A Conspiracy of Truths

by Alexandra Rowland

  “There’s still people in the city who are against you, madam,” I said for the thousandth time. I was sitting at the table in her chambers and watching while she paced about the room. The table was scattered with papers, many of which were my propaganda pieces. Consanza stood at the back of the room, her arms crossed. She’d had no time for me; she’d barely said a dozen words to me since she and her family had arrived. Hadn’t even introduced her spouses to me. I suppose it wasn’t a surprise. Her attention and energy were fully occupied with brownnosing Taishineya, sometimes so ardently that I thought it might have approached flirting. “The streets aren’t safe; there’s fighting all over the city. Vihra—er, the Pretender still has supporters in the city, and it’s not safe yet for us to leave.”

  She scoffed.

  “It’s not dignified,” I insisted. “You wanted them to hand you the city on a silver platter, didn’t you? You wanted there to be no question. You need the consent and mandate of the people, or you’ll be off the throne again within the year.” Or the season. Or the month. But that was not for her to know. All I needed was for her to stay in power just a little longer; better to put you up against an incompetent and easily led ruler than someone with experience. Even so, the tides were shifting with her.

  “Nonsense.”

  “We’re building our power with words,” I said, gesturing to the pamphlets across the table. “And with total economic control. But neither of those are real. Swords are real. Arrows are real. The knife in your back from some former Order guard who thinks you a thief and a usurper? That’s real.”

  “The people will give me their mandate when they see me crush her.”

  “Patience! The time is not yet come.” I still felt as scattered as a spilled bowl of grain over what I’d discovered on the map, and I was nervous of her—she’d been coming into her power lately, realizing that she didn’t have to listen to me, or to Consanza, or to anyone else who told her something she didn’t want to hear. She was not yet a sinking ship, but she was scraping against the rocks, and I was just the rat in the hold with a dream of dying dry. I had to hold on to my way out.

  I wanted to stay alive, so I needed to remain useful to Taishineya, and that meant advancing her interests. And yet, I had a growing certainty of what would happen if I made myself too useful—when she ascended to power, she’d keep me. She would hold me as long as she could. What reason did she have to let me go, to free me? What sensible person would give up a tool as useful as me? And then, when you inevitably arrived on our doorstep and brought the fight to her, who knows what might have happened? I certainly didn’t want to be in the middle of a mess like that. It’s a good way to get killed, you know. But I tried not to think of all that.

  “I’m sick and tired of this place,” she snarled. She wasn’t the only one. I longed for freedom so keenly that I trembled with it sometimes. “The city is nine-tenths mine. You said ‘pick up the chisel.’ Why not pick up the city?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Just wait. Just a little longer. You lose nothing by waiting.”

  She dismissed me soon after that, and I went to the door, and shut my eyes tight, and forced myself through it so I wouldn’t trouble her with my hand-wringing. I had to lean against the wall outside for a minute afterwards, my skin clammy with sweat, and I must have jumped out of my skin when she slammed the door closed behind me.

  If I had been thinking clearly, I might have made some different choices. I might have realized that escaping before Ylfing returned likely would have separated us permanently. But I was panicking, flustered, scattered. I didn’t think ahead. I didn’t plan for that. I could only think that I needed to leave quickly and quietly, as soon as possible, and my idea for finding Ylfing afterwards was simply, find Ylfing afterwards. It was a problem for another day.

  I had to do something. As relatively comfortable as the bank was, I could not bear confinement an instant longer. I have spent my entire life wandering wherever my two feet have taken me, even when they have taken me straight into prison, treacherous things.

  The guards had gotten bored and lazy. No one paid any attention to anything! I could just walk right out the front door, if I wanted! Even Flat-Nose had stopped chaining himself to my doorknob at night. What had been stopping me before? Just Taishineya’s threats, I suppose, and my newfound difficulty with doors.

  That night I took a pair of boots from one of the guards as they slept. They were much too large for me, but that was fine—all the rags I wrapped around my feet would just keep them warmer. I poured gold and silver into the boots too. I know, I know, glaring hypocrisy. They’re imaginary and I don’t like carrying them, but if someone gives you an illusion that they believe in, you might as well take advantage of it.

  I wrapped up dried fish and cheese in a cloth too, and wrapped my blanket around my shoulders for a cloak. I longed to take more than that, but I’d be weighed down enough as it was.

  Part of me wanted to stomp down the stairs, boots jingling with coin, and make no effort whatsoever to conceal myself, just to show them. Just to spite them. Someone would say, “Oi, Chant, what are you doing up at this hour?”

  And in reply, I’d trill, “Going for a walk! Stretching my legs! Taking in the fresh night air! Lovely evening for a stroll!”

  I still didn’t have much of a plan beyond get out, get out, get out now, and then don’t freeze to death once I’m out and then don’t starve once I avoid freezing long enough to worry about that and then find Ylfing afterwards. But even that thin excuse for a plan required me to set aside my spite and sneak quietly.

  It would have been easier if it wasn’t for my issue with the doors. The sneaking, apparently, made it worse: they were all doors I knew I wasn’t allowed to pass through. That night was the worst it had been since the first time. I stood frozen on the threshold of my room for a few long minutes, and I broke out in a sweat again. When I finally managed to get across, I stumbled into the other wall, caught myself, and leaned there until I caught my breath and blotted my forehead dry.

  The long, dark halls of the bank rang with silence. I felt my way along, one hand against the wall to guide me. Even with the windows, there wasn’t enough light to see by. It was a cloudy night, and it had begun to snow a few hours previously.

  I placed my feet carefully, breathed slowly and deliberately, winced every time the coins clinked against one another. I brushed my fingers along the wall as I crept down the corridor, feeling the rough texture of the brushstrokes of the painting on the wall—it was the mural of the mythical creatures and nubile virgins that had so distracted Ylfing. At length, I felt the edge of the corner and then just empty air. That would be the staircase.

  Down two floors and around another corner and there was finally a bit of light. A door was open, and a few of the Thieves were inside, still awake and playing a sedate game of cards, from the sounds of it. I averted my eyes, not wanting to spoil my night vision, and drifted past.

  A coin fell out of my boot and bounced on the polished wood floor, ringing bright and loud in the quiet.

  The intermittent conversation in the room ceased entirely, and I froze. There was nowhere to hide, no furniture to duck behind, no convenient alcoves. I heard the scrape of a chair against the floor and just managed to flatten myself against the wall as one of the Thieves (we’ll call him Troll) stuck his head out into the hall. He was facing away from me.

  I slumped in relief.

  And then he turned.

  Came face-to-face with me, and we both nearly died of fright.

  Three other chairs scraped back instantly, but Troll gestured to his fellows. “Belay, belay,” he said. “It’s just her pet skulking around in the dark.”

  “Why?” I heard Nine-Fingers say. “Old man, what’s your business?” Sounded right suspicious, she did.

  I drew myself up and stuck out my chin. Troll’s night vision was blunted by the light, and he must not have seen how hard I was shaking. “Just visiting the kitchen,” I said. I wa
s a little surprised at how difficult it was to steady my voice. “When you get old, you’ll find it becomes more difficult to get to sleep. Young people like you just don’t understand.”

  Troll grunted. “Bring something up for us, would you?” he said. “Pickings were mighty slim for dinner, for those of us who’d rather eat rocks than fish broth.”

  “Of course,” I said, and he turned back into the room. I steadied myself against the wall again and gasped for breath.

  I made it down to the main floor with no other mishaps. Then the choice: front door or kitchen door? Prudence won out—even if there was anyone in the kitchen at this hour, I could use the same excuse I had for Troll, unless they noticed my boots.

  The kitchen was empty; the fire in the heavy iron stove was banked. Thin, weak light limned the high barred windows, doing nothing more than indicating that they were there.

  I went to the alley door—locked, of course. There was a key somewhere around here, but it wasn’t on its hook. Now, the kitchen door key was a regular and major point of contention amongst the Thieves, and I had witnessed several instances of sniping regarding the Protocol of the Key and almost everyone’s inability to adhere to it and return the key to its proper place. It was missing from that hook more often than it was there.

  I spent a frantic few minutes patting down all the counters and cabinet shelves, stumbling in the dark and sometimes spilling another coin or two from my boots, before I concluded that locating the key would have to be someone else’s problem.

  There was still the front door . . . and the secret entrance, somewhere. Nothing was brought through the kitchen door except buckets of snow to melt. All the bundles and bundles of supplies to feed more than fifty people came in as I had, somewhere mysterious and probably underground.

  The front door, then.

  I breathed for a moment, gathering my strength, standing there in the dim light, and then off I tottered, past Taishineya’s door, past the Thief asleep in front of it, into the cavernous main hall with the tellers’ desks around the edges, a border to the massive mosaic covering the floor—the crest, I suppose, of the family who used to own the palace.

  The huge double doors at the front had no locks, but they were barred from the inside. It was a piece of work, I tell you, wrestling down that slab of wood by myself without making a noise. Such a piece of work, in fact, that I failed at it. The bar was heavier than I expected, and it slipped out of my fingers just as I got it free of its rest. It slammed onto the stones of the threshold with a crack like a bolt of lightning hitting a tree. My heart leaped into my throat and I stood just long enough for the echoes to fade . . . and the growing-thunder sound of approaching footsteps to reach my ears.

  It took all my remaining strength to heave one of the doors open the scant few inches to allow me to pass, and I shut my eyes and flung myself bodily across the threshold, fighting back a wave of nausea. Snow was falling lightly still, piled in drifts where it had been shoveled aside, and the first breath of cold was a sharp punch to my lungs. I scuttled down the front steps and halfway across the courtyard. The new snow was already inches deep, and glancing behind me, my heart fell into my feet—my tracks could not have been clearer.

  If I had been a younger man, I might have made it away even so. I found my way into and out of many youthful scrapes back in the day—many marital beds I found myself sprinting from, many an intimate tête-à-tête I was required to fly from with great haste . . . I have scaled my allotment of walls and fences in my time. I’ve even done my fair share of self-defenestration.

  That was many, many years ago, when my knees were still my allies.

  Those days are long past. It was a stupid thing, trying to run. A very stupid thing. I think in my panic, I’d forgotten that absconding at midnight is very much a young Chant’s game.

  Heartbeats later, the Thieves came pouring out of the front doors, and they found me doddering in circles around the fountain, mumbling to myself and smacking my lips together with satisfaction.

  “Oi!” they shouted, and surrounded me as quick as thought. “You!”

  “Going to the kitchen, you said!” said Troll. “And we find you—”

  “Good!” I cried. “Nice night for a walkabout, young man, good to see you youthful sorts have vim and vigor in your blood.”

  They were never quite sure what to do with me, the Thieves. They were rough and hard men and women. No trouble giving their employer the respect and deference she was due, but me? I was just her pet, as they’d called me earlier. A prisoner, and yet a prisoner with the ear of the Queen. And they were young, and the young are never quite sure what to do with the aged when they misbehave.

  “Come, come!” I said. “Walk with me!”

  Nine-Fingers bent down and picked something out of the snow. “Gold,” she said, and held it closer to their lantern. “A ten-mark piece. There were some on the floor inside, too.” They all looked at me harder.

  “Carrying a lot of cash for a midnight walkabout, aren’t you, old man?” said Troll.

  “Eh?” I said innocently.

  I squawked when they started patting me down, but my protestations only seemed to encourage them. They wrestled me into the snow and pulled off my boots, spilling two fortunes onto the ground.

  “Looks like his walkabout was going to walk him right out the front gates,” Troll snarled. “Take him inside.”

  I was dragged back through the door, which of course didn’t nauseate me at all, and then we paused in front of Taishineya’s quarters. “Wait,” said Flat-Nose. “We were about to bang on her door and report this, weren’t we?”

  There was a soft murmur—of agreement, of hesitation, of dawning dismay.

  “Aye,” said Flat-Nose. “I can see by your faces that we’ve all got the right of it now.”

  “Up to his room, then,” said Nine-Fingers.

  My room. I was unceremoniously dumped on the couch that served as my bed, and my ankle was shackled to the leg of it, with Flat-Nose chaining himself and his chair to the doorknob, without breaking eye contact.

  “Now,” he said, “you and I need to have a heart-to-heart. All civilized.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I quavered. My blanket was damp with melted snow, and I’d hung it in front of the barely warm stove to dry. I had to chafe my hands together to warm them.

  “Don’t play stupid with me, old man,” Flat-Nose said. “You were making a run for it.”

  “Just a bit of a walk to clear my head.”

  “With thousands of marks hidden in your shoes? I very much doubt it.” He sat back and tapped his fingertips against the arm of the chair. “You may be wondering to yourself why we didn’t drag you in front of Her Ladyship.”

  “Majesty.”

  “Whatever. Are you wondering this?”

  “I expect you didn’t want to bother her for something so trifling as an old man stretching his legs.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You seem to think that I’m an idiot. Well, that’s all right; it doesn’t hurt me any. See, I like this job. I fill my pockets with more coin than I’ve ever seen in my life, and Taishineya doesn’t give a flying fuck about it. I get regular meals, I’ve got a roof over my head. It’s a good deal. So I’m not going to let you spoil that for all of us—how would it look, eh? Us carrying you in by the scruff of your neck, telling Her Ladyship that you nearly escaped because we thought you had a regard for your personal comfort and security that matched our own, so we let you alone. Eh? How would that look to her? Not great.” He tapped his fingers on the chair again, and the shackle on his left wrist clinked. “So you’re not going to mention your little walkabout to her, and we’re not going to mention it either. But now we know that you’re not the loyal servant, and we’ll keep a very close eye on you.”

  “I was just getting a bit of fresh air.”

  “And the freshest air, I suppose, is ten miles out into the countryside.” He drew a dagger from the sheath at his hip and pointed it at
me. “Look at this. Your death, if you try that shit again, hangs from the tip of this knife. Are we clear? On the tip of this knife or . . . This building’s dangerous for an old man walking in the dark. Too many stairs. One wrong step and—” He circumscribed a series of descending spirals in the air with the point of the dagger. “Found the next morning, neck broken, cracked skull. Tragedy. Are we clear?”

  We were clear.

  To my frustration, I now found myself with a permanent guard. The Thieves took shifts with me, one of them following me silently from room to room no matter where I wandered. I spent days trying to bore them into leaving me in peace, then trying to annoy them—I had an effect on them, certainly. They were no saints, after all. Nine-Fingers once was infuriated enough to shove me against a wall and raise her hand to strike me, but went no further. And none of them, no matter how angry or bored they were, ever left my side.

  Eventually I stopped caring and returned to my usual habits.

  I spent a little time with Helena and the children, after a humble request from her to help teach them a little geography. That sounded to me like a prime opportunity to do some Chanting—proper Chanting, not this tedious propaganda manufacturing, nor the vain attempts to plan and plan and plan.

  We all sat down in the schoolroom (another empty office that had been appropriated for our purposes), and I told them stories of far-off lands and wondrous things: the enormous heat in the Sea of Sun and the way the sun blazes off the dunes; the round-walled theaters of Avaris and their acting troupes, who performed a different play every day of the week and held as many stories in their heads as the Chants do; the sleepy, humid river towns of Map Sut, all broken up into a hundred little family compounds, each with its own spiring pagoda to their house gods; the sprawling imperial splendor of Genzhu and its precision-engineered city streets, each as straight as an arrowshot. I told them about the Straits of Kel-Badur, the temple-wagons of Arjuneh, and the magnificent merchant-princes of Araşt. And they watched my every movement, rapt and agog, and Helena sat towards the back of the little group, with the youngest cuddled beside her lap, and listened with shining eyes.