The Mountain of Kept Memory

by Rachel Neumeier

  The door was locked.

  It took Oressa far too long to remember which of the closets hid a secret door and then even longer to remember how to open it—one of the carved oak leaves outside the closet controlled the catch, only she couldn’t remember which one. She should have remembered, she did remember, only she tried one leaf after another and they were all wrong. She found it at last, weeping with frustration, by closing her eyes and reaching blindly to where she knew it was, and it was there, but then the panel was locked from the other side. And then the Tamaristan soldiers arrived, just as she kicked the panel as hard as she could and broke the latch.

  They brought her to Gajdosik, of course.

  Prince Gajdosik was not in the palace. He had established his headquarters at the harbor, in a warehouse that smelled of fish and rendered oil, but now had a sea-eagle banner flying by its door. The prince himself was in an upstairs room that must have once been an office, giving orders to dozens of other men. Men would run in and say something and Gajdosik would give a command, or a string of commands, and the men would run out again. He almost never hesitated about any decision. Oressa was impressed, even though she tried not to be. All the Tamaristans spoke Tamaj, of course. Oressa concentrated on not letting anyone see that she understood them. It was always better if people didn’t know everything you knew.

  Five different magicked windows, set right into the ordinary wall of the warehouse, showed views of the palace and the main roads that led to the south and the north. A man in the black robes of a magister stood near them, touching one and then another. The views changed whenever he touched a window. The fires burning along one side of the palace and near the south road looked especially impressive. But Oressa could see, too, that men were working to put out the fires. There was no sign now of actual battle anywhere.

  Two ordinary windows on the other side of the office looked out over the harbor. There, too, fires were burning, and there as well men were working to put them out. Oressa looked for the cannons, but saw only burned timbers and shattered stone where the platforms ought to have been. No wonder she hadn’t heard those cannons firing: They never had. The explosions she’d heard early, before the fighting, must have been the ones that brought the cannons down. Oressa wondered whether Prince Gajdosik had bribed Carastindin soldiers to destroy those platforms or whether he’d sent his own men into the city to do it.

  The regular docks and piers had all been destroyed too, but the Tamaristans had put in floating docks, just as Oressa had guessed they’d do. All the men hurrying back and forth along those docks and at the water’s edge moved with urgency, but everything they did was orderly.

  Prince Gajdosik didn’t seem to notice Oressa at first. Then the officer who had captured her finally snatched a quiet moment to go and mutter to him, and he swung around and stared at her. The officer muttered to him some more, no doubt explaining how they’d caught her. “On the roof?” the prince said, plainly incredulous. Oressa raised her chin and glared at him, putting on her most imperious princess manner like a mask. She had never felt that she needed a mask so badly.

  The Tamaristan prince wasn’t that tall, though a lot taller than she was and maybe a little taller than Gulien. He had a close-cropped beard, which was not the custom in Carastind, but many of the Tamaristans wore beards. The beard was a brown so dark it was almost black, darker than his hair. Somehow it made his jaw look more sharply angled, though Oressa would have expected it to have a softening effect. His skin was dark, darker than any Carastindin farmer would have tanned no matter how hot the sun. His eyes were narrow, a sharp, startling blue, set obliquely under winging eyebrows.

  The Tamaristan officer, an addat, which was almost the same as a company captain, had allowed Oressa to wash her face and put on her skirt and her slippers. He had even bandaged her feet himself, and stitched the gash on her back too, when he saw the blood on her blouse and realized she was cut. He had apologized—in good though accented Esse—for being forced to take liberties, but he had been as polite as possible, dismissing his men from the room while he cleaned the cut across Oressa’s back and closed it with nine stitches, as neatly as any good physician. Then he had apologized again for having no clean blouse to give her. She had tried to get him to let her go back to her room for another one. He had refused, which she had expected, but it was too bad. She had taken down her hair and looped it up again with a strand of pearls, but she knew she probably didn’t look like a princess. But she apparently didn’t look like anybody who ought to have been climbing around on roofs, either, judging from the disbelief in Gajdosik’s blue eyes.

  “You wrecked my father’s palace,” she said. It came out in a tone of angry accusation, which she hadn’t intended. She hadn’t exactly planned to say that at all—she hadn’t known what she was going to say—but the gaping holes and missing wall were very obvious through Gajdosik’s magic windows, and all her anger at the ruined palace came back to her forcefully.

  The Tamaristan prince’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Oressa couldn’t tell whether he was angry or amused. Maybe both. He said in Esse, sounding neither angry nor amused but merely matter-of-fact, “Only part of it.” Like his officer, he spoke Esse very well, with very little accent.

  Oressa glared harder. He didn’t seem ashamed at all of blowing up the palace. She thought of the winged god plunging past her, smashing through the lower roof to shatter below. That god had been almost as old as the city—older than anything else in the palace. She demanded, “How could you?”

  Gajdosik opened a hand in a gesture of apology, answering the accusation instead of the question. “I was sorry to damage the beautiful palace of your family, but I did not want to lay a long siege or destroy this city—”

  “You don’t have the men to destroy Caras, and you certainly don’t have either the time or the resources to lay a siege!”

  The prince blinked. He looked at Oressa for the first time as though he actually saw her and not merely a painted game-tile. After a moment, he said, “Well, yes. Or no. That’s true, too. I needed a faster way to end the battle.” He shrugged. “Blowing up part of the palace was fast. I had men of mine place powder below the walls. But I am sorry you were on the roof. I had men looking for you, but you were supposed to be in your rooms. They did not guess you had gone out onto the roof.” He glanced at the officer who brought her to him, then looked back at Oressa. A slight note of incredulity crept into his voice. “Laasat says you climb as skillfully and bravely as any young man. He says you almost got away. Did you think to find safety from my men on the roof?”

  Oressa started to shrug, then winced.

  “Laasat tells me you were injured,” said Gajdosik, observing this. “I will have my physician attend you. I will personally oversee your care—”

  “I’m fine,” Oressa snapped, outraged at his sympathetic tone. “You needn’t take any trouble. I’m sure you must be busy. After all, a strong man who won’t take charity must have lots of loaves of bread to claim.”

  There was a moment of perfect silence. Then the magister hastily turned his back to stare intently out one of his windows, and Laasat coughed, sounding strangled. Gajdosik didn’t take his eyes off Oressa. He said at last, in an extremely neutral tone, “I did not mean those words to come to your ears.”

  “Oh,” said Oressa. “That’s perfectly all right, then.” She thought she had better stop there. Although she could think of quite a few other things to say. She bit her tongue to keep herself from saying them. She didn’t know Gajdosik, after all, except that he hadn’t had the nerve to fight his older brother for their father’s throne, so he was trying for Carastind’s instead. Oressa hated her father, but she hated the idea of a foreign prince conquering Carastind a lot more. Especially a foreign prince who was arrogant and ambitious, even if he was clever enough to arrange to blow up palaces at just the right tactical moment.

  “You—”Gajdosik stopped. “I—” He stopped again. Then, in Tamaj, he said to
Laasat, “Take the princess somewhere safe and clean. Preferably a room without access to high rooftops.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” said Laasat in the same language. His tone was perfectly sober, but there was glint in his eyes that made Oressa think he was still trying not to laugh. He beckoned to her, tilting her head to the door, so she gave him a hostile look, turned on her heel—which hurt her foot, but she didn’t let herself wince—and headed for the door, walking slowly because that hurt too. She was already wondering whether she might get out of whatever room Laasat put her in. Not every building had useful carvings all over the walls like the palace. And Laasat might make sure she didn’t have even a window. It was a pity Gajdosik had given her into the keeping of a man who had already seen her scrambling around on the walls and roofs of the palace.

  She didn’t realize until she’d stalked all the way to the door that she hadn’t thought to ask Gajdosik about the attack on the palace—about her father. She almost turned back. Her step faltered. But then she asked herself why she should even think of asking. If her father was still alive, then Gajdosik would surely capture him soon, and what did she care, anyway? But she was glad Gulien, at least, was not in Caras, but safe with the Kieba—

  There was a sharp, hard screaming sound behind her. It was loud and yet strangely muffled. It wasn’t any kind of sound a man would make, or could make. It was a little like breaking wood, but not the same. She turned, staring.

  The view from the ordinary windows hadn’t changed, but the view from all the magicked windows was now exactly the same. All of them now looked down on Caras from above, as though the warehouse had suddenly lifted up into the sky and tilted over on its side. Of course it was only the view in the magic windows that had changed, but the illusion that the warehouse had flown up into the air and flipped over was so compelling that Oressa staggered. The officer caught her, though he missed a step as well and flung a hand out to brace himself against the doorframe. Everyone else had done the same—the magister had actually fallen, perhaps because he had been more tightly focused on the magic windows than the others. Prince Gajdosik was helping him up again. Only the prince was standing straight, seeming unaffected by the illusion of movement—and part of that was bluff: Even he had one hand set flat on a table.

  From the view they now had, they could see almost the whole city. They could see the fires, most of which looked like they were fairly well under control or else at least nearly burned out. They could see the palace, with gaping holes on two sides and broken stones and timbers littering its courtyards. They could see orderly Tamaristan troops around the palace and more in the streets. The Tamaristan companies looked very few and far between in the city streets, but there was little other movement in the city, so apparently they had Caras under good control. Or they had had. Now—now Oressa wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Though it was now long past dusk, the city wasn’t dark. Something in the sky filled Caras with light: a paler, whiter, colder light than any sunlight. The same light came into the warehouse through the ordinary windows, which made the view through the magic ones even more disorienting.

  But they could all see a huge spider thing stalking through the brightly lit streets. It was huge, but it moved quickly and lightly. It was not anything Oressa recognized. Except it was like a spider. A really, really big spider. It had a lot of legs. More legs than a spider, she thought, though she wasn’t sure how many a spider actually had.

  The spider thing moved in a neat, deliberate way that looked slow but she suspected was actually pretty fast. It was covered with glittering hairs that seemed to be made of glass or crystal. It seemed to be made of steel, like a sword. Like a sword, it looked like a weapon.

  “A war autajma,” said the magister, staring at his magic windows. He spoke in Tamaj, and Oressa wasn’t certain of the word he used for the spider. “But only one. I might be able to stop it, even take control of it. . . .”

  Yes, thought Oressa vengefully. Try it, you, and see what happens when the Kieba really takes notice. She honestly hoped he would.

  “No,” said Prince Gajdosik, also in Tamaj. “If the Keppa indeed remains living and attentive . . . no. We are not yet in a position to challenge her. I would not like to see her bring fifty of those autajma against us if you took that one.”

  “What, then?” said the magister. “Would you have us go back to face Maranajdis? I tell you—”

  “You need not,” said Prince Gajdosik sharply. “I am perfectly well aware. Of course we cannot go back. But we cannot press forward either. Not yet, not that way, not until we know what we face. No.” He cut off the magister’s attempted answer with a sharp gesture and glared at the images the magic windows showed them, his mouth set. His startling blue eyes narrowed suddenly.

  Oressa, following the prince’s intent gaze, realized that a man was perched high up on the spider’s back. She knew at once this must be Gulien and did not try to suppress a triumphant smile. Let Prince Gajdosik see she knew that he might have won his battle but lost anyway. And she would be certain to tell the Kieba, when she met her, that the Tamaristan magisters spoke of stealing her spider artifact. Let Prince Gajdosik explain that to the Kieba.

  The spider moved on its own path through the city, in a straight line from the outer part of the city toward the center. It was hard to see where it was heading. To the palace, Oressa assumed, and wondered what her brother would think when he saw the holes.

  When the spider met a column of Tamaristan soldiers, the soldiers hesitated. The spider didn’t hesitate at all, but stalked straight forward. The soldiers tried to shoot it, but they hardly had time, and even the arquebus balls that struck it seemed to do nothing but strike sparks from its steel body. The spider could throw things that looked like slivers of ice, or shoot them, maybe, because the glittering slivers flew a long way, and the front ranks of the men fell. . . . It was awful, but very impressive.

  The men gave way, not in wild flight—Oressa admired their courage—but backing away in decent order, yielding the road to the spider. The spider ignored them once they were out of its way. It went right past them, and the men closed up again and followed it cautiously. The spider still ignored them, continuing along its path toward the palace. No, not toward the palace, Oressa realized. But she couldn’t figure out what its goal actually was.

  “It’s coming here,” Gajdosik said suddenly. “It’s coming here.” He swore viciously in Tamaj.

  Oressa let her smile widen. She said, in her blandest, most regal tone, “Gulien went to ask the Kieba for help. I think”—and she smiled at Gajdosik deliberately—“I think she said ‘Yes.’”

  The magister rather than the prince answered, in Esse, his tone biting. “The Keppa is dead. All the immortals are dead.”

  Oressa stared at the man in honest astonishment. “Is that what they teach you in Tamarist?” She pointed at the magic windows. “Well, look! I think the Kieba isn’t so very dead after all! What do you think?”

  The magister began, “I think—” But then Prince Gajdosik held up a hand in sharp command and he stopped.

  Then the prince issued a very fast series of orders, mostly in Tamaj, sending his men running in all directions. Get the men out of the path of the spider. Give orders they are not to attack it. Recall the men to the ships. Are the ships adequately provisioned for a run out to sea? Well, see that they are provisioned with fresh water immediately, and tell the captains to abandon everything else if they must. Withdraw our men from the palace. No, just let the fires burn if they’re not out yet. No, don’t do anything with the king. This was how Oressa learned that her father was alive, because Gajdosik said absently, as though it weren’t important, Don’t do anything with the king. Just get the men clear of the palace. That was what Gajdosik ordered.

  Twice the magister tried to say something. The second time the prince led him away to a far corner of the room. They spoke for several minutes, or at least the magister spoke. Gajdosik mostly listened. Finally he made a
sharp gesture and said a few brief words. Then the magister went out, looking surprisingly satisfied with whatever decision had been made. Oressa couldn’t see how any decision that involved abandoning their victory could satisfy any of the Tamaristans, but the prince came back just then and she didn’t have a chance to think about it.

  “Your Highness,” Laasat said to him in Tamaj, very stiffly and formally, not looking at her at all. “You know the princess will be a valuable hostage—”

  Gajdosik cut him off with a sharp gesture, frowning. But he said in the same language, “Yes, of course, and we may all have reason to be very grateful for your quick eye.” He stared at Oressa. The he asked her, now speaking Esse, “What will your brother give me for you?”

  Oressa glared at the prince, humiliated and furious. His people didn’t seem careless enough to let her get away, which was too bad, because if the Tamaristan prince was determined to treat her like a painted game-tile, she longed to take herself right off the board and let him try to deal with Gulien without her. She said fiercely, “Not much! Don’t bother asking for a quarter of Carastind or anything like that. You’d better ask just for leave to withdraw your men. If you ask for a night and a day to get your people clear of the city, my brother might give you an hour.”

  The Tamaristan prince looked at her for a moment. Then he said, “Bring her,” to Laasat, and went brusquely past and down the stairs.

  The officer laid an apologetic hand on Oressa’s arm. She didn’t shake him off. Her feet hurt, and her shoulder and back ached more every moment. She thought she might be unable to manage the stairs without help. Besides, there was a tight pressure behind her eyes as though she might cry if she wasn’t careful, which was ridiculous. There was no reason to cry now. Scowling at Laasat helped her keep the tears behind her eyes.