She had never contemplated Sethennai’s motives for saving her. It had happened. He had treated her well. There had been no point wondering.
She wondered now. He hadn’t done it out of charity, nor out of mercy. Belthandros Sethennai did nothing unless it brought him some benefit or amusement. She knew she was useful to him, and maybe it entertained him to be kind to her.
It didn’t matter why he had chosen her. It didn’t matter who she was, what she was, where she had come from, what she had done, whether she had abandoned her friend. She had done what he asked her. She had fulfilled her purpose. The Reliquary was the proof.
She dragged Oranna out into a corridor, with rows of doors in both directions. There was something familiar about this place. In the semi-darkness it was difficult to say what it was …
Oranna stirred. Csorwe needed to get out of here before she could wake up.
They reached the bottom of a flight of stairs. Wherever they were, surely the way out was up … and still Csorwe recognised the place, as though she had been here when she was very young.
A door opened at the top of the stairs, flooding the cellar with harsh, white sunlight. Csorwe narrowed her eyes against it. There were figures up there in the light, looking down at them.
“Hey, mate,” said a voice. Csorwe identified it, against all likelihood, as a Tlaanthothei voice. “You want to come up here and tell us what you’re doing in the Chancellor’s Treasury?”
* * *
They brought her up to the palace, dosed her with strong wine, and wrapped her in warm blankets. When she was young and new to Sethennai’s service, she had always resented this, and insisted on licking her wounds alone. Now she couldn’t make herself care enough to resist. They had taken away her prisoner early on. She sat where she was put, by the fire in the upper parlour.
Sethennai came into the room in a single billow of green and gold, like an oak tree. To Csorwe’s great shame her eyes blurred with tears.
“Csorwe?”
“Sir,” she said. She dug into her pocket and pulled out the Reliquary. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
She had never known Sethennai lost for words, but as he reached out to take the Reliquary he said nothing, only clasped Csorwe’s hands in his.
“Oh, brilliant creature,” he said. “When have you ever failed me?”
He took the Reliquary and turned it over, running his hands over the surface of the box as if he couldn’t quite believe it was real. Then—as easily as if it had never been locked at all—he opened the lid. Csorwe couldn’t see what was inside, and after everything she had been through, she couldn’t muster much curiosity.
“Ah,” said Sethennai. “Of course. Oh, of course.” He stared down at the contents of the box as though Csorwe and everything else had faded to nothing. “My god. How long has it been? What a fool I am.”
Eventually he seemed to come to terms with what he saw. He closed the lid again and slipped the Reliquary into the inside pocket of his robe.
Csorwe saw immediately that something had changed in him, although it was nearly impossible to pin down exactly what. There was no physical difference. He had been like this when they returned to Tlaanthothe, she remembered. As soon as they had stepped inside the city, he had been quicker, sharper, more vital, more certain of himself. And now the same change was worked again ten times over. There was an unsettling brilliance in his eyes.
Though he had never done so before, he bowed to kiss Csorwe’s forehead, a little to the right of the scar that Morga had left there. He straightened up again, a delighted gleam in his eyes, and patted the breast of his robe where the Reliquary lay safe under layers of brocade. “Where did you find it?”
“Oranna still had it, sir. We found her in the earthly mansion of Iriskavaal, at the Lignite Spire.”
A faint shadow, like recognition, fluttered across his face, but he just nodded.
“You knew each other, in the House of Silence,” said Csorwe, unable to articulate all the other things Oranna had said.
“We did,” said Sethennai. “She’s a dangerous woman. You must know what it means to me to have this recovered out of her hands. Oh, Csorwe. Best and dearest of my servants. You have returned me to myself. Thank you.”
Csorwe lowered her eyes. All this had the quality of a remembered dream: unreal, unsettling.
“Sir, Tal is gone. Somewhere.” He had run straight into the curse-ward. She didn’t know whether he’d survived it. “Injured, badly. And I don’t know how we got into the Treasury. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Hmm,” said Sethennai, standing before the fire. “Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it?”
She let it go. The Maze of Echoes was a strange place; these things happened.
“I will ensure Talasseres is found. Don’t worry about him. Won’t you tell me how it all happened?” he said, settling into a chair opposite her.
Csorwe swallowed. “Yes, sir,” she said. She could still feel it, that settling weight of snow, that tiredness. She felt half buried in it. The last time she had slept she had been on the stolen ship with Shuthmili. “I wanted to ask,” she said. She knew if she didn’t voice this now she never would. “Oranna told me that you took me from the Shrine to—to prove a point. Is that true?”
She could almost see the snow now, the white flakes blurring her vision. She couldn’t meet Sethennai’s eyes. She heard his voice from far away, as if carried on the wind, and before she could understand his answer, she had passed out.
IV
The Traitor’s Grave
Let my name be forgotten; let my house forget me, for I shall live in the deeds of my Quincury, for the glory of the Emperor and the Nine.
Oath of the Quincury coadunate
20
The Sword Has Its Regrets
THERE WERE NO CHAINS in the Traitor’s Grave, whatever its reputation. There was no wheel, no rack, no furnace. Or at least, not in the portion of the Inquisitorial fortress where High Inquisitor Qanwa Zhiyouri had imprisoned her niece.
Zhiyouri glanced in through the observation window. Shuthmili had been given her own room, comfortably appointed with books and a bed and an icon of Linarya the Radiant above the hearth. The room was quiet, but not silent, perpetually washed by the sound of wind and waves. You would hardly know the door was barred from the outside.
Shuthmili was sitting by the window, looking out at the grey expanse below, just as she had done every day since Zhiyouri had brought her here. It wasn’t possible to see individual waves from here. The sea rose and fell as one body.
Zhiyouri shook her head and turned to her guest, a Quincury Adept. It looked exactly like Vigil, except for its sash, which was red on black. This was Spinel, one of the higher research Quincuries. It was unusual to see a single Quincury Adept without its counterparts nearby, but the rest of Spinel was at work in a library or laboratory elsewhere in the Grave.
“I’m afraid that what you’ve asked is impossible, High Inquisitor,” it said.
“I don’t see why it should be so impossible,” said Zhiyouri. It had been more than a week since their return to the Traitor’s Grave, and every successive setback made her fizz with frustration, like a fuse burning another inch closer to catastrophe. The events at the Lignite Spire had left her battered. The lingering poison of the curse-ward prickled in the blood long after the initial attack. When she moved too quickly, her nerves snapped and flared, throwing her off-balance. “And I don’t see how you can be so certain when you haven’t even examined her.”
“It is unnecessary to do so. I could have told you this before you brought me here. The union of a coadunate with the Quincury—the process known as the tether—requires the willed exertion of effort from all involved. If the coadunate is unwilling you will not be able to force her to comply.” Spinel’s voice was as smooth and uninflected as Vigil’s, but with a whining note that plucked at Zhiyouri’s nerves.
“Could she be drugged?” said Zhiyouri. She wouldn’t have
put it so bluntly, but this whole operation had been characterised by inefficiency and delay. Sometimes subtlety was not available to you. Sometimes you just had to keep going until it was done.
“No, High Inquisitor,” said Spinel. Zhiyouri registered no disapproval in its tone of voice. She didn’t know whether the tether carved away the possibility of dissent, or just the ability to express it. “Anything of that nature would make it extremely difficult to complete the tether,” Spinel added.
“Do you know, Spinel, I thought you were supposed to be in the business of creative solutions.” Zhiyouri raised an eyebrow. Spinel, perhaps, looked back at her. It was hard to tell. The black gauze mask never changed. Zhiyouri never thought she would miss her early career, prosecuting thieves and vandals in the Petty Court, but at least thieves and vandals showed their feelings on their faces.
“That is correct, High Inquisitor,” it said. A long pause. “I assure you that I have given the matter serious thought.”
“I am so glad to hear it,” said Zhiyouri, with no pretence at sincerity.
She dismissed Spinel, and it stalked away down the corridor like a great white crane. Inside the cell, Shuthmili seemed—as always—oblivious to her observer. Zhiyouri suspected she was faking it out of pure wilfulness, and had to leave before her anger overwhelmed her. This wasn’t the kind of anger you could pick up and put down recreationally. It was a constricted feeling, as if her throat was closing up.
Back in her office, Zhiyouri stared down at the lacquered surface of her coffee table, cursing the day she had saved Shuthmili’s life. If her niece had died in the cherry tree they could, in all likelihood, have hushed the matter up. It would have been a loss of sorts to the Empire, but a clean grief for her brother: something that could heal over, not the unspeakable ulcerating sore that it was.
Adhara occasionally asked her how Shuthmili was faring. Zhiyouri suspected he would have asked more often if he thought it proper. He did not yet know about the latest escapade. She wanted it resolved before she told him anything: Shuthmili tethered, Archer restored, the Qanwa name cleansed of impurity, Zhiyouri herself left to get on with her Nine-blessed job. Not that she would phrase it that way to her brother.
Your daughter is far happier now than she ever was. She has a true purpose, sanctioned by the Emperor and the Nine. I assure you, she is grateful.
No need to mention that the last time Zhiyouri had actually visited Shuthmili in her cell, the little fool had all but spat in her face.
She sighed. It would have been wonderful if Spinel could have provided some convenient magical fix, but in Zhiyouri’s experience magic often caused more problems than it solved. People were like locks. All resistance, until you discovered the precise formation of teeth that would open them up. All Zhiyouri’s success as a prosecutor had rested on this technique, and Shuthmili was no hardened criminal. Zhiyouri would find the key sooner or later—and she rather suspected it would be sooner.
Perhaps it was time to pay another visit to her old friend Belthandros Sethennai.
* * *
Sethennai’s hunting lodge crouched on the side of a wooded hill like a bracket fungus.
On Csorwe’s first morning at the lodge, one of the gamekeeper’s daughters came to Csorwe’s room to sweep and light lamps. Csorwe hadn’t asked for this, but didn’t want to offend her by sending her away. In the evening, the girl brought a dinner tray with resin-wine, stuffed vine leaves, and little cakes jacketed in powdered sugar.
Csorwe intended to hunt for what she needed, out in the forest. She thought it might make her feel better, or at least would do something to distract her from the empty road that stretched out before her. That was, after all, why she’d left Tlaanthothe only a few days after returning the Reliquary. Everything in the city was the same as it had always been. She needed something else to think about. If she thought about Shuthmili—but even finishing that sentence was too dangerous.
She went out into the woods on her second day at the lodge. Sethennai had no interest in sports, and kept the hunting lodge only for the sake of appearances, but his gamekeeper had taught Csorwe the basics. Though it had been a long time since she had done this, her training was sound. Move silently through the pines—sight the doe nipping at a bramble bush—bend the bow and loose the arrow—and then at the last instant the doe startled. The barb struck her in the belly. It should have been a clean kill, a quick puncture, but the doe survived, floundering among the brambles as if mired in mud, screaming.
Csorwe tried to fit another arrow. Her hands were shaking. Before she could complete her work she found herself rising from the bushes, crashing through the glade toward the doe. Small birds rose rattling from the brush. The whole forest resounded in panic. As Csorwe blundered closer, the doe tried to run from her, falling through the thickets.
“Wait—” she said, meaning to take the doe in her arms, at least to cut her throat cleanly, but she was already gone, leaving crushed vines, dark spots of blood, empty air buzzing with cries of pain. She might have chased her down and finished her, but Csorwe found she could not. Weary sickness struck her like a bolt and she fell to her knees among the trampled brush, careless of the thorns. After that she left her bow hanging in its place, and ate the food they brought her.
The next day, a letter arrived from the city. She knew it was from Sethennai even before she recognised his crisp handwriting, or the Chancellor’s seal. Inside was a message in the usual cipher, dated a few days past.
Csorwe,
Forgive me for the lateness of this message.
The Qarsazhi are not at all pleased with us, but they are bringing Talasseres home. He is doing well and will live. I do understand that this may come as a disappointment.
As for what you asked me: I knew Oranna for what she was almost from the moment of our first meeting. She is a monster, and she lies. To herself more than anyone, but compulsively and with malice. She excels at imposing unkind interpretations on perfectly innocent or coincidental events. Her account of my motivations in taking you from the House of Silence is pure fantasy.
I do hope you are feeling rejuvenated. Your wages have been deposited with the Bank of Tlaanthothe as usual.
Regards,
Sethennai
Csorwe read the letter through twice or three times before folding it away. Some strong feeling welled up in her, as though she were an unsteady vessel full to the brim.
It had been unrealistic to hope for more. Sethennai’s letters were always brief and infrequent. This was the longest she had ever received from him, and it offered a believable explanation, and she should have been satisfied with it. He was busy, and it was unreasonable to wish he might have come in person. If she had wanted to talk to him, she could have stayed in the city.
The gamekeeper’s girl was watching, so Csorwe stuffed the letter into her knapsack and tried to forget about it. She shouldn’t have thought so hard about what Oranna had said, let alone told Sethennai about it. Like he said, she was lying, and in any case, it didn’t matter. She’d brought him back the Reliquary. That was what really mattered, even if she struggled to feel any kind of satisfaction. That, and she’d stopped Oranna from opening it—but dwelling on that only reminded her that the Unspoken One still existed and would never die and never forget her.
She cringed, now, remembering how often she’d imagined handing over the Reliquary to Sethennai. It wasn’t that she’d hoped for a cheering crowd, or heaven forbid a bloody medal, for that or for capturing Oranna. She didn’t know what it was that she’d wanted. For him to trust her, to recognise her—he did, didn’t he? He trusted her as far as he trusted anyone. It had to be enough.
She didn’t reply to the letter, and for the next few days she heard nothing more from Tlaanthothe. She tried to get used to sleeping in the huge canopy bed. She exhausted herself walking in the forest, but lay awake at night, listening for the voices of the dead. She woke from dreams of half-remembered violence. Tal and Shuthmili were there, often, dy
ing by her own hand or another’s, two among uncountable crowds. She had killed many without thought, from Akaro onward, whenever that had been what Sethennai needed. It was what he had expected of her. It had been a part of her education, part of her attempt to run as far and as fast from the House of Silence as she could, to become something other than what she had been—and she’d succeeded.
The sword knows neither pity nor regret. So Sethennai had told her, unless it had been one of her teachers, or a line from some cheap Grey Hook tragedy. Every night she lay still, eyes fixed on the heavy drapes above her, reasoning away a new horror.
None of this reasoning made any difference to her dreams of Shuthmili half alive, struggling to breathe, to stand and face her, to hold together a body torn beyond repair.
She would wake, sucking in gulps of the cold air as though drowning in it, and try to put what she had seen in order. This was a passing weakness. She had seen people lose their nerve before. She reassured herself that she would recover in time.
Then she would remember Shuthmili again.
This was my choice. I’m not going to turn back.
When she reached this memory there was no use trying to get back to sleep. One morning, a few days after the letter had arrived, the maid arrived with the dawn to find Csorwe already dressed and beginning the work of sweeping the spotless hearth.
That day she walked down to the village on the edge of the forest. Little white houses, curls of woodsmoke unscrolling across the white sky, skinny Tlaanthothei children wrapped like puffballs against the autumn chill. It reminded her too much of the town below the House of Silence. She bought a bottle of liquor, and turned back without speaking to anyone.
She had never really liked strong drink, but it made sleep a little easier, and dulled the edges of the dreams. She wondered whether lotus would help, but even if she could get hold of some, that wasn’t the oblivion she needed. The black lotus sharpened your perceptions as it knocked you flat. She didn’t want to see anything in the dark.
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