Kaiku’s eyes lowered to her glass. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’ She took a sip.
‘Kaiku, are you in some kind of trouble?’ Asara could hardly believe that those words had come from her mouth, but there was something in Kaiku’s manner that moved her.
Kaiku raised her eyes, and her lashes dislodged a tear from each eye to run unevenly down her cheeks. Asara almost reached across the gap between them to touch her arm in comfort, then stopped herself.
‘Everything is falling apart, Asara,’ she whispered, her throat tight. ‘I cannot hold it together. I cannot hold anything together any more.’
Asara, shocked, could not think of a thing to say.
‘I watch my friends die and I am powerless to prevent it,’ she said. ‘I have been fighting for almost ten years and it has gained me nothing. What good is victory? All I will succeed in is removing the only reason I have had to keep living ever since my family died. I will destroy the Weavers and be left with nothing. Nobody I can trust, nothing I can believe in. Everyone proves false in the end, every ideal is a sham. I am not fighting to make my life better, I am just fighting to stop it becoming worse.’
‘This is not like you,’ Asara said at last. ‘You are stronger than this.’
‘Am I not allowed limits?’ Kaiku cried. ‘Gods, how much am I expected to take before I go the way of Phaeca?’
Asara did not comment on that. She was not sure whether Kaiku blamed her for the death of her friend or not.
Kaiku wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ she murmured to herself. ‘I can hardly expect you to care.’
‘But I have . . . contributed to your sorrow,’ Asara said, wringing her hands in her lap. ‘Forgive me.’
Kaiku shifted herself so that she was kneeling, and she put her arms around Asara and held her closely. Asara, still perturbed by Kaiku’s mood, returned the embrace. After a moment, it stopped feeling unnatural.
‘I cannot hold you in enmity, Asara,’ she said. ‘You have been a friend to me, in your way.’
Asara let out a sigh, battling down an emotion that she did not wish to experience again. She held Kaiku for a long while, until she was sure she had herself under control, and then said: ‘I will not hurt you again. I promise you that. I am selfish and cruel – more than you know – but I will not hurt you again.’
She heard a sob from Kaiku, and then she drew away; and Asara saw that Kaiku’s eyes were red, and not only from weeping.
‘It is done,’ she said.
Asara’s heart jumped a beat. She stared at Kaiku, not daring to believe.
‘A small thing,’ Kaiku said, ‘Some kind of process that was not working as it should. I made it work.’ Her face saddened a little. ‘There has been too much death in this world. I would take this one chance to bring life. It is all I can do.’
When Asara still appeared stunned, Kaiku sobbed a laugh and wiped her eyes. ‘Do not just sit there gaping. You are fertile. Go back to your husband.’
Asara exhaled a shuddering breath, and her eyes filled and spilled over. ‘Promise me,’ she whispered. ‘Promise me you will never tell anyone of this. Of what you have done.’
‘You have my promise.’
‘I will never forget this, Kaiku,’ Asara said tremulously. ‘In all the emptiness of this world, you will always have me, for what that is worth to you.’
‘It is worth much,’ Kaiku said, then reached over and stroked her cheek, wiping a tear across her skin. ‘I have never seen you cry,’ she said thoughtfully.
Asara caught her hand and held it against her cheek, her eyes fluttering closed. Then she got to her feet and went to the door. She slid it open, looked back, and was gone, closing the door behind her.
An hour later, she had stolen a horse and was riding east, to the Tchamil Mountains and the desert beyond.
TWENTY-TWO
The gate of the Imperial Keep stood open during the day to allow in and out the traffic necessary to keep such a vast building running. Carts of food, heavily guarded against the starving masses outside, rattled in and returned empty. Others came with jars of wine and spices, vats of cleaning fluid, bolts of cloth; and not a few of them with unconscious men, women and children concealed inside, slender vagrants from the Poor Quarter to be delivered for the Weavers’ delectation.
There were Blackguard and a pair of Weavers at the gate, as always. They watched over the traffic, the Blackguard checking permits, the Weavers looking for any more subtle dangers: concealed bombs and the like. They stood hunched on either side of the wide entranceway like ragged gargoyles, immobile as they went about their invisible task.
Inside his carriage, the physician Ukida fidgeted nervously as they approached the gate.
‘They have removed the blessing on the arch,’ Mishani commented, staring out of the window. The arc of gold above the gate had indeed been smoothed clean.
Ukida made a vaguely questioning noise out of politeness; he was not listening to her, obsessed as he was with his own fear. Mishani looked away from the window and over at him.
‘You will give us away, Master Ukida, if you do not control yourself,’ she said sternly.
That stung him, and he made an effort at composing his demeanour, which made his state more obvious rather than less. He wished he had never taken the letter from Mishani in the first place. He should have just refused her. What could she have done? Taken him to face Imperial justice? Ha! There was no empire, and certainly no justice, and she would be arrested herself if she tried. Why had he not thought of that before, instead of clinging to his old notions of honour and ties of allegiance? If he had done so, his Mistress Muraki might not have commanded him to set up this deception, and he might not be in great peril of losing his life.
Hindsight was a cruel thing, and it crowed and gloated at him now as they drew up to the gate and one of the Blackguard approached the door of the carriage.
‘Master Ukida,’ he said in acknowledgement. He was a good-looking young man, wearing the dark bandana and leather armour that was the uniform of the Blackguard. ‘Who is this?’ he asked, his eyes shifting to Mishani, who sat meekly in the back of the carriage.
Ukida glanced nervously over the Blackguard’s shoulder to the Weaver there, whose coral Mask was turned towards them.
‘An assistant,’ he said, brandishing a sealed roll of paper which he handed to the guard. ‘Just temporary, you understand. Mistress Muraki is ill, something quite unusual, and has need of this one’s special knowledge of such conditions.’
Mishani met the Blackguard’s inquiring gaze calmly.
‘May I?’ he asked, indicating the seal. Ukida motioned hastily for him to do so. He broke it open and began to read.
Mishani waited, her anxiety carefully internalised. Ukida was plainly jittery. She could only hope that the guard would not think matters suspicious enough to act upon: to call the Weaver, maybe, or to detain them while he checked the validity of the permit he held. It was written and signed and sealed by Muraki tu Koli herself, granting entrance to the Keep for Ukida’s new assistant.
‘Mistress Muraki is not too ill to write, I see,’ the Blackguard said. A taut beat of silence passed as he looked from Ukida to Mishani. ‘That is good news,’ he finished, and the tension slackened. He handed the permit back to Ukida and made a small bow to them both. ‘Master Ukida. Mistress Soa. Please go on in.’
Ukida was perhaps a little gushing in his thanks, but the Blackguard was not paying attention now. He waved their driver on and was already heading toward the next cart in line.
Mishani allowed herself a moment of relief as they passed across the courtyard. That was one obstacle down. Now she had to contend with the possibility of being recognised, and the certainty of meeting another Weaver before she could get to her mother. If Shintu smiled on them, they might just make it through with her mother’s permit. If not . . .
She looked out of the window. The courtyard was busy as always: men and wome
n hurried to and fro; manxthwa lowed and nuzzled one another; arguments and exchanges went on at the feet of the double row of obelisks that led from the gate to the Keep. At least here it was not as downtrodden and dreary as the rest of the city, though there was something of a fierce industry in the manner of the people who came and went, as if they were eager to be done with their task so that they might get away. In the gloom of the overhanging miasma, the golden, sculptured slope of the south wall towered above them, intimidating in scale. They passed down a gentle ramp into a wide bay swarming with attendants, and there they disembarked and went through a guarded doorway reserved for nobles and important retainers which circumvented the subterranean servants’ quarters. The guard barely glanced at them.
They ascended a set of stairs and entered the corridors of the Keep proper, a multitude of elegant lach passageways and many rooms, from huge and grandiose halls and galleries to tiny and exquisite chambers. Ukida led and Mishani followed, adopting an attitude appropriate to her rank as a physician’s assistant. She felt curiously buoyant despite her fear, in a literal sense as well as an emotional one. She had been forced to alter her appearance beyond wearing the correct dress to make herself convincing in her role. She had cut her hair.
She had thought it would be much more of a wrench than it turned out to be. Her hair had been long since she was an infant, and ankle-length since adolescence. It was the feature she was most proud of. It lent her gravitas, for its sheer impracticality bespoke a noble existence, and she had thought it as permanent as her small nose or her thin eyebrows. But nobody would believe a physician’s assistant would have hair so long: for one not born to nobility, it was immodest.
And so it became an impediment to her seeing her mother, and in such a light expendable. Mishani was always deeply pragmatic and little given to sentiment. Though she barely recognised herself in the mirror now, she knew that to be a good thing. With her hair worn up, her whole aspect was changed, and at a glance she seemed a completely different person. Some artfully applied make-up, shifting the emphasis of her eyes and cheeks and mouth, completed the deception.
We all wear our masks, she had thought to herself as she had put on the final touches.
She had not realised the weight of her hair till now, and the sense that came from her neck and scalp that there was something amiss was fractionally irritating. She wondered if she would get used to it, in time. It was shoulder-length when worn straight, but it was too similar to her old style that way, so she had arranged it with pins and combs so that it piled up and around her head in a style associated with educated women of low birth.
There would not be many in the vastness of the Keep that would know who she was, even without the changes she had wreaked upon herself. Still, as they neared the Imperial chambers, there would be more and more retainers of Blood Koli, and the danger would increase.
But first, they had to face the Weaver. She could only hope that her mother’s plan would work.
Mishani had to chide Ukida for hurrying several times as they made their way through the corridors. He was sweating and plainly agitated, and Mishani cursed his inability to conceal his terror. It did not take a Weaver to know that something was wrong; if anyone asked, she had advised him to put it down to his anxiety at Muraki’s condition. Ukida had assured her that her mother had feigned illness these past few days, and his own false diagnoses had confirmed it. Muraki had left strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed today by anyone but Ukida and the assistant he would bring. The retainers and the Weavers had been informed, so there would be no surprise at Mishani’s arrival.
And yet it would take only the smallest thing to go wrong, and disaster would befall them. It was not only Mishani’s life and Ukida’s that were at stake here. Mishani knew far too much about the plans and dealings of the Libera Dramach and the high families in the south, and if she were caught those secrets would be ripped from her mind by a Weaver. What she was doing was selfish and irresponsible, but she did not care. She was going to see her mother. Whatever the cost.
They made their way up several sets of stairs, taking less travelled routes whenever they could. Once Mishani had to grab Ukida’s arm and feign interest in an ornamental vase that was set in an alcove, so as to avert her face from a woman she thought she recognised. But most of the servants here were those who came with the Keep when Blood Koli took it over, so they did not know her; and the corridors were quiet, for there were no nobles or their retinues to populate them. The Imperial Keep was all but empty of guests now, though Ukida spoke darkly of the upper levels where the Weavers lived.
‘We are nearing the section where the Imperial chambers lie,’ he muttered at one point. Shortly afterward, they saw a boy of fourteen harvests or so, who spotted them and ran away in the direction they were heading.
‘I was afraid he would not be there,’ Ukida said, taking what solace he could. At least so far, the plan was working well.
They dawdled for a while, pretending to examine a tapestry but ready to move if anyone should come; then, when Ukida judged that enough time had passed, they continued down the corridor to where the Weaver would be.
The Imperial chambers were guarded much more strictly than the rest of the Keep. It was impossible to maintain maximum security in such a huge building, when the day-to-day running of the place required ingress and egress on such a scale. But the Keep was designed so that certain sections could only be accessed by a small number of entry points, and these were where the vigilance was greatest. Each entry to the Imperial chambers was watched over by a Weaver, and Weavers could steal the thoughts from a person’s mind.
The corridor ended in a stout door. Before it stood a Weaver with a Mask of silver, fashioned in the countenance of a woman. Mishani sent silent thanks to the gods that it had not been Blood Koli’s own Weaver; but then, why should it? Weavers did not belong to families any more.
Just as the Weaver came into view, the door behind him opened and Muraki tu Koli appeared, supported by the boy they had seen earlier. Ukida sped up and hurried towards her. Mishani hesitated a moment at the sight – Mother! – then followed him.
‘Mistress! What are you doing out of bed?’ he cried as he approached.
‘Ukida,’ she said in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘I am so glad you are here. I felt ill . . . I had to take some air.’
‘I have brought the assistant you asked for,’ he motioned at Mishani, but Muraki did not even look at her. ‘Come now, back to your bed. I will take you.’
Ignoring the Weaver, they headed past him and into the Imperial chambers.
‘Wait,’ rasped the voice behind the silver Mask. It was turned towards Mishani.
‘What is it?’ Ukida said, and by good fortune his fear made his words come out as authoritative snap. ‘She has to rest; she should not have been wandering.’
‘I do not know this one,’ the Weaver said, meaning Mishani.
‘I asked for her,’ Muraki said. ‘Let her pass.’
‘A moment . . .’ said the Weaver, and Mishani knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach what would come next.
She felt the Weaver’s influence brush her mind, detestable tentacles slithering over her thoughts. She shuddered. He could not fail to see her as she really was, to dredge up memories of her life in Blood Koli. Frantically she tried to hide her past beneath a muddle of images, but the images that came to her were the junks in the harbour at Mataxa Bay, or pictures of Lucia and Kaiku and incidents that would only make her identity more obvious. She stared, transfixed, into the black slits of the silver Mask, the woman-face hiding its disfigured owner; heard the wheeze of his breath and was touched by the decay of his mind.
Then the sensation was gone. ‘Enter,’ the Weaver said, and Ukadi put his hands on her shoulders and led her away swiftly. The door closed behind them.
‘Heart’s blood . . .’ she murmured to herself. ‘He did not see . . . he did not see . . .’
She kept he
r head lowered as they turned a corner and went along a short way. Fortune was with them and they saw nobody. Ukadi held aside a curtain and ushered Muraki and Mishani through, and when he let it drop they were alone together.
The room was a small bedchamber, with only a single bed near to a window-arch that looked out past the arm of one of the great stone figures that lunged from the Keep’s sloping walls. A veil had been hung across it, muting the already muted light. There was a table with a slender book on it, and two chests of drawers in a matched pair.
A difficult silence passed as mother and daughter looked upon each other for the first time in a decade. The resemblance between them was remarkable.
‘You cut your hair,’ Muraki whispered.
‘I had to,’ Mishani said. ‘It matters nothing. I can grow it back.’
Muraki reached out and touched it carefully. ‘It looks odd. But it suits you.’
Mishani smiled and turned her head away. ‘I look like a peasant. I will be taking it down as soon as I possibly can.’ Studying the veiled window-arch, she said: ‘I read your books. All of them.’
‘I knew you would,’ her mother replied. ‘I knew it.’
‘The Weaver . . .’ Mishani began, a question on her face.
‘They are there to root out those who mean harm to the Imperial family. You, apparently, do not. Not even towards your father. They read no further into a person’s thoughts than that. To do so would be . . . violation. It is dangerous. They have accidentally killed guests that way, or driven them mad, until Avun forbade it.’ She glanced uneasily around the room. ‘I would not have let you come if I had been able to leave myself. But I cannot leave. Your father sees to that.’
‘I told you I would not take refusal,’ Mishani said. ‘I would have tried anyway, with or without your help. The risks are acceptable to me.’
She motioned to the bed, and they sat down on its edge next to each other.
‘There are things I want to say to you,’ Mishani replied. ‘Things that must come from my lips, not from a coded poem. We are on two sides of a war now, Mother, and one side or the other must win eventually. Whichever of us is on the losing side will not survive, I think. We are both of us too involved.’
The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr / the Skein of Lament / the Ascendancy Veil Page 126