"All right, all right, it's not important. Just tell me who you are, and where you came from. How on earth did you get into the between-ways?"
"I have always been here, my lord Scion."
"Stop calling me that." I paused. "What do you mean, always? You were born in the between-ways?"
"Yes, my lord Scion. Parali said so. He's dead now."
"Parali?" The name tickled the edge of my mind. There was something familiar about it, something I had read in the archives, or heard from the older Flamens-in-Exile. But I could feel that time was short, and it was vital to hear Angel's story. I beckoned him to the last stool by the table. He came willingly enough, and without further prompting, almost before his rump touched the stool, he began to talk.
* * *
25
"THEY HID THEMSELVES in the between-ways when the Sherank came. They—"
"Wait, wait," I said, "who are they?"
"Parali Flamen and the others, my lord Scion."
I sighed. "Who are the others?"
He started to rock back and forth on his stool, staring over my head. "Parali wrote them all down."
"Go on," I said. Why was that name so familiar?
"There were fifteen. Parali and some other men, and two women, and three children. My mother—"
"Yes?"
"My mother was one of the children." Meditatively, he picked something out of his nose. "That was before she was my mother."
I nodded significantly at Calla; this would be the story behind those tidy heaps of bones in the branching place. She shrugged. Angel began to plait the ends of his beard.
"So what happened?" I asked.
"They died."
"All of them? All at once?"
"No."
"Well—did the Sherank kill them?"
"Some. And maybe some others."
There was a long pause while Angel and I looked earnestly at each other and I felt precious time rotting away. "So what happened to them?" I demanded, perhaps more sharply than intended.
He hunched his shoulders fearfully, then pulled himself upright on the stool and shut his eyes. He stopped swaying and drew a long breath, and when he opened his eyes again, they were different. "In the first year," he intoned in a strange, sonorous voice, "Fenri Flamen laid his belly on his pallet and willed himself dead. In the first year also, Telli and Anlivo, guardsmen of Gil, were captured by the Sherank whilst scavenging in the Great Hall, and died under torture in the south dungeon. In the fourth year—"
"Wait, what is this?" I broke in. "I thought you didn't remember their names."
He blinked. "These are Parali's Annals of the Between-ways. Abridged." He blinked again.
"Ah." I remembered then. Parali the memorian, the prodigy of the Gil archives, of whom great things had been expected before the catastrophe. The older memorians in Exile still talked of him wistfully now and then. They assumed he had been killed by the Sherank, along with the rest of the intelligentsia left in Gil. I carefully put a lid on my excitement. "Carry on."
He nodded obediently and let his gaze drift away. "In the fourth year, Mella wife of Canesri Flamen died in childbirth, and the child with her. In the seventh year, Castu Memorian died of old age. In the ninth year, the Trembling Fever struck in the between-ways and carried off Canesri Flamen, Sibbi guardsman of Gil, Nysha wife of Malseri Flamen, and three children born in the between-ways. In the tenth year, Malseri Flamen laid his belly on his pallet and willed himself dead. In the fourteenth year, Tasli crocker of the Gilgard kitchens wasted to death with the burrowing disease. In the sixteenth year, Fasli guardsman of Gil broke his neck in the chute. In the nineteenth year, Shula daughter of Canesri Flamen died of childbed fever, and the child with her. That was my mother and brother," he added in his normal voice. "I was about two."
"Do you remember your own name?" I asked hopefully.
"No, my lord Scion."
"Do you remember Parali?"
"Yes, my lord Scion."
"Do you remember what he called you?"
"He called me Dear Boy."
I groaned. It was no improvement over Angel. I nodded for him to go on, and he straightened his back again.
"In the twentieth year, Raneso and Sorsi sons of Malseri Flamen sought to leave the between-ways, and vanished without trace. In the thirty-second year, Parali Memorian laid his belly on his pallet and willed himself dead—no, my lord Scion, actually he was old and ill, and he drank a cup of poison. There was only me to finish the Annals. May their bones bring forth flowers."
"Quite."
He put his chin down on his hands, on the tabletop, carefully tucking his beard out of the way. "Did I do well, my lord Scion?" he asked.
"You did well." I reached out and touched his shaggy head, knowing that his barren litany of deaths had only just begun to describe the outcasts' desolation. I could imagine it. They would have watched the Sherkin horror through the vents of the between-ways, a matter of survival since they'd have to subsist on what they could scavenge, darting like shulls through the secret doors when they saw that a chamber was deserted. A strange living it must have been, I thought, a narrow slice of hushed darkling life, of tight lips and tight belts, of perilous safety and diminishing hope as the months stretched into years and still the Sherank ruled in Gil. They would not have been unaware of what was happening on the rest of the island, since the between-ways commanded a view into the south dungeon, but they'd have been an audience watching a play, unseen, not directly affected by the action, equally unable to take part. Free men, and yet prisoners, their country dwindled to those dusty corridors, all that was left free of the old Gil—
Lissula pushed her knee against mine. "I don't have all day, darling, I'll be missed soon. It's your turn now." Her voice was a faintly querulous purr.
"No, Goldbottom, it's your turn," Calla said grimly. Angel stiffened again, but Lissula laughed.
"Me, darling? Nothing much to tell. The winter before last a Koroskan named Flax saw me in the market. Of course, he could tell at once that I was different from the rest of you—"
"He knows a whore when he sees one, does he?"
"Say what you will, Calla darling. At least I don't smell."
"Oh, you smell, all right. You stink of Sher," Calla began, warming to battle. I rapped on the table.
"Enough of this," I said firmly. "Lissula, I need to know how you learned about the between-ways. Do the Sherank know?"
"I'm sure they don't." She smiled between her shining falls of hair. "Angel is our secret—the shints' secret. About five years ago, the shintashkr was moved from one of the outbuildings into the new place—much more comfortable, I'm told, though it does get noisy at night without real walls that go all the way up to the ceiling. You wouldn't believe the racket, darling, nights when you don't have a taker and are trying to get some sleep with all that groaning and bellowing and creaking going on all around—"
"I can imagine," I cut in hastily. "But about Angel . . ."
"I saw them through the vent," said Angel, "and I wanted to see what they were. I waited until the Koroskans left, and then I went through the secret door. They're my friends." He tore his loving gaze from me and trained it on Lissula.
"Ah."
"We come with him sometimes when those sows of wardresses aren't around. He steals things for us, and takes us to look through the windows."
"And you say all the women of the shintashkr know about this?"
"Of course, darling. Don't worry, no one's about to tell." She chuckled a silvery chuckle. "It pleases us to have a secret from the Sherank. Anyway, no new shints are told until we're sure we can trust them. If we decide we can't, then something happens to them before very long."
"Honour among whores," said Calla flatly.
Lissula smiled with all her teeth. "You're still as boring as you ever were, Calla darling."
I left them to it and engaged myself in mental calculations. Angel would have been born in the seventeenth year, would now be
fifty-five, and would have seen women for the very first time at the impressionable age of fifty. And between Parali's death and the advent of the shintashkr, he had been alone in the between-ways for thirty-five years. Thirty-five years, my lifetime plus half again. The wonder was that he had remained even approximately sane. However, in thirty-five years he would have learned all there was to know about the between-ways and the daily routines of the Sherank, and how they might be circumvented. His information could be invaluable to us. And there was something else—he had recognized the royal form of my name where Lissula had not; he knew what a Scion of Oballef was, he could well have an accurate idea of what I was trying to do. And if such a memorian as the great Parali had been his mentor, who could tell what other odd treasures of learning might be cached inside his head?
Calla and Lissula had moved on to reminiscences of their shared girlhood. Bloodshed seemed imminent. Angel had prudently left the table and was again crouching in the shadows. I thumped the table and the women swung brittle faces towards me.
"Save your quarrel," I said severely, "we have too many important things to do. Angel!" He came to me out of the shadows, warily skirting Calla, and seemed to be on the point of falling at my feet again. I stuck them hastily under the table. "Angel, you know who I am. Do you know why I'm here?"
He rolled his eyes up and stuck out his lower lip while he considered. "Yes."
"Tell me."
"For the Lady."
"That's—"
"Like the others. The other Scions of Oballef."
I grabbed his shoulder. "What do you know about the others? Did you see them?"
He shook his head. "I heard them talking."
"Who? The other Scions?" My heart thudded.
"The Sherank. When they'd caught one."
By an effort of will, I stopped my teeth grinding with frustration. Sorting out Angel's utterances was like swimming through molasses. "Tell me what they said."
"It was Lord Kekashr and some of the warlords. He said it was a pity he died before the Lady was found. The torturer was punished."
"How long ago?"
Angel's eyes rolled up again. "A long time. I don't know. Before the shintashkr."
More than five years ago. Not Baraslef, Callefiya's husband, then. And it was less than twenty-five years, for that was how long Kekashr had governed in Gil. How many others had come in the last twenty-five years? I tried to count back, but the headache got in the way. All I could remember was my father, and that memory was more painful than the headache. "Were any names mentioned? Do you remember anything else? Tell me everything you can think of."
Back went the eyes. "No names. I don't think they knew. That other. Lord Kekashr talked about that other. He said all was not lost, even if no more came."
"Do you know what he was talking about?"
"No."
I gazed at him helplessly. One more try. I spoke slowly and clearly. "My father's name was Cirallef. He was one of the Scions who came to Gil. He was captured trying to climb one of the towers. Nobody ever heard from him again. It was nineteen years ago. Could he have been the one they killed?"
Angel began to sway gently back and forth again. He looked close to tears.
Calla put her hand on my arm. "It's no use, Tig. He doesn't know anything. He can't help us."
"Hush up." I shook off her hand. This much I had learned—that Kekashr was aware of the game being played by the Flamens-in-Exile, and had been for years. I studied Angel, who had returned to plaiting his beard.
"Have you listened to them talking in the last few weeks?"
He nodded.
"Have they said anything about me? I mean, about another Scion arriving in Gil? Do they know I'm here?"
He nodded again.
"Impossible!" Calla exploded. "We've been too careful."
Angel cleared his throat. "The little spider told them."
"What?" Calla and I demanded together.
"That's what they call him. The little spider. The traitor."
* * *
26
WE CROUCHED IN the duct, Angel and I. The wonder to me was that I could fit. Angel, who had looked bulky at first sight in his cast-off Sherkin gown, seemed here to be as slim and jointless as a snake. He had writhed in feet-first and had pulled me along by my hands whenever I faltered in the dripping darkness of that tight, elbow-rasping, stone-lined gullet in the body of the Middle Palace. Now we were head-to-head at a narrow vent and my exhaustion and discomfort were temporarily forgotten.
As the man in the room below us shifted forwards to stir the fire, his face came into the light. Lord Shree, my half-compatriot, the nephew of Lord Kekashr. There could be no mistaking that sharp, dissatisfied profile. His dark hair was brushed straight off his forehead and secured with a gold clip at the nape of his neck. He looked younger than when I'd seen him at the Gilman's Pleasure, and very slim without his armour. The flagon and meat on a small table at his elbow were practically untouched. He sat back and continued to stare into the flames.
The duct vibrated subtly, as if heavy boots were thumping along the corridor below. A breath later, the door directly beneath us crashed open. Lord Shree looked up.
The newcomer advanced into our field of view, a circle of iron-coloured hair with a distinct bald spot in the middle, not more than five feet below the vent. A nose like a bird's beak jutted out in front. He put out his hand, and a great ruby flashed on the forefinger—unmistakably the Stone of Callilef, my six-times-great grandfather. I knew at once that I was, in my unobtrusive fashion, in the presence of Kekashr, Governor of Gil, Lord of the Gilgard, Fourth Warlord of Sher, Hammer of Iklankish. He looked every inch the measure of his titles.
Lord Shree made no move, either to rise or to grovel. Kekashr stood for a moment below us, then strode to the hearthside. Now that I could see his face, it seemed to me that he was furious—or was that the habitual face of a high Sherkin warlord? He picked up the flagon, drank directly from its mouth, and slopped about half its contents into a goblet. Shree looked impassively back at the flames.
"They won't even admit he exists." Kekashr spoke in Sheranik, but slowly and with emphasis, and the smooth stone wall tossed his words up to us with perfect clarity. I had no trouble in understanding.
Shree poured a goblet from the flagon and nursed it in his hands. "What does the spider say?"
"That he may already be in the castle."
"That's impossible. Not a flea entered the Gilgard yesterday without my hearing of it."
Kekashr spat into the fire. "Don't be so sure. It seems there is a way." He laughed. "The spider wants more before he'll tell us what it is."
"Will you pay?"
"Not bloody likely. I had the messenger followed. By nightfall, the spider will be in our web." He laughed again, a grating laugh that became even nastier as it echoed.
"Is that wise? It will end his usefulness."
"That's almost finished anyway, and he knows it. Why else would he be so greedy, and so shy of coming forward for his reward?"
"What about Krisht?" Shree asked.
"Well—that's a different story. Nothing for the last few weeks, except that desperate favour. We'll have to wait and see."
Shree did not comment; except, perhaps, by taking a long pull at his wine. Kekashr drained his and tossed the goblet on to the floor.
"Why so gloomy, nephew, when our goal is in sight? Where Kishr failed, we'll succeed; and with the Lady in our hands, we can take Iklankish as well as Gil for our own. Our empire will be greater than Fathan's, and will never fall. To the Lady in Gil!"
Shree lifted his goblet without drinking. Kekashr clapped him on the back and rose to go. "You have the new timetable; don't keep me waiting," he said. Shree nodded without looking up. Kekashr passed under us, stopping directly below, so that (had I been so inclined, and so stupid) I could easily have dropped a gob of spittle on to the beautifully drawn target of his bald spot. He swung around to face Shree. "I expect great things,"
he said. "Kishr himself never came so close." Shree nodded slowly.
I watched Shree closely when Kekashr had gone. He turned to look into the fire again, the goblet to his lips. Then, without drinking, he pitched the vessel into the flames and rose to wander restlessly around the chamber. I had never seen a more miserable human face, not even on the wretch destined for the Gilman's Pleasure. He was cursing to himself in a mixture of Sheranik and Gillish, and his command of both idioms was admirable. Finally he stopped in front of the hearth again, leaning towards it as if intent on hateful pictures in the flames. Then he straightened and turned. His face was a mask. He passed under us and the heavy door slammed behind him.
Calla was waiting for us in the clearing place, stretched out on Angel's pallet with her knife by her side. If she were asleep, she recovered very quickly; before Angel and I had half-crossed the room, she was on her feet, knife in hand.
"So? What did you think?"
"It'll work. Angel knows his way around, right enough."
"Where did you go?"
My legs were wobbly; I lowered myself on to the pallet and rubbed the aching calves. "The air-duct over the governor's chambers."
Calla's eyes widened. "What? Did you see Lord Kekashr?"
"Yes, we saw him. And Lord Shree as well."
She distinctly pouted. "You should have let me come."
Angel made a small, unamicable noise.
"You'll have to make friends with Angel first. But never mind that now. We have problems."
I retailed what we'd overheard of Kekashr's words to Shree. Calla's face hardened as she listened. "They do know you're here, then, in the Gilgard," she said slowly when I had finished.
"I assume, modesty aside, that they were talking about me, yes."
"And the little spider?"
"No names were mentioned. Wait—there was one. What was it? Krisht. Angel, does that mean anything to you?"
Gil Trilogy 1: Lady in Gil Page 18