Cities and Thrones

by Carrie Patel

  “He’s an unknown quantity,” the Qadi said. “After all, I’m sure your whitenails would have asked the same about him a year ago. It pays to be cautious.”

  Stretched across a chaise longue, Chancellor O’Brien leaned forward on one elbow. The chair was too steeply angled for him to sit upright, and so he lay on his side, his body extended like a mermaid’s on a rock in some fanciful drawing. He wore a grimace of barely salvaged dignity, and yet the more she observed of the Qadi’s carefully opaque manners and Father Isse’s contemptuous eye rolls, the easier it was to imagine the two of them sliding into the more comfortable seats – and reserving the one next to the Qadi for Jane –forcing the chancellor into the awkwardly reclined chaise.

  “These problems.” Chancellor O’Brien propped his head against his hand, frowned, and shifted again to rest his arm on the chaise. “Arnault give you any indication of what they are? Or how severe?” He spoke between clenched teeth.

  “He did mention that he was interested in restoring trade.” Jane spoke slowly as she mentally separated her two meetings with Roman. “So I’d imagine their commerce has suffered. But I’m sure Bailey would have told you that.”

  “Never mind Bailey for the moment,” the Qadi purred. “We’re interested in your assessments.”

  Something clattered to the ground behind the lattice. The noise pierced the silence like a needle – the Qadi flinched, and the cords of Chancellor O’Brien’s neck popped and strained as he resisted the urge to turn his head. Only Father Isse seemed unruffled, his smooth, egg-round head dipping as he bent to refill his tea glass.

  “You were saying?” the Qadi asked around a pained smile.

  “Only that I think Recoletta is looking for trade.” It didn’t seem to Jane as though she were giving anything away that the three leaders hadn’t already surmised. “And nervous about encroachment by other cities. It seems that Sato’s revolution hasn’t been popular with his neighbors, so while he may genuinely want reconciliation, I think he’s concerned about what form that would take.”

  “Would he accept food aid?” Father Isse raised his newly filled glass, his arms long and spindly beneath the fitted sleeves of his cassock. This was the first time Jane had heard him speak above a whisper, and his accent seemed vaguely familiar.

  “I don’t understand,” Jane said.

  “Recoletta’s intercity trade has vanished in the last six months, and rumor has it that the city’s own farmers have gone on strike,” Father Isse said. “I am asking if you think Sato would be inclined to accept an emergency shipment of dried grains and other non-perishables. As a token of our goodwill.”

  Wisps of recognition floated just on the periphery of her mind. “I don’t see why not,” she said.

  “Then it’s settled,” the Qadi said as, across from her, Chancellor O’Brien grumbled something indistinct. “You and Bailey will raise this with Mr Arnault at your next meeting.”

  The chancellor shifted again, assaulting the chaise longue with his elbows as he struggled for a more comfortable position. “You want to war–” He scowled at Jane. “Notify him?”

  “You send chocolates as a surprise,” the Qadi said over the rim of her glass. “Not a trainload of comestibles.”

  Father Isse nodded slowly, his spectacles flashing in the candlelight. The three city heads were aligning themselves, and the order was becoming clear enough to Jane.

  “What I mean,” Chancellor O’Brien said, “is that I’m not certain the Hollow’s goods can wait.”

  The Qadi inclined her veiled face. “Another two weeks at most.”

  Chancellor O’Brien leaned on his crossed arms, looking like a sullen child. “I shall trust the judgment of my learned peers.”

  Father Isse set his cup in the glass saucer on the table. “There’s no benefit in cornering Sato. A desperate man is a dangerous man.”

  The man’s rolling r’s knocked loose a memory in Jane’s mind of a stranger in the market and a hand on her arm. She knew suddenly where she’d heard Father Isse’s unusual accent – from the mouth of the scout who had accosted her on her way to meet Roman.

  Jane sat stock still, paralyzed and surprised by fear. The leaders seemed too caught up in their own discussion to notice a change in her, but she felt her eyes drawn again to the carved screen, though she knew not by what.

  “Jane, you’ve been most helpful,” the Qadi said, laying a silk-gloved hand on her arm. “But we shouldn’t keep you from your other duties.”

  “Of course,” Jane said. She felt as if she were speaking around a mouthful of sand, but the three leaders turned their attention back to one another quickly enough once she had stood. As she reached the door, an attendant on the other side pulled it open. Another waited, laden tea tray at the ready, to supply the meeting with further refreshment after her departure. Even as Jane exited and the door smacked shut behind her, she couldn’t help but feel eyes on her.

  But the walk back to her desk, the motion of her legs, and the air outside the tea parlor energized her and cleared her head. She let the tension drain from her and began to work out a plan as she followed the attendant back to familiar territory.

  By the time she reached her desk, she had an idea.

  Her schedule was clear for the rest of the afternoon – no hearings, and no other meetings that she knew about – and her grumbling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t yet stopped for lunch.

  Jane looked at the wall clock hanging over the door. It was almost two. A little late, but not too late for lunch. Besides, she had a reasonable enough excuse for taking her break later – she had, after all, been called into a meeting with the Qadi. She had time.

  In the Majlis, even servants and attendants were afforded a leisurely hour, sometimes an hour and a half, for lunch. It had seemed like an unbelievable luxury at first, and out of habit, she still wolfed her meals in fifteen minutes, but she was thankful for the time now.

  The details of the meeting came back into focus as she thought through the steps of her plan. It appeared that Father Isse had gained ascendancy. Jane recalled what Lady Lachesse had told her about Isse being the subtler of the Qadi’s two allies. He also seemed like the most dangerous.

  As Jane’s mind worked, so did her hands, gathering up her scarf and veil and stuffing them into her robes. She headed once more out of the office.

  Food aid. Father Isse had proposed sending a shipment of food to Recoletta. Chancellor O’Brien had grumbled – what exactly had he said? Something about notifying Sato. But he’d corrected himself.

  He’d almost asked why they wanted to warn Sato.

  About what? That was the question. Whatever it was, it should be enough to satisfy Lady Lachesse for the indefinite future. She’d also need to warn Roman when they next met.

  But how would she fill in the gaps in the city leaders’ plans?

  As she found herself alone in the women’s powder room, her hand already clutching the veil and scarf, she suddenly realized what she had to do. What she was already planning to do.

  Her pulse was thudding again.

  She slipped the veil over her head and fastened the scarf over her hair and under her chin. The contours of her face, the shape and color of her eyes, and the set of her mouth were still recognizable enough to anyone who knew her – or anyone paying close enough attention – but there were few enough people who would. She was counting on that.

  She was also counting on the fresh tea tray to keep the Qadi and her partners occupied a little while longer.

  Jane swept out of the powder room, her face more or less obscured.

  Something was brewing between the three city heads. And while Father Isse appeared to have spearheaded the plan, it was clear enough that all were in on it. Now, Jane had to figure out where she could most easily get some clue as to what that was.

  The Qadi’s quarters and offices would be the most extensive, the most well guarded, and the hardest to search. But the two men were only visiting – they’d be livi
ng and working in suites. Still several times larger than the apartment she and Freddie shared, no doubt, but it narrowed her search considerably.

  And whose rooms to check?

  Father Isse didn’t seem like the kind of person who left so much as his spare change out in the open. Except to catch someone like her, perhaps. And if he truly was connected to the spy in the market, she’d do well to stay as far from him as possible.

  That left Chancellor O’Brien.

  Lady Lachesse had called him “direct.” To Jane, he’d seemed downright reckless. Perhaps enough so to make her search easier.

  There was something he’d said in the meeting, too. Something about “the Hollow’s goods” waiting until the next meeting with Roman.

  Gooseflesh rose along Jane’s arms. Whatever these “goods” were, she had a strong suspicion they’d explain much of the plot against Recoletta.

  To the chancellor’s quarters, then.

  There was just one problem.

  The Majlis comprised almost ten acres. Jane only knew a quarter of it. She knew the offices where scribes, administrators, and other city officials worked. She knew the meeting rooms, paneled with lacquered wood in weaving scrollwork patterns, and she knew the office suites of the Qadi and other key bureaucrats.

  But she was unacquainted with the extensive private quarters, lush apartments and suites where resident and visiting dignitaries stayed.

  The irony was that in her present capacity, she had little cause to visit those quarters. In her past life as a laundress, she could have come and gone without note.

  Jane needed an excuse. Barring that, she needed a better disguise.

  At that moment, she nearly ran into one.

  A man in plain black robes, his arms filled with a basket of linens, spun out of Jane’s way just as she almost collided with him. She gasped, stopping in her tracks and stumbling over an awkward apology, but he was already gone.

  She had hardly seen him. And it gave her an idea.

  The attendants, bearing trays of tea and snacks, went almost anywhere they pleased in the Majlis. And, in their head-to-toe black robes and veils, they were almost indistinguishable from one another as long as no one looked too closely.

  More importantly, they were treated as if they were invisible, a social phenomenon Jane was quite familiar with.

  She could imitate the posture: a quiet but purposeful stride, head down and shoulders back, eyes focused on the task at hand. She just needed to get her hands on some of those robes.

  She turned on her heels and followed the man she’d nearly run into, keeping an innocuous distance.

  Shortly enough, he disappeared behind a curtain. She would have missed his exit had she not been watching him so closely – heavy with embroidered arabesque patterns, the curtain hung flat against the wall, seemingly more decorative than functional.

  No hesitation. She had to look natural.

  Jane followed him behind the curtain.

  She found herself in the middle of a long passage. Though plain and narrow compared to the hall on the other side of the curtain, it ran parallel to the other as far as she could tell.

  Jane wondered how much else she’d missed.

  As she lingered, taking in the scope of the corridor, another black-robed attendant brushed past, giving her a curious glance.

  So much for avoiding attention. The linen-laden attendant turned at a bend in the corridor up ahead, and she followed again.

  These corridors lacked the latticework that gave the other “secret” passages a view of the main hallway, and every person Jane passed wore the same black robes. The attendants would notice her own veil and look away politely enough, but even that gesture bore the stuttering hesitation of inquisitiveness.

  She needed to find a better disguise before she attracted too much attention.

  Fortunately, the man carrying the basket didn’t lead her much further.

  He went down a steep flight of stairs and into a spacious room that was warm and humid with the steam of washbasins and scents of lavender and detergent that Jane knew well. When he turned to dump the items in his basket, she slipped in behind him and ducked into a partitioned nook stacked with towels and bedsheets. She counted out the seconds and, after twenty, heard his quick stride head back around the corner and out the door. She stepped out.

  The other end of the room was full of men and women at washbasins, all too busy to notice her at the moment. Shelves and cabinets lined her side of the room, and she peered into them one by one, passing over crisp linens, towels, bright uniforms, and bolts of folded fabric as she searched for attendants’ outfits.

  At last, she opened a cabinet to find stacks of black robes, and, sneaking another glance over her shoulder, she grabbed the one on top.

  It was a little large, but that made it easy to slip on over her own dark green outfit. She removed her veil and pinned the hood under her chin so that it followed the contours of her head and the back of her neck. The hem of the outfit just brushed her toes, but by the time she noticed, it was too late to change.

  She looked again at the washbasins on the other end of the room, where a row of men and women were still busy soaking and scrubbing. The man she’d followed had deposited his basket somewhere and was on his way out the door. He didn’t give her so much as a passing glance.

  So far, she had managed to avoid attracting attention. Good.

  Steam hissed behind Jane. “Excuse me,” someone said.

  Jane turned. Standing behind her was a woman, wrapped in a cowled black cloak like the one Jane now wore. She stood over an ironing board and next to a rack hung with freshly pressed robes – she’d been behind it when Jane had first entered the laundry room. She looked to be about nineteen, with a smooth, open face and wide eyes that seemed to look right through Jane.

  “Yes?” Jane asked.

  “You must be new,” the younger woman said. “I thought so.” An impish grin crossed her face. “What is your name, sayideh?”

  “Lucy,” Jane said. It was the first name that popped into her head.

  The other woman’s eyes brightened, still pointed at something just over Jane’s shoulder. “What a lovely and unusual name,” she said. “I’m Amina.” Her brow creased. “Your accent,” she said. “You don’t sound like you’re from Madina. But I’ve heard others who sound like you – Recolettans, yes?”

  Jane coughed. She needed an excuse to end this conversation as quickly as possible. “You’re very perceptive, Amina.”

  The young woman laughed. Even as she faced Jane, her hands danced over the stiff cotton tunic on the ironing board, turning it with little plucking motions. When her hands finally found a wrinkle, she traced it with her fingertips before pressing it with an iron waiting at her elbow.

  All this without once looking at the fabric before her.

  Jane shifted her body to one side, testing her theory. The woman’s eyes did not follow her.

  She was blind.

  “I’m curious,” Jane said, pacing closer. “How did you know I was new? Before we spoke, I mean.”

  “It just sounded like it was taking you a while to find the robes. And you don’t seem to know where the changing room is,” she said, her voice dropping to a coy whisper.

  “I see.”

  “A thousand pardons, sayideh – I meant no offense. The Majlis is a big place.”

  “Very,” Jane said.

  The young woman’s expression shifted from chagrin to eagerness. “Perhaps there’s something I can help you find?”

  Jane swallowed the “no” inches from her lips. “Actually,” she said, “I was looking for Chancellor O’Brien’s quarters.”

  Amina’s eyes and mouth rounded into little o’s of surprise. “He’s staying in the east wing. Upper floor. Where he’s less likely to be disturbed.” She paused, something dancing on the tip of her tongue. “I hear he’s a... strict man.”

  Jane knew the look. She also knew that nothing whetted the appetite for g
ossip like a morsel of scandal. “So do I,” Jane said. “I also hear he has a taste for drink. And serving boys.”

  Amina leaned forward, gleefully conspiratorial. “You hear much, Sayideh Lucy. But don’t let Sayideh Khorlev hear you talk like this. Rahim returned with the scent of the chancellor’s gin on his breath last week, and she’s had him scrubbing toilets ever since.”

  “I’ll be sure not to,” she told Amina.

  The young woman nodded. “Now, the quickest way to the east wing is up these stairs and back to the tunnel.” Amina gave her specific but clear instructions along the service corridor. “After you’ve passed the kitchens, you’ll find a curtained exit about twenty paces ahead on your right. That’ll leave you in the courtyard of the east wing. The second set of stairs clockwise from the service corridor will take you to the chancellor’s apartment.”

  “Thank you, Amina. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Amina’s face brightened with a kind of joy that Jane rarely saw others express. Perhaps she’d simply never learned to mask and mute her expressions, never having seen them on her face or any other.

  So Jane followed Amina’s instructions, stopping, on a whim, at the kitchens for a pot of tea. Balancing the engraved silver tray with a tall, four-legged pot and pair of glass cups and saucers, she took long, careful steps along the hall, trying to pretend as if she’d done this before. The high, curving spout seemed to give her a haughty sniff as she maneuvered around the curtain, as thick and stiff as a horse blanket, and into the east wing courtyard.

  A twelve-pointed star radiated from the middle of the floor, the tiles that formed its outline weaving and crisscrossing with a dozen other iterations and variations of the same pattern. Daylight streamed in from the domed skylight overhead and bounced off of the smooth floor tiles, polished even now by another black-robed attendant.

  Jane turned toward the staircase Amina had described, holding her tea tray high as an obvious excuse. The floor shiner seemed too intent on the tiles to notice. Just as well.

  The staircase was shallow and wide, and the door that waited at the top might as well have guarded a bank vault. Its broad edges were banded with black iron, and the massive keyhole formed the mouth of a great roaring cat.