The Unspoken Name

by A. K. Larkwood

  But there was no other way to find where Inquisitor Qanwa had taken Shuthmili. There was no other choice.

  Before Csorwe could say anything, Oranna spoke.

  “I will stand as her bond,” she said. Csorwe looked round at her in shock. Oranna’s eyes were still wet with tears but her expression was as certain and as grim as Csorwe had ever seen it. “Be assured of my loyalty. I will ensure the debt is paid in full.”

  A long pause. The throne-bride did not appear to be considering it. She sat as still and blank as a doll.

  “What does that mean?” said Csorwe. She felt obliged to whisper, although there was no question that the brides could hear her.

  “It means that you owe me,” said Oranna, articulating each word with bitter clarity.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “A pledge in blood,” said Oranna. “If that is acceptable to you, Unspoken and Unspeakable One.”

  Csorwe did not need to ask what this meant. She remembered well enough. A pledge in blood was a ward etched on the skin, a sign of the seriousness of your intention. It was not a compulsion: you could still break your promise, but you would regret it.

  “I accept it,” said the throne-bride. “Make your pledge.”

  “Well,” said Csorwe, turning to face Oranna, who was smiling slightly. “What do you want? I’m not going to let you carve me up like you did to Ushmai and the rest.”

  Oranna laughed. “You still don’t believe that was voluntary, do you? I do not want you dead, Csorwe. You are much more use to me alive. Very well. What I want from you is—shall we say—a favour. A task. Three days’ service, from dawn of the first to dusk of the third day. I believe that is the standard formula.”

  “I’m not doing it now,” said Csorwe. “I have to go and get Shuthmili.” She couldn’t quite believe this would work, but if it did then she could bring herself to work for Oranna. Three days was nothing, compared to the years she had given Sethennai.

  “Very well,” said Oranna. “Three days’ service, not to be called in before one month has passed.”

  Oranna was still smiling faintly. Csorwe’s stomach felt hollow, as if she was looking down from a high building. Surely—surely—Oranna couldn’t have planned this from the start?

  It was too late now, anyway.

  “All right,” said Csorwe. “I’ll do it.”

  Csorwe held out her left arm. There was no sign of the incision she had carved herself in Morga’s office. It was, more or less, a blank canvas.

  “Do I have to say something?” she said, looking from Oranna to the throne-bride and feeling a flicker of annoyance. “I don’t know the words.”

  “Did we teach you nothing—” said Oranna.

  The throne-bride rose from her seat and descended toward them. Both Csorwe and Oranna shut up immediately.

  The throne-bride took Csorwe’s outstretched arm firmly in her own bare hand. Csorwe willed herself still, refusing to flinch or shiver. The dead girl’s fingers were papery, like the bark of dry twigs. Her grip was light but immovable.

  With a great effort Csorwe made herself look away from her arm and up at the throne-bride’s face.

  She was a little shorter than Csorwe. The milk-tusks at the corners of her mouth were no bigger than almonds. And though her eyes were long gone, she radiated a blank, chilly intelligence. Her regard cut through flesh and bone, took Csorwe apart, appraised each particle of her body and mind and recorded the precise failings of each.

  The throne-bride took Oranna’s arm in her other hand. The presence of the Unspoken tightened around them, like a loop drawn shut.

  “Your agreement is witnessed,” said the throne-bride.

  Csorwe felt a stinging pain on the back of her hand, as though she had been stung by a wasp. A small cut appeared below her third knuckle, and sliced down toward the wrist, as if an invisible hand was writing there with a scalpel. The pain grew slowly sharper as a sign traced itself out across her skin, black on grey. Csorwe gave an involuntary twitch and a drop of blood welled up and dripped down over her thumb.

  The only comfort was that Oranna was going through the same thing. When it was over, the throne-bride looked at the stump of Oranna’s ruined finger like a teacher inspecting the work of a promising student, then let her go.

  The sting faded quickly. An identical sign was carved into both of their hands. It was in the old heraldic script, just one of many that Csorwe had never learned to read.

  “What does it say?” she said.

  Oranna smiled. “Obligation.”

  “Sounds about right,” said Csorwe, wondering how soon and how violently she would come to regret doing this.

  “Tell me, then,” said the throne-bride. “What is it that you so desire to know? For your three days of service, I offer three questions.”

  Csorwe needed no time to consider her first question.

  “Where is Qanwa Shuthmili?” she said.

  “She is held within the Traitor’s Grave,” said the throne-bride. The vision came a second later. It was as if a curtain was drawn back in Csorwe’s head, admitting a beam of steely light. She saw a square grey fortress surrounded by waves.

  “Where is the Traitor’s Grave?” said Csorwe.

  The throne-bride did not speak. Instead, Csorwe knew, as if she had always known it, where to find the prison. The fortress stood on an island in the Bay of Qaradoun, a few miles off the coast of Qarsazh. She knew now how to get there as easily as she knew how to get back to Tlaanthothe. Easier, in fact, because there was no going home for her now.

  “I need to get in without being seen. What’s it like inside?” said Csorwe.

  The blue-grey light grew brighter, dissolving the darkness around them, the spindly figures of the revenant brides, and Csorwe herself.

  This was just how it had been in the old days, when Csorwe had been called upon to prophesy. She knew with clarity that she was now inside the memory of a long-dead thief. She followed this person to the shore of the island, hiding behind their eyes as they climbed the cliff to the base of the fortress. The gate was guarded, but there was an abandoned sally port—yes, she saw it now—and the thief got inside without being caught. Once they were inside the fortress, the knowledge unspooled into her, a cascade of floors and rooms and balconies and back stairs. She knew the blueprint of the Traitor’s Grave as if she had grown up there.

  The vision ended abruptly, dropping her back into the darkness of the throne room.

  “What happened to the thief?” she said.

  “To those who serve, the prophecy is freely given,” said the throne-bride.

  Her three questions were used up. She didn’t think she would have liked the answer anyway.

  She was still reeling from the vision. At least her hand seemed to have stopped bleeding. Surely they were almost finished with their business here. Csorwe was ready to see sunlight again.

  “Unspeakable One,” said Oranna, hopefully. She seemed to have bounced back from the shock of seeing her sister. Csorwe’s heart sank. “I have so much to ask.”

  “Stay, then,” said the throne-bride. “Rest, here. A place is set aside for you.”

  Oranna’s expression flickered briefly. Csorwe was reasonably certain what remaining in the cave would mean for your future prospects.

  “I still have things to accomplish in the outer worlds,” said Oranna. “If you still permit it.”

  “You will have your answers in time,” said the throne-bride.

  “There is so much I could do,” said Oranna. “If you would share what you know. My suspicions about Belthandros are almost confirmed—you are not bound here, Unspeakable One—you could walk the mortal earth again, if you chose it—if you remembered—”

  The throne-bride said nothing. Oranna watched her for a moment, then bowed her head.

  “I understand. In time, then.”

  And so, to Csorwe’s immeasurable relief, they left the Shrine of the Unspoken.

  23

  The Empe
ror’s Cutlery Drawer

  SEVEN FLOORS BENEATH SEA level, Qanwa Zhiyouri stood over a dead body. The morgue of the Traitor’s Grave was warded throughout with a lace of silvery sigils, like frost on glass, which kept the place even colder than you’d expect from an underwater subbasement. Zhiyouri always forgot how blessedly uncomfortable it was, and wished she’d brought a shawl.

  The body of Daryou Malkhaya looked even worse than it had when they’d recovered it from the Precursor world. His cheeks and eyes were hollow, and his skin had dulled to the colour of driftwood, fuzzed in places with flecks of ice. Two Vigil Adepts were poised over him, like seabirds about to start pecking.

  “Bring him back,” said Zhiyouri. Vigil had already confirmed that it could be done. The Warden made an unusually obliging corpse, it seemed.

  The Adepts removed their gloves, placing their bare right hands on his forehead and sternum. There was a moment of effort, a semi-visible flash of light, a taste of rust in the back of the mouth, and Daryou Malkhaya drew breath with a clotted, tearing gasp.

  His eyes came open one after another, slowly, revealing eyes that were clouded white as if rolled back.

  Zhiyouri waited, watching him struggle to suck in air.

  “Why does he do that?” she asked. “He doesn’t need to breathe.”

  “The habit of a lifetime,” said Vigil, appearing to shrug.

  “I-I can’t see,” said Malkhaya. His body twitched as if trying to shudder, but the muscles were cold and shrunken to the bone. “I can’t see—what happened to me—”

  “Hush, Warden,” said Zhiyouri. “It’s all right.” She glanced back at Vigil. “Will he know me? We spoke before?”

  “I doubt it,” said Vigil.

  Zhiyouri introduced herself again. Malkhaya calmed down visibly once he understood he was in the presence of someone of rank.

  “Inquisitor—my Adept—something happened to her—” he tried.

  “Yes,” said Zhiyouri. “Don’t worry. We have her here.”

  “She’s safe?” said Malkhaya. His unseeing eyes widened.

  “I saw her this morning,” said Zhiyouri.

  Shuthmili remained in her cell, as intransigent as ever. But safe, yes, undoubtedly.

  “It’s a sad thing, Warden,” Zhiyouri went on, “but I’ve begun to realise I don’t know Shuthmili very well at all. You worked with her, didn’t you?”

  The dead man took a rattling breath. “Yes.”

  “You were with her in the Hollow Monument,” said Zhiyouri. “You’ve already told us about what happened. But I’m interested in one thing in particular. Shuthmili sacrificed herself to save you, as I recall, when you were threatened by the Oshaaru necromancer.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am ashamed of it. She shouldn’t have been the one to save me.” He couldn’t manage more than a few words without gasping. This interview was likely to take all Zhiyouri’s reserves of patience, not that she had much left after speaking to Shuthmili earlier.

  “It was—a waste,” he said. “I couldn’t honour her sacrifice.”

  “Yes, very sad indeed,” said Zhiyouri. “But I’m beginning to think that must have been the root of our current trouble with her. I want to hear all about it. I hope it may provide us with a way out.”

  The dead Warden told her everything, in his halting way. Zhiyouri could not help but be amused: despite her niece’s stubbornness now, she had clearly given way immediately when Malkhaya’s life was threatened. A soft heart, like her father’s.

  “She is safe?” said Malkhaya, when Zhiyouri finished questioning him. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, quite certain,” said Zhiyouri.

  “Ah,” he said. “Good. I’m glad. I’m glad.”

  He settled, eyes shut, no longer struggling for breath. At Zhiyouri’s nod, Vigil severed the connection.

  * * *

  Csorwe and Oranna approached the Traitor’s Grave by night, from the sea. The prison island was a blunt grey spike, sticking up out of the waters of the Bay of Qaradoun, like a drowned man’s thumb. Beyond it, the capital city was dimly visible: the shadow of a skyline floating on the far horizon, dusted with lights.

  “Here we are,” said Oranna. “The Emperor’s cutlery drawer.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still here,” said Csorwe. “Thought you’d leave the minute we got out of the Shrine.”

  Csorwe hadn’t expected or wanted Oranna to accompany her to the Traitor’s Grave, but she had to admit it had been useful to have another pilot for the cutter.

  Oranna gave an enigmatic smile. “Our original agreement survives the pledge in blood. My promise to assist you still stands. You freed me from Belthandros’ oubliette. I have not yet forgotten it.”

  It was difficult to get a read on Oranna. Csorwe’s instinct was to assume she was lying all the time. Sethennai had called her a liar. She lies compulsively and with malice. But then, Oranna had nothing to gain by deceiving Csorwe now—or did she?

  “And you want to protect your investment, now that I owe you,” said Csorwe. This was as close as she could come to an explanation for Oranna’s behaviour. The sigil on the back of her hand was almost healed. If she didn’t flex her fingers, it didn’t hurt at all. “The Qarsazhi will kill me if they catch me. You can’t get your three days out of a corpse.”

  “How certain you are,” said Oranna, still smiling.

  Csorwe couldn’t relax in Oranna’s presence, especially when she said things like this—and couldn’t help tracking Oranna out of the corner of her eye whenever she moved—but then, it wasn’t likely she would have been able to relax anyway, given what she was about to face.

  They were coming in very low, close to the choppy surface of the sea. Now and then Csorwe flinched as salt spray was dashed in her face. They carried no lanterns. Nobody would see the cutter from the prison tower unless they were specifically looking for it.

  “Have you ever been to Qaradoun?” said Oranna, from the wheel.

  “No,” said Csorwe. It was reassuring in some ways that Oranna kept trying to make conversation. Csorwe didn’t think you’d make small talk with someone you were about to stab or double-cross.

  “Pity,” said Oranna. “It’s a beautiful place. About as much unlike the House of Silence as you can imagine. Warm weather, wonderful food, art, fashion, music … just a shame about all the Qarsazhi, really.”

  Thinking about the House of Silence twisted something up in Csorwe’s gut, and trying to imagine Oranna as a person who was interested in music or fashion did something similar to her brain. She ignored it, focusing on the rise and fall of the waves, and the approaching bulk of the Traitor’s Grave.

  As the shoreline came more clearly into view, Oranna frowned, then turned the cutter sharply, raising scallops of spray as it swerved across a high wave.

  “What are you doing?” said Csorwe, clinging to the rail.

  “Take the wheel,” she said, still frowning. “Don’t take us in any closer.”

  Csorwe did as she was told, and Oranna leant over the side, reaching as if to dip her hand under the surface. Now Csorwe looked, she saw faint lights there, glimmering underwater, like a chain of jellyfish.

  “Wards in the ocean,” Oranna said. “Perimeters within perimeters. There’s no chance we can take the cutter in like this.”

  “Then what?” said Csorwe.

  “I have no idea,” said Oranna. “But if we cross the perimeter we’ll alert every Warden at the fortress. And once they see the cutter they’ll know we’re intruders.”

  “If we go into the city we could steal a Qarsazhi cutter,” said Csorwe. “Would that help?”

  “If the Unspoken wills it,” said Oranna, doubtfully.

  “Or we could destroy the perimeter, or defuse it, or—”

  “Perhaps,” said Oranna. “When I am back to my full strength. Even so, it would take a long time. I don’t blame the Qarsazhi for their Quincuriate, you know, even if it is a perversion. There’s only so much one practitioner ca
n achieve alone. Mortal flesh is so frail.”

  “Mm,” said Csorwe. Even if she could rely on Oranna, it was too much delay. She had to hope Shuthmili had managed to hold out this long, but anything could happen in a day. “It’s only a couple of hundred feet. I can swim that distance easily. And it’s a warm night.”

  “What?” said Oranna.

  “I’ll go by myself. I’m good at sneaking. Can you spell me up so the Wardens don’t see me? I don’t know, make me invisible or something,” said Csorwe.

  Oranna was obviously torn between disapproval and curiosity. Csorwe recognised the look, but couldn’t think how, until she remembered Sethennai, and Shuthmili. Maybe all mages were like this, deep down.

  “You think of magic as a sort of toolbox, don’t you?” said Oranna. “Do you have any idea how much study, how much negotiation, how much prayer and sacrifice … I have dominion over the hungering dead, over the whole kingdom of death. I am an extremely accomplished necromancer. I cannot make you invisible.”

  “I bet it’s possible,” said Csorwe.

  “It is not,” said Oranna. “If I were at my full strength, which I am not, I suppose I could transfigure you permanently into glass, which I doubt you would enjoy. Or, if you wished to avoid a certain person, I could bewitch them to make you inconspicuous to their eyes—although—”

  “Yes?”

  “I can do nothing about the guards at this distance. But the security perimeter does not see with mortal eyes. It detects certain signifiers—the warmth of your blood, your beating heart—and I might be able to cloak you from its notice, at least temporarily. I cannot promise it will last long enough to cover your return journey.”

  “I’ll deal with that when it’s time to leave,” said Csorwe. She hadn’t got this far by looking before she leapt. In her experience, a plan never survived long enough for an exit strategy to be worth anything anyway.