The Tower of Living and Dying

by Anna Smith Spark

  “From the fear of life, and the fear of death, release us,” Bilale whispered. She reached out, almost took Nilesh’s hand.

  A priestess was singing before an altar, a high soft song whose words Nilesh could not catch. Far, high up at the ceiling, pethe birds fluttered in a shaft of sunlight.

  Before the High Altar, the little dark-robed figure of the new High Priestess was kneeling. She rocked back and forth. Silent. Her body was hunched, very thin, Nilesh looked at her and saw how thin she was, how tiny, her hair was matted and lank. Her body rocked. Twitched. They said she did not leave the altar now until she fell asleep and could be carried away. But that was surely only servants’ gossip. The figure rocked, raised thin fingers to pull at her hair. Her fingers were bloody. The people in the Temple looked anywhere but at her. Bilale made a noise in her mouth. Bilale’s hands went to her belly, where his body had lain.

  “My Lady?” A priestess stood before them in her mask. Her eyes through it were sad, she too tried and tried not to look at the child. It was like trying not to look at a beggar with a rotting face.

  Nothing can be proved against Lord Emmereth, Nilesh thought. She tried to lose the thought away.

  “I wish to make an offering,” Bilale said. Her eyes went to the child and away and back and away, her hands moving to pick at the scars at her mouth.

  The priestess tried to smile. “Very well, Lady Emmereth.”

  They went over to one of the many altars, a high one adorned with golden flowers, crowned with rose buds and hyacinth. Opposite to the High Altar, so that Bilale knelt with her face turned away from the child. Someone had placed as an offering a jewelled cage holding a scarlet bird. It trilled as Bilale knelt, showing a green mouth.

  “Tamas bird,” said Bilale. “Pretty.”

  “Nane elenaneikth,” the bird chattered. “Nane elenaneikth.” It beat its wings. The undersides of its wings were black.

  “What is it saying?” asked Bilale. She looked frightened.

  The priestess said, “Nothing. It makes sounds that sound like human speech. But it is not human speech. What is it that you wish to give, My Lady?” the priestess asked. Bilale had dedicated a life-sized gold statue of a baby when they came here to give thanks for its being born. Janush said Lord Emmereth had bought a thaler’s worth of candles as an offering once.

  Bilale reached behind her neck. She unclasped the great ruby pendant on its golden chain. She stretched her white neck as it came off. “Here.” She held the jewel up to the candlelight then placed it on the altar. After the necklace, she stripped off her gold bracelets, her rings, placed these too on the altar. She said loudly, “Great Lord Tanis, Great Lord of Living and Dying, Great Tanis who rules all things, protect me and my child, that by your gift of living was given life and birth, protect us and keep us safe and guard us from harm. Oh Great Lord Tanis, Lord of All Things, protect us and keep us from death today.” She bowed her head, her voice dropped. “Great Lord Tanis, from the fear of life and the fear of death, release us.”

  “Great Lord Tanis, from the fear of life and the fear of death, release us,” Nilesh whispered.

  “Ethald emn enik,” the bird chattered.

  Nilesh thought: we are like lice crawling on their bodies, for whom Bilale’s beautiful red hair is the earth and the sky and the House of God. And what will we be, when the earth and the sky and the House of God are fallen to dust?

  They travelled back to the House of the East. Shouts and murmurs, dust and stones rattling off the litter, sharp drawn swords visible through the yellow silk. Yet Bilale looked almost peaceful, comforted by her prayers. The God must listen, Nilesh thought, to Lady Emmereth. She is so great, so powerful. She must be close indeed to the God. Bilale went to her dressing room to change. Chattering eagerly about playing with her child, some new song she must sing him, how she must tell the nurse to eat more honey to make her milk sweet. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful baby. Baby baby baby boy. Baby baby baby boy.” Tears running down her face. Nilesh sat in Bilale’s bedroom on the floor by the window, closing her eyes, letting the breeze from the gardens play on her face. Honeysuckle, jasmine, roses; underneath a foetid odour where they must be cleaning out one of the fountains. A rhythmical clanging as they worked. Bilale came in in a loose dress of pale green like milky jade. The nursemaid came with the baby. Bilale fondled it, kissed its tiny fingers, crooned a song, exclaimed again in marvel at its tiny curled toes. “What will Great Tanis name you, beautiful one? My baby boy, my baby boy, my baby baby baby boy.” A girl scattered spices on the brazier. Ammalene resin, calming to the mind. The baby made a beautiful babbling noise. “He’s smiling!” Bilale cried in delight, “my baby!” Bilale sang, “That’s Mummy’s hair, little one! Mummy’s hair!” Nilesh began to doze.

  Bilale screamed.

  Nilesh opened her eyes.

  There was a man in the room. He had a sword.

  Nilesh stared at him.

  “Death to traitors!” the man shouted. He waved the sword at the girl by the brazier. The girl fell down with blood coming out of her throat. Bilale screamed. The baby screamed. The man was on Bilale with the sword. Nilesh stared at him. Bilale threw up her left hand, it struck the sword blade and made the sword waver but he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back. Her face stared up at him. Her body was arched back, clutching at the screaming baby, she was making a horrible noise in her throat.

  Nilesh threw herself at him, pounding with her hands. A terrible blazing pain in her body. She fell back screaming. Bilale was screaming. Everything was blind with pain. The sword came down on Bilale’s arm. Bilale fell down on the floor. On top of the baby. The baby was screaming. Blood was pouring from Bilale’s arm. Nilesh hit and hit and hit at the man’s legs. Bilale’s screaming went on and on. Another voice shouted. There was another man in the room. He had a sword. Nilesh stared at him. Nilesh’s head felt very light, like it was floating, her vision fading to dark and movement, her body drifting, numbness in her arms and in her legs. She couldn’t see things sensibly. There were lots of men in the room. She was watching patterns, water ripples, shadows, voices were shouting and screaming on and on. Her body was in pain. Something struck her, a voice shouted, she tried to roll away, they were fighting like the knife-fighters in the streets, something fell on her, there was more pain. Bilale’s voice was still screaming and the baby was still screaming and a man’s voice was shouting and her vision was fading away to white light.

  She saw jewels. Candles. Bloody child’s fingers, and the creased tiny face of the baby, and Bilale’s red hair.

  Her vision. Fading away to white light.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Orhan heard the noise from the entrance hall.

  Screaming.

  Bil, screaming.

  The baby, screaming.

  He began to run through the house, shouting to the guardsmen. People were running everywhere. Shouting everywhere. Up the stairs, almost falling. His hand went to the knife he wore. In the upper hall the screaming was louder. A smell of smoke. He stopped, shaking. Flesh burning. Bodies burning. The clash of swords. The Emperor’s face white with terror, the walls burning and the boy raising his eyes to look at him, “I’ll kill you, then,” men falling dying, Darath falling, blood and smoke and blood. All this. All this I wrought. The guards formed up around him, a defensive circle with swords out. Through them and over them he saw fire, bleeding, Bil dead, the baby dead, its grub’s mouth screaming reproach.

  “Get him away! Get him out of here!”

  “My Lord—” A hand pulled on his shoulder. “My Lord, this way, away from the danger.”

  “No! No, this is my house!”

  Bil, screaming.

  The baby, screaming.

  What have you done, Orhan?

  Orhan pushed his way forward. The guards couldn’t stop him, had to follow him. He ran down the corridor towards Bil’s bedroom, where the screams were coming from, the burning smell, the crash of sword blades, the blood. The door t
o Bil’s bedroom was open. A girl’s body lay crumpled in the doorway. Cut up. Dead. He staggered over it.

  The room was stinking chaos, a knot of bodies writhing together, crash and crash of metal, a woman’s scream on and on on one note. Men fighting. Bil’s guards, fighting each other. Why were they fighting each other? Bil on the floor, crawling. Blood all over her. A girl dead. The baby’s nurse dead. The silver drapery on the walls on fire.

  Murder, Orhan thought dimly. He stopped at the door. Impossible to go on, believe this, it’s some kind of game, he thought, it must be, it will all stop in a moment and it won’t be happening. A dream. He stepped forward into the room. Dizzy: the room seemed to lurch and move. Men fighting. Swords. His guards threw him aside, rushed past him, ten men with swords, trained to defend. Orhan held out his knife. His hand was shaking. Bil was trying to crawl towards him. Her hands were bleeding. She, too, was holding a knife. The baby, he thought hopelessly. The baby, the baby. My son.

  Two of the guards were surrounded. The murderers. Helpless, against so many. “Take them alive,” Orhan wanted to shout, “question them,” but he couldn’t bring himself to speak, he watched Bil crawling and the two men cut down. Then the guards were all around him, the murderers were dead, a man was lifting Bil and carrying her to her bed, a man was clutching the tiny lump of the baby that screamed with a contorted scarlet unhatched raw face, he sank down onto the bed next to Bil, watched a guardsman tear the silk hangings from the wall bare-handed and hurl them from the window, watched guardsmen fan out around the room, pull closed the shutters, kick the girl’s body out of the way, slam the door.

  It was dark for a moment, before a lamp flared. Its light threw the room into soft shadows.

  One of Orhan’s guards knelt before him. “Are you hurt at all, My Lord?”

  “No. No, I’m not hurt.” His mind wasn’t working. Of course I’m not hurt. But Bil. Bil’s hurt. The baby’s hurt. He shouted out, “Lady Emmereth—fetch Janush immediately. Why hasn’t someone already gone for him?”

  “We need to be sure there’s no one else in the house, My Lord. It’s best if you and she stay here, guarded.”

  “But she’ll die. The child will die.” Bilale was crumpled on the bed, her face and hands and arms a mass of blood. Her body looked so fragile, weak as eggshells. The baby screamed and screamed and screamed. Bil’s bloody hands were cupped over her belly, trying to protect the baby that was no longer inside. “Fetch Janush now. Or I’ll kill you myself.”

  The guard stared at him. Shocked. So Lord Emmereth the coward and the traitor does have some strength in him. Oh, I’m good at killing people I’m paying, Orhan thought bitterly. Hired men and servants and women, the old and the desperate and the very young. I only go to pieces when there’s any danger to myself.

  “Go! Now!”

  He turned to Bil, placed his hands carefully on her forehead. She was very cold. Her scars were rough, standing out like faults in rock. This was, he realized then, the first time he had ever touched her.

  “Bilale. Bilale. It’s all right, Bilale. You’re alive. You’re safe. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  No response. Orhan wrapped the bed cover over her, tried to ease a pillow under her head. Her beautiful hair was full of blood. There was a savage cut on her face, snaking down her left cheek, it tore open her scars. Bruising around her nose and eyes. Her hands were cut down to the bones, her fingers shattered, more cuts to her arms, also very deep. Her eyes were open all the time, looking beyond Orhan into the gold of the lamplight.

  She held the sword blade in her hands, Orhan thought. She warded the swords off with her hands.

  The baby screamed and screamed and screamed.

  There were other bodies in the room, slumped about, one at least was moving, making weak horrible noises in its throat. He should see to them, see if there was anything he could do to help them. But he couldn’t leave Bil. Where was Janush? If he had gone out, gone down to the bathing rooms, if he was somewhere enjoying himself and Bil died …

  Finally there was a bustling at the door, a knock and an exchange with the guards inside, Janush came in flanked by two guardsmen, his face rigid with shock. He stopped, stared dumbly at the bodies. A doctor, and he was terrified at the sight of so much blood.

  “My Lord … Are you hurt?” His voice was shaking. He had crumbs of food around his mouth. “Lady Emmereth. Oh Great Tanis.”

  “Help her.”

  Janush knelt beside Bil, inspecting her face and hands.

  “Open the shutters. It’s too dark to see anything. And bring another lamp close.”

  One of the guardsmen said, “It’s not safe. There could be more of them, outside.”

  “Open the shutters,” Orhan shouted at him.

  “My Lord—” The man went and threw them open. Orhan blinked at the light. Bil’s face was white and clammy, it looked like Tam’s face had looked when he was dying. Maggot-white with pain. Blood soaked into the white bedsheets. Her eyes flickered slightly. The baby screamed and screamed and screamed. Her eyes blinked at Orhan.

  “Wait. The baby first,” said Orhan. Bil’s eyes blinked. Thank you. Thank you. Janush took it from the man holding it, bronze and red, rolling and thrashing in his arms. Put it down on the bed where it flailed madly like a fish out of water or a beetle on its back. Screamed and screamed and screamed. Blood on its tiny face, matting down its funny fluffy hair.

  “He seems unharmed,” said Janush at last. “From what I can see. But who can tell, the damage it may have suffered? In its mind and its heart.”

  Bil’s eyes flickered. The bloody stumps of her hands clawed at her belly. Orhan placed his hands on her hair. “It’s all right, Bil. It’s all right. Be calm. Your son is safe.” He took the child in his own arms. Kissed its screaming face. Beneath the blood stink it smelled so sweet. My son, he thought again. This child is my son. It quieted a little, as he held it. Snuffled at him. Flexed its hands, screwed its face up, coughed, renewed its screams. Orhan handed it to a guardsman. “Take the baby out. Find one of Lady Emmereth’s women. Whatever she says the baby needs. Now. Go.”

  The guardsman took the baby. The screaming trailed away through the house. God’s knives. So tiny. What damage it may have suffered. So tiny, barely yet alive.

  Orhan turned back to Bil. Janush was kneeling inspecting her. She flinched at his touch. But her eyes were fixed on the door where the baby had gone. Her lips moved. Praying. Great Tanis, be merciful. Be merciful. Please.

  “Tear up the sheets, My Lord,” Janush said to Orhan. “She needs bandaging. A dose of hatha, to make her sleep. Then I will have to try to stitch her wounds.” He looked down at Bil’s body. “But I do not hold out much hope for her hands.”

  They started there. On the wreck of her hands. Orhan held a sheet to the wound on her head while Janush cleaned her hands with spirit alcohol, began carefully to sew. Two of the guards held Bil down. Orhan closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. My fault my fault my fault my fault. Even through the hatha her screams were like mage fire. He saw them through his closed eyes. Her hands. Her arms. It went on and on.

  “I will not sew her face, or the lesser wounds to her arms,” said Janush at last. He sat back on his heels, sweat and blood dripping down him. “They must be bandaged, bathed with herbs. I have charms I can place on her, spices to burn to help her heal. For the baby, also. But … Pray to Great Lord Tanis, My Lord, and beg His kindness.” He pulled himself heavily to his feet. “Pray to Great Lord Tanis, My Lord. I will go and fetch the charms and the herbs.”

  Other people were wounded, Orhan remembered slowly. Servants. Guards. Or perhaps they had died while Janush was treating Bil. He ordered two guards to carry her into his own bedroom, had her placed in his own bed. Janush came back with a bone amulet to hang around her neck, a clay figurine in the shape of a bird to bind to her left hand. A brazier was lit and piled with cinnamon bark. The wide blind eyes finally slid closed.

  “She will live,” said Janush.
“Great Tanis be kind. I have done the best I can, My Lord. But her hands … She was lucky, I suppose, in a way. The blackscab scars protected her, made her skin harder so the blades did not cut so deep. You or I might have lost a hand entirely. Made it more difficult to sew up, though. And may make it more difficult to heal. But I did what I could.” Bandaged thickly in white silk, perfect smooth white as the skin on them must have been before the disease took her. What was beneath looked like shredded leather. Like gristle that a man had chewed and spat out.

  “You should see to the servants,” said Orhan. “Send me word, how they are. If any of them are alive. Examine the child again, ensure it has whatever it needs. I will be here.”

  His guards came to report the house clear of any further danger. Two of the new guardsmen, they said, had turned on Bil. “Traitor!” they had shouted, when they started killing. Madmen, believing the lies. A disgrace to the household and their status as guardsmen, who must be loyal only and forever to their master and his kin. But they were newly hired, Lord Emmereth would need to make enquiries, where they had come from, why the man he had engaged to find them had chosen as he had. Orhan had thought the man he had engaged to find them trustworthy. In that too he had apparently been entirely wrong.