It all reminded her of a tasteful bordello. There were no windows. The room was suspended within a shell of air, warded with salt, resin, and ashes. On the table, with the tray and the jug, was a piece of rock crystal, big enough to toss from hand to hand. This stone was taken from the Shrine of the Unspoken. It provided an umbilical cord between Oranna and her god. A thin trickle of power, enough to keep herself happily alive, so long as she didn’t use it for anything else.
He had left no other restriction. She could starve herself of it, let the poisons thicken in her blood, spin herself out to the edge again, and try save up enough power to puncture the membrane of the cell. Or she could live here in dull and perfect luxury.
“I leave that up to you,” he had said. “Feel free to experiment.”
Comfort, safety, and boredom; freedom, risk, and suffering. Oranna did not trust anyone who offered her a choice. A choice was just another prison. Not, of course, that she had ever been inclined to trust Belthandros.
She got out of the bath in a cloud of rose-scented vapour, and picked up the rock. She felt the power in it as a latent chill, as though it had been just lately brought up from a deep cellar. When Belthandros wasn’t around, she slept with it tucked up against her chest, as if the cold might seep into her breastbone. It was a good reminder.
She knew what she had to do. The longer she left it, the more likely it was that she would just surrender to all this luxury. Belthandros had a way of cultivating a dumb, unthinking devotion that Oranna found particularly distasteful.
She knelt by the side of the bath. Belthandros hadn’t left her anything like a weapon. He had cut her nails himself, gently and with something like affection, when he healed her injuries, and she didn’t fancy trying to do real damage with her tusks and teeth.
She laid her left hand flat on the edge of the bath, and traced an arc with the rock, from shoulder-height down to the knuckle of her little finger, just pricking the joint with the point of the crystal.
Belthandros’ mistake was believing everyone was like him. He was too vain to do permanent harm. In a trap like this, he would lie back and feel sorry for himself. He had never met anyone who couldn’t be bought.
She raised the rock above her head.
This I do in your Unspeakable name. Give me strength.
She brought it down.
Her finger was somehow still attached to her hand. It took another three blows to make it come away, mashing flesh into stone. Then she threw up.
Skidding down a bloody slope to unconsciousness, her first instinct was to kill the pain. There wasn’t much you couldn’t cauterise if you burnt hot enough, but she needed all the fuel she could get. The pain and the sickness were the sacrament as much as the blood, the flesh, the bone.
She steadied herself. Hard to stay upright. She leant over the edge of the bath, bending almost double, and dropped her smashed finger into the water.
The roses shrivelled away at once, like paper touching a flame. The surface shimmered and tightened. She saw her own face, haloed with wet hair, grotesquely lined with pain.
The blood had soaked into the cracks in the stone. It pulsed cold, numbing her mutilated hand. The power welled up in her, a dark potentiality, promising many things—the power to warp, to watch, to open ways previously closed …
And she knew immediately that it wasn’t enough to break out of the cell. Belthandros was many things, but he wasn’t an imbecile. There wasn’t anyone left to help her. This was the trouble with sacrificing all your acolytes. She wasn’t getting out of here on her own resources. She would need an accomplice.
* * *
Napping in her own quarters for the first time in weeks, Csorwe dreamt of the library at the House of Silence, warm, bright, and quiet. The fire burnt high, rustling in the grate. There was a new row of shelves that she had never seen before, and every bookcase was stocked with new books, bound in leather the colour of wine. She was certain she would find the answer she needed in one of those books, but she was being watched.
The librarian sat in her chair by the fire, warming her hands. Her old yellow habit was nowhere to be seen. She was wrapped in a silk dressing gown of Tlaanthothei design, and she held a piece of rock crystal in her right hand. Her left hand was clenched in her lap, and it bled, staining the silk with a pool of black blood. The blood ran and pooled on the floor. It made a path for Csorwe to walk.
The librarian smiled. “If you want to know where she is, you had better ask one who knows.”
21
Thrice Warded and Thrice Bound
BEFORE SHE CALLED FOR Csorwe, Qanwa Zhiyouri spent some time setting up the arena for her interrogation. It would be just the two of them, like old friends, sitting in garden chairs on a balcony overhung with flowering vines. She had brought a Qanwa coffee service with her from the family townhouse—blue and gold irises on porcelain—and it looked very fine set out on the balcony table. She intended to get what she wanted without giving the Nine-cursed girl any cause to complain to Sethennai.
She had foregone her Inquisitorial robes. Instead, she was wearing a light shawl over a summer dress, and had taken the time to style her hair into elegant braids rather than pinning it up and forgetting it. Better if Csorwe could be made to forget the last time she had seen Zhiyouri, snarling over Shuthmili’s shoulder with a knife to her throat. Zhiyouri was eager to forget it herself; she really would have preferred not to have had to resort to violence.
When Csorwe arrived, she too seemed to have dressed in her best clothes, and even to have combed her hair so it more or less lay flat. They were both to be on their best behaviour, then. Zhiyouri could almost have smiled. She certainly hadn’t forgotten how Csorwe had looked in the Lignite Spire: wide-eyed with shock and anger, much too raw to be feigned. Zhiyouri had seen, and remembered, and she intended to put it to use.
“I do appreciate your agreeing to meet with me. I know our last encounter was not quite this civilised,” said Zhiyouri, gesturing her into one of the garden chairs before sitting down herself.
“But I’m sure we can get to the bottom of all this, for Shuthmili’s benefit,” Zhiyouri went on. “All I need from you is a clear picture of what happened, and I think it might be best that we go back to the beginning. My colleague Inquisitor Tsaldu believes that you arrived in the Precursor world with the fixed intention of kidnapping my niece.”
“No,” said Csorwe. “I had no idea she was going to be there. I was just there on Sethennai’s business.”
Zhiyouri listened as she gave her story. No, Csorwe hadn’t known what they would find in the dying world. No, she didn’t really remember how she and Shuthmili had got out before the collapse.
Zhiyouri recognised the sound of a defendant feigning ignorance. It was amazing how often people thought this would work, as though they were the first ever to try it.
“Then you brought her back to Tlaanthothe, handed her over to me, and negotiated your passage to Qaradoun, as well! Very commendable.” Zhiyouri gave her a gentle, practiced smile, and noted the answering flash of rage in the girl’s eyes with a checkmark of satisfaction.
“None of that was on Sethennai’s orders,” said Csorwe. She had obviously been trained to say this, but Zhiyouri believed it: it wasn’t in Sethennai’s nature to order something so absurd. “Dr. Lagri said there’d be a reward, so I thought, why not,” Csorwe went on. “I didn’t figure she was so valuable. Realised I should’ve asked for more.”
“And yet,” said Zhiyouri, “before we were even halfway to our destination, you—and this is really the part that makes no sense to me—you coaxed or coerced Shuthmili into a barge and vanished.” Zhiyouri was still sore about this: that it had happened, that she had allowed it to happen, that it had already absorbed so much time and trouble and still was not resolved.
“Yeah,” said Csorwe, with studied insolence. “I was going to ransom her back. Took her to Peacock Station to get the bidding started. If you lot weren’t going to come for her, I fi
gured someone else would.”
“You know, you aren’t painting yourself in your best light,” said Zhiyouri. “Avarice, like aqua regia, dissolves all resistance, yes? I’m surprised Sethennai let me talk to you at all.”
Csorwe shrugged. “Not much you can do about it now, is there? You’ve got her. I didn’t get anything except a lot of trouble. So it goes.”
Csorwe knew exactly what she was doing. There was nothing to lose by playing the dumb thug if you had Sethennai’s protection. Zhiyouri knew this defence well enough, and knew too how to break it. She smiled and set down her cup.
“Do you really think I am so stupid, girl?” Zhiyouri said, in Oshaarun.
Until now they had been talking in Qarsazhi, which Csorwe seemed to speak almost perfectly, but it was time she learned that Zhiyouri could meet her on her own territory. She was one of the few Inquisitors who had considered it worth learning the Oshaaru language, and while she had never mastered it, she knew enough for these purposes.
Csorwe’s guard came up quickly, but Zhiyouri did not miss the instant of shock. Got you there, she thought, and couldn’t help grinning.
“I forgive you for this,” said Zhiyouri, “because many of my colleagues are utterly stupid. But do not lie to me. It is insulting.”
“Maybe that’s the point, auntie,” said Csorwe.
“We saw you with Shuthmili,” said Zhiyouri, still in Oshaarun. “I was wrong, before. You did not force or take her. She went with you. You worked together.”
That was the crux of it, the matter Zhiyouri had missed the first time around. Zhiyouri didn’t know the exact nature of Shuthmili’s feelings, and it would be worse than useless to try and coax her niece into admitting anything, but she could guess. It had been Zhiyouri’s own prejudice, perhaps, to see Sethennai’s Oshaaru sword-hand as a ruffian first, and only to realise after the fact that she was also a girl Shuthmili’s own age; more specifically, a girl with bright eyes, long limbs, and a graceful confidence of movement that spoke of high training and commitment to practice. Zhiyouri could guess very well how it had been; she only wondered whether Csorwe had reciprocated. Sethennai had not seemed entirely clear on the matter.
“If that’s what you think, that’s what you think,” said Csorwe. Her tone was as lazy as before, but the pose of callous arrogance was gone. All the muscles in her shoulders had tensed as if ready for action. Given how this girl had dealt with Warden Zilya, Zhiyouri ought to be afraid. Instead she felt the old quickening of excitement. She had her quarry boxed in, and all that remained was the coup de grace.
Zhiyouri dropped back into Qarsazhi, and leant back in her chair, watching Csorwe, still smiling. The smile was beginning to hurt. She could feel the corners of her mouth drawn tight over her teeth. “There’s no need to be on your guard. I’ve no wish to harm you or Shuthmili. She is my brother’s daughter, after all. I know you are trying to protect her. I want to know why.”
“Seems like you’ve got your story already,” said Csorwe. “Don’t know why you need me at all.”
“Because we can’t integrate her,” said Zhiyouri, feigning frustration. Or rather, her frustration was real, but she would never have displayed it without expressly intending to do so. “She will not accept the tether. I want to know why all her years of conditioning have failed. I want to know what you’ve done to her.”
This got the reaction Zhiyouri was looking for. Once you got past the scar, and the tusks, and the determined facade of stoicism, Csorwe was easy enough to read. Shock, followed by relief, followed by something that looked much like joy, if Zhiyouri was not mistaken.
Csorwe tried, with only partial success, to compose herself before speaking. “Bad luck.”
“It’s unfortunate, isn’t it?” said Zhiyouri. Perhaps she had control of the situation now that she’d broken Csorwe’s composure, but she couldn’t relax yet. She had the girl on a hook, but if she made the wrong move the fragile line would snap.
“Unfortunate, in fact, for everyone who is concerned for Shuthmili’s welfare,” she went on, smoothly. “I don’t know if you know much about the average life expectancy for an untethered practitioner compared with a Quincury Adept, but—”
“No, I know,” said Csorwe.
So there was no use trying to frighten her with that. Still, an immediate threat might do the trick.
“Rather more urgently, there are those at the Traitor’s Grave who feel it would be more fitting for Shuthmili to face trial, and they are beginning to lose patience.”
Zhiyouri thought she had managed that quite well: dropping the name without seeming to do so.
“Do you know how rogue mages are dealt with in Qarsazh?” Zhiyouri went on.
“Seems like you want to tell me,” said Csorwe, her lip curling.
“The general public finds it hard to believe that a mage can be effectively killed with a blade. It isn’t true, of course, but justice must be seen to be done. The Inquisitorate commissioned Spinel Quincury to devise a new method of execution. The Mouth of Radiance is what they made. It’s quite something to see it in action.”
Mentioning the Mouth usually got a reaction—shock or squeamish fascination. Csorwe just gave her a long stare.
“I bet,” said Csorwe. “Sorry. I didn’t do anything to her. I can’t help you.”
“Oh?” said Zhiyouri. “Interesting. Chancellor Sethennai tells a different story. Based on his information I have to assume that you persuaded my niece to doubt her calling.”
Csorwe went very still. When she spoke, it was with awful hesitation, like a child admitting to some misdeed. “He … told you that?”
“He was very forthcoming,” said Zhiyouri. She had spoken to Sethennai only that morning, and Csorwe’s reactions had confirmed all he had told her and more. Zhiyouri doubted he would have said anything at all if he’d guessed how she intended to use the information.
“Well, good luck working it out, then,” said Csorwe. “I’m not helping you. She won’t ever agree to it. There’s nothing you can do.” There was renewed anger in her eyes, a steel wall of stubbornness closing off any other emotion. It hardly mattered.
“That’s all right,” said Zhiyouri. “You’ve been very helpful. I think I have what I need.”
* * *
Csorwe slammed the door to the balcony. The numbness inside her felt more like an ache, the ache more like rage. She had meant to go back to her own room, but she found herself heading for Sethennai’s office before she knew what she was doing.
Tal was lounging against a pillar outside. “Went well with the Inquisitor, then?” he said.
“Get wrecked, Talasseres,” she said, throwing open the door to the study.
Sethennai was sitting at his desk over a ledger.
“Good morning, Csorwe,” he said, without looking up. “This isn’t like you. Is something wrong?”
“What did you tell Qanwa?” she said. “About Shuthmili and me?”
“Nothing more than you told me,” he said.
“And what’s that?” said Csorwe, stepping up to the edge of the desk. She felt the blood rushing in her head, like the wind rising as it blew across the sea, building toward some disaster she couldn’t anticipate.
“That you and Shuthmili had got to know one another, that you liked and pitied her. That you must have persuaded her to doubt her calling.”
The exact words Inquisitor Qanwa had used. It was true. Csorwe clenched her jaw to stop herself shouting. Sethennai wasn’t finished.
“That you yourself have an unusual background that perhaps affected your impressions. Nothing more sinister than that.” He held her gaze, calm and still. He never lost his temper, which made it so easy to believe that he was being reasonable and you were a petulant child.
“I didn’t say anything like that,” she started, but knew it was no use getting into what had or hadn’t been said. “You didn’t have to tell Qanwa.”
Not only about Shuthmili but also about her unusual background, as if i
t was nothing. She knew she wouldn’t be able to explain it to him, how it felt to be interpreted to a stranger, as if all her feelings and actions could be deciphered with this simple key. How it felt to realise that this really was Sethennai’s idea of who she was.
Sethennai was all mild bemusement. “Zhiyouri is not our enemy. It made no sense to withhold something so harmless. They are leaving, there is no damage to our relationship with Qarsazh, and nobody is agitating for you to be arrested any longer.”
“It’s not harmless,” she said, stumbling over the words in her anger. She had to try one last time to make him listen. “I thought we were on the same side.”
That wasn’t how it worked, of course. She was on Sethennai’s side. His enemies were her enemies. It didn’t work the other way.
“I know it is not nice to have your feelings discussed publicly,” he said, “but I suggest you rise above it. Go and get some sleep, please, and get yourself under control.”
Sethennai tapped the surface of the desk with his fingertips. His rings flashed, green and gold. On the desk beside him was an eight-sided box of polished and inlaid wood. The sight of the Reliquary kindled a brief flicker of understanding in her—Of course he keeps it by his side—answered by a flash of contempt—And what was the point? Did I think something would change?
That had always been the hope, not that she had put it into words, even to herself. If she could bring back the Reliquary, if she could prove her value and her commitment, he would see her as she was.
That had been the dream that had kept her going, through exhaustion and loneliness, through toil, through interrogation. She had betrayed Shuthmili for it, and it had never been anything more than shapes in smoke.
Tal had left when she emerged from the room. She realised she had been hoping he’d still be there, maybe so she could pick a fight with him, or else because he was the only person in the world who might understand.
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