City of Bones (37 page)

Khat saw the others clambering over the garden wall in front of him and dodged behind a tree. Three of them, one with a lamp and two with rifles …

Then the sand-colored bark about a foot above his head exploded.

He ducked, not realizing what it was, then saw another vigil standing on the higher ground of the little clearing, pointing the long gleaming rifle barrel right at him. Khat froze involuntarily, thinking,
I’m dead
. He was silhouetted against the tree, and the rifle had at least nineteen more shots, depending on how tight the gum seal on the reservoir was. At this distance it was a wonder the man had missed the first time.

The three who had just climbed the wall crashed through the brush and surrounded him. The other two rifles were aimed at him, but strangely enough, nobody was shooting yet. At this close range he would be able to hear the puffs of released air when the guns fired. The one he had tangled with earlier came staggering up from the other direction, cutting off any possibility of escape. One of them lifted the lamp, and Khat winced away from the sudden light.

For the first time he got a good look at them, and his eyes narrowed. These weren’t tier vigils; they were Imperial lictors.

“That’s him,” one of them said. It was a very earnest subcaptain who looked like a young version of Sagai.

They didn’t want to shoot him, Khat realized. This was an unusual and not terribly reassuring turn of events. Stepping away from the tree, he said, “Are you sure?”

A couple of them looked startled, probably at the fact that he could talk. He took another step away from the tree, but the one with the lamp shifted to keep him in the circle of light.

The subcaptain was watching him carefully. He said, “You’re right, we were ordered to bring you in alive, but Dtrae there can cripple you at this range.”

“Cripple” was not a nice word. Khat looked at the indicated lictor, who was carefully sighting down his rifle barrel and did not look nervous.

“Stand still,” the subcaptain said, “and put your hands behind your head.”

If it was a choice between that and a shattered kneecap… Khat looked around one more time. The lictors had tightened the circle around him, and there was still no way out. And this subcaptain was patient, and by no means stupid. He put his hands behind his head.

In moments they were all around him, herding him out into the clearing, dragging his robe off and searching him just as thoroughly as the Trade Inspectors had, if less roughly. They seemed surprised when they found that the only weapon he had was his knife.
What were they expecting, a firepowder bomb
? he wondered.

With rifles still pointed at him they tied his hands behind his back, and he wished he had taken the bullet, but it was too late to balk now. They took him across the park to a gate in the opposite wall, more lictors joining them along the way. When they reached the gate another group came up, and they had Gandin.

The young Warder had fought. The skin around one of his eyes was red and swelling, and the back of his head was bloody. His hands were tied with white cords tipped with red, instead of the ordinary brown cord they had used on Khat. It was something done for Patrician prisoners, a sign of status and a badge of disgrace all in one. The lictors had taken the young Warder’s veil, too, which wasn’t a good sign either. Despite the possible repercussions, Khat was almost glad Gandin had been caught too; it was what he deserved for letting the lictors follow him.

There were at least thirty of them now. The passage the gate opened into was a wide stone walkway, bare of cover and distractions. Khat tried to work his way over to Gandin and got a poke in the back from a rifle barrel. The young Warder flashed a look in his direction, rueful and angry all at the same time, and got a poke in the back as well.

They were going toward the palace.

They took a new route, avoiding the processional avenue that Khat had gone down with Elen and Gandin days ago, and using instead a narrow alley lined with short flowering trees. The great palace towered over them in the darkness, its hundreds of lamps glowing from windows and terraces.

The alley curved to follow the rounded wall of the palace’s first level, and Khat noted the path was slanting downwards. Their way drew closer to the immense structure, so that soon the brilliant limestone facing of the first level wall stretched up above them. They were roughly at the opposite side of the palace from the main entrance, near the face that was turned toward the outer edge of the tier.
A back way in
, Khat thought. Naturally they wouldn’t want to drag prisoners in through the front hall.

They came to a little stone-flagged court with an archway in one wall that led back through the gray stone of the foundation level and into the palace. It was guarded by an iron-mesh gate and about twenty well-armed lictors.

They stopped while the gate was unlocked, and Gandin, whose curiosity was overcoming his stoicism, said, “Where are—”

The lictor behind him smacked him in the back with his rifle butt, hard enough to stagger the young Warder. Khat took an instinctive step toward him and ducked to avoid a blow to the head.

“Enough.” The subcaptain’s voice stopped everyone in their tracks. “That’s enough,” he said again.

The gate was open, and he led the way through. The lictor behind Khat gave him a push to get him started, but with his hand, not the rifle.
They’re nervous
, Khat thought.
Gandin must be right about the fighting between the Heir and the Elector
. Why else would Imperial lictors be uneasy about entering the palace?
I wonder which side I’m supposed to be on
…

Inside was a long corridor with an arched ceiling, all of plain gray building stone, lit by oil lamps in frequent wall niches. Openings led off into branching corridors, and the air was hot and still.

Khat felt a muscle jump in his cheek; it was like being taken into the Trade Inspectors’ prison again. Fortunately the place smelled dry and clean, not like the prison at all.

The passage opened into a circular chamber, the hub of several corridors. The floor was a patterned mosaic of palm flowers and suns. Two Patricians stepped out of one of the corridors, as if they had been waiting for the lictors and their prisoners to arrive.

Khat recognized the Heir immediately. She wore jade-colored robes with dark blue scarves flowing like unbound hair from her jeweled cap. The man with her was veiled so heavily he could have been anyone. He wore a long headcloth, layers of veils, and robe piled on robe, all of different colors, red, dark green, brown. It was impossible to even guess who he was. It could have been Sonet Riathen, Khat decided, but somehow he doubted it. The man wasn’t nearly tall enough to be Aristai Constans, and besides, Khat had never seen the Mad Warder bother with even a brief veil.

The lictor behind him kicked the back of his knee, and Khat hit the ground hard, barely managing not to fall on his face. He heard Gandin’s angry exclamation and knew he must have gotten similar treatment. It was a brutal and effective way to make sure you kneeled for your betters. The lictor jerked him upright with a handful of his shirt, and Khat looked up at their captors.

The Heir folded her arms and studied them both, narrowing her dark eyes. Jade was the gem of choice today; she wore ropes of it around her neck and waist, dangling almost to the floor with beads and bangles, some that might be Ancient work though it was hard to tell at this distance and in this light. Khat hoped Gandin, who was a Patrician and would have no innate instinct of survival in these circumstances, had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

The Heir met Gandin’s angry gaze, and said, “You’re one of Riathen’s Warders.”

Gandin said, “Great Lady, what does this mean? What have I done?”

His voice was outwardly respectful, but Khat heard the you-have-no-right-to-do-this-to-me undertone and wondered how the Heir would react to it. The stone floor was hurting his knees, but he knew better than to try to shift around.

“You? You’ve done nothing.” Her smile was almost kind. “You are merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. What has Master Riathen told you about the relics he was searching for? Careful, I know he has all three in his possession now.”

“He hasn’t told me anything.” Gandin threw a quick glance at Khat. “I thought Aristai Constans had stolen them.”

The Heir was terribly self-possessed for a woman whose Imperial father had tried to kill her, who was supposedly in danger of losing not only her claim on the Electorate but her life as well.
When Riathen asked for her support she pretended to be hardly interested in the relics at all, and now that’s all she seems to want
. Khat looked at the veiled attendant standing next to her and wondered again who it could be. The man wore so many layers of robes you couldn’t even see the rise and fall of his breath.

The Heir said, “Constans has other concerns at the moment.” She glanced at the veiled man beside her and asked, “Does he know anything of value?”

There was something more than odd about that muffled figure. Khat’s attention had been mostly for the Heir when the two had entered the chamber, but now, from this lower vantage point… The man’s many robes were dragging the ground, and they didn’t flow or drape as if there were legs and feet beneath them. Now the veiled form turned toward Gandin, and the young Warder started, rocking back against the lictor behind him. The boy twisted his head away, as if trying to shake something off, then suddenly cried out. He jerked out of the lictor’s hold in a desperate effort and fell, his gasp for breath escalating into a scream.

Khat had flinched at the first pain-choked cry. The sounds that were being torn out of the young man’s throat were mindless. Gandin was writhing on the floor, helplessly contorting in pain. Khat looked at the Heir: one perfect brow had risen, but her expression hadn’t changed.

It went on until Khat thought the boy would surely die. Finally Gandin went limp, still faintly moaning, his voice rough and raw, as if his throat had been lacerated by the force of his screams.

The veiled man said, “Nothing of importance.” His voice was colorless, without accent. He could have been of any tier in Charisat or any city of the Fringe. Khat was good with voices—it was a skill you had to develop when some of the people you did business with covered their faces—but this voice told him nothing.

The Heir nodded. “Take him to the cells,” she told the lictors. “Put him in one alone. I don’t want him talking to the others.”

Khat felt a little relief watching the lictors haul the younger man up off the floor. Presumably that meant Gandin would be able to talk sometime in the near future. If his soul had been ripped out by the roots it couldn’t have sounded worse. Then he noticed the Heir was looking at him now.

Khat thought,
Oh, no
, and made an instinctive and useless move backward. The lictor behind him caught a handful of his hair and jerked his head up. The Heir said, “And him?”

Khat waited. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck and past his collarbone. The cords were cutting into his wrists, the lictor’s grip on his hair was making his back teeth hurt, and the constriction in his chest was from holding his breath. But nothing happened.

The figure stepped, or drifted, a pace closer to him. The robes brushed the ground, but this time Khat was sure no legs moved beneath the fabric. The thing’s motion was utterly inhuman. For an instant he could sense its intense concentration on him, feel it like he could feel a violent Low Season storm approaching across the Waste. Then there was nothing, only the silent room and his own pounding heart.

In that same colorless voice, the figure said, “Kill him.”

Nobody moved. In his peripheral vision, Khat could just see the young subcaptain. He was watching the Heir, waiting for her order. Slowly, she said, “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

The swath of veiling turned to regard her. It said, “If you don’t take my advice, I cannot help you.”

The Heir’s smile was ironic. “Do you want to help me?”

The robes stirred around the figure, but no breeze moved the heavy air in the chamber. The lighter veils lifted, borne up by some undetectable current. Khat felt a cold, sick chill settle in the pit of his stomach. His eyes traveled up the robed figure and saw the veiled head pointed down at him again. It said, “He’s of no importance. Kill him.”

“Not yet,” the Heir said again. “You told me he found the fortune-teller’s house, that he took the seal from the Academia for Riathen, and you say he knows nothing of importance?”

Khat had the distinct impression that it didn’t like her calling it a liar. The air in the thing’s vicinity was suddenly heavier, and it was an effort to take a full breath. Khat knew it wasn’t just his fear; the lictors were uneasy, the lamplight flickering on their rifle barrels as they shifted uncertainly. The Heir alone was unmoved, facing the veiled creature as if she wanted the confrontation, as if she was eager to test her hold over it. But it only said, “Remember our bargain,” and turned away, moving toward one of the corridors. It remembered to make the skirts of the robes lift when it “walked,” but there was something clockworklike about the motion; its body still didn’t move like a man’s.

The Heir let out her breath and smiled. She nodded to the lictors. “Take him upstairs.”

Four watchful lictors took Khat up into the palace. They seemed to be taking back ways, since the staircases and halls they traveled weren’t nearly so grand or so well lit as the ones he had seen before. There were armed vigils and lictors everywhere, guarding doors, gathered in corridors, talking in low voices, and peering suspiciously at each other.

Finally they passed through a knot of lictors and into a place he recognized: the anterooms to the Heir’s quarters.

They passed through a few connecting chambers, then into a smaller room. Before he could look around one of the lictors tripped him. He fell heavily, the breath knocked out of him, and the lictor’s knee came down hard on the small of his back. He tried to twist around and felt a sharp edge rest against the big vein in his wrist. Getting the unequivocal message, he forced himself to relax.