by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 26
“Stop,” Mece said. “Not the little finger.”
With a groan, Siniq-elb leaned back against the painted stucco of the Garden’s wall. He trailed his fingers along the harp, eliciting a string of rippling notes, and then let both hands fall to the ground.
“This is worse than cutting onions,” he said.
“What?” Mece said.
“Nothing. Just complaining.”
“Let’s try it again. The thumb and the first three fingers only, Siniq-elb.”
Exaggerating a sigh, Siniq-elb straightened and set his hands on the strings again. He started plucking, wincing as notes jangled, as though they fought each other. Occasionally the series of sounds approached something resembling a tune, but the heat in Siniq-elb’s face had little to do with the dying warmth of evening.
The ever-summer sun had dropped to the edge of the sky, a half-disc of amber that lit up the horizon in reds and golds. A brief shower the night before had broken the worst of the humidity, and now a pleasant breeze stirred the chestnuts and oaks and swept away the last of the day’s heat. The hog-women—Siniq-elb had not been able to stop thinking of them as such—sat nearby, hair done in neat braids and now, somehow, decked with ribbons. They chatted and laughed, casting long glances at Siniq-elb and Mece before resuming their conversation with indecent peals of mirth. If Mece noticed, she gave no sign.
At a particularly loud chuckle from the hog-women, Siniq-elb’s finger slipped, and the harp let out a low, warbling note, as though dying.
“Not the nail,” Mece said, her voice tight. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Sorry,” Siniq-elb said. “I slipped.”
“You’ll tear the string,” Mece said. “Be careful.”
“I’m sorry, I really am. It won’t happen again. Promise.”
Mece reached out and ran one mangled hand along the harp, tracing the line of the wood until her hand fell off the edge. For a moment, her bent and broken fingers hovered in the air next to the strings, as though tempted to pluck a note and send it singing through the Garden. Then her hand fell back into her lap.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Mece said. “You’re doing well, really. I shouldn’t speak to you so.”
“If by ‘doing well,’ you mean making this poor thing sound like a wet cat in a sack, then yes, I’m doing very well.”
A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob broke from Mece’s throat, and for a moment tears shone in her eyes. Then she was truly laughing, wiping her cheeks with bent fingers. Low and sweet, she laughed almost like the instrument she loved so much.
“Not quite a cat in a sack,” she said, when the laughter had faded to smile. “But perhaps you’re not quite ready for your next performance in the dining hall.”
“I think I played the harp rather well that night,” Siniq-elb said. “Just not the way poor Khylar was expecting.”
Mece laughed again, but the laugh cut short. “Name the Father,” she said.
Across the Garden, at the main doors to the temple, Khylar stood looking out over the yard. From the distance, Siniq-elb could only make out the shape of his face, not the expression, but he imagined Khylar would not be pleased. Not with the hog-women laughing and sewing. Not with Ishgh singing in his deep, rich voice to fill the emptiness between the darkening sky and the short-growing grass. Not with Agahm’s pavilion.
Almost as quickly as he had come, Khylar was gone. It had been days since Siniq-elb had seen the su-esis in charge of the Garden; days spent with Mece and Agahm, with Vas in the kitchen. Days that had been surprisingly pleasant in their own way. But days that had brought Siniq-elb no closer to escape or to revenge. Now that he had caught sight of Khylar, Siniq-elb could not afford to lose him again. Not with Dakel’s need for information still weighing over him.
Siniq-elb passed the small harp to Mece and grabbed his crutches. Rising was easier, and the pain in his ruined legs was less. The Garden continued to exert its strange healing powers, almost as though to spite the people trapped within. For the time, though, Siniq-elb was grateful.
“Where are you going?” Mece asked. “We’re not done.”
“Sorry,” Siniq-elb said. “I just remembered something I have to do.”
“Something more important than learning how to keep from being beaten the next time they call for you?”
He was already moving, crutches carrying him across the short-growing grass. “Sorry,” he shouted back. “More practice tomorrow!”
Mece called something after him, but Siniq-elb could not afford to pay attention. Navigating the crutches was still difficult, and even if his legs were healing and better able to bear his weight, he still needed the crutches for most of the work. The rough tunic chafed under his arms, in spite of the padding Agahm had provided and Siniq-elb’s own efforts to prevent it. Each movement made his underarms burn.
He reached the doors to the temple in record time, panting and winded, but faster than if he had crawled or scooted. A smile and a nod for Vas, who sat nearby talking to the blond, silent man from the kitchen. Zeyn. Vas scrambled to his feet.
“Siniq-elb,” he said. “I was just talking to Zeyn—”
“No time,” Siniq-elb said, swinging open one of the double doors and propping it with his crutch. “Later. In the kitchens.”
Then he was through and flying down the hallways. He caught sight of Khylar’s green robe disappearing around a corner and turned after him. Servants and eses filled the halls; it was after dinner, after even Siniq-elb’s work at cleaning, and most of the servants and eses now found themselves free for the evening. Strange looks followed Siniq-elb; even after days of using the crutches, even after telling Crook and Bald they no longer needed to carry him, Siniq-elb stood out worse than a black-skinned Cenarbasin. He prayed to the tair that the sheer number of people in the halls would keep Khylar from noticing him.
Whether from the press of people, a sea of green and brown robes and white linen, or the tair’s divine favor, Khylar continued about his business. He stopped at several places along the way—the healers’ quarters; his office; a storeroom. Fortunately, all of these rooms lay along crowded corridors, and Siniq-elb, although his heart hammered and sweat ran down his temples, was able to keep up with the su-esis.
Finally, Khylar led Siniq-elb down a hall that Siniq-elb had never visited before. Glances through open doorways revealed richly furnished sitting rooms, and Siniq-elb assumed this was a residential hall—although he had heard that the eses often lived in other buildings within the compound. Khylar disappeared into one room, and Siniq-elb positioned himself on a bench at the end of the hall where he could watch. A long time passed and there was no sign of Khylar. The hallway began to clear, and soon Siniq-elb was alone aside from the occasional servant. It seemed that the su-esis had retired to his quarters for the evening.
As Siniq-elb rose to leave, he was surprised to see three men carrying buckets arrive at Khylar’s door and enter after a quick knock. Siniq-elb made his way back down the hall toward Khylar’s room. He shot a quick glance through the door as he passed.
It opened onto a large bedroom. A copper tub sat in the middle of the room, steam rising as the servants emptied their buckets into it. A thick-napped Istbyan rug covered the floor, woven in rich shades of cream and gold, matching the lacquered wardrobe and the bed with hanging curtains. It bespoke a level of wealth that Siniq-elb had never seen, even growing up the only child of successful merchants.
In that single glance, though, two things burned themselves into his memory. The first was Khylar, bare-chested and surprisingly muscular for a man who looked like nothing more than a desk clerk. Both upper arms were bare. The second was the sight of the ivory-colored brachal on top of a carved rosewood desk. The brachal, the key to the su-eses’s power.
Then he was past the door, his thoughts spinning. Dakel would not be interested in Khylar’s bathing habits, or in the extravagance of the man’s furnishings
. The time spent following would be worth little to the other su-esis.
For Siniq-elb, though, that brief glance into Khylar’s room—the sight of the brachal set aside, even for a moment—that had been a spark that landed on eager kindling. The brachal. A piece of the divine. No one knew much about the brachals, about how they worked, but everyone knew that all of the su-eses wore one, that it was the source of their power. And if Siniq-elb could get his hands on a brachal, he could have that same power.
Arms burning from the crutches, Siniq-elb smiled as he made his way through the corridors of the temple. The brachal. With that, it would not matter if he moved on crutches, if he could barely stand. With that, he would be empowered, divine. A warrior again. With that, he would have his revenge.