that robe? One like it but not that one-Tuvaini had been a much taller man.
“My emperor?” Azeem waited at his elbow.
“What question, Vizier?”
“The question of how to proceed. Can the peace be kept despite what has happened? What should be done with this Fryth austere? Can he speak in the envoy’s place? What line might he take? Austere Adam is said to be a zealot. He may prefer to see Fryth burn for the chance it might set Yrkmir against Cerana, and count every death in Mondrath a new martyr for his faith.”
Sarmin returned to the Petal Throne. “They will see that a peace can’t stand or fall on the death of one man.” He nodded, finding comfort in agreeing with himself. “This Iron Duke of theirs… Mala… Malast?”
“Malast Anteydies Griffon, my emperor.”
“This duke must be able to see that two cut throats don’t require ten thousand more to die in his streets, Fryth and Cerani both.”
“It’s not the death of one man, though I understand the Duke favoured his grandson Kavic. The envoy carried Fryth’s pride with him. To have him murdered abed in the imperial palace is to wound the pride of every man of Fryth. Wars have been fought for far smaller injuries to men’s pride.”
Sarmin remembered Kavic speaking of the man, of his humiliation at the hands of Yrkmir. He watched the shadows flicker and play. He wanted Mesema at his side. The throne was a lonely place. Even his mother would have had good council. “So we need to heal this wound.” And how can pride be repaired? Sarmin had no idea; his room had not armed him with such talents. “Shall I call priest Assar to work one of Mirra’s cures?”
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