Hidden Sun

by Jaine Fenn

  That evening her hut-mates sent her to the pool again. As she unhooked the waterskin Vay, the taller and slightly less unpleasant girl, looked up from the herbs she was sorting and said, “And if you can manage to not bring back any gravel this time that would be lovely.”

  At the pool, Dej kept the lip of the waterskin above the rough pool bottom. It took longer to fill that way, but that was fine, there was something she wanted to try now she was alone. The pool was a few dozen steps upslope of the settlement, and the stream tumbled over rocks above it; between distance and falling water, no one could overhear her here.

  Dej hummed. Although she couldn’t hear herself over the stream, she felt the sound in her head. The tone, the underlying music, was still there! As she filled the waterskin, her heart lifted and she added a nasal drone, biting back the unheard sound into staccato pops, feeling the noise vibrate through her head and in her throat. She could no longer sing, but music wasn’t entirely lost to her.

  While she was walking back through the village, Kir stepped out from one of the huts, started, then looked at Dej and said, “You look better than you did when we got here.”

  Dej smiled, the first real smile she had made with her new face. “Thanks.”

  Kir smiled back, but while Dej was thinking what to say next, walked off.

  On the second day of Dej’s combat training, Jeg was joined by a man named Tew. The tutors would show her how to stand or hold the staff or knife, then one would come in to make a slow, easy-to-deal-with attack, while the other stood back and watched, telling Dej what she was doing wrong.

  On the third day Tew told her to try the weapon moves she’d learnt so far with her other hand.

  Dej stared at him. “You sure? I mean, I can only just do them with my good hand.”

  Jeg said, “You don’t have a good and bad hand anymore. Your animus should’ve burnt out those reflexes.”

  Not entirely, as it turned out. She found fight practice harder with her left hand. Harder still when they had her use a weapon in each hand.

  Despite the unfamiliar and sometimes painful lessons, the fight tutors’ disparaging remarks and the interest Dej’s antics provided for the other clanless, she began to enjoy herself. She was so much faster and stronger than she had been – though not as fast and strong as her tutors. And these two were willing to put in the effort to train her. In return, she’d do her best to learn.

  When they paused at midday on the third day Jeg went to fetch food while Tew walked over to the stream and bent down to drink. Dej mirrored him, and as they straightened asked, “Where are you from?”

  “What?”

  “Your accent sounds like mine, so I wondered if you were raised in Shen.” Despite their changed voices the clanless had faint accents; some of them sounded flat or used odd clipped vowels. Kir’s accent was familiar too, and Dej wondered if they’d been at the same crèche.

  “I was.” Tew scooped up another mouthful of water. “But you know that doesn’t matter any more, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Mornings and evenings, she did the chores. Vay cooked, but everything else that needed doing round the hut had become Dej’s job.

  Lih did as little as possible. She was lazy and vain and loved being right; Dej knew the type from the crèche. Still peeved at having Dej foisted on her, she was also spoiling for a fight. Dej didn’t plan to give her the excuse.

  At least Vay stuck to gentle sarcasm, and made some concessions.

  Dej had come to accept that the hollow left by Min’s absence – by her betrayal – would never be filled. She would keep herself curled tight around it, and not let it consume her.

  In some ways this place was a bit like the crèche, although there was one difference she must never lose sight of: in the crèche it was Us and Them; the children, future skykin, chafing against the shadowkin staff. Here, it was all Us – or, rather, until she was accepted, all Them.

  By the sixth day of training Dej was exhausted and battered, but also getting stronger, faster and more co-ordinated. When Jeg said, “Day off tomorrow,” Dej asked if this was because she’d earnt it.

  Jeg laughed. “No, just restday. But we’ll find out whether you’ve learnt anything the day after that.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Your first hunt.”

  Chapter 27

  In the morning, Rhia revised her judgment of the inn’s architecture. Under a sky that promised a soaking, they passed hamlets and, later, a large manor house. Every building used the same materials. Stone and tile must be rare here.

  Rain thickened out of the damp air during siesta. Rhia hunched down in her hat and cloak. The hat’s brim soon grew waterlogged and began to sag. She took it off rather than have it dissolve around her head, and put it under her seat. When she looked up, Breen, bare-headed and damp, gave her a sympathetic smile.

  The cultivation pattern of the flat fields was changing: much of the land was permanently flooded here. Rhia wondered if they suffered from a surfeit of the rain Shen lacked. Then she remembered; these fields were meant to be under water. They grew rice, a crop she had once eaten at a diplomatic dinner, finding it dull and a little hard on the teeth.

  The rain abated, though the clouds did not disperse. As the overcast day darkened towards evening, she looked past Lekem and saw a humped dark shape rising out of the mist: the Eternal Isle, heart of the Zekti capital.

  “So that’s Mirror-of-the-Sky, then? More like ‘can’t see the sky’.”

  She looked round at Breen’s attempt at humour. “The locals just call it ‘Mirror’ actually.” Once, she might have become one of those locals: an odd thought.

  Rice gave way to tall reeds that rustled like whispering courtiers and blocked the view to either side. Their horse slowed, its steps dragging.

  The Eternal Isle dominated the pale, low buildings of Mirror-of-the-Sky. Mist obscured detail, though she could see the island had been terraced and built on. Although Alharet had grown up there, she never spoke of her childhood; Rhia got the impression there was darkness and pain in those memories.

  Closer, and the settlements around the sacred isle came into focus. The islets of Mirror had started as rafts in the shallow lake, places for people to camp or congregate near their ruler’s residence. These had become moored, amalgamated together, then, over generations, ballasted to form a network of artificial islands. Such foundations did not allow grand architecture. Most of the city was built of wood and reeds, two storeys high at most.

  The causeway extended out into the lake, passing under a freestanding wooden arch painted in green, red and black. Before the arch, it broadened out to a wide platform, with causeways going off to the left and right, around the lake. Along one side of the platform was a cluster of small buildings with several carts hitched up alongside, and horses in a corral.

  They headed for the square-cut arch, which was carved with semi-abstract animal and floral designs; feline faces peered from behind curled leaves, and vines twined with snakes. A pair of guards stood at ease under the arch. They wore short tunics and leather skullcaps, and carried obsidian-tipped spears. Lekem stopped the cart. One of the guards approached and asked, “Have you papers?”

  Rhia’s heart tripped. Bureaucracy was a fact of life in Shen too, but at home she had people for that.

  Lekem turned to Sorne, who reached into his jerkin and produced a folded sheet of scruffy vellum. The guard took it, unfolded it and read. “Bakers, yes.”

  “That’s right.” Sorne sounded more relaxed than Rhia felt.

  The guard glanced at the paper again, then looked at everyone in turn. His gaze lingered on Rhia. “There is no mention of this woman.”

  “My cousin decided to join us at short notice. She’s of little consequence.” Sorne smiled at the guard. Rhia bit her tongue and schooled her face to meek submission. “Feel free to up the tariff to reflect her capricious choice.” The captain was enjoying this.

  The guard nodded a
nd named a price. Sorne paid without complaint.

  As they rumbled under the gate, the Sun dropped down far enough to pull free of the clouds. The long, low houses of Mirror shone gold in the evening light, which lit the bright-painted carvings running along their upturned eaves and roof ridges. The houses gave the impression of turning their backs on the lake, and had small, high windows with blue or green shutters.

  The causeway ended in another platform. Muscular men in loincloths sat along a bench beside a covered booth, which housed an overweight, bored-looking man in robes. As Lekem pulled up, the man levered himself from his high-backed seat and said, “Welcome to our city. You’ll be heading for Arec.”

  “That’s right,” said Sorne, climbing off the cart. According to Counsellor of Zekt, Arec was the “strangers’ isle”. “Can you recommend anywhere good to stay?”

  “For Shenese…” the man’s mouth twitched, “try Mam Jekrey’s.” He flicked a finger at the men on the bench, who sat with downcast eyes, ignoring the conversation. “They know where that is. You want how many.”

  Sorne’s face showed a rare moment of confusion. Rhia, used to the odd way Alharet asked questions, realized what the official meant. Those men were slaves. “He means, how many men do we need to carry our luggage,” she murmured, hoping the captain would hear her.

  Sorne regained his composure. “Just a couple. We can manage most of our stuff ourselves.”

  “We’ll need your names for the register. Follow me.”

  While Sorne accompanied the man back to his booth the two men at the nearest end of the bench stood up. Once the cart had been unloaded another one came forward to return it to the onshore staging post, ready to be hired by the next travellers unlucky enough not to have made better arrangements.

  Three causeways led deeper into the city; the official indicated they should take the shortest, leftmost one, then settled back in his booth.

  The slaves picked up a pair of packs each, eyes averted. One went to stand beside Sorne; the other moved to the back of their little group. Slavery was the default punishment here. Some of the more serious crimes were dealt with by the noose, as in Shen, while for others the solution was surgery, including an operation on the brain said to make a person docile as an aged donkey. Despite – or perhaps because of – the alarming uses it was put to, Zekti medicine was held in high regard.

  Stepping off the causeway onto the isle of Arec, Rhia found the artificial “ground” firm and dry, though with a disconcerting give. On closer examination she saw it was a combination of compacted reeds, fibrous stems – possibly from rice plants – and soil; Father would have smiled at such ingenious solutions to a hostile environment, although a more sensible solution might have been not to build their city in a lake in the first place. She straightened when Sorne cleared his throat.

  With no horses or wheeled vehicles, the thoroughfares were narrow and chaotic. Locals stared at them in a sidelong, politely curious way; Rhia tried not to stare back at the Zekti fashions: lots of pale fabrics, gathers, pleats and bare legs – even the women. Although Zekt was cooler than Shen, out here on the lake the humidity was high, and Rhia saw the logic of loose clothing. They passed more slaves, up on a roof, repairing a brick chimney. There were other outsiders here: Rhia recognized the wide hats of a Xuin couple, the slashed tunic of a Marnese, plus various people whose nationality she could not identify. They saw no other Shenese, and no beggars. Several times she heard music, high pipes and flutes on the wind.

  What Rhia had taken to be single large dwellings from a distance turned out to be terraces, much like the lower city back home, where one long building was divided into smaller residences. Some were built round open courtyards.

  Mam Jekrey’s guesthouse was one such. Their hostess was a corpulent widow with one lazy eye and one wide-open one which gave the impression of missing nothing. She greeted them more warmly than anyone else they had met here. Rhia supposed that was her job.

  By default, guests slept two or four to a bedroom, but Sorne negotiated Rhia her own room. As she unpacked, her thoughts returned to their reception. The Zekti were not exactly welcoming, although it was hard to know how much of that was standoffishness towards outsiders and how much was due to ongoing tensions between Zekt and Shen. Etyan had – she assumed – arrived without papers. And, if Sorne’s informants at the inn were correct, without money. Her chest tightened at the thought. Her little brother was a bad judge of character, and tended to assume his friendly manner and natural charm would get him through; that and the money and status he was accustomed to having. How had he, a rootless and clueless stranger with no assets, fared with the guards and officials? Was his name recorded in that official’s book? And where was he now?

  Chapter 28

  “Hold him down!”

  Sadakh stepped back as another hospitaller came forward. After the first test subject had died four days ago – on the very night he first slept with Akbet – he had left instructions that he was to be notified should the condition of any of the remaining three change. The call had come shortly before siesta, while he was in his private study, though little study had been occurring.

  It took three people to restrain the man as he thrashed and twitched, convulsions which gave credence to the heretical idea of possession.

  Not unlike the travails of a skykin being bonded.

  Indeed so, he concurred with his ghost.

  The patient’s jaw had locked, stifling his screams; tortured groans and hisses escaped from his rigid face. A fortunate situation, if not for the poor wretch himself: screams from the infirmary would cause alarm. The other two patients, at the far end of the room, continued to alternate between feverish sleep and light delirium.

  One of the hospitallers glanced back at Sadakh; perhaps he thought the holy presence might bring relief to the suffering patient. Sadakh wished he could.

  Or perhaps the man’s concern was more prosaic. That four diverse individuals should be struck down with an unexplained fever at the same time caused understandable concern. Sadakh had insisted on isolation and close care, and assured his flock they had nothing to fear, a promise which he could be sure of, given he had caused the condition himself.

  The man screamed, a horrific gurgling exclamation of agony.

  “His tongue!”

  One of the hospitallers grabbed the patient’s jaw. Another one leaned forward, armed with the solid leather cylinder placed in the mouths of those undergoing painful operations.

  The patient flicked his head away from the hospitallers’ attention. For a moment Sadakh was eye-to-eye with his victim, though there was no sense in that flushed and straining face. The man’s head jerked back; a feeble spurt of blood sprayed from his mouth. He had indeed bitten his tongue. Unless the blood came from deeper within. One of the hospitallers blocked Sadakh’s view and he exhaled.

  You did this.

  As if he didn’t know. He had done this, and that was why he had to be here, to watch, to face up to the consequences of his actions.

  The patient began gasping, his limbs quivering.

  The head hospitaller looked up and said, “He’s dying!”

  The duty priest, who had been at the far end of the room watching the other patients, now hurried up between the beds. He snatched up the quartz incense bowl from its stand before the room’s shrine, then hesitated, coming face-to-face with his superior.

  Sadakh nodded, indicating that the man was to proceed.

  The priest stopped at the foot of the bed, perhaps judging it unwise to get closer. Sadakh stepped up to stand next to him.

  The patient’s struggles were abating and his face was pale under the spattered blood. The noises he made were softer too, though they were not sounds Sadakh had thought a human throat should make.

  The priest began intoning the Blessing of Departure, incense bowl held high. Sadakh stood by his side and spoke the words along with him.

  Before they had completed the first stanza, the man had
fallen silent and stopped moving.

  When Sadakh returned to his rooms he found Akbet had waited for him.

  “Is all… well?”

  “A man died, Akbet. One of the faithful. Just now.”

  Akbet’s hand went to her mouth. “How terrible. Should we pray?”

  “Oh, I prayed for him, believe me.” Just as he prayed for every other death he caused. Whether it helped, beyond salving his conscience, he would give some of his own diminishing life to know.

  “Then,” she looked up at him from under long lashes, “perhaps there is another way I may help?”

  Sadakh opened his arms.

  They went at it there and then, coupling like beasts on the study floor. As they rolled apart, Akbet made some comment about liking it that way. This turned Sadakh’s stomach more than his experience in the infirmary, because he had sensed her fear at the violence with which he took her, and she said this only because she thought it was what he wanted to hear. They moved through to the bedroom for gentler lovemaking.

  But there was only so long sex could distract for. When they lay quietly together Sadakh said, “Tell me about your other lovers, Akbet.”

  “Really? Are you sure–”

  “I’m sure.” No other man would ask her that. Perhaps the request would make her think.

  Or not. She gave a brief and embarrassed review of some of the men she had known, none of whom, she claimed, could compare to His Holiness. Then she moved on to talk about her family. For someone who was rebelling against them, Akbet spent a lot of time talking about her family.

  Sadakh found himself tuning her out. Then something she said broke through. “I’m sorry,” he said, “you said something about enquirers…”