Yatwerian Matriarch herself assassinated while a guest of the Empress. The bumbling preposterousness of it mattered not at all. For the masses, the outrageousness of the act would simply indicate her fear, and her fear would suggest that she believed the rumours, which in turn would mean the Aspect-Emperor had to be a demon…
This had all the makings of a disaster.
'We must make sure no word of this gets out,' she heard herself saying.
Each of the men save the Shriah averted their gaze.
She nodded, tried to press her snort of disgust into a long exhalation. 'I suppose that's too late…'
'The Imperial Precincts,' Phinersa said apologetically, 'are simply too large, your Glory.'
'Then we must go on the offensive!' Imhailas exclaimed. Until this moment, the handsome Exalt-Captain had done his best to slip between the cracks of her Imperial notice, his eyes wired open by the certainty that he would be held accountable. The security of the Imperial Precincts was his sole responsibility.
'That is true in any event,' Maithanet said gravely. 'But we have another possibility to consider…'
Esmenet found herself studying Sharacinth's ash-grey bodyguard, quite numb to what she was seeing. The smell of corruption was already wafting through the hall, like sediment kicked up in water. How absurd was it for them to have this discussion-this council of war-here in the presence of the very circumstantial debris they hoped to bury? People were dead, whole lives had been extinguished, and yet here they stood, plotting…
But then, she realized, the living had to forever look past the dead-on the pain of joining them.
'We must ensure this crime is decried for what it is,' she said. 'Few will believe us, but still, it's imperative that an Inquiry be called, and that someone renowned for his integrity be made Exalt-Inquisitor.'
'One of the Patriarchs of the other Cults,' Maithanet said, studying the carpets meditatively. 'Perhaps Yagthrыta…' He raised his eyes to her own. 'The man is every bit as rabid as his Patron God when it comes to matters of ritual legality.'
Esmenet found herself nodding in approval. Yagthrыta was the Momian Patriarch, famed not only because he was the first Thunyeri to reach such an exalted rank, but because of his reputed piety and candour. Apparently, he had journeyed across the Meneanor from Tenryer to Sumna in naught but a skiff-a supreme gesture of faith if there ever was one. Best of all, his barbaric origins insulated him against the taint of the Shrial or Imperial Apparati.
'Excellent,' she said. 'In the meantime, it is absolutely crucial we find this Psatma Nannaferi…'
'Indeed, your Glory,' Imhailas said, nodding with almost comic grandiloquence. 'As the Khirgwi say, the headless snake has no fangs.'
Esmenet scowled. The Captain had a habit of spouting inane adages-from some popular scroll of aphorisms, no doubt. Usually she found it charming-she was not above forgiving handsome men their quirks, particularly when she was their motive-but not on a matter as grievous as this, and certainly not in the presence of rank carnage.
'I'm afraid I've nothing new to add, your Glory,' Phinersa said, his gaze ranging across the scenes of war and triumph along the walls. 'We still think she's somewhere in Shigek. Think. But with the Fanim raiding the length of the River Sempis…' His eyes circled back only to flinch the instant they met her own.
Esmenet acknowledged the dilemma with a grimace. After spending years simply running, Fanayal ab Kascamandri had suddenly become aggressive, extraordinarily aggressive, effectively cutting the overland routes to Eumarna and Nilnamesh and, according to the latest reports, storming fortified towns on the river itself-using Cishaurim no less! All Shigek was in an uproar-precisely the kind of confusion the Mother-Supreme needed.
Weakness, she realized. They smelled weakness, all the enemies of the New Empire, be they heathen or Orthodox.
'Unless you issue warrants for the arrest of the High-Priestesses,' Phinersa continued, 'we simply will not find this Nannaferi.'
Of course by 'arrest' he meant torture. Esmenet found herself looking to Maithanet. 'I need to consider that… Perhaps if our Exalt-Inquisitor is disposed to blame Sharacinth's murder on some kind of feud within the Cult, it might provide the pretext we need.'
The Shriah of the Thousand Temples pursed his lips. 'We need to proceed cautiously. Perhaps, Empress, we should consult the Aspect-Emperor.'
Esmenet felt her look harden into a glare.
Why? she found herself thinking. Why doesn't Kellhus trust you?
'Our immediate priority,' she declared, pretending he had not spoken, 'is to prepare for the eventuality of riots. Phinersa, you must recruit infiltrators. Imhailas, you must assure that the Precincts are secured-I will not have this happen a second time! Tell Ngarau that we are to be provisioned for the possibility of a siege. And contact General Anthirul. Have him recall one of the Arcong Columns.'
For a moment all of them stood as motionless as the dead.
'Go! Both of you! Now!'
Startled into action, the two men hastened back the way they had come, the one tall and flashing in his ceremonial armour, the other dark and fluid in his black-silk robes. Esmenet found herself nagged by the certainty that Phinersa had momentarily glanced at Maithanet for confirmation…
So many looks. So many qualms. It was always the complexities that overwhelmed us. It was always the maze of others that robbed us of our way.
My little boy is dead.
But she squelched her misgivings, stared at the Shriah of the Thousand Temples squarely. 'Skin-spies,' she said. She suddenly found herself dizzy with exhaustion, like a water-bearer balancing one bowl too many. 'You think skin-spies did this.'
Anasыrimbor Maithanet replied with uncharacteristic reluctance. 'I find this turn… incalculable.'
A memory struck her then, not so much of an event as of a feeling, the murky sense of being harassed and hemmed in, the tightness of breath that belonged to the besieged. A memory of the First Holy War.
For an instant, she thought she could smell the septic reaches of Caraskand.
'Kellhus told me they would come,' Esmenet said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Damnation follows not from the bare utterance of sorcery, for nothing is bare in this world.
No act is so wicked, no abomination is so obscene, as to lie beyond the salvation of my Name.
Spring, 20 New Imperial Year (4132 Year-of-the-Tusk), Condia
In Sakarpus, leuneraal, or hunched ones (so-called for their habit of stooping over their scrolls), were so despised that it was customary for Horselords and their Boonsmen to bathe after their dealings with them. The Men of Sakarpus considered weakness a kind of disease, something to be fended with various rules of interaction and ritual cleansings. And no men were so weak as the leuneraal.
But Sorweel's new tutor, Thanteus Eskeles, was more than a hunched man. Far more. Were he merely a scholar, then Sorweel would have had the luxury of these rules. But he was also a sorcerer-a Three Seas Schoolman! — and this made things… complicated.
Sorweel had never doubted the Tusk, never doubted that sorcerers were the walking damned. But try as he might, he could never square this belief with his fascination. Through all his innumerable daydreams of the Three Seas, nothing had captivated him quite so much as the Schools. What would it be like, he often wondered, to possess a voice that could shout down the World's Holy Song? What kind of man would exchange his soul for that kind of diabolical power?
