“You wanted immortality, then,” said Shuthmili.
“Oh, yes, that was the grand plan. And I wanted to see how he would react,” said Oranna. “It’s funny, isn’t it, to end up here, after all this? After Ejarwa. After everything else I’ve lost.” She caught Shuthmili’s sceptical glance. “Yes, much of which I ruined of my own accord. I always intended to take my place in history. I’m beginning to think I might be a fool.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to live,” said Shuthmili, though her tone made it clear that she thought it was a stretch.
Oranna shrugged. “Well, there’s living and living. Perhaps I should have stayed in Belthandros’ gilded cage. I wonder whether he’ll be sad to learn about this. And that really is enough of my secrets. I intend to take the rest of them to the grave. But you really ought to say something to Csorwe.”
“What?” said Shuthmili. “What kind of thing?”
“Whatever it is people say to one another,” said Oranna. “Oh, don’t be prim. I’ve seen how you look at her. I lived in the cloister for long enough to understand how these things work, and you are certainly smart enough to figure it out. Though I must say I have my doubts about Csorwe. Say something, or don’t. We’ll all die anyway.”
* * *
Night fell. Csorwe could just about sit up by now, which gave her a whole new position in which to do nothing and feel useless. Oranna had somehow managed to go to sleep. Shuthmili was checking the perimeter again.
Csorwe supposed she should have taken the chance to get comfortable with mortality, but in fact she found it very difficult to think about anything other than her fear that Shuthmili was avoiding her.
At last Shuthmili approached, carrying a lantern they had salvaged from the cutter. In that light she looked tired, but not despairing.
“You’re still awake?” she said, creeping over to Csorwe.
“Yeah. Aren’t you tired?”
“I don’t want to sleep,” said Shuthmili. “Listen.” She knelt down next to Csorwe. “I’m sorry about, you know, before, when Zhiyouri … That I let it go on so long. I didn’t know what to do. I know that sounds pathetic. I’d been scared of her for so long I didn’t realise I could stop her.”
Csorwe could almost have laughed. “I’ve spent this whole time thinking how to say sorry to you. I thought probably you meant it, what you said to your aunt.”
“What did I say?”
“Nothing—” No, it was no good not saying it now. She had to know, even if it was true. “That you were happy before you met me and I ruined your life.”
“No!” said Shuthmili. “No—I was just saying things—I hoped Zhiyouri would believe it.” She gave a taut smile. “Csorwe, before I met you, my idea of happiness was, I don’t know, going to bed early.”
“Guess I can see how I didn’t help much with that,” said Csorwe.
“And waking up thinking only pure thoughts. No. You didn’t.” This smile was the genuine one, half-hidden behind her hand like a concealed blade. Shuthmili had a way of saying things like this, then moving on without giving them time to sink in, but this one she seemed to be content to leave, just dangling.
Csorwe watched her, grateful for the opportunity to just look, for as long as she wanted, to take in all the details she had seen before in passing. The flecks of gold in Shuthmili’s dark eyes, the long nose and firm chin and the eyelashes that fluttered down as she smiled again. The little creases at the corners of her mouth.
“Stay still,” said Shuthmili. “Don’t try to move. I’m going to kiss you and I don’t want you to tear your stitches.”
Csorwe did not try to move.
Shuthmili’s lips were wind-chapped and dry. She was tentative in a way that suggested maybe she hadn’t kissed a girl with tusks before. At first Csorwe could still notice this kind of detail, and then—it wasn’t that she forgot immediately about her injuries, and their enemies, and all the rest—but for a moment everything else faded into the distance.
“Was that all right?” said Shuthmili, drawing back for a moment.
“Uh-huh,” said Csorwe. She realised she was smiling, for the first time in a long while. “Can probably do it again if you like.”
She did. Not so cautious this time. She ran her fingers up the back of Csorwe’s neck and raked them through her hair, scratching lightly in a way that made Csorwe feel as though she had been taken carefully apart and put back together a little stronger, a little braver, a little more complete.
Csorwe leant forward as best she could and buried her face in Shuthmili’s neck, so that her nose brushed the hair behind her ear, where her plaits had begun to come undone.
“What are you doing?” said Shuthmili, laughing.
“You smell nice,” said Csorwe, unable to keep it to herself.
“Are you sure? I’m covered in blood,” said Shuthmili. Csorwe had forgotten about the blood. After a while you did stop noticing it.
“Not that—” said Csorwe. Shuthmili smelled like people usually do, sweat and worn clothes and a trace of soap, but also somehow right and good and perfect. “Just you.”
* * *
Despite it all, they slept for a few hours, curled up on the concrete, sheltered by the web of wards. They were woken by Oranna’s voice, low and urgent, not panicked because there was no point now in panicking, and besides, they had all known what was coming.
In the sky above were the lights of an approaching ship. It would be overhead in a matter of minutes.
“That’s Tranquillity,” said Shuthmili, confirming what they had all guessed. The three of them sat and watched, astronomers waiting for the falling stars that would waste the world. There was nothing left to do. Csorwe was grateful for Shuthmili’s hand in hers.
As the frigate drew nearer, it slowed, and new lights spilled out of it: five of them, shuttle-barges that spread out to take their places around the Traitor’s Grave. Csorwe’s heart sank as she noted that they didn’t even come close to the perimeter that Shuthmili and Oranna had created. It really had been for nothing. In each barge was a figure in a white robe and a black mask.
Then there was a brighter light, and they heard the voice of Inquisitor Tsaldu, Qanwa Zhiyouri’s underling. He was standing upright on a sixth barge, flanked by Wardens with bolt-throwers.
“Qanwa Shuthmili,” he said. His voice boomed across the sky, magically amplified. “As you see, we have this place surrounded.”
“Go home, Inquisitor,” said Shuthmili in a tone of imperious boredom. After what they had all been through, Csorwe was impressed she could manage anything other than a shriek of rage. “Turn around and fly away. You know what I can do.”
“Ah, yes,” said Tsaldu. “I must warn you that if you act rashly, Sabre Quincury will reduce the Traitor’s Grave to glass and ashes.”
“You’re lying,” said Shuthmili. Her tone of voice scarcely wavered, but Csorwe knew this was more in hope than in belief. The ghostly figures on the barges certainly looked like Quincury Adepts. “They wouldn’t send a military Quincury for me.”
“Look at what you’ve done, Adept Qanwa. People like you are why we need these weapons in the first place. Your aunt made a mistake with you. She was too close to the matter. To her, you were still a girl.”
“Am I not?” said Shuthmili.
“You may use a sword to cut bread,” said Tsaldu, with the confidence of a man who had never handled a sword. “That does not make it other than a weapon.”
Shuthmili’s lip curled, visible only to Csorwe. “What do you want, Tsaldu?” she said. “Why are you telling me this? Give the word and watch us burn, if that’s what you’re planning. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”
“Come quietly,” said Tsaldu. “Break your wards and surrender to me.”
“I hope,” she said, “that you’re not going to suggest I might like to join Archer Quincury after all.”
“That is certainly no longer a possibility,” said Tsaldu.
She sighed. �
��A trial, then, prosecuted by my aunt’s old friends, and then the arena. Inquisitor, do you think I want to face the Mouth of Radiance any more than I want to be evaporated? At least Sabre would be quick.”
“If you come with me, of your own volition, your friends will be safe,” he said. “We have no interest in them. We will offer them safe passage from the Grave.”
Csorwe’s heart clenched in her chest as she came to understand the implications. “No,” she said, unable to hold it back.
“Let me think about it,” said Shuthmili.
“You have fifteen minutes,” said Tsaldu.
Shuthmili knelt at Csorwe’s side again. “I think I have to do it,” she whispered, as Csorwe had known she would.
“No,” said Csorwe. “I won’t let you. Not for us.”
Shuthmili smiled. “Are you going to steal me away again?”
“If I have to,” said Csorwe, although she knew the hard facts well enough: she couldn’t move, and there was no way out. “You can’t do this. And he’s lying to you, isn’t he? He’s never going to let us go—”
“If I don’t go with him, he’s going to give the word to Sabre, and that will certainly be the end of all of us. I want you to have a chance. Stay and die or leave and live, as you once said to me. I want you to live.”
“Shuthmili, you’re not seriously—”
“I am.”
“Don’t tell me you deserve it. You don’t,” said Csorwe. “Not for your fucking aunt, or anyone.”
“No. But my life is mine,” said Shuthmili. “Mine to spend, mine to burn, mine to waste. Mine to give away.”
“It’s not fair—” said Csorwe.
“I know. Awful, really,” said Shuthmili. “When you could have been the one to sacrifice yourself. Try not to resent me too much.”
“But you should’ve had a chance. Just a chance. And I wanted to take you to places.”
Shuthmili leant over and kissed her again. She shut her eyes.
“I’ve made up my mind, Csorwe. I’m sorry. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Let me go with you.”
“You’ll be with me all the way.”
Shuthmili told Tsaldu what she had chosen, and he brought the shuttle-barge of Wardens down to meet her as she severed the wards at the perimeter. The shuttle took an impossibly long time to sink toward the edge of the Traitor’s Grave, and Csorwe watched it all. She watched every step Shuthmili took toward the shuttle, as if by looking she could reach through time and hold her still: Shuthmili, in her ragged dress, with a magelight in her hand.
Shuthmili stepped on board the shuttle-barge and the Wardens grabbed hold of her. Csorwe cried out, then, as if they were about to tear her apart—but all they did was shove her into a seat, and then the barge moved away, darting back toward the frigate. The Quincury barges followed, and the door of Tranquillity’s shuttle bay slid down with the finality of an executioner’s axe.
Csorwe lay back on the ground, burying her face in her hands. It was too much to bear.
“They’re leaving,” said Oranna, sitting beside her. “Though I must say, I give the Inquisitor’s promises no more credence than you do. I cannot believe they would simply let us leave. This is some sort of trap.”
Csorwe said nothing.
“It’s done. She was brave,” said Oranna. “But if you carry on groaning like that I’m going to put a bag over your head. You can cry later. We quite urgently need to decide what we’re going to do.”
“I don’t care what we do,” said Csorwe.
“Don’t be a child about this, Csorwe,” said Oranna. “When someone gives up their life for yours, the least you owe them is to try and make the most of what they’ve given you. We need to think. We need to— Oh, by the twelve hundred Unspeakable names, what in hell is that?”
The startled outrage in her voice was such that Csorwe looked up. There was another ship in the sky. It had been above and behind Tranquillity, almost invisible in the half-darkness. Csorwe recognised it: the graceful shape of the hull, the white canopies like pieces of the moon.
“It’s the Thousand Eyes,” she said, dully, unable to make any sense of it. “It’s Sethennai’s corvette.”
“The Thousand Eyes,” said Oranna. “Truly, he has never been a subtle man.” She sighed, rubbing a hand across her face, in the first gesture of weariness that Csorwe had ever seen from her. “Then I suppose we must choose again whether we run or fight.”
“I can’t,” said Csorwe. She could probably stand, by now, if she tried, but even if there was new strength in her body, there was nothing left in her spirit. She couldn’t fight Sethennai. She couldn’t do anything. And the Thousand Eyes was fast approaching.
“I cannot beat him in a fair fight, and I do not intend to throw myself into the sea for him,” said Oranna. “Oh, futility.” She got to her feet and shook out her skirts. “A tactical retreat, then, I suppose. There are worse places than the deep cell.”
She helped Csorwe up. The sigil obligation flashed on the back of her hand. Csorwe grasped her arm and hauled herself to her feet, wincing only a little.
“You know you’re never going to get what you want from him,” said Csorwe, as the shadow of the Thousand Eyes fell over the shattered roof of the prison.
“There will come a time when that isn’t up to him,” said Oranna. “He’s not omnipotent, you know. He’s very old and very clever. But he has his weakness. Everyone does.”
A door opened in the side of the corvette’s hull, discharging a gangplank that lowered to the roof of the Traitor’s Grave. A figure was dimly visible in the doorway, haloed by light within.
Oranna raised both her hands, one still clasping Csorwe’s. “Very well, my dear, we surrender.”
“Great,” said Tal Charossa. He stood at the top of the gangplank, hoisting a bolt-thrower bigger than his own torso. “You’re both under arrest, and you’d better not give me any fucking trouble.”
26
The Throne and Earthly Mansion
TAL DID NOT CARE for the city of Qaradoun. The Thousand Eyes had been at anchor above the Qarsazhi capital for more than a week, now: the Inquisitorate had asked Sethennai to stay and assist with their investigation, and for reasons beyond Tal’s understanding, Sethennai had agreed. Tal had tried to go ashore for lunch several times, never with much success. Today they had sold him some kind of pickled garlic dumpling, and he was sure he still reeked, although he had bathed with orange-blossom water in preparation for tonight, and put a dab or two behind his ears.
He wasn’t above this kind of thing, although he tried not to think about it as one cogent strategy, because when you put it like that it sounded kind of pathetic. He had visited a barber down in the city. He had put on a handsome shirt, and left the top button unfastened. He had stopped short of wearing some earrings Sethennai had given him, so as not to seem desperate. Taken independently, these were the rational actions of a man in control of his destiny.
He was running a comb through his hair when he realised he needed to take Csorwe her dinner. He found her, as ever, gazing out through the bars of her cell as though she had forgotten what her eyelids were for.
Once Oranna had been installed in the Thousand Eyes’ isolation cell, Sethennai had looked Csorwe up and down, shrugged, and told Tal to put her in the brig. She had been there ever since. Sethennai spent most days in town with the Inquisitors, and showed little sign of remembering Csorwe was there. Tal had volunteered to feed her, because—well, he could claim that he wanted to laugh at her, but he had to admit that he really had no reason other than pity.
He slid a tray of bread into the cell, followed by a half portion of garlic dumplings. Someone might as well have them.
He didn’t say anything. He knew by now that insults got no more response than friendly enquiry. It was nothing to him, anyway. She’d wait until he was gone, eat the food, and go back to staring.
Today, though, as he turned to go, he heard her speak.
�
�Tal. I need you to do something for me.”
He laughed, out of force of habit. “You don’t think I owe you any favours, do you?”
“I’m asking nicely,” she said.
“You aren’t,” he said. “What do you want?”
“In Qaradoun, they have these printed sheets you can buy with everything that’s happened this week—”
“I know what a bloody newspaper is, you illiterate,” said Tal. “What are you going to do, fold yourself a little hat with it?”
“It’s published tomorrow. Go into town and get me one. I need to know—”
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “If I can be bothered,” he added, because it was just unnatural to concede anything willingly to Csorwe.
Back on the upper deck, he checked the study, just in case Sethennai was back yet, and glanced at himself in the big mirror. He looked good. He always looked good. He was a good-looking man.
Eventually, the word was passed that Sethennai’s cutter had arrived back at the ship. Tal’s pulse fluttered in the embarrassing way it always did. He waited in his own cabin for a self-respecting amount of time before going to look for him.
In the study, Sethennai had taken off his surcoat and put his feet up on the desk. Underneath, he was still in his Tlaanthothei clothes. His eyes were heavy-lidded, with sleep or contemplation.
“Sir,” said Tal. “How was town?”
“Talasseres,” said the wizard, and waved him to a chair. His tone of voice and his look were sleepily amused, even affectionate, but this didn’t necessarily mean anything. The man would have looked sleepily amused at a wake. “Town was tiresome. I am losing patience with Qarsazh. Zhiyouri’s family want me to come to this rogue Adept’s execution, and I don’t see how I’m going to get out of it. And then I suppose I will have to pay my respects at Zhiyouri’s funeral, assuming they’ve collected up enough of her to burn, and then I think we will go home.”
The Unspoken Name Page 45