The Kingdoms of Dust (18 page)

A
sheris left again after sunrise, once more bidding Isyllt to wait. Another meal arrived soon, carried by a nervous page who handed the tray to Adam and eyed Isyllt as though she were a wailing specter. Relieved of his burden, his hands clenched and unclenched nervously against his trousers until Adam tipped him and sent him away. Isyllt wondered if he’d boil the coin before he spent it.

“How long do you think he’ll keep us mewed in here?” Adam asked as he uncovered plates.

Isyllt had no answer.

Asheris returned after the noon bells, carrying a small basket. “You have an audience with the empress. I’ll take you there as soon as you’re dressed.”

Isyllt put down the comb she’d been wielding against her hair for the better part of an hour. “The dressing may prove a problem.” She still wore her bathrobe—all the clothing in her luggage was too soiled to wear against clean skin, let alone for a royal audience.

“That’s why I brought these.” Asheris handed her the basket, filled with pale cloth. “In Symir we might transgress, but not here. I’m sorry.”

She lifted a fold of fabric: white silk, woven light as a whisper. The mortician’s veil, worn by necromancers and funeral attendants alike—anyone who touched the dead for a living.

When she finished combing and plaiting her hair, Isyllt carried the hamper into the dressing room. Her reflection watched as she sorted through layers of cloth.

First came trousers and blouse of lightweight linen, followed by a raw silk robe that fell in heavy folds around her calves, shimmering with moonstone iridescence when she moved. The sleeves hung long and flaring, but could be cinched to her forearms with ties; very pretty, but she couldn’t imagine performing an autopsy in it.

Next came the veil that wrapped her face and hair, leaving only her eyes exposed, and the robe’s deep hood. Last, she drew on cotton gloves, hiding her ring. Her reflection stared back from the glass, stark and faceless. Like a ghost on an opera stage.

Jewelry was pointless when she was covered from head to heels, but Isyllt still took her coffer out of her luggage. The box was a tangle of garnets and opals and amethysts, stones too soft for mage-work. A ruby winked beneath a tangle of lesser gems—an unwelcome souvenir of her last job in Erisín. She sorted out the opals now, discarding hair clips and necklaces before finally selecting a pair of earrings, teardrops caged in white gold. No one would see them, but the weight was reassuring.

Asheris picked up a discarded necklet with a crooked smile; the opals had been his gift to her, years ago. “You’ll have to oil them.” The stones spat iridescent fire as he ran them through his fingers. “They’ll chip in the heat otherwise. The desert isn’t kind to fragile things.”

Isyllt tried to smile, but it didn’t fit. “Things like me?”

“Hardly. You’re a diamond.”

That drew a laugh. Her breath warmed the veil. “Cold and sharp?”

His fingers brushed her cheek, soft as kiss through silk. “Yes, but you’ll weather anything.” He returned the necklace to its box and offered her a hand. “Come on. Her Majesty is waiting.”

She went before the empress in the Pomegranate Hall. A lesser audience chamber than the great apadana, Asheris explained, but impressive all the same. Her footsteps echoed as she approached the throne. Porphyry columns glittered in the sun; the slanting light threw their shadows stark and black across the white marble floor. The Indigo Guard, veiled and silent imperial bodyguards, were cool shadows on either side of the dais. In the center, framed by a chair of gilt and stained glass, sat the empress.

Assari poets and ambassadors called Samar al Seth the most beautiful woman in the world. As Isyllt stared at the woman glowing on the dais, she wondered if they were right. She knelt, turning her eyes to polished tiles, and waited. She felt the empress’s measuring gaze; fabric rustled and soft footsteps moved toward her.

“Rise, Lady Iskaldur.” Samar’s voice was a low soprano, golden and clear. And, for the moment, emotionless.

Isyllt stood and lifted her eyes.

The glow was merely the afternoon light through high windows and gold powder sheening copper-brown skin. The beauty beneath it was a human sort. Samar was a tall woman, long-limbed and heavy-hipped, her belly softened with age and childbirth. She wore burgundy silk, nearly the same shade as the porphyry columns, pleated and gathered beneath her breasts; gold and garnets gleamed at her throat and ears and amidst her henna-kissed curls. Long hazel eyes regarded Isyllt, smoky with kohl and powder.

“Please, remove your veil. Asheris speaks too highly of you for you to hide your face in my home.”

Isyllt drew the cloth aside, willing her expression still. They were of a height, but Samar stood on the first step of the dais, making her tilt her head to meet the empress’s gaze.

“You honor me, Your Majesty.”

“I do.” Samar winked, dark lashes brushing her cheek. “There will be talk.” When she smiled, fine lines creased her face, like a statue coming to life. She and Asheris were only distant cousins, but Isyllt thought she saw a resemblance in that smile.

“Asheris tells me he’s asked you here to help us with our…unusual weather. It’s very kind of you to travel so far. Especially when your Crown has so often been at odds with Assar.”

Isyllt inclined her head. “I no longer work for Selafai, Your Majesty.”

“So I’ve heard. But I haven’t yet heard the reason for the end of your service.”

Isyllt couldn’t keep her jaw from clenching, and wished she’d kept the veil on. She wanted to tell the truth: that she’d let the king die—let him be murdered—to try to save Kiril. Would have killed Mathiros herself to spare her master’s life. But she’d failed in that as well. If she and Samar had been alone, she might have done so, just to see the empress’s reaction. But a hall like this was doubtless full of stray eyes and ears.

“After my master’s death, I wished for time away,” she said instead. “And Nikos had people of his own. I’m here only as a friend of Asheris.”

“And for that friendship I welcome you. He told me of the help you gave him in Symir. He’s also requested that I appoint a court necromancer. I’ve been hesitant to do so, as it would unsettle the church and much of my court, but if you can help find a solution to the ghost wind, that would do much to sway opinions. I value good service over superstition.”

Isyllt bowed her head to cover a grimace. Only kings and spymasters considered her sort of service good. Most simply called it deception and murder. “I shall make it my first priority,” she lied.

Samar’s lips quirked. “I understand you had some trouble in Kehribar, and in Sherazad.”

“Kehribar was simply a misunderstanding. Sherazad—” She pressed her tongue against her teeth. But if Samar wanted perfect discretion, she should have granted Isyllt a private audience. “The trouble in Sherazad wasn’t only mine.”

“What do you mean?”

Isyllt paused, unfurling a cautious tendril of magic. Sure enough, besides the two guards on the dais, she sensed at least two other listeners, cunningly concealed behind panels in the wall.

“The assassin in Sherazad was aiming at me, Your Majesty, but my death was meant to undermine Asheris, and through him, you. I don’t know if he’s spoken of it yet, but Asheris has been cursed.”

Samar’s eyes narrowed. He had told her, Isyllt guessed, but only in private. “Cursed?”

“A wicked piece of sorcery, designed to drive him mad and eventually consume him altogether. Likely in a public sort of spectacle. We’ve dealt with the magic, but whoever cast it is very skilled, and may strike again.” Best to provide a plausible cover story now, in case her countermeasures failed.

Samar’s sculpted brows drew together. “Do you know who’s responsible?”

“I’m afraid not. Being ignorant of your court and city, I have no suspects. If I met the person, though, I might recognize the magic.”

“You’ll inform me, of course, if you learn anything further.”

“Of course.”

“Already you prove your worth. You may encounter some…distance amongst the court and palace staff—I hope you will forgive it. Necromancers are rare here, and the white veil is off-putting to the devout. It will take some time for others to grow accustomed to your presence.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.”

“Then be welcome to Ta’ashlan, Lady Iskaldur, and to the Court of Lions.”

After dinner that night, Asheris joined Samar in her study. The empress’s desk was always crowded with matters needing her attention, but tonight an avalanche of parchment covered the wide ebony surface.

“There’s something here we aren’t seeing,” Samar said, shaking a rolled map in Asheris’s direction. “Something more than just the land. Ahmar wouldn’t risk making an enemy of the Crown unless the result was worth more than a few setats of jungle, no matter how rich the soil.”

A familiar knock on the hidden panel interrupted. The door swung open and Siddir emerged, a parchment tube tucked under one arm. All traces of sand and long travel had been scrubbed and oiled away; silk shimmered by lamplight, and his hair gleamed, long enough to curl again, the grey at his temples hidden beneath fresh dye. His smile gleamed brighter still.

“I found it.” With a bow and a flourish, he handed the tube to Samar—the leather was scuffed and dented, one end sun-faded and grey with dust. “We weren’t being paranoid enough. Not until I started thinking of your quiet men,” he said, turning to Asheris.

“What do you mean?” Samar took the tube, but didn’t yet uncap it.

“We thought that because there was nothing of interest on the surveys, the land itself wasn’t the important piece of the equation. But what if the surveys were tampered with?”

Frowning, Samar twisted the cap off the tube. A roll of parchment slid into her hand, yellowed and delicate at the edges. The paper flaked as she unrolled it, and her frown deepened. “Where did you find this?”

“In Lord Jazra’s personal library. His collection is eclectic, but so poorly cataloged he’s forgotten half of it. I’ve used it before, when I didn’t want the palace archivists paying attention to my research.”

“You’re saying that someone has altered records in the palace library, the royal archives, and the university.”

“Once you accept the existence of conspiracies, these things become much more plausible.”

Asheris walked around Samar’s desk, leaning over her shoulder to see the parchment. It was a map, faded with age and ringed with tea-stains—the cartographer’s mark on the lower corner dated it from 1163. It showed the southern half of Assar and the jungles of Iseth in detail. The legend explained symbols for resources scattered across the page—gold, silver, hardwood, rich soil—as well as dangers such as hostile tribes and spirits. Oraka, the land Ahmar was so eager to claim for the church, was full of trees and spirits, and one other symbol: diamonds. Asheris’s indrawn breath hissed between his teeth.

Samar leaned back in her chair. “Why does the church want diamonds?”

“Not the church.” Asheris straightened. “At least, I hope the whole church isn’t involved. The quiet men.”

“You keep mentioning that name,” Samar said dryly. “Perhaps you’ll eventually explain it.”

“We never learned who was buying Rahal’s smuggled diamonds. I think we finally have.”

“Mages?”

“Who else would need so many stones? But I don’t know why they want them so badly. Threatening you through me is…indelicate.”

“And a threat they can only use once. If I give in, I’m theirs. But if I refuse, they must be prepared to expose you. Your necromancer has taken steps to lay out another story, but if they were bold enough to demand an examination—”

An exorcism. “Yes. I could deal with Ahmar, but she must be prepared for that. Someone else knows, and stands ready to accuse me if anything happens to the Asalar. And then the scandal will be even worse. I can’t stay here.”

Samar’s eyes narrowed. “It seems you’ll get your journey to the desert after all. Say nothing yet. I’ll make a public announcement.” She flipped through the collapsing stacks of papers till she found her calendar. “On the twenty-fourth. I can delay speaking to the church for three days.”

Her voice lowered. “Find these quiet men and deal with them. I won’t be backed into a corner like this.”

Asheris bowed his head. “I have no desire to live under their threats either.”

“Siddir—”

He bowed to the empress. “I’ll stay, of course, Your Majesty. I’m always yours to command.” A glance passed between them, fraught with something Asheris couldn’t read. Samar lowered her eyes first.

“Never think I don’t appreciate it,” she said. “Either of you.”

“What is it?” Asheris asked much later, lying in the darkness of his bedchamber. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Siddir chuckled, breath warm against Asheris’s shoulder. “There’s always something I’m not telling you.”

“Your secrets don’t usually leave you so tense.”

“Perhaps I’m unhappy that you spent our first night home with a foreign witch instead of me.”

Asheris laughed, but something in Siddir’s tone wasn’t entirely in jest. “You’re not really jealous, are you?”

“A little,” Siddir finally admitted. “I know I can’t be who you turn to for everything, of course. Still, one doesn’t always like to be reminded.”

They lay in silence, Asheris toying absently with Siddir’s hair. The dusty pungency of walnut dye clung at his temples, not entirely hidden with clove oil. Beneath that, the bed smelled of sex and sweat and lingering perfume.

“Does it bother you?” Siddir asked, the words muffled against Asheris’s shoulder.

“What?”

“That I’m aging and you’re not. You’ll look like this”—his fingertips traced a path from Asheris’s collarbone to his navel, over muscled ribs and the flat planes of his stomach—“forever, and I’ll wither.”

“You all wither,” Asheris said. “I see it every day. I see death watching me from the faces of everyone I meet.”