by D. J. Butler
They hiked up the Crooked Mile. Fix walked with his free hand resting on the hilt of his falchion. Indrajit tried to figure out what he was forgetting, what little detail was right on the edge of his mind and never quite materialized. The sight of crested Kishi Fowl, pecking at dropped grains of maize between the cobblestones, made his stomach rumble.
“What did you mean, the last Recital Thane?” Fix asked.
“Hmm? Oh, just that there isn’t one appointed to follow me. Yet.”
“But there will be.” Fix stopped, again examining a piece of paper nailed to a wall.
“Exactly. Collecting more writing material? Are you going to make your own fascicles?”
“Yes, in fact, I do make my own fascicles. It’s a poor man’s solution, and it works. Making ink is much harder, so I buy that. But this notice isn’t outdated yet, and I’m a good citizen, so I’ll leave it here.”
“What does it say?” Indrajit squinted at the letters, as if they would thereby become intelligible. He recognized the seal of the Auction House.
“There’s an Auction in two days. Jobber companies with capacity over the next season are invited to register with the Auction House. How do you propose to get information out of this Thinkum Tosh?”
Indrajit took a moment to answer. He was breathing hard, from a combination of sleeplessness and the exertion of hiking up the Crooked Mile. Hunger gnawed at his belly. If he couldn’t eat soon, he at least wanted another mouthful of horngrass. They were approaching the gate into the Crown, and he looked forward to being able to stop walking.
“I say we tell him just what we said to Holy-Pot. That we’re messengers from the risk-merchant Diaphernes, messengers only, and that we’ve been sent to tell him there was an attempt to take Ilsa’s life last night. Assuming he doesn’t already know.”
“The whole thing was pretty public,” Fix agreed.
And then Indrajit realized what had been nagging him all night. “The Luzzazza,” he said.
“Which one. At the gate?”
There were indeed again Luzzazza at the gate, along with Zalaptings, all in the livery of House Miltric. Indrajit and Fix nodded, looked harmless and uninteresting, and were waved through.
“No. On the stage last night.”
“The one who attacked you with invisible arms.”
“Yeah. Good trick, that. But also, he called me by name.”
Fix considered this intelligence. “Are you asking whether mind reading is also a secret power of the Luzzazza mystics?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I have no idea.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“What’s the reassuring answer?” Fix asked. “That they can read your mind, or that they can’t?”
They had arrived at the Lord Chamberlain’s palace. The building was the palace in the same sense in which the Palace of Shadow and Joy was a palace, or in which many of the wealthy of Kish and its seven great families were said to have palaces; a palace within the city walls was a rectangular building, three stories tall or more, without windows on the ground floor. A palace generally occupied an entire city block by itself, with streets or at least alleys on all four sides.
The Lord Chamberlain’s palace was four stories tall and had two doors. At two of its corners rose tall towers, ringed with balconies that resembled the knees of giant insects. The front entrance was a double door recessed into the wall, with a portico in front. Men in livery stood on the portico, and the horned skull banner of House Thrush flew above.
Indrajit kept walking.
On the lane behind the palace, there was a plain door, with no recess, portico, or marker of any kind, and a peephole shut with a sliding iron panel.
“We’re going to pose as tradesmen?” Fix asked.
“We are tradesmen,” Indrajit said. “Here with a message for a servant. This is the right door for us.”
He knocked. The iron panel slid sideways, revealing four eyes set in a horizontal line into a single pale face.
“We’re here with a message for Thinkum Tosh,” Indrajit said.
“Written?” the person to whom the eyes belonged asked.
Indrajit shook his head. “Verbal. We need to give it to him in person, please.”
The panel shut.
Moments later, the door opened. Four Zalaptings armed with swords filed out and arrayed themselves in a loose circle around Indrajit and Fix.
Standing in the doorway was a pale-skinned man with no nose or teeth, and four eyes set close in a row. “You’d better come inside,” Four Eyes said.
“Is one of you the majordomo?” Fix asked the Zalaptings.
They chittered to each other.
“No offense,” Indrajit said. “We just can’t tell you apart.”
“Thinkum Tosh is dead,” Four Eyes said. “And the Lord Chamberlain would like to speak to you.”
Chapter Ten
With his excellent peripheral vision, Indrajit saw more Zalaptings appear, blocking off both ends of the street.
“You’re a pretty impressive fighter,” he murmured to Fix, hoping Four Eyes and the Zalaptings couldn’t hear him. If they were really going to set up a jobber company, they should have a secret language. Maybe he could teach Fix some phrases in Blaatshi.
“Not that good.” Fix had seen the new Zalaptings, too.
“It’s just that I think that if we’re going to fight, now is the time to do it. Once we go in there, we can only be outnumbered more, in terrain we don’t know. It could be complicated. It could be a literal labyrinth.”
“True,” Fix whispered back. “But we came here to talk.”
The Zalaptings muttered to each other, gripping spears and scimitars with looks of discomfort on their faces.
“I imagined speaking with Thinkum Tosh. But he’s dead, and Orem Thrush thinks we did it.”
“That’s not what the man said. He said Thrush wants to talk with us. And besides, we’re innocent.”
“Of this,” Indrajit protested.
The Zalaptings all took a step close. All four of the pale-skinned man’s eyes narrowed.
“And we have alibis,” Fix pointed out. “And at least one eyewitness who can attest to where we were for the last sixteen hours or so.”
“An eyewitness we don’t want to produce, until we’re sure the Lord Chamberlain didn’t try to kill her, or until we really, really have to.”
Fix nodded. “Yes, but…you’re pretty good at talking, aren’t you?”
Indrajit took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, at a more normal volume. “Let’s go meet the Lord Chamberlain.”
“You will leave your weapons with me, of course,” Four Eyes said.
Indrajit raised his eyebrows at Fix, who nodded. They handed over their weapons, and then Zalaptings with spears herded them into the building.
Indrajit had seen wealth before, but never in its own home. Every wall on the inside of Orem Thrush’s city palace was a bright mural commemorating some event in the history of House Thrush. There was the first Orem Thrush, the original Lord Chamberlain, taking up the scepter from the emperor’s dying hand and then presenting it to the assembled imperial servants who would become the first Lords of Kish, post-Empire. There was the spurned Bonean princess, her father endlessly following the ceremonial path of the moon in his monumental palace, and the marriage with the Xiba’albi princess that violated agreements on all sides, leading to the War of the Night Sky and the Sinking; in that series of murals, an Imperial chamberlain stood in each scene, prominent among other onlookers and participants by being smaller than the emperor but larger than all the rest, and wearing somewhere on his clothing the skull and horns device of the future house. Later, a Lord Chamberlain struggled to exterminate, and then finally came to terms with, the House of Knives; another fought off barbarians during the Winter of Blades; and a third confronted the Mad Duke. Stylized Lords Chamberlain who seemed to represent all the holders of the office simultaneously appeared in ceremonial scenes
, leading the Dawn Gate Procession or bidding in the Auction.
Some of the furniture was of polished yetz-wood, which shone a dark red and which could be cured to be so hard and so flexible, swords could be made of it. Other pieces were made of green- and red-swirled stone, or simply of silver and gold. A servant stood at every door, opening it as Four Eyes and his captives approached, and shutting it after; double doors were opened by pairs of waiting servants. The servants wore matching livery, kilts and tunics and sandals, and on their tunics, front and back, was embroidered the horned skull.
Scents—citrus and sandalwood and tree resin—wafted through the palace on air that circulated through unseen vents. Carafes of wine stood ready on every table they passed, and the cold marble of the floors was frequently covered by thick red carpets.
Fix whistled low. “This is what comes of being the shrewdest Lord at the Auction.”
“And this is what he permits us to see,” Indrajit whispered back. “If this is the wealth that lies around in the open, what untold treasures must he have secreted away in his vaults?”
“Unless he doesn’t,” Fix said. “Unless perhaps this is everything, and he puts it on display to make us think he has even more at his disposal than he does.”
“That’s insane.”
“Is it? Power is determined by how other people react to you. At least, political power is. A palace like this exists to communicate wealth and influence, in order to create power. If you were Orem Thrush, wouldn’t you want to communicate more wealth than you actually have? You attract talent, you win loyalty, you frighten off competition.”
“Everyone knows Orem Thrush is the richest of the seven Lords of Kish.”
“Yes, everyone knows it.”
Four Eyes turned and frowned at the two jobbers.
“You know,” Indrajit said to Fix, “you really ought to learn to speak some Blaatshi, if we’re going to spend much time together.”
“You’re probably right. Do you know a good textbook, a grammar? Something with a nice chrestomathy?”
“Chrestomathy?” Indrajit laughed out loud. “Frozen hells, I think I’ve finally heard you say a word that is more mockable than fascicle.”
“I don’t think mockable is a word.”
“Hmm, let’s see. You are mockable. The word fascicle is more mockable. The word chrestomathy is most mockable of all. Yes, mockable is definitely a word.”
“Chrestomathy just means a collection of texts for learning a foreign language. You know, for reading practice.”
“Texts? The only text there is in Blaatshi, at least the only one worth learning, is the Epic. Which means that I am your chrestomathy, you fool!”
Fix frowned. “I’d prefer a written version.”
Indrajit laughed, entering the next room. He laughed so hard, he barely noticed the room’s only occupant, a bland-faced man standing against one wall with his hands behind his back. The man wore a simple red tunic and red breeks, with a knife on his belt so small, it might be for cutting fruit. Indrajit was laughing when someone struck him in the head from behind and knocked him to the floor.
Fix hit the stone beside him. Indrajit put his hands behind his neck to try to soften any additional blows, but none came. His vision swam briefly, and when it cleared, Four Eyes had disappeared. Six Zalaptings still stood surrounding the two of them; their spears were gone, and in their hands they held cudgels.
The plain-faced man looked subtly different than he had moments earlier. Indrajit tried to figure out exactly what had changed; he still wore the same simple, severe clothing, with the tiny knife his only visible weapon. He still had the same bland, mild expression on his face.
Had he changed color? Just a little?
“We came bringing a message from Holy-Pot Diaphernes,” Fix said.
Oh, right. “Yes, we just came to talk. To notify your majordomo. Thinko. Tosho.” Indrajit found he couldn’t quite remember the name, probably because of the trauma of being knocked down.
“Thinkum Tosh,” the man said. “Who is Holy-Pot Diaphernes?”
“He’s a respected merchant in the Paper Sook,” Indrajit explained. “Risk-selling. And also risk-reselling.” He still wasn’t entirely clear on the difference.
“Purchasing,” Fix murmured.
The stranger frowned, slightly.
“Are you…the Lord Chamberlain?” Indrajit asked.
“You’re surprised I don’t have a face like a skull, and horns?” The man smiled.
“Well, I didn’t want to overliteralize your family heraldry,” Indrajit said, “but there are a thousand races of man. It seemed a possibility.”
“Yes, I’m Orem Thrush. The seventh of that name. This is my house. Thinkum Tosh was my servant. And in public, and for special occasions, I do indeed wear the mask of the horned skull.”
Orem Thrush’s skin had definitely grown slightly darker. Was he light-sensitive?
Information. They had come seeking information, and not about the peculiarities of Orem Thrush’s complexion, or on what occasions he might wear a skull and horns mask. “Does that mean that he…that you…” Indrajit shook his head and tried to organize his thoughts. “Thinkum Tosh sold the risk on the life of the opera singer, Ilsa without Peer. We came to give Tosh a message from Holy-Pot, who is the risk-repurchaser. Or reseller, maybe. I can’t keep the terms straight.” Indrajit sighed. “But maybe, since Tosh was your servant…was the policy actually for you? Should we talk to you?”
“Yes,” Thrush said. “You should give me your message. But not until after I’ve had you beaten.”
A rain of cudgels fell on Indrajit and Fix.
Indrajit tried to stand, got knocked down, tried to stand again, and was beaten to the floor. Through the blinding flashes of light that came with each blow, he saw that Fix did only slightly better: he managed to yank the club from the hands of one Zalapting before three others pounded him down and disarmed him.
The blows ceased and the Zalaptings stepped back.
“Ouch,” Indrajit said.
“That was for attacking my man.” The Lord Chamberlain’s voice held not a hint of emotion.
He looked different still. His skin was darker, and had taken on the underlying green of a Blaatshi complexion. His stature and body were unchanged, but in color and in the shape of his head, the Lord Chamberlain was transforming before their eyes.
“Wopal? He was tailing me. I didn’t know he was your man.”
“The first time, that was true.” Orem Thrush nodded. “But the second time, you knew full well who he was.”
“An eye for an eye,” Fix muttered. His jaw didn’t seem to want to move. “Isn’t that what they say? Shouldn’t you just punch Indrajit in the face? An eye for an eye?”
“An eye for an eye is a fine maxim,” Orem Thrush said. “It promotes fairness. If you cause an injury, you will receive an equivalent injury. That’s fair.”
“So who did I beat the frozen hells out of?” A tooth in Indrajit’s mouth wiggled. “Some other hireling of yours?”
“I am not interested in fairness,” Orem Thrush said. “I want peace. I want docility. I want cooperation. So I require you to understand, right now and forever, that I do not practice an eye for an eye. I have been merciful to you this time. If you punch my servant in the face again, know this: I will have you killed.”
Indrajit coughed, and the loose tooth flew from his mouth and clattered across the floor.
“We understand,” Fix said.
Indrajit nodded.
“Good.” The Lord Chamberlain motioned with one hand and the Zalaptings stepped back. They still held their cudgels ready. “You can rise, if you like. Or lie on the floor, if it hurts less.”
Gingerly, wincing, they stood.
Orem Thrush nodded his approval. “Now tell me, what is the message that you were prepared to give Thinkum Tosh, from the risk-merchant Holy-Pot Diaphernes?”
“Risk repurchaser, in this case,” Fix said.
; “True,” Indrajit said, “I think. If somewhat pedantic.”
“I can have you beaten again.” The Lord Chamberlain did not look amused. Also, his eyes were slowly drifting apart in his face.
“Ilsa without Peer was attacked at the Palace of Shadow and Joy last night,” Indrajit said.
Orem Thrush’s nostrils flared. “The whole city knows that. I know myself, since I was in the audience.”
Fix was staring at the Lord Chamberlain.
“She lived,” Indrajit added. “I…we, rather…saved her. We were hired by Holy-Pot Diaphernes as a backup protection, in case any attempt to hurt her got past the jobbers the risk-merchant hired.”
“The Handlers,” the Lord Chamberlain said. “So you’re not just messengers.”
Oops.
“You’ve given nothing away I didn’t already know,” Thrush said. “I saw you on stage last night. I especially enjoyed your attack with the balsa-wood spear.”
“Yeah. So, I guess Holy-Pot wants her protected because otherwise he has to pay out…I think.”
“I understand how risk reselling works,” Thrush said.
Fix nodded.
Indrajit silently cursed them both. “She’s alive and in a safe place. Our message is to tell you that. But also, since Holy-Pot is on the hook for another six days, he wants to know what made you sell the risk in the first place. So we know what to protect her against. What threats did you see that made you enter into that agreement?”
“I understand. Only I can’t help you with that, because I didn’t sell the risk.” The Lord Chamberlain raised one eyebrow.
“But…” Indrajit felt stupid.
“I lied earlier,” Thrush said. “It will not be the last time I lie to you. I do not suggest that you consider lying to me.”
“Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill her?” Indrajit asked.
The Lord Chamberlain laughed out loud. “Oh, any one of the six families.”
Indrajit frowned. “Because of the money she made you?”
A brief flash of a reaction crossed the Lord Chamberlain’s face, and then the steel visor of his expressionless demeanor dropped down again. “What do you mean?”
“Singing? At the opera?” Fix said.
