Part 20 (1/2)
”Then something may have come out of the desert and fallen upon them.” The king's voice remained reasonable and steady, but in his face Shaldis could see her own thought reflected, and her own guilt. The side of his face still bore the fading bruises left by the teyn attack near Three Wells. He picked up the silver bell that stood in a lamp niche by the bed, shook it sharply. As Lotus's footsteps vibrated on the stair he went on, ”Raeshaldis, my dear, would you be so good as to look in your crystal at the aqueduct camp? It's only a half-day's ride from Three Wells. Ah, Lotus, my pearl of light, could I possibly prevail on you to fetch Bax here? It looks as if we're going to need another expedition out to Three Wells. I kiss your hands and feet, my dear.”
Shaldis heard the girl go, heard the silky rustle as the king turned back her way. But he did not speak, and her own thoughts were tangled deep in the half-tranced state that scrying sometimes demanded. It had been months since she'd ridden out to the face camp at the end of the stone-lined ca.n.a.l that now stretched beyond the Dead Hills, and the image within the crystal was slow in forming, as it was for all places where Shaldis herself had not been. Indeed, her reasons for riding out to the camp had been so that she would know at least some elements of it-to focus on the shape and color of the tents, the faces of the foreman and chief teyn minder, the way the aqueduct looked now that its channel was no longer a line of tall stone columns but a deep, straight slot in the earth.
Even so, it took all her concentration, all her power, to summon the image of the camp. Weary as she was, it was as if she stood some distance off in the desert, looking toward the gaggle of tents and pens, the towering haze of dust; and she could not seem to bring herself closer.
Her voice sounded thick in her ears as she spoke. ”I see movement-gangs of teyn going to the ditch-lines of camels and a.s.ses coming into camp. Kites at the camp dump. Dogs.”
”But all looks well?” The king's words seemed to come to her from some great distance away.
”All looks well.”
She heard him sigh. She closed her eyes, her tired head throbbing; Yanrid hadn't been speaking lightly when he'd urged her to take care of herself. When she looked again at the whitish-lavender shard of stone, it lay clear and empty in her hand.
”Thank you, my dear,” said the king softly. ”You have much relieved my mind. May I fetch you some coffee and a baba cake? Summer-” He stumbled on the name. ”Summerchild is always rendered ravenous by scrying, she says.”
She whispered, ”I'll be all right.”
He got clumsily to his feet at the sound of voices in the chamber below. Bax, commander of the palace guard; Lotus answering a question, replying, ”He's upstairs.”
Oryn stood for a long moment looking down at Summerchild's still face. His long chestnut hair hung lank with sweat around his face in the afternoon heat, and his eyepaint was smeared over lids that had the bruised look of too little sleep. Lotus said, ”My lord?” from the doorway, and Oryn closed his eyes like a bone-weary soldier hearing the command once again to form up ranks.
Shaldis got soundlessly to her feet and gathered the billowing ma.s.ses of pale-blue over-robe from the divan; held it behind him, as she'd seen Geb do. After a moment the king roused himself enough to glance back at her and smile. ”Thank you.” He slipped his arms into the robe and gathered his rings and necklace from the low table where he'd cast them aside: ma.s.ses of diamonds with an inner fire like the sun. ”You're very good.”
And pressing her cold hand between his two fat moist ones, he ran with surprising lightness down the stair.
That night on her way through the market, Shaldis heard the excited talk. There had been a fire the day before in Little Hyacinth Lane and the White Djinn Tavern had burned to the ground. Exhausted as she was she went at once to look at the place, though there was little to see. According to the neighbors the fire had taken place early in the morning. A teyn had been killed but none of the tavern's residents.
Standing in the ruins of what had been the common room, Shaldis looked back into the narrow yard, where the kitchen-the only place in the compound where a fire would reasonably be burning in summertime-stood intact. Broken gla.s.s glittered in the dust in the light of the waning moon.
THIRTY-TWO.
The woman may provide useful information from the palace but she can't scry-ward worth a beggar's curse.” Red Silk shaded her eyes against the midmorning glare and the thick dust raised by the caravan. ”Thank the G.o.ds all the king's girls are still cl.u.s.tered around that concubine's bed wasting their energies on a lost cause. I hope your father remembered to include ointment.”
Foxfire said, ”Yes, Grandmother,” in what she hoped was a matter-of-fact voice.
”That doesn't look like a great deal of water,” the old lady added, running a critical eye over the huge wheeled b.u.t.ts as the ox teams dragged them through the compound gate. ”Belial's pool is so low the stink's enough to kill those stupid creatures before he even gets to them.”
”Yes, Grandmother.” Foxfire swallowed hard. The searing white brilliance of the sun made her head pound. All yesterday, and through the morning, they'd been working with various drugs in combination with spells to ”open the mind” or increase the strength of their magic. Every death-every pair of terrified, nearly human eyes, every frantic scrabbling to escape-sickened her as badly as the first, though she dared not admit it, dared not let herself faint or be sick.
Red Silk a.s.sured her she'd get used to it.
Glancing sideways at that implacable profile, swathed in veils of black and crimson, Foxfire wondered if there had ever been any time when her grandmother hadn't been able to look upon death-and death that she should have been able to prevent-with stony equanimity.
The last of the water carts-marked with Cattail's very expensive scry wards-rumbled into the courtyard. Though Foxfire hadn't had a scrub in days, she didn't even notice them, could not really care, through the grief and horror she felt as the line of teyn were herded in. Forty of them, dear G.o.ds! She closed her eyes, fighting the sobs that strangled her throat beneath the concealment of her veils.
Big strong shoulders, heavy shaven heads slumped forward, long arms touching the ground with weariness. Some of the jennies carried their infants-pips-in their long arms, pressed to their chests. One big boar had a half-grown pip clinging to his back, thumb in mouth, staring.
Forty. And each one, she'd have to watch die in the knowledge that there was something she could do to save it, if only she could be strong enough, clever enough.
If only she didn't fail, as she'd failed again and again.
And watched them die one by one.
She could hear the wildings in the hills, if she reached out her senses to them beyond the stink of dust and oxen and men's sweat. Smell them, crouched in the wadis all around the compound, silent and motionless as the rocks. Pale slit-pupiled eyes watching under those overhung brows, heavy pale-furred limbs pulled together with animal economy, now and then breaking off a twig of mesquite or camel bush and chewing slowly as they watched. Sometimes Foxfire could scry them. Sometimes, wrung with exhaustion and the various drugs that her grandmother relied on more and more, she couldn't.
Did they know what was happening in here to their big domestic cousins? What did they think of the bodies that were hauled out every morning and buried in the wadis, under shoveled layers of lime to keep the vultures from giving the place away to the king's spies?
What are they waiting for?
When Red Silk hobbled off to speak to Foxfire's half brother urthet, who'd been in charge of the caravan, Foxfire slipped away to her room. She closed the door, barred it. She'd seen Soral Brul on his way across to her with that look of soulful sympathy in his eyes. The room was like a slow oven but she didn't care. She curled up on the bed and lay s.h.i.+vering, sick and frightened and more wretched than she could ever remember being, even last spring when she'd been in danger for her life.
How can I feel this bad when I'm in no danger?
Every time she closed her eyes she saw her grandmother's face and the faces of the teyn as they died.
Already she could hear her grandmother's voice in the courtyard. ”Where is that girl? Opal, go get your mistress.”
And Opal saying something about rest, making some excuse.
Foxfire wept, quickly and guiltily, trying to do so without letting her eyes and nose swell. A few quick sobs, like stolen kisses. And Eleven Gra.s.shoppers crept from her bed of blankets in the corner, clambered up on the bed-where she wasn't supposed to be-and gently stroked her hair with her big heavy gray-palmed hands, as if Foxfire were her own pip.
”Can you see anything more than you did yesterday?” asked Oryn softly, and Raeshaldis shook her head. Within the central facet of her crystal, the small band of guards rode through the gathering twilight, still several miles distant from Three Wells. Before they'd left the palace the previous day, Commander Bax had taken Shaldis down to the barracks and introduced her to those guards who'd be sent out, under the command of Captain Numet. Now she called their images without difficulty.
They would reach the little town just before full dark. She knew already what they would find there, and in the charred remains of Corporal Riis's little ring of shelters. She'd scried there several times that day already, and seen the horror of the vulture-torn bodies scattered on the ground.
Above the hills within the crystal she saw what she knew to be outside the archways of the Summer Pavilion where she sat: the moon shrunk to a half circle in the cobalt sky.
The following day, just before noon, Soth and Pomegranate returned to the Yellow City. From the upper chamber of the Summer Pavilion, Shaldis could look out through the trees and see the royal barge coming down the lakesh.o.r.e; a long walkway had been built out from the palace's original landing stage over the vast stretch of mud and reeds to where the water was now. She watched the king walk out along it, shaded by his bullion-ta.s.seled parasol and trailed by his honor guard in gold and crimson. She picked out Jethan among them by his height and the way he walked.
Knowing the king would ask, she unpouched her scrying crystal and looked in it for Captain Numet and his men, though she'd scried earlier that morning and had seen them digging a ma.s.s grave near the burned shelters outside Three Wells. Now that the day was hot, they were retreating to their own shelters in a clearing hacked out among the dead cornfields a good hundred yards from both the village and the burned camp. A few vultures still perched on the ruins of the town, but the bodies of Riis and his men were gone.
”Would you be willing to ride out to have a look at the place, Soth?” The king's velvet-rich voice drifted up to her from the garden path. ”I'd have said it was another attack by the teyn, except Raeshaldis was watching the desert as well as the camp and saw no sign of teyn within miles. And then, there was something very odd about the original devastation of the village. According to Poru, there was simply not enough blood on the ground. Many of the dead bore no wounds at all. Raeshaldis says Captain Numet has been burying the guards who were killed, poor fellows, and I really suppose between vultures and jackals it would be pointless to do otherwise, particularly since it will take you a day to get out there.”
”Either of the other girls scried the guards' camp?” came Pomegranate's scratchy voice. ”Here, Pontifer, those are the king's roses!”
”They've tried but haven't been able to see much, they say. They are both quite tired, of course. All three of them have been heroes, since . . . for the past five days. Jethan here was in Three Wells.”
The voices became indistinct as they entered the lower floor of the pavilion, saying something about lake monsters and wards. Shaldis slipped the scrying stone back into her satchel, leaned forward to feel Summerchild's pulse, to brush her fingertips along the energy lines of the face, hands, throat. Nothing had changed. Within its frame of dull-gold hair, her face was like wax.
”Here!” Pomegranate came bustling up the stairs, long untidy trails of gray hair flying loose over her shoulders and all her beads clanking. ”My dear Shaldis, has that boy Oryn been starving you? And him a king!” And she swooped Shaldis up in her arms, the two women clinging to each other, Shaldis finding herself suddenly shaken with sobs of exhaustion and relief.
”Now, you go downstairs and get some sleep, dearie. I'm here, and Pontifer, too.” She patted the side of her leg, to summon the invisible porker back from wherever she conceived him to be wandering around the room. ”We'll find a way through this, see if we don't. But you're no good to Summerchild or anyone else if you wear yourself into a ghost. And that goes for you, too,” she added, swinging around to jab a finger at the king.