by Sarah Ash
‘Help me raise his head,’ Azhrel said, opening his leathern bag.
Lai slipped his hand under the thin shoulders; the slave began to moan in pain as he touched him.
‘I’m sorry—’ Lai whispered.
‘Open his mouth. That’s right.’ Azhrel took out a glass phial and tipped a little of its contents onto the injured slave’s parched tongue.
Lai saw the glistening dust, caught a breath of its fragrance, sweet and pure amidst the stench of dye and sweat. The terrible, mindless moaning gradually died into a soft exhalation of relief.
‘Boskh?’ Lai said, his eyes meeting Azhrel’s over the slave’s lolling head.
‘You disapprove?’ Azhrel shook a little of the dust over the scalded, weeping blisters. Even as Lai watched, a pearlescent film seemed to form over the skin.
‘Miraculous …’ Lai shook his head in disbelief.
‘Did you know it could heal so efficiently?’
‘I had no idea …’
‘Here.’ Azhrel passed the phial to Lai. ‘I have another. You take that side of the shed, I’ll take this.’
‘Zhan.’ A pale-skinned slave tugged at Lai’s sleeve. ‘She’s going fast. Help her.’
‘Her?’ Lai knelt beside the prone form and saw as the companion drew aside the dye-stained shift that this shaven-headed brandslave was a woman. ‘But I thought—’
‘The Arkhan’s justice makes no distinction between men and women when the dye works is the sentence,’ her companion said expressionlessly. ‘Has she a chance?’
Lai let his hand rest on the woman’s brand-stained forehead; the skin felt clammy and chill. Beneath the bruised lids, he caught a glimpse of white.
‘She’s almost gone …’ he said, swallowing down his anger. How could Melmeth permit this cruelty – had he even any idea of the conditions?
The phial of boskh glimmered in the torchlight as he unstoppered it and poured a little into the woman’s slack mouth. A sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped her lips. His hand reached for her slender wrist, feeling for a pulse.
Live, he willed her, feeling the bones protruding beneath the paperthin skin, the pulse so faint it was hardly there. Live.
Live for what purpose? a faint mindvoice whispered. Day after day of endless toil and heat. No hope of reprieve. No hope. Rather let me die …
‘No!’ Lai cried aloud, pressing the woman’s hand between his own. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way. There is always hope.’
The bruised lids flickered, opened. The woman stared curiously up into his face, her dry lips moved.
‘Eryl?’ said her companion in painful eagerness.
‘Why?’ Eryl whispered. ‘Why did you bring me back?’
‘Because you mustn’t give up,’ Lai said with quiet fervour. ‘Don’t let them defeat you. You have friends outside. Friends who will not forget you.’
Eryl’s hand lifted a little, pointing towards Lai’s forehead and the tattooed mark of Memizhon.
‘You … you are one of us … and yet you are free …’
‘I had to fight for my freedom. And I will fight for yours.’
‘Be careful,’ her companion said. ‘They are watching us.’
Lai nodded, understanding.
‘I won’t forget,’ he said again and, drawing away, moved on to the next pallet.
* * * * *
Distant tarkenhorns blew from the ramparts of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar, announcing wakenight.
Lai felt a hand on his shoulder. Wearily, he looked around and saw Azhrel.
‘Wakenight. Time to go.’
‘I had no idea it was so late.’ Lai rubbed his eyes, blinking away the blur of tiredness.
‘I’ll return in the morning. But we’ve done all we can for now.’
Lai stood up, stretching his cramped muscles. As he followed Azhrel, he glanced back over his shoulder into the torchlit shed; Eryl was lying with her head on her companion’s lap. Her thin chest gently rose and fell in the natural rhythm of sleep.
The iron gates clanged shut behind them; the key creaked in the lock.
‘It works!’ Azhrel said under his breath. ‘Sweet Mithiel, it really works!’ His dark eyes caught the glitter of the starlit sky; he seemed charged, transfigured with excitement. His glossy hair, usually so neatly tied back, had come loose about his shoulders. Lai glanced at him and their eyes met, conspirators sharing the same secret.
‘Have you any idea what this means? All those cases of gangrene I try to treat at the weavers, the loom injuries … now they can all be cured. No young mother need die of puerperal fever again, no child succumb to the smallpox—’
Lai stumbled on a loose cobblestone, Azhrel steadied hm.
‘You’re exhausted. What am I thinking of, rambling on in this way? I never meant to keep you out so late.’
‘You didn’t keep me. I chose to stay,’ Lai said.
‘The gates of the Tarkhas Memizhon will be locked by now. But you can sleep at my house in Galingal Lane – if you like.’
Bunches of dried herbs and flowers hung low from the ceiling of Azhrel’s study, brittle seed pods and fronded leaves brushed their heads. The room was filled from floor to ceiling with books: old books, their spines cracked open, spilling yellowed pages. Even the desk was littered with tumbled papers and stained alembics.
Azhrel delved beneath a pile of papers and brought out a glass bottle half-full of a translucent liquor, pale as snow-melt.
‘Alquer?’ As Azhrel poured out a generous measure each, Lai thought he detected a faint odour of bitter jhynzar berries. ‘Try it – it’s excellent.’
Lai took a sip; it was clean and pleasantly sharp in the mouth but when it reached the back of the throat it turned to liquid fire.
‘Powerful?’ Azhrel said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Lai let his breath out slowly, convinced that he would breathe flames like a firedrake.
‘Powerful,’ he wheezed, nodding.
‘It’s something of an acquired taste.’ Azhrel raised his glass and clinked it against Lai’s. ‘A good night’s work.’
‘A good night’s work.’
‘I watched you tonight. You have the makings of a healer in you.’
‘No,’ Lai said curtly. ‘I’m no healer. I did what anyone would have done.’
‘Anyone? Is that what you think? You saw those terrible injuries – and yet you didn’t flinch.’
Lai shrugged. ‘I’ve seen as bad in the arena. I’ve inflicted worse.’
‘Just because you were compelled to take part in that barbaric blood rite, doesn’t mean you have become as brutalised as those who compelled you.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Lai said bitterly. He swallowed down the alquer; it seemed to have lost its bite.
‘Lai.’ Azhrel reached out across the desk and seized hold of his hands, turning them palm upwards in the puddle of light from the lucerna. ‘Look. What do you see?’
‘Blood,’ Lai said in a whisper, staring down at his hands. ‘The hands of a killer. A trained killer.’
‘Is that what you see? I see the hands of a healer.’
Lai got up, knocking over his chair and walked away to the unshuttered window, staring out into the night.
‘You must put the arena behind you,’ Azhrel said fiercely. ‘Yes, it has changed you. But it has not destroyed you. It will only destroy you if you let it.’
‘Don’t preach at me, Azhrel. How can you know? How can you possibly know what it’s like?’
‘Me?’ Azhrel said, pouring himself another measure of alquer. ‘Oh, I know. Believe me – I know.’
Lai glanced at him, seeing the harsh lines of his ruined face cruelly highlit by the lucerna light. But at that moment he was too wrapped up in his own anger to greatly care about Azhrel …
‘It’d be better if I left.’
To wander the streets all night?’ Azhrel’s mouth quirked into a mocking smile. ‘To sleep rough?’
‘I need to think.’
‘Go, then. Go think.’
Lai opened the door; a waft of creamy jasmine scent floated in – but all he could smell was the indigo stink of the dye works.
‘You know where to find me,’ Azhrel called after him, ‘if you need me.’
CHAPTER 13
‘Dhamzel, Dhamzel!’ The urgent whisper penetrated Laili’s dreams; Laili woke to see a pale, pinched face hovering above hers. It was Miu, the little slavegirl who brought their food from the kitchens.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The Torella. I think you’d better come see.’
Wands of gilded sunlight lit the bed, the polished floor; it must be mid-morning and yet the apartments were eerily hushed, with no usual bustle of activity …
Laili reached for her overgown and drew the woven cord tightly around the waist, hoping the curve of her swelling belly was not too obvious.
Miu beckoned her across the antechamber towards the closed doors of Sarilla’s rooms; Laili thought she could hear someone muttering on and on distractedly inside.
‘She won’t let me near her,’ said Miu. ‘Says her head hurts. Threw the qaffë pot at me and smashed all the cups.’
‘Maybe an infusion of feverfew would help her … or willowbark. Can you run back down to the kitchens and see if they have any?’
Miu shrugged.
‘Cook beat me for breaking the cups.’
‘Please, Miu.’
As soon as the girl had gone, Laili tapped on Sarilla’s door.
‘Go away.’
‘It’s Laili.’ Laili opened the door a crack and slipped inside. The room was smothered in darkness and for a moment, she could see nothing. Then as her eyes became accustomed, she made out a pale figure, insubstantial as a ghost, felt a breath of movement as Sarilla wandered past her.
‘I’ve sent for some feverfew for your head. Why not lie down and rest?’
‘No, no, no …’
Laili caught hold of her and began to guide her towards the bed.
‘Let me just open the shutters a crack—’
Sarilla clutched her head, turning away from the sudden brightness.
‘Ai—’ Her fingers wove convulsively through her unbound hair, twisting, tearing.
‘It’s all right,’ Laili soothed, trying to prise away the clawing fingers. ‘Let me bathe your forehead …’
‘Close the shutters. Close them!’
Sarilla’s unpainted face had become a shrivelled mask: an old woman’s face. Laili, shocked at the alteration, turned to close the shutter again. Sarilla was instantly at her side, clutching at her hands.
‘Get me some, Laili. Here.’ She tugged at the heavy emerald ring on her finger, pressing the cold stone into Laili’s palm. ‘Sell this.’
‘But I can’t leave the palace,’ Laili said, ‘you know that.’ Especially now that my condition is becoming so obvious, she thought.
‘Then get Miu to go buy some.’
‘Buy what, Sarilla?’
‘Boskh!’ cried Sarilla shrilly. ‘It cures headaches, megrims … I must have some more! How can you stand there and watch me suffer?’ She began to moan, clutching at her temples, swaying her body from side to side.
Boskh. Laili took in a breath to steady herself; the stale darkness of the shuttered room was oppressive and now Sarilla’s cries grated like the scratch of sharpened talons.
‘I’m sending for a physician.’
‘What use are physicians?’ Sarilla wailed.
‘Who else should I send for? I don’t know who to ask for help. Zhan Ymarys?’
‘No!’ Sarilla sank to the floor, rocking her body as though consumed with grief. ‘Don’t let him see me like this. Don’t tell him.’
‘But what can I do? I can’t leave you in this state.’
‘Just get me some more boskh. Please, Laili.’ She stroked Laili’s hand with hers, held it up to her withered cheek. ‘Be kind to your poor Sarilla—’
‘I’ve brought the infusion.’
The slavegirl stood in the open doorway, holding a fragrantly steaming bowl.
‘Infusion? I ordered no infusion!’ Sarilla suddenly strode forwards and struck the bowl from the girl’s hands, sending scalding liquid splashing across the room.
‘Hai!‘ The girl fled.
Laili hurried after her, catching her as, sobbing, she fumbled for the doorhandle.
Tm so sorry. Are you hurt?’
‘I’m not coming back. Don’t ask me,. She’s gone mad. I’m not coming near that madwoman again.’
‘Please do just one thing. Call the physician. Just that. You don’t have to come back. But tell him it’s urgent.’
Still sobbing, Miu pulled open the door and went running out down the stairs.
Laili went back into Sarilla’s room to find her seated before her shadowed mirror, applying paint to her face in the semi-darkness.
‘I must look my best for Ymarys,’ she was muttering. ‘For my dearest friend. My hero. There!’ She turned to face Laili. ‘Will I do?’
Rouge smeared her mouth into a lopsided gash; kohl and malachite blurred the dark circles around her eyes. The effect was both garish and grotesque; a mask to frighten children.
Laili swallowed.
‘Maybe you would let me finish your toilette for you?’
‘It doesn’t matter …’ Sarilla rose, her trailing sleeves knocking pots onto the floor and went wandering away into the antechamber. ‘He doesn’t love me any more. He doesn’t even call.’
‘Do lie down, Sarilla. Please.’
Laili went after her and put her arms about her shoulders, easing her onto the couch.
‘There. Let me wipe your face.’ Laili began to remove what she could of the smudged paint whilst Sarilla twitched and mumbled on the couch.
‘Look Ymarys, the damask hangings are not too badly worn. But so much dust! I know it’s quiet here in Mynezhil … but it’s so peaceful … you’ll come to like it, I’m sure …’
‘Sarilla,’ Laili said. ‘I’m Laili. Don’t you recognise me?’
‘Laili?’ Sarilla peered at her as if from a great distance away. ‘What are you doing in Mynezhil? It’s such a long journey to make … and you in your condition …’ Laili glanced around, hoping no one had heard, wondering what other secrets Sarilla might babble in her confused state.
‘Just a little more dust …’ Sarilla whispered. ‘Just a few grains more …’
* * * * *
Lai sat huddled on a coil of thick rope, watching the sun come up over the Yssil. He had walked the streets of the city till dawn, until, numb with tiredness, he had ended up here on the quay, watching the brown rats scavenging in a rubbish heap.
The anger still gnawed though it had dwindled to a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.
Damn Arlan Azhrel. What business was it of his what he did with his life?
It sounded so logical – to expiate the guilt by devoting himself to a selfless life caring for the sick.
And somewhere inside the pain and confusion he knew a part of him desperately wanted to accept that role. The pull was so strong. He had felt that pull last night as he knelt beside Eryl, wanting to help her, to cure her.
But for the wrong reasons.
Maybe he should have let her drift away into the darkness … away from that living hell of heat and foul fumes. But the only true cure would be to end the inhuman conditions the brandslaves were forced to endure. And how, where would he begin?
Memories of fire and terror danced across his sleep-starved brain. Shackles burned into his wrists and ankles … He cowered in fear before his tormentors again. Enslaved. They could do anything with him, to him. His abused body protested, his mind screamed for release.
He found he was shivering, shivering in the chill of dawn.
No. He could not challenge the might of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar alone.
‘Goddess,’ he whispered, ‘tell me what I should do.’
Silence. B
aby rats chased after their mother, shrilling piercingly.
If he had learnt anything during his long apprenticeship in the Grove, it was that there were no easy answers.
And all he had wanted was to go home. A wave of black, bleak homesickness washed over him, engulfing him.
Nothing had gone right since the night he left the arena a free man. All his plans had been frustrated, all his dreams shattered.
The quayside blurred; he knuckled his eyes, wiping away the salty wetness. He was not crying. He would not cry. To cry was a sign of weakness – and he could not afford to be weak. His eyes were watering with weariness, that was all.
Now he regretted rejecting Azhrel’s offer of a bed, now the thought of crisp, clean sheets seemed like a promise of heaven.
On the quay an old woman was brewing up khassafri; its sweet nutmeg aroma drifted enticingly towards Lai. He got to his feet and walked stiffly, slowly across to her stall. Sipping the hot liquid from a mug, he felt its warmth seep through his body.
A sudden echo of hunger, aching hunger, seared his belly.
How many times in the donjon had he lain, half-starved, unable to move from weakness, longing for food, any food …?
And he still had the money he had saved for his passage home to Ael Lahi.
A short while later, he rattled the gates of the dye works.
‘Go away!’ growled a hostile voice. The foreman came out, eyes bleared from lack of sleep.
From somewhere beyond the sheds Lai heard the creak of the treadmills; the morning shift was already at work.
‘I’ve brought food and drink for the injured.’
‘The slaves are not allowed to accept gifts. Understand?’
‘Don’t you recognise me? I was here with Dr Azhrel last night.’
The foreman peered at him.
‘Dr Azhrel came back before dawn. He mentioned no food or drink.’
‘It’s only fresh bread – and khassafri. It’ll nourish them – and they’ll recover the sooner.’
‘Well …’The foreman opened the gate a crack.
Lai made to go in – but the man’s arm shot out, barring the entrance with his coiled whip.