The man lay clutching his chest, the hilt of Meere’s dagger jutting from it. Scarlet bubbles sprung up around it as the guard fought for breath. Zell’s amazement wiped all other expression from his face. He stared for one moment then took to his heels, running for the exit. Rorrin let him pass.
“This was not well done, Grada.” The old assassin looked from slave to guard and shook his head. Our lives are the emperor’s and we’re not free to spend them on such… domestic matters. He could have got lucky and then you’d be the one dying on the floor. How would that help the emperor?”
“Dying?” The heat of the fight ran from Grada quicker than it came. “He’s not going to die?” She looked down at the man. “I’ll get help.” His face had gone deathly pale and his blood spread around him on the tiles.
“And that lord will make trouble. Whispers against the throne. Change is the last thing anyone of the peacocks want.”
“Help him!” Grada pointed at the man. She didn’t want his death on her hands, didn’t want to see his face when she closed her eyes to sleep.
“I will send word for Mirra’s temple to send someone,” said Rorrin. “Come. We have not the time.” He turned without another glance and left.
Grada squeezed the woman’s arm, stood and followed him from the room. “You will send someone from the temple.”
“I will.”
As they walked Grada collected herself. “It is dangerous for the silk-clad to abuse the slaves. Nobody notices the slaves, but they are there. They surround you.” She spoke also of herself, of the Untouchables.
“They surround us,” corrected Herran. “You are one of us, now. And if the Knife finds one such as Zell a threat, the Knife can eliminate him. I would advise against it though. Change must be a slow process. Cerana can only be turned by degrees. Some problems are like the hydra. Slice off a head and two grow in its place.”
To that she did not reply. Herran could not give her the Knife; only Sarmin could lay that burden upon her. But would he? The envoy had been murdered, and she knew how much he had wanted the peace. What she did not know was how much such a failure might change a man. As they continued towards the centre of the palace Herran began to speak of schemes, snakes, concubines, war and children. This time Grada listened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RUSHES
Rushes returned to Nessaket’s room, ears tired from listening. As she had pretended to tidy the Great Room the concubines had paid her no mind, sharing their opinions on the emperor’s looks, the quality of the food, and the stifling heat of Cerana. Two women had whispered that the emperor made love with one of them, the pale girl named Jenni, and speculated on their own chances. Surely the empire mother would wish to know about that, but even more she would want to identify the woman from the Ways. Rushes had not heard that voice. It filled her with dread to think that concubine could make another move, even harm one of the princes, before anyone could put a name to her.
And that was not the only thing. Rushes had thought the stone would be a comfort, but instead it frightened her. Sometimes she thought it twisted in her pocket, trying to find its way out. Many times during the day she caught it with one hand, as one catches a falling sash or pendant. She imagined the stone was angry she had disobeyed the emperor. She should have thrown it in the Ways as he asked, and now perhaps it would start giving bad luck instead of good.
Rushes put the stone from her mind and prepared for the morning. She checked that Daveed had a tall stack of clean blankets, the brush and comb were side-by-side to the left of the mirror, and the empire mother’s sandals were just where a person would not trip on them but that, when getting out of bed, they were easy to slip onto the feet. That done, she walked to the great room to make sure the shelves had been lowered to the kitchen, so that Hagga and the others could place the breakfast inside them.
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 t
hat 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 bowed 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 a
t 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.”
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