The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (108 page)

“Wh—who?” Weshker choked.

“Your benefactor.  The blighted bastard who put you in Blaze Company.  Don't try to lie.  I've seen your memories; he deemed you useful.  But useful for what?”

Weshker blinked through tears, his vision smeary.  Cautious footsteps and a soft, slightly slurred voice told him Nerice had gone in search of the girl.  “I...I dunno,” he mumbled.

“You are his assassin!” Rackmar snarled.  “Does he speak to you through your crows?  Have you reported what you've seen?  Or are you just another of his useless distractions?”

The pull on his scalp intensified, and he gave a strangled yelp as his spine lit up.  Desperately he grappled at Rackmar's wrist, dagger forgotten.  “I dunno, I dunno!  I never seen him but once, he dun tell me nothin', I dunno!”

A sound of disgust and the grip released.  He slumped to the floor with a moan, spine throbbing and limbs tingling terribly, and felt a boot-heel press on the back of his neck.

Then a patter of small feet approached, and the weight lifted.  Rackmar's shadow passed over him.  “Come to me, my darling,” he said, and from one bleary eye Weshker saw Jesalle take an obedient step, then another, before being swept up into the Field Marshal's arms.

“Take control of this piece of trash,” he ordered Nerice.  “I will not have Enkhaelen snapping him free.”

“Why not just kill him, sir?”

“I will.  But first I'll see Enkhaelen's face when I line up all his broken toys before him.  He's taken such pains to hide them; I will enjoy crushing them in front of his eyes.  Even better, perhaps they will work the same on the Guardian vessel.”

Hands gripped his shoulders and tried to peel him from the floor.  He didn't want to go, but the nails bit in, pouring sweet fire into his veins.  His head went floaty, his limbs moving on their own.  As he rose, he marveled at the big red mark across Nerice's cheek, her left eye already swelling shut.  Sullenly, she divested him of his remaining blade.

“What if this is what he wants, sir?” she said.

“What can he do with a handful of broken Dark-lovers?”

“He is the Maker, sir.  My venom can't hold against him.”

“It won't have to.  We have our allies.”

“As you say, sir.”

On his feet now, Weshker managed to raise his head enough to see the girl.  Rackmar had her straddling his hip, one arm under her backside, her hands on the lip of his breastplate and her head pillowed against his shoulder like father and daughter, but her eyes were the emptiest he'd ever seen.

“Go now,” said Rackmar.  “I'll follow once I've put her to bed.”

“Yes sir.”

As she steered him through the curtains and the soundproofing ward, he heard Nerice mutter, “Hit me again and see what you get, you dickless bastard.”  But she did nothing, just forced Weshker to the door and out.

The White Flame escort stood below, with Pendriel plus several camp-slaves.  As they descended, one slave looked up and Weshker saw his face melt, the clay of it reshaping into a mockery of his own.

If not for the hand on his neck, he would have fainted.  Even with it, a long time passed before he could see more than grey.

*****

“You can't play that card,” said Lark.  “This is Huntsman, not Cutthroat.”

Maevor paused with hand outstretched to take the pair he'd just slapped his Knight down on.  “House rules.”

“There are no 'house rules' that change the game in the middle of playing it.”  She picked a card from her own hand—the Herald of Swords—and held it out defiantly.  “Intercept.”

“You had a Herald?  I asked for Heralds two turns ago.”

“I just drew it.  If we're adding Cutthroat rules, then I intercept.”

He exhaled in annoyance but let her take the cards.  Around them, pilgrims spectated while trying to pretend indifference; they were standing, this being the waiting line for an Imperial audience.  Lark had lasted about two marks before plunking down on the floor and demanding entertainment.

That might have been days ago, for all she could tell.  She and Maevor had arrived at the city near nightfall, and exhaustion and hunger had coupled with fear to make her passage through the city a blur.  She could only recall glimpses of temples and bridges, gardens and streams, all reflecting a pervasive radiance toward the deep black sky.

She was ravenous now.  Maevor had slipped her a piece of jerky a few marks back, but it wasn't enough, and though servants passed by with pitchers of water occasionally, she didn't want to drink.  Having to step away from her only company—even to relieve herself—was untenable.  Under her robe, the elemental Ripple shivered as if threatened; she felt the same.

As for Maevor, he seemed subdued.  Perhaps she'd succeeded in planting doubts in his mind, but it was too little, too late.  She had no illusions about what would happen here.

Yet, looking at him, she had to hope.  He was still talking to her; he hadn't disconnected.  And the further they went in the line, the more uncomfortable he seemed.  Maybe one last push...

“You know, we could play something more exciting,” she said.  “Like Scatter.”

He looked up at her wryly.  “That's where you throw the deck in the air and run away?”

“Yes.”  Cards half-concealing her hand, she made two quick Shadow signs:

With you.

She saw them register, something like pain twinging behind his eyes.  He glanced toward the front of the line, then down at the cards—then up again with a look of alarm.

Frowning, she started to ask, but then heard murmurs from ahead and the shifting of robed bodies.  A glance showed her the pilgrims pressing close to the wall to let a troop of figures pass, their leader a barrel-chested older man in white-lacquered ceremonial armor.

Maevor hissed in a breath and started scraping the cards together.  “Get up, get up,” he murmured, and Lark lurched to her feet without question.  Dizziness made her wobble; a rough hand took her by the arm and pushed until she found herself pressed lightly to the wall.

Heavy footsteps neared, passed—then halted.

“You, southerner,” said a deep voice.  “And you, escort.  Step out of line.”

Lark blinked her eyes clear to see Maevor standing before her.  More than a dozen blank white helms stared at them, along with the black eyes of the burly man, yet still he hesitated.

She lifted her chin and stepped past him.  She knew when the game was up.

The burly man eyed her over, then stepped in and grabbed her by the throat.  Startled, she could do no more than squawk and grapple at his gauntlet as his plated fingers squeezed.

“I am pleased to see that the reports are accurate,” he said, indifferent to her struggles.  “I was not given your name, but it is enough that you were with the Guardian.  Come quietly and you may see tomorrow; resist and I will break your neck.  It matters not to me.”

Heart pounding in her ears, she pried at his fingers for another long moment before she managed to master herself.  His eyes pinned her, overbore her, and the sneer on his bearded lips only widened as she let her hands fall.

“Good,” he said, then yanked her by the neck and thrust her into his retinue.  Many hands caught her.  “And you, agent—“  He stared at Maevor for a long moment, then grinned.  “Ah yes, one of the camp-mates.  You come along too.”

“Field Marshal, sir, what is this about?” said Maevor in a voice that sought to be courageous but quickly shrank.  “I was told to bring her before the Throne.”

“We have a target.  The Throne can wait.”

With that, the Field Marshal strode onward, and the hands propelled Lark after him.  She glimpsed Maevor's crumpled face, and thought,
Run.  If you know what's good for you, just run.

No need for us all to die.

*****

Ammala Cray sat as still as possible, trying to wish away the dizziness, the buzzing in her head—and the rest of this horror.

“Just a bit more lip color, I think,” said the tawny woman who sat before her, tiny brush in hand.  She had introduced herself as Lady Anniavela, but Ammala did not think she looked very ladylike; despite being covered in puffs of lace, the slit in her white brocade dress went down to her navel, and the neckline was wide enough to slide from her shoulders if she moved too quickly.  Ammala doubted it would be approved for any court.

Overall, though, the effect of the Lady was less sexual than doll-like.  There was an unreal quality to her face, her figure, her ringleted hair.  When Ammala looked down at her own hands, she saw the same contrived perfection.

“Eyes up,” said the Lady sternly, and Ammala lifted her chin and allowed the tiny brush to trace her lips.  Beyond the Lady stood a white-robed female mage, fairer and somehow sickly-looking, who watched them through a mirror-frame strung with wire.  A golden object hung suspended at its center, the whole thing surrounded by a strange shimmer like heat-haze.

“Mm.  Not sure about that color,” said the Lady as she sat back.  A small table stood at her right hand, arrayed with all manner of paints and powders; Ammala thought they were supposed to be pleasant, but every time the Lady brought something toward her face, she caught an acrid scent.

“Wipe it off and try again?” suggested the mage.

The Lady made a disapproving sound, but nodded.  With faint relief, Ammala raised the handkerchief she had been clutching and scrubbed at her lips, trying to ignore the strangeness of her own fingers: the loss of decades of callus, the new coloration, the clean smooth nails and curious sense of something hidden beneath their tips.  So much of her body felt strange now, after her endless dream-time at the Palace's heart.

The Lady held up two little pots of lip-color, one pink and the other also pink.  “Which do you think, Ama?”

Before Ammala could comment on the diminutive, the mage said, “Milady, look at her.  She's a bronze, not a gold.  Pink won't work.”

“Pink is what I have,” the Lady snapped.  The mage shut her mouth.

Ammala folded the used handkerchief, her altered fingers at least remembering that chore.  She had little opinion on this; other than her wedding day, her exposure to paints had been eye-kohl to cut the summer glare and keep away flies.  Anything more was for city girls.

Still, the Lady had told her this was for her benefit, so she supposed she should answer.

“My apologies,” she said carefully, her mouth as strange and new as the rest of her, “but you said that this is meant to make me look 'natural'.  Should it not be natural-for-me, and not natural-for-you?”

The Lady huffed and flicked an errant ringlet back.  “You should be thankful for my advice.  Before me, there was no proper illusion-making process.  Do you know how many times I had to have my pendant adjusted?”

“And yet it doesn't work for her,” said the mage.

“You, dear, are meant to capture the image, not to critique it.”

“I've done this for plenty of lagalaina.  I know how—“

“If your face is an example of your own work, then I fear for them.  I truly do.”

Ammala's mouth flattened.  She was not inclined to tolerate such behavior from anyone, toward anyone, but she was hardly in a position of authority.  Instead she rose, tottered a moment on her altered feet, then started away.

“What—  Where are you going?” sputtered the Lady.

Nowhere
was the obvious answer.  Their white-on-white chamber had no door, no windows, just a pervasive pale light from its domed ceiling and the strange texture of its rutilated surfaces.  The chairs and side-table seemed to have been extruded from the floor.  In her fantasy, Ammala lifted her husband's sledgehammer and began battering through the walls; in reality she was afraid to touch them.

“I do not wish to participate in this,” she told the whiteness.

“You have no choice.”  She heard the rustle of the Lady's dress, the faint clicking sound of her approach, and tried to pretend that her own bare feet hadn't made the same noise.  “Ama, dear, I know it's difficult to accept, but you belong to the Emperor now, and the Emperor requires us to be discreet.  If you need some private time to adapt to your new self, we can allow that—and perhaps a pilgrim or two to help you?  But we really should get the illusion out of the way.”

“A pilgrim or two?” said Ammala, half-turning.

The Lady smiled encouragingly.  “Or more, if your appetite requires.  Conversion is draining, but we have no lack of men this time of year.  The Emperor won't begrudge a few.”

“Men.”

“Yes.”  She frowned.  “You don't feel it?  You should be ravenous by now.”

Ammala stared at her askance.  She was as fond of men as the next woman, and missed her husband Gefron day and night, but she felt no particular hunger.  Agitation and restiveness, yes.  Anger, frustration.  Annoyance.

The last thing she wanted was to wrangle someone's genitals.

“Oh dear, that's not a good sign,” said the Lady.  “You'll have to see the Maker.  But he'll be busy with the festival, so we might as well just finish your look.”

“And if I refuse, will you tie me down and paint me?”