Part 6 (1/2)
It's just more ... more that will be taken away.
It was with awe that Esmenet greeted her own image in the mirror, an awe she saw reflected in the admiring eyes of her body-slaves. She was beautiful-as beautiful as Serwe, only dark. Staring at the exotic stranger before her, she could almost believe she was worth what so many had made of her. She could almost believe that all this was real.
Her love of Kellhus clutched at her like the recollection of an onerous trespa.s.s. Yel stroked her cheek; she was always the most matronly of the three, the quickest to sense her afflictions. ”Beautiful,” she cooed, staring at her with unwavering eyes. ”Like G.o.ddess ...”
Esmenet squeezed her hand, then reached down to her own still-flat belly. It is real. It is real.
Shortly before they finished, Fanas.h.i.+la returned with Moenghus and Opsara, his surly wet nurse. Then a small train of kitchen slaves entered with her breakfast, which she took in the sunlit portico while asking Opsara questions about Serwe's son. Unlike her body-slaves, Opsara continually counted counted everything she rendered to her new masters: every step taken, every question answered, every surface scrubbed. Sometimes she fairly seethed with impertinence, but somehow she always managed to fall just short of outright insubordination. Esmenet would have replaced her long ago had she not been so obviously and so fiercely devoted to Moenghus, whom she treated as a fellow captive, an innocent to be s.h.i.+elded from their captors. Sometimes, as he suckled, she would sing songs of unearthly beauty. everything she rendered to her new masters: every step taken, every question answered, every surface scrubbed. Sometimes she fairly seethed with impertinence, but somehow she always managed to fall just short of outright insubordination. Esmenet would have replaced her long ago had she not been so obviously and so fiercely devoted to Moenghus, whom she treated as a fellow captive, an innocent to be s.h.i.+elded from their captors. Sometimes, as he suckled, she would sing songs of unearthly beauty.
Opsara made no secret of her contempt for Yel, Burulan, and Fanas.h.i.+la, who for their part seemed to regard her with general terror, though Fanas.h.i.+la dared sniff at her remarks now and again.
After eating, Esmenet took Moenghus and retreated back to her canopied bed. For a time she simply sat, holding him on her knees, staring into his dumbstruck eyes. She smiled as tiny hands clutched tiny toes.
”I love you, Moenghus,” she cooed. ”Yes I do-I-do-I-do-I-dooo.”
Yet again, it all seemed a dream.
”You'll never be hungry again, my sweet. I promise ... I-do-I-do-I-dooo!”
Moenghus squealed with joy beneath her tickling fingers. She laughed aloud, smirked at Opsara's stern glare, then winked at the beaming faces of her body-slaves. ”Soon you'll have a little brother. Did you know that? Or perhaps a sister ... And I'll call her Serwe, Serwe, just like your mother. just like your mother. I-will-I-will-I-will I-will-I-will-I-will!”
Finally she stood and, returning the babe to Opsara, announced her imminent departure. They fell to their knees, performed their mid-morning Submission-the girls as though it were a beloved game, Opsara as though dragged down by gravel in her limbs.
As Esmenet watched them, her thoughts turned to Achamian for the first time since the garden.
By coincidence she met Werjau, scrolls and tablets bundled in his arms, in the corridors leading to her official chambers. He organized his materials while she mounted the low dais. Her scribal secretaries had already taken their places at her feet, kneeling before the knee-high writing lecterns the Kianene favoured. Holding the Reports in the crook of his left arm, Werjau stood between them some paces distant, in the heart of the tree that decorated the room's crimson carpet. Golden branches curled and forked about his black slippers.
”Two men, Tydonni, were apprehended last night painting Orthodox slogans on the walls of the Indurum Barracks.” Werjau looked to her expectantly. The secretaries scribbled for a furious moment, then their quills fell still.
”What's their station?” she asked.
”Caste-menial.”
As always, such incidents filled her with a reluctant terror-not at what might happen, but at what she might conclude. Why did this residue of defiance persist?
”So they could not read.”
”Apparently they simply painted figures written for them on sc.r.a.ps of parchment. It seems they were paid, though they know not by whom.”
The Nansur, no doubt. More petty vengeance wreaked by Ikurei Conphas.
”Well enough,” she replied. ”Have them flayed and posted.”
The ease with which these words fell from her lips was nothing short of nightmarish. One breath and these men, these piteous fools, would die in torment. A breath that could have been used for anything: a moan of pleasure, a gasp of surprise, a word of mercy ...
This, she understood, was power: the translation of word into fact. She need only speak and the world would be rewritten. Before, her voice could conjure only custom, ragged breaths, and quickened seed. Before, her cries could only forestall affliction and wheedle what small mercies might come. But now her voice had become become that mercy, that affliction. that mercy, that affliction.
Such thoughts made her head swim.
She watched the secretaries record her judgement. She had quickly learned to conceal her astonishment. She found herself yet again holding her left hand, her tattooed hand, to her belly, clutching as though it had become her totem of what was real. The world about her might be a lie, but the child within...A woman knew no greater certainty, even as she feared.
For a moment Esmenet marvelled at the warmth beneath her palm, convinced she felt the flush of divinity. The luxury, the power-these were but trifles compared with the other, inner transformations. Her womb, which had been a hospice to innumerable men, was now a temple. Her intellect, which had been benighted by ignorance and misunderstanding, was becoming a beacon. Her heart, which had been a gutter, was now an altar to him ... to the Warrior-Prophet.
To Kellhus.
”Earl Gothyelk,” Werjau continued, ”was thrice heard cursing our Lord.”
She waved in a gesture of dismissal. ”Next.”
”With all due respect, Consort, I think the matter warrants further scrutiny.”
”Tell me,” Esmenet said testily, ”whom doesn't doesn't Gothyelk curse? As soon as he Gothyelk curse? As soon as he stops stops cursing our Lord and Master, then I shall worry.” Kellhus had warned her about Werjau. The man resented her, he said, both because she was a woman and because of his native pride. But since both she and Werjau knew and accepted his debility, their relations.h.i.+p seemed more that of combative yet repentant siblings than antagonists, as they most surely would have been otherwise. It was strange to work with others knowing that no secrets were safe, that nothing petty could be concealed. It made their interactions with outsiders seem tawdry-even tragic-by comparison. Amongst themselves, they never feared what others thought, because Kellhus made sure they always knew. cursing our Lord and Master, then I shall worry.” Kellhus had warned her about Werjau. The man resented her, he said, both because she was a woman and because of his native pride. But since both she and Werjau knew and accepted his debility, their relations.h.i.+p seemed more that of combative yet repentant siblings than antagonists, as they most surely would have been otherwise. It was strange to work with others knowing that no secrets were safe, that nothing petty could be concealed. It made their interactions with outsiders seem tawdry-even tragic-by comparison. Amongst themselves, they never feared what others thought, because Kellhus made sure they always knew.
She graced the man with an apologetic smile. ”Please continue.”
Werjau nodded, his expression bemused. ”There was another murder among the Ainoni. One Aspa Memk.u.mri, a client of Lord Uranyanka.”
”The Scarlet Spires?”
”Our source insists this is the case.”
”Our source ... you mean Neberenes.” When Werjau nodded in a.s.sent, she said, ”Bring him to me tomorrow ... discreetly. We need to know precisely what they're doing. In the meantime, I will speak to our Lord and Master.”
The flaxen-haired Nascenti marked something on his wax tablet, then continued. ”Earl Hulwarga was observed performing a banned rite.”
”Irrelevant,” she said. ”Our Lord does not begrudge the faithful their superst.i.tions. A strong faith does not fear for its principles, Werjau. Especially when the believers are Thunyeri.”
Another switch of his stylus, mirrored by those of the secretaries.
The man moved to the next item, this time without looking up. ”The Warrior-Prophet's new Vizier,” he said tonelessly, ”was heard screaming in his chambers.”
Esmenet's breath caught. ”What,” she asked carefully, ”was he screaming?”
”No one knows.”
Thoughts of Achamian always came as small calamities.
”I will deal with this personally ... Understood?”
”Understood, Consort.”
”Is there anything else?”
”Just the Lists.”