Immediately a pair of arms clutched him close. He was gagged, but not bound. He tried to wriggle free, ignoring the pain that seemed to flood his frame from the waist down. The arms clamped him tight against a huge, muscled chest, broad as a door. He might as well have been a kitten in the coil of a python.
‘Be still, you little fool,’ a deep voice said. ‘Mistress, he is awake.’
‘Open your eyes.’ A woman’s voice.
He saw a blur of white in dark, and eyes above it, bright as shards of window-glass catching the moons.
‘You are among friends, boy. My name is Roshana, and I will not let any more harm come to you. Nod if you understand.’
He recognised the perfect Kefren of the Court, smelled perfume tinting the night air, and nodded. Her fingers fumbled at the back of his head. They were cool, and the light of Anande the Patient glittered on her painted nails. The gag came off, leaving a sourness in his mouth.
‘My name is Kurun,’ he said doggedly, forcing down the pain, determined to make himself known. He would not die nameless.
‘You must make no noise — do you understand me? Not a sound, if you wish to live. Be brave for me now, Kurun.’ The cool fingers traced a line down his cheek for a moment, and then she had turned away.
Kurun raised his head slightly, and saw the jowled underside of a broad, hairless face, dark as walnut. ‘What’s happening?’ he whispered.
The arms crushed him closer, and a dull grunt of agony left him.
‘No noise,’ the deep voice above him said. ‘You make another sound, and I will break your neck.’
Kurun went limp, fighting the pain, the dark swirl of confusion. He could smell damp earth, and growing things. They were in the gardens, padding quickly and silently from shadow to deeper shadow, while above them, pale Anande shone down in a sky spattered full of stars. He blinked his eyes clear and tried to focus.
They halted, and there was a tense, frozen time of waiting. They were in among the trees, crouched like assassins. In addition to the ebony giant who held him and the komis-wearing lady, Kurun identified a hufsa girl, plainly clad as if for journeying, and a thin Kefre with a face as bonily angular as that of a mantis. Both bore packs too large for their frames.
Then another joined them. A masked Kefre who bore a naked scimitar. He dropped his komis to reveal a long, fine-boned face. He kissed the lady through her own veil. ‘It’s done, sister.’
She was looking at the sword, and the fine black line along the blade. ‘He took the money?’
‘He refused it. I offered him Bokosan steel instead.’
‘Rakhsar!’
‘Do you think this a game, Roshana? The way is clear, now. My contact waits by the kitchen platform. We must hurry.’
‘You have blood on your clothes.’
‘It doesn’t signify, not at night.’ The jewel bright eyes surveyed them all with the dispassion of a snake overlooking a nest of mice. ‘I see you brought him.’
‘I said I would.’
Kurun dropped his gaze as the Kefre stared at him. ‘Ushau, do not let him make so much as a squeak.’
‘Those are mistress’s orders,’ the deep voice rumbled above Kurun’s head.
‘Good. Now follow me, all of you, as quick and quiet as you can.’
They dashed across a space open and bright under the moonlight, and before them the buildings of the palace reared up like some sheer-sided mountain, decked here and there with yellow-burning flammifers. Kurun fought down a roll of agony that brought his gorge rising. He shut his eyes, pressed his forehead against the hot chest of the giant who bore him.
‘Stand here. Stay clear of the walls,’ Rakhsar snapped. ‘Saryam, mind your cloak — if it catches in the pulleys you’ll jam us in the shaft.’
They were standing on one of the platforms connecting the palace to the kitchens below. Rakhsar tugged on the communication rope, and at once there was a jerk. The thick wood trembled under their feet, and they began to descend.
Into darkness. Rakhsar up-ended the illuminating torch in its sconce and the last of its sparks winked out as they bounced off his bloody sword. The air popped in Kurun’s ears; they were descending very fast. Then there was a dull boom, and the platform was still, staggering them with its sudden halt.
‘My prince,’ a familiar voice said.
‘Auroc — nicely done. Now point us right for the undercity.’
Kurun stared open-mouthed in shock, and found shock staring back at him. Auroc’s face was bruised and swollen, but wholly familiar; the first familiar thing he had seen since leaving the kitchens.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the kitchen-master, the words a sob, gargled out of the giant’s grip.
‘I thought they killed you,’ Auroc said, disbelieving.
‘They damn near did,’ Rakhsar said. ‘Auroc, lead on. We are short on time.’
Auroc dragged his gaze from Kurun’s tearstained face. ‘Yes, of course. Follow me, my prince. I will take you to the Silima. From there, you follow the road all the way down.’
There was a time that followed when Kurun’s head bobbed on Ushau’s chest and his tears came hot and free. But the thought that had occurred to him could not be pushed aside.
The Silima? It did not seem right. It was akin to a burglar leaving a house through the front door. The Silima was the main thoroughfare of the undercity, and it was guarded night and day.
‘Auroc,’ he said thickly. ‘Master, the Silima cannot be taken. We cannot travel it and stay hidden. There are better ways.’
‘Be quiet,’ Auroc said quickly. He was sweating. And to Rakhsar, ‘Lord, the Silima is the quickest way out of the ziggurat. You will be on the streets within the hour.’
Kurun felt fear as cold as water down his back. ‘Master, I do not think — ’
Auroc struck him across the face.
Kurun swallowed that pain along with the rest. He had to point out the mistake. Auroc was wrong. He wanted to save him from his error. At last he said to Rakhsar, ‘Lord, this is not right. My master is guiding you awry.’
Rakhsar brought up the keen point of the scimitar and levelled it easily at Auroc’s throat. ‘Is that so?’ He studied the kitchen-master for a long, brittle moment.
‘Kouros questioned you, didn’t he?’
‘Lord, I was interrogated due to a misunderstanding — this whelp here left his post and spied on the King in the gardens. I was held responsible. That’s all, I swear it!’
‘Even I have heard of the Silima,’ Roshana said. She dropped her komis and stepped closer to Auroc. ‘And if I have heard of it, then it is no secret.’
‘It is the fastest way down to the streets,’ Auroc persisted. He wiped his brow. ‘It is a busy thoroughfare, yes, but all the easier to lose yourselves in.’
‘Auroc,’ Kurun whispered. He was weeping. ‘I meant no harm to you.’ His voice rose. ‘Masters, I know a better way.’
‘Shut your mouth — ’ Auroc raged, and cocked his fist.
‘You will not strike him again,’ Roshana told the kitchen-master evenly. She turned to Kurun. Those beautiful eyes were hard as sunlight on snow. ‘Are you sure of this?’
‘Lady, you can kill me if I am wrong. But I know that you cannot leave the ziggurat by the Silima — there are guards at every junction. Folk of your caste are never seen there — you cannot go unnoticed, not all the way to the bottom. Auroc is sending you wrong.’
‘Is that it, my friend?’ Rakhsar asked softly. The scimitar-point never wavered. ‘Did Kouros dig the truth out of you?’
‘My — my prince,’ Auroc stammered, ‘I am your faithful servant.’
‘I bought you — that is as far as your faith goes. Now tell me, Auroc, what have you told Kouros of our excursion?’
Auroc looked as lost as a landed fish. No words came. Rakhsar nodded grimly. ‘You see, Roshana, why I trust no-one? As long as loyalty can be bought by the deepest purse, Kouros will always outbid us.’
