Riding the Serpent's Back (8 page)

She dragged herself clear of the hot bathing mud and as she tried to scrape it from her skin Josa said, “Okay. Through the arch now.”

Through the steam Cotoche saw the vague shape of an archway and without question she struggled towards it. The air was clearer in the next chamber and occupying most of the room was another pool filled, this time, with bubbling, murky water. She tested it with her toes and it was lukewarm, so she lowered her body into its depths and submerged herself so that the mud would soak away from her skin and her hair.

She was allowed refuge in this pool for a considerable time, but then one of the jealous young maids came in through another door and harangued her until she emerged, dried herself and was then led through to another tiny room where the maid and an older one shaped her hair, powdered and perfumed her body, dressed her in an elegant silk gown, the fabric of which Cotoche may even have woven and printed herself, at some time in the hazy past.

And then Captain Esquellion appeared in his full dress uniform, the jade buttons polished to a mirror-like sheen, the tassels and feathers and golden scale imprint of the jacket immaculate. He offered her his arm and she took it, already resigned to act out whatever new role life had ordained for her. The lesson of placid acceptance had been well and truly learned over the year that had passed. Together, they went through to the official part of the Consul’s residence and joined a trickle of guests being presented for dinner with Tomas Melved.

He didn’t recognise her at first. He merely took her for Esquellion’s latest fancy and made some coarse comment to that effect. When Esquellion merely smiled instead of laughing indulgently at his master’s witticism Melved looked at him closely, then turned to study Cotoche once again.

“Please allow me to present Madam Cotoche Rey,” said Esquellion, bowing extravagantly. “I believe you were once very fond of her.” Esquellion’s choice of words was pushing the limits for a Captain of the Consul’s militia, but Melved laughed loud and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Luc,” he said. “How terribly clever of you. Girl, look at me.”

Until then Cotoche had kept her gaze fixed to ground level. Now, she met the Consul’s look. She had remembered him as a towering, dark-haired man with a domineering physical presence. Now, she saw that he was shorter than she had thought, but the physicality exuded by every slight movement of his body was all the more powerful for that: instead of the muscular strength taken for granted in a big man, Melved brimmed over with a sheer sensual magnificence that stirred Cotoche in a most disturbing way.

She looked at him, and when she stared into his eyes she saw the line of severed heads, driven onto stakes in front of the smouldering remains of what had been no more than a simple chapel. She heard the background gabble of the chattering rich and in her mind she heard the rising wails of her poor sisters, her family reduced by half in a single day. If she had been standing closer to one of the heavily decorated dinner tables she would have seized a knife and slit his throat there and then, instead of later, as she now planned to do.

The evening seemed interminable. The long rows of tables were spread with dishes from the length and breadth of the Rift which a steady stream of servants came to replenish and replace as the evening progressed. Accustomed to eating little and infrequently, Cotoche found that she could do little more than pick at a little turkey liver, a few sticky clumps of rice, some eggs no larger than her thumbnail. She drank more freely – a wine so dark it was almost black, some fragrant water, a creamy herbal cocktail steeped with the familiar, settling sweetness of hopi leaf – to soothe the burnt lining of her throat and mouth, she told herself, although as the evening lengthened she drank more to soothe the jangling of her nerves.

She was made to sit at Melved’s side, taking the place, she noticed, of a bitter-faced young woman who she cruelly categorised as one of the street whores she herself had earlier been taken for. She didn’t feel guilty that she had supplanted another. She didn’t feel triumphant. She didn’t feel anything, as the alcohol and herbs began to do more than merely soothe her.

At first, Melved tried to draw her into the conversation. “You’re an educated girl, I remember,” he said. “That is always one thing I have admired: even the lowest Habnathi educate their children.” He must have sensed her rush of resentment at his reference to her race – it hardly needed mentioning, after all, as her skin was darker than any of the guests other than one or two of the youngest, painted-up women – and added hurriedly, “I don’t refer to your parents, of course. He was a good man, your father. A sad loss.” In her confusion and fear she almost thought his rush to placate was sincere.

Whenever he waited for her to speak she shook her head and pointed at her mouth.

“Lost your tongue?” he said, when he finally understood.

She nodded and looked away.

Finally, she was led away. Another maid helped her out of her clothes and into another sheer silk gown, tied at the waist with a thick black sash. Then one of Esquellion’s men led her up a wide flight of stairs – unusual in themselves in such an earthquake-prone region where buildings of more than a single storey were rare – and along more sumptuously carpeted and decorated corridors.

They came to a heavy wooden door and the guard knocked.

“Yes,” came a voice from within.

The guard opened the door, glanced inside and then stood back to allow Cotoche to enter. Melved was lying on his bed, a sickly smile on his face. Cotoche had time to see the raft of thick hair curling across his chest, its tangled mat plunging down below the line of the sheet pulled up across his midriff. Lower down, the linen was stretched tautly by the heavy bulge at his groin.

The door swung softly shut behind Cotoche and she moved further into the room. Melved’s eyes followed her as she moved, the light from a lantern picking out beads of sweat on his face.

A soft sound made Cotoche gasp and swivel.

Leaning against the wall, where he had been hidden by the door when it opened, was the feather-haired stranger from the market hall. From behind a heavy curtain, his friend with the rat-tails in his hair stepped out, a long knife casually tucked into his belt.

Cotoche, her head still befuddled by her intake at the dinner, looked from Chi to Jaryd to Melved and for a moment the whole room seemed to heave as if it was being rocked by a quake.

Chi approached her and took one of her hands and held it between his own. He seemed to exude an air of calmness and authority, which Cotoche later ascribed to his healing Talent reaching out to calm her. “I’m sorry to intrude,” he said. “Say you’d rather stay with him, with all his riches and charm and power, and we’ll leave immediately.”

Cotoche looked from Chi to Melved and back again. She hesitated, as if thinking, then could contain herself no longer and rushed into Chi’s arms. The three went to the door, but were stopped by Melved’s plaintive voice.

“You promised!” he cried. “The
knife!
”

Chi stopped and went back to the huge bed. He yanked the sheet away from Melved and Cotoche saw that the bulge at his groin had been made by a knife with a darkly translucent obsidian blade and an ornate bone handle. The knife hung in the air almost touching the Consul’s shrivelled member.

Cotoche caught Chi’s eye and he explained, “I Charmed it: if he moves, then so does the knife.” He plucked the knife away from its resting place, its tip leaving a fine line of blood across Melved’s hairy belly. Before leaving, Chi said to Melved, “Remember: you’d better not leave this room, or make a noise until morning. You don’t know what other traps we’ve laid while you were downstairs filling your maw.”

Melved did his best to recover his earlier arrogant mastery. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You may be able to heal, you might have mastered a few cheap conjuring tricks, but you’re no mage, Chichéne Pas. Get out of here, before I get angry. And take the slut with you.”

They went out into the corridor and Josa Sammerchand was walking towards them.

Cotoche gasped and grabbed at Chi’s arm. Despite the old man’s earlier refusal even to acknowledge who she was, she couldn’t bear to see him killed now. Irritably, Chi shook her free and rushed at Josa. They met in the middle of the corridor, rapped knuckles together in greeting, then hugged each other tightly.

“Come on,” said Jaryd, ever watchful for danger. “Let’s go.”

Josa and Chi took one of Cotoche’s hands each and led her into a dark servants’ passageway at the end of the corridor.

~

“Josa travelled with us for several months,” said Cotoche. “He left shortly before you joined us. I should never have distrusted him.”

“He gave you plenty of reason,” said Leeth. “So that was Chi’s mistake: Melved recognised him.”

Cotoche nodded. “Although Melved was only a boy when Chi was on the Senate at Tule, his father had been a friend of Chi’s. Chi always uses Melved as an argument against the belief in True Blood inheritance: the father was a scrupulous, hard-working man, the son vindictive, lazy and selfish.

“Melved informed Lachlan Pas that his father’s death had been faked and so Chi’s peaceful life in exile came to an end.”

“Surely he suspected Melved would recognise him?”

Cotoche shrugged. “I think he did,” she said. “I think he wanted it all to end.”

“You said before that Chi was wanted for abduction, amongst other things.”

Cotoche pointed at her chest with both thumbs. “Me,” she said. “He stole me from the man whose Captain had bought me at market.”

“You escaped without challenge?”

“Josa led us through the back of the residence and out to the stables where Bean was waiting with the horses. Despite Melved’s defiant words, I think he would have been scared to leave his room for a time. There was no pursuit that night, although for weeks afterwards we had to keep moving. And so travel became a way of life. Chi drew about him those he already knew he could trust, and others, like you, who he judged quickly and nearly always accurately. But he became morose, his moods swinging wildly. He knew it had to end. We had several close run-ins with Lachlan’s police squads, the trap was closing all the time. It was inevitable that eventually we should run out of places to hide.”

Leeth reached out and touched her cheeks with the tips of his fingers, wishing he could stop the flow of tears.

“It was an exciting time,” Cotoche insisted. “Chi was an exciting man: passionate, articulate, sophisticated. When his mood was positive, he filled me with a passion for life I had never known before. That was my finest year.”

“You argue so strongly,” said Leeth. “As if you still need to convince yourself.”

She twitched her head away from his touch and sat in silence for some time. Then she rose and went inside to sleep with her son.

Chi’s reputation continued to grow rapidly in the time Leeth spent with him in Edge City.

When Leeth arrived, the boy had already made great progress towards restoring his skills to their former level but he still pushed himself relentlessly. “What if my Talents haven’t fully survived my rebirth?” he asked Leeth one time, trying to explain. “If I don’t push I’ll never find the limits.” Although he was no True Family snob, Chi clearly feared that the mixed blood of his new body might not replicate the subtle physical structures his Talents might depend upon. “I have to
know
,” he insisted.

If the boy was really unaware of the depth of his Talents then he was the only one. He could Charm inanimate objects into temporary animation, although his skills were not yet refined enough to accomplish the trick with the knife he had used to compromise Consul Melved in Catachris. He was able to speed the healing of wounds, too; able to reinforce the body’s fight against various of the lesser ailments that circulated amongst the people of the slum – he could battle against diarrhoea and sickness, he could cool a fever, he could ease the breathing of those asthmatics who suffered when the hot breezes brought stifling, smoggy air in from the Burn Plain.

In the months that Leeth stayed to help Cotoche look after the boy, he watched with something approaching awe as these skills flourished and grew. There was something particularly eerie about watching a tiny boy concentrate for hours on end as he practised his skills, or meditated in a trance so deep he could have been a statue made of flesh – seeking out his inner focus, the seat of the Talent he could use to reach out into the tormented animus of the sick and make them well.

The boy’s other interests continued to multiply, too. Soon, instead of running errands all over the Shelf himself, he employed a network of runners and messengers to do his work.

Edge City had always been a chaotic place, and it continued to be so, but scattered here and there throughout the maze of streets and tracks, the huts and shacks and tumbledown dwellings, small knots of organisation were beginning to form. Neighbourhood police squads formed to protect the non-citizens from each other. “If you’re going to steal, don’t steal from each other,” Chi often said. “Steal from the rich flow of trade at the Junction and along the New Cut.” More and more of Chi’s deals seemed to result in payment with arms, and soon these police units strutted proudly with muskets and metal-bladed swords to complement the traditional obsidian-bladed clubs and the short spears they would throw from slings known as atlats. He had even won over the Raggies, with clever deals and promises to have them trained up by his adult militias – although his first attempt to win them over, violently assaulting a fifteen year-old gang leader with a bladed club, had served only to provoke more hostilities.

“What’s he building up to?” Leeth asked of Cotoche, one day at the mud pools. He buried himself deep in the slippery warmth, glad that Chi had chosen not to join them today.

“He’s a little boy,” she said, starting with a description she often used to excuse Chi’s behaviour. Then she went on: “But to use his influence in the way that he does makes him feel like a man again.”