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‘Almost certainly.’
Twelve or fourteen bearers, six feet square of fine silk. A very expensive means of transport. And remarkably impractical, given the width of some of the city’s streets. Lucky for the owner that House Emmereth wasn’t in the habit of throwing parties. They’d have to demolish several buildings to get it down Felling Street.
They followed the litter into the courtyard of the House of Silver. It was not large, as such places went, neat and square, without porticoes or columns but faced and roofed entirely in silver, tarnished and murky, mottled with rainbows, light and reflections shifting. A dream of water in the desert. A dream of heat haze. The blurred vision of dusty light. The blazing red of the litter standing before it cast it in soft crimson, beating like a heart.
‘Lady Amdelle.’ Orhan gave a delicate half bow.
‘Orhan.’ Celyse Amdelle, wife of the Lord of the High West, opened her golden-brown eyes very wide. ‘How lovely. I really hadn’t thought you’d be here. And arriving at just the same time.’
Orhan took his sister’s arm and they walked towards the open doorway. Amlis disappeared into the servants’ quarters; the other woman in the litter, presumably an insignificant Amdelle girl Celyse was trying to marry off, followed them in silence, five paces behind. Celyse walked slowly, her body very erect to support the weight of a headdress of silver wire and tiny mirrors that chimed and glittered as she moved.
‘And how’s your dear wife?’ asked Celyse sweetly. ‘Not accompanying you? She doesn’t seem to go out so much these days. The last time I saw her, she looked horribly tired. Nothing wrong, I trust?’
‘She’s already here. She’s had a bit of a cold, that’s all.’
‘Oh! What a shame for her. I was worried it was something more than that.’
‘She’s neither pregnant nor dying, if that’s what you’re after. I’d tell you if she were.’
‘Of course you would. So unfortunate for you, Orhan. You make a marriage of convenience that’s really anything but.’
Orhan sighed. Poor Bil. ‘Your own marriage, of course, being so much more successful.’
‘Oh, I’d say it probably is.’ Celyse smoothed her dress with long fingers. ‘I get some happiness out of mine, at least.’
Coloured light broke onto them as they entered the inner courtyard of the House of Silver. A fire burned in the centre of the court, enclosed in a great framework of multi-coloured silks that cast shifting patterns of light over the people around it.
‘Ahhh,’ Celyse said with real pleasure, ‘it’s even prettier than my litter.’ The mirrors of her headdress shone and danced, swirling the colours around her like a cloak. Tasteless, but undeniably striking. She must have found out about it in advance and themed her entire outfit accordingly.
‘Something of a fire risk, I’d have thought,’ Orhan muttered.
Celyse laughed. ‘Eloise has hired a mage, of course, to control it.’
Orhan stared at her. ‘She’s hired a magician to stop her party piece burning down?’
‘You make him sound like a cheap conjuror. He works with the craftsman who makes the things, keeping them fire-safe, protecting them. Made my litter: it has bindings in it, to stop it catching if a candle tips. He did a demonstration before I bought it. Eloise is quite charmed by him, she’s thinking of keeping him.’
The things the high families felt the need to waste money on … Orhan gazed around the courtyard, looking out for friends and enemies. Saw Bil almost immediately, sitting on a low bench on the other side of the court, near the firebox, talking to a young woman with fair hair and a pale face. He ought to at least tell her he was there. He wandered over to her, was half surprised to see her look almost pleased to see him.
‘Orhan,’ Bil said with a bright smile. ‘What a surprise. Landra: my husband, Lord Orhan Emmereth, Lord of the Rising Sun. Orhan: Lady Landra Relast. Her father is lord of a small rock somewhere in the far east. She only arrived here two days ago. I’ve promised to show her around a bit.’
The woman nodded her head in greeting and they exchanged pleasantries. No, she’d only been here a few days, not seen much of the city yet. Yes, the Great Temple was indeed beautiful, she’d seen that. No, she had no particular purpose being here. Just come to … nenenthelesal? ‘Get away from things’? Was that the right word?
Ah, indeed, Sorlost the Golden, city of dreaming, the greatest city on the face of the earth, where people came to wander around aimlessly, gawp, point, laugh!
Her Literan was poor, heavily accented with the soft bell chimes of Pernish. She was young, only in her mid-twenties, but had a hard, tired look to her. Sorrowful. Orhan had to admire the tact with which she readjusted her face after involuntarily glancing at Bil and then back to him.
Bil is a lovely creature, he thought sadly. If you look beyond the skin. She is almost beautiful. Almost desirable. The cruelty in people’s eyes, when they look at her and me. Do I love her despite it? Desire her because of it? Did I marry her for money? Were we plighted at birth? The question was so obvious, there in every eye that looked at them together. Should have it carved on her tomb.
She was dressed exquisitely, as always, in a deep blue gown with a mesh of diamonds in her red hair. Her white arms were bare and painted with spiralling patterns of gold flowers; she wore little gold bells on her wrists that tinkled prettily as she moved her hands. Fingernails an inch long, gilded and studded with pearls.
Yes, she was almost beautiful. Apart from the scars. The gold paint swirled over them, like cracking mud or leprosy. Eruptions of skin. Molten wounds.
If she was Lord Rhyl’s wife, the fashion would be for long sleeves and veils and high necks to cover. Or perhaps women would wear false scars, in clay and paint. All the women of Sorlost would copy every detail of the Nithque’s wife’s costume. But Lady Bilale Emmereth’s husband had no power, thus she must be grotesque and pretend she didn’t care.
A girl approached with a tray of cups. Orhan took one. Cold wine, mixed with snow. Very refreshing in the heat of the fire. More entirely pointless magery: it must have cost a fortune to transport and store the snow and keep it from melting even when being served. House Verneth was undeniably trying to prove something to someone tonight. Eloise would be melting down gold thalers in the candle flames by midnight, the way things were going. There was a story about an Imperial banquet where the food had been crushed gemstones, mixed with wine and honey to make a thick paste and shaped to resemble fruit, meat, bread. The Emperor had insisted his guests eat their fill, gorging themselves on rubies and diamonds until their guts ached and their mouths were cut and running with blood. The story embodied Sorlost: the great houses shat gold and pissed gems. In the version of the tale Orhan’s nurse had told him as a child, the night-soil men had scraped clean the sewers and built themselves great palaces of marble and cedar wood.
Bil fluttered away to stand in the coterie of Eloise Verneth. His sister and her grotesque headdress seemed to have disappeared. The sad-eyed young woman sat silent, watching the shifting colours of the fire-box dance. Orhan sat beside her for a while. The silks fluttered and swirled, alive, spelling out secret words. He thought of the knife-fighter, gleaming black skin and golden hair, the way his eyes had stared as he thrust his blade, the panting breath as he watched his opponent die. The colours beat in his vision, red, green, yellow, blue, red, green, yellow, blue, red, green, yellow, blue, red …
‘Mesmeric, isn’t it?’
Orhan turned round, startled. The handsome, hawk-nosed face of Darath Vorley looked down at him.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No … no …’ His mouth tasted dry. The wine was mildly dosed with hatha syrup, he realized, to enhance the effect of the fire and the coloured silks. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting gazing at it. The young woman whose father was lord of a small rock had gone.
Lord Vorley, Lord of All that Flowers and Fades, seated himself beside him and stretched out his legs. Coloured light danced on his copper-black skin.
‘Please don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me here,’ Orhan said after a while. ‘It’s getting repetitive. I’m surprised to see myself here, I don’t need constant reminding of it.’
‘Offended might be a better word. I had a party myself a little while ago. To my inconsolable grief, you didn’t attend.’
‘I was busy.’ Coloured light danced in Darath’s gold-black hair.
Darath waved down a passing servant and relieved him of a tray of candied dates. ‘Want one? Lovely and fat and sticky looking.’
‘I’m fine.’ Orhan shook his head, trying to clear it. Really didn’t need this right now. Shouldn’t have come. Really shouldn’t have come.
‘You always are. Bloodless bastard.’ Darath smiled at him lazily, honey on his lips. ‘So. Been seeing a lot of old Tam, haven’t you? I’ve noticed. So have others.’ He leaned closer, his breath in Orhan’s ear. Made Orhan shiver. ‘But whatever others might assume, I’ve been making some enquiries. Purely for political reasons, of course, don’t fret yourself. Imperial assassination. Really, Orhan, you have fallen off your pedestal, haven’t you?’
They walked away into a corner of the gardens, where the darkness was dimly illuminated by coloured mage glass globes. Bats called at the very edge of hearing, sad and painful, hunting white moths with glowing wings. Strings of bells hung between yellow rose trees; Orhan brushed one and it sang like a child’s laugh.
‘I want in,’ said Darath.
‘Absolutely and completely not. No. No.’
‘Oh, come on. I know what you’re doing. I can guess why. I might as well be involved already, frankly. I just need you to tell me when and how.’
‘Ask your spies, then. Or better yet, ask mine. They’re so badly paid they’ll tell you anything for a gold talent.’
‘A talent? My dear Lord Emmereth, they charged six dhol the last time I asked.’
‘For six dhol, I’m not sure you should trust a word they said. At that price, I’ve probably ordered them to tell you a pack of lies then throw the money to the nearest beggar.’
‘Ah, but they give me special rates. They all know me so well, after all.’ Their eyes met for a moment, like they were going to start really arguing. Ah, Darath. Moths’ wings flickering around his hair. ‘You don’t want me in. Fine. But I’ll find out. I might even be forced to take steps against you. Tell someone.’
Pause. Orhan’s heart pounding. You wouldn’t, he thought. You couldn’t. Even after everything. No. Please.
‘God’s knives. I’m sorry.’ Darath lowered his gaze from Orhan’s face. Read things there Orhan wasn’t sure he wanted him to see. You’re sorry. I’m sorry too. ‘I didn’t mean that. But I want in. In. Come on. I can help you. You know I can. God’s knives, you can trust me, Orhan.’ He looked vaguely embarrassed. ‘Despite what I just said.’
‘I’m tired. This isn’t exactly a private place to be talking. Neither of us is exactly sober. I really don’t want to do this now.’
‘I’ll contribute to the funding, even. You can’t ask fairer than that. Don’t tell me you couldn’t do with some financial support here. You’re poor and Tam’s a skinflint.’
This is turning into a farce, thought Orhan. Change the date, change the cast list, get financial contributions towards it like it’s a family wedding and the bride’s parents need help with the cost of the food. Shall we just change the target too? It’s in motion, Darath. It’s all in motion and you want to turn everything upside down because you’re bored and nosey and—
He sighed heavily. Knowing he was making a mistake. But whatever way he went, he’d regret it. Why did you have to find out, Darath? You just complicate bloody everything. And it’s dangerous. Orhan sipped his drink and felt the hatha further clouding his mind. Shouldn’t have come. If he hadn’t come …
‘Give me a few days to think about it. Then we’ll talk again.’
‘Think about it? I know what you’re doing and in a few days I’ll know when and how. I’ll wager you three thalers I’ll know when and how, in fact. And you’re hardly going to think about it and say no, are you? Unless you’ve sunk so low you’re planning on knifing me too to keep me from talking.’
Orhan shuddered. Don’t say that. Not … not like that. Not from you to me. You put it so crudely. There are so many reasons. You know some of them. We used to talk about this, after all. But I don’t want to put it on you. Tam can stomach the guilt. Live with it. But not you.
‘A few days, Darath.’ He sighed again and chewed a candied date. Sticky and cloying in his mouth. We eat sweets and drink wine and plan murder in the dark. The pinnacle of urban sophistication. The great cities are built on this. Barbarians come with fire and the sword, yelling obscenities; we smile and sip a drink and laugh as we discuss killing a man.
‘A few days. I’ll tell you everything in a few days. Once things are settled. Not here.’
Darath smiled. ‘Three thalers says I find out before you tell me.’
We are incapable of taking anything seriously, Orhan thought sadly. So inured to everything, we’ve forgotten a world exists beyond our walls. Darath waved down a servant to get them another drink. Bil flitted past in a tinkle of bells, laughing.
He sipped his wine again, felt lumps and spat. A moth had blundered into his goblet and drowned there. A clear sign he needed to go home.
‘Suit yourself.’ Darath laughed, drank, looked down and fished an insect out of his own cup. ‘This really wasn’t the best place to sit, you know. All your plans thought through?’ He licked his fingers. ‘I’m going on to Faleha’s, myself. I’ll kiss something pretty for you.’
Always knew how to make him hurt.
Chapter Five (#ulink_c860fdbc-6c14-532d-9110-f0bc8ec5bb20)
A few days later.
Bil was already seated at the table in the breakfast room, eating flatbread topped with almonds and honey. She smiled at Orhan as he joined her. Breadcrumbs and beads of honey stuck to the scar tissue erupting from the corner of her mouth. Orhan wondered sometimes if he would ever cease to notice.
The room opened onto the east gardens, one wall a sweet-wood trellis overgrown with jasmine. The flowers were out, the scent almost overpowering. The thick mass of their leaves cast a green tinge to the light, making the room seem smaller and more elegant than it really was, hiding the scuffed floor and the old damp stain on the wall. A pleasant room. Orhan helped himself to an apple from a silver bowl in the centre of the table, indicated to the waiting servant girl to bring him some bread. The perfume of the jasmine made the food taste almost flowery. He drank a cup of water drawn from the well in the corner of the garden, a coppery tang to it that lingered in the mouth.
Bil finished eating and dabbed her mouth with a silk napkin. The honey smeared across her scars, gleaming slightly, as though she were dusted with pollen or powdered gold. She wore a loose yellow dress, embroidered with a design of peacock feathers in dark blue and green. Like a hundred little eyes looking at him.
‘I need to tell.’ She looked at him curiously, with a mixture of eagerness and fear. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’ Orhan stared back at her. ‘You’re sure?’ he said at last. His heart beating fast.
‘As sure as I can be, this early.’
‘How early?’
‘Three months, maybe. It won’t be born until well into next year. Around the Emperor’s birthday, perhaps, Janush thinks.’
One serving girl present, standing inconspicuously in the corner, watching her mistress with big dark eyes. She presumably knew most of Bil’s doings, and the nature of his marriage and his and his wife’s lives was hardly a secret. But no reason to allow the household too much free rein. A man must have some dignity, in his own home. Orhan waved her away sharply and she retreated beyond the green walls of the jasmine. Sat back in his chair and smiled warmly at Bil.
‘Well done, Bilale,’ he said loudly, addressing the green leaves of the jasmine. ‘An Emmereth heir.’
‘You’re pleased? Truly?’ Bil came over and stood next to him, her face flushed and bright.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. ‘Of course I’m pleased.’ He looked at her gently. Why else did I marry you? his eyes said to her, cool and honest. Why else would I marry at all, yet alone you? The fact that you’re rich was useful, of course, but we both know what this marriage is about. Bil got a title that reopened doors closed to her by her disfigurement. He got a wife who expected nothing more from him than his name, and who would magic him up an heir with enough discretion no one would ever know where it came from.
‘We should go to the Temple,’ Bil said. ‘Give thanks. It’s a child sacrifice tonight, so it’s propitious.’
Orhan frowned. ‘Is it? Yes, of course, I suppose it must be. If you want, then.’ If he was going to do this, he’d have to do it properly, no half measures. A child would certainly merit a public show of prayers, and probably a generous offering. He’d need to find the money for a name day feast too, later. An expensive business, children.
‘I’ll go and change,’ he said, for need of something to say. He was aware of Bil looking at him, seeing his thoughts in his face. It was odd, how well in some ways she knew him. ‘You’ve got some honey around your mouth, you should probably wash it off.’
‘Janush says I should eat honey every day. To make the baby sweet-tempered.’ She sounded happy. She wants this baby, Orhan realized. She wants to be a mother and to have a child. She has wanted this for a long time now. She knew him, but he knew so little about her.
They travelled to the Temple in a litter, reclining uncomfortably close to each other behind thin yellow curtains that showed the city beyond like flies in amber, Amlis and Sterne walking before them in the soft blue livery of House Emmereth, knives drawn to clear their path. Sterne’s face was fixed and blank. So my parents once travelled, Orhan thought, to give thanks for my birth. So my father’s parents, before that. The same streets, the same turnings in the road, old bricks and old stone, old as his family were old, old as Sorlost itself. It gave him an odd kind of start to realize how much he was fulfilling the demands of his history, and how much he was betraying it. The child would be an Emmereth in name, if not in blood, he thought. And what does blood matter? What matters is that it will be strong, and healthy, and born at all. He eyed the ripples of muscle across Sterne’s back. Strong …
They came down the Street of Flowers and turned into Grey Square. In itself unimpressive, not large, its flagstones worn. Not even marble, just cheap soft grey stuff that turned greenish in the rain. Cracked and blackened in places, as though they had once been subject to intense heat. A mighty duel was once fought there between two great magelords, grandmothers told their grandchildren, so powerful the stones were melted in the fire of their hate. But the names and the reasons varied, and the story had no basis in truth that Orhan could ever find. The stones were cracked and blackened simply because the square was old. The marketplace and meeting place of a desert village, untouched since the first days of Sorlost. In itself unimpressive, not large, its flagstones worn.
But behind it stood the Great Temple. It too was old. Not old like the square was old, but old like the stars are old. Old like the sea is old. Old like the cut of a knife.
It had stood before Sorlost was a village. It had stood before the desert dried. It had been built by gods, by demons, by dead men quarrying stone with their bare hands. It was vast and terrible, and once a man stared at it he could not stop staring. It gaped like a diseased wound in the centre of the city, holy and blind. If a man left Sorlost for a while, he saw it every night in his dreams.
The first inhabitants of Sorlost had built it, or found it, or dreamed it into being, and then they had built their marketplace and their houses and their shops around it, as though it was a human thing. Their descendants had taken a village in the desert and built or dreamed it into an empire. Their descendants in turn had lost an empire and retreated into their dreams. But the Temple still stood as it had always stood. It was the most perfect thing in all Sorlost. Perhaps the most perfect thing in all the world.
A square of black marble, in which blood was shed and the living kept alive.
The litter stopped. The square was crowded, people milling around, merchants and shoppers, street sellers offering flowers and cakes and skewers of roast meat, beggars, a mendicant magician pulling green fire from a young boy’s ears, a poet with the hatha sores selling little scrolls of his work. Their arrival attracted a general degree of attention, the fine quality of the litter’s silks and the uniforms of the bearers indicating the wealth and status of its occupants even before Bil’s shimmering gown and jewelled headdress caught the morning sun. She, at least, was recognizable to some of the onlookers. Might have been the subject of poems herself, if they were not too cruel to write.
As they walked towards the Temple, Orhan realized that he had assured his sister only a few days before that Bil was certainly not pregnant. Mildly vexing. She’d be irritated with him, even think he had lied to her. And disappointed, too: at the moment, her snivelling little son was the de facto Emmereth heir. Please let it be a boy, he thought again. A good strong boy with Sterne’s good clean peasant strength.
They mounted the six steps to the doorway of the Temple, so old and worn that they dipped unsteadily in the centre, ground away by the tread of endless, countless feet. The great door was closed – was always closed – but moved easily on its pivots as Orhan pushed. Taller than a man, taller than two men standing one on the other’s shoulders, but narrow, so that only a single man could walk through at one time. It put one in mind of a great rat-trap, or a blade coming down. Black wood, hard as stone, uncarved, unadorned, the grain dark stripes like animal fur, the knots like watching eyes, like the eyes on Bil’s dress. Three long claw marks ran down the door at the height of a man’s head.
The door gave onto a long black tunnel, thin and tall as the door itself. Bright light shone at the end of it. The sensation of walking through the narrow dark was stifling, the high ceiling magnifying the sense of oppression, the dead air above a great weight pressing down. Crushing. Drowning. Eating one alive. It could hardly be a long corridor, perhaps ten paces’ walk, but it seemed very long. Orhan shuddered, felt Bil shudder too behind him, walking very close to him.
This is what it feels like to die, the thin dark corridor whispered, and then they stepped out into the Great Chamber and the light whispered that this is what it feels like to live.
The Great Chamber of the Great Temple was vast. Its walls and ceiling were lined with bronze tiles, making it shimmer and glitter and burn with light, the light as tangible and oppressive as the dark from which they had come. Orhan thought of the firebox at Eloise’s party, of the mirrored facade of the House of Silver, of his sister’s red silk litter: they had shone and danced with fire; this was fire, like being in a fire, like being burned. The floor was black stone, worn like the steps with a thousand years of reverential footsteps. Thousands of candles made the air sweet. They burned in sconces on the walls, on black stone altars, in trailing patterns like dances across the black floor. Hushed voices muttered prayers, the same words repeated over and over. Like birdsong. Like rainfall.
‘Dear Lord, Great Tanis Who Rules All Things, from the fear of life and the fear of death, release us,’ Bil said slowly, bowing her head. Orhan hesitated then took her hand. They walked across the room, their footsteps ringing on the hard floor. A well-dressed young woman kneeling before a small side altar turned and looked at them.
The Lord of the Rising Sun seen publicly holding hands with his wife in the Great Temple. The news would be around the gossip-mongers of the city in the time it took to light a flame.
They approached the High Altar. It was closed off from the rest of the room by a bar of iron that glowed red in the light. Behind this, the High Priestess knelt in prayer. Her black hair hung down around her face, veiling her from prying eyes. A night and a day, she must kneel there, before the evening’s sacrifice. She was still as something carved from stone, the only decorated thing in the Temple. Her eyes fixed on a single lamp that burned deep red like a pool of blood. She looked very small and slight, bent on her knees before the great monolith of the altar stone.
Just visible behind the High Altar was the curtained entrance to the room beyond. The room one did not speak of. The room in which a child would already be lying, waiting to die.
Orhan turned away. Don’t look. It is necessary. But don’t look. God’s great hunger for lives was a mystery of which he and most other educated men did not speak. As a boy he had thought briefly of volunteering, as all children briefly did. The greatest and most sacred choice, his teacher had told him. But he had known, even then, that to choose it would have been somehow wrong, that his teacher and parents would have been outraged if he did. The greatest and most sacred choice, unless someone you knew made it, when it became something else. Something shameful, although he still could not quite say why. A bad thing.
