Bloodline Rising

by Katy Moran

  “Do you think he’s really a ghost?” Niko says. “Sometimes I wonder, when he melts away like that.”

  “He’s as real as you or I,” Iskendar replies. “And I hope one day he doesn’t find it out at the end of a dagger.”

  So do I, my friend, I think. So do I. But I’m relieved Iskendar’s not one of those who wants to see me gone, all the same.

  The streets are crushed with people – it’s worse than the day of the race. I wonder how Demos is now? Grateful to be free of his debt or just ashamed? Normally a crowd like this makes my spirit wild with excitement, but today I feel hemmed in by it, trapped. The air’s thick with the smell of wine, and a man with three days’ worth of beard stumbles towards me, his blubbery lips parting as his eyes roll up to heaven. He’s in a heap at my feet, still gripping the wineskin like a brat at its mother’s teat. I step over him. Everywhere I look, there’s a drunk – it’s like a festival.

  The houses down here are so tall their balconies block out the sun, but it’s still so hot my back’s damp with sweat. The air sizzles against my skin. A brace of fine ladies sweep by, their hair covered with rich brocade shawls, and I realize it’s Sunday, and I’m caught up in the swarms making for Santa Sofia. Maybe the Emperor goes to church today, and there’s one of the parades where they fill the fountains with spicy wine instead of water. That must be the reason for such a crowd, and for this tingling thrill that throbs from every paving slab and every ancient brick, and for all the sots, of course.

  I dodge another drunk, a man with staring eyes and vomit in his beard. A hand snatches at my sleeve as I slip through the crowd – for the love of God, I hardly need this now. Why won’t these people steal instead of begging? I dig into my belt-bag for a copper and turn, thrusting it at the girl tugging at my clothes.

  It’s not a beggar. It’s Asha, her hair wrapped in an old blue headscarf of my mother’s. Why does she bother? She’s only a slave. No one cares how respectable she looks. I fight the urge to shove her or slap her or even both. I can’t do that to Asha. But she’s like my cursed shadow at the moment.

  “What do you want?” I demand. The coin falls into the dust.

  “You must come home,” Asha says, her skinny chest heaving. Silly fool must’ve run like a chariot horse to catch up with me. She’s wasting her time. I tug myself away, but her thin brown fingers are stronger than I thought and she’s still gripping my tunic. “Listen to me,” she hisses – but I’m away from her now, streaking through the streets, faster than thought. I can’t stand looking at her: it makes me feel bad inside. She makes me think of what I should be, rather than what I am.

  My heart pounds as I kneel before the Emperor of Thieves. Narxes isn’t here, but I can hear him moving about on the floor below. He’s talking to someone – one of the Emperor’s bodyguard, it must be. The guard’s footsteps are heavy, Narxes’ light, even though he’s a big man.

  So now it’s just me and my lord. He is sitting in a chair facing the garden, and I wonder why.

  “It is good to feel the breeze on my face, even though I cannot see,” he says, his thin lips twisted into a smile.

  I feel a chill chasing its way down my back. I’ve never liked his knack of sifting through my private thoughts. I’ve heard it said that when sight’s lost, hearing and the other senses become sharper, more acute. “Yes, lord,” I say. “What will you have me do now?”

  “I hope I can trust you, child,” the Emperor of Thieves whispers.

  I think of Black Elias floating handless in the harbour and feel colder still. “Of course, my lord.” I lean forward even more, so my forehead is almost touching the rug, and I can see the soft leather of his sandals and his toenails, pinky-pale and glossy like the inside of one of those big shells. It makes me ill, the thought of Narxes paring my lord’s toenails, rubbing his feet with scented oils.

  “Achaicus Dassalena is in fear of his life,” says the Emperor.

  He’s met with him, then. Did Achaicus come here himself, or send one of his men? Unlucky messenger, if so: he’ll be dead by now, his corpse rotting where it landed in the weeds at the feet of the city walls.

  “Achaicus will be gathering his forces about him,” my master goes on. “Weekly, he meets with his men in the Palace – the Quaestor, the chief accountant, the heads of each Guild. If I know Achaicus, he’ll tell them we have the letter; all signed their names to it. I want you to get into the Palace and listen to what they say, and then tell me what they would do now. If you are found, boy, I cannot help you, but if you succeed, you will be rewarded beyond all measure.”

  A jolt of fear and excitement rushes through my body, the way it does when you’re by the sea and jump off a high rock. You don’t know how deep the water is or what’s waiting below, but the thrill as you fall sends your spirit up to the heavens. I say, “Yes, O—”

  What’s happening? Someone’s banging on the door downstairs: loud, furious knocking, then talk – Narxes, sounding outraged, the low rumbling of the guards’ voices. I hear a sharp crack – a broken bowl or plate? Mary, Mother of God. More shouting. My master’s sitting straight upright like a marble statue, his bony, bluish hands gripping the arms of his chair, and I’m on my feet in a moment. Footsteps, pounding the stairs. Surely it cannot be the city guard? What can they prove? A blind old man sitting in a room – what can they say against him? But if my lord’s made an enemy of Achaicus Dassalena, maybe it doesn’t matter. The Prefect of the City is the right hand of Emperor Constans, and even if Achaicus is a traitor, Constans most likely has no scent of it yet, or Achaicus would surely be dead. Is this the guard, coming for my lord?

  I flatten myself against the wall next to the window as the door flies open. It is not the city guard. It is far worse than that.

  God’s Fire

  ALL BREATH is sucked from my body as my eyes rest on the intruder. He’s tall: a good head and shoulders above Narxes, who stands just behind. His eyes are blacker than pitch, but hair the colour of fire hangs over his shoulders and down his back, woven into plaits and strung with beads and shiny charms. At his belt he wears a sword in a long black scabbard, and the afternoon light slants in through the window and strikes the silver patterns beaten into the dark leather – twisting serpents, they are, some barbarian pattern I used to trace over with my fingers when I was small … but why am I thinking of this now?

  He is a killer by trade, and some say a witch.

  He is so shamefully different.

  My father bows his head in a mocking salute. “Sir,” he says to the Emperor of Thieves. “I believe you have something belonging to me.” His voice is icy calm, and I know he is in a spitting rage.

  Dear Christ, what is he doing here?

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” whispers my lord; his voice is soft like rustling silk. It’s scary, how quiet he speaks.

  “I am so sorry, dear lord,” Narxes says. There’s a bruise spreading around his right eye, and his lip’s bloody, swelling into a purply sausage. I wonder what happened to my lord’s bodyguard. “We were unable to prevent the man from entering. Michaelis will be lucky if he sees the morning. I will call—”

  My father shoves past Narxes, ignoring him. He’s meant to be in the desert. Tecca: he must know by now that she is dead. How did he find me? How did he get here? His eyes travel over me and I feel burnt. “Come,” he says in Anglish. “Now.”

  What does he think I am, a complete fool? He hasn’t reckoned on the window. I’m out of it in a moment, not waiting to hear what my master has to say, slipping and sliding down the vine into the garden, bumping my knees and grazing my elbows against the wall.

  He doesn’t call after me – but he’s coming, all right. He’ll be down in the street already. I run to the end of the garden and go out of the back gate instead, sprinting north so fast my legs burn and my chest feels as if it wants to burst. If I can get to the Hippodrome, he’ll never find me in the market. When did he come back? What’s he doing here? Asha must have been trying
to warn me. Why in hell’s name did I not listen? It’s a mistake that might cost me all.

  I take to the roof-tops again, scrambling up the side of a market stall in the shadow of the Hippodrome. I’m running, leaping and sliding, the shrieking of the market woman echoing in my ears as her stall crashes to the ground. Glancing back, I see a wave of figs tumbling across the street, bowls of salted cheese bouncing as they hit the ground, splashing brine everywhere. Dried sausages roll in the dust. People are yelling and cursing. I can’t see him, though. He’s not easy to miss. I’ve lost him; now I must just get away.

  The crowd thickens the closer I get to Santa Sofia. I shove through the throng, weaving, pushing, moving so fast the breath scrapes in my chest and sweat soaks my headscarf. I see him again coming right for me now – damn his eyes – head and shoulders above everyone else, and I curse God that he’s so tall. He ploughs into the mass of folk as though he does but walk through long grass.

  Oh, Jesu keep me: I’m going to church, and so’s half Constantinople, it seems. I’m in, though, and the great domed roof soars above me, dwarfing the seething sea of people. The air’s thick with the heady reek of sweat, wine and stale breath all mixed with the richness of frankincense which rises heavenward along with a thousand prayers. I come in good time: the liturgy begins. I can’t see the priest above the throng, but I can hear him, just about:

  “Blessed is the kingdom of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages—”

  I glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of fiery hair. I’m a fool – I’ve trapped myself in here like a spider in a cup. I dash sideways and make for the gallery. The corridor that slopes up to the next floor is guarded by shaven-headed eunuchs; the Empress Fausta has come to worship with her subjects, then, rather than praising God’s glory in the comfort of the Palace.

  Well, she does not like to grow too close to the common stream, for the guard do let no one through.

  I draw in my breath and slip by them unseen.

  That’s surely given me a moment’s grace – he dealt with my lord’s men pretty sharp, but even my father is not fool enough to start a fight in church. Or at least I do not think so.

  The corridor that slopes up to the galleries is empty, so I run – the flagstones here are treacherous, worn smooth and slippy for more than a hundred years by the feet of the noble faithful. If I can get to the other side of the church, if I can just find a way out there, he’ll never catch up with me. But first I must cross the Ladies’ Gallery. A wooden screen painted with the Virgin and her child blocks the way in. Their gold haloes glow soft in the gloom. A guard stands by; he has not yet seen me. I press myself close to the wall, and the stone chills my skin, even through my tunic. I hear the low rumble of the liturgy being chanted below. The whole church thrums with it.

  I run past the guard, and – oh Lord – he swings round, staring after me, a befuddled look in his eyes that switches to alarm as he knocks the screen. It crashes to the ground.

  There’s a whole gaggle of noblewomen and their insipid daughters up here, all decked out in bright silks and looped about with necklaces, bracelets and trinkets (no common folk allowed, of course); as one, they turn, jewellery jangling, to stare at the guard as he rights the screen – some frowning, others shocked, a few ready to laugh. Think of nothing, think of nothing. I keep close by the wall behind them, running. Elflight’s not here this day, I thank God. She’d see me; I know she would. I recall the day I laid a bet with Tecca, and smack in the middle of the Eucharist she leaned over the rail and dropped a sugared lemon. From my place down in the church, I watched it strike the head of a fat man with a beard, and laughed till I nearly cried, and Maria had to march me outside till I’d gathered my wits…

  The women have all turned back to the gallery now, eyes fixed on the doll-sized, gold-draped figure of the priest below. Their voices ring out as one, chiming with the rumble from the crowd. “We lift up our hearts to the glory of God—”

  The door at the far end of the gallery is ajar. There is no guard there. I’m safe; once I reach it I’m safe. I reach out and grasp the worn wooden handle – and I know someone has seen me. I feel the heat of their gaze on my back. I turn.

  A small, dark-eyed woman watches me; draped in bejewelled, sea-green silk, she is, her hair veiled with cloth-of-gold. It is the Empress Fausta. Her again. It seems like ten years ago I saw her sitting with Ma. Can it really only have been yesterday?

  Oh, dear God. I freeze, waiting. We stand there, staring at each other a moment. Her brows draw together in a small frown. She mouths a word to me, a silent message: “Go.”

  Fausta has ever been sharp-eyed. She needs to be, in that court of finely dressed, flower-scented snake-folk.

  I do not need telling twice. I shut the door behind me, softly, softly, and pelt down the empty, arched gallery before me towards a row of windows in the far wall. I leap, scrambling up onto the nearest ledge, and it’s a good thing I’ve never inclined to fat: I barely squeeze through. It’s a long drop down onto the roof below. I feel a tile slip, hear it clatter to the ground.

  The afternoon sun strikes the bulk of the great church behind me, and the walls glow rose-pink as the rise and fall of the holy chant fades. God’s eye must have been drawn to our fair city this day, for he’s delivered me safe from danger. For now.

  Without thinking, I reach the wall of the Great Palace. I must stop or I’m going to choke out my lungs. I lean with my back to the wall, taking great gulps of air. It tastes of rose-water – I must be somewhere near the perfume-stewers’. I feel dizzy with the mangled scents of amber, lavender and musk.

  What is my father doing back here? It makes sense now, the bubbling festival thrill in the air, the streams of drunken men: one of the fleets has returned. If I were on top of this wall now I’d be able to see them, clustering dromons moored up in that great basin of water the Golden Horn, their masts poking up like reeds at the edge of a lake.

  How is it I’ve not heard of this before now? I’ve been too tangled up in my lord’s affairs, a little voice tells me, to sense the mood of the city.

  And then I see it.

  A long eye, graven into the sandy, pocked surface of the wall. My sign: the all-seeing Eye of the Ghost. Signs like this are all over Constantinople, carved into walls and paving slabs by Mouser and his kin to mark the city out as mine, and in turn the Emperor of Thieves’.

  It’s just another Eye of the Ghost. But this one is not the same as the rest. A jagged line has been drawn straight through it with the tip of a knife.

  My mark has been defaced, shamed. Forget my father – this is far worse. I know there must be many among the Thief Children who’d see me dead with all good cheer, but none of them has ever been fool enough to disrespect a Ghost Eye. Or at least not that I’ve seen. Darkness clouds my mind – maybe there are shamed marks like this all over the city and I’ve not chanced to see them. No, that cannot be true. It would never have escaped me so long.

  Whoever did this is going to be sorry.

  I squint up at the sky. It’s hazy with smoke and it looks as if a sea mist’s going to set before sundown. Summer’s gone for the year. It’s oven-hot still, but it shan’t be so for long. A flock of starlings flies over, dark specks against the blue; then they scatter. There’s a buzzard hovering, that’s why.

  A coldness washes over me and a creeping, chilly certainty comes to rest in my mind: I shan’t see the winter, not this year. I won’t see snow gusting around the dome of Santa Sofia, settling around the base of Justinian’s statue in the Forum. I won’t see the chestnut-sellers bound up in woollen rags, warming their red hands at little charcoal fires. I won’t see the fountains of Constantinople filled with spiced wine as the Emperor Constans goes to hear mass at Christmas-tide.

  What am I thinking? There is no time for this mawkish romancing. If that crazed barbarian finds me I am finished – I must deal with whoever defaced my Eye another time. I’ve tarried here too l
ong. I sprint along in the palace wall’s shadow, hardly even noticing where I’m going till the salt-smell gets stronger and I’m near the palace harbour. There’s just a couple of walls and gardens between me and it – the Seaside Palace is next to the Great Palace, but much smaller: I can manage the walls easily, scrambling, climbing, running till my heart is fit to burst. I’m over the harbour wall and I crumple to my knees on the marble quay, the bulk of both palaces rearing up behind me, the glittering sea spreading out in front. There’s a great marble-framed door in the wall – that must be where Constans and his family come out when they want to get into one of their boats. I pray to God none of them feels a yearning for life on the salty wave this evening.

  I rest on my hands as sweat trickles out from under my headscarf and slides down my back, pooling at the base of my spine. I’m so thirsty, but there’s nothing here to drink. I sit, breathing hard and dangling my legs over the quay as I gaze out across the silvery sweep of the Sea of Marmara. A buzzard or something is circling in the blueness above, around and around. I’m sure it’s the same one I saw just now. It feels as if he’s watching me. I’ve got that jumpy feeling in the back of my neck like someone’s laid the evil eye on me. I’m like a foolish old woman. It’s a good thing there’s no one here to see me like this; only the buzzard. Some of the palace boats are moored up down the way, the purple sails of the Emperor’s barque all furled and gathered to the mast like the wings of a new-hatched butterfly. Maybe I should steal on board and see what he’s got to drink – some choice treats, I wager.

  Wind moans through the rigging. What am I to do? My head’s jumbled: I think of Demos in his stable, Elflight when she saw me on the window-ledge, Iskendar, Niko, my master. I can’t let my father keep me away from the Underworld. Time passes quick there. It won’t be long before I’m forgotten and Thales is the Emperor of Thieves’ right-hand man. Which is just what he wants—