The Ascendancy Veil (40 page)

Then the sensation was gone. ‘Enter,’ the Weaver said, and Ukadi put his hands on her shoulders and led her away swiftly. The door closed behind them.

‘Heart’s blood . . .’ she murmured to herself. ‘He did not see . . . he did not see . . .’

She kept her head lowered as they turned a corner and went along a short way. Fortune was with them and they saw nobody. Ukadi held aside a curtain and ushered Muraki and Mishani through, and when he let it drop they were alone together.

The room was a small bedchamber, with only a single bed near to a window-arch that looked out past the arm of one of the great stone figures that lunged from the Keep’s sloping walls. A veil had been hung across it, muting the already muted light. There was a table with a slender book on it, and two chests of drawers in a matched pair.

A difficult silence passed as mother and daughter looked upon each other for the first time in a decade. The resemblance between them was remarkable.

‘You cut your hair,’ Muraki whispered.

‘I had to,’ Mishani said. ‘It matters nothing. I can grow it back.’

Muraki reached out and touched it carefully. ‘It looks odd. But it suits you.’

Mishani smiled and turned her head away. ‘I look like a peasant. I will be taking it down as soon as I possibly can.’ Studying the veiled window-arch, she said: ‘I read your books. All of them.’

‘I knew you would,’ her mother replied. ‘I knew it.’

‘The Weaver . . .’ Mishani began, a question on her face.

‘They are there to root out those who mean harm to the Imperial family. You, apparently, do not. Not even towards your father. They read no further into a person’s thoughts than that. To do so would be . . . violation. It is dangerous. They have accidentally killed guests that way, or driven them mad, until Avun forbade it.’ She glanced uneasily around the room. ‘I would not have let you come if I had been able to leave myself. But I cannot leave. Your father sees to that.’

‘I told you I would not take refusal,’ Mishani said. ‘I would have tried anyway, with or without your help. The risks are acceptable to me.’

She motioned to the bed, and they sat down on its edge next to each other.

‘There are things I want to say to you,’ Mishani replied. ‘Things that must come from my lips, not from a coded poem. We are on two sides of a war now, Mother, and one side or the other must win eventually. Whichever of us is on the losing side will not survive, I think. We are both of us too involved.’

Muraki was silent, her hair hanging across her face. She had always hidden behind her hair: straight and centre-parted, it concealed her, leaving only a narrow gap for her eyes and nose and mouth.

‘I have wanted to see you for so long,’ Mishani said. ‘I pictured throwing my arms around you, laughing with joy. But now that I am here, I find that it is as it always was. Why are we this way with each other?’

‘It is our nature,’ Muraki said quietly. ‘And no amount of time can change that.’

‘But I saw you in your writing, Mother,’ Mishani said. ‘I saw your heart in that. I know you feel as deeply as anyone,
deeper
than most. Deeper than Father.’

Muraki could not meet her gaze. ‘My writing can express my soul better than my words or actions ever could,’ she said. ‘There is comfort there. I am not afraid there.’

‘I know that, Mother,’ Mishani said, laying a hand on Muraki’s. It was clammy and cold. Startled, Muraki looked at her daughter’s hand as if it were something that might bite her. Mishani did not remove it. ‘I know now. There are many things I did not see before. Like the code in your poems, they took me too long to understand.’

The words came quickly from them both: there was a sense of haste in their meeting, the knowledge that the danger was far from past. They could not waste time when it was so short and precious. Neither of them had ever spoken this directly to the other before.

‘I am older now than then, and much has passed in between,’ Mishani said. ‘When I was young, I thought you weak and distant. You were a shadow of a woman in comparison to my father. I did not even think of you when I went to Axekami to join him at the courts. It did not occur to me that you would care.’ She met her mother’s eyes briefly, before Muraki became uncomfortable and broke the contact. ‘I was a callous child. You deserved better.’

‘No,’ said Muraki. ‘How could you have realised that? Do we not judge everyone by how they act towards us? You cannot be blamed for my failings, daughter. If you thought me aloof, it was because I did not hold you as a child, because I did not touch you or speak with you. If you thought me weak, it was because I did not make myself heard. There is . . . passion in my imagination, passion in my books . . . but there I can shape the world as I will it. The world outside . . . is stultifying, and awkward, and I am shamed when I speak and afraid of people . . . I am embarrassed by attention . . .’ Realising that she had trailed into a mumble, she recovered herself. ‘These are my failings. They have been with me since I was a child, since I can remember. It is not what I want for myself – that is in my books – but it is how I am.’

Mishani squeezed her hand gently. ‘But every book you have written has made me feel more that I have wronged you. So I came to you now to make amends. To ask you to forgive me. And to tell you that I am proud of you, Mother.’

Muraki’s expression was one of incomprehension.

‘Do you not see what you have done?’ Mishani said. ‘You dared to make yourself a spy for us, you risked yourself by sending Chien to protect me all those years ago.’ Muraki put her hand to her mouth at this. ‘Yes, I surmised that much before he died. Father’s men got to him. But in the end, if not for him, if not for you, thousands of lives would have been lost in the Xarana Fault. Things could have turned out very differently. In your quiet way you have contributed more than we could ever ask.’ She took her hand away. ‘And yet still we remain in two different worlds, and soon one of them will end. That is why I am here, that is why I risk all this. There are some things that must be done, at any cost. My spirit could not rest if either of us died and . . . you did not know.’

‘I had not realised my child could be so reckless,’ Muraki whispered, but a smile touched the edge of her lips.

‘It is a new experience for me too,’ Mishani grinned. She felt as if a heavy stone had been lifted from her chest. Even if she was caught now, it did not matter so much. It was done, and could not be undone. ‘Perhaps nature can change with time.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Muraki, then got up and went to the window-arch. She brushed aside the veil and looked out.

‘Daughter, I love you,’ she said, her back to Mishani. ‘I always have. Never doubt that, though I may not show it, though we may never have the opportunity to speak again. I am glad you came so I could tell you. We should not have left these matters so late.’

Mishani felt tears start to her eyes. She knew how much it had cost her mother to say those words, and to hear them for the first time in her life was ecstasy.

‘Now listen to me,’ she said, turning away from the window-arch and letting the veil drop. ‘I have much to tell.’

And she spoke then of Avun’s plans and schemes, of hints he had given and the intentions that he had expressed. She told of his failed plot to unseat Kakre, of the imminent creation of more feya-kori; of the true numbers of the Aberrants and the dire situation that the Weavers were in, how they faced starvation unless they could take the Prefectures by the next harvest. Mishani did not interrupt, filing every word in her memory, and as her mother went on she realised that her visit could turn out to be far more valuable than even she might have guessed: for this was information only days old, reaching her without the delay of months that was necessary in the publication of a book. She was staggered how much her mother knew. Avun discussed everything with her, it seemed, and the little snippets she had managed to secrete in her stories were only those few long-term events that she thought might still be relevant by the time they reached the hands of those she meant it for. In five minutes Muraki told her more than the entire spy network and the Sisterhood put together had managed to learn in four years.

‘Lord Protector!’ Ukadi suddenly cried from outside the doorway, and mother and daughter froze. Mishani went numb with the force of the sadness that struck her. Being discovered by her father was one thing, with all the lives that would be cost by her foolishness in coming here; but what was worse at this moment was the knowledge that now she and her mother had to part, that they would likely never meet again, that these precious handful of minutes out of ten years were all they would ever have.

‘Go!’ Muraki hissed, and Mishani hesitated, taking her mother’s hands, gripping them. ‘Go!’ she urged again, terror in her eyes.

‘I heard she was walking about,’ said Avun. ‘I must see her!’

‘She is being attended by my assistant,’ Ukadi was saying beyond the curtain. ‘Please, it would be best if you . . .’

Mishani leaned forward quickly, kissed Muraki on the cheek, and whispered in her ear: ‘You were the strongest of us all, Mother. My heart will always be with you.’

Then she got up and swept towards the doorway, just as Avun came through the curtain. Mishani made a deep bow, still walking, and passed by her startled father with her head down as he held the curtain aside for her. Due to the difference in height, he only saw the back of her head. It was an incredibly rude thing to do, and Avun’s shock prevented him from reacting for a moment; then, as he opened his mouth to call her back, Muraki cried: ‘Avun! Avun! Come here!’

The volume of his wife’s voice, which was never more than a whisper, made him forget the servant immediately and hurry into the room, where Muraki embraced him and kissed him with an affection he had not witnessed in years, and she did not let him go. She drew him down onto the bed, and there she made love to him for the first time in longer than he cared to remember.

So surprised and pleased was he that he entirely forgot about the physician’s assistant until long after she had left the Imperial Keep; and yet later he found he could not shake the insidious feeling that, even though he had not seen her face, he knew her from somewhere. But he could never recall quite where.

Word from Mishani reached Araka Jo a day later, via a Sister who operated secretly out of Maza. She was an important relay for the spies in Axekami, and Mishani went straight to her after leaving the capital. Her news caused great commotion. Nobody had known where Mishani had gone, only that she had departed Araka Jo some time before, saying that she was attending to business of her own. When the upper echelons of the Libera Dramach learned what she had done, she was denounced as being reprehensible for placing them all at such risk; but it was Cailin who defended her, who pointed out that great risk had brought great reward, and the information she had given them was priceless.

A meeting was called immediately, and plans were put forward, many of which had been fermenting over the previous weeks and had been discussed in other meetings beforehand. Finally consensus was reached. There was no more room for delays. The time for action had come.

It was the morning after that meeting when Kaiku made her way down the trail to the south of Araka Jo, and found the Tkiurathi village in a state of busy preparation. They had conducted their own meeting last night, in the wake of the one with the Libera Dramach. Each individual had been asked to make their own choice as to whether they would follow the course suggested by the council. Kaiku had come to find the results of that.

She wandered through the Tkiurathi village, exchanging gestured greetings with a few men and women that she recognised. It was not hard to guess how the decision had gone. Blades were being sharpened, rifles cleaned, supplies made ready. They were packing for a journey.

There was a simplicity to this place that Kaiku liked: the smell of the cookfires, the repka yurts which looked like huge three-armed starfish lying between the trees, the sense of ease in the interaction of the tattooed folk. They seemed so untroubled in their daily lives, even now, even knowing that they were heading into something that they might well not come back from. Laughter came easily to them when they were together. Some of them were breakfasting, taking from a communal pot, exchanging food from their plates. Even this small act of sharing made a difference, something so natural to them that they must have long ceased to think about it.

She remembered a conversation she had had with Tsata long ago, in which he said that the Saramyr way of life resulted directly from their development of cities and courts and all the things Kaiku associated with civilisation; Tkiurathi shunned all that. Now that she had seen them, the way they interacted as a group, she wondered whose philosophy was better in the end.

Kaiku asked after Tsata by making his name a question, and was directed towards a rough circle of Tkiurathi who sat talking and drinking from wooden cups shaped somewhat like pears or pinecones. There was a large bowl in the centre from which they took refills. Heth was there, too; he noticed her first, and hailed her by name. The circle broke to leave a space between Tsata and Heth, and she smiled her gratitude as she sat down and was immediately handed a cup by a woman she did not recognise. The woman took a new one and filled it for herself.

She managed a general greeting in Okhamban in response to the one she received, then took a sip of the liquid. It was warm, and spicy and fiery on her tongue.

‘Daygreet. Have I interrupted?’ she asked Tsata, but her presence had cause barely a lull in the conversation, and they were already back to their discussion.

‘We are working out final details of our departure,’ Tsata said. ‘It is not anything of great importance.’

‘They agreed, then?’