“Watch where you’re going!” the woman snapped, pushing her away by the shoulder, speaking with the tones of the north, like Marke Kavic or his priest.
“I…” Rushes turned and looked at her, at her pale skin and hair, at the turquoise silk draped from her shoulder. Three other women stood by her, each one just as beautiful, and indignant on her behalf. But Rushes’ eyes were drawn back to the woman who had pushed her, for she was the woman from the Ways, and Rushes knew her name. She was the one who everyone whispered about, who had made love with Emperor Sarmin. Jenni.
Turn away. Turn away. The Many would have told her how to protect herself, to pretend. But instead she stood and stared, and understanding dawned in Jenni’s eyes. She had not heard Rushes behind her in the Ways- that was impossible. She would have given some sign. And yet she knew.
Rushes ran, dodging between the fine ladies and past the paintings and fountains to Nessaket’s room. But there the guards stopped her.
“If there’s disease, we can’t let you in,” said the older one, holding his hachirah across the entryway, the wide steel of his blade catching the light of a thousand gems and gleaming tiles. Brighter than all of them blazed the outline of a person, but it was not Jenni who stood behind her. White and indistinct, the reflection showed no eyes or mouth. It was not part of any painting or tapestry, and not a man but a thing-formed from imagination more than flesh, with arms, legs and a head shaped to trick the eye. As she watched it opened its arms and moved towards her.
She dodged behind the guard.
“Hey, now!” he said, pulling her up by the shoulder of her livery. He had not seen. The ghost had been visible only in the reflection.
“Tell Nessaket,” she said, letting him push her away, “tell Nessaket it was Jenni.” She felt something cold against her legs, something like the feel of snow or cold water, and she readied her feet, obeying that ancient edict, the primary rule of survival. Run. “Tell her!” she repeated, and then she ran.
“Wait,” the old guard called after her, understanding something of her urgency at last, but she only ran faster.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rushes had thought herself safe, but now she remembered: the palace was never safe. The snake should have told her that those happy days in the throne room with Beyon had been an illusion, as was everything else that felt soft and comforting. Only his protection was real. She should throw the stone into the abyss as he had asked; she did not want to betray him again.
Getting into the Ways had become more difficult. Since the snake incident most of the exits had been sealed, but she knew of another, forgotten, in an unused corridor. Once inside hurried along the familiar dark paths, making her way to the secret platform where she liked to hide. It was a long way from that platform to the bottom, where rats ran among bones and coins. The stone could go missing there for centuries. She climbed the final stairs and pressed her back against the damp wall, her fingers clenched around it. She should throw it. Now. Maybe if she did as the emperor asked, Irisa wouldn’t be sick and the ghost she had seen would disappear. But it pricked along her fingers like needles, telling her it didn’t want to be lost in the Ways.
She sat on the cold rock, brought her knees up to her chin and held the stone to her forehead. She needed to throw it; she had to throw it. Emperor Beyon had commanded it. And yet her arm would not move. Her fingers wrapped protectively around the smooth edges. Only the emperor’s stone could save itself thus. She remembered the way Beyon had looked from Sarmin’s eyes into hers that night in the dungeon. It was not for her to ask how he could return from the dead, or how he could know so much just from looking. The emperors were near to gods; if nothing else proved it, this did. Surely heaven’s light fell upon them and granted powers a mere slave could not understand.
She held the stone, Beyon’s stone, a thing of power and intelligence. A longing to return to the oubliettes, where she had first seen it, filled her mind. Those night-filled corridors called to her the same way as her memories of the plains, heart to heart. They called her home.
A trick; it was not safe there. It could not be safe. But no place is safe. She stood, tucked the stone into her pocket and moved down, tracking a path to the halls behind the Little Kitchen. Nobody moved through the Ways this night. Ever since Helmar these passages had become a shortcut for those who lived in the palace, even with many exits blocked. No matter where Rushes stood, she could always hear someone else moving, even if it were far in the distance. Guards patrolled, servants carried messages and nobles sneaked to one anothers’ rooms. But on this night the dark stairs and bridges lay forgotten. She hurried her steps.
She took a breath of relief once she exited into the bright corridor and began the short walk to the dungeon stairs, slowing her steps. If the guards heard running they might come to see what was the matter, and then there would be questions. The stone felt warm in her pocket, pleased that she had chosen the dungeon. But it would not be easy. Nothing was ever easy. A man approached from the other end of the corridor, moving fast. He would meet her before she could dash down the steps, and so she slowed, hiding her destination. As he drew closer she recognised Mylo. She felt no pleasure in seeing his handsome face, his easy smile. She did not want to be alone with any man, in a pantry, a hallway or anywhere else.
“Our little Rushes,” he said, “Where have you been?”
“I work for the empire mother, now,” she said, looking around. Mylo had a gentle manner, but she was frightened nevertheless.
“Really? And the little prince?”
Not wanting to talk about Daveed she asked a question. “When is your next meeting?”
“It’s…” A noble wrapped in a dark cloak approached, and they bowed until he had passed. “…tomorrow night, if you can make it. After lanterns’ turning.”
Lanterns’ turning was no longer a time of day that Rushes understood; the women’s halls were always lit, even in the middle of the night. Bright and safe. She moved her shaking hand from her mouth and nodded, nevertheless, her feet already moving.
Mylo smiled again. She wondered if anything could put a frown on his face in its place. “Will you be there?” Behind him she saw a flash of red; the Fryth priest was skulking along the corridor, keeping to the shadow of doorways, as if he needed to hide, as she did. Were he and Mylo together?
She backed away. “Maybe,” she said, “I have to go.” She turned, anxious to leave the priest behind her, but Mylo called, “Wait!” and she stopped.
“Did you hear they killed the envoy?”
She stared at him. “No. Who did?” She remembered the Fryth man and his kindness. She thought he was one man she would have liked to know.
“The silk-clad,” he said, as if it were obvious, and all silk-clad were the same. “Remember the secret signal.” He drew his finger across his chin. “Mogyrk will claim the palace soon.”
Rushes did not understand him. She hurried on towards the dungeon, reaching the stairs and passing through the doors with no further incident. The dungeons were better lit this time, and filled with the combined scents of night-jars and rotten meat. Rushes descended the stairs, keeping an eye to the room at the base. It was a shorter climb than she remembered. The luck stone vibrated against her leg; it could sense that it was almost home. Men were talking, and women too, and the lower she climbed the louder it was, a babble of voices, like the market, or the slaves’ hall on a festival day. Two steps from the bottom she stopped and peered around the edge. There were no guards in this room, though she could see a man in the room beyond, his back to her. She lifted her skirts and rushed across to the cells.
They were full. Each contained three or more people-dirty, hungry, stinking, they clutched at the bars and begged her in their own language. She did not understand them, did not know whether they needed food, water, or just a glance, a touch, to let them know they still existed, and could still be heard. Tears came to her eyes as she stopped before a little girl, just a few years her junior, red-haired and blue-eyed, her hands clutching the bars.
