At the bottom of the stair, Aumh, Ojin-mar, and He-Who-Watches stood waiting. As autumn had strode inexorably onward, the butterflies had stopped coming to flutter in Aumh’s fern-like fronds, the lush greenery that sprouted from her head and temples turning copper, now dusted with white as winter drew nearer. The flowers that once grew had fallen, leaving tiny brown seedpods. He-Who-Watches silently observed Indris’s approach, his almost translucent eyes disconcerting against his dark, tattooed skin, his taloub loose about his neck.
Indris was led into a small anteroom with a single door leading out to the Master’s Round. Through the door he could see the assembled Masters in their black cassocks, precious metals and gems for buttons. The Masters made their way to seats on tiers that stepped up and away from the open space at the base of the Round.
“What’s this?” Indris asked Ojin-mar. “I thought I was coming here to have questions answered?”
“In a way,” Aumh said with equanimity. The tiny Y’arrow woman poked her head out the door, then gestured for her fellow Masters to enter. She turned to Indris. “Raise your hood and don’t let our guests see you. Look, listen, and learn. But under no circumstances are you to reveal yourself. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Hmmm,” Aumh murmured. She gestured for Ojin-mar to take Indris to quiet seats where he would not be noticed.
The Master’s Round was a tiered well of black marble, each tier set with high-backed wooden chairs, all lacquered midnight. The domed ceiling featured a leaf-and-vine mosaic, from which hung a large ilhen lamp like an inverted orange and yellow ziggurat. There were faces from among the gathered Masters that Indris recognized, though more were unknown to him.
The first tier of the Round had ten chairs with black silk cushions on the seat, and glowing witchfire crescents rising from the carved wooden backs. Of the nine Masters who sat there, Indris recognized Femensetri, Aumh, and He-Who-Watches. The tenth chair was left vacant for Kemenchromis, the Arch-Scholar and Master Magnate of the Sēq Order who dwelled in Pashrea with the Empress-in-Shadows.
“Where’s Zadjinn?” Indris asked. “I expected him to be all over me like a cheap robe, but he’s not shown his face.”
“Zadjinn, and those Dhar Gsenni of whom we were aware, didn’t come to Amarqa after the Order was exiled,” Ojin-mar replied. “I suspect they’ll appear again when it’s most inconvenient for us. They were always the most secular of the factions within the Sēq, and our isolation wouldn’t serve them well.”
“They may be gone, but who’s that?” Indris nodded toward a strange figure, standing apart from the rest of the gathering. From what Indris could see beneath the iridescent cloak, the folds of which hung like wings, and trailed on the floor, the figure was broad shouldered, but lean, wearing baroque armor of interwoven bands and sharp-looking scales. There was no skin to be seen under armor, voluminous cloak, or the spade-shaped, horned, and mirrored mask that covered his face.
Ojin-mar frowned. “Somebody you shouldn’t have seen, and are best forgetting, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I can’t believe you really said that,” Indris murmured. “Let’s assume, just for the sake of argument, that I didn’t understand a word you just said. So…”
“I’m surprised you didn’t give Femensetri a stroke when she was your sahai!” Ojin-mar rolled his eyes at Indris’s expression. “We’ve not done right by you, but I didn’t tell you this, should it ever come to light. The … whatever it is, calls itself the Herald. It, and a few like it, arrived almost seven years ago. It doesn’t say much, but when it talks, the Suret listens.”
“The Herald of what?”
“That’s a bloody good question.”
A low chime sounded and the Masters, some seventy in all—and there were still almost as many empty chairs—quieted themselves. Twin doors of jade-embossed serill opened, and four Sēq Knights and as many armored Iku entered, flanking a smaller group of Shrīanese in silk over-robes that swept the floor as they walked. Their hoods were raised, but Indris could see their heads turning left and right, up and down. The visitors were escorted to the center of the Round, where the guards left them before departing.
Indris recognized the rahns, and frowned at seeing them here.
A vulture-faced Master of the Suret inclined his head toward the visitors, extending his hand, the nails of his long fingers polished ebon. “I am Sēq Magnate Bodekian of the Suret. You have broken your fast and drank of our water, and are safe by all the laws of sende for so long as you remain at Amarqa-in-the-Snows.”
“Tell us,” a portly older man said, “why have you come so far to be heard? Since we were expelled from Shrīan we have had no interest in your affairs.”
One visitor drew back her hood, exposing a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. Rosha was leaner than Indris remembered, almost gaunt. Her complexion had an ashen pall. She gestured to her companions, who revealed themselves to be Nazarafine and Siamak, looking equally worn.
“Masters of the Sēq Order of Scholars,” Rosha began in a cracked voice, “we, the rahns of the Federationist Party, come to you because we need your help.”
“Fah!” Femensetri said sharply. “The Asrahn, and the Teshri, made it perfectly clear the Sēq were no longer welcome in the Shrīanese Federation. I don’t recall you speaking up to change their minds, girl!”
“Awakened rahns are irrelevant,” the Herald said in what sounded like multiple different voices, each echoes of the other. “Only the Mahj, and the mahjirahns, are relevant.” The sepulchral voices sent a chill up Indris’s spine.
Rosha curled her lip at the Herald, but Nazarafine stepped forward before she could speak.
“The Imperialist sayfs control the Lower House of the Teshri.” Her voice was hoarse and wet. “But even they begin to question the wisdom of following too blindly a man who will promise all, and deliver only what suits himself. The Asrahn is supposed to be the keeper of the people, not one who straddles their backs as if they were beasts of burden. Already there are abductions, and threats, and violence in our cities. Cesare, the Speaker for the People, has been assassinated. Your absence has left a great rift. And what the witches have—”
“This is none of our affair,” Sēq Magnate Bodekian said.
“It could be, if you agreed to make it such.” Rosha glared at the old Sēq Master. She gave a great wracking cough that almost doubled her over. Indris rose slightly in his seat, but Ojin-mar held him back, shaking his head.
“How so?” Femensetri asked, leaning forward like a bird of prey, her gaze intent. “And why would we care for the woes of an ungrateful nation?”
Indris’s lips twitched in a smile. Because you miss being the puppeteers, and can’t wait to get your hands on the strings again.
“Corajidin and his colors are not fighting a conventional war,” Siamak said. “This is the precursor to Ajamensût, and we all know it. But rather than House against House, or Family against Family, it will be a civil war of assassins, the likes of which we have not seen in centuries! And there are … creatures among his ranks that baffle us. The witches have brought strange, unsettling allies with them. Corajidin’s forces scour the Rōmarq, digging in the dust for weapons and forbidden knowledge! He has occupied my prefecture, ignores my demands to leave. He tries to provoke a violent response.”
“We are beset on all sides, outnumbered and outmatched.” Nazarafine’s once ruddy skin was sallow, the plump cheeks sunken. “With each day, members of the Great Houses and the Hundred Families go missing. Intimidation has become the norm. And in your absence, self-serving groups have floated to the surface, like the alchemists and artificers, funded by the Banker’s House and organized by the Mercantile Guild.”
“You’ll learn to find your strength where you can.” Bodekian waved away their protests. “We’ve weathered this before.”
“Not this,” the Herald said. “You are unprepared.”
“Corajidin has never been so overt,” Siama
k countered, looking at the Herald nervously. “This is an Asrahn who has folded back his sheets, and let any who would do his bidding climb into his bed.”
“And now,” Rosha added, “we offer a unique opportunity to redress what may have been a serious mistake.”
“Go on,” He-Who-Watches urged.
“Sayf-Ajomandyan, the Sky Lord, is prepared to call for a vote of no confidence in the Asrahn. The Secretary-Marshall and the Arbiter-Marshall are both in accordance. There is growing discontent in the Teshri, and we’re seeing the formation of new political parties that may come to challenge the authority of our traditional leadership.”
“But there’s nothing self-serving about that, is there, girl?” Femensetri’s legs were spread wide in her chair, elbows on her knees as she rested her chin on her fist.
“Of course,” Rosha agreed. “But better to relieve Corajidin of his power too soon than too late. I would not see us descend into war, Femensetri.”
“And who would replace Corajidin?” Bodekian asked.
“I’m the leader of the Federationist Party,” Rosha replied with no attempt at humility. “And I’d respect the Sēq, just as my Ancestors did. After all, were the Näsarat not once counted among your number? My late cousin, Indris—may he know peace in the Well of Souls—was a hero of the Order who died for his people. Can’t we find a common cause?”
Indris was about to stand, when Ojin-mar grabbed his arm.
Femensetri barked a laugh, and He-Who-Watches shot her an irritated glance. The Masters spoke among themselves, the crests of conversations breaking over each other. Indris drew back into the shadow of his hood, seeing the hungry looks on some of the Sēq Masters’ faces. Conversations close by turned to the familiar topics of power and influence, with little regard to the consequences. Indris turned to Ojin-mar, who wore a worried expression.
“When did we lose our way?” Ojin-mar whispered.
“I’ve never known it to be different.” Indris shrugged. “For an Order that’s supposed to serve, educate, and protect, there appear to be quite a few of your colleagues interested in leading, controlling, and manipulating.”
Rosha’s cough sounded wet. Her arms went around her abdomen, and she spat a gobbet of blood and pus into the floor. Drool trailed from her lips as she trembled. By the time she regained her feet, the Round had gone quiet.
“But there is more, isn’t there, girl?” Femensetri strode down, cassock snapping around her legs. The Stormbringer took Rosha by the chin, and stared into her eyes. She turned Rosha’s head this way and that, and felt her pulse. Indris saw the discolored rash revealed when Femensetri rolled up Rosha’s sleeve. The ancient scholar’s mindstone flared darkly, became a whirling vortex that cast deep, sickly shadows across Rosha’s skin. “You, and the others, you’re dying.”
“Yes,” Rosha said simply. She gestured to Siamak and Nazarafine. “We all became sick about a month ago. And it’s getting worse. We need your help, Scholar-Marshall.
Voices rose in hurried conversation as Femensetri gestured for the Sēq Knights and the Iku to take the rahns to the Thaumaturgeon’s Hall, where they could be diagnosed and treated.
The Masters continued to debate their place in the new regime, clutching at the straw Rosha had given them. Even in exile the Sēq had their hands on the fate of the nation, and Indris knew full well that the Sēq let go of nothing lightly.
CHAPTER TWO
“Patience is not a sign of weakness. There comes a time for all things. To watch, to listen, and to learn when that time comes is founded in both strength and wisdom.”
—Bensaharēn, Poet Master of the Lament (493rd Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
Day 53 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
“Erebus’s teeth!” Mari snapped, as Qesha-rē probed the newly knit bones of Mari’s left hand. As much as Mari disliked visiting the surgery, removing the resin-treated bandages that had immobilized her hand was a relief. The hatchet-faced old surgeon’s examination, not quite as pleasant. “For the love of … Are you trying to stab me with your pointy little fingers? Is this what passes for the medical arts where you come from?”
“No,” the surgeon said calmly, ignoring Mari’s swearing as she bent the fingers this way and that, examining the nails and using a needle to jab Mari’s fingertips to make sure no sensitivity had been lost. Qesha-rē’s thin lips twitched as she massaged Mari’s hand. “Why do you think I left Pashrea? A goodly number of Pashreans are Nomads, and already far beyond my ability to heal, even for a Nilvedic surgeon. You, however, are somebody I can treat, and Tamerlan is such a vile and violent place that my skills never atrophy. I dare say you’ll keep me busy for some time to come, unless Nadir, Jhem, or the Dowager-Asrahn decide to give you to the sea.”
“Dowager-Asrahn,” Mari snorted. She took her hand back and shook it, making a fist and opening it over and over again. The fingers were stiff, with little more than a residual ache. Both would pass. The bruising had left the skin, though the hand was pale and thin compared to its counterpart. “That old shark is living on past glories. Don’t know why my father indulges the malignant crone.”
The healer cocked an eyebrow. “That may be so, my dear, but that old shark has her jaws around everything and everybody in Tamerlan, and you’d best not forget it.”
“Including Vahineh.” Especially Vahineh. “I take it she’s still in your care?”
“If you mean is she still in Tamerlan, and is she still alive, then yes. Physically she’s improved, but I’m sorry to say I doubt she’ll ever be in the fullness of her mind.”
“Can you get me into—”
“No.”
“Please, just—”
“Stop asking,” Qesha-rē said flatly. “The Dowager-Asrahn has been quite clear that none, save Jhem, Nadir, or those in their employ, are allowed access to Vahineh. I’m only permitted to ensure she stays alive. Do you know what they’re doing to her?”
Trying to steal her legacy, and have her Awaken the Blacksnake so he, like Father, can be a shadow cast across everything they touch. “I’m not entirely sure. But it can’t be good, whatever it is. I can help her, you know. Help her escape.”
“Like I’ve seen you help yourself escape? Stabbing that old pervert Xerji in the eye with the nail from your bed was my favorite, by the way. Terribly sad he died from infection—”
“Not as sad that Jhem didn’t.”
“No. But, resourceful as you are, you’re on an island in the freezing Southron Sea and the Dowager-Asrahn can make your life even more unpleasant. You may be able to survive what your grandmother does to you. But do you think Vahineh can?”
I’d smother the old bitch in her sleep if I could, Mari thought, though killing her with a blade, so she could see it was me, would be better. “Vahineh has been through enough, but I’m about as frightened of grandmother as you are.”
“I’m terrified of your grandmother.”
Mari chewed her lip, tempted to fall back on her default bravado. The surgeon had already seen Mari at her most vulnerable. Lies did not seem so appropriate. “As am I. But she’ll never know that. I’ll ride her shrieking soul to the Well of Souls like a flogged horse if I have to.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” The surgeon gestured for Mari to strip. Mari scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her body, always fit and lean, was now thin with protruding ribs and hip bones. Her muscles played under skin turned pink from the heat of the bathwater, but also mottled with old bruises, the red lines of welts, and the paler lines of old scars. Her cheekbones pressed against her skin, and her eyes seemed sunken in their orbits.
Qesha-rē walked around Mari. Peering. Poking and prodding and shaking her head. Muttering under her breath at the many wrongs on Mari’s body that offended her. “You’re fortunate to be in as good a condition as you are, given what you do for a living, and your treatment here.”
“Being good at what I do for a living helps.” And having a lover who could
sing mystic lullabies to me, and erase the scars that life has cut into me, then hold me in his arms until I fell asleep. Did Shar and Ekko manage to find you, Indris? I could use some help right about now.
Qesha-rē stood beside Mari, and took her by the elbow. “If you keep defying your grandmother, she’ll—”
“I know.” Mari took a couple of steps closer to give her reflection more substance. She had no intention of fading away in this Ancestors-forsaken pile of rocks on the edge of nowhere. “But if I stay here, I’ll die anyway. I’d rather my end be on my own terms, and maybe give the Dowager-Asrahn some pause. Besides, I may just get off this dung heap.”
Bound-caste servants bustled into the surgery, carrying folded clothes and a small box filled with glass jars. Qesha-rē spared the servants a brief glance, and gave Mari a faint cautionary headshake. Mari knew well enough that her grandmother had ears and eyes everywhere. That lesson had come the hard way when her first escape attempt was betrayed by a fellow imprisoned relative she had foolishly confided in. Nadir and his crew had caught Mari trying to board a wind-galley. She had been dragged back, trussed like a bird for roasting. Her own grandmother had watched, silent and stern, as Nadir had beaten a shackled Mari bloody with a manta ray tail. Mari had fought back when they had released her, splitting Nadir’s lip before they beat her unconscious. That had been Mari’s fourth day on Tamerlan. Breaking the fingers on her hand had simply been the latest of the Dowager-Asrahn’s attempted lessons in obedience.
The Pillars of Sand Page 3
