The Unspoken Name

by A. K. Larkwood

  She drank herself into a murky sleep almost before the sun began to sink in the sky. She was awoken, slumped on the floor, by the sound of boots on stone. Not the gamekeeper or his daughters. Someone else. Alarm pierced the haze that surrounded her and she snapped upright, groping for her sword. Not there. Nowhere close to hand. She had left it with the hunting bow, untouched. All this passed in a moment, and by now the stranger was standing over her, silhouetted against the last light of evening in the doorway.

  “You stink,” said Talasseres Charossa. “What is that, grain liquor?”

  Csorwe sat dully against the wall, looking up at him. Her eyelids were hooded with sleep, and it hurt to look at the light.

  “Think it’s from potatoes,” she said, as he came slowly into focus.

  “Oh, the good stuff,” said Tal. He offered her a hand up and she took it, too bleary to be really ashamed about it. “You’re a mess, aren’t you?” he said. “Sethennai said you were going away to clear your head.”

  She leant hard on his shoulder to pull herself upright, and he winced. “Sorry,” she mumbled, a flash of guilt piercing the haze of potato spirit.

  The maid had already been, and left the tray of dinner. She would have seen Csorwe in her stupor. When she was back in her right mind she would be ashamed of that.

  The wind picked up, whistling in the fireplace. On the dinner tray was a pot of ironwort tea and a bowl of lentils, both already cold. Tal began to pick at the lentils with suspicion.

  “Why are you here?” said Csorwe.

  She felt a barrier reassert itself between them. As her head cleared she remembered she hated Tal and that he had every reason to hate her. She had brought back the Reliquary. He wasn’t going to forgive that.

  “Sethennai sent me,” he said. He sounded just as bitter as she expected, but for once he seemed to be controlling himself. “He wants you back. He thought you’d be home by now.”

  “Well. Tell him I’m not ready to come back,” she said.

  “When, then?” said Tal. With an uncomfortable lurch she realised that she hadn’t thought about it. Maybe hadn’t intended ever to go back. Maybe she had meant to lose her mind here altogether, to drink and lie awake until she didn’t know herself.

  “I don’t know. I’m not in a good state to work,” she said.

  Tal shrugged. “Sober up on the journey. He wants you back in Tlaanthothe.”

  “What for?”

  “How should I know?” said Tal. A flicker of anger, like a fire long banked up under the earth, eating away slowly in darkness. “He wants his favourite bodyguard back.”

  Csorwe ground her knuckles against her temples as if she could rub away the fuzzy feeling of a headache coming on. “I don’t think anybody’s his favourite except when it suits him,” she said.

  Tal looked at her, almost alarmed, his cynical grin fading, only to be replaced by a scowl steeped in an even deeper bitterness. “You’d think. You haven’t seen him with that woman. Oranna.”

  “What?” said Csorwe, remembering the letter from Sethennai.

  “Well…,” said Tal, wrestling with the words. He would not meet Csorwe’s eyes, and his ears drooped with misery. “Since you so helpfully dragged her back to Tlaanthothe she’s been kept in the deep cell. But she comes up to his room most nights.” His gaze flicked up, unable to resist the chance to gauge Csorwe’s reaction. “For discussions.”

  “I did wonder, once,” said Csorwe. “But I’m pretty sure they hate each other.” Whatever it was, she had been certain it had ended in Echentyr.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Tal. “They hate each other. But they’ve got plenty to talk about.”

  Csorwe thought of the sliver of light under the library door, and a small fragment of the past came suddenly clear, as if she had wiped away the mist on the window. She hasn’t ever forgiven me for leaving her in the House of Silence, Sethennai had once said. Csorwe hadn’t really understood that at the time, but of course, Oranna had been as lonely at the House of Silence as Csorwe herself. Sethennai had come, and then he had left, and he hadn’t taken Oranna away with him.

  Plenty to talk about.

  “Well,” she said, and looked over at Tal. He ran a hand through his curls and propped his face in his palm, still not meeting her gaze. “You’re not having fun without me, then,” she said.

  Tal buried his face in both hands and pretended to laugh.

  “I’ve been sleeping with him for three years, you dumb shit,” said Tal. He sounded close to tears. “You just didn’t notice.”

  Csorwe found herself lost for words.

  She couldn’t get round it by mocking him. He wasn’t lying to her. So there was just this … fact.

  Was it really possible she had missed something like this? If they had been keeping it a secret deliberately, she had to admit that it was. Just this fact, and all the implications that flowed from it, like ice water from a melting glacier.

  “Don’t get jealous,” said Tal, with a grotesque laugh. “Now she’s here, I might as well have been washing his fucking cravats.”

  Csorwe drew the flask of potato liquor from her coat and held it out. He took it, laughed briefly, and shoved it into his own pocket.

  “If you’re thinking about pitying me, don’t, I’ll fucking vomit,” he said. He straightened up, putting on languor like a threadbare jacket. A pause to compose himself. Csorwe was grateful for the opportunity to do something with her own face, make it blank and orderly again. “Stop sulking, get a grip, and pack your stuff,” he said. “We’re going home.”

  Her first thought was to refuse. She didn’t want to face Sethennai, and she didn’t want to walk round Tlaanthothe as though everything was the same.

  Then again, there was no peace for her here. She had hoped it would be good to have some time alone with her thoughts, but it turned out she didn’t like their company much. As Shuthmili had told her, thinking wasn’t as good as people made it out to be. At least Sethennai could give her work and purpose, and that would be a distraction.

  “Come on,” said Tal. “What else are we good for?”

  * * *

  Whatever it was they were good for, it wasn’t small talk. The journey back to Tlaanthothe was a full night by cutter, conducted in near silence.

  It worried her that she’d got Tal so wrong. His yearning had been so painfully obvious that she hadn’t bothered to imagine there was anything more to it. She’d always assumed that what Tal wanted was to be noticed, desired, favoured. But clearly such favour wasn’t enough. No, she saw now. It wouldn’t be enough. Not for Tal, anyway.

  She probed her own feelings carefully, testing the ropes before she could trust them with her whole weight. No. She couldn’t think this through now.

  The dull glow of Tlaanthothe in the distance swelled up out of the darkness like a sea creature surfacing. Tal was tired, and Csorwe was by now entirely sober, so she took his place in the pilot’s seat.

  Time to get back to it. Tomorrow she would be back to the old grind, and this would be over. She tried to conjure up some gladness for it, but she just felt weary.

  Tal dozed under a blanket. She wondered whether he saw the same ugly visions she did. Did he see Olthaaros choking to death? Did he see the corpse of the oblation, bled dry in the Hollow Monument?

  He opened one eye a crack and looked at her.

  “I saw her, you know,” he said, slurring as though he stumbled on the edge of sleep. “On the ship.”

  Csorwe went very still. “Who?”

  “The girl. The Qarsazhi girl. Sh’mili.”

  “What do you mean?” said Csorwe. She sat up straight, alert, as if she had been waiting in ambush all this time. “How? When?”

  “The Qarsazhi must have taken us both back to their ship after what happened at the Lignite Spire. I woke up in the brig, and she was there too, in another cell. Alive. They were arguing about what to do with her. Didn’t think I could hear.”

  “What?” said Csorwe. Her voice sounded
strained and unfamiliar in the darkness. “What did they say, Tal?”

  “I was hurt pretty badly. I thought I was dying. It wasn’t the main thing on my mind,” said Tal. She could hear the grimace in his voice.

  “What did they say?” said Csorwe again. She tightened her hands on the wheel.

  “Usual Qarsazhi stuff. Oh, she’s too dangerous to live, she’s too valuable to execute. But in the end they decided they want to keep her for the Quincuriate,” he said. Csorwe took a slow breath. She hadn’t let herself hope. Surely if Tal had invented this to hurt her, he would have mentioned it sooner.

  “I didn’t tell you before. I wasn’t going to tell you. I don’t know—I didn’t—” It was uncanny hearing Tal sound ashamed, like watching a cat walk around on its hind legs.

  She shook her head. “Forget it. Go to sleep.”

  This was the least malicious thing Tal had ever done for her, so it was inevitable that it hurt like mad. She had spent the last couple of weeks shoving things down a well. Here was Tal with a good long stick for stirring.

  If Shuthmili wasn’t dead, she was in a Qarsazhi dungeon, or she had already been given over to the Quincuriate. And whichever it was, death or captivity or oblivion, she knew up to the last what Csorwe had done. She had trusted Csorwe, and she had learned what that got her.

  But all the same, it was like opening a window in a stuffy room and feeling the cold wind hit you, full of the scent of trees and water and all the living things outside that you had forgotten. Shuthmili was alive.

  * * *

  Tal took over flying the cutter as they came down into Tlaanthothe. It was early morning, and the city had a freshly washed look, as though the wind off the Speechless Sea had scoured it clean. As they passed over the docklands, a flash of red caught Csorwe’s eye.

  A Qarsazhi frigate was moored at the upper quay. Its canopies were furled, but there was no mistaking that shade of crimson. In a dream, you can run from your pursuer as long as you like, but as soon as you stop to catch your breath, there he is, waiting for you behind the door. It was Reflection in Tranquillity.

  Csorwe only realised she had gasped out loud when she heard Tal laughing at her.

  “You knew about this,” she said.

  Tal shrugged, then winked. “Might’ve.”

  “Ugh. What are they here for?”

  “Looking for you, obviously,” said Tal. “The only reason they didn’t put me on trial in Qarsazh instead of bringing me back is because I took their side at the Lignite Spire. They think Sethennai sent you on purpose to suborn their Adept. And, well, let’s be honest, I saw how you looked at her. You would’ve suborned her like that.”

  “Hilarious,” said Csorwe. Where was Shuthmili now? Could there be some chance the Qarsazhi had brought her with them?

  “Oh, come on. As if Sethennai’s really going to let them arrest you.” Tal grinned at her.

  “Fuck off,” she said, without heat. “Who is it? Qanwa?”

  “Yeah, and the one who looks like a big egg. They want to lodge an official complaint about you, which I didn’t know was possible, or I would’ve got in on it.”

  “How’s Sethennai? I mean, is he upset about it? He doesn’t like surprises.”

  Tal’s expression clouded. “No. He loves it. He’s got all his toys back, anything that happens now is just another fucking sideshow for him to lord over. Why do you think he wanted you to come home?”

  Csorwe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well. Guess we’d better go and find out.”

  * * *

  Sethennai was sitting on a terrace by the lily pond, wearing his old, hideous coat over his robes, and smoking a cigar with quiet satisfaction.

  “Come and sit down, Csorwe,” he said, as if pleasantly surprised that she had decided to turn up. “I hope you enjoyed your holiday.”

  She hadn’t seen him alone since she had handed over the Reliquary, and she wondered how she could acknowledge it without actually talking about it. When it came to it, however, he didn’t mention it, and neither did she.

  “As I’m sure Tal has informed you, Zhiyouri is here kicking up a fuss. I don’t entirely understand her problem—she has her Adept back, I have my Reliquary, everyone is happy—but as a favour I’ve agreed to let you speak to her, since she was so obliging about letting you and Tal join the expedition in the first place.”

  Maybe now was Csorwe’s chance to ask about Shuthmili. The idea of asking for help made her nervous, but she had no other resources left to her. She had brought back the Reliquary, after all, so her credit with him was as high as it was ever likely to be.

  “Sir,” she said. “I was wondering.”

  “Oh, yes?” he said.

  “Shuthmili—Inquisitor Qanwa’s niece—the Adept I met before…”

  “Ye-es,” said Sethennai. “I’d almost like to meet her, since she’s been such a continued thorn in our collective side.”

  “Do you know where she is? Did they bring her?”

  “I don’t think so. I’d be surprised if they had,” said Sethennai. “The Qarsazhi are very strange about their mages, all that purity-and-danger nonsense.”

  “Don’t you think there’s anything we can do for her?” said Csorwe.

  Sethennai appeared to consider it. “I doubt it. Why do you ask?”

  She owed him honesty. “We got to know each other a bit. I like her.”

  That didn’t even cover it, but she didn’t know how to explain it to Sethennai in a way that wouldn’t make him laugh. A nasty voice in the back of her head told her that, in the end, it didn’t matter much what was or wasn’t happening in her idiot heart, because she had left Shuthmili to die, and you couldn’t come back from that.

  “I see,” said Sethennai. “Well, they’re acting as though you abducted her on her wedding night.” He gave her an enquiring look, which she ignored. “I assume she is presently shut up in some kind of walled garden. But frankly, getting involved would be a waste of a favour.”

  He was already moving on to other things. If Csorwe wasn’t prepared to push him now she might as well reconcile herself to never knowing.

  “Sir—do you know what they do with their mages?”

  “The Quincuriate? Oh yes. It’s rather an elegant approach,” said Sethennai. “Distributing the entropic burden—and it lets them do incredible things with telecommunications. It’s half the secret of their success.”

  “But if it was you,” she said, “you wouldn’t do it. Would you?”

  “Would I give up myself up to something greater?” He sounded interested. “For all that knowledge and power? For what amounts to immortality? I might.”

  “It just seems like a shame,” she said.

  Sethennai smiled. “Csorwe, of all the grief in all the worlds there are, it is strange to pick out the suffering of the Quincury Adept for your sympathies. They live long lives, in luxury. They study and perfect their art—at public expense, might I add—and they are valued for it.”

  “But Shuthmili—”

  “Don’t worry about your friend. She is to be envied.”

  There was no point arguing. Csorwe should have been angry about it, or upset, or some kind of feeling, but the numbness was so big by now that she could hollow it out and get inside it. Walk up and down arcades of emptiness, looking at nothing and thinking about nothing.

  “Don’t worry about Qanwa Zhiyouri, either, when you speak to her,” said Sethennai. “She’s a reasonable woman. She has more perspective than most Qarsazhi. Just remember: you were acting on my business. That’s your line.”

  Csorwe nodded.

  “All right. Good. I’m glad you’re back and we can get this over with. Anything else?”

  “Sir, what happened to Oranna?” She didn’t mean, and wasn’t ever about to ask, what was going on between them, except if Sethennai accidentally said something that proved Tal was lying about the whole situation, then maybe she could relax.

  “She’s in the deep cell,” said Sethe
nnai. “Thrice warded and thrice bound. If she can get out of that, she deserves her escape.”

  “What are you going to do with her?” said Csorwe.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well … we’ve plenty of time to make up our minds about it. Don’t worry. I’m not going to let her out to go rampaging again.”

  “She killed almost everyone—” said Csorwe. “Should she go back to the House of Silence to—to—uh, to face justice?”

  Sethennai’s eyes creased up with bemused wonderment. Then he started laughing. “Exalted Sages, Csorwe. If there ever comes a day when anyone faces justice, then you and I had better hope we’re both far, far away.”

  * * *

  Oranna had never been in prison before, so it was difficult to know what to expect. One thing she had not anticipated was a huge stone bath, endlessly refilled with hot water and rose petals.

  This wasn’t her fantasy, nor was it a romantic ideal belonging to Belthandros, as far as she knew anything about him. She had decided it was a joke, not at her expense but at the expense of sentimental gestures in general.

  The rose petals materialised from nowhere, never bruised or crushed, floating like blots of fresh blood on the surface of the water. After a while they seemed to dissolve. She couldn’t imagine how much it was costing him to maintain this from a distance.

  Possibly not a joke, then, but a display of superior force. She had one thing, which was plenty of time to think. She no longer needed to know what was inside the Reliquary. Several things had become clear to her about Belthandros. One of them was that—now he had the Reliquary back—his power was almost unlimited. He could do whatever he wanted.

  Well, the bath at least was very warm. She had survived the pointless economies of the House of Silence and she wasn’t going to argue herself out of an opportunity to bask, at least for a little while.

  She had already itemised the furniture. Featherbed, silk sheets. Paper lanterns in the shapes of swans. Ivory game board. Tray of sweetmeats, endlessly replenished. Jug of resin-wine, likewise. Bookcase, well stocked.