City of Lies

by Sam Hawke

  My sweeping lamplight, scanning the garden, illuminated a flattened patch of the toxic weed feverhead by the pond. Tracks marked the grass around the entrance and through the center of the garden. Not just my own footprints, marking a path toward the crying fin, but also a second set, from the pond. Someone had been in here recently, perhaps even this afternoon.

  I wasn’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing.

  I gathered the leksot with a fold of my paluma. We could still hope Thendra could learn something from the body and help the Chancellor. An image of my Tashi’s distorted face sliced through my mind. Either way, we’d failed him.

  As I passed through the arch and back into the Manor, my brother came around the bend. Our eyes met for a moment, and he shook his head. I lowered my gaze.

  We’d failed the Chancellor, too.

  * * *

  They took Etan’s body away in a covered litter, a flock of physics trailing it, solemn-faced. I pretended to need to relieve myself so I didn’t have to watch. Keeping the mask of calm—don’t be fragile, don’t be weak—had taken a toll. Alone, cracks widened into chasms, and I cried for my uncle until my sobs turned to hiccups. Leaning my forehead against the cool stone wall, I listened to the sound of my brother’s footfalls, back and forth. The familiar sound gave me no comfort now.

  I scrubbed my eyes and returned, my legs shaking. Desperation to save the Chancellor had invigorated me, but without that task the energy had seeped out. We made a fine pair, me too tired to stand and my brother unable to stop pacing. When he spoke, his words were rushed and mumbled.

  “We have to tell Mother and the rest.” Pure Jovan, always focused on the practicalities. It helped him, but still rankled at me.

  “It’s too late to send anything tonight,” I said. “We’ll send a bird to the estates and to Telasa first thing in the morning.” Along with everyone else in the city. Breathing slowly, I wobbled to my feet. Engaging Jov’s memory and the rational part of his brain would help him calm down, so I asked a question to which I knew the answer. “There was feverhead in the garden. There’s no chance the leksot just ate some of that, is there?”

  “No,” he said. “You’d have to eat your own weight in feverhead to kill you in the short term. It damages your system over time.” His pace slowed a little. “There shouldn’t be feverhead in the garden, though. We should tell the gardeners.” I nodded along with the pretense that such a thing mattered.

  Thendra interrupted us from the doorway, and Jovan fell silent. “Credo, Credola,” the physic said. She wrung her hands and glanced at Jovan. The concentration on my brother’s face intensified as he tried to stop pacing. “Considering what has happened, I am going to recommend to the Honored Heir that all those who came in contact with the diseased animal be quarantined. Neither of you are showing symptoms, no, but since we do not know how the disease was transmitted…”

  “Of course,” I said quickly, drawing her attention back to me and away from Jov. “We understand.” My heart beat faster. Whatever had happened to the Chancellor, it had involved that animal somehow. Whether Lord Ectar had brought a diseased animal deliberately or inadvertently, we needed to know. Physically weak I might be, and a proofer I was not, but Etan had not left a potential tool lying about his household unused for long; behind my diplomatic career I had my own training and my own skills in less genteel arts.

  Thendra let out her breath. Perhaps she’d been expecting arguments. “I have arranged a litter to the hospital. Who else handled the creature?”

  “Credo Lazar, and a few of his servants,” Jovan said. His steps had slowed, signaling he was gaining control over the pacing. “The Talafan nobleman who brought it, of course—Lord Ectar, I believe is his name—and any of his servants who handled it on the way here, I suppose.” He slowed his pace further, finished his eighth step, and stopped with his own relieved sigh. “You might want to send an Order Guard or two,” he added. “I’ve no idea how they’ll react to the quarantine.” He shot me a sidelong look, quizzical but trusting in my plan.

  “Care will need to be taken with Lord Ectar,” I said. “There’s no centralized medical care in the Empire. No hospitals. Their physics are hired privately by those who can afford them. Our visitor may not understand what you’re doing.”

  “I see.” Thendra frowned. “I do not want to cause panic. News is already spreading of the Chancellor, and the last thing we need is a public scene.”

  “I know their culture,” I said. “And I can speak some Talafan. Perhaps I could accompany the Order Guards and help smooth relations?” I used my meekest, most obliging tone. One of my most-practiced. Quiet, shy little Kalina; everyone knew her so well.

  “And I could assist with Credo Lazar,” my brother added.

  She seemed grateful to have something to do with us. “I will ask the Honored Heir to approve this, yes?”

  We hadn’t seen Tain since the Chancellor died. He’d been closeted in his uncle’s room with the body, and though sounds could be faintly heard through the wall, no one had been in since. We tapped tentatively and the muffled sounds stopped. The jangle of beads of the inner door sounded, then the outer door opened a fraction. Tain looked out, his eyes red and his mouth set in a hard line of contained emotion. My heart hurt for him.

  “Honored Heir,” Thendra said, “I am proposing to quarantine Credo Jovan, Credola Kalina, and anyone else who touched the diseased animal, yes? May I have your permission to do so, at least until tomorrow?”

  Tain frowned, starting to speak, but a hard look from Jovan silenced him. Thoughtfulness chased the confusion from his face as he looked at us carefully. “That would be best, I suppose,” he said, his voice raw. “Please ensure they have every comfort. They’ve lost their Tashi, too.” A pause. Even in grief, Tain was still thinking. “We don’t know whether that animal came here diseased on purpose or not. Please take Order Guards and make sure the Talafan does not leave.”

  As Thendra murmured her agreement and turned away, Tain’s hands shot out of the gap and grabbed one of each of ours, wrapping our fingers together and squeezing, just for a moment. I blinked away tears and squeezed back.

  The Manor had been a hive before, buzzing with anxious servants and serious-faced physics, Councilors and messengers pounding the winding internal corridors. After the announcement it had emptied like water from a basin, all the noise and energy sucked from the building that had become a tomb. We met four Order Guards at the entrance, uniformed in red-and-blue striped leather vests over their tunics, short swords dangling from their belts. Thendra insisted on a hospital litter for me, and I didn’t protest. It felt easier to close the cloth sides and my eyes as we made our way down the zigzag, hilly streets of the upper city, shutting out the bright merriment of the evening. But voices and laughter and the chink of teacups, music from street corners, and even the faint sound of applause from the closest theater bled through into my dark, cushioned world, an oddly merry background to the grim clump-clump-clump of the Order Guards and the practiced smooth shuffle of the litter carriers. One last night of oblivious normality. In the morning the great bells would ring and the whole city would be in mourning.

  We crossed over Trickster’s Bridge to the lower city. The massive bridge, an inspiring feat of architecture, spanned the north end of the lake where it thinned into marshes. On the east side was the bridge tower, nicknamed the Finger for its height and bulbous middle, and all that remained of the lakeside fortifications of the original city. Now, most of our wall circumference lay on the west side of the lake, where the newer part of Silasta sprawled, less elegant than the old but equally important. If the old city was the face of Silasta—beautiful, with its glimmering buildings, graceful archways, and famous flowering vines—then the lower city was the internal organs, pulsing with commerce, learning, and enterprise.

  The Talafan nobleman was staying in one of the best guesthouses in the city, near the school complex just near the northwest bank of the lake, only a short walk from Tri
ckster’s. The proprietor visibly struggled with her competing urges to protect her expensive guest and to stay on the right side of the grim-faced Order Guards, but in the end she directed us to the gaming room across the street where the Talafan was deeply embroiled in a game of four-strike. He sat cross-legged opposite three local opponents, a small pile of polished bird bones in front of him and a frown of concentration on his thin, clean-shaven face. It was hot inside, the room lit with scented oil braziers and urns of steaming sweet tea constantly refilled by servants as the guests played.

  The other players noticed us before the Talafan. One was well born, wearing Credo Bradomir’s haughty nose and brow. The others I didn’t recognize, but the sumptuous fabric of their clothing and the jewels in their hair suggested wealth. All three gave a start at the sight of us. In the corner, the musician stopped playing.

  “Lord Ectar, may I beg a moment of your time?” I spoke in my best Talafan, inclining my head.

  He stood gracefully, gray eyes taking in the tattoos on my arms, and bowed low. His cosmetics were skillfully applied and his fair hair floated lightly into its clasp at his nape, unoiled. “Credola,” he replied. His voice surprised me; it was young, rich, and pleasant, at odds with his rather ascetic visage. “Of course. What may I do for you?”

  I led him outside and introduced myself. His eyes widened at my family name, flashing quickly to my arm and then back again. I could practically see the vying forces of opportunism and cultural bias warring across his face, though he moved little more than a fraction. “I hoped to meet you, Credola Kalina,” he said, speaking now in our language. “I have a business proposal for your family. Perhaps—”

  “Lord Ectar,” I interrupted him, but as politely as I could. “We must speak about the gift you brought the Chancellor earlier today.”

  “The leksot? A marvelous animal. Maybe your family enjoys one as a pet as well? I feel it will soon be the fashion.” He looked immediately more comfortable. Gifts and bribes for women were far less challenging for a Talafan than directly doing business with one. He spoke good Sjon, not just the simplified Trade tongue that most merchants shared across borders. He must have studied us, and he’d have been a fool to come to Silasta expecting to deal only with men. But the habits of home are hard to break. I would make it as easy for him as possible. For all the talents I might lack, appearing less than I could be wasn’t one of them.

  “I’m afraid the creature appears to have carried a disease,” I told him, watching his reaction closely. “Our physics need to examine everyone who came in contact with it, for everyone’s safety.”

  “A disease? Nonsense!” Ectar folded his arms, his tone indignant, but the light spilling from inside the gaming room was too good to hide the draining of color from his already pale face. “I traveled with it for two weeks.”

  “The creature sickened and died, Lord Ectar,” I said, lowering my gaze and spreading my hands, helpless. “And it infected several others. I, too, have been summoned to the hospital.” He didn’t need to know, yet, who had fallen victim to the disease.

  “Just a precaution, Lord Ectar,” one of the Order Guards chimed in. “We take public health seriously in Silasta. You’ll need to bring any of your servants who handled the creature, as well.”

  The line between his eyes deepened. Before he could protest, I added in Talafan, “Please, Lord Ectar. I asked to accompany you. I am fascinated by the Empire, and hope to visit someday. Perhaps we could pass the time in quarantine together?”

  He looked me over. Talafan and their expressionless faces! But this, this I was good at. I read hesitance but also curiosity in his eyes. Perhaps it was not just business that had driven him here, far from his pampered existence in the Empire. Behind me, the Order Guards took a leisurely step closer. Across the street, several passersby stopped to watch. A couple of women kissing enthusiastically in front of the next building stopped their fun to stare. An earther preacher rambling on the nearest corner mumbled off into silence. The silhouettes of Ectar’s gaming companions were visible from where we stood, as they hovered, listening, on the steps inside. Ectar’s gaze traveled back to the Oromani family tattoo on my arm.

  Opportunism, curiosity, a desire to avoid a scene; whatever it was, it won. He bowed deeply. “Of course, Credola Kalina. How do you say it? There would be … much honor?”

  I smiled. “Thank you. We have a litter for yourself and one for your servants.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “They can walk. They have never been carried before; let us not begin now. Maybe I can share with you?”

  The Order Guards blocked his impertinent step toward the litter, but I nodded. “It would be my honor.”

  It was a short but strange journey to the hospital, which was back on the other side of the lake, not too far from the Finger. Ectar seemed both fascinated by me and slightly repulsed, as if I were a strange animal who had inexplicably learned to speak. Here, family was the cornerstone of our culture and our honor. Women contributed to families with our learning and skills, just as any other adult, and when we wished to have children we chose our most trusted male relative—a brother or an uncle, usually—to help raise them within the family. In the Empire, women were forced from their own families and expected to live as a kind of pampered ornament in the home of an unrelated man, who would then take the woman’s children as his own. They lived what seemed to me a bizarre, intolerable existence, unable to choose their own lives, careers, or the number, gender, or even specific identity of their romantic partners. So we spoke tentatively, politely, but always conscious of the undercurrent; I was as peculiar to him as he was to me.

  The physics at the hospital escorted us to a well-lit upstairs room, where Jovan and Credo Lazar waited. Lazar looked frantic, a wreck of a man. Sweat drenched his tunic from armpit to waist, his manufactured curls wilted sadly about his bulbous face. Two of his servants sat quietly in the corner. Jovan, given new lease by a fresh task, looked as impeccable as ever as he sat straight-backed and cross-legged on one of the pallets, watching the Credo wobble around the room. The smell of fortified kavcha assaulted us. The tiny, spectacled physic with us wrinkled his nose in disapproval. “Credo Lazar,” he said, his voice deep and authoritative for such a diminutive figure, “there is to be no food or drink in this room. We need to observe you unimpeded.”

  Lazar noticed us at last. His face went through a few contortions as he tried to balance his outrage and fear with his instinct to flatter potential business partners. “Lord Ectar,” he said at last, in a passably neutral tone.

  I introduced Ectar to Jovan, watching the jump of interest in the man’s face as he realized he’d been quarantined with two members of the Oromani family he’d traveled here to bargain with. Lazar’s obvious panic and discomfort seemed to have a steadying influence on the Talafan; any tension he had harbored toward the process seemed to dissipate. His gray gaze swept the austere hospital room without apparent judgment, and he took a pallet and endured the physic’s examination as politely as I did. His servants spoke only in direct response to the physic’s questions, with Ectar translating from the pallet in a lazy tone.

  Lazar, uncharacteristically, seemed too distraught even to talk. He lay down on the farthest pallet, his back to the rest of us, and his drunken snores soon filled the room. Jovan, too, lay still, though to someone who knew him well it was clear he was concentrating deeply rather than relaxing. We were trapped in a room with people who might have caused the Chancellor’s death; here was our chance to learn whatever we could from their reactions.

  I was exhausted, but so well-practiced at masking it that it was no trouble to pretend enthusiasm for a late-night conversation. For his part, Ectar seemed genuine. If he knew about our uncle’s death, he was an excellent liar, because he spoke readily and easily about Etan as he relayed his excitement to supply the Emperor with our tea. For a time, I could pretend I didn’t know, either.

  “You are related to the Emperor, I understand?”


  “He is my…” He paused, searching for the word, then must have remembered there was no equivalent term in our language. “Grandfather,” he said in Talafan. Then a smile warmed his face, making him seem younger. “But I am very far from the throne. The youngest son of a youngest son is not likely to inherit.”

  “How many brothers do you have? One seems sufficient to me,” I said, shooting a sidelong smile at Jovan.

  Ectar laughed. “One would be sufficient to me, also yes! Alas, I have eight older brothers.”

  “Eight!” Jovan exclaimed. “What bad luck for your family.”

  I glared at him. The only thing he studied about other cultures was their use of poisons; I doubted he’d understood the reference to Ectar’s “grandfather.” Here, to have sons instead of daughters was indeed bad luck. Women could continue the bloodline and family name, while sons had to find some other way of distinguishing themselves and adding value to the family. In the Empire, parenthood was illogically granted to men, and bloodlines supposedly—and probably inaccurately—followed through males.

  I reframed my brother’s clumsy comment. “It must be challenging to distinguish yourself among so many. You’ve obviously become a trader of some esteem.”

  Ectar puffed up. The more we spoke, the more expression seeped through his careful Talafan mask. “I … er, cultivate my grandfather’s taste for foreign goods. When I was a child, you may not consume a food product in the Imperial City that was grown outside the Empire. Now, I bring him Sjon tea for his cups, and Doranite furs for his bed. He wears a bloodstone necklace from Perest-Avana! He hungers for new things to surprise him. It is a new world. A good world for a man like me.” He leaned closer to me, eagerly, his gaze darting to Jovan and back. “I desire much to make a most beneficial deal with Credo Etan. Oromani tea is the very best, and my grandfather hungers only for the best.”