by Sarah Zettel
Fortunately, there were not many loiterers around the god house steps to notice him cross the street and settle himself into the shadowy niche between two houses across the way. This time, though, he found it hard to make himself wait. The man he needed was but a couple of dozen feet away, separated by from him by a few wooden walls. The keeper had seen him. If he couldn’t get back in there quietly, his best chance at good information would shortly be beyond his reach, again, and there would be nothing for it but more delay and yet more waiting in shadows. Peshek’s palms began to itch with impatience.
At last, a small troop of men with muddy boots and undyed kaftans strode up the street and turned toward the god house. Peshek ducked out of his hiding place and joined their number, affording himself an anonymous entry back into the holy place after his rather public exit.
Peshek queued up with the farmers to kiss the hem of the god’s robe, as was proper. As he put his lips to the bright green fabric, he glanced toward the back of the house. There stood Bakhar in quiet conference with the local keeper, a far slighter man with a mournful face and stubby hands.
But did Bakhar see him? Peshek bit his lip and stepped sideways to make way for the other worshipers. After a bad moment wondering what to do, he dropped to one knee toward Cezta’s image and bowed his head, making himself the picture of a poor man with many cares, praying for succor from this most prosperous god, and at the same time, putting himself directly in Keeper Bakhar’s line of sight.
The move had its intended effect. After only a few heartbeats, a hand touched his shoulder, and Peshek looked up to see Bakhar standing over him.
“I see your heart is heavy, my son,” Bakhar said. “Would you care to come and talk a little? Perhaps together we can understand how Cezta, under the hands of Vyshko and Vyshemir, touches your life.”
“Thank you, good keeper,” said Peshek, keeping his voice low and his face solemn.
“Come with me.”
Peshek rose and followed Bakhar into the niche that each god house in Isavalta kept for Vyshko and Vyshemir. Their representations were carved into an alcove above a curving shelf meant for offerings. Two low stools had been placed there to accommodate any who needed to stay and meditate for a long period.
Bakhar kissed his fingers and laid them on the carved folds of the gods’ robes, and then reverenced. Peshek did the same. As he did, he stole a quick glance at the keeper. The man had aged since Peshek had last seen him. Tired lines ran down his cheeks and his normally serene eyes had grown uneasy.
“You take a chance being here,” whispered Bakhar as Peshek straightened up. “But I am glad beyond words to see you. Tell me quickly, how fares the empress?”
“I wish I could tell you,” muttered Peshek, his gaze darting around the niche and the greater house, just to make sure no one had strayed too near. “She has fled to the Heart of the World, and, as much as it pains me, I have other orders. I can tell you she has help on the way. Avanasy has returned.”
Bakhar closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “I had not dared to hope, but I could not believe he would stay away at such a time.”
“Avanasy says that Lord Iakush gave his life to warn him as to what was happening.” Peshek rubbed his hands together.
This time, Bakhar’s sigh was heavy. “I wondered. It’s been given out that the lord sorcerer died of a hemorrhage in his spleen. No one will speculate though on what might have caused that hemorrhage, and his body was not allowed to lie in state before burial.” Bakhar’s hand strayed to the golden icons on his belt. “You’ve heard what happened at the games for the Hastinapuran ambassador?”
Peshek sat himself on one of the padded stools, scrubbing his scalp and face. “I’ve heard something dramatic happened, but the rumors in the streets have doubtlessly improved greatly on reality.”
Peshek listened grimly while Bakhar told him of the arrival of the lone, tattered soldier right in the middle of the martial display, and his declaration of Hung Tse’s treachery.
“Is what this man said true?” he asked when the keeper’s soft voice fell silent.
Bakhar shook his head. “I have not been able to learn for certain, but I doubt it.” His whole face hardened. “Kacha has already orchestrated far more difficult displays.”
“And where stand the council? Do they all accept Kacha’s story of early confinement and an impending heir?”
“To a man. Kacha has done something to them. I smell magics here, but I cannot find the source. Kacha is no sorcerer himself, nor did he bring one from Hastinapura. He barely holds any conference with the sorcerers who remain at court, so who is aiding him and how?” Bakhar’s gaze rested on the images of Vyshko and Vyshemir for a long moment. “Avanasy might be able to tell us, but Avanasy is needed elsewhere.”
“Except that Avanasy was asking the same questions.” Peshek’s fist tightened. “So, the empress has no friend left at court?”
“None I am certain could be trusted with the truth.”
For the first time, Peshek heard the strain in the keeper’s voice, and he realized suddenly that since the empress’s flight, Bakhar had been even more alone than he himself had. He reached out and touched the other man’s arm.
“How is it you remain above suspicion?”
Bakhar’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “By pretending to be a foolish old man concerned with nothing outside my god house. Kacha is juggling so many intrigues right now, I believe he is content to let that facade stand.” Again, he looked to the gods, reaching out from their alcove, their weapons held high. “But what luck have you had?”
“My father is sounding out the lords he believes will hear the truth and keep it close to themselves. I am to meet his messenger shortly. If all goes well, we will soon have arms to back our answer to Kacha’s declarations.”
“You have brought me the first good news I’ve had in many days.” Bakhar smoothed his beard down. He looked as tired as Peshek felt. We are not either of us meant for intrigue, thought Peshek. Not truly. “I will begin to move beyond the house as much as I am able. Perhaps I can find the source of what has blinded so many shrewd men.”
“Do your best, good keeper,” said Peshek, getting to his feet. “Send what word you can to my father. If any know where to find me, he will.” Remembering his role, Peshek reverenced in the peasant fashion. “I will send your news to Avanasy. Perhaps he can puzzle this out from a distance, or at least tell us where to begin looking.”
Bakhar touched Peshek’s brow in blessing. “Vyshko walks strong beside you, my son.”
There was nothing more to be said. Head ducked, shoulders rounded, Peshek left the house for the broad, cobbled street and the summer sun. As soon as his eyes had adjusted again to the brightness, he set off down the street, heading for the city’s wooden walls and the south gates. He wound his way quickly and confidently through the crowded streets, the carts and mules, the goose-herders and the men toiling under heavy sacks.
Then, faintly, he heard a rhythmic sound that made him pause, causing a woman struggling along with a huge basket to curse and shoulder her way past him. Peshek listened. Under all the thousand sounds of the busy city, he heard it again. A steady, rhythmic tramping that could have but one source; the boots of many soldiers.
No sooner had Peshek identified the sound, than a faint, but imperious voice from a man as yet unseen called out, “Clear the way! Clear the way for the House Guard Imperial!”
Groans and cursing broke out from the crowds. Carters whipped their animals, trying to get them off to one side. All around, beasts and people jostled one another, noisy with their complaints, seeking some side street or alley that would get them away from the crush. But Peshek heard another noise as he strove to keep the pressure of the crowd from pushing him down the alley at his back. Cheers swelled up ahead, growing louder with each heartbeat, as did the sound of marching feet.
Up ahead, the street bent in a broad curve. Peshek craned his neck along with the rest to try to
see who was coming. At last, a broad shadow filled the bend, and then the ranks of the House Guard marched into view.
They were decked out as brightly as for any imperial review. Gilded armor shined in the sun, as did the tips of the pikes. Blue coats were flawless. They marched in stride, rank on rank, their armor and arms jingling in metallic counterpoint.
Officers on horseback flanked the foot soldiers, and Peshek stared in dismay at faces he knew. Habat, whose nose was as crooked as an old man’s back from the number of times it had been broken. Maccek, who he’d fought with over one of the weaver girls in the sheds and gotten far too drunk with an hour afterwards when they both found out she preferred Over-Lieutenant Oal. Rzhova, who still owed him two days’ pay from their last game of dice.
Stop! he wanted to shout at him. Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing! Come with me! I’ll show you the enemy!
But he was alone in the cheering crowd. They’d heard the stories come down from Vaknevos, and they believed. Why shouldn’t they?
“Cut the heart right out of them!” shouted a man to Peshek’s right.
“Captain! Captain!” cried another man with a sack of charcoal on his back. “Give ‘em two for me!”
Rzhova turned his head and began to reverence genially to the crowd, and then he froze, and Peshek had a single heartbeat to realize he’d been a fool.
Here he stood, at least half a head taller than those around him, close enough to the grand parade to recognize the faces of old comrades.
Close enough to be recognized by them.
He had only enough time to turn to run before Rzhova shouted, “Peshek, you traitor!”
The press of bodies before him suddenly became a solid wall. Peshek swore and tore at shoulders and coats, shoving people sideways as far as he could. He could feel the crowd stirring behind him to try to let Rzhova ride through. He was sure he heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. Peshek slammed his shoulder against a portly man who tried to grab his arms. That broke the wall of bodies just far enough and Peshek fled down the stinking alley. In the space of another breath, hoofbeats clattered after him.
Peshek didn’t dare look back. He pelted ahead as fast as he could, but his boots skittered on the garbage that littered the cobbles. Twice he stumbled and almost fell. He slammed his shoulder against a door, seeking to find a way into one of the houses, only to find it solidly barred.
“Coward!” shouted Rzhova. “Make your stand!”
Clutching his shoulder, Peshek turned. Rzhova, tall and terrible on horseback, bore down on him, standing in the stirrups, sword held high. Peshek bit back a cry of terror and got ready to duck if he could.
All at once, another harsh scream cut the air. Peshek jerked around, thinking it was another soldier. Instead, a black bird dove down, making him duck his head. Rzhova hollered and flung up his arm to protect his eyes as. the bird went straight for him, cawing fiercely.
Peshek did not wait to see what would happen next. He took off running down the alley again, praying that Vyshko really did walk strong beside him, and that he had made it hard enough for the other officers to get their horses through the crowds that there would be no one waiting for Peshek at the end of the alley. Behind him, the crow squawked angrily and Rzhova cursed, and the horse’s hooves clopped as the animal danced, but none of those sounds grew closer.
Several sacks of chaff and straw waited by the alley’s mouth. Peshek snatched a pair up as he ran past, hoisting one onto each shoulder and plunging straight for the middle of the crowd. The continuous roll of voices, the brays and snorts of animals, and the creaking of overburdened carts filled up the world and Peshek could make out no other noise. Ranked by his sacks, he could only see a narrow slice of what was ahead of him. The sacks itched his cheeks, and their must and dust tickled his nose. But he heard no shouts for him to halt, and the only clopping of hooves came from reluctant mules and flocks of sheep.
At last, Peshek spied another alley. He slowly worked his way to the edge of the crowd, tossed down his sacks and slumped momentarily against the corner of a house. From the cool and dirty smell coming up from the narrow way, this one led to the canals. Good. From there he could get his bearings again and maybe find a boatman for hire. It would be the quickest way out of the city.
While all this flashed through his mind, two sharp caws sounded overheard. A glossy black crow perched on the eves of the house Peshek leaned against. With a clatter of wings, the bird dropped onto the sack he had just discarded.
There was absolutely no doubt in Peshek’s mind that this bold creature was the same one that had saved him from Rzhova. Pushing aside all feelings of foolishness, Peshek crouched down until his head was level with the crow’s. It regarded him first with one round eye, then the other, then it cawed again.
“I owe you my thanks, Master Crow,” murmured Peshek, reaching out with one finger to stroke the shining feathers. The bird cawed again, outraged at the familiarity, and hopped backward.
“Your pardon, your pardon,” Peshek murmured, drawing his hand back at once. “And may I assume you are the messenger my friend Avanasy promised to send?”
The bird cawed once more and puffed its feathers out proudly.
“Your timing, sir, is impeccable.” Peshek rested his forearms on his knees. “You may tell our friend …”
It was only then that the enormity of what he had seen and heard engulfed him. Until this instant, he’d had no time to consider what it meant. But now he grew cold as his thoughts ordered themselves. Isavalta was going to war against Hung Tse, and the empress was in the Heart of the World. She’d be taken hostage at once and held for ransom, and Kacha would never pay such a ransom, because that would mean he would have to admit that she was not in confinement in Vaknevos after all. If she could not be ransomed … Peshek closed his eyes. Hung Tse would not waste their time on her.
“Tell him urgently that the empress must not go to the Heart of the World. Kacha has mobilized for war against Hung Tse, and she is sure to be taken hostage by the Nine Elders.”
The crow bobbed its head several times, as if to reassure Peshek that it understood. Then, it shook itself once and leapt into the sky, spreading its wings and flying off over the rooftops. Peshek watched, wishing for a long, vain moment that he could do the same.
“And if I’ve been here talking to someone’s tame crow, what a complete ass I’ll have made of myself,” he muttered as he straightened up. He pushed the thought aside at once. That was Avanasy’s messenger. He would reach the empress in time. Peshek had done his part there. He would have to trust to Avanasy’s skill to manage affairs in the Heart of the World. His whole purpose must be to raise what troops he could to stop the unlawful war that Kacha sought to start.
Resuming his soldier’s bearing for the first time in days, Peshek marched down the alleyway.
Cai Yun leapt from the sedan that had carried her to her uncle’s house with no thought to decorum. She left it to her bodyguard to pay the bearers who had brought her and instead hurried through the gate and up the garden path to the verandah. There, her two old servants bowed to her, but this once she passed them by without a word. She had news that could not wait.
Fortunately, Uncle was in his study, sitting calmly at the low table that served as his desk, working on a letter. Her abrupt and undignified entrance made him pause, the ink brush poised in mid-stroke, and look up at her with raised eyebrows.
“I have come from meeting Zhang Sung, Uncle,” said Cai Yun breathlessly, kneeling down in front of him. “You were right. He was worth every coin, and all my flirtations. He …”
Uncle raised his free hand and set down his ink brush before it could drip on his carefully written letter. “Pause for breath, beloved niece. You will be fainting on the mat before you finish this tale.”
Cai Yun did pause, and struggled to slow her breathing and regain her calm. When she was no longer panting like a horse, she bowed to Uncle, who bowed in return. Thus composed, she said, more sl
owly and more properly, “He tells me there is an Isavaltan prisoner in the cells below the Heart of the World.”
“An Isavaltan?” Uncle savored the word, as Cai Yun knew he would. “This is indeed interesting. Does Zhang Sung know who this Isavaltan is?”
Cai Yun limited her triumph to a flash of her eyes. “A woman. A sorceress.”
“So?” Uncle’s eyebrows lifted again. “Well, well, a sorceress, at a time when we have word that the Isavaltans are chasing a mad sorceress about the countryside for impersonating their empress. This is indeed interesting news.”
Cai Yun searched her uncle’s face, even though by now she knew well he would show her nothing he did not wish her to see. Still, the lilt in his words made her believe that this news was more than interesting. It was welcome.
Uncle moved the brush to the shallow dish of water beside the stone and grinder so that the ink would not harden and ruin the bristles. “Niece, I have a task for you.”
She was not surprised. “How can I assist my uncle?”
“I believe someone will soon be coming to retrieve this Isavaltan sorceress. I would speak with them when they do.” Uncle stood and lifted a casket down from the shelf behind him. It opened easily under his hands, although, Cai Yun knew from the painful experience of childhood, if she had tried to lift that same lid, her fingers would have smarted for a week.
From the casket, Uncle drew a silken bag, and from the bag he took an amulet of jade carved in the shape of a dragon with a fox’s head and cunning eyes.
“I suggest you go to the river docks. This amulet will help bring you and such as seek the sorceress together.” Uncle handed the precious object to Cai Yun, who took it with a bow and concealed it in her sleeve.
“I will do my best.”
“I know you will,” Uncle replied, a hint of pride in his placid voice. His eyes shone and Cai Yun felt an answering warmth run through her. “Understand this, this may be the beginning of something much greater. If we act swiftly and with good information, you and I, Niece, will strike such a blow against the Nine Elders that they will never recover.”