After her eyes adjusted to the near-darkness within, she saw she was in a narrow entryway just slightly wider than the distance finger-to-finger if she stretched her arms out at her sides. The ceiling was less than a head above her, inspiring the urge to crouch. A staircase rose before her. A faint light source flickered somewhere above.
But for her own breathing, and the pulse of her blood in her ears, there was no sound.
The steps were stone slabs, for which she was thankful. She had worried about wood creaking beneath her sandaled feet.
Lama ascended the gradually curving stairwell. She quickly came to a landing; a simple chamber lit by a single fluttering half-glowglobe in a woven net pegged to the ceiling.
A narrow bench hugged the outer wall. There was a door on the inner wall, and several belled ropes hanging from holes. She stayed well clear of those as she crossed to the stairs on the opposite side.
Another landing a bit higher; nearly identical in design and features, save the addition of a chamber pot on the floor next to the bench.
Lama wrinkled her nose. The pot was not empty.
How long since it had been used? Where was that person now?
Stepping quietly as she knew how, Lama hurried across the landing, willing the door to remain closed as she passed.
Up another set of stairs to the third-floor landing. As she approached, she noticed a difference in the quality and nature of the light. A lantern, perhaps, instead of a glowglobe.
She reached the landing.
All curiosity regarding the quality of the light fled like startled flites flushed from a bush.
The space was occupied.
An elderly magn lay on a thick, quilted pad on the narrow bench, his back to the wall. A frayed woven reed coverlet had nearly slipped from across his legs and was mostly on the floor. His closed eyes and regular breathing meant he was asleep.
Thankfully.
Hopefully.
Lama stared at the magn and tried to control her own breathing, which was rapid and short and surely so loud the whole tower would be roused, not just this old one before her. She bit firmly on the insides of her cheeks. She exhaled slowly as she unclenched her fists.
Her destination was one floor above. She had to cross. And then she had to cross again, burdened with her prize.
Throughout, this person before her had to remain asleep, and unaware.
What chance of that?
Despair rose like bile up her closing throat.
If she turned back now…
She could have Sot give back the first tiny share of their payment. The magicker, Ulthus, could find another way. Other tools. Surely there were many among the yard and palace servants who could do this thing; indeed, even Vadi herself would have been a better choice; half of this mad plan wouldn't have even been necessary if they'd brought her in and been willing to trust her…
But no.
No.
For most of their adult life, Vadi's advice had brought them ruin. Her promises had all been air. While Lama's oldest, once-dear, and former friend moved out of the Shadow District, out of the yard… Lama languished until her very body betrayed her, denying her a final, last chance for joy.
And Sot… Sot grew, in manner and in form, unbearably boorish, and soft, and fat.
No.
No.
She watched the old magn, whose modest sleeping pad, surely less comfortable than that of his masters, was still finer than the soiled, patched, scratchy thing she had to share with Sot.
Even a lowly palace servant, sleeping in a dank stairwell, lived better than she.
No.
She would not be denied this final, last, best chance to change her life.
Lama stepped across the landing and made for the stairs.
As she passed him, the old magn stirred, and spoke.
"Vadi..?"
Lama held back an impulse to laugh at the irony.
"No. Go back to sleep."
"Wait…" The old magn struggled to sit up. "You… who..?" He got a good look at her. "Who are you? You can't be here…"
Lama opened her mouth, ready to concoct some tale.
But this was no yard-child scared for her pet. What chance had she with words?
Indeed, the more they spoke, the more likely others would be alerted.
They glared at each other for a breath. His eyes darted past her, to the summoning bells hanging from the wall at her back.
He started to stand.
Lama stepped forward and pushed him back down on the bench. She put one large hand at the back of his head—his hair was white and thin and cold with sweat—and the other tight across his mouth and nostrils, which she squeezed shut between her thumb and forefinger.
He kicked, trying to stand. His efforts sent the woven coverlet across the landing.
He pummeled her with his small, knobby, dry fists, but she could not feel the blows against her arms and face and chest. Either he was simply weak, or desperation had driven pain away; the result was the same.
Lama clamped down harder, leaning into him, forcing his calves against the bench. The back of Lama's other hand slapped against the cold stone wall.
She pushed into his face.
He gave up punching her and tried to pull her hand away. His fingernails dug into her forearm. They were trimmed and clean in a way Lama's had never been. He managed to pierce her skin.
It didn't matter. She was strong from ten years of hard, physical labor, from toting heavy sacks of soiled tunics and robes, from scrubbing them clean with her bare, cracked, calloused hands. The same hands she would not allow to be prised from around his skull.
She could feel his lips moving against her palm, and the hard, disturbingly intimate pressure of his teeth sliding against her skin.
He tried to bite, but it was barely a challenge for her to keep his jaws from opening wide enough to be effective.
His eyes stared in a mad panic, yellow-white around rheumy irises. Hot tears trickled onto her hand.
Lama looked away.
She noticed a certain frayed rip on the collar of his tunic.
She recognized it.
She'd washed this one's clothes many, many times.
While he slept on his nice thick pad.
While he ate his fine palace servant's meals.
While he waited on the easy demands of the Alwardendyn and their court.
She'd scrubbed his collar.
Worked and sweated and ached to make his clothing soft and clean for his comfort.
So.
Many.
Times.
The old magn's fingers slipped from her arm. Crescents of blood itched and welted on her skin.
His mouth relaxed.
At some point during her bitter internal tirade, the old magn had left the place behind his eyes. They were empty and dry.
Carefully, quietly, she lay him back down.
For the first time, she noticed the lantern on the floor next to the head of the bench, the flame within set low.
Curiosity was served.
Lama trembled.
Her guts spasmed and threatened to defy her. She noticed her own face was wet with tears.
Her hand.
It was wet, too.
She wiped it dry on her coat. She wiped her face on a sleeve, and then her hands again.
Piss dripped off the old magn's dangling bare heel and trickled across the floor.
Lama stepped to her left to avoid it.
As before, there was no sound save her own breath and blood.
Everything was silent.
And still.
Time to move.
Sot
Vadi tore the room apart as Sot, still naked, sat cross-legged on the bed and watched her. She seemed close to panic.
He knew the feeling. Still, he tried to keep his tone light.
"Vadi. Your key has to be here somewhere. Maybe slow down."
She picked up an old tunic and shook it out. It
wasn't even the one Sot had been wearing.
"You don't understand, Sot," she said. "Glin will punish me. I'm not even supposed to be here… I had to promise Tak half my pay for the next hatala to get him to cover for me… such things aren't done, but I was so pleased you and Lama wanted to see me, but… don't you see?"
Sot did not have to feign surprise. "Aw, you didn't need to do that. We would have waited until…"
She had found her own shift and slipped it over her head. "It doesn't matter! Sot, he will beat me! He will punish us both, my mother and me!"
How had she gone from being so drunk, to this? Had fear sobered her so quickly?
"Let's just go through each piece of clothing," he said, "one at a time, and put each one in a new pile, so we don't accidentally hide the key all over again. All right? Let's be careful about it. And slow."
She looked around the room, then shook her head. "No… no, I can't waste any more time. I should just ask Lama. I'll go out to the latrine, and, and, just ask her." Her eyes were wide; her sudden smile, wild. "She probably took it with her by accident. It makes sense."
That would not do.
Sot got off the bed so quickly, he nearly pushed the sleeping pad off its frame. His naked pink bulk dominated the space between the door at his back and Vadi before him.
"Let's just wait for her to come back."
She shook her head. "I cannot wait, Sot. I'm too upset. I need to know."
As Vadi went for the door, Sot said, "Let's have a drink."
It happened in a blink. So quickly. Almost all at once.
Sot reached for the jug of essa as he pivoted toward her.
He expected the fired clay jug would be much heavier. Had they really had so much, that it was so light?
Overcompensating, his arm swung up with a force equal to expectation.
The thick jug broke against the side of Vadi's head. What essa was left sprayed everywhere.
Vadi crumpled to the floor.
Sot wiped his face with his free hand as he bent to help Vadi back to her feet. "I am so sorry!" He was genuinely appalled. "I didn't—"
Vadi's eyes were closed. Essa soaked her hair; it was matted on the side of her head.
Sot shook his head and grinned. "I said we should wait. Let's get you on the bed."
Kneeling, he got an arm under her shoulders and lifted her up.
Her head lolled.
Closer, Sot saw it wasn't just essa soaking her scalp. That was blood.
Mostly blood.
And bits of the jug.
At least, he thought those were pieces of the jug.
Sot recoiled, dropping her as he stood.
She didn't move.
A tight, clenching ripple of icy cold ran up Sot's spine.
Lama would be furious.
Chapter Four
Lama
Lama's shaky legs grew steadier with every step up the final flight of stairs. The turmoil in her stomach was nearly calm as she crossed the last, thankfully empty, landing.
She went through the door.
The first thing Lama noticed was the way her sandals sank into the carpet. It was like woven longmoss, and almost as soft where the long fibers tickled her bare toes.
Lama's scowling disapproval of such opulence was automatic, but couldn't be maintained. Once this was over, she might have luxuries such as this. The only real difference between her and Alwarden Deanae was a matter of resources, after all.
The novelty fled as she remembered where she was: the topmost floor of the tallest tower of the palace of Aenikantag, capital city of Aenik, the great unifying land, seat of civilization, home of the Magn, the jewel of wide Kaebrith.
She was so close.
If Vadi's barely humble gossiping was to be believed… and Lama knew her estranged friend well enough to accept it with confidence… there were only two rooms on this floor.
Behind the white door, even now, she presumed, slept the Alwardendyn, Hagahl and Deanae.
Behind the blue door, she hoped, slept the infant Ranith, first and only son of the Alwardendyn and sole heir of the realm.
Her prize.
The blue door was before her.
She put her ear to the cold, painted wood.
All seemed quiet on the other side.
The boy, she knew from Vadi, slept alone in his nursery, in keeping with the custom of teaching young heirs to be well acquainted with loneliness long before they shouldered the often solitary burden of governing.
It was, Lama thought, a cruel tradition that could not serve a child well in the long run.
Tonight, though, it served her perfectly. She could do without any more interruptions.
Nothing left but to enter the nursery.
She opened the door slowly at first, but the cautious dread giving her pause also demanded she face her fate as quickly as possible.
Lama nearly leaped into the nursery. The same lush carpet swallowed her footfalls in feathery softness.
The chamber was bathed in a muted blue light from shrouded glowglobes set in shallow recessed sockets between tapestries that curtained the walls.
She didn't bother to see what scenes they depicted, for on the left wall was a second door. Lama was certain the Alwardendyn slept beyond.
It was all so incredible. So bewilderingly unlikely.
There, in the center of the chamber, was the crib.
Inside the crib, the infant Ranith.
He seemed sound asleep, laying more or less on his stomach, his legs bent at the knees and his swaddled rump pointed at the ceiling. The back of his head sported a wispy tuft of dark hair. There wasn't enough light for Lama to precisely discern the color.
Lama was not prepared for how good he smelled. Tears sprang to her eyes. She trembled and bit her lip.
After all this time, she thought herself beyond this. She didn't expect the sight of him would cause aching melancholy to bloom in her chest and push the breath from her lungs.
She moved to the other side of the crib, where she could see his face. Ranith's eyes were closed. Bubbles of spittle grew and contracted on his tiny mouth.
Sudden, horrible, emptiness yawned in Lama. Her legs buckled. She had to steady herself on the edge of the crib, shaking it slightly.
Ranith made a tiny sound, and slept on.
Lama shook her head.
What was she doing?
What did Ulthus and his master have in store for this tiny, unrealized, but so-perfect kit?
How could she even consider surrendering the boy to them?
She blinked so hard, tears splashed on her hands, which had a white-knuckle grip on the railing of the crib. She sighed through clenched teeth and, with deliberate calm, released it.
Ranith slept on.
Pragmatism cleansed her of her panic.
She could not turn back.
There would be consequences.
Sot—a fool so desperate to protect his own imaginary status he never conceded being second to anyone—readily admitted his fear of Ulthus, whose reputation in the District, when anyone spoke of him at all, was cloaked in whispered dread.
If the agent was such… how much worse his master?
Then there was the dead magn on the landing below to consider.
Lama closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and opened them again.
The magn she had killed.
She had been so focused on reaching Ranith, Lama hadn't examined the ramifications of her actions.
Now, watching little Ranith dream his empty dreams, void of history or experience, all she could think about was history, both set, and to come.
She would have to do something about the body. Something that would delay implicating her and Sot, and Vadi.
There was no more room for doubt. There was only the task, at least right now. Practical considerations, however dark, took charge. If adjustments were to be made, this was not the time or place to plan them. She had to get out of this room, out of the tower, and back to Sot.
With Ranith.
She reached down and so, so gently, took hold of the infant. He squirmed a bit, and gurgled, but he didn't open his eyes.
It was as Lama expected. His weight; his presence; the warmth of his little compact body; everything about him felt perfect and right, cradled there in the crook of her arm.
Lama's voice was barely more than breath. "Quiet, now, little kit."
She reached her free hand into the pocket of her shift and manipulated the protecting cloth away from the treated one Ulthus had provided. She caught a whiff of something she couldn't name: stagnant water, or rotten flowers; sweet and putrid all at once.
Sot had assured Lama that whatever soaked that cloth would not hurt the child, only keep him quiet. An injured or diminished Ranith would not serve Ulthus' master's plan.
She put the cloth just above Ranith's face. His arms waved for a blink, and then, he went limp.
The inside of Lama's forehead showed her the old magn's body sagging in her grasp, and more, how it felt as his struggle and his life abandoned him. A chill passed through her. She quickly withdrew the cloth.
Ranith breathed on, deeply and, apparently, peacefully.
Lama put the cloth back in her pocket. She tucked Ranith between her coat and her bosom and braced him there with her arm.
She glanced at the door on the far side of the room and frowned. The Alwardendyn would wake to a very bad day.
She left the way she came in, crossed the hallway, and went back into the narrow servant's landing, pausing there to listen.
Silence.
Down the stairs, and there, the old magn. The flickering lantern cast haunted shadows across his slack face.
Lama knew what to do.
No one would suspect the old magn had been smothered if they could no longer see the fingertip bruises on his face, or his bloodshot eyes.
Keeping Ranith secure, Lama opened the lantern and, careful to keep the wick aflame as she had nothing with her to light it anew, tipped it against the old magn's pant leg.
His clothes caught fire. The flame quickly climbed up his body. Thick smoke billowed.
Lama backed away quickly. Her improvisation worked perhaps too well. She had to get out of the tower before minor arson became a conflagration.
Light of the Outsider Page 3