Csorwe blinked. Things fell into place all at once, like the tumblers of a lock aligning. The Quincuriate assessment. Shuthmili’s last chance to prove herself under her own name. And now one of the Quincury Adepts was dead, which meant Shuthmili’s number was up, and Zhiyouri was clearly eager to rush it all through on the ship before Shuthmili had any chance to think about it. What the hell were they going to do to her?
She strode back down the corridor, kept from breaking into a run only by the presence of guards and footmen, and pelted down the stairs.
Qanwa Zhiyouri’s shuttle-barge was hovering above the long palace drive. Csorwe could see her sitting inside under a canopy, next to a uniformed guard. Csorwe hopped up into it and sat opposite her.
“Hello,” said Csorwe. The guard bristled, reaching for her weapon.
“It’s all right, Warden,” said Qanwa Zhiyouri. Maybe it was Csorwe’s imagination, knowing they were related, but Zhiyouri did look rather like Shuthmili. They had the same curious, unblinking stare. “I have this person to thank for rescuing my niece, I think.”
“That’s right,” said Csorwe. She hardened her posture, drawing on her thickest Grey Hook accent. “Daryou Malkhaya said he could assure me of the Church’s generosity.”
“Daryou Malkhaya is dead,” said Zhiyouri.
Csorwe squashed any reaction she might have had to that. She would have known it if she’d taken the time to think about it, but she’d been avoiding doing so. “I don’t care,” she said. “I saved her life. You owe me.”
In fact, she had forgotten about the reward until that moment, but people were always ready to believe in greed.
“I’m afraid I can’t say I’m carrying a great deal of cash at the moment,” said Zhiyouri, as if Csorwe were a beggar who might leave if discouraged.
“Then I’ll come with you,” said Csorwe. With every minute she was more convinced that she was right, and less willing to take her eyes off the Qarsazhi.
Zhiyouri’s expression conveyed the blank outrage of a machine thrown off its track. For a moment Csorwe thought this woman might actually be about to strike her.
Then they heard footsteps on the gravel outside, as Shuthmili approached, and Qanwa Zhiyouri sighed.
“Very well,” she said. “I am sure my aide will be happy to attend to you.”
* * *
It took Csorwe one minute in the company of Inquisitor Tsaldu to identify him as a miserable bastard.
The Qarsazhi Inquisitor was a stock character in the theatres of Grey Hook and Tlaanthothe: relentless in pursuit, sinister in motivation, very keen on wrapping himself up in a huge black cloak and giggling cruelly. Tsaldu had the look of disdain down perfectly, but he was not one of life’s gigglers.
“And how much did Dr. Lagri promise you?” he said, peering at her over his desk.
The frigate Reflection in Tranquillity was anchored in the foothills outside Tlaanthothe. Two or three Tlaanthothei security vessels were watching the ship at a discreet distance. Csorwe did not doubt that, in each turret of the ancient wall, Sethennai’s war machines were stirring in their sleep. A Qarsazhi frigate was not a trifle, but it seemed they really had sent it just for Shuthmili.
Csorwe yawned. “I don’t remember. Lots,” she said. It was wonderful what you could achieve by acting dense and looking violent. She also had the sense that she’d been fobbed off on Tsaldu because Qanwa Zhiyouri had better things to do, and it didn’t encourage her to be polite.
“Well,” he said. “We’re certainly grateful for the effort you expended keeping Adept Qanwa alive.”
They had taken Shuthmili away as soon as they got on board: two of them, veiled and visored as though Shuthmili might be carrying the plague. Csorwe had been forced to remind herself that she’d known Shuthmili for less than a week. She couldn’t assume on nothing more than a hunch that she knew better than Shuthmili’s own people what was good for her. Still, if she’d had a choice she wouldn’t have left Shuthmili alone with them.
“Mm,” said Csorwe. “I got hurt, you know. Messed my shoulder up pretty badly.”
“I see,” said Tsaldu. “Name your price, then.”
Csorwe named a ludicrous sum. Tsaldu didn’t look even a little amused. Before he could answer, a messenger arrived. Apparently he was wanted by High Inquisitor Qanwa.
Csorwe followed, keeping an insistent few inches behind Tsaldu, hoping she was exuding greed rather than suspicion. The interior of the ship was all polished wood, lacquered panels, icons in niches, and deep, thick red carpets which swallowed up noise. There must have been hundreds of people aboard the frigate, but all that conversation was reduced to nothing but a pervasive rustling.
They came to a windowless chamber belowdecks, and Csorwe elbowed her way in after Tsaldu. This room was one part chapel, one part workroom, one part dungeon, with candles burning before a large tin-glazed icon, glass instruments set out on the benches, and a hospital cot fitted with shackles.
Shuthmili was sitting on the edge of this cot, dressed in a plain shift. Her eyes were bloodshot. Perhaps they had told her about Lagri Aritsa and Daryou Malkhaya, and she’d been weeping for them. She didn’t meet their eyes as they came in, only looked blandly at the icon on the opposite wall.
Next to the bench was Inquisitor Qanwa, flanked by two people in androgynous white surcoats and veils, their faces covered by masks of black gauze. The only flash of colour on either of them was a ribbon-thin sash, embroidered blue on white. Csorwe took them to be priests, until they began to talk.
“I have completed decontamination and the first stage of aptitude testing.” They spoke, and this was no metaphor, with one voice: low, calm, musical, and sexless. “I find that Adept Qanwa is free from corruption and in principle fit for the tether.”
“The Mother of Cities provides for us,” said Inquisitor Qanwa with satisfaction. She seemed pleased enough that she didn’t object to Csorwe’s presence.
“You’re certain on the matter of corruption?” said Tsaldu.
“If Vigil is certain then we are certain,” said Qanwa sharply, clearly referring to the strangers in white.
“Inquisitor, with the greatest respect,” said Tsaldu, “I thought you said this was something which ought to wait until our return to the Traitor’s Grave—”
Csorwe listened to them babble on about indices and basal impurity and all kinds of other nonsense, and wished Shuthmili would look up.
“It is clear enough,” said Inquisitor Qanwa, cutting off the conversation. “When Shuthmili passes her assessment, she will be suited for integration into Archer Quincury.”
Shuthmili looked up at last, her eyes flashing with some strong emotion; pride or triumph, Csorwe guessed. This was what Shuthmili had said she’d hoped for, after all. But Csorwe still felt the edges of a creeping dread.
“It is truly fortunate that we have such a fitting candidate ready to replace Archer Five,” said one of the Vigils.
“Tsaldu,” said Inquisitor Qanwa, “I will oversee the secondary phase of testing. I will need you to step in and cover my outstanding duties in the meantime.”
Tsaldu accepted, just about managing to do so with good grace, and shuffled out with the Vigils. They moved in a cascade of white silk. Even their footsteps matched.
“I would be willing to begin the tether today, if it were possible,” said Shuthmili, in the old chilly monotone, sitting up so straight she might have been a painted cutout of a woman.
“Of course, Shuthmili,” said Inquisitor Qanwa. “We are very glad to have you back.”
“Yep, well, you can thank me later,” said Csorwe, earning a satisfying look of disgust from Qanwa. “Your little friend and I didn’t finish discussing my reward.”
She glanced at Shuthmili in case she was amused, hoping the Adept was just pretending not to know her for her aunt’s benefit. Shuthmili paid no more attention to her than you’d pay to a fly buzzing in another room.
“I’ve made up my mind,” said Csorwe. She proppe
d her hands on her hips and looked up at Qanwa with all the studied insolence she could muster. If she’d had a straw she would have gnawed on it. Actually, her mind was chewing up and spitting out this latest piece of lunacy just as fast as she could talk. Best just to go along with it. “You’re heading back to Qaradoun, right?”
“Well, yes,” said Inquisitor Qanwa.
“Great. Let’s say I want to make my fortune in the big city. Take me back to Qaradoun with you and we’ll call it evens.”
* * *
They showed Csorwe to a passenger cabin. This was as immaculate as the rest of the ship, with the same low sloping ceiling and dark red panels.
A Warden made it clear to her that if she knew what was good for her, she’d stay in her cabin and not bother everyone with her presence. Eventually someone brought her dinner: poached eggs and noodles and shreds of mushroom in a sweet-savoury broth. She had to admit it was better than what you usually got on board ship.
Once she’d eaten and had no further distractions she began to realise just what an enormous mistake it had been to follow through on this idea.
Sethennai had explicitly told her to stay at the palace. Even if Tal was right, and it was all a test, and they were supposed to take the initiative, she should have taken a boat of her own and gone hunting for Oranna. Instead, she was on board a foreign ship that would soon make way for the Qarsazhi capital, a dozen Gates from Tlaanthothe.
The smart thing would be to bail as soon as she could. They’d have to stop to refuel eventually. The Qarsazhi could do awful things to each other on their own time. In theory, Csorwe had her own shit to deal with.
In practice, she couldn’t stop worrying about Shuthmili. Half the time she could believe that Shuthmili had been quiet because she wished Csorwe would just leave. If that was so, Csorwe couldn’t blame her. It had been an uncomfortable episode and she was ready to forget about it herself. But then—she couldn’t quite shake the suspicion that the Inquisitors had done something—given Shuthmili more drugs or laid some kind of magic on her—to make her so silent and compliant. Shuthmili had looked just the same when she was Oranna’s prisoner, down in the Hollow Monument.
She lay there and listened as the frigate broke away from its orbit of Tlaanthothe and traversed the Gate. They were on their way. No use now wondering whether she’d made the right choice.
The lights in the corridor dimmed, and the crew moved to night watches. Once she was sure most of them had turned in for the night, she slunk off to look for Shuthmili.
The Adepts’ dormitory had room for a dozen people in bunks stacked three high, but contained only Shuthmili, tucked neatly into a cot at the far end, staring at the opposite wall. She heard Csorwe coming, and unfolded herself.
“Do you people make all your beds tiny on purpose?” said Csorwe.
“I suppose they don’t want us to get any ideas about sharing,” said Shuthmili, looking pensive, and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.
“In case hitting your head on the doorframe all the time really puts you in the mood, I guess,” said Csorwe without thinking, then wished she hadn’t. Shuthmili probably, technically, knew the facts of life, but the Qarsazhi could be delicate about these things.
“I didn’t know you wanted to go to Qaradoun,” said Shuthmili, who didn’t actually seem too fazed.
“Yeah, I have to add to my collection of useless child-size furniture,” said Csorwe, sitting on one of the bunks opposite Shuthmili. “What was it like, the testing?”
“Tiring,” said Shuthmili. “But I think I passed muster. Archer Quincury is a military division. It’s not quite what I expected.” She smiled thinly. “I had been revising alchemy, mechanics, anatomy—I hadn’t thought they’d want me for this.”
“What does Archer do?” said Csorwe.
“It’s more about what it doesn’t do,” said Shuthmili. “For instance, it doesn’t turn forests to ash. It doesn’t boil rivers dry. It doesn’t reduce cities to puddles of glass. If you’re a neighbour of Qarsazh and we’ve taken advantage of you in some way, and you don’t feel friendly towards us, and you’re thinking of getting back at us, you might first think carefully about how much you enjoy it when Archer doesn’t do anything.”
“Oh,” said Csorwe. “Wow.”
Shuthmili frowned and bit her lip, perhaps wondering if she’d said too much. “Archer is vital to the stability of the Imperium,” she added. In Csorwe’s experience you couldn’t argue with people once they started saying things like this, so she didn’t.
“But you’re all right?” she said, instead.
“Yes,” said Shuthmili, still frowning, now with concern. “I’m fine, Csorwe. I’m back where I need to be.”
“I’m sorry about Dr. Lagri and Malkhaya,” said Csorwe. “Did they tell you?”
She nodded. “I am sorry too. May they rest at the Hearth of the Mara,” she added hastily. “I’ve never really said that for someone I knew before. It’s—it’s almost too much to believe. But in other ways, it isn’t a shock. I knew, I think—back in the Precursor world—that they hadn’t escaped. I’ll write to their families, when we get back to Qaradoun, if my aunt permits it. If she thinks they would like to hear from me. I should do that before I am tethered, at least.”
“Look, what does that mean?” said Csorwe, already one hundred percent certain she was going to hate the answer. “The tether. Getting tethered. What is it, really?” What are they going to do to you? was what she wanted to ask, but it was still possible she had misunderstood, and she didn’t want to put Shuthmili on her guard.
Shuthmili took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. “The Imperial Quincuriate is—how to put this—uniquely stable. Quincury Adepts are trusted. They are virtually immune to corruption, so there’s no risk. They don’t suffer from the same physical decline as ordinary Adepts. That’s because of the tether.”
“It doesn’t sound completely terrible,” said Csorwe. “What’s the downside?”
“It’s not meant to sound completely terrible,” said Shuthmili. “It’s an honour. It’s a privilege.”
“Mm,” said Csorwe. “You can say that about a lot of things. Where I grew up it was an honour and a privilege to sew up your mouth and starve to death.”
Shuthmili looked horrified, and Csorwe immediately regretted bringing it up. Whatever her feelings on the House of Silence, the last thing she wanted was to hear someone else’s opinion on it.
“It’s nothing like that,” said Shuthmili. “Each Quincury—er, that’s a unit of five—shares the same tether. They share a single consciousness. The process of tethering and integration binds a new Adept into the Quincury.”
“A single what?” said Csorwe. Shuthmili didn’t seem to hear her.
“That’s why they’re so stable. With five minds working together, the strain is spread equally. Apparently you don’t even need to think about repairing yourself. It’s just handled.”
“A single consciousness.”
“Yes,” said Shuthmili, briskly. “Each Quincury has its own personality. Imagine one person with five separate bodies.”
“No thanks,” said Csorwe. “So … when you’re … tethered, you won’t be yourself?” The worst part was that it made sense of how they treated Shuthmili. She saw that now. Like she was a very expensive and important part of a very expensive and important automaton.
“I will continue to exist,” said Shuthmili. “My conscious mind will merge with the shared mind of the Quincury. I will certainly be different.”
“But then … you won’t be you, yourself.”
“No,” said Shuthmili. “Not anymore, I suppose.”
“And that’s what you want?” said Csorwe, pushing away the urge to scream. “But that’s just dying,” she said. “If you won’t be there anymore, that’s the same thing—”
Before Shuthmili could answer, the door slid open. Inquisitor Qanwa Zhiyouri stood in the doorway, turning on them the affronted look that people usually
reserved for Tal Charossa. Shuthmili shrank back into her bunk.
“You were told to stay in your cabin,” she said to Csorwe, controlling herself. “You have no right to come in here and bother Adept Qanwa.”
“What the fuck, Auntie Zhiyouri,” said Csorwe. “You know exactly what they’re going to do to her.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. Leave of your own volition or I will summon a Warden to remove you.”
“Don’t touch me,” said Csorwe. She doubted Qanwa Zhiyouri would expect a punch in the stomach. She was prepared to fight over this, right here and now.
“Csorwe,” said Shuthmili. “It’s all right—we can talk another time—” She sounded utterly tired and, unless it was Csorwe’s imagination, utterly hopeless.
Csorwe saw then that there was no point attacking Inquisitor Qanwa. It would just get her kicked off the ship or thrown in some kind of grim Qarsazhi jail. With reluctance, she went limp and nodded.
“Fine. Sorry,” she said. “Just checking on her.”
Qanwa Zhiyouri made no response, her mouth set in a thin line.
“It’ll be all right, Csorwe, I promise,” said Shuthmili. “Aunt, she didn’t mean any harm—”
Shut back into her cabin, Csorwe felt suffocated, as if she were being pressed to death between layers and layers of velvety red upholstery.
Maybe it was just a Qarsazhi thing. Maybe this really was normal there. Maybe they all loved to meld their consciousnesses with each other. Maybe the only reason Csorwe was even getting herself involved was that she had salted and burnt the rest of her life and she had nothing else to distract her.
No. Whatever the reasoning, it was a pointless shame and a waste. The word she was gradually catching up to was outrage. Eight years ago Csorwe had gone willingly to her own death because it had been expected of her, because she had been told it was an honour, because she hadn’t known that she had any choice.
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