Part 6 (2/2)

Kellhus had called on all Men of the Tusk to attend to their va.s.sals and peers-even their betters-so they might report any inconsistencies of appearance or character, anything that might suggest recent subst.i.tution by a skin-spy. The names so volunteered were marked on the Lists. Every morning, dozens if not hundreds of Inrithi were numbered, then marched beneath the all-seeing eyes of the Warrior-Prophet.

Of all the thousands so far listed, one had killed the men sent to retrieve him, two had disappeared before arrest, one the Hundred Pillars had seized for interrogation, and another, a Baron client to Count-Palatine Chinjosa, they had affected to overlook, hoping to uncover the greater ring. It was a blunt and inelegant instrument, to be sure, but short of Kellhus risking exposure, it was all they had. Of the thirty-eight skin-spies Kellhus had been able to identify before revealing his hand, fewer than a dozen had been taken or killed.

The most they could do, it seemed, was to wait for them to surface behind other faces.

”Have the Shrial Knights gather them as always.”

Following the Summary of Reports, Esmenet walked the circuit of the western terrace, both to bask in the sunlight and to greet-albeit at a distance-the dozens of adulants gathered on the rooftops below. She found their attention both distressing and exhilarating. Even as she despaired over her worthiness, she tried to think of ways she might reward their unwarranted patience. Yesterday, she had several guardsmen distribute bread and pepper-soup. Today, thanking Momas for the sea breeze, she cast them two crimson veils, which twisted like eels in water as they floated over their palms. She laughed as they scrambled.

Afterward she oversaw the afternoon Penance with three of the Nascenti. Originally, the rite had been intended to shrive those of the Orthodox who had fomented against the Warrior-Prophet, but against expectations many Men of the Tusk began returning, returning, some once or twice, some day in and day out. Even Zaudunyani-including those initiated in the first secret Whelmings-started to attend, claiming to have suffered doubts or malice or some such during the misery of the siege. As a result, the numbers who gathered had increased to the point where the Nascenti had to start administering Penance outside the Fama Palace. some once or twice, some day in and day out. Even Zaudunyani-including those initiated in the first secret Whelmings-started to attend, claiming to have suffered doubts or malice or some such during the misery of the siege. As a result, the numbers who gathered had increased to the point where the Nascenti had to start administering Penance outside the Fama Palace.

At the direction of the Judges, the attendees stripped to the waist and a.s.sembled in long, uneven rows, where they knelt upright, their backs slick and burnished in the setting sun. While the Nascenti recited the prayers, the Judges methodically worked their way among the penitents, las.h.i.+ng each man three times with a branch shorn from Umiaki. With each stroke they cried out, in succession: ”For wounding that which heals!”

”For seizing what would be given!”

”For condemning that which saves!”

Esmenet still wrung her hands as she watched the dark branches rise and fall. The bleeding unnerved her, though most received no more than welts. Their backs, with protruding spine and ribs, seemed so frail. But it was the way way they watched her, as though she were a milestone that marked some otherwise immeasurable distance, that troubled her the most. When the Judges struck, some even arched back, their faces riven with expressions wh.o.r.es knew well but no woman truly understood. they watched her, as though she were a milestone that marked some otherwise immeasurable distance, that troubled her the most. When the Judges struck, some even arched back, their faces riven with expressions wh.o.r.es knew well but no woman truly understood.

Averting her gaze, she spied Proyas kneeling in the rearmost line. For some reason he seemed so much more naked than the others. Possessed of an old animus, she glared at him, but he seemed incapable of meeting her eyes. After the Judge had pa.s.sed, he buried his face in his hands, shook with sobs. To her dismay, Esmenet found herself wondering whom he repented, Kellhus or Achamian.

She did not attend that evening's ceremonial Whelming, opting to take a private dinner in her apartments instead. Kellhus, she was told, remained preoccupied with the Holy War's imminent march on Xerash, so she dined and joked with her body-slaves instead, siding with Fanas.h.i.+la in what-she gathered-was a dispute regarding coloured sashes. Let Yel be teased for a change, she thought.

Fanas.h.i.+la could scarce contain herself, so overwhelmed was she with grat.i.tude.

Afterward Esmenet ducked into the nursery to check on Moenghus, then crossed the hall to what she had come to think of as her private library ...

Where Achamian had been recently installed.

The Fama Palace was a place of architectural flourish and extravagance, sheathed in the finest marbles and displaying the elegant sensibilities of the Kianene at every turn, from the bronze fretting that shuttered the windows to the lines of inset mother-of-pearl that traced every pointed arch. At its outskirts the complex consisted of a radial network of courtyards, compounds, and galleries that stacked higher as the structure climbed the various faces of the summit. She and Kellhus occupied the suite of apartments on the height's pinnacle-the highest point in Caraskand, she liked to tell herself-overlooking the Apple Garden with its ancient teeth of stone. This, Kellhus had said, exposed them to unconventional means of attack. Sorcery, it seemed, paid no heed to walls or elevation. And this was why Achamian had to reside so painfully close.

Close enough, she realized, to hear her cries on the wind.

Akka ...

She stood before the panelled door, realizing in a rush the lengths to which she had gone to avoid all thought of him. He'd not been real that first night he had come to her. Not at all. He'd been real enough when she glimpsed him in the Apple Garden, but he'd seemed perilous perilous as well, as though his mere image might strip away all that had happened since the Holy War's march from s.h.i.+gek. as well, as though his mere image might strip away all that had happened since the Holy War's march from s.h.i.+gek.

How could seeing someone old peel the years from one's eyes?

What am I doing?

Fearing she would lose her nerve, she rapped on the wood with her left hand, staring at the bruised serpents tattooed across its back as she did so. For the briefest of instants, before the door swung open, she was sure that it wasn't Achamian but Sumna Sumna that would greet her on the far side. She could almost feel the brick of her window's sill pressing cold against the back of her naked thighs. And she remembered, with a visceral intensity, what it was like that would greet her on the far side. She could almost feel the brick of her window's sill pressing cold against the back of her naked thighs. And she remembered, with a visceral intensity, what it was like being being her wares. her wares.

Then Achamian's face floated into view, more grizzled perhaps, but as stout and heartwarming as she remembered. There was far more grey in his pleated beard: the fingers of white had joined into a palm of sorts. His eyes, though ... they belonged to someone she didn't know.

Neither of them spoke a word. The awkwardness was like ice in her throat. He lives ... he really lives He lives ... he really lives.

Esmenet fought the need to touch him, to ... rea.s.sure herself. She could smell the River Sempis, the bitter of black willows on the hot s.h.i.+geki wind. She could see him leading his sad mule, receding into the distance that had, she thought, swallowed him forever. What brought you back to me? What brought you back to me?

Then his eyes fell to her belly, lingered for a heartbeat. She glanced away, looking airily to the shelved walls beyond him. ”I've come for The Third a.n.a.lytic of Men The Third a.n.a.lytic of Men.”

Without a word, Achamian strode to a brace of shelves along the southern wall. He withdrew a large chapped folio, which he hefted in his hands. He tried to grin, but his eyes would have none of it. ”You can come in,” he said.

She took four tentative steps past the threshold. The room smelled of him, a faint musk she had always a.s.sociated with sorcery. A bed had been erected where her favourite settee had been-where she had first read The Tractate The Tractate.

”Translated into Sheyic, even,” he said, pursing his bottom lip in appreciation. ”For Kellhus?”

”No ... for me.”

She had meant to say this with pride, but it had sounded spiteful instead. ”He taught me how to read,” she explained, more carefully. ”Through the misery of the desert, no less.”

Achamian had blanched. ”Read?”

”Yes ... Imagine, a woman woman.”

He scowled in what could only be confusion.

”The old world is dead, Akka. The old rules rules are dead ... Surely you know this.” are dead ... Surely you know this.”

He blinked as though struck, and she realized it had been her tone and not her a.s.sertion that had prompted his scowl. Achamian had never begrudged her her s.e.x.

He looked to the embossed lettering across the cover. There was a curious, endearing reverence to the way he drew his fingers over it. ”Ajencis is an old friend of mine,” he said, holding out the book. His smile was genuine this time, but afraid. ”Be gentle with him.”

Taking care to avoid his touch, she lifted the thing from his hands, swallowed at the thickness in her throat.

A moment of locked gazes. She thought to murmur something-a word of thanks, maybe, or a stupid joke, like those they'd used to cement so many loose moments between them-but she found herself walking toward the door instead, hugging the leather tome to her breast. There were just too many old ... comforts between them, too many habits that would see her in his arms.

And he knew this, d.a.m.n him. He used used them. them.

He called out her name, and she paused at the threshold. When she turned, her eyes were forced down by the stricken expression on his face. ”I ...” he began. ”I was your life life ... I know I was, Esmi.” ... I know I was, Esmi.”

She bit her lip, resisted the instinct to deceive.

”Yes,” she said, staring at her blue-painted toes. For some perverse reason she decided she would have Yel change their colour tomorrow.

What does he matter? His heart was broken long before- ”Yes,” she repeated, ”you were my life.” When she raised her face, it was with weariness, not the ferocity she had expected. ”And he he is my world.” is my world.”

She stared across the broad planes of his chest, followed the grooves of his stomach into the downy gold of his pubis, where she could see the base of him s.h.i.+ning in the erotic gloom of partially drawn sheets. For some reason he always seemed so vast when she laid her cheek on his shoulder. Like a new world, both beguiling and terrifying.

”I saw him tonight.”

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