The Lady (29 page)

“The Revered Right Hand wanted me to tell you he has chosen his men and is ready, if the Lady would allow him through the fire.”

“Is it so late?” She looked past him, and yes, the light was swimming amber and golden, the shadows long and blue. Evening. She swayed, rocked back on her heels. She must drink a little water. The body had its needs. Time passed, and the body measured it, pacing the days.

She shivered. Horses. Horses, hooves on the hard-baked hills. The sky was blue, and small clouds piled over the horizon and faded again, tinged with fire, and the sun burned smoky orange with dust. The hills shimmered. Red cloaks blazed.

Today
. This day, she was suddenly certain, and the black pillars and the cracked plaster and waiting clerk faded to hazy dream around her. This day her champion would meet the high king of Praitan, and destroy him, and take the seven kingdoms for the glory of the Lady. This day or—night, night was in his thoughts, its thoughts, the ghost that rode him a hungry yearning, no, no, she would not must not—let it be so. Let the little work of death sate itself, and they would fear—he was her captain, a champion of Praitan, a king's sword in the manner of Over-Malagru, leave him to his business, if he would fight at night, she would let him, and in the dawn she would call him back, the priest who dreamed, Revered Arhu, would dream for her and speak for her, and the armies would come, riding hard, they would come to find her waiting, and the city would see them, a black tide rising up the pass, and—

Today. Tonight. Yes
. That was it, why she would allow Ashir's plan, which was meant for his own glory, to ensure his own importance, his own essential place, in the eyes of the temple. She would begin to prepare against her champion's return in triumph. It would be at least three five-days before he could return, with Praitan left submissive behind, hers, its very gods knowing themselves subject to Marakand—of course it could not be made orderly so quickly, but Arhu her dreaming priest was there to speak for her, and she wanted her captain home her king her father of emperors home. Him,
him
she did not think the demons could destroy. She would set the wizardry in him free, set free the ghost that so hungered for the energy of life, give it a new host, a child—not her child, no, never, not—

—You're mad! Can't you see yourself?

The guardsman Surey was staring, trying not to. He watched her hands. She glanced down, blinking hard to drive the hills and the sky from vision, saw them knotted, twisting, writhing like snakes, like the hands of mad Lilace the Voice of the Lady. She stilled them, tucked them together, wrapped her shawl, pinched her lips together. Had she spoken, had she whispered, had she shaped words? No, she smiled, charming, kindly, benevolent goddess that she was, she murmured blessings on this faithful soldier, whose heart raced terrified in her presence.

“Tonight,” she said. “I have decided. Tonight Ashir may try his plan.”

“Yes, great Lady. He's ready. He's at the gate, and the first company of the guard is ready to force the blocked gateway to the Fleshmarket Ward, with the second standing in reserve. They only await your word. And the parting of the fire.”

That wasn't reproof, was it? She knew perfectly well she had told Ashir he might try his plan, without Red Masks, because Red Masks would only draw the Blackdog and the demon to him.

They were fighting in Fleshmarket Ward. She was the goddess of the city. She heard . . . the Lady heard their dying.

No. That was past. Fleshmarket had fallen. Her thoughts ran ahead. It had fallen to the rebels yesterday, but she would retake it before nightfall. She heard the deaths to come. Yes.

The soldier watched her hands again, fluttering, butterfly hands, Lilace's mad hands, pleading, plucking, trying to tear a way free through empty air. He would die.

What was she thinking? A faithful guardsman, conscientious and devout. She was no murderer.

“Go,” she said, and waved him ahead of her. She must watch them leaving, to bless them. It was what a goddess would do.

The first and the second companies of the temple guard were lovely in their armour, coloured warm by the falling light. How could any stand against them? They would give the Fleshmarket back to her, and the Drovers' Gate, and the southern foothills would be hers again, and she would bring fat sheep and cattle into the market, and her faithful folk would feast. She sent five Red Masks to the first company, a patrol, to stand about the captain. They would go before him, clearing his way through the barricades. They would go to purge the traitor garrison from the Fleshmarket gate. By the time the Blackdog could come, or the demon, they should be finished and returned safe within her fire, with no need to reveal the restoration of their holy terror, even yesterday, even last night she had resisted revealing that, but their presence would lure the Blackdog and the demon, yes, both, because the rebels would not dare to lose the Fleshmarket, to allow her a city gate again.

Ashir himself was dressed as a man of the city, with a caftan over armour, which made him bulky and strange, and a turban wrapped thick to protect his bald head. The turban was saffron-yellow, as if he needed to remind himself he was yet the Lady's priest. Twenty temple guard went with him, all in the clothes of the street, or caravaneer's coats.

Twenty men, though two were women. She did not like to see the women fighting. It was not right, her brother said. . . . They lacked strength, they lacked nerve, as she did—no. They had their patrol-firsts to follow, all men. She should not listen to the whispers he was
not
her brother he owned
nothing
of her and Sien-Mor poor Sien-Mor was dead, only a ghost in her mind, a memory haunting her mind, a pattern of thought was not a ghost not a soul was dead yes.

Twenty men. Twenty-one. Ashir had his caravan guard, the young Grasslander Zavel, who spoke like a man of the Red Desert, though he had no tattoos. The man wanted a place, money. Faithful Lieutenant Surey had brought him to Ashir, and to the Lady.

Zavel had proven himself. He told them of the Grasslander wizard, whose name was Ivah. A servant of the devil Ghatai. Who was dead. Servant of who else? He did not know. He insisted on his story, believed it even when the Lady herself questioned him, so maybe it was true: the rebel's great wizard was a murderer, a servant of Tamghat the Lake-Lord, a coward who had fled her lord's fall. Zavel drank too much and spent the money he earned of the temple on drink and the keeping of a girl and her family in a ruin of a house two streets from the temple, yet he was eyes and ears in Templefoot Ward and went over the walls to the rebel-held city and the suburb, listening and asking questions, and because he was of the road, not the city, he heard what the city did not hear and understood what the city did not understand.

The plan had been his, not Ashir's. The Right Hand thought the Lady did not know this. Zora knew Zavel's plan was not made for love of her. It was revenge, it was spite—she did not care. The caravaneer wanted the Grasslander wizard to suffer and die. So did the Lady. It would be so, and he could bring her to him, because he was a friend, he was trusted, he called the Blackdog by name. They were like brothers, he said, which was a lie in his mind that he wanted to be the truth, and yet it had some seed of truth in it. He believed that the Grasslander wizard had bespelled them all. The Lady would kill her, and set them free, and he would be honoured among his friends. Or if they died, then among the servants of the temple he would have honour. He had both thoughts.

He stared at her, worse than the guardsman. He might have been handsome, if he had not been so sweat-greasy and red-eyed, and he was only a little older than she.

Zora ignored him. He was a mercenary who betrayed his friends. He was beneath the Lady's notice. Let him strive hard to please her, to win her approving nod. But she smiled at Ashir.

“My faithful Right Hand,” she said. “The Lady blesses you and those who go with you. Bring me the Tamghati wizard Ivah, and kill Hadidu the priest of Ilbialla, if he is there.”

She would not be soft, not be weak, not the girl thinking of the men who had been kindly young uncles to her. Hadidu had made himself her enemy. She was strong. She could stand alone.

Ashir bowed. He was afraid.

“My lady,” he said. That was all. He could hardly keep the tremor of his fear from being heard by all.

“Go,” she said. “I will part the fire.”

They went up the tunnel cut through the cliff-face, rising from the dell to the gatehouse. The Red Masks led, and two Red Masks stood as sentries in the darkness beneath the vaulted passage of the gatehouse itself. She let those that followed them feel the heat of the fire, gave them time to consider the shimmering, watery lemon light that slanted through the cracks of the gates, as the Red Masks unbarred and pulled them inwards, and for a moment they looked out through a curtain of pale fire. Then like that curtain it drew back, and they marched out. Ashir scuttled, as if he feared to feel flames licking at his heels. The flames rushed back, and the gates were barred again.

So. It was done. Ashir would bring her Ivah; he had a gag and fetters charmed against wizardry which should hold even her, she who had escaped from the temple cells. Or Ashir would die and in death and failure prove himself faithful, and she would appoint a new Right Hand, a priest or priestess who would owe all to her and have no confused thoughts that there had been a better time, before. Foolish of Ashir, who was old and stiff and puffed, to lead them himself, but the glory must be his, she understood that. And if he failed, this way he would not have to face her. They both understood that, he and she together. Zora smiled to herself and tucked her hands into her sleeves.

She would eat now. Perhaps she would allow herself some lettuce, with the boiled wheat. She would sleep a little, lying in the centre of the swirling mosaic beneath the dome. And then she would dance again. Her mind was never so clear these days as when she danced.

Zora did eat, swallowing each bite carefully. She had no hunger, but it was important to eat. Her mind was troubled, and after the priestess who served her, now that Rahel was no more, had left her, bowing low in silence, she paced in the scented garden planted by the Beholder of the Face behind her house, meditating, as evening fell and the shadows of her fires shimmered like water in sunlight. Then she brought one more Red Mask from his station, and sent him out into the gathering night, to pass unseen, wrapped in spells of concealment, to Gurhan's Hill. Ashir might, after all, fail, and there were voices, whispering, in her mind when she danced in the Hall of the Dome, clear-headed then or not. She did not think they were her own. The dreaming gods stirred, as if they heard a faint, distant scratching at their walls.

She did not want anyone scratching at those walls.

CHAPTER XV

Ivah sat back on her heels, scowling at the deeply incised lines, curling and twisting, that were cut into the stones sealing the half-buried mouth of Gurhan's cave, scrubbing her fingers clean on the hem of her coat. Thirty years of travellers and furtive scholars trying to translate it, Nour carrying copies away to imperial wizards of Nabban, and despite that nobody even knew the language, or could say more than that the script looked kin to something Pirakuli, except for certain words, which curled and coiled quite differently, like thorny vines.

Those were not a human language or human runes, Mikki said, and told her she could not and would not translate them. But if she could decipher the rest . . .

Gurhan's Hill was wormholed with tunnels, the long wearing of water or ancient mining, who could say, but Mikki, who had explored them, said none led to Gurhan's cave or hid the god himself.

Ivah wrote in charcoal where the inscription differed from that on Ilbialla's tomb. She could find that way the syllables of the god's and the goddess's names, word-endings that might show masculine and feminine, maybe, trace from the probable names sounds that occurred elsewhere, but that was nothing other furtive scholars had not already done. Nothing the men and women consulted by Nour had not already done. It was not what Hadidu hoped or what Jugurthos and the loyalist senate expected from her, their great saviour wizard, defier of the Lady. She had taken it further, though. She felt as if she might understand, almost, the shape of the thing. It was a song half-heard, a shape obscured in fog. If she trusted, reached . . . maybe it would come clear. Maybe. Hope was all they had.

Ivah turned back to the semicircle of ground chalk she had poured out, arching to enclose the mouth of the cave and all the poplar-grown landslip that half hid it. With charcoal, she copied the names that must be those of the gods onto flat rocks set at certain points within. She wished she had the matching third, which would be the Lady, she was certain. Unless that goddess had been truly killed, when the devil came to take her place, it would be well to free her with the rest. Other characters, Nabbani, and Grasslander star-symbols, she had written in sulphur and cinnabar, the latter not easy to come by in this city where wizardry was banned.

Salt, too, she had used to draw at certain points, and she rolled and braided strips of the inner bark of the poplars over the hill, making knotted patterns, swaying and singing, sinking herself into a trance where the patterns would rise to her fingers and eye, without the conscious mind labouring. Some days she did nothing but sit, and listen, and wait.

Her father had taught her so. She had never been an apt pupil, her mind never still when he told her sit, be silent, listen to your own pulse and hear the stars, but his drugs had set her mind dizzy and jittering and made her sick. It was better to sing, softly, as he had sometimes sung to her when she was a little child and still more delight than disappointment, or as her mother had sung, lullabies, mostly. And as they faded she could hear the stars.

Or something.

She rather thought it was the poet's mind, the prophet's, the well in the marrow from which the words rose, and nothing to do with the Grasslander myths of the constellations. But it didn't matter. What mattered, now, was that she could find this place that had always eluded her under her father's eye, and out of it the knotted cat's cradles rose, to shape channels of will and power that would, maybe, take even the necromancer devil by surprise. A hairsbreadth crack, that was all she wanted. The clawhold of a fingernail in the granite-flawless prison of the devil's entombment of the gods. Give her that, and she would give Marakand its gods again.