The Unspoken Name

by A. K. Larkwood

  This wasn’t even nearly the most ill-founded and dangerous plan Csorwe had ever been involved with. All things considered, it should have worked.

  It was working.

  Their demonstration had gone off perfectly, and she had been right about Big Morga. The old mercenary couldn’t resist the temptation to dance on Psamag’s grave for another ten years. If ambition wouldn’t do it, spite would. Morga was just deciding when it would be seemly to agree, and whether she could squeeze any more out of them.

  Morga stood up and paced the length of the room, turning the scroll case over and over in her hands. Every now and then she stopped to run a huge flat thumb over the seam. “Well,” she said, at last. “I still think it’s a load of crap. But I suppose we can come to some kind of—”

  This was the point at which—with the inevitability of a dropped brick—something ran at high speed into the gallery window and annihilated itself in a cloud of shattered glass.

  Csorwe pushed Shuthmili behind Morga’s desk. Morga leapt in the opposite direction, moving with startling speed and grace. A stray timber hit Csorwe, sweeping her aside. She hit a wall and fell.

  In the moments of screaming disorder that followed, Csorwe lay half stunned on the ground, and Shuthmili tried to drag her into the lee of the desk.

  The window was gone. The room yawned, open to the howling wind. Morga’s papers whipped through the air like startled game birds. The only thing that stood between them and thin air was the wreckage of a cutter, wedged crossgrain into the wreckage of the study.

  Out of this disaster leapt a tall thin man, covered in shards and splinters. He had a knife in one hand, and in the other, a loaded crossbow. It was Talasseres Charossa.

  A moment like this belonged to whoever was upright and could put one word in front of another.

  “All right!” said Tal. “This isn’t a Grey Hook whorehouse, don’t just stand around with your mouth open. I want a map.” He had the crossbow fixed firmly on Morga. Maybe he hadn’t seen Csorwe and Shuthmili.

  Morga pushed herself up, raised her eyebrow a hairsbreadth, and glanced around her office. “You got any particular one in mind?”

  “The Lignite Spire,” he said. “The Domain of the Lady of the Thousand Eyes.”

  Morga laughed, the deep, hollow laugh of a person who by now expects this kind of thing. “Well, shit me sideways,” she said eventually. “It’s Talasseres.”

  “Funny,” said Tal, levelling the crossbow. “Have we met? I don’t remember.”

  “Maybe you were too busy polishing Psamag’s boots, but—oh, put that thing down. If you shoot me you’re not getting your map, are you?”

  Morga was still holding the leather scroll case that contained the map. Csorwe slunk down behind the desk next to Shuthmili.

  “What now?” Shuthmili mouthed.

  Csorwe grimaced. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the station realised what had happened. Already there was noise outside. Even over the wind she could hear people shouting on the other side of the rope bridge.

  They could wait it out. If they had infinite time and nobody on their tail, they could follow Tal and get back the map. But there was no time. The Wardens were catching up to them.

  “Forget it,” she said. “We have to get out of here.”

  There had been a slim chance, and now there was no chance at all. They could cry about it later. All they could do now was get out alive.

  “So, Talasseres,” Morga was saying, quite calmly. “I sell maps. So I’m pretty sure you must be here to buy this map, because nobody would be thick enough to come here and try to rob me.”

  There was no way to the door without being seen. Csorwe waited for Morga to reach a natural break in her monologue, then stood up, holding up her empty hands to prove she was unarmed. Tal spotted her immediately. He had begun to look less certain of his plan, but at the sight of Csorwe and Shuthmili, delight broke upon his face like a sunbeam.

  “Oh, perfect,” he said. “I bet you were so close, as well.”

  Morga looked from one of them to the other, an ugly suspicion forming, almost visible in the air. Still, with Tal’s crossbow trained on her, there wasn’t much she could do.

  The scroll case was right there in Morga’s hands. The universe seemed to take a special delight in letting Csorwe get so close but no further.

  “We’re going,” said Shuthmili. She sounded about as tired as Csorwe felt. “We don’t want any trouble.” They sidled toward the door. Tal, unwilling to take his eyes off Morga, let them go.

  The door opened with perfect timing, like those on a cuckoo clock, revealing an outraged Inquisitor Tsaldu.

  Behind her, Csorwe heard Tal say, “Oh, fuck this,” and the sound of a crossbow firing. She didn’t look back. Instead, she lowered her shoulders and charged the Inquisitor. He hadn’t expected to find them here. He hadn’t expected to be attacked on sight, and he certainly hadn’t expected a headbutt in the stomach. Csorwe threw him back down the stairs and pulled Shuthmili down after her into the gangway, stepping over Tsaldu’s crumpled body.

  Shuthmili glanced back. “Is he—?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Csorwe. “Probably fine. Keep moving!”

  She had hoped the rope bridge would be clear, but as they reached the outer door she saw they hadn’t been that lucky.

  There were already six Qarsazhi Wardens on the bridge.

  Csorwe reached for her sword and stepped out to face them. If she could fight some of them off she might give Shuthmili a few extra minutes—

  “Csorwe, look!” said Shuthmili breathlessly, grabbing her arm.

  Morga’s yacht was anchored to the hull of the broken warship, below and slightly to one side of the bridge. The Wardens had seen them, and now they were running. It would be over in a matter of seconds.

  “Go!” said Csorwe.

  Without hesitation, Shuthmili climbed up on the rail and threw herself into the yacht. It was close enough that Csorwe could have made the jump without thinking about it, but her heart was in her mouth as she watched Shuthmili land in the cockpit.

  “Stop!” barked one of the Wardens, but Csorwe was already in the air.

  She hit the deck of the yacht with an impact that jarred her bones in their sockets and forced the air from her lungs. As soon as she could draw breath, she scrambled up and into the pilot’s chair. The Wardens were almost level with them now, sizing up the jump.

  Csorwe thanked the Unspoken that the controls were configured in a style she recognised. She pulled the lever to release the mooring and gunned the engines.

  The yacht shuddered as it pulled away. For a horrible moment Csorwe thought maybe it wasn’t skyworthy after all, and the damn thing was about to shake itself to pieces. Then it lifted up and away, and swooped out into the free air. Nothing now could stop them reaching the Gate. They had failed, but they were alive.

  * * *

  Beyond the Peacock Gate, Csorwe took the yacht through a series of quick little Gate-jumps, Maze to world to Maze, like a row of running stitches. If the Qarsazhi could track them through that, they deserved to be found.

  Their last Gate was tiny, almost defunct, scarcely big enough for the yacht to pass through. They came out into a region of the Maze even less familiar than most: a huge still lake, entirely surrounded by cliffs. It was like being at the bottom of a gigantic well. The surface of the lake was silvery-dark and cloaked with a fine mist that parted behind the ship like a wake. The other Gate was on the other side of the lake, a slow and easy voyage.

  Csorwe sat back in her seat and let herself take a deep breath. Her heart gradually stopped racing. Once her body calmed down enough to let her feel anything, she felt empty.

  She had no idea what they were going to do. They were out of money. The Qarsazhi had found them once, and they would eventually find them again. The yacht was horribly recognisable and plenty of Wardens had seen them go. She didn’t see how they were even going to survive until the next day, let al
one pursue Oranna. Every plan she could think of came with a but then or an unless, and she couldn’t think straight enough to work through them.

  Shuthmili knocked on the doorframe and climbed down into the cockpit.

  “Csorwe, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but when was the last time you slept?”

  She couldn’t honestly remember. The idea of pawing through cupboards for sheets was the most tiring thing she could imagine. It would be easier to stay awake forever.

  “Hmm,” said Shuthmili. “I’ve been exploring the ship. Based on some of the things in the lockers, I don’t think I would have enjoyed Morga’s parties. But I did find bunks and bedclothes. Anyway, we’re passing over a little archipelago. Do you think we might moor the ship and get some rest?”

  Csorwe nodded and began to take the ship down. “It’s just a shame,” she mumbled.

  Shuthmili looked at her with some concern.

  “About the map. That we didn’t get it. I’m sorry,” said Csorwe.

  “Oh!” said Shuthmili. Not surprised but delighted, as though someone had given her an unexpected present. “But—oh—” She scrambled up into the copilot’s seat and began rifling through her coat pockets. “I thought you’d realised. We did get it.”

  She pulled out a single roll of paper. It was crumpled into the shape of a battered cigar, but it was intact.

  Csorwe stared at it. These things simply did not happen. She unrolled it and flattened it out, refusing to believe it. “How?”

  “I didn’t think Morga would go for our offer,” said Shuthmili. “I found an old paper in your coat pocket. When she let me look at the map I just swapped them.”

  “God alive,” said Csorwe. “If she’d opened the case…”

  “I know,” said Shuthmili. “I thought I’d better take the risk.”

  “You’re a lunatic,” said Csorwe, with immense pride.

  Shuthmili looked down at the map and smiled. The collar of her coat was hanging open, exposing a two-inch triangle of bare skin at the hollow of her neck. Csorwe let herself imagine how soft it might be for one full second before telling herself to stop noticing these things.

  She landed the yacht on one of the islands, increasingly worried that Shuthmili would insist on going to the trouble of making up bunks. When she left the cockpit, though, she found that Shuthmili had dragged all the pillows she could find into one cabin and laid them out on the floor. She was already sprawled across the pile in her shift.

  Under other circumstances Csorwe might have had some kind of reaction to the sight of Shuthmili’s bare legs, but as it was she was so tired she could scarcely stay upright.

  Shuthmili clearly had no concerns about sleeping next to Csorwe. Still … things had changed since their escape from the Precursor world. She didn’t want Shuthmili to suspect anything, and she didn’t want to torment herself. She wasn’t going to be like Tal Charossa, always limping tragically after someone who wasn’t interested. She curled up on the heap of pillows at a discreet distance and pulled a sheet over herself.

  Just as she was dozing off, a stray thought pricked her awake.

  “What old paper?” she said, but Shuthmili was already asleep.

  * * *

  Tal made it out of Morga’s station in one piece. One bruised and exhausted piece, hiding in the cargo hold of the Qarsazhi frigate, between barrels of wine and sacks of rice. He was bleeding from a long cut above the eyebrow, and it was possible that Morga had broken his nose.

  It didn’t matter now. He was safely away, and he had the map. That was the only thing that mattered. This was what nobody understood about Tal. They could beat him down. They could humiliate him. But he was never going to stop, he was never going to give up, and in the end he was going to win.

  He crawled in between the barrels until he found a place where he could sit down comfortably. He struck a light and perched on the edge of a crate. Only then did he crack open the leather scroll case. Inside was a flimsy sheet of paper. He unrolled it carefully, and recognised his own handwriting.

  No hard feelings, you piece of shit.

  Tal Charossa

  Oranna took the Reliquary out of her pocket, turning it over in her hands. “I have contemplated taking a hammer to it,” she remarked.

  “Just to find out what’s inside?” said Ushmai, blowing on her fingers to try and stay warm.

  “It might be worth it,” said Oranna.

  They had been inside the Lignite Spire for some time now. It might have been hours or days. The place was a barefaced violation of geometry, and Oranna had spent so long trying to commune with the Unspoken One that she didn’t have a very clear handle on space or time.

  Her patron was not forthcoming. Oranna had burnt lotus three times a day, and taken a measure of agaric, although she never enjoyed its side effects. She had spent half a day quivering in the tower’s antechamber with nothing to show for it but a troublingly sensual hallucination about the so-called Prioress Cweren. All that the Unspoken had to say on the matter was The Reliquary opens before the throne and earthly mansion of Iriskavaal.

  They had reached the tower, and the Reliquary failed to open. They had entered. They had searched. No luck.

  She ran her fingertips over the lid of the Reliquary. It gleamed as though freshly polished. Belthandros’ reaction would be something to see if she destroyed it. He had a good way of holding himself apart, as if he was a passing visitor in the world, amused by the locals but ultimately not involved. Frictionless. The mistake people made was trying to stick to him. A burr, after all, is something you brush off your coat. Breaking the Reliquary would certainly get his attention, if she decided his attention was something that interested her.

  She was immediately ashamed of herself for thinking it. Her lips thinned. Destroying a source of power she could use herself, purely to spite Belthandros? Unworthy. No better than the priestesses back at the House of Silence, who had nothing to do but feud and fixate and squabble. She had enjoyed Belthandros’ company and correspondence for a brief time, but he was, in essence, irrelevant. She had more important things to do.

  “The earthly mansion of the Unspoken is the Shrine in the mountainside,” said Oranna. “And the throne lies within it, although we are not permitted to kneel before it … this world is all that remains of Old Ormary. The Lignite Spire, where we now stand, was once the earthly mansion of Iriskavaal. But her throne was destroyed. It no longer exists, here or anywhere else. Surely it isn’t possible that the Unspoken One was wrong?”

  Ushmai gave her a look of wild terror, then realised that this had been a rhetorical question, and that she was not required to have an opinion.

  “No,” said Oranna. “The throne must be here, whatever that means. We are on the right track. We are being tested. It is a question, as always, of what we are prepared to give up.”

  18

  A Machine for Prophecy

  QANWA HAD BEEN STARING at her charts since she had awoken that morning, trying to trace the fugitive’s route through the thick web of Gates around Peacock Station. She had learned from plenty of mistakes over the course of a varied career, enough to know that Peacock Station had been a minor blip rather than an irrecoverable disaster—but it was nevertheless embarrassing.

  Assuming she was intending to sell Shuthmili, where would the Oshaaru woman take her, logically speaking? This was another opportunity to solve order out of chaos. Once you had all the information aligned correctly the solution would emerge with glorious, self-evident clarity. She wanted to be left alone to plan their next move.

  Instead, here was Tsaldu, convinced he had something urgent for her attention.

  “By the Nine, Tsaldu, are you unable to deal with a stowaway yourself?” she said. Tsaldu winced at the mild profanity.

  “It’s not quite that, Inquisitor Qanwa—” he said.

  “This is what we have cells for,” she said. “Detain him now and put him off the ship when we next stop to refuel.”

  “Oh, come o
n!” said a voice from the corridor. Qanwa peered out and saw a skinny Tlaanthothei boy in a torn shirt, with a Warden clinging to each arm to hold him back. He looked like the usual station dregs, out for what he could get. “Tell her what I told you!”

  “Inquisitor Qanwa, he says he has information—” said Tsaldu.

  Qanwa sighed. If Tsaldu had been as competent as he was fastidious, she would have liked him better. “Of course he does,” she said. “And of course I have nothing better to listen to. Tsaldu, it is imperative that we retrieve my niece before she can be sold on—”

  “I know where your wizard’s gone,” said the boy. “Let me go and I’ll tell you.”

  “Excuse me?” said Qanwa.

  “Your Adept, whatever,” he said, making a token struggle. “Two plaits. Looks like a weasel that’s just bitten into a nice refreshing lemon. I know where she’s gone and if your fancy Imperial maze-charts are any good at all you’ll be able to get to her.”

  * * *

  The Gate flashed as the yacht passed through—tides of jade and gold rippled across its surface—and then a pulse of pure golden light washed over the hull, and they passed into the dead zone.

  Morga’s chart had been easy enough to follow, with Shuthmili at hand to decode the annotations. This was the last Gate marked on the map. They had found it in a forgotten valley of the Maze, far from the trade routes, far from any station, in the farthest reaches of the nexus.

  The world turned in on itself, dissolving and reforming like wet clay. And then the Gate spat them out.

  A shallow black basin lay under a shimmering half sky. It was just as Csorwe had seen in Echentyr, but worse. The sky split like the bud of an opening blossom, giving way to inverted mountains, upturned valleys, gigantic columns and arches of stone.