The Unspoken Name

by A. K. Larkwood

  “I thought you said she was a friend of yours,” said Shuthmili.

  “Well,” said Csorwe. “The last time I saw her she tried to kill me. But it wasn’t anything personal.”

  Shuthmili nodded, slowly, staring as if nothing could surprise her any more.

  “Don’t worry. People try to kill me all the time,” said Csorwe. Putting on a little bravado for Shuthmili’s benefit had the advantage of making her feel slightly better.

  Then she realised Shuthmili wasn’t staring at her, but at something in the crowd of people behind her.

  “Don’t look,” said Shuthmili in a choked whisper. “Don’t draw attention.”

  Csorwe nodded and pretended to keep talking, steering Shuthmili toward a nearby market stall to give them some cover. When she got a chance she half turned her head and caught a glimpse of a person all in white, with a black visor and a white veil completely covering their head, and a thin sash of blue braid.

  “One of the Vigils,” said Csorwe. When she’d seen them on the ship they hadn’t seemed so very frightening, but the ghostly way the pale figure drifted through the crowd chilled her blood.

  “Yes,” said Shuthmili in a whisper, knotting her hands together. “Vigil Quincury is the Inquisitorate’s bloodhound. I should have known they’d send it after us—”

  She stopped talking abruptly and shrank back behind the market stall, behind Csorwe. It was almost an involuntary movement, like shutting your eyes against the sun.

  Two Qarsazhi soldiers were coming across the market toward the Vigil Adept. Csorwe drew back into the shadows after Shuthmili, shielding her from their sight, and crouched down behind a stack of boxes. She couldn’t have drawn breath if she had wanted to.

  The two soldiers and the Adept exchanged a few inaudible words, then left together. The crowds parted for them and they went on down the corridor without even looking in Csorwe and Shuthmili’s direction.

  Shuthmili was still crumpled behind the boxes.

  “Are you all right?” said Csorwe, inadequately. Now that the immediate danger was gone, her own fear returned with a vengeance. They were virtually defenceless, crouching in the bowels of a remote station, surrounded by enemies and far from any help. Shuthmili didn’t respond, and for a second Csorwe just wanted to run, anywhere, even if it took her into the path of danger—anything was better than waiting to be found.

  Then Shuthmili got up, brushing discarded wrappers out of her skirts.

  “Yes,” she said. She set her jaw. “I’m fine. I’m not panicking. We can do this.”

  “Do you recognise those soldiers?”

  “Not their faces. They’re Wardens from Tranquillity,” she said.

  “Shit. All right,” said Csorwe. She peered out into the trunk gangway, but it was deserted. “We just have to get as far as Morga’s shop. You’re still all right with the plan?”

  Shuthmili paced the width of the tunnel, like a tiger in a cage measuring the span of its captivity. “I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of work,” she said. “For most of my life the most exciting thing that ever happened was when we heard they might be planning to serve a different kind of coffee at breakfast. But if I can’t even try then I should just go back to my aunt and turn myself in.”

  Morga’s shop was only ten minutes’ walk away under ordinary circumstances, but the Wardens were everywhere, red-jacketed like biting ants. They must have been doing a full sweep of the tier. Csorwe and Shuthmili had to dodge painstakingly from passage to vent until they reached their destination.

  Morga’s shop was set up in the stern of an ancient Oshaarun warship, bitten in half in some forgotten conflict and now bolted to the very edge of the station’s armature. Csorwe couldn’t imagine how big the warship had once been. It dwarfed the little yacht moored to its side. The only way to reach the entrance was by a rope bridge strung across empty space, which swung like a pendulum, some thousand feet above the canyon floor.

  “Morga certainly looks eager to welcome new customers,” said Shuthmili, with a nervous little laugh. Csorwe’s heart swelled with some kind of painful new emotion at the prospect that something might happen to Shuthmili, and the knowledge that she wouldn’t ever be able to forgive herself for it.

  The bridge swayed unpleasantly when Csorwe stepped onto it. As she neared the middle, the wind from the canyon blew her back and forth, like a spider hanging from a single thread. But she reached the other side without difficulty and Shuthmili followed after her.

  On the other side of the rope bridge was a flight of steps, leading up to a door cut into the hull of the warship. Beyond the door was a narrow wooden gangway, but here any resemblance to a ship ended. The gangway gave on to many windowless rooms, each one lined with pigeonholes, and each pigeonhole was stuffed with rolls and books and bundles of paper. The only light filtered in from the door, and the whole edifice was filled with the sound of creaking timbers and papers rustling slightly in the breeze.

  “I suppose you don’t think we can just find the map and go?” said Shuthmili, peering at the index labels on the nearest pigeonhole.

  Csorwe shook her head. “She won’t keep anything valuable here—wait. Shh.”

  Csorwe stood stock-still, wondering if she’d misheard. Perhaps she was now so tense she was imagining things. But no—that was a voice. Sound always carried strangely on board a station. It was the voice of Big Morga, echoing down from above.

  “Yup, I heard you,” Morga was saying, in Qarsazhi. It would have sounded like a friendly business-as-usual drawl, if you didn’t know that in a previous life Morga’s business had been efficient killing. “Heard that part too, and you already know I don’t give a pint of piss about your Imperial Mandate. I haven’t seen your fugitives.”

  A pause.

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard. Inquisitor Ballbag’s orders. Don’t know anything, sorry. ’Fraid you’re going to have to get out of my shop. There we go. That’s it. Turn around, and out you go. Good boy.”

  Floorboards groaned overhead. Csorwe pulled Shuthmili hastily into the farthest corner of one of the archive rooms as a Qarsazhi officer came down the stairs, doing his best to exit with dignity.

  “Slimy little fuck,” Morga muttered, in her own language, and they heard the clink of a bottle on the edge of a glass.

  When Csorwe dared to look, she saw the officer’s back, receding across the rope bridge. She stepped back out onto the gangway, beckoning Shuthmili after her. At the far end of the gangway was another flight of steps, leading up to the deck above.

  “Ready?” she said.

  “Let’s go,” said Shuthmili.

  Csorwe strode up the stairs and opened the door to Morga’s study.

  This had once been the captain’s stateroom, but it too had been lined with shelves and pigeonholes and stacks of paper in every corner, like an attic gradually filling with wasps’ nests. Sitting at a desk in the middle of the room was Big Morga. By now, she must have been at least sixty, but she was ageing like a glacier: grander with each passing year, and capable of carving through solid rock.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” said Csorwe, coasting along on a heady mix of sleeplessness and desperation. She was covered in a thin layer of sweat and smelled like a midden. She might’ve hoped her natural charm would carry the day, if she’d had any natural charm.

  Morga sipped her whiskey and observed the two of them at her leisure. “Evening,” she said, eventually. “So. You’ll be the fugitives, then.”

  Csorwe nodded.

  “You know, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s comedy,” said Morga. “If either of you is a boy in a wig or hiding a parlourmaid under your skirts or any of that bollocks, just let me know now so I can show you the quickest way to the bottom of the canyon. Can’t stand it.”

  Morga gestured to the enormous gallery window. Beyond it, the canyon yawned, swallowing ships like a whale sieving krill. It would be a very long way down. Csorwe swallowed. If ever she had possessed a grain of Talasseres’
daring, she needed it now.

  “No, ma’am,” said Csorwe. “We need your help.”

  Morga propped her chin on one hand and observed them with the boredom of a crocodile. She didn’t show any sign of recognising or remembering Csorwe, but then, that didn’t mean anything either way.

  “We need a map. We’re looking for the Lignite Spire,” said Csorwe.

  “Mm,” said Morga. “And the Qarsazhi are looking for you because you’ve stolen one of their war-mages. That’ll be you, hmm?”

  “Yes,” said Shuthmili. Her gaze was fixed on the wall, as though looking straight through its substance to the outer void of the Maze. Shuthmili’s character, as part of the plan they’d discussed, was the high-eldritch fallen sorcerer who tended to star in the same type of drama as the stock Inquisitor. She had pulled up her hood, and her fingers were laced together over her sternum.

  Morga saw nothing to interest her, and her attention flicked back to Csorwe.

  “So what you’re telling me is that all Morga needs to do is hand you two over to the nice man in the pretty red uniform, and he’ll take his soldiers and bugger off? And, you know, bit of a reward for my trouble? You must have something pretty compelling up your sleeve, friend, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do if you don’t.”

  Csorwe licked her lips. Just stick to the plan.

  “Shuthmili’s a mage,” said Csorwe. “She could be useful to you.”

  “I don’t like mages,” said Morga.

  “You don’t like them when they’re not on your payroll, ma’am,” said Csorwe.

  Morga smiled. Most Oshaaru wore caps on their tusks, or scrimshawed them with patterns. Big Morga’s were as bare as knives, and one was chipped.

  “What can you do, then, sweetheart?”

  All right. Showtime.

  “You got a blade?” Csorwe said, wriggling out of her jacket. She had at least three knives on her already, but whipping out a concealed weapon in front of Morga would be an efficient method of suicide.

  Morga raised an eyebrow and pushed a small knife across the desk. Csorwe tested the blade on her thumb, as though inspecting it for purchase. It wasn’t really more than a letter opener. This wasn’t going to be fun. Unfortunately, there was no room here to stall for time. It needed to be abrupt and startling or there was no point doing it at all.

  She bit down on the inside of her lip to stop herself screwing up her face, and in one quick, vicious movement, drove the blade into the soft part of her left forearm.

  The black blood ran in streams into the crook of her elbow. She watched it drip onto the surface of the desk. The floorboards shrieked as Morga threw back her chair and leapt to her feet. The pain was bad but distant. In many ways the anticipation had been worse.

  Csorwe pulled out the knife, saw a sliver of wax-white fat before the blood welled over, and as she did, everything faded to background noise—the plan, the map, Shuthmili—and all she could see was Morga holding up her broken body, over the table in Psamag’s hall. She could feel Morga’s hands, one in her hair, one under her arm, showing round her mutilated face for the lieutenants to see.

  She blinked hard, again and again, as though the blood was running in her eyes. The room came drunkenly in and out of focus. This was it—she had made a terrible mistake, her arm was useless, Sethennai didn’t know where she was, and nobody was coming to get her. The bloody knife slipped from her nerveless hand.

  Then there was that stirring bone-deep warmth again. Shuthmili remembered the plan. Csorwe should never have doubted. She had Csorwe’s arm firmly in both hands; her expression was utterly focused, dizzyingly lucid. The cut was narrow but deep. The blood dripping on the desk looked like ink. Csorwe shivered, and Shuthmili glanced up at her. As she broke concentration, Csorwe felt another stab of pain, like a shard of glass working free from her arm.

  “Don’t look at your arm,” said Shuthmili. “Look at me.”

  Csorwe swallowed. It was worse to be given permission to look. Without the pain she had nothing to distract her from all this. Shuthmili’s lower lip, caught between her teeth. Her black eyes, narrow with focus. Maybe it wasn’t too late to stab herself again.

  At last Shuthmili released her hold and sat back in her own seat, swaying. Csorwe’s arm was whole again, wiping clean the events of the past two minutes.

  “You all right?” said Csorwe.

  Shuthmili pinched her nose and straightened up. She was breaking character a little, but Csorwe couldn’t fault her for anything. “Mm. That was easy. You’re surprisingly cooperative.”

  “So I’m told,” said Csorwe weakly.

  “Do not pull a stunt like that with me again, thanks,” said Morga. She grabbed Csorwe’s forearm in one enormous hand and pulled it back and forth, prodding the skin with a sharp nail as if checking for possible tricks.

  At last she grunted and let it go. “Your mage is not a total charlatan, I’ll grant. So, let’s bargain. What was it you wanted, again?”

  Csorwe wanted a glass of water and to be left alone for one goddamn minute, but there it was.

  The whole study was lined with shelves, most filled with loose papers and folders. They must have been indexed according to some scheme. It only took Morga a minute or two to find what she was looking for: a leather scroll case, battered and perished as though it had been lost at sea. She opened it without care, shedding flakes of leather like dandruff. Inside was a roll of thin, crumpled paper. Morga slid it out onto the desk and unrolled it with the side of her pen.

  It was a chart of the Maze. Parts were familiar: the Gates of the Greater Tlaanthothe-Kasmansitr nexus, linked like a huge constellation. A dashed line indicated a road by land; a solid line meant a viable route through the Maze, although what was meant by viable might depend on how much the owner of the ship cared for his crew.

  Csorwe peered at it, trying to make sense of what it was saying, and whether it could possibly be legitimate. The Great Gates were ringed: Free City of Grey Hook, University of Tlaanthothe, and all the rest. There was the Peacock Gate, on the outer rim of the nexus, just underneath the arrow labelled To the wilds of Oshaar in spidery Qarsazhi calligraphy.

  There were other lines, needle-thin, reaching away in great arcs to the inner and outer Qarsazhi provinces, to Tarasen, Salqanya, and—Morga traced one branching line to the other side of the chart and tapped it with her forefinger—Domain of the Lignite Spire.

  “That’s your road,” she said.

  “This is an antique,” said Csorwe.

  Morga’s lips curved up in a smile of great condescension. “You’re the one that wants a way into a dead zone. Guess you’ll have to hope the Maze doesn’t change on you.”

  Csorwe passed the map over to Shuthmili. “You know about … old things. Is this legit?”

  Shuthmili turned it over and inspected the lettering minutely. At one point she sniffed the paper, wrinkling her long nose. “May I see the case?” she said.

  Morga chucked it across the table. “Don’t see what good it’ll do you. The case is just what it came in. Wouldn’t lick it if I were you.” She shrugged and turned back to Csorwe. “It’s legit. You think I could do business if my charts weren’t good?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” said Csorwe. “But if Shuthmili thinks it’s good, we’ll take it.”

  “Good for you,” said Morga. “What are you offering me? What have you got that’s better than Qarsazhi gold? And don’t give me another load of arse about healing. I’m an old woman. I’m out of the business. I don’t need anyone to mop my forehead.”

  “Do you remember,” said Csorwe, “what General Psamag used to say, about the certain things in life?”

  Morga’s eyes narrowed. “Remind me.”

  “No man can escape the death that’s set down for him,” said Csorwe. “Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Morga, giving her a sharp look. The wheels were turning very quickly. Csorwe reckoned they didn’t have much time, and gave Shuthmili the signal.
<
br />   “How old are you, Morga?” said Shuthmili. Csorwe had coached her on this as they climbed up through the tunnels.

  Morga gave a throaty splutter of laughter. “Older than you, sunshine.”

  The next line was the same, whatever Morga said: “I can give you ten years.” Shuthmili was really very good at this. She stared into the middle distance as though the void was revealing its horrors to her even now.

  “You threatening me?” said Morga, leaning toward them. She was one of the few people who could loom while sitting down.

  “No,” said Shuthmili. “In the old country they called you Morga the General, didn’t they? You spent too long in service to a lesser man. Your heart slows in your chest. Your bones are brittle. The time that Psamag took from you is gone. I can return to you ten years of life, to live again on your own terms.”

  Morga didn’t immediately laugh. She sat back in her chair and folded her hands. “Really.”

  “The Emperors of Qarsazh live beyond the span of mortal man,” said Shuthmili. “Surely you know this?”

  This could even have been true, for all Csorwe knew about the Emperors of Qarsazh.

  “And you want me to believe that’s because they’ve got sorcerers pumping them full of young blood when they start drying up?”

  Shuthmili smiled an impeccable smile: aloof, superior, infused with sinister glee. “Yes, quite so,” she murmured. Csorwe tried not to think about kissing her.

  “No wonder they’re itching to get you back,” said Morga. “How long’s it take?”

  Shuthmili laced her hands together and stretched. “We may begin whenever you choose. Though you may wish to go somewhere more private.”

  “What’s the risk?” said Morga.

  “As with any complex spellwork, the risk to the practitioner is significant,” said Shuthmili. This part certainly had the ring of truth. “But the process has been refined over the centuries. The greatest risk for you is that it simply does not work.”

  Which was the crux of it. As Shuthmili had made very clear, she couldn’t actually rejuvenate anybody. (“Time damages the body like nothing else. The best I can do is tighten up the skin, give the cardiovascular system a bit of a sluicing, repair a little wear-and-tear on the joints. She’ll feel better, so I imagine it should be fairly convincing.”)