Csorwe helped Sethennai arrange the dead man on the ground, laying him out on his back as if he were asleep. He was heavy. It must have required such power to move so lightly. Once it was done, she realised she was shivering, and sheathed her sword so she didn’t drop it.
When this was done Sethennai knelt at Akaro’s head and unfastened the visor of his helmet. It came away easily and he laid it on the ground, a bowl of dull metal.
“Foolish boy,” said Sethennai again. Akaro had been young, or young as the Tlaanthothei reckoned it. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and streams of blood ran from his nose and mouth, marring the delicate features. “Idiot boy. Perhaps Olthaaros thought—well. Well. There was no persuading him.”
And now there’s no undoing it, thought Csorwe. I can’t take it back. Akaro was dead. There had been no other way to protect Sethennai. So this was just another thing she was going to have to learn how to manage.
Sethennai folded Akaro’s hands on his chest and covered him with a cloak, and they left him in the library of Echentyr.
* * *
For a week or two, Csorwe and Sethennai drifted from one backwater to another. Sethennai picked an obscure route through the Maze, following some design of his own. This was done carelessly, as though it was his personal whim and a great joke to continually double back on themselves and spend a long time laying false trails.
Csorwe was happy to be on the road again. Navigating new places, staying vigilant for new threats, tiring herself out by walking and carrying the bags, all meant she could keep her mind off the subject of Akaro’s death, although he appeared in her dreams sometimes, drenched in blood and still walking.
One night, they took shelter in a ruined chapel, in a lonely world on the borders of Qarsazh. Sethennai was tending the fire. Csorwe lay in her bedroll, looking up at the shattered icons of the Qarsazhi pantheon and thinking distantly of Parza. He had never found out what happened to his lexicon.
“Will we ever go back to Grey Hook?” she said. The Blue Boars would be back from their assignment by now, and she wanted to ask them how it had gone. If they went home, back to their routine, she was sure she would feel normal again.
After a while Sethennai spoke, still prodding at the fire.
“I’m not convinced it’s safe for us to go back,” he said. “Would you be very sorry to leave it behind?”
“I miss my own bed, I guess,” she said. She didn’t want to admit to missing the Boars. It was enough for Sethennai to have doubted her loyalty once. “And all our stuff is there.” She knew even as she spoke that it wasn’t going to happen. If Sethennai had meant them to go back, they would have gone back. “But I don’t mind,” she added hastily.
However much she had hoped to stay, it was time to put it aside. Grey Hook was in the past, and her future was with Sethennai.
“I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “Now that Olthaaros has found me once, he’ll find me again, and I don’t wish to repeat that ugly scene with Akaro. And you’ve proven you’re ready. As much as I’ve been enjoying this little holiday, it’s really about time that we returned to Tlaanthothe.”
5
Two Completely Predictable Things
THE DESERT CALLED THE Speechless Sea was of black sand, scattered with shards of volcanic glass that sparkled like the stars. A chain of hills emerged from this desert, as though the night sky was punctured by a row of vertebrae. Built on the largest of these was the city of Tlaanthothe.
The city’s perimeter was a hexagonal wall of gleaming black rock, colossal in every dimension and monotonously ugly. Its outer faces were striated with useless columns of lava, frozen in place like an array of icicles. At every corner of the hexagon was a watchtower, and set into the south face, like a carbuncle in a ring, was a fortress of the same blasted stone. Outside the city, near the fortress, a small town had scattered itself across the foothills, looking as though a convoy had crashed and spontaneously generated houses.
Before continuing to the city proper and its Gate, the mailship descended into this flotsam town, and Sethennai disembarked. He had kept the forged paperwork identifying him as Dr. Pelthari, but was now dressed in the cap and gown of a Tlaanthothei lawyer. Csorwe was dressed as his valet, in a formal suit with a stiff collar. She scratched the back of her neck. Sethennai took a harmless, childlike delight in disguises, but her tolerance for the suit was wearing thin.
An official stamped their papers and welcomed Dr. Pelthari to town. Another official looked through their things, but found nothing amiss. They were travelling light, since almost all their possessions were still in Grey Hook.
They took rooms in a shabby boardinghouse across the road, as if this was another ordinary stay in another ordinary town. All shabby boardinghouses had their own unique smell. This one was mostly onions, with a hint of drains. Csorwe cleaned her sword to calm her nerves.
Tlaanthothe and the wall were visible from the windows of the boardinghouse, as present and as inaccessible as a thundercloud.
“So how do we get in?” said Csorwe, peering up at the city. She had to assume there was a plan. Sethennai always gave the impression of having a plan.
Sethennai sat at the table under the window, lacing his fingers across his stomach.
“Well, don’t get any ideas about shinning up the wall itself,” he said. “Plenty have made the attempt and died. There’s only one way into Tlaanthothe, and that’s through the fortress in the wall.”
If it was that easy, Sethennai could have gone home long ago, but he was obviously working up to something.
“I guess Olthaaros has guards there,” said Csorwe.
“More than that, I’m afraid,” said Sethennai. “The fortress is currently occupied by an entire battalion of mercenaries. Olthaaros brought them in to help throw me out of Tlaanthothe in the first place. Nobody enters or leaves the city, through the fortress or the Gate, without passing through their security.” Sethennai leant back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling, and put his feet up on the table. “All this for me. It’s been years. Olthaaros really must have hated me.”
“Because of the Reliquary,” said Csorwe.
“Among other things,” said Sethennai. “I hope you didn’t listen too hard to everything Akaro said. Olthaaros doesn’t care about whether the Reliquary’s dangerous. He doesn’t want to use it. He just doesn’t want me to find it because he can’t bear the idea of someone else getting something he doesn’t have.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s why he took the city from me. He’s from an old noble family, and he couldn’t stand the idea of someone like me getting the Chancellorship. The Reliquary would just add insult to injury.”
“Someone like you, sir?” said Csorwe. She had never really asked him about his past. Something had always warned her off, a sense that this was a bruise that Sethennai did not want prodded—and after all, he never bothered her about her life before he’d met her.
“Oh, I’m nobody,” said Sethennai with immense satisfaction. “Or at least I was. Sadly, becoming somebody has its downsides. I’d never make it past security into the city.”
“You really think they’d recognise you?” said Csorwe.
“Well, I’m fairly recognisable,” he said. True: he was tall even for a Tlaanthothei, and twice as broad as the average. He could shave his hair and beard if he had to, but it would be hard to hide his stature. “And Olthaaros has sensible reasons for wanting to keep me out, even now.”
He sat up straighter, leaning on the table to get a better view of the city. “I have been gone from Tlaanthothe for longer than I care to think about,” he said. “And I dearly love my city. But it is not just homesickness that calls me back. My patron goddess has her earthly mansion within the city. I have been out of the Siren’s presence for too long. My powers run low, like a stream after long drought. Even little Akaro nearly defeated me, as you saw. But once I get back into the city … Olthaaros knows he cannot face me at full strength. To throw me out in the first place he needed a
whole swarm of allies he has since alienated. All I need is to get through the fortress, and then he’s mine.”
“They’ll know we’re coming,” said Csorwe. She gave the blade of her sword one last wipe with the oiled cloth. “Since I—since Akaro won’t have come back. The soldiers will be looking out for you.”
“Quite,” said Sethennai.
“I could do it,” said Csorwe. She hadn’t realised until that moment what Sethennai was getting at. She replaced her sword in its scabbard, trying not to let the sparks of apprehension and excitement show in her face.
“Even if they know you have an assistant,” she said, “I could be anyone. People don’t notice me. I could do it.” She worried at times that Sethennai might think she’d forgotten what she owed him. He never mentioned it, but she owed him her life, and the obligation gnawed on her like a worm in an apple. This was something she could do for him on her own.
Sethennai smiled. “Yes. You could.”
But first, there were preparations to make. Sethennai spent a few days away from the boardinghouse, secretly writing to his contacts and meeting with their agents. Getting into the city was the hardest part, but there would still be barriers to cross once they were inside, and for that he needed more allies than Csorwe.
While he was gone, Csorwe studied climbing and creeping around the boardinghouse, until she could crawl quietly across the ceiling beams and navigate the creaking hallway without making a sound. She also practiced with the sword, for the first time since she had killed Akaro. It felt good to have it properly back in her hands, as though she were a knife that had finally been sharpened after lying dull for weeks.
Sethennai came home to find her rehearsing the forms before the speckled mirror.
“Ah,” he said. “I’m afraid you won’t be taking that into the fortress.”
Csorwe lowered the blade, catching her breath. “—what? Why, sir?”
“Because you’re going to pose as a servant looking for work at the fortress, and they might be a bit surprised if you turn up with a deadly weapon.”
“Oh,” said Csorwe. Her shoulders dropped. “I was thinking I would go as a mercenary recruit.” She had worked hard on her training with the Blue Boars, and she wanted to prove that her time with the mercenary company had made her more useful to him, not less. She still squirmed with guilt whenever she recalled that Sethennai had once suggested she might leave him for the Boars.
“And if they were ordinary mercenaries, I’d be tempted to let you,” he said. “But they are not. They are led by General Psamag.” He glanced at her, possibly expecting a reaction. “Ha! I forget how young you are. Psamag is, or was, a famous Oshaaru warlord. Infamous. Notorious. Long before you were born he commanded armies for the clan-liege of Torosad.”
Csorwe wondered whether it was strange how little she knew about her homeland. She had never visited Torosad or any of the other great cities of Oshaar. Nor did she want to, but it was odd that her tusks marked her to the whole world as Oshaaru, when in fact she had seen less of the country than Sethennai had.
Well, Torosad with its warlords and clan-lieges had never been her place. The area around the House of Silence was nothing more than a coin-sized patch of mountain and forest in the far corner of any proper map of Oshaar, and even that was long behind her.
“Psamag had a lurid reputation,” said Sethennai. “Killing prisoners, massacring civilians, burning villages, heads on stakes—everything rumour can devise, and most of it true—although I do not think it was true that he had an elite force of undead soldiers as his personal bodyguard. Eventually the clan-liege of Torosad found him to be a liability. So he was banished, and finding, as one does, that he had a set of skills for which people were prepared to pay him, he became a mercenary. If you were rich, Psamag became the man you needed for the nasty jobs, the things you didn’t want to admit to your civilised friends. So, of course, he was the man Olthaaros needed to help get rid of me.”
“Still don’t see why I couldn’t pretend to work for him.”
“Because he’s smart,” said Sethennai. “He’s wilier than Olthaaros. And if he caught you it wouldn’t be a clean death.”
“But I’m still going to be sneaking into his fortress,” said Csorwe.
“As a servant you’ll probably never run into him. Everyone will think you’re harmless, and you can explore the fortress as much as you like if you pretend you’re running errands.”
Csorwe sighed. He was right, of course, as much as she would have liked to bring her sword. “Can I take a knife?”
“If you must,” he said. “But do not underestimate Psamag. The only reason he’s still here is that he feels Olthaaros owes him more money. I have to admit it does bring me some joy to know that Olthaaros has found it impossible to get rid of him. Psamag describes it as safeguarding his investment. He’s dangerous, and he has a long memory. The best thing you can do is to stay out of his way as much as you possibly can.”
* * *
Three days later, Csorwe made the trek across the Speechless Sea to the walls of Tlaanthothe. When it got dark she slept under the stars in a rock crevice, like a scorpion.
The fortress in the wall was constructed around an enormous door, as heavy, ugly, and impenetrable as the wall itself, though perforated at the base with several doors of more reasonable size. The doors were staffed at all hours by armed guards, who checked the passports and permits of those who hoped to pass through, in wagons or on foot.
The traffic approaching the city was constant and slow. The queue of wagons, carriages, cattle, and small mazeships tailed back into the desert for nearly a mile, and the roadside was dotted with stalls selling ironwort tea and hot skewers to the travellers.
Close up, the fortress itself was a jagged mass of stone protruding from the desert. It looked older, as though the earth had coughed up a clot of crenellated rock that had stuck in its throat. On top was the Great Gate of Tlaanthothe, like an emerald on top of an incredibly ugly jewel box, where the big ships came in.
Csorwe unfolded herself from her crevice and dropped lightly from ledge to slope to the surface of the road. It was early morning, still half dark. She slipped into the queue close to the door, behind a large covered wagon bearing the brandmark of a Qarsazhi weaving company.
She watched as the wagoners exchanged paperwork with the fortress guards. Then there came a painful groan as one of the smaller doors creaked open. The wagon passed inside and the gates slammed shut.
Csorwe greeted the fortress guards with false brightness. It was the first time she had spoken Tlaanthothei to anyone but Sethennai and she was self-conscious about her pronunciation.
They spent a worryingly long time inspecting her passport and letter of reference, but Sethennai had put some effort into forging these, and they must have been convincing enough to pass, because they handed them back to her.
“You need to take your coat off,” said one of the guards.
“What?” said Csorwe, instantly on guard. “Why?”
Under the lamb’s-leather coat she was wearing a plain knee-length tunic and sandals, suitable for her disguise as a servant. But underneath that she had a very serious knife strapped to her leg.
“We’re searching everyone who comes into the fortress,” he said. At least he didn’t sound sleazy about it. Maybe it was too early in the morning.
She took off the coat obediently and handed it over, stony-faced. One of them shook it and turned out the pockets, finding nothing. It was a good thing she had left all her travelling gear hidden up in the hills. Unless they’d find it suspicious that she didn’t have anything on her? How thoroughly were they going to search? Sethennai had been right. It had been a mistake to bring any kind of weapon. What should she say? Could she claim she’d been frightened of bandits on her journey?
She was so glazed that it took her a second to realise the guard was handing her coat back to her.
“You can go,” he said.
They waved her
on through the smallest door. Beyond was an enormous wagonyard, full of people, pack animals, and vehicles. Nobody paid any attention to a servant girl. Csorwe’s nerves were frayed from her encounter with the guards, so she was glad not to be bothered.
She kept her head down and her eyes on the ground as she made for the kitchens. This was her own idea, and she was pleased with it. Any place as big as the fortress needed somebody to cook and wash up, and Csorwe had always been good at kitchen chores.
The kitchens were loud and very crowded. Csorwe made herself useful—fetching water or chopping garlic or taking a turn at the roasting spit. It was several hours before anyone realised she was not meant to be there.
“I’m new, sir,” she said, staring up into the folds of a pristine apron, and the thick moustache that loomed above it between a pair of narrow tusks.
The cook raised one eyebrow.
“New today,” she said. “I might have come to the wrong place.”
“Hm,” said the cook. “Maybe.”
“Please, sir,” she said, making her voice soft and plaintive. “They told me I’d find a job here.” She held out her false passport and a letter of recommendation from the alleged Dr. Pelthari.
The cook glanced at the melon that Csorwe had been seeding and slicing. She was handy with a knife, so this was neat work. Each slice was so fine that the flesh of the melon was translucent, like a wafer of ice. He looked around the kitchen, one side of his moustache twisting up as he chewed his lip.
“Well, heaven knows we could use another pair of hands. Fine.” He took her papers away and handed them off to someone, and that was the last she heard of them.
She sliced melons for the rest of the day, and when the sun set, she followed a group of the other girls to their bunkroom.
“New, are you?” one of them said, resigned but not unkind. Most of the kitchen staff here were Tlaanthothei or Oshaaru, but this was a Qarsazhi-looking girl, slight and pretty, with coppery skin and very straight black hair in a long braid. “I’m Taymiri. Guess I’d better show you where to get sheets and things.”
The Unspoken Name Page 8