Read The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General, #Fantasy
The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) (11 page)
BOOK: The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3)
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Yel and Burulan fell silent.
It’s just more … more that will be taken away.
It was with awe that Esmenet greeted her own image in the mirror, an awe she saw reflected in the admiring eyes of her body-slaves. She was beautiful—as beautiful as Serwë, only dark. Staring at the exotic stranger before her, she could almost believe she was worth what so many had made of her. She could almost believe that all this was real.
Her love of Kellhus clutched at her like the recollection of an onerous trespass. Yel stroked her cheek; she was always the most matronly of the three, the quickest to sense her afflictions. “Beautiful,” she cooed, staring at her with unwavering eyes. “Like goddess …”
Esmenet squeezed her hand, then reached down to her own still-flat belly.
It is real.
It is real.
Shortly before they finished, Fanashila returned with Moënghus and Opsara, his surly wet nurse. Then a small train of kitchen slaves entered with her breakfast, which she took in the sunlit portico while asking Opsara questions about Serwë’s son. Unlike her body-slaves, Opsara continually
counted
everything she rendered to her new masters: every step taken, every question answered, every surface scrubbed. Sometimes she fairly seethed with impertinence, but somehow she always managed to fall just short of outright insubordination. Esmenet would have replaced her long ago had she not been so obviously and so fiercely devoted to Moënghus, whom she treated as a fellow captive, an innocent to be shielded from their captors. Sometimes, as he suckled, she would sing songs of unearthly beauty.
counted
everything she rendered to her new masters: every step taken, every question answered, every surface scrubbed. Sometimes she fairly seethed with impertinence, but somehow she always managed to fall just short of outright insubordination. Esmenet would have replaced her long ago had she not been so obviously and so fiercely devoted to Moënghus, whom she treated as a fellow captive, an innocent to be shielded from their captors. Sometimes, as he suckled, she would sing songs of unearthly beauty.
Opsara made no secret of her contempt for Yel, Burulan, and Fanashila, who for their part seemed to regard her with general terror, though Fanashila dared sniff at her remarks now and again.
After eating, Esmenet took Moënghus and retreated back to her canopied bed. For a time she simply sat, holding him on her knees, staring into his dumbstruck eyes. She smiled as tiny hands clutched tiny toes.
“I love you, Moënghus,” she cooed. “Yes I do-I-do-I-do-I-
dooo
.”
dooo
.”
Yet again, it all seemed a dream.
“You’ll never be hungry again, my sweet. I promise … I-do-I-do-I-
dooo
!”
dooo
!”
Moënghus squealed with joy beneath her tickling fingers. She laughed aloud, smirked at Opsara’s stern glare, then winked at the beaming faces of her body-slaves. “Soon you’ll have a little brother. Did you know that? Or perhaps a sister … And I’ll call her
Serwë,
just like your mother.
I-will-I-will-I-will
!”
Serwë,
just like your mother.
I-will-I-will-I-will
!”
Finally she stood and, returning the babe to Opsara, announced her imminent departure. They fell to their knees, performed their mid-morning Submission—the girls as though it were a beloved game, Opsara as though dragged down by gravel in her limbs.
As Esmenet watched them, her thoughts turned to Achamian for the first time since the garden.
By coincidence she met Werjau, scrolls and tablets bundled in his arms, in the corridors leading to her official chambers. He organized his materials while she mounted the low dais. Her scribal secretaries had already taken their places at her feet, kneeling before the knee-high writing lecterns the Kianene favoured. Holding the Reports in the crook of his left arm, Werjau stood between them some paces distant, in the heart of the tree that decorated the room’s crimson carpet. Golden branches curled and forked about his black slippers.
“Two men, Tydonni, were apprehended last night painting Orthodox slogans on the walls of the Indurum Barracks.” Werjau looked to her expectantly. The secretaries scribbled for a furious moment, then their quills fell still.
“What’s their station?” she asked.
“Caste-menial.”
As always, such incidents filled her with a reluctant terror—not at what might happen, but at what she might conclude. Why did this residue of defiance persist?
“So they could not read.”
“Apparently they simply painted figures written for them on scraps of parchment. It seems they were paid, though they know not by whom.”
The Nansur, no doubt. More petty vengeance wreaked by Ikurei Conphas.
“Well enough,” she replied. “Have them flayed and posted.”
The ease with which these words fell from her lips was nothing short of nightmarish. One breath and these men, these piteous fools, would die in torment. A breath that could have been used for anything: a moan of pleasure, a gasp of surprise, a word of mercy …
This, she understood, was power: the translation of word into fact. She need only speak and the world would be rewritten. Before, her voice could conjure only custom, ragged breaths, and quickened seed. Before, her cries could only forestall affliction and wheedle what small mercies might come. But now her voice had
become
that mercy, that affliction.
become
that mercy, that affliction.
Such thoughts made her head swim.
She watched the secretaries record her judgement. She had quickly learned to conceal her astonishment. She found herself yet again holding her left hand, her tattooed hand, to her belly, clutching as though it had become her totem of what was real. The world about her might be a lie, but the child within…A woman knew no greater certainty, even as she feared.
For a moment Esmenet marvelled at the warmth beneath her palm, convinced she felt the flush of divinity. The luxury, the power—these were but trifles compared with the other, inner transformations. Her womb, which had been a hospice to innumerable men, was now a temple. Her intellect, which had been benighted by ignorance and misunderstanding, was becoming a beacon. Her heart, which had been a gutter, was now an altar to him … to the Warrior-Prophet.
To Kellhus.
“Earl Gothyelk,” Werjau continued, “was thrice heard cursing our Lord.”
She waved in a gesture of dismissal. “Next.”
“With all due respect, Consort, I think the matter warrants further scrutiny.”
“Tell me,” Esmenet said testily, “whom
doesn’t
Gothyelk curse? As soon as he
stops
cursing our Lord and Master, then I shall worry.” Kellhus had warned her about Werjau. The man resented her, he said, both because she was a woman and because of his native pride. But since both she and Werjau knew and accepted his debility, their relationship seemed more that of combative yet repentant siblings than antagonists, as they most surely would have been otherwise. It was strange to work with others knowing that no secrets were safe, that nothing petty could be concealed. It made their interactions with outsiders seem tawdry—even tragic—by comparison. Amongst themselves, they never feared what others thought, because Kellhus made sure they always knew.
doesn’t
Gothyelk curse? As soon as he
stops
cursing our Lord and Master, then I shall worry.” Kellhus had warned her about Werjau. The man resented her, he said, both because she was a woman and because of his native pride. But since both she and Werjau knew and accepted his debility, their relationship seemed more that of combative yet repentant siblings than antagonists, as they most surely would have been otherwise. It was strange to work with others knowing that no secrets were safe, that nothing petty could be concealed. It made their interactions with outsiders seem tawdry—even tragic—by comparison. Amongst themselves, they never feared what others thought, because Kellhus made sure they always knew.
She graced the man with an apologetic smile. “Please continue.”
Werjau nodded, his expression bemused. “There was another murder among the Ainoni. One Aspa Memkumri, a client of Lord Uranyanka.”
“The Scarlet Spires?”
“Our source insists this is the case.”
“Our source … you mean Neberenes.” When Werjau nodded in assent, she said, “Bring him to me tomorrow … discreetly. We need to know precisely what they’re doing. In the meantime, I will speak to our Lord and Master.”
The flaxen-haired Nascenti marked something on his wax tablet, then continued. “Earl Hulwarga was observed performing a banned rite.”
“Irrelevant,” she said. “Our Lord does not begrudge the faithful their superstitions. A strong faith does not fear for its principles, Werjau. Especially when the believers are Thunyeri.”
Another switch of his stylus, mirrored by those of the secretaries.
The man moved to the next item, this time without looking up. “The Warrior-Prophet’s new Vizier,” he said tonelessly, “was heard screaming in his chambers.”
Esmenet’s breath caught. “What,” she asked carefully, “was he screaming?”
“No one knows.”
Thoughts of Achamian always came as small calamities.
“I will deal with this personally … Understood?”
“Understood, Consort.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Just the Lists.”
Kellhus had called on all Men of the Tusk to attend to their vassals and peers—even their betters—so they might report any inconsistencies of appearance or character, anything that might suggest recent substitution by a skin-spy. The names so volunteered were marked on the Lists. Every morning, dozens if not hundreds of Inrithi were numbered, then marched beneath the all-seeing eyes of the Warrior-Prophet.
Of all the thousands so far listed, one had killed the men sent to retrieve him, two had disappeared before arrest, one the Hundred Pillars had seized for interrogation, and another, a Baron client to Count-Palatine Chinjosa, they had affected to overlook, hoping to uncover the greater ring. It was a blunt and inelegant instrument, to be sure, but short of Kellhus risking exposure, it was all they had. Of the thirty-eight skin-spies Kellhus had been able to identify before revealing his hand, fewer than a dozen had been taken or killed.
The most they could do, it seemed, was to wait for them to surface behind other faces.
“Have the Shrial Knights gather them as always.”
Following the Summary of Reports, Esmenet walked the circuit of the western terrace, both to bask in the sunlight and to greet—albeit at a distance—the dozens of adulants gathered on the rooftops below. She found their attention both distressing and exhilarating. Even as she despaired over her worthiness, she tried to think of ways she might reward their unwarranted patience. Yesterday, she had several guardsmen distribute bread and pepper-soup. Today, thanking Momas for the sea breeze, she cast them two crimson veils, which twisted like eels in water as they floated over their palms. She laughed as they scrambled.
Afterward she oversaw the afternoon Penance with three of the Nascenti. Originally, the rite had been intended to shrive those of the Orthodox who had fomented against the Warrior-Prophet, but against expectations many Men of the Tusk began
returning,
some once or twice, some day in and day out. Even Zaudunyani—including those initiated in the first secret Whelmings—started to attend, claiming to have suffered doubts or malice or some such during the misery of the siege. As a result, the numbers who gathered had increased to the point where the Nascenti had to start administering Penance outside the Fama Palace.
returning,
some once or twice, some day in and day out. Even Zaudunyani—including those initiated in the first secret Whelmings—started to attend, claiming to have suffered doubts or malice or some such during the misery of the siege. As a result, the numbers who gathered had increased to the point where the Nascenti had to start administering Penance outside the Fama Palace.
At the direction of the Judges, the attendees stripped to the waist and assembled in long, uneven rows, where they knelt upright, their backs slick and burnished in the setting sun. While the Nascenti recited the prayers, the Judges methodically worked their way among the penitents, lashing each man three times with a branch shorn from Umiaki. With each stroke they cried out, in succession:
“For wounding that which heals!”
“For seizing what would be given!”
“For condemning that which saves!”
Esmenet still wrung her hands as she watched the dark branches rise and fall. The bleeding unnerved her, though most received no more than welts. Their backs, with protruding spine and ribs, seemed so frail. But it was the
way
they watched her, as though she were a milestone that marked some otherwise immeasurable distance, that troubled her the most. When the Judges struck, some even arched back, their faces riven with expressions whores knew well but no woman truly understood.
way
they watched her, as though she were a milestone that marked some otherwise immeasurable distance, that troubled her the most. When the Judges struck, some even arched back, their faces riven with expressions whores knew well but no woman truly understood.
BOOK: The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3)
12.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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