City of Bones

by Martha Wells

  One of the lictors pushed Khat further into the room. He heard the door close, and the hair on his arms stood straight up. He knew what the pool was for. Patricians were usually strangled with silk, citizens were shot, noncitizens were hanged. Drowning was for foreigners and the worst sort of lower-tier criminals.

  The lictors were pushing him forward. Khat got one glance over his shoulder and saw Saret stripping off his robe, leaving himself clad in trousers and a wide leather belt. Now he knew who the executioner was. He planted his feet, but the shove from behind came too quickly, and he went over the side into the pool.

  The water was unexpectedly cold, as if it came straight from Charisat's artesian spring and was never warmed by passing through miles of pipes and cisterns. Some Patricians would pay any amount of minted gold for water this cool, and the Heir was wasting it by drowning people in it.

  Khat went for the opposite side of the pool, thrashing toward it without bothering to find footing on the bottom. Behind him he heard a splash and saw the displaced water slop out onto the tiles, and knew he wasn't going to make it. He twisted around, throwing a punch, and caught the unprepared Saret just above the jaw. The man jerked his head back with a snarl of angry outrage, as if the idea of resistance had never occurred to him.

  The guard avoided the next blow that would have smashed his already injured nose and surged forward with astonishing quickness. Khat threw himself backward. The water dragged at his clothes, and he only managed half the distance he needed; the guard caught him around the waist and pulled him under.

  Khat's back bumped against the bottom of the pool. Saret kept his face well twisted away, preventing Khat from going for his eyes or throat. He clawed at the back of the guard's head, but there was nothing on the shaven scalp he could get a grip on. He had a sudden realization how the man had lost the outer flesh of his ears; if there had been anything left he would have torn it off in that moment. He had managed to get one breath before going under and had no idea how long it would last. Logic and the pressure building in his lungs and behind his eyes said not long at all.

  The struggling was lifting them off the bottom, giving Khat a little more freedom of movement. Then Saret tried to trap Khat's legs between his, stupidly leaving himself vulnerable, and Khat jerked his knee up. The guard twisted away from him, but Khat caught a blow to the stomach that knocked the last of his air out.

  He hit the surface, coughing up water and choking. He was near the edge and grabbed onto the tiled rim to support himself. His eyes stung, and the water had burned a trail through his nose and throat and down into his lungs. He could try to drag himself out of the pool, but there was no way he could move quickly enough to avoid the lictors waiting to throw him back in.

  Saret had broken the surface about half the pool's width away, and now spit out some water and smiled at him. Khat showed teeth back at him and had the feeling the man understood the gesture perfectly.

  The two lictors had been joined by a man wearing the gilded robes and gold skullcap of a palace steward. He looked faintly disapproving, but not enough to give Khat any hope.

  Clearing his throat, the steward announced to the room at large, "The Great Lady has decided she will be unable to attend. She says to finish him."

  "If you can," one of the lictors added. His companion laughed and asked him if he wanted to place a wager on the outcome.

  Oh, fine, Khat thought, sagging against the pool's edge. That first round Saret had only been playing with him. And you would think she could at least bother to come down here and watch me be murdered. He hated to think how she disposed of the prisoners she didn't sleep with.

  Saret came toward him again, stalking him through the chest-deep water. The guard was somewhat red-faced from anger at the two lictors, who were still making loud speculations on the outcome. The steward evidently decided he had discharged his duty and beat a hasty retreat, and one of the lictors carefully locked the door after him, still laughing with his companion.

  Khat slid away along the side of the pool. One advantage the round contour gave him was that he couldn't be cornered. The guard dived toward him, and Khat pushed off from the side and flung himself out of reach.

  Saret repeated this maneuver a few times, trying for him again and barely missing, grinning all the while. Khat shook his dripping hair back out of his face; he felt like he had lead weights tied to his feet and knew the game couldn't go on much longer. His opponent was overconfident; that was one point in his favor. Of course, he thought, avoiding a grab by such a bare margin he felt the man's blunt fingers scrape his ribs, he has every reason to be overconfident.

  The lictors had been calling out advice and suggestions the entire time, which Khat was no longer bothering to listen to. But now one of them called out something that made Saret jerk around and glare back up at them. Khat took the opening without hesitation.

  In an instant he was on the bigger man, arm around his throat, trying to get the leverage to crush his windpipe. The guard lifted his feet, taking them both under water, which Khat had expected. Then the man rolled over forward, ending up on top and making Khat lose his grip, which he hadn't expected at all. Before he could thrash away the guard was standing, feet braced on the bottom of the pool, with one arm wrapped around Khat's waist and the other on the back of his neck.

  Khat couldn't break that grip, couldn't reach Saret's face, or anything vital. His head was pounding, his lungs at the bursting point. A black wave came in at the edges of his vision as he clawed at the arms holding him, to no effect.

  Then suddenly his head broke the surface. Khat thrashed around helplessly. Blindly he found the side of the pool and collapsed on it, letting it support him and coughing up far too much water. Limp and helpless and barely hanging on to the slippery tiles, he drew in a long shuddering breath. He didn't care if the guard came at him again; for this blessed moment he had air.

  Gradually the ominous quiet penetrated. No commentary from the lictors, no splashing from his executioner. Khat lifted his head. He looked behind him first, to see if Saret was waiting for him, and saw the man floating facedown, his arms trailing limply, supported only by the water.

  He frowned, trying to connect it with his last clear memory, and finally shook his head. He couldn't have done it. He saw the two lictors sprawled on the floor near the door, one still as death, the other making a feeble attempt to move. It was then he noticed Shiskan son Karadon, sitting on her heels beside the pool not five feet away from him.

  She was wearing a man's loose shirt and pants, all in black, with a mantle over it. Her sleeves were wet up to the shoulders, but the rest of her seemed dry enough. Her painrod was hanging from her belt, but he could see she had recently put it to good use. She was frowning a little, watching him with a detached concern.

  Khat said, "Thank you," and winced. His voice was a weak croak.

  She shrugged one shoulder, as if it wasn't worth mentioning, and said, "Constans wants you to come and talk to him. He says it's the least you can do."

  Khat considered the request. With Riathen and Seul, the supposedly sane Warders, bent on letting the Inhabitants back into the world, maybe it was time to listen to what the mad Warders had to say. He said, "He's right."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shiskan son Karadon led Khat to a passage below the execution room, reached by a narrow stair behind an unobtrusive little door in the corridor. At first it was pitch dark, and Shiskan found her way unerringly while he guided himself with one hand on the rough-cut stone of the wall. This was unnerving, but he could tell they were heading away from the palace, toward the outer wall. Finally he detected a graying of the velvet blackness at the end of the passage, and not much later the curved ceiling turned into a stone lattice, with plants and vines twisting through it and allowing an occasional glimpse of the starry sky. They were coming out into one of the garden squares on the inner tierward side of the palace.

  Shiskan paused to unlock an iron gate, and the heavy, sweet f
ragrance of flowering plants and newly watered foliage drifted in on the warm air. The lock gave way, and she pushed the gate open a little and turned to face him. She said, "Constans is in the Citadel of the Winds, with the Elector."

  "I thought the Elector was supposed to be holding part of the palace," Khat said. His voice was still hoarse from the near-drowning, and hard to recognize as his own.

  "So does everyone else." She glanced back down the passage, not nervously, but with that cool control that was so impenetrable and so annoying. "I have to stay here until sunrise at least. If they don't see any of us, they may suspect he isn't here anymore."

  She stood, waiting for him to step out past her and disappear.

  Khat found himself reluctant to go, and asked, "Why are you with Constans?"

  She didn't seem to find the question odd. "I had Warder talent, and I needed teaching."

  "Riathen said he offered to teach you."

  Her eyes were dark and serious, despite the irony in her voice. "I've seen how he's 'taught' Elen. She had the potential to be a powerful Warder, but he's kept her where he wants her. Aristai will let me go as far as I can, farther than I should go, probably. Power is everything to us. Whichever Master we follow, whether we let ourselves fall into madness or whether we hold on to sanity by lying to ourselves about our strength, power is everything. Even to Elen."

  "You're not mad."

  "Not yet." Shiskan pushed the gate open further and stepped out, surveying the lush garden. A fountain bubbled nearby, and the wind stirred leaves, but that was the only sound. "Just go to the Citadel's gate. They'll let you in."

  Khat followed, knowing he wasn't going to understand her, no matter how drawn he was to her. "I don't remember saying I'd go there. If they let me in, will they let me out again?"

  She glanced at him, one brow raised. "That's a chance everyone takes when they go there. Why should you be any different?"

  "I could just leave, too," he said.

  "You could."

  The least she could have done was acted as if she gave a damn, Khat thought now. He was perched on top of a garden wall, in the deep shadow of an overhanging persimmon tree. Across the wide avenue before him was the gate and front walls of the Citadel of the Winds.

  At close range it was still beautiful, even if it had been meant for a prison. Slabs of polished obsidian interlocking in cross and double-cross patterns formed high walls that were slanted back dramatically. Above them the shape of the dome loomed heavy and overpowering in the darkness. The gate was set deep within the sloping wall directly in front of him, a fantastically sculpted edifice of metal with silver bosses and a large rock demon face in the center.

  Khat had been hoping that Constans would give in to impatience, and come out. Now not much of the night was left, and Khat had gradually faced the realization that he really was going to have to go in.

  His clothes were still damp, though he was no longer leaving a dripping trail on the sand-dusted stone. He had taken a knife from the dead lictor, not that being armed did more than convey a false sense of security. He shifted uneasily and swore under his breath, caught between frustration and self-pity.

  The last time his fortune had been truly told, the woman had seen betrayal, of him and by him. He had had the former in plenty, but this was the first time he had really considered the latter.

  Sonet Riathen had earned and asked for this betrayal. Gandin Riat was another story. Khat would have helped that young Warder if he could, but he hadn't been competent to get himself out of the Heir's clutches without Shiskan's help; there was simply no way he could free Gandin. But cooperating with Constans would be a betrayal of Elen as well, and it was that he minded. But if he was going to get her free of Riathen and Seul, it was going to be this way. He just wished he knew whether Elen would forgive him for it.

  He did have another option. He could walk away.

  If the Waste was all that was left of the world after the Inhabitants were done with it again, what did that matter to him? He could survive the Waste, even if stretched out to destroy the Last Sea and all the lowland desert cities. And if what he suspected was true, then the reason the Warders couldn't soul-read him, the reason the Inhabitant hadn't been able to tear his mind open the way it had Gandin's, was because the Mage-Creators of the kris had intended it that way. The Inhabitants were sure to attack the Enclave anyway, but that was none of his concern either.

  Khat let out his breath, resigned. You are just no good at lying to yourself. To everyone else, yes, but not to yourself. He hopped down off the wall, wiped his sweaty palms off on his damp shirttail, and crossed the avenue.

  The sloping walls formed a corridor, the gate set deep within it and stretching up to nearly half their height. It didn't open by itself as he approached, the way gates of similar places in stories always did, when the brainless hero walked up to them to be slaughtered.

  Khat banged on the metal panel, and after a short time the right half swung inward. There was no one behind it, which was in keeping with the stories, but the jerkiness of its motion suggested a pulley system, which was only natural on a gate so heavy.

  The effort it took to step inside was surprising.

  The entrance court was bare of plants or trees, floored with dark tile, with two long shallow reflecting pools framing a wide straight path up to the entrance. Ornamental water notwithstanding, the day's heat would make it a little piece of the Waste, but at night the effect was cool and serene. There was no carving and no paint on the facade, but the way the blocks were set together, and the clean lines and sharp angles of the ribbed projections that ran vertically up the walls, gave it a sere, bleak beauty all its own. Windows covered by stone lattices studded the front, and the door was framed by half a dozen interlocking pointed arches.

  Khat sensed movement up on the wall behind him, and the gate began to close. The voice of reason inside his head suggested bolting back out, but he started toward the entrance instead.

  The great doors stood open, and he stopped just inside. The entry hall was in the same massive scale as everything else, with a series of hallways leading off from either side. It was lit by too few bronze hanging lamps, bright spots in the dimness, and the draft was almost cool.

  At first the entryway was unoccupied; then dark shapes grew out of the shadows, forming into the robed figures of several of Constans's outlaw Warders.

  Khat expected to be thrown up against the wall and searched and disarmed, but no one moved. He folded his arms. "So where's the old man?"

  There was a brief stirring, maybe of amusement. "This way." One shadow separated from the group and moved up the hall into the darkness ahead.

  The place had been lit for Warder eyes, making it dim and secretive. The entry hall opened into a central well, full of the sound of trickling water. Wide stairs curved up around a heavy column of dark stone, and water flowed down it in flickering streams, collecting in a pool at its base. His guide started up the steps, and Khat followed, keeping a distance between them. Khat knew he wasn't as afraid as he should be; he was too numb. And too stupid, he thought. I can't believe you did this. He shouldn't have come here, but it was too late now.

  At this distance, he could see there were thousands of little faces carved into the column, with water running out of their open mouths and eyes. Hard to tell what the artisan had intended in this bad light, but the effect was horrific. The cool air was coming down the shaft as well. There was probably a wind tower arrangement in the dome, drawing the air down inside this column to be cooled by the running water.

  They went up past multiple landings, gorgeous dark halls leading off into shadowy depths. There were voices in the distance, some raised in heated discussion.

  Finally his guide turned off at a landing and into another hall. Waiting in it, under the pool of light from a lamp stand, were three Imperial lictors with high-ranking chains of office, and two men in the gold robes of court functionaries.

  As Khat drew even with them,
one of the lictors stepped swiftly forward and grabbed his arm above the elbow. Khat was short on sleep but too nervous to be slow; the man froze when he noticed the knife point just below his chin. The Warder turned back, frowning. Khat got a good look at him for the first time in the glow of the lamp. He was a young man, and veilless, with dark skin and Patrician features, and he didn't look any more insane than anyone else in the corridor. He said, "Let him alone, gentlemen. My master would not be pleased at a brawl in his house."

  The lictor pulled away, and Khat let him, stepping back himself and slowly returning his knife to its makeshift sheath. The lictor was an older man, the skin around his eyes lined and gray even in the poor light. His chain of rank proclaimed him an archcommander, the highest rank Khat had ever seen before, if he was reading it correctly. The lictor demanded, "Who is he? Why is he here?"

  The Warder said only, "I'm not here to answer your questions," and turned again down the corridor. Khat followed, keeping a wary eye on the other Patricians.

  Tall doors opened into a large room, most of which was lost in darkness. Three lamps were suspended from the sculpted ceiling near the room's center, and by their wan light Khat could see a low table, piled with papers and other debris, and bronze cabinets of books back against the right-hand wall. Three large windows studded the far wall, looking down on the flickering lights of the other Patrician manses. In the distance was the tall, glowing column of the palace itself. Each window had a life-sized carving of a rock demon perched above it, the narrow eyes alive with hate, vestigial wings furled and fangs barred, all eerily lifelike under the warm light of the hanging lamps.

  Aristai Constans was standing at one of the windows, his dark mantle more threadbare and raglike than ever. The stone claws of the rock demon were gripping the top of the casement over his head, and the wan light struck highlights off the fangs. It was so realistically carved Khat wouldn't have liked to stand beneath it.