“Robbers and raiders are vile, but inevitable, and easily handled,” said Aritsa, with surprising firmness. “You’re certain it wasn’t a Qarsazhi vessel? The delivery ship might have got into difficulties and returned.”
“As certain as I can be,” said Malkhaya. “It was pretty dark.”
“We haven’t been troubled by looters before,” said Aritsa. “I wonder what they think they’re here to take.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Malkhaya. He glanced discreetly at Shuthmili and hoped Aritsa would get the message.
“This is a grave world,” said Shuthmili. She had finished her food and was curled up in her blanket, watching the fire. “The dead lie underground in their thousands. They are buried, but not deeply. That could be an attraction, for some.”
“Always a ray of sunshine, Shuthmili,” said Malkhaya, trying to smile.
“Warden—your reverence—” said Shuthmili, turning to face them. “We don’t have to wait to find out what they want. We could go looking for them first. I could help. Magic can be used for things other than maintaining the perimeter, you know.”
Aritsa pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you want to help, Shuthmili,” he said. “But consider what you were taught. Personal glory is one step from pride…”
“And pride is the downfall of all Adepts,” she said, sitting up very straight. “Yes. But I’m not looking for personal glory, I only—”
“You want prove yourself worthy of the trust that has been placed in you. It’s natural. But you must understand that it is too easy to compromise yourself like this. The Traitor is insidious. She plays on both base and noble impulses. And with your assessment for the Quincuriate so soon, we cannot risk even a whisper of corruption.”
At the mention of the assessment, Shuthmili subsided back into her chair and nodded. Aritsa knew as well as they all did how much the Quincuriate meant to her. Malkhaya had once seen her folding up paper packaging from their supply drop to use for her notes.
“Your duty is to shed light, Shuthmili,” said Aritsa. “As is mine.” He touched the Nine-Petalled Rose embroidered across the breast of his priest’s vestments. “Once you are joined with your Quincury you will shed such light.”
“Yes, your reverence,” she said. “I hope so.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Aritsa. “We in the Survey Office consider ourselves fortunate to have you for a short time, but the Quincuriate is your future. Do not allow yourself to be distracted.” He gave her an uncertain smile; Aritsa was not a smiling man, so this made him look like someone trying to pronounce a foreign language for the first time.
Malkhaya had never seen Shuthmili smile either, but she bowed her head in respect. “I will be careful,” she said.
The two men ate the rest of the rice and beans, and Malkhaya finished his usual chores. After evening prayers Shuthmili retired, claiming she was going to sleep, although Malkhaya suspected she would be studying for her assessment into the small hours.
“The timing of this ship’s arrival concerns me,” said Aritsa. He steepled his hands on the table and propped his face against them.
Malkhaya sat opposite Aritsa and poured himself a glass of whisky. An Oshaarun single malt was his main luxury these days. He would have offered it to Aritsa, but he knew how the priest felt about alcohol: it would only elicit a lecture about how strong drink was a poison to flesh and spirit.
“What about the timing in particular?” said Malkhaya, sipping his whisky.
Aritsa tapped his fingertips thoughtfully. “I didn’t mention this before for fear of upsetting Shuthmili. The most recent delivery brought a letter from Inquisitor Qanwa.”
High Inquisitor Qanwa Zhiyouri was the head of the house of Qanwa, a leading light of the Inquisitorate, and one of the richest women in Qarsazh. She was also Shuthmili’s aunt.
“What does she want this time?” said Malkhaya.
Inquisitor Qanwa had taken a much more pointed interest in the activities of the Survey Office since her niece had begun her assignment. Malkhaya found this surprising. Most houses had nothing to do with their mage offspring once they had been safely taken up by the Church. This was one reason Malkhaya had felt obliged to look out for Shuthmili, cut off as she was from the supportive network of house loyalties and duties. It wasn’t something you really wanted known, that your own blood had become a vessel of the Traitor. But it seemed that Qanwa Zhiyouri was a particularly fond aunt, or a particularly liberal-minded Inquisitor. Malkhaya slightly resented her for it, but it was her prerogative. Loyalty to house and hearth was what distinguished Qarsazhi from barbarians.
“We are honoured that the High Inquisitor has such an enthusiasm for our work,” said Aritsa, afflictedly. He took a deep breath and settled his hands on the table. “She has given the Chancellor of Tlaanthothe permission to send a party of scholars to join us here and conduct some excavations.”
Malkhaya tried not to laugh. Only Aritsa could think this was on a par with the imminent threat of raiders.
“How many scholars are we talking?” he said, sipping his whisky.
“Two!” said Aritsa.
Now Malkhaya did laugh. “Aritsa, we can deal with two Tlaanthothei. There’s plenty of space here for them, although I can’t promise they won’t bang their heads on the ceilings. And they won’t stay long, surely?”
“Inquisitor Qanwa said nothing about that,” said Aritsa, bristling.
“They won’t,” said Malkhaya. “They won’t like the cold any more than we do.”
“Well, they are arriving next week, so we will find out soon enough, I fear,” said Aritsa. “As I said, I do not like the timing.”
“Coincidences do happen,” said Malkhaya. “It’s my job to be paranoid, but based on what you’ve said I don’t think this is anything.”
Aritsa sniffed. “Two sets of strangers in less than a month, when we have been left in peace for so long?”
“It is odd,” said Malkhaya. “But we don’t have time to write back to Inquisitor Qanwa now. So unless you want to turn these Tlaanthothei back at the Gate, we may have no choice but to see what they’re like.”
* * *
Malkhaya took Prosperity out to meet the Tlaanthothei visitors at the Gate. Over the past week they had seen no more of the strange mazeship. Maybe it was already gone, slunk back to the Gate overnight. They had decided it was best not to tell the Tlaanthothei anything about it—no use putting them on edge over a threat they could do nothing about and which might never materialise.
From above, the dying world was almost beautiful: the air was cold and clear and before the sun began to set the sky was a delicate pearl-blue. The Gate was mounted in a cliff, gleaming like a gigantic oracle-pool. Malkhaya approached at the appointed time and landed Prosperity to wait for the visitors.
They came through the Gate on foot, and Malkhaya got a good look at the two of them long before they saw him. He tried to gauge how difficult they might be to deal with, and how much of a fuss Aritsa was going to make.
The first was a young man who looked just as Malkhaya had imagined a Tlaanthothei student would—tall, dark, thin, fashionable cheekbones, very pretty in an inaccessible way. Twenty years ago Malkhaya could have made a real fool of himself for a face like that.
The other gave him pause. She was Oshaaru, stocky and grey-skinned, her hair cropped short like the boy’s. She would have been unremarkable, if not for the horrific scar that curved all the way down one side of her face, from forehead to chin, cutting through eyebrow and lip on the way. And one of her tusks seemed to be a prosthetic! Malkhaya had his own share of scars, but none so big or so obvious. The poor girl was hardly any older than Shuthmili, but the scar looked to be long healed. She must have been through some kind of violence in her home country. You did hear about all kinds of Oshaarun clan warfare, after all. He made a mental note not to stare at her.
They were both carrying swords, which gave Malkhaya a twinge of unease. If they’d been travelling on foo
t through remote parts of the Maze, it was only sensible to go armed, but he hadn’t been expecting to have to sort the guests directly into his personal index of threats.
Well, nothing to be done about that now. He got out of the cutter and waved them aboard.
“On behalf of the Imperial Survey Office of Qarsazh, welcome to Precursor World Alpha-Twenty-uh-well.”
“Talasseres Charossa,” said the Tlaanthothei, in lightly accented Qarsazhi, as he scrambled up into the cutter. “You can call me Tal.” He grinned down at Malkhaya. “And this is my valued colleague Csorwe.”
The girl with the appalling scar nodded to Malkhaya and followed Tal into the cutter.
“Sor-weh?” said Malkhaya, giving it his best shot.
“Close enough,” said Tal, beaming at his valued colleague.
Csorwe just shrugged. Malkhaya hoped he hadn’t offended her. Maybe she didn’t speak Qarsazhi well, or she was one of those scholars who didn’t do small talk.
“Well, I’m Daryou Malkhaya. I’m the Warden here,” he said, swinging himself back up into the cutter after them. “We’ve been looking forward to visitors all week,” he said. “Aritsa has put on his company vestments. How was your journey?”
* * *
Daryou Malkhaya was a squarish, clean-shaven man in his forties, who looked like a neatly made cabinet. In other words, he was exactly the kind of big handsome idiot that Talasseres found irresistible. It didn’t do Csorwe any good to know this, but once realised it was impossible to deny.
She huddled down on her bench as the cutter swooped over the frozen hills, and tried not to pay attention as Tal put on his most languid drawl to flirt. He sounded as though the Charossa family as a whole had been bored for the last eight hundred years.
“So you’re here to see the Hollow Monument, eh?” said Daryou, either oblivious or just polite. “You must be pretty keen on ancient history, unless you’ve come all this way to enjoy Aritsa’s cooking.”
Tal did his modest expression. “Oh, well … the life of a scholar has its own rewards.”
That was one way of putting it. Talasseres generally only looked at a book if he thought Sethennai was watching.
“I was never much of a scholar, I’m afraid,” said Daryou, grinning at him. “I mean, I can read, but Aritsa sometimes has to explain the big words.”
“Oh, is that why you became a Warden?” said Tal, returning his smile.
“That’s the natural assumption, isn’t it?” said Daryou, not unamused.
The wind was bitingly cold. At least it was a brief flight back to the Qarsazhi compound. Csorwe told herself firmly that they weren’t going to spend more than a week here. That was more than enough time to follow up this tenuous lead, given that she was going to be stuck the whole time with Talasseres, the worst person alive.
“Huh,” she said, as they approached the lodge. “Two security perimeters.”
“Cleverly observed,” muttered Tal under his breath.
“True what they say about our good old Qarsazhi paranoia,” said Daryou. “Not that I think there’s anything wrong with taking security seriously.”
The lodge was sparsely decorated inside, just whitewashed walls, wool hangings, and stone. In a niche above the fireplace was a high-relief icon of one of the Qarsazhi gods: a young man with sword and shield trampling on a dragon. He had an intensely distant expression, as though conjugating verbs in his head.
“Take a seat wherever you like,” said Daryou. “I have to carry out my evening patrol, but Aritsa will be with you shortly.”
They duly sat and waited.
“Enjoying yourself, Sor-weh?” said Tal, once it was clear Daryou had left.
No point correcting him on this. She’d tried, early on (It’s like doorway—), but Tal only found it funnier if you struggled.
“We’re supposed to be scholars,” she said in an undertone. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“I love working with you,” he said. “You’re always so fun.”
“Yeah, feeling’s mutual,” said Csorwe. “I’m serious. You think Sethennai’s going to thank us if they throw us out before we can get the Reliquary?”
“Oh, come on, you don’t even really think the Reliquary’s here,” said Tal.
Before she could answer, there were footsteps from the next room, and another Qarsazhi appeared—an elderly priest, carrying a heavy-laden tray of coffee cups before him as if to ward off the guests from approaching.
“Good evening,” he said. “I am Dr. Lagri Aritsa, the director of research here.”
On closer examination, he wasn’t actually much older than Daryou. He must have swabbed up old age, like a sponge, by touching too many old books. He set down the coffee tray and inclined his head to them. It was possible that in Qarsazh this was a deadly insult. Parza hadn’t ever managed to convey much Qarsazhi social nuance to Csorwe. She had left his lessons feeling universally uncouth.
Talasseres introduced them both, perhaps hoping he could coax someone else into mispronouncing her name, but Dr. Lagri didn’t fall for it. He poured coffee and told them that he had prepared a traditional Qarsazhi rice broth for their dinner. All in all, it didn’t start as badly as Csorwe had feared.
“So, the two of you are here to visit the Hollow Monument,” said Dr. Lagri.
“That’s right,” said Tal. “We’re Sethennai’s doctoral students,” he added, with what Csorwe felt was undue haste. She bet Tal would love to be Sethennai’s doctoral student.
“An intriguing choice,” said Dr. Lagri. “But then, this world is absolutely riddled with intrigue. Thousands of sites, almost all buried. Thousands of years of history. We’ve barely made a start here. We couldn’t catalogue it all if we had a hundred lifetimes.” He sighed in evident pleasure. “May I ask what it is about the Monument that specifically caught your interest? I know it was one of the few sites that was partially documented before we arrived…” He clasped his hands nervously, trying to suppress some kind of enthusiasm. “Or perhaps you read my paper?”
Of course neither of them had, but Tal nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Remarkable findings. Chancellor Sethennai recommended it to me.” This might even be true. Sethennai had read Lagri’s paper, and then he had shut himself up in the inner library of the School of Transcendence for three days to consider the implications.
Lagri looked as though he needed to shut himself away for three days to deal with these implications. “My word,” he said. “Well, it’s only a descriptive piece—there is still much work to do—”
Over the past five years, the search for the Reliquary of Pentravesse had stalled as the newly reinstated Chancellor Sethennai consolidated power in Tlaanthothe. He had deals to strike. He had paid off Morga and the rest of the mercenaries, circulated the news that Olthaaros had been sacrificing his own house staff, and settled back into government as if it were a beloved and comfortable armchair. Csorwe and Tal had been kept busy applying bribery and threats as the occasion demanded. Sethennai had not found much time for treasure hunting, and there had been no new leads.
That is, not until Dr. Lagri Aritsa published his paper, “Preliminary Observations of the Hollow Monument of Precursor World A-20–22–17.” This had been enough for Sethennai to come up with a new theory, apparently a wild reversal of accepted historical fact. Csorwe didn’t know much about that, but Sethennai was clearly convinced. He’d almost packed his bags and come away from Tlaanthothe himself. If it wouldn’t have meant leaving the Siren’s protective sanctuary, and abandoning the Chancellor’s business, he would have done so. As it was, he’d ordered Csorwe and Tal to drop everything and head out to meet the Qarsazhi in their dying world.
Tal kept Dr. Lagri talking, managing to head off any awkward questions about the actual contents of the paper. Csorwe hated to acknowledge it, but Tal was doing a decent job of pretending to be a scholar, better at any rate than her own uneasy silence. Chatting over coffee always made her feel like she was try
ing to cut a cake with a hammer. At least it gave her time to listen and observe.
It was soon full night outside. Over the crackle of the fire, Csorwe heard the wind whipping round the watchtower, and wondered what Daryou was up to, out there in the dark.
Something chimed far overhead, a single clear note. Tal startled, and Csorwe smirked at him.
“Ah!” said Lagri Aritsa. “Nothing to fear. The watchtower bell rings whenever the perimeter is crossed. That will be the others returning.”
A few minutes later the door opened, admitting a blast of chilly air and Daryou Malkhaya, looking tense. If Csorwe hadn’t already known he was here for security, it would have been obvious from his gait and the way he positioned himself in the space that this was a fighting man.
Following after him, with one gloved hand resting in the crook of his arm, was a young woman. She was dressed all in white, from her gloves to the high collar of her surcoat to the fur lining of her boots, making her olive-brown complexion look vivid by contrast. Two fine plaits of dark hair rippled over her shoulders beneath a white hood. She surveyed the room dispassionately, unblinking, like an ermine in its winter coat. Csorwe realised she was staring back, and averted her eyes.
“Ah, yes, the Tlaanthothei delegation,” said Daryou, who had clearly forgotten that Tal and Csorwe were going to be there. Csorwe wondered what had happened. “Excuse me—it has been a tiring day—Aritsa?”
“Yes, of course,” said the priest. He returned to the kitchen and brought a large bowl of rice broth. As he did so, Daryou steered the girl in white to the far end of the table.
She ate as though ravenous, with a single-minded focus that was oddly unsettling, as though she had opened a second mouth, full of jagged teeth.
“Hope you’ve been enjoying Aritsa’s hospitality,” said Daryou, taking a seat closer to Csorwe and Tal. “Have you had the lecture about wasting firewood yet?” He gave them both a brittle smile. Tal grinned back. Csorwe was still watching the girl in white.
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