Part 22 (2/2)

Too late, he remembered her limp.

Of course, she doesn't want to walk. Idiot.

”We'll have to stay in the palace,” she finally said.

Relief washed over him. ”Of course. All right. That's fine.”

Shut up!

Her mouth was pursed, as if she had tasted something bad-or was trying not to laugh at him.

Please, G.o.ds, let it be a bad taste in her mouth.

He was acting like a fool. This was his opportunity to observe details about the palace instead of shambling along, casting covert glances at a girl he barely knew-a girl he'd never have a chance to know. He could trust no one. Not the captives in the slave compound. Not the Pajhit with his lessons on cats and culture. Not this girl who reported everything he said and did-and whose thin lips would curl in disgust if she ever found out what had happened on the s.h.i.+p.

Watch, Keirith. Watch. Observe. Remember.

He s.h.i.+vered as they walked through the empty interrogation chamber; it was one place he never wished to see again. The pillared entrance led to a broad stairway. Beyond it was a huge courtyard, three or four times as wide as the marketplace he had glimpsed that first day. The walls of the palace rose around it, but to his left, he noticed another smaller courtyard. He shrank back when he saw the bearers and their curtained boxes coming through it.

”Are those the Jhevi?”

”Hard to say. They're rich, though. Only important visitors arrive in litters. The merchants use the west gate.” Hircha pointed across the courtyard, but he saw nothing resembling a gate. ”That's the administrative wing,” she said, as she limped slowly down the steps. ”The kitchen and storage rooms are on the ground floor. The one above is for the scribes, the potters, the metalworkers-”

”What are scribes?”

”They keep the accounts. The merchants . . . oh, it's easier if I show you.”

She led him across the courtyard, but instead of going up the steps, she ducked into the dark pa.s.sageway beside them. Light streamed in from the larger entrance at the far end. That must be the gate.

Hircha came to a halt where a long corridor intersected the pa.s.sageway. A steady stream of slaves hurried past with sacks of grain, haunches of meat, bundles of fleece, and hides. The aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted toward him, along with the clamor of contending voices and the sound of something shattering on stone.

”The kitchen,” Hircha said, observing the direction of his gaze.

They darted past the slaves, but when he neared the gate, Hircha grabbed his arm. Reluctantly, he stopped, watching the long line of men and animals waiting to enter the palace.

”You see those men with the donkeys?”

”Donkeys? That's what you call those wooden carts?”

”Nay, the animals with the sacks. If the load is very heavy, the merchants. .h.i.tch the donkeys to carts. The round things on the back of the cart-those are wheels.”

Litters. Kitchen. Donkeys. Wheels. Every strange thing has a name.

Unlike the slave compound, this gate had no doors, although guards stood at attention on either side. The merchants, he noticed, did not use the kitchen corridor, but veered off into another that must parallel it.

Watch. Observe. Remember.

”When a merchant unloads his goods, they're weighed. A scribe writes down the weight of each sack or bundle. It looks like the scratches of a bird's claws to me, but they must know what it means.”

So the Speaker had been a scribe. Imagine being able to record such information so that anyone-well, anyone who could read the bird scratches-understood. You could communicate with people hundreds of miles away.

”Is it always this busy?” he asked. The line of merchants seemed endless.

”Until midday. After that it's too hot to do much of anything.”

”Which way is the city?” From here, he could see only a vast open expanse-fields, perhaps.

”To the south. Through the main gate.”

She turned back toward the central courtyard. After a final hungry look at the gateway, Keirith followed. ”And the adder pit?” he asked.

She waved vaguely in the direction of the north wing. So the adder pit was near the throne room. And the throne room was next to the chamber where he'd met the queen. His excitement grew with each new piece of information. To hide it, he asked, ”Have you always been a translator?”

”Nay. I . . . mostly, I work in the kitchen.”

”That seems a waste.”

”I'm a member of the Zheron's household. He can use me any way he wishes.”

He'd imagined she served the Pajhit. ”The Zheron has a household?”

That closed look came over her face. ”It's too hot to talk out here.”

Obediently, he followed her back toward the priests' wing. ”Do they question all the prisoners in there?”

”The hall of priests,” she said, avoiding a direct answer. ”Say it in Zherosi.”

”Zala di Dozhiistos.”

”Dozhiisti. You change the 'o' to an 'i' for the plural. So if we had two halls, it would be . . .”

”Zali di Dozhiisti.” Keirith grimaced. ”It twists your mouth up something awful,” he said in the tribal tongue.

”Say it in Zherosi.”

He did his best. His best provoked a giggle, which made the failure more bearable.

”You just said, 'You tie my tongue in bad.' ”

”Well, it does tie my tongue in bad.”

He glanced around, but no one was paying them any attention other than his two guards. So he hopped onto the first step and shouted, ”Un.” Then up to the next. ”Bo. Traz. Uat.” By the time he reached ”Iev,” he was panting. He slapped one of the ma.s.sive pillars that supported the roof and jerked his hand back. A splinter was embedded in his forefinger. Carefully, he ran his hand over the pillar. Beneath the russet-colored paint, he could feel the ridges of bark.

”They're made from tree trunks. Can you guess why they're wider at the top than at the bottom?”

Fine observer he was; he hadn't even noticed.

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