(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (95 page)

 

The rest of the day was quieter and more mundane, although the torments of the endlessly droning prayers and the drinking of the Sun’s Blood were as bad as ever. If Panhyssir or the autarch were trying to kill her with that potion, they were taking a ridiculously long time about it, she had to admit, but whatever they intended, they were certainly making her miserable.

Just after Qinnitan’s evening meal the hairdressing servant came to dye her red streak—her witch streak, as her childhood friends had named it—which was beginning to show at the roots again: Luian and the other Favored had decreed within days of her arrival that such a mongrel mark had no place on one of the autarch’s queens. The hairdresser also dried her hair and arranged it into a pleasing style, on the one-in-a-thousand chance the autarch should finally call for her that very evening. Qinnitan tried to sit quietly; this hairdresser had a way of poking you with a hairpin—and then apologizing profusely, of course—when you moved too much.

I doubt she pulls that trick with Arimone.

But Qinnitan didn’t like thinking about the Paramount Wife. Since the day Qinnitan had gone to her palace, there had been no further invitations and no outward sign of hostility, but it was not hard to see the way those wives and wives-to-be who considered themselves friends of the Evening Star watched Qinnitan and made clear their dislike of her. Well, they might think themselves friends of the great woman, but she doubted Arimone looked on them the same way; Qinnitan felt sure there was little room for friends or equals of any kind in the world of the Paramount Wife.

The hairdresser was finishing up just as the soldiers on the walls outside began to call out the old ritual words for the sunset change of the guard—
“Hawks return! To the glove! To the glove!”
Qinnitan, reasonably certain that the autarch was not going to break his nearly year-long habit and summon her tonight, was looking forward to an hour or two of time to herself before sleep and whatever unsettling dreams might come with it. She thought she might say her evening orisons, then read. One of the other brides, youngest daughter of the king of some tiny desert land on the southern edge of Xis, had loaned her a beautifully illustrated book of poetry by the famous Baz’u Jev. Qinnitan had read some of it and enjoyed it very much—his descriptions of sheepherders in the arid mountains who lived so close to the sky they called themselves “Cloud People” spoke of a freedom and simplicity that seemed achingly attractive to her. The young desert princess seemed quite nice, really, and Qinnitan entertained a hope that one day they might become friends, since they were two of the youngest in the Seclusion. This did not mean she had abandoned all sense, of course. She never touched the book without wearing gloves. The tale of a Paramount Wife from a century or so before who had dispatched a rival by having poison painted on the edges of a book’s pages was one of the first cautionary stories Qinnitan had heard upon coming to her new home.

That tale spoke much of the Seclusion, not just the murderousness of the place, but the fact that the older wife had been willing to wait weeks or even months for the autarch’s new favorite to cut her finger in such a way that the poison could enter when she turned the pages. Whatever men might say about women and their reputed fickleness, the Seclusion was a place of immense patience and subtlety, especially when the stakes were high. And what stakes could be higher than to be certain it was your own child who would one day sit on the throne of the most powerful empire in the world between the seas?

Gloves or no, Qinnitan was looking forward to a little time with the epic simplicity of Baz’u Jev, so it was disappointing—and, as always in the Seclusion, a little frightening—when a messenger came just as the hairdresser was leaving.

She was startled to recognize the mute boy who had come into her room not a fortnight before. He was wearing a loose tunic tonight, so she could not see how his wound had healed, although he seemed perfectly well. He would hardly meet her eyes as he handed her the roll of parchment, but although that saddened her, it was not as though she was surprised that he didn’t want to be her friend; she had almost stabbed him to death with a dressing pin, after all.

Strangely, the message was not tied or sealed in any way, although she could tell from the strong violet perfume that the paper was Luian’s. She waited until the hairdresser had gone out into the passageway before unrolling it.

The letters had been made in a great hurry. It read:

 

Come now.

 

There was nothing else.

Qinnitan did her best to be calm. Perhaps this was just an example of Luian in a bad mood. They had spoken only occasionally in the last weeks, and had taken tea together in their old way just once, an awkward occasion in which the subject of Jeddin was in the air the entire time but never acknowledged. The two of them had labored through a conversation of what should have been interesting gossip, but which had instead seemed like wearying labor. Yes, it was unusual for Luian to write in this hurried, informal way, but it might be evidence of some great swing of feeling—after all, Favored Luian was prone to moments of heightened emotion that might have come out of a folktale, or even from a book of love poetry. Perhaps she planned to shame Qinnitan for being a bad friend. Perhaps she planned a weeping renunciation of her own rights to Jeddin—if even Luian could be that self-deceiving. Or perhaps she just wished them to be on good terms again.

All the same, Qinnitan found herself following the mute boy across the Seclusion with a heavy, untrusting heart.

 

Qinnitan was shocked to find a huge, ugly man weeping in Luian’s bed. Several heartbeats passed before she realized it was Luian herself she was seeing, a Luian without face paint or wig or elaborate dress, wearing only a simple white nightgown damp with tears and sweat.

“Qinnitan, Qinnitan! Praise to the gods, you’re here.” Luian threw her arms wide. Qinnitan could not help staring. It really had been Dudon under that paint, after all—the lumpy, self-absorbed boy who had walked up and down the streets muttering the Nushash prayers. Qinnitan had known it, of course, but until now she had not really seen it. “Why do you shy away from me?” Luian’s face was red and mottled, wet with tears. “Do you hate me?”

“No!” But she could not bring herself to enter that embrace, not from fastidiousness so much as the sudden fear of swimming too close to someone who might be drowning and dangerous. “No, I don’t hate you, Luian, of course not. You’ve been very kind to me. What’s wrong?”

It was a wail that just avoided turning into a scream. “Jeddin has been arrested!”

Qinnitan, for the second time that day, felt as though her body was no longer her own. This time it seemed to have become a statue of cold stone in which her thoughts were trapped. She could not speak.

“It is all so unfair!” Luian snuffled and tried to cover her face with her sleeve.

“What . . . what are you talking about?” she finally managed.

“He has been arrested! It is the talk of the Seclusion, as you would know if you came out to eat the evening meal instead of sitting in your ch-chambers like a h-hermit.” She wept a little more, as though at Qinnitan’s unsocial behavior.

“Just tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know. He’s b-been arrested. His lieutenant has been made chief of the Leopards, at least for now. It’s Vash’s doing, that horrid old man. He’s always hated our Jin . . .”

“For the love of the gods, Luian, what are we to do?” Qinnitan’s mind was already racing, but in a weary, defeated way, as if she were a runner at the end of a long chase instead of just at the beginning.

Luian sobered a little, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “We must not lose our heads. Of course, we must not lose our heads. We must stay calm.” She took a deep breath. “It is possible he has done something that has nothing to do with us . . . but even if they suspect the worst, he will never tell. Not Jeddin! That is why I called you here, to make you swear to say nothing, not even if they tell you he has confessed. Don’t speak a word—they will be lying! Our Jin will never say a word to Pinimmon Vash, not even . . . not even if they . . .” She burst out weeping again.

“They would torture him? Kill him? For sneaking into the Seclusion?”

“Oh, yes, perhaps.” Luian flapped her hands in agitation. “But that is not the worst of it.” She suddenly realized the mute boy was still standing in the doorway, waiting for further orders and she waved him away with angry gestures.

“
What
is not the worst of it? Are you saying he has done worse things than proclaiming his love for one of the autarch’s wives? Than smuggling himself into the Seclusion where whole-bodied men are killed on sight? By the Bees, what other crimes did he have time to accomplish?”

Luian stared at her for a moment, or rather this familiar yet unfamiliar man who talked like Luian stared, and then burst into tears again. “He wished to . . . to . . . to depose the Golden One. The autarch!”

In the first lurch, Qinnitan thought her heart might never beat again. She could speak only in a strangled whisper, which was perhaps just as well. “He . . . was going to kill
the autarch?
”

“No, no!” Luian looked aghast. “No, he would never raise his hand against the Golden One. He has sworn an oath!” She shook her head at Qinnitan’s foolishness. “No, he was going to kill the scotarch, Prusas the Cripple. Then the autarch would fall and . . . and somehow, Jeddin thought, he would be able to take you for his own.”

Qinnitan could only back away, waving her arms in front of her as though to keep away some approaching beast. “The fool! The fool!”

“But he will never tell—he will never speak a word of it!” Luian was up on her knees now, arms spread again, begging Qinnitan to come back and be enfolded. “He is so brave, our Jin, so brave . . . !”

“Why did you help him? Why did you let him put your life and . . . and
my
life at risk?” Qinnitan was shaking, full of rage and terror. She wanted to run at Luian and beat that doughy, wet face with her fists. “How could you do that?”

“Because I loved him.” Luian fell back against the cushions. “My Jin. I would even help him to have you. I would do anything he asked.” She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed, but she was smiling. “You understand about love. You are a woman. You were
born
a woman. You understand.”

Qinnitan turned and ran out the doorway.

Luian called after her, “Say nothing! He will never say a word, our Jin will never . . .”

Qinnitan reached the corridor, her thoughts tumbling like pearls from a broken necklace. Was Luian right? Would Jeddin’s warrior code keep him silent even under torture?

But it’s not fair! I didn’t do anything! I sent him away!

She heard footsteps then—not the sandaled thump of the Seclusion’s guards, men big as oxen, but not the whispering slide of barefooted women either. She hesitated, but decided she did not want to be seen so close to Luian’s rooms. It would make it seem as though they had something to hide, meeting in the very hour of Jeddin’s arrest. If Luian was right, that Jeddin could hold his secrets even under torture, the best hope was that all should seem normal, blameless.

Qinnitan stepped back into a shadowy cross-passage just before the approaching figure turned the corner into the main hallway; she silently thanked all the gods there was no lamp in the wall niche. She looked for somewhere to hide, but could only draw back close against a tapestry that hung on the wall. If whoever was passing gave anything more than the quickest glance, they would see her.

She flattened herself and turned her head away, knowing that the magic of eyes invariably drew the attention of others, especially unwanted attention. Whoever it was stalked by without slowing. Qinnitan let out a silent sigh of relief. She crept to the edge of the cross-passage and saw a short, stocky shape turn into Luian’s chambers. It took her a moment to realize who had just passed.

From the room, Luian let out a shriek of startled fright. Qinnitan could not help taking a few instinctive steps toward one who had been her friend and was now in danger, then her better judgment stopped her.

Tanyssa’s voice was hoarse, as though the gardener herself was a bit frightened, too, but there was also a note of triumph in it.
“Favored Luian of the Royal Seclusion, I am here as the hand of God. You have betrayed your sacred trust. You have betrayed the Master of the Great Tent.”

“Wh-what are you talking about?”

“There is no argument,”
said the gardener.
“The Golden One has put his seal on it.”

Luian’s squeal of alarm suddenly turned into a loud grunting, a noise so horrid that for the first moments Qinnitan couldn’t even imagine it coming from a person.

“You . . . are for . . . the worms.”
Tanyssa, breathing hard, spoke in almost ordinary tones now—Qinnitan could barely hear her, although she stood trembling only a pace or two from Luian’s doorway—but there was clear hatred in the voice.
“You fat, meddling bitch.”
The grunting turned to a choking hiss, then Qinnitan heard only the drumlike thumping of flesh on the stone, heels or hands beating helplessly until they too fell silent.

Her bones turned to leaden bars by terror, Qinnitan could scarcely move. She stumbled to the shadowed cross-corridor and looked back to see the hangings on Luian’s door billow outward. Her head was pounding. She pushed her face against the wall, burrowed into the space where the tapestry hung a little away from the cool stone, and prayed. The footsteps went past more slowly this time, so slowly that it was all Qinnitan could do to keep her face turned into the wall, to stand unmoving. Whether because of the darkness of the passageway or because her mind was taken up with what she had just done, the gardener who was also an executioner did not pause or even slow but walked on down the corridor. Qinnitan listened until she could no longer hear the footfalls.