Scribes

by James Wolanyk

  The last man, presumably the first one Anna had heard speaking, simply watched her from the center of the formation. He wore a cylindrical wicker hat and lacked any visible earlobes, which only made his dark, drooping eyes and black-painted cheeks more conspicuous. His orange robe was similar to the thin man’s, but his hands were shrouded in leather wrappings, much like Anna had seen on the beakmen who handled crows. “Manners,” he said. “How soon will we see it?” His bulbous sigils moved at a crawl.

  The tracker looked at Anna. “When she’s ready.”

  “And what is this?” the thin man said as he looked over Shem, the edge of his lip curling.

  “A droba,” the tracker replied. “An herbman in Malchym sold him to us.”

  The thin man. “You wasted our good salt on that?”

  “Dealings of a different sort,” the tracker said. “Don’t lose sleep over it, Nacek.”

  “The orza should not wait,” Bora cut in.

  The freckled man’s eyes bulged, and again he flashed his crooked smile. “The goddess speaks! We thought you’d never come back to us.”

  “To the orza,” Bora said.

  “So you say, ladna morza.” He gave a lecherous grin, but it was lost on the northerner.

  “Waited long enough on you and your lot, kretin,” the wicker-hatted man grumbled. He turned and made his way to the nearby staircases, muttering curses as he went.

  The thin man, Nacek, sighed and followed at a brisk pace.

  “Much better,” the freckled man said. His eyebrows danced as he looked over Anna once more. “Come, we can walk there together. Maybe talk about those tender little marks on your neck, hmm?”

  “Must be a dozen dancing girls to meet along the way,” the tracker said. “This one has blades.”

  “A touch of pain never dulls the pleasure!”

  “Walk, Josip.”

  Eyes swinging between the tracker and Anna, the man offered a mocking bow and strode away.

  The tracker eventually followed, his fists balled. As Anna kept to his side, absently observing the opulence around her, she considered the three men. They were cruel, stupid men, but perhaps deep in their hearts, they held the same dream as the tracker. Perhaps they could organize the messages, transportation, and the blades needed to retake Rzolka. Perhaps they were powerful enough to grant Anna anything she wished.

  Almost anything, she thought while climbing the tiled staircase.

  They moved through antechambers and along balconies, passing ballrooms and bathing halls and indoor markets with the smell of anise. Passing visitors wore vivid colors and intricate patterns Anna had never fathomed.

  The sight around the corner stunned her.

  Hundreds of bodies, men and women alike, formed a living wall that reached the ceiling and spanned the width of the gateway. They were silent and rigid and smeared in red paint, and with closed eyes and sealed lips, they resembled strands of crimson webbing. They grasped at one another’s ankles and wrists and necks, discernible as living beings only by ripples of breathing. Upon hearing a series of mola shouts from Dogwood guards, the wall’s occupants condensed downward and crept out on painted hands, forming an outlandish diagonal ramp to the upper level of setstone.

  Nacek started up the path immediately, and the living wall held the weight, light though it was, without any indication of strain. His comrades followed.

  “I don’t understand,” Shem whispered at Anna’s side. “The man-skins shall be cherished—”

  “Shut him up,” the wicker-hatted man growled. He cast a hard look over his shoulder before continuing up the living ramp. His steps were sure and forceful, kicking the flesh beneath him.

  As Anna teased her first step onto the ramp—the wrist of a muscular man, its painted surface free of boot prints or scarring—she heard footsteps receding. She spun around to find Bora heading back down the corridor, her slender form reflected on the tiles as if it were a still pond. Several of the soldiers cupped their hands to the backs of their heads as the northerner passed, but none ventured to speak.

  “Chodge, panna,” the tracker said, significantly higher on the ramp. In the palace’s light he appeared more monstrous than ever, covered in his ancient clothing and threadbare mask.

  And yet he was her path to safety.

  Grasping Shem’s hand, Anna ascended the living ramp. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the odors of stale mineral paint and sweat. When she stepped off the flesh and onto setstone, which had been coated with a patina of ivory, she couldn’t help but smile.

  Truly smile.

  Birdsongs filled the air, incense coiled up in ribbons, and light streamed into the chamber through segments of amber glass. Light framed a ring of columns and awnings, and smaller gardens flanked the perimeter of the chamber, filled with pebble bedding and violet rosebuds. Curved windows of emerald and sapphire stained the desert light into something celestial. Trees molded into pregnant mothers, complete with sap-stained and bulging knots, cast shade overhead.

  “Come closer,” a voice cooed from the shadows. It was a woman, assured but comforting, bordering on maternal. Despite masterful river-tongue, her northern roots bled through. “Don’t be shy.”

  Nacek was the first to step onto the pebbled path, still carrying the pleats of his robes at shoulder height.

  “Not you,” the woman said. It was neither comforting nor biting. Even so, it halted the thin man and forced a demure retreat. “Just the girl. This is an important day for her, and she deserves some attention.” She drew in a longing breath. “Proper attention, so to say.”

  All eyes turned on Anna.

  She tucked her gaze low, unwilling to indulge their wicked leering, and stepped onto the pebbles. Rather than scrutiny, she sensed appreciation in the woman’s voice. A breeze threaded through the gardens, chilling the sweat across her skin. Shade fell in long, sweeping blades over the walkway.

  An orza, she thought, stealing cursory glances at the woman and her throne. Perhaps she was more powerful than a bogat, or even a krolgat. The idea was jarring, and as she drew closer, her mouth drying and fingers picking anxiously at slick palms, she wondered what to say. How to stand, how to stare, how to smile. If she should smile.

  Memories of what she’d endured, so recent and yet so far away, arrived between thoughts of decorum. She prayed that her life was like the old stories, where wickedness was the heat that tempered iron, or the darkness before an inevitable sunrise. Where, after so many hardships and trials, those without wickedness in their hearts would be rewarded, and the wicked would be punished.

  A stone slab, creeping vines, and the orza’s sandaled feet came into view.

  Anna’s breath coiled in her throat.

  “Let me have a look at your eyes,” the orza said softly. It was an invitation rather than a command.

  Anna looked up, debating whether to meet the orza’s eyes or stare over her shoulder, but such a choice was futile: The orza’s gaze was inescapable.

  Her green eyes had the dark, placid nature of a pond, but they were inviting, questioning. The dark skin beneath her brows was smeared with crimson and violet powder, creating the illusion of a burning stare, and the whites of her eyes were vibrant like Shem’s, neither jaundiced nor bloodshot, while her nose was slender and straight, her lips darkened with unknown dyes. Most pronounced was the black hair forming a crown around her head with the aid of pins, gold thread, and folded lace. Strips of purple cloth formed a loose gown. It was jarring to realize how normal she appeared, beneath her elegant theatrics and powders.

  Her sigils were graceful, tumbling blades of grass.

  Anna imagined her own reflection staring back, dirtied, light haired, laced with scar tissue, and wondered what the orza saw.

  “You have pretty eyes,” the orza said. She gave a measured smile before leaning back in her throne, which rose from its s
tone base like a flower in bloom. “How do they call you?”

  Pretty eyes. Simple words, but resonant. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been complimented by anybody of worth, let alone an orza. It took all of her self-control to remain composed in her smile. “My name is Anna, orza,” she said in her strongest whisper.

  “Please, dear, don’t concern yourself with titles,” the orza said. “Only Anna?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was instinctive. Her cheeks burned as she replayed the response in her head once, twice, three times, realizing how insulting it was to answer an orza with one word. “I mean, no,” she stammered. “Anna, First of Tomas.”

  The orza let the moment play out uninterrupted, offering only the slightest smile as encouragement. “My words step in error,” she said, sighing. “I have not asked the name of a river-blood in some time. Your people don’t carry a single word through their lineage.” She thought for a moment. “A Gosuri name is just as fitting, I suppose.” She paused, thinking. “Kuzashur.”

  Anna blinked. “What does it mean?”

  “Southern star.”

  Anna grinned. This name was far better. There was no mention of Tomas, no mention of sibling order, no mention of bloodlines at all.

  Only her light over Hazan.

  “Kuzashur,” Anna said, if only to feel the name pass her lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The orza inclined her head. “What lovely words you have.” She gestured to herself with painted nails. “Dalma Emirahni. Among those without lineage, Dalma of Thirty-Three.”

  “It’s a pretty name.”

  The orza studied her neck and arms, frowning. “Tell me, do you hurt?”

  “No,” she said. “Not anymore.”

  “Our herbmen can inspect you. It’s no trouble.”

  Anna tipped her head. “It’s appreciated, but I think I’ll be fine. I’ve learned how to take care of them.” She glanced at her legs. “The scars, I mean.”

  “Yes, it seems that way.” The orza inhaled deeply. “How very enduring, you must be. But what about your body? I heard that there was a rather unfortunate incident on the kator.”

  “I had a good night of rest.”

  “Only one? The Gosuri rest their warriors for six days after battle.” The orza frowned at Anna’s dusty cloak. “You must be starving. And parched, of course. River-bloods are accustomed to liquid at every hesh.” She gave a pitying smile. “Have no fear, Anna. In this place, liquid is as common as the sands. Wine, water, arak, boza, kefir. You will be nourished, no matter how your body may yearn. Outside of these walls, such things are impossible. But not here.”

  Anna didn’t realize her thirst until that moment. It was true, after all: Beneath the fabric wrappings and dust, she was still a river-blood. She was suited for Rzolka. But this place was better, and she’d earned the right to stay.

  “What do you think?” the orza asked. She must have noted the confusion on Anna’s face, as she offered a sweet smile and added, “In regard to these walls, dear. What do you think of this place?”

  “It’s wonderful,” Anna said, her reply too earnest to be embellished. Too laden with hope for a liar. “Until we came inside, I couldn’t believe that it was real.”

  The orza laughed. “Trust your heart, Anna. It’s quite real. As real as death, they say among the plains. These walls have been my bastion for years. I trust that they will provide for you too. We’ve even arranged a handful of theatrical performances, just for our special guest. Have you exchanged words with anybody within these walls?”

  “Those men.” She tilted her head back at the gathering near the ramps.

  “Ah.” The orza’s lips tightened. “There are many things to say about them, but none are so pressing. I’m sure they’ve left their mark upon you. If it comforts you, their quarters are distant from your own.”

  “It doesn’t trouble me,” Anna said.

  The orza laughed under her breath, concealing her lips with a practiced hand. “And others? What about the Dogwood officers? I instructed them to greet you with radiant hearts.”

  “One of them did,” Anna said, feeling the young man’s grin and aura flood back to her. Remembering the beautiful flower tucked into her tunic. Imagining his eyes before her, strong and spirited and playful. “He was very kind to me.”

  “Konrad.” The orza smiled, then pointed to the flower in Anna’s tunic. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Anna couldn’t hide her excitement. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Konrad gives them to the girls who catch his eye,” the orza said, hers bright with implications.

  “It’s really lovely,” Anna said, steering the conversation back to the flower. She could feel the warmth of her blush spreading back through her cheeks. “He said that you have a garden here.”

  “We have many gardens. Consider them yours, too.”

  Anna glanced down at the violet flower, unable to envision an entire bucket, let alone a garden, filled with so many of them. “It’s very generous.”

  The orza leaned forward as though sharing secrets among friends. “You know, it’s a rare joy to find such bright spirits in the world. If it pleases you, I would love to converse in the company of tea and sweets. There are so many things to discuss, and so much to learn about you. This I can feel in your essence.”

  Anna could only nod in return. Her mind swelled with all of the good fortune, with the possibility of sleeping in a bed tonight, alone and secure and well-fed.

  “But first,” the orza said, her voice flattening, “I wish to see one thing.”

  The break in the orza’s tone chilled her. “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” the orza said. “It’s a banal task, dear.”

  Anna squinted. “For me?”

  “Yes.” The orza rested her elbows on the throne’s golden arms. “Don’t worry. For one so special, this is hardly a task at all. But the men who delivered you here are eager to see it, and we shouldn’t disappoint them. It will be done in a wind’s breath.”

  The certainty of the orza’s face was enough for Anna, but she examined the woman a moment longer to wait for her thinking mind—the clarity she considered thinking, anyway—to speak. Underneath the kind gazes of wicked men, there was callousness, a scheming edge. But there were no veils between them. “What is it?”

  The orza nodded toward a passageway set into the far wall. Six Dogwood guards, who Anna hadn’t even detected until her eyes fell directly upon them, stood beside the vine-shrouded columns. “Come for a walk with me, Anna,” the orza said. “It’s just inside.”

  Anna fought off pangs of discomfort. “Will those men follow us?”

  “Simply to observe, dear.”

  “Observe what?”

  The orza rose from her throne, collecting the trailing strips of her gown and draping them over her wrist. She motioned for Anna to follow as she moved toward the doorway. “We require your aid.”

  “How so?”

  “One who is familiar to us has been harmed.”

  Anna looked backward as they walked, watching the three men, the tracker, and Shem drawing closer. A set of guards trailed the men. “Badly?”

  “Oh, yes,” the orza said. “Grievously.”

  She led Anna past the Dogwood guards and into the passageway, which was darker and colder than expected. On the other side was a small, candlelit chamber with metal doors on the accompanying three walls. Cushions were arranged in a crescent, and in the center of the floor was a metal grate. Half-moon brackets forged from dark iron were bolted onto the walls at eye level.

  The chamber’s silence was haunting.

  “Where are we?” Anna asked. Aside from the limestone walls, which were bathed in a furnace’s red glow by the candles, it seemed entirely detached from the kales.

  “There are
many spare rooms within these walls,” the orza explained. She paced around the chamber before selecting a beaded white cushion, settling down, and folding her hands in her lap. “My builders alter designs as they see fit.”

  Anna’s eyes lingered on the metal brackets, certain that spare rooms were never so deliberately engineered. “They must have altered it for something.”

  “An introduction area,” the orza said. “Just stand in the center, dear.” She extended a thin arm to pat the metal grate, her fingers skeletal in candlelight.

  Anna did as instructed, but her steps were guarded. Days of being misled, misdirected, and misused bred enduring suspicion, and even more permanent was hatred. She searched the orza’s smile for the barest flicker of betrayal.

  But a jumble of footsteps broke her concentration, and the stream of men entered behind Anna, along with Shem. They fanned out and claimed their cushions, Nacek and his two comrades doing so with routine efficiency. Shem settled at Anna’s right, straining forward with star-bright eyes and hands woven beneath his chin. Seated beside the other men and the orza, he faded into the gathering as another phantom silhouette.

  Following a period of unnerving silence, the sound of jangling metal rose from beyond the chamber. The clanking grew louder, becoming so clamorous that the seated men glanced nervously around from their cushions, desperate to locate its source. But something more unsettling lurked beneath the metallic sounds. Something inhuman and urgent, blurting out fractions of words before devolving into groans.

  Anna’s fingers bunched up at her sides. She cast an uneasy look at the orza, who was quick to respond with a placating nod. He needs aid, she told herself, ready for whatever came through the doors.

  It was the price of safety.

  The door to Anna’s right swept open, nearly striking Shem. Two men in Dogwood uniforms stumbled into the candlelight with chains in hand, their feet scraping against the stone floors in violent steps. Grunts of exertion and muttered curses filled the chamber as they fought their way between a gap in the cushions and into the chamber’s center, the rusted chains pulled taut and shivering.