A moan. He stopped. At Qiaqia’s knees, the woman thing quivered and twitched, one limb moving feebly outward, toward him. He capped the canteen again hastily. Water. It all came back to that. He said, “What happened here?”
“Now? Or before?” Qiaqia rose, stepping over the woman thing without a glance. “We lost our water. And now everything craves it.”
Like the steppe, with its hollow irrigation channels and dead grasses. Like the dry undying thing that haunted the Woven House. He said, “Aude can’t give it back to you.”
“I didn’t say she could.”
“You took her.”
“We took her.”
There was some meaning to that, some message he could not quite decode. He did not know if she expected him to understand. At his feet, the twins shifted, butting against his calves. He did not know what that meant, either, unless they wanted him to move. He looked over at the woman thing again, saw that she once more lay still and silent.
Qiaqia followed his gaze. “We must bring it. It may be needed.”
“My pony isn’t fit to carry anything.” He stopped, shook his head. He was no longer a soldier. Even if he was, he had never been under her command. He said, “That’s your problem.”
Qiaqia said, “I can’t heal your pony, but I can take you to someone who can help her. But we must bring the creature. You must carry her. My touch is…is sometimes unhelpful.”
One of the twins pushed her head against his leg again, harder this time and he looked down. She pushed again, hopping up on to her back legs.
“He doesn’t understand you,” Qiaqia said. “He’s human.” And then, to Jehan, “They don’t trust me or you.” At his feet, the twin chattered and then jumped. She landed on his hip in a scrabble of claws, and he bit down on an exclamation. Her sister retreated toward the saddlebags, and suddenly he understood.
The book. They were afraid he would abandon their book. They had almost no water, they had been found by one of this land’s guardians, Clairet was injured, and the twins were still focused on their book. Somehow, without sense, he was laughing, trapped by the absurdity of it. He was in one of the worlds of the Brass City pamphlets. The rules were not those to which he had been raised. These were book rules, story rules, and he did not know them.
Qiaqia had offered further help for the pony. He unhooked the twin from his hip and settled her on his shoulder. Then he said, “Can you take me to Aude as well?”
“Yes,” said Qiaqia.
“Then I’ll go.” He could not see the twin he carried, so he addressed the other one. “I can’t carry your book as well as that thing. If you want it, you’ll have to change and carry it yourself.” He looked back at Qiaqia. “You frighten them. That’s why they’re hiding.”
She smiled a third time. “Not fear. Guilt. But they may bring the book if it means so much to them.”
Jehan could not carry the saddlebags and the woman thing, and he doubted, somehow, that the twins would trouble themselves over his possessions. Their book was all they wanted. He bent and pulled out those other few items he really wished to keep and could carry. Aude’s locket was already in his heart pocket. Tinderbox, shot, and powder horn could be hooked onto his belt, and his sword slung crosswise with them. He hung the carbine over one shoulder, dislodging the twin, while the canteen’s long strap wrapped across his body. The rest he could do without. He left the bags lying under a bush, open to the soft breeze and the crumble of leaves. The twins, still both in their ferret shape, darted over to them and began to nose among the rags of his clothing for their book.
He had set the horse blanket to one side. Now, he gathered it up and walked over to the woman thing. It—she, whatever—lay inert, watery eyes open and empty, long hair trailing. The smell of stagnant water clung to her, sour in his throat. He shook out the blanket. He had no desire whatsoever to touch her again. Careful, fastidious, he dropped the blanket over her and tucked its edges around her with a booted foot. She did not stir. Swallowing his revulsion, he crouched down and slid his hands under her, taking care to keep the blanket between his skin and hers.
Once, in the filthy cellar of an equally filthy tenement, he and his patrol had found the bodies of three starved children, huddled together against the cold and hunger that had killed them. The woman thing weighed less than the littlest of those, hanging in his arms like a bundled rope ladder, all loose knots and rattling limbs. He averted his face, not wanting to see what he held, as he slung her over his shoulder. He said, short and harsh, “How far?”
“Two steps and two thousand. A candle’s length and a day’s.” The words were mocking, but the tone was not. “It’s my route, not yours. Your measures aren’t made for it.” Qiaqia stood next to Clairet, her arms folded. One of the twins stood the other side of the pony, her finger locked in the mane. Her sister was behind her, cradling their book to her chest. One wore their ragged shift. The other had wrapped herself in his dirty spare shirt.
Qiaqia unfolded her arms. “Come here. You must stand close for this. I don’t usually have to move the giftless.” He came to stand beside the twin with the book. Qiaqia nodded. “Good.” And then, “I hope you aren’t scared of the dark.”
He opened his mouth to reply, and the world turned black.
28
Julana Alone
SOMETHING WAS WRONG. Jangled by her sister’s absence, the sound of the clock’s first bell hit Julana like a blow. Half asleep, she lashed out with teeth and claws against this sudden attack. Hot blood filled her mouth. Beside her, Marcellan recoiled with a yelp of pain. She came back to herself, shaking. She nuzzled into his arm, seeking comfort and forgiveness. She was here to defend him, not to harm. He reached down to caress her back. “It’s all right. The clock startled you.” She butted her head into his hand. He went on, “It’s perfectly safe. You’re safe with me.”
He did not understand. He did not know. The noise—that sweet hard noise—was not of the Rice Palace. It did not belong here. Julana’s instincts told her it could bring no good. Marcellan had talked to Liyan and Liyan…Liyan made trouble: his hands were shaped that way. The Grass King would ask questions and Marcellan would come to harm. Julana pressed herself close against him and he cradled her with a hand. No good. All this would come to no good. And he—he was smiling as he caressed her. Julana sagged. He would never understand. Even while he smiled, the Grass King might be ordering the bannermen to come and seize him, cast him into some pit, bury him in some dark dank cave, have Sujien blow him twice and thrice as high as the highest point in the palace and let him fall.
The Grass King might send Qiaqia, all dark eyes and deadly fingers. There was no cure for that. Julana might bite and claw till she exhausted herself, but alone she was no match for any of the dangers that might follow at the Grass King’s word. If Marcellan would but fit through the crack in the skirting, the gaps in the lattice, then she knew many places where she might hide him. There was nowhere in this courtyard that could substitute, nowhere big enough. She inhaled his smell and readied herself to do what she could. The voices thrummed and pattered outside; footsteps hastened into some distance and did not return. One by one, the sounds subsided. Cautious, Julana jumped from Marcellan’s lap and crept to the door. Silence. Setting her nose to the crack at its base, she sniffed. Tiles and floor polish, clay and linen. No alarm or anger, not even the edgy scent of nerves. The bannermen who guarded Marcellan’s courtyard were at peace. It was still a little time before the hour at which they brought his breakfast. Behind her, he had risen and was about his morning ablutions. Perhaps all was well after all.
She padded back to Marcellan and made herself comfortable on his feet. He bent to scratch behind her ears, then picked up his pen and began to make new scrawls on his pile of papers. The scent of him settled around her, familiar and reassuring. One of the Earth Banner entered with a tray of bread and fruit and small beer, demeanor no different from that of any other day. Marcellan looked up and thanked him, and the man
bowed and withdrew. Julana scrambled once again into Marcellan’s lap, ready for tidbits.
Yelena came back after breakfast. She tumbled in through a gap in the lattice and lay on the windowsill, panting. Her fur stood out from her body, dark with sweat and stress. Julana wrinkled her nose, her own fear forgotten. Alarm like that would carry to any and every predatory nose downwind for miles. She glanced at Marcellan, found him intent on his work. Then she bared her teeth at her sister.
Yelena said, “Too long…” She leaped for the top of a chest, landing with a neat quiet thump. The fruit bowl was only inches away from her, but she ignored it and gathered herself instead to leap down onto the divan.
Julana noticed a stray strand of fur between her toes and turned to nibble on it. Yelena said, “Night and light, and all alone. It’s not…It’s not what we do. How we are.”
The fur was stubborn. Julana tugged at it. Yelena said, “Cold. Alone is cold.”
Julana finished with the foot and looked up. Yelena crept out from under the edge of a bed cover to bump and rub at her side. This close, she smelled even worse. Julana pulled back.
Yelena’s whiskers drooped. She said, “Broken…Are we broken?”
Julana felt whole enough, well fed and comfortable as she was. She considered her sister. “Maybe you.”
“Grass King knows.” Yelena’s tone was plaintive. “He saw me. He knows we’re here. With the man.”
“Marcellan,” Julana said, for the taste of it. “With Marcellan.”
“Yes.” Again, Yelena crept closer. “So cold…”
Fear washed off her in sticky waves. A shudder began to tug at the very tips of Julana’s whiskers. She had been safe, she had done right, she had…She said, “Man is all right.”
Yelena had sagged again. She said, “Grass King knows about the clock. He asked. He asked Liyan.”
Liyan and his questions and his papers and obsessions. Black wet ink marks and anxiety. Memory tugged in place of worry, ruffled its way along Julana’s nerves. She said, “The Grass King…” That was it, the danger that had sent Yelena away from her. She leaned in toward her twin. Yelena settled against her, sides damp. Her breathing was sharp and fast, troubling. She smelled wrong, different, not quite like Julana herself.
Julana smelled of Marcellan, now. She shook herself. A drop of his blood ran in her veins. For a moment, she hesitated. That made her special, made him more hers than Yelena’s.
They had always been two, always twins. She nudged her sister. “Safe now. I’m here. Marcellan is here.” Yelena was silent. Julana went on. “We have his blood.”
Yelena looked up. “What?”
“I bit him.” Under her sister’s gaze, some of Julana’s confidence faded. “I was startled.”
“You bit our man.”
“Didn’t mean to,”
Yelena’s fur fluffed out in anger. “Bit him. Bit Marcellan.” Lips drawn back, she launched herself at her sister and bit her, hard, on an ear. “Bad. Wrong.”
“Made him ours. Really ours.” That had not been Julana’s intention. But perhaps some good would come of it. “And you bit me. You share his blood too, now.”
“Ours,” Yelena repeated, looking at Marcellan.
“Keep him safer.”
“Marcellan.”
“Our man.” Yelena dropped her head.
Julana stopped grooming to think. Slowly, she said, “Did the Grass King say about Marcellan? About the…” the word was strange, “about the writing?”
“No,” Yelena said. “He didn’t say, and Liyan didn’t say. But…Shirai was there. Tsai. Cadre may know. We need to be ready. To protect Marcellan.”
“Protect.” Julana puffed out again. “Like I did last night.”
“Yes.” But Yelena sounded unsure. “Shirai worries. About the clock. About…about Liyan and Marcellan.” She bumped her head against her sister’s. “I don’t want…I don’t like alone.”
“Bad,” Julana confirmed, and recommenced grooming.
“But,” Yelena said, and stopped. Julana licked her ear. Yelena continued, “Cadre…we need to watch the Cadre.”
Spying on the Cadre was harder than spying on the Grass King. They were shaped to notice, to sense everything about them, to register the slightest change or movement or danger. And they were not prone to indulge the twins. The twins seldom ventured into their quarters unless they were sure all the Cadre were absent and fully occupied elsewhere. One could never be quite sure what the Cadre would notice. Julana stiffened. She said, “They might be listening.”
“Now?” Yelena shivered. Then she raised her head and sniffed carefully, “No wind. No flames. The bannermen are by the gate.”
“Earth below us. Water in the basin.”
“Tsai doesn’t pay attention.” That was not strictly true, and yet it might almost have been. Tsai was careless with what she learned, what she found. Her attention could never be guaranteed.
“Shirai…” Julana said.
“Shirai would not choose to.”
Julana looked around her. Shadows pooled everywhere, under the chests and cabinet, in the angles of the lattice, in the depths behind closed doors and under curtains. The Shadow Banner might look through those, if they wished or needed. She said, “Then Qiaqia…”
“Qiaqia.” Yelena swallowed. “Cadre can watch us. We must beware them.” She closed her eyes. “We must watch them.”
The morning passed. At noon, Shirai came and explained to Marcellan that, for now, he was to remain within the Courtyard of Fallows. “The Grass King thinks it advisable.”
“Ah. The clock. Is he angry?”
“No. But he wishes to consider the effects.”
Marcellan nodded. “That’s understandable. Am I still permitted visitors?”
“Assuredly.”
“And books and pens and paper?”
“Of course.” Shirai hesitated. “I don’t think…It may not last, this confinement. The Grass King is more concerned over what Liyan does than with you.”
“I see.” Something changed in Marcellan’s face, a flicker passed over it. He shifted in his seat, a little shiver of disquiet communicating itself. The twins exchanged glances. What did that mean? With Shirai still there, they could not ask.
Shirai rose. “Good night, then.” He bowed and let himself out.
Marcellan rose and went to the lattice, looking out into the garden. Behind him, the twins shivered into human shape.
Yelena said, “Something not good?”
“Perhaps.”
“Liyan is dangerous. We said. The clock is a wrongness.”
“The clock?” He turned and smiled at them. “That’s just a toy. Don’t fret.”
Julana wound her hand into his. His skin was warm under hers, smooth and odd compared to fur. She could feel his blood throbbing through the veins just below it. His blood that ran now with hers. She said, “Then what? You fret.”
“No.” But his voice betrayed him. “I don’t know. The printing press—Liyan promised me his banner would take some of my writing to WorldAbove without asking the Grass King. And that might be a problem.”
“Do the other Cadre know?” Yelena asked.
“I don’t know.”
Yelena looked at her twin. “Your turn.”
Once more ferret-shaped, Julana took as long as possible getting to the Courtyard of the Cadre. There were many possible routes, some longer, some shorter. She pretended to herself nearly all the way that her choice of the longest of all was governed by simple caution. No one, seeing her scurrying against walls or clambering through windows would suspect that her goal was to observe the Cadre in their private space. She stopped in one or two larders and sampled a chicken wing here, a salted ham there; she filched a chunk of buttery piecrust, a grape, three mouthfuls of aged cheese. Risk required preparation. She might have to run or— worse—defend herself. She needed the strength, and the underkitchen was only a courtyard or four off her chosen route.
Yelena
would have done the same. And—and Julana stopped on a windowsill to glance once up and down her own length—there remained her notion to test, about shared blood. She was closer to Marcellan, she was wrapped in with him, and that might—might—confuse the Cadre.
Confuse Sujien, at least. Sujien was unlikely to be gentle with either twin if he caught them. She pushed the thought down, looked back wistfully in the direction of the last larder, and leaped down to the floor. Two courts to cross and a scramble up the trunk and boughs of the great ash tree that grew alongside the outer wall of the military quarter of the palace, and she would be in the Cadre’s territory. From there…She would think of it when she came to it, let need and shelter select her route.
The First Court of the Bannermen was occupied by a drill, the third and fifth by bannermen relaxing. Julana slunk past them in the drains that fed their fountains and emerged anxious and dripping in the empty seventh court. Water was Tsai’s domain; it spoke to her of what it touched. If Tsai was watching her waters…if Tsai cared to notice…Julana could not think about that. It would only slow her down. She climbed up through an old vine that scaled one wall of the court and leaped from there to the eaves of the next roof. Over that and its neighbor, and then…The Courtyard of the Cadre lay beyond, its roof tiles patterned in silky blues and browns and reds, its outer walls cloaked in night-scented purple blossoms. Perhaps their scent would be strong enough to shelter her, their shadows kind. Pollen dusted her fur as she clambered up through them, making her sneeze. She froze, awaiting discovery, but she heard nothing, sensed nothing. The shadows answered to Qiaqia. Perhaps Qiaqia did not care, tonight, what the twins did.
She might, of course, care later. That was another thing Julana would not think about. Not now. At the top of the creeper, she squeezed herself under the lip of the roof and sniffed. Dust and dry plaster and wood. The walls were well made, here, and inspected regularly. Little chance, then, of making her way into their core. She crept out along a roof joist carefully, ears and nose and whiskers all alert for any threat. The air was cool and still and acrid. That meant Sujien was unhappy. She would have to hope he was also distracted or preoccupied. She inched farther forward, came to one of the narrow gaps that ventilated the roof space, and stopped, flattening her belly to the beam. They were there, down below her, in the court that was the center of their domain. Tsai lay on the sill of the bathing pool, one hand hanging into its scented waters, perhaps dreaming her way along her riverbeds and conduits. The ends of her long hair fanned out around her. Julana shivered again. Had she been sensed? Did Tsai know she was here spying? There was no way to know. She licked a foot, rubbed it across her face for comfort. There was no sign of Qiaqia, and that was something. She would be checking on her banner, perhaps, or waiting on the Grass King. No Liyan, either. In his workshop, doubtless, making endless adjustments to his clock. Shirai sat on a low stool in the doorway of his rooms, polishing the metal trim of his uniform. Sujien paced, one end of the courtyard to the other, his steps sharp and quick and nervy. From across the roofs and gardens, the clock sounded one of its endless divisions of time, and he cursed. Julana drew her ears down.
The Grass King’s Concubine Page 39