Threshold (11 page)

T
HREE
weeks after the disastrous attempt to assassinate Boaz, he came to visit.

I was in the main work area that morning, sitting with my father as he selected sifted metal powders for a mixing he would do in the afternoon.

Everyone, in fact, was in the workshop, no-one at Threshold, no-one out collecting supplies or helping in another workshop.

Boaz must have known this. How? There was no obvious guard or watch kept. How?

I was chatting to my father. He looked tired and drawn – all of us were, but Druse more than others – and I regretted that most of the time I’d spent with Yaqob had been stolen from time I would otherwise have spent with Druse. He was my father, and he loved me and had raised me. I did not want him to think I avoided him because I blamed him.

But Druse smiled, and said that he liked and respected Yaqob, and that he did not mind.

That day I loved my father very much.

There was a darkening in the doorway and, mildly curious, I looked up.

Boaz.

He looked no different from any other Magus, but there was something so infinitely dangerous, so cruel about him that I’m sure he would have intimidated a collection of Magi, let alone us.

Everyone stilled.

Some guards followed him, but Boaz waved them back into the street, and stepped down onto the workshop floor alone.

“Yes?” Isphet asked.

I envied her that single word. I remembered she had greeted Ta’uz thus, too, the night he had delivered me to her door.

Now she was just as cool and calm as she had been that night, even though here she had far more secrets to hide, and many more lives to protect. She stood in the very centre of the workshop, her head slightly tilted back, her eyes challenging, questioning.

About us the glass chattered in an undertone, and the jars of metals hummed quietly in their racks.

I felt like screaming at them to shut up.

Boaz walked straight past Isphet, not acknowledging her presence. He walked to the furnaces, considered them a long moment, then strolled casually about the workshop. Every so often he would flick the hem of his blue robe to one side to avoid a patch of oil, or a drift of dust.

“It seems fortuitous that I arrived here when I did,” he said without preamble. “Threshold is of vital importance to Ashdod, to
all
its people, and yet when I arrived I found a site wallowing in inexactitude, its measurements imprecise, its practices unpredictable.”

He stopped by Yassar’s work table, trailing a finger through some of the containers of glass that had been ground down for enamels.

“Such pretty colours,” he remarked, then lifted his head and stared at Isphet.

“What do you want?” she asked, and now there was a brittleness to her that had not been there before.

“Respect, Isphet, is very important,” Boaz said mildly, and Isphet suddenly whimpered with pain and doubled over, clutching at her belly.

To one side Yaqob shifted indecisively.

“What can I do for you,
Excellency
?” Isphet ground out, and then relaxed, slowly straightening up. But her eyes were frightened, as were mine, and every other pair I could see save Boaz’s.

“I have come to restore order, predictability, preciseness.”

“Nothing here is predictable any more,” Yaqob said, and stepped into the light. “Since you have taken over as Master of the Site, all is chaos. Excellency.”

Boaz looked Yaqob up and down, measuring his potential for trouble. “You are but a glassworker, uneducated in the ways of the mind. I shall forgive your interruption.”

Oh Yaqob, I prayed, and screwed my eyes shut for a heartbeat, keep your temper!

“You do not know that in apparent randomness there is pattern and predictability,” Boaz continued. “That in chaos there is law rigidly applied. You cannot see it, thus for you it does not exist. Now,” he dismissed Yaqob and turned away, “I have heard certain rumours during my time here. Rumours I first laughed at, but which now have come to irritate me.”

He walked further around the shop, inspecting some of the racks of glass. “That is why I am here. I wish to lay these rumours, if rumours they be, to rest.”

He turned back to stare at us all, his eyes searching out each of ours, all bantering and lightness gone from his manner. I trembled as his gaze passed over me, hesitated, then passed on.

“Some say that there are those on this site who still practise the Elemental arts. I would call this silliness,
except that, perhaps, it is true. I had thought that we had managed to educate the lower castes away from their Elemental foolishness generations ago. And yet…”

He moved closer to me. I tensed, but he casually perched on the edge of the table at which my father and I sat, his back to us.

“I remember,” he said very softly into the complete silence, “that glassworkers were ever more susceptible to the lure of the Elemental arts than others. I remember hearing that they lost themselves in the swirling colours of the molten glass, and opened themselves to the evil voices of spirits that should have been long dead and forgotten. I remember hearing how some glassworkers claimed they could hear glass speak, and spoke back to it. Silliness, of course.”

The glass continued to chat to and fro about us, and I was glad that Boaz could no longer see my face.

“But I will have
none
of this on my site!” His voice now cut into each and every one of us. “
None!
If I find anyone,
anyone
, practising Elemental magic, I will have them killed as they stand.
Do you understand me
?”

“We understand, Excellency!” we muttered, almost as one.

“See that you do,” Boaz said, then stood up. He walked across to the outer door and I dared let out my breath in relief.

“Oh,” Boaz said as he reached the door. He turned about. “Tirzah, stand up, if you please.”

My heart thudded so painfully I thought it would tear itself from my breast.

“Stand up!”

I stood.

“Tirzah. You will come to my quarters tonight. A guard will escort you from your tenement building. See that you wash first.”

And he turned to go.

“No,” I said.

I couldn’t believe I’d said that.

“Did you understand me?” His voice was very soft, his face completely expressionless as he faced me again.

“I do not want to –”

I screamed, wrapped in such pain that I could not believe I could live through it.

There was a noise to one side – later I would find out it was Zeldon wrapping his arms about Yaqob to prevent him attacking Boaz.

“
Do you understand me
?”

“Yes!” I sobbed. “
Yes! I understand you!
”

The pain vanished, and I slumped into my father’s arms.

I knew that night would be the worst of my life.

Y
AQOB
seized me in his arms and carried me up the stairs. “Isphet, Zeldon, Orteas, Yassar. Upstairs.”

I sat in his lap and sobbed, not caring what I’d just promised Boaz. “I can’t go! Yaqob, I
won’t
!”

“Shush, love, shush. I –”

“I
can’t
go!”

I felt Isphet beside us on the bench, and her hand on my hair. “Tirzah –”

And suddenly I knew what they were all going to say. “
NO
!”

“Listen to me.” Yaqob’s voice was very firm. “
Listen
to me, Tirzah! This will be the best chance we’ll ever have of getting inside that man’s head. Tirzah, you
must
go. Don’t you ever want to escape from here? Don’t you ever want to be free?”

I couldn’t say anything.

“Tirzah, you will give us the key to this man. Damn it, we
need
this chance.”

“But I am afraid. I know he suspects me of being an Elemental. What if this is a trap? What –”

“Then you must be careful, Tirzah. Say nothing to him. He won’t expect conversation. Endure, listen, watch. We need your eyes and your ears close to that man.”

“Yaqob!” I leaned back and stared at him with a tearstained face. “Don’t you
care
? Is your plot worth more to you than me?”

He took my face between his hands and I could see that yes, indeed, he did care, and he cared very much. “I will kill him for what he will do to you, Tirzah,” he said softly. “Believe that.”

And I believed it.

Isphet pushed the men from the room and talked to me for a very long time. She told me what to expect, and she gave me the courage to endure it. Later that evening I walked home with her, Kiath and Saboa silent behind us. I had been unable to look Yaqob in the eye as I said goodbye to him.

Hadone kept springing into my thoughts. He had also used me, but had tried to be thoughtful and not to hurt me too much. From what I had seen of Boaz and from what Isphet had told me, I could not expect the same from him.

Well, I had endured Hadone, I would endure Boaz. And perhaps I
would
learn the key to our freedom from a careless word.

That evening I pushed away the food Kiath offered me, then went outside to wash. When I returned a guard was waiting inside, a bundle of white cloth in his hands.

“For you. His Excellency does not want to receive you in your dirty wrap.”

Isphet took it from him, then pulled me outside to change. It was a beautiful garment, a sheath dress made of pleated white linen hanging from a wide circular collar of blue beads that draped over my shoulders. It fitted perfectly, clinging to waist and hips, and hanging to the calves of my legs. A beautiful garment, but a whore’s dress. And blue and white, the colour of the Magus.

Thus marked, I would have to walk through the streets of Gesholme to his compound.

Isphet combed out my hair, leaving it loose about my shoulders. Then she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Go,” she said. “I’ll wait for you.”

I nodded, unable to speak, and followed the guard out the door.

The streets were almost deserted. Few walked out after dusk now, save those with good reason. There were some patrols, several pairs of curious eyes watching from high windows to mark my passing, and the evening chorus of frogs from the river reeds, but little else.

The guard did not speak. He walked slightly behind me, wary, expecting me to try to escape.

But I had no heart for that now. There was nowhere to run.

Finally, the compound of the Magi.

“Halt,” the guard said, and he spoke briefly with the detail standing watch at the gate. In Ta’uz’s time that had only been two. Now there were at least six heavily armed men to decide who passed in and out.

The guard – those at the gate had called him Kiamet – led me through the compound. I had not been in here since the night of my arrival, and I had forgotten how sweet and cool was the air, fragrant with flowers, how soft were the lights. I saw the carefully arranged gardens, but at night shadows hid most of their artfulness.

A few Magi passed me, but I averted my head and I do not know if they smiled, or lusted, or just did not care.

Kiamet led me past where I’d expected to go, the residence Ta’uz had used as Master of the Site. I’d remembered it from my own visit, and Raguel had described it to me often enough. Surprised, I lifted my head, and paid more attention. Perhaps I could glean something of use.

He took me to a smaller, far less pretentious house than Ta’uz’s; one that was almost hidden underneath the wall of the compound. It was long and low, widely verandahed,
and plastered in a delicate cream traced with lemon. Soft lights swung from verandah posts, showing pink and blue flowering bushes bordering the tiled walkways.

It looked very beautiful and utterly gracious.

“There,” Kiamet said, and he pointed to an open door. Light shone beyond. Then he took up his post under the verandah, no doubt to wait until I’d been used and dismissed.

I think I was beyond all feeling by this time. I hesitated, then walked through the door, blinking in the light.

The room was the width of the house, and ran deep into it. On either side, wide windows ran from ceiling to floor, all open. The room was spacious, not only because of its size, but because of the minimal amount of furniture in it. Several chairs, a small table, shelves for papyri books and rolls running the length of one wall, a desk, and two cabinets standing against the opposite wall from where I entered. On one of the cabinets stood a pitcher and a wide bowl, flanked by some cloths.

And there a bed, wide and accommodating.

I turned my eyes.

Boaz sat at the desk, watching me. Papyri rolls and sheets lay scattered before him. In one hand he held a reed stylus, sharpened at one end; his fingers were stained with ink. He was dressed in a loose-fitting white robe, and I realised he had but removed his outer garment of blue.

A lamp was burning at his elbow, and its light threw his face into shadows. He put down the stylus.

“You are here. Good.”

He pointed to a chair pulled to one side of the desk. “Sit down.”

I sat, wiping my hands nervously on my dress, then clenched my fists, worried I had marked the fine material.

“I must explain some things first. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Excellency.” Just use me, and let me leave, I pleaded silently, but apparently he had to have his say.

“I will call you back, be assured of that.”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Whenever you arrive, you will bring that bowl and pitcher, and wash my hands and feet. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Good. Do it.”

I did as he asked, fetching the bowl and the pitcher of water, and kneeling back by his side. I was grateful the pitcher did not shake in my hand as I poured out a measure of water, nor that my hands did not tremble as I lifted the cloth.

He had nice hands, the hands of a craftsman, square palmed and long fingered, and paler skinned than many of his race. They were very warm.

I dried them, then turned my attention to his feet.

As I folded the cloth he handed me a phial of oil, and I massaged the oil into his hands and feet. It was very fragrant, redolent with the tastes and sounds of a forest, and it caused me to remember the northern lands of my home. I was grateful when I had done and could stopper the phial and hand it back.

I returned the pitcher and bowl to their place, then, at his indication, sat down again.

“You will not speak unless I ask it of you.”

“I understand, Excellency.”

“You will not ask questions.”

“No, Excellency.”

He paused, and glanced at my ankles. “Why are your ankles so scarred?”

“I was chained in a whaler for six weeks, Excellency. My ankles festered and scarred.”

“Well, they are distasteful. You will do your utmost to keep them from my sight while you are with me.”

“Yes, Excellency.” I crossed them and tucked my feet underneath my chair. It was the best I could do.

“In fact, you will do your utmost to look pleasing for me, Tirzah. You will ask Isphet how to apply kohl to your eyes.”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“You will do whatever I ask of you. Whatever. Whenever. However loathsome.”

I took a breath. “Yes, Excellency.”

“Good. Tirzah,” he leaned forward, “you will tell
no-one
of what goes on in this room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“If you
do
tell anyone,” he said, very quietly now, “I will know and I will exact retribution. Not only you, but every person you tell shall be fed alive and bleeding to the great water lizards. Do you understand me?”

The power of the One rippled across his face, and I could see my death in his eyes. My voice trembled as I replied. “I understand you, Excellency.”

He stared at me, then relaxed. “Good. Now, why are you here?”

“To provide satisfaction, Excellency.”

“Good, very good. In what way?”

I could not help it; I blushed. “You wish to use me, Excellency.”

He was silent, a finger tapping upon the desk. “Yes, but not in the way you think. I have no time for the type of weakness Ta’uz displayed.”

My eyes widened.

“I
am
one with the One, Tirzah,” he said. “I do not need to ‘use’ a woman to achieve that end. One will always be better than two, and two is but a sorry coupling seeking to imitate the perfection of the One. Ta’uz, as all Magi who seek to achieve union with the One through use of a woman, was a fool. No. I am going to teach you to write.”

Now my shock was complete. I remembered what Yaqob had told me about the sorceries that would bind me if I learned how to write and I shook my head from side to side, very slowly, responding without thinking. “No!”

I’d angered him again. “
Yes!
”

“
Yes
, Excellency!” I’d learned my lesson well that morning.

“Why are you afraid?”

Yaqob’s angry face swam before me – he would prefer that Boaz bed me than teach me to write. “I…I’m needed to cage, Excellency. It takes so much time. To learn to write as well…”

“You will continue to work in Isphet’s workshop, but you will come here three evenings a week. Four, if I request it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Why else are you afraid?”

I hesitated, thinking past Yaqob’s hatred of writing to the blood inscriptions writhing across the Infinity Chamber. “Writing is sorcery, Excellency. You pair characters and symbols with numbers, and so produce calculations and sorceries with your words.”

He raised an eyebrow at my knowledge. “Do you think I am about to pass across my sorceries for your edification, girl? For you to take back to your friends in the glass workshop?”

“I –”

His mouth curled in contempt. “I will give you nothing that you can use to destroy me, Tirzah. Is
that
understood?”

I hung my head. “Yes, Excellency.”

“You have a question, Tirzah. Speak it.”

“Why teach me to write, Excellency?”

“You are young and quick-witted – your ability to grasp Ashdod’s native tongue is proof enough of that – and I have need of quick wits about me. As importantly, you probably know at least two of the northern tongues, and the common trading language. Am I right?”

“Yes, Excellency.” I hesitated. “I speak my native Vilander, as well as the neighbouring tongue of Geshardian.

Less well, but competently, I speak Alaric and Befardi. And, as you said, the common trading tongue.”

“Then you
will
do well,” he said. “Now listen to me.” His tone hardened, and hate thinned his mouth. “You will tell your lover, Yaqob, that I teach you the arts of the whore, not the scholar. Do you understand?”

He knew about Yaqob?
I looked stunned, and he leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “I know it all, Tirzah. In the end it will be safer for you to lie to Yaqob, because he will never believe the truth. And will
he
trust
you
, once he knows you can write? He will think, ‘She betrayed me the moment she first picked up the stylus.’”

He reached out a hand and seized one of mine. I tensed, but did not resist as he pulled my hand across the desk. He slowly opened my fingers, one by one.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and a tear rolled out.

“Open your eyes, Tirzah.”

I forced them open.

“Take the stylus from the desk.”

I hesitated, and his fingers tightened about my wrist. “Did you understand me, Tirzah?”

My fingers shaking even through his grip, I took the stylus.

“Good.”

I loathed him and I abhorred what he tried to teach me. I loathed that he’d so deliberately forced me to betray Yaqob. And my fear was even greater than my loathing because he’d known
exactly
how to make me betray my lover. Why hadn’t I fought him? Kicked and screamed? But here I sat, struggling to grip the stylus in the way he wanted, struggling to understand what he told me, and the repulsion writhed and kicked about my belly.

The Magus kept me until the dawn light filtered through the windows. He taught me how to draw the basic
characters of numbers and of words, and he made me draw them again and again until I had them approaching the precision he demanded.

I grew frustrated and increasingly angry, both emotions sharpened by weariness and self-disgust, but I dared show neither. So I bit my lip and did my best, and tried to understand the concepts he showed me.

It was easier for me than it might have been for Isphet or Yaqob. I was used to drawing on the glass, and to sketching the designs the Magi sent to the workshop. I discovered I had a familiarity with the figures, and that frightened me, and deepened my already raging resentment and hatred for this man.

I wondered what he really wanted from me. It was not only to learn to write, of that I was sure. There was no reason to teach
me
to write and to figure, for the Magi had clerks and scribes a-plenty. I tried to find some clue in his manner or words, but found nothing save coldness and impatience.