‘Get me a child!’ he rasped. ‘A child, I don’t care what sort. Get me a child, and . . . and bring me my bag of tools. And food! I want meat! Meat!’
He did not wait for a response. He threw himself to the floor again and lay there, his emaciated ribs heaving, waiting, drooling in anticipation. He did not know what would happen when the child got here. He never knew what would happen. But he thought he was going to enjoy it.
NINE
The compound of Blood Tamak was on the other side of the Imperial Quarter from Blood Koli’s, but Mishani chose to walk anyway. For one thing, it was a beautiful day, with cool breezes from the north offering relief from the usual stifling heat of the city. For another, she preferred that her business this afternoon remained a secret.
The streets of the Imperial Quarter were wider than the usual thoroughfares of the city, and less trafficked. Tall, ancient trees lined the roadside, and the rectangular flagstones were swept for leaves every morning. Fountains or ornamental gutters plashed and trickled, collecting in basins where passers-by could drink to quench their thirst. Carts rattled by with deliveries piled high upon them. Mishani passed many gates, each one belonging to an important family, each one with their ancestral emblem wrought upon them somewhere. The Imperial Quarter was made up mainly of the townhouses of the various families – not only the high families who sat on the councils, but a multitude of minor nobles as well.
She glanced up at the Imperial Keep, its angled planes sheening in the sunlight. One such council was going on now, and it was one that she should well be attending. The Heir-Empress was an Aberrant, and the Empress in her hubris still seemed intent on putting her on the throne. Mishani would never have believed it possible – not only that Lucia had been allowed to reach eight harvests of age in the first place, but also that the Empress was foolish enough to think the high families would allow an Aberrant to rule Saramyr. Her father would be angry that she had not been there to lend her support to his condemnation of the Empress; but she had something else to attend to, and it had to be done while all eyes were on the Keep.
The divisions brought about by the revelations in the Imperial Family had come swift and savage. Longtime allies had separated in disgust, driven apart by their inability to condone the other’s viewpoint. Arguments had erupted and turned to feuds. Most of it was down to men and their posturing, Mishani thought with a wrinkle of contempt. Her father was an example. He and Barak Chel of Blood Tamak had been political allies and good friends a month ago. Mishani had often accompanied him on visits to the townhouse of Blood Tamak. Then Chel’s support of the Empress in the matter of the succession sparked a debate in which both said regretful things to each other, and now they were bitter enemies and would not speak.
That, unfortunately, was contrary to Mishani’s interests, for within the house of Blood Tamak lived a wise old scholar by the name of Copanis, whose particular field of expertise was antique masks. And whatever the state of play between their two families, she intended to see him. The risk to herself was not inconsiderable. Her reputation would suffer greatly if she was caught in defiance of her father’s wishes, not to mention the embarrassment that would be caused by her presence in her enemy’s house. But there were greater matters at play here. Kaiku’s only clue to her father’s murder was the mask, tucked now beneath Mishani’s blue robes; and if anyone could tell them about it, it was Copanis.
She just had to get to him.
She worried about her friend as she walked a winding route through the Imperial Quarter: across sunlit, mosaic-strewn plazas with restaurants in the shady cloisters, down narrow and immaculate alleyways where thin, short-furred cats prowled and slunk, through a small park in which couples strolled and artists sat cross-legged on the grass, their brushes hovering above their canvases. She had a great affinity for the Imperial Quarter, and on most days she found it tantalising, a place of beauty and intrigue, where the peripheral machinations of the court were played out in the gardens and under the arches. She was aware that it was heavily sanitised and rigidly policed in comparison to the sweaty bustle of the rest of the city, but she was content to avoid the crush and press when she could, and she preferred the calm and beauty of these streets to those of the Market District or the Poor Quarter.
But today her mind was not on the sights and sounds surrounding her. Her concern for Kaiku consumed her thoughts entirely. If what Kaiku had told her was true – and she had no doubt that Kaiku, at least, believed it – then her situation was grave. She was convinced she was possessed by something, which was bad enough; the alternative – that she was mad, and had merely created the story of the shin-shin and the burning of Asara as a hysterical reaction to the death of her family – was scarcely better. And yet she seemed lucid, which tended to discount either of those possibilities; unless the madness or possession was of a more insidious kind, that did not show itself as raving lunacy but in a subtle mania instead.
A chill ran through her, a cool bloom that counteracted the bright afternoon sun on her skin. Heart’s blood, what if she was possessed? Mishani knew the stories of the dark spirits that haunted the forests and mountains, the deep and high and secret places of the world; but they had always seemed distant, powerless to affect her. She had heard about the gathering hostility of the beasts; it had been a small but persistent concern in court circles for a long time now. Enyu’s priests and their sympathisers never stopped talking about it. Was it so much of a stretch, then, to believe the possibility that her friend had become . . . infested by the emboldened spirits?
She shook her head. What did she know about spirits? She was frightening herself with conjecture and guesswork. There would be answers, there had to be answers, and she and Kaiku would hunt them out; but first, she had another task to perform.
Blood Tamak’s compound was set on a hillside, the main body of the townhouse supported by a man-made cliff of stone to make it sit level. It was a squat, flat-roofed building, its beige walls sparsely panelled in dark, polished wood, without any of the ornamentations, votive statues or icons that were usually present somewhere around the exterior of Saramyr households. Beneath it were the gardens, an unprepossessing lawn with curving flagstone paths and sprays of blooms, spartan even by the minimalist norms of Saramyr.
Mishani knew the layout well, for she had been shown around it often during her father’s visits. At the side of the compound, a narrow set of sandstone steps ran from the street in front to the one behind, which was set higher in the hill. There was a servants’ gate there, used for unobtrusive errand-running. It was here that Mishani took herself and waited.
She had timed her arrival excellently. Less than five minutes later, a short, sallow servant girl appeared, half opening the gate. Recognition widened her eyes as she saw who was outside.
‘Mistress Mishani,’ she gaped, blanching. She looked up and down the steps. ‘You should not be here.’
‘I know, Xami,’ she replied. ‘Heading to the market for flour?’ Xami nodded. ‘I thought so. Ever punctual. Your master would approve.’
‘My master . . . your father . . . we must not be seen talking!’ Xami stammered.
Mishani was the picture of elegant calm. Her tone was unhurried but firm. ‘Xami, I have a favour to ask.’
‘Mistress . . .’ she began reluctantly, still standing in the gateway with the gate obscuring her partway, like a shield between them.
Mishani reached in and took the servant girl’s hands in hers, and within was the crinkle of money. Paper money, which meant Imperial shirets. ‘Remember the services I performed for you, in days when the heads of our houses were friends.’
Xami put the money inside her robe without looking at it. Her wide, watery eyes wavered in indecision. Mishani had passed love letters between her and a servant boy in the Koli house many times. It had seemed an interesting diversion then – and, additionally, Xami’s clumsy attempts at poetry in the vulgar script of Low Saramyrrhic always made her smirk – but now it seeme
d it might serve a useful political purpose as well.
‘Let me in, Xami,’ Mishani said. ‘You did not see me; you will not be blamed if I am caught. I promise you.’
Xami deliberated a few moments longer. Then, more because she feared somebody seeing them together than because she wanted to, she opened the gate fully. Mishani went in, and Xami slipped out and shut the gate behind her.
Mishani found herself in a narrow, vine-laden passageway that led around to the back of the main house, where the servants’ quarters were. Most of the servants – indeed, much of the household – would be at the Keep now, for in matters of state the nobles liked to arrive in full pomp and splendour whenever they could. Copanis would not. He was a scholar, not a servant; the Barak Chel was his patron.
The thought brought uncomfortable resonances of Kaiku’s father, Ruito tu Makaima. If he had had a patron, maybe there would have been somewhere to start, somebody that suspicion might devolve upon who might have a reason to kill him and his family; but it was a dead-end. Ruito had been in the rare position of being independently wealthy enough to survive without patronage, having had several works of philosophy in circulation among the literati of the empire that had generated enough income for him to buy himself free a long time ago.
Mishani made her way around to the back. She refused to sneak; she walked instead as if she owned the place, her long, dark hair swaying around her ankles as she went. Those servants that were still about would be engaged in menial duties now, but thankfully none seemed to have taken them outside, and she was able to slip into the house through the rear entrance undetected.
The interior of the house was very spare and minimal, with polished wooden floorboards and only the occasional wall hanging or mat to draw the eye. Chel liked his house as he liked his pleasures – respectable and sparse. Upstairs lay the family rooms and the ancestral chambers, where the house’s treasures were kept. She would have no chance of getting up there; they were always guarded. But Copanis’s study was on the ground floor, near the back of the house. Trusting to luck and Shintu, god of fortune, she made her way down a wide corridor, hoping that no one would come to challenge her.
Shintu smiled upon her, it seemed; for she reached the study without seeing another soul. Unusually, it had a door instead of a curtain or screen, but then the old scholar valued his privacy. She tapped on it. An instant later it was opened irritably, as if he had been lurking on the other side for just such an opportunity to surprise those who dared to interrupt him.
His face turned from annoyance to puzzlement as he saw who it was. Before he could protest, she laid a finger on her lips and slid inside, shutting the door behind her.
Copanis’s study was uncomfortably hot, even with the shutters open to admit the breeze from outside. A low table was scattered with scrolls and manuscripts, but everywhere were concessions to ornamentation that were not present in the rest of the house. A sculpted hand; a skull with glass jewels for teeth; an effigy of Naris, god of scholars and son of Isisya, goddess of peace, beauty and wisdom. All was a clutter, but it conveyed the intensity of its author.
‘My, my,’ he said. ‘Mistress Mishani, daughter of my master’s newly embittered enemy. I take it you have something very important you need, to come see me like this. And miss the council with the Empress, too.’
Mishani looked over the old man with an inner smile that did not show on her face. He always was quick, this leathery, scrawny walnut of a scholar. His clothes seemed to sag off his lean frame, as his flesh did; but his eyes were still feverishly bright, and he was capable of running rings round intellectuals half his age.
Mishani decided to dispense with the preamble. She drew out the mask. ‘This belongs to a dear friend of mine,’ she said. ‘Our need is most pressing to discover all we can about it. I can tell you no more than that.’
Copanis scrutinised her for a short while. He was making a show of deliberation, but it was not hard to see how his eyes were drawn to the mask. He was too cantankerous to fear to balk the authority of his master, and he was never one to hoard his knowledge when he could share it. With a mischievous quirk of one eyebrow, he took the mask and turned it around in his hands.
‘You take a great risk, coming here,’ he murmured.
‘I seek to right a grave wrong, and aid a friend in desperate straits,’ she replied. ‘The risk is little, weighed against that.’
‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘Well, I won’t inquire, Mistress Mishani. But I dare to say I can help you in my small way.’
He placed the mask in a small wooden cradle, so that it faced the sunlight from the windows. After that, he found himself a small ceramic pot of what looked like dust. This he sprinkled over the face of the mask. Mishani watched with fascination – disguised, as ever, behind a wall of impassivity – as the dust seemed to glitter in the sun.
‘Draw the shutters,’ he said. ‘Not this one; the others.’
Mishani obeyed, darkening the room until only a single shutter remained, shining light on to the mask’s dusty face. After a time, Copanis shut that one himself, plunging the room into darkness. He turned the mask so they could both see it. The dust glowed dimly, phosphorescent in the darkness – but its life was momentary, and it faded.
Copanis harumphed. He told Mishani to open the shutters again. She did so, enduring his peremptory tone because she needed his help. After that, he sat cross-legged at his desk and brushed the dust off the mask, then turned it over in his hands and studied it. He held it near to his face without letting it touch. He closed his eyes and spent a short time chanting softly, as if in meditation. Mishani waited patiently, kneeling opposite him with her hair pooled around her.
Eventually he opened his eyes. ‘This is indeed a True Mask,’ he said. ‘It has been infused with witchstone dust, and there is power here. However, it is very young. Less than a year old; I would estimate no more than two previous wearers, neither of them possessing any remarkable mental strength. It is valuable, of course; but as far as the True Masks go, it is weak, like a newborn.’
‘You can tell all that? I am impressed,’ Mishani said.
He shrugged. ‘I can only tell you in the vaguest of terms. A True Mask picks up strength from its wearers . . . or, rather, it saps it from them. There are ways to tell a True Mask from an ordinary one, and guess at its age; but little else can be done. There is a simple way to learn more, of course, but I cannot counsel it.’
‘And that is . . . ?’
‘To put it on, Mistress,’ said Copanis with a sour smile.
‘Surely anyone who did that would die, unless they were a Weaver and trained in the arts.’
‘Ah, not so. A common misconception,’ Copanis replied, stretching. His vertebrae cracked like fireworks. ‘The older the Mask, the greater the peril; but one as young and weak as this . . . why, you or I might put it on and suffer no ill effects. Nightmares, maybe. Disorientation. That said, I repeat I cannot counsel it. There is still an element of risk. Should the mind prove to be susceptible, insanity and death would surely follow. The chance is small, but it exists.’
Mishani considered this. ‘Can you tell me where it comes from?’
‘Ah, that is easy. The hallmarks are obvious. See this wave pattern in the wood on the inside? And the indentation here, to accommodate the wearer’s philtrum? This comes from one of the Edgefathers at Fo; although from which part of the isle, I cannot say. I would guess at the north, simply because of the marked lack of mainland influences on the carving. The one who carved this either had little contact with the ports in the south of Fo and the people there, or he spurned the craft of the mainland Edgefathers.’ He passed it back to her, the red and black face seeming to grin mockingly. ‘That is all I can tell you.’
‘It was more than enough,’ she replied, bowing. ‘You have my gratitude. Now I must go; I’ve put you in peril already.’
He stood up, knee joints popping, and cackled. ‘Hardly peril, Mistress. Here, I’ll help you get out,’ he sa
id. ‘Let me spy out the lie of the land for you, then you can make it to the servants’ gate. You know where it is?’
‘I know,’ replied Mishani, standing also, her hair cascading around her.
‘I thought you might,’ he replied.
Kaiku was unused to spending the summer months in the city; her father had always sent his family to their cooler property in the Forest of Yuna while he worked. Though it was only just climbing the slope towards the truly miserable heat of midsummer, Kaiku had become drowsy and felt the need for a siesta, and she had slept while she waited for Mishani to return.
In her dreams, the shin-shin came.
This time they were even more dark and nebulous than she remembered. They stalked unseen in the corridors of her mind, fearful presences that emanated dread, which she could not see but sense. She fled through a labyrinth that resembled her father’s house in the forest, but seemed infinitely bigger and endless. She found doors, hatches, corners that brought her shuddering to a stop, for she knew with dream-certainty that death was lurking there, felt them waiting just beyond with a terrifying, hungry patience. And each time she came up against one of these invisible barriers of fear, she turned and ran the other way, her skin clammy with the proximity of the end. But no matter how far she went, they were everywhere, and inescapable.
Flailing helplessly, trapped forever, she knew there was no escape for her, and still she tried. At some point, she became aware of another presence, one even more malevolent than the shin-shin. This one lived inside her, in her belly and womb and groin, and it grew whenever she thought about it, feeding on her attention. She desperately tried to distract herself, but it was impossible not to feel the thing inside her skin, and she sensed its mad glee as it suckled on her terror. Desperate, driven by some illogical prescience that she had to get out of the house before this new entity consumed her, she raced onward, trying new routes with increasing panic, finding all blocked against her by the lurking, unseen shin-shin. Her chest ached, and her heart pounded harder and harder, but she could not stop even though her body burned with fatigue, and suddenly it was all too much and—
The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr, The Skein of Lament and the Ascendancy Veil Page 10