Silence, stunned and panting.
'Seize him!' the Holy Empress screeched at Imhailas. She turned back to the corpse of her son, hung over him, murmuring, 'No-no-no-no-no…' against the shudders that wracked her slender frame.
Not another one, the secret voice whispered, laughing.
Her body-slaves had only attended to a handful of lanterns before she chased them from her apartments. Darkness ruled the clutch of interconnected rooms as a result, punctuated by pools of lonely illumination. In the boy's eyes, the world seemed soft and warm with secrets, all the edges rounded with shadow. The belly of an urn gleaming here, the combed planes of a tapestry hanging there-familiar things, made strange for the scarcity of light.
Yes, he decided. A different world. Better.
They lay together on the broad bed, she with her back partially propped on pillows, he within her sheltering curve. Neither of them spoke. For the longest time, the gauze sheers drawn across the balcony were all that moved, gently teasing the marble shadows.
The Prince-Imperial had set an idle fraction of his soul the task of counting heartbeats so that he might know the measure of his bliss. Three thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven passed before Lord Sankas appeared from the darkened depths, his face drawn for worry.
'He simply walked out of the palace.'
The Empress stiffened but did not move otherwise.
' No one would dare raise arms against him?'
'No one.'
'Not even Imhailas?'
Sankas nodded. 'Imhailas, yes, but none of his men assisted him…'
Kelmomas fairly squirmed for excitement. Please-please-please let him be dead!
Inrilatas gone. Uncle Holy banished from the palace. Imhailas dead would make this a most perfect of perfect days!
But his mother had gone rigid behind him. 'Is he… Is he okay?'
'The fool's pride will be splinted for a month, but his body is intact. May I suggest, Your Glory, that he be relieved of his command?'
'No, Sankas.'
'His men mutinied, Your Glory-and for all eyes to see. His hold over them, his command, is now broken.'
'I said, no… More than his command has been broken. All of us have been damaged this day.'
The patrician's eyes widened in acknowledgment. 'Of course, Your Glory.'
A forlorn moment passed, filled with all the things that rise into the place of hopes dashed. Paroxysms had swept through her, rising and falling with the swells of her grief. She had clutched and released him, clutched and released, as if something had groped through her, making a glove of her skin, fingers of her limbs. Now her hold on him relaxed, and her breathing slowed. Even the rhythm of her heart became thick and swollen.
And somehow the boy just knew that she had found peace in a fatal resolution.
'You're a Patridomos, Sankas,' she said. He could feel the heat of her breath on his scalp, so he knew that she stared down at him, melancholy and adoring. 'You belong to one of the most ancient houses. You have ways… resources, utterly independent of the Imperial Apparati. I am sure you can provide me with what I need.'
'Anything, Your Glory.'
Kelmomas closed his eyes, floated in the luxurious sensation of her fingers twining through his curls.
'I need someone, Sankas,' she said from the darkness immediately above him. 'I need someone… Someone who can kill.'
A long, appreciative pause.
'Any man can kill another, Empress.'
Words. Like flakes of poison, a mere handful could overturn the World.
'I need someone with skills. Miraculous skills.'
The Patridomos went rigid. 'Yes,' he said tightly. 'I see…'
Lord Biaxi Sankas was a son of a different age, possessing sensibilities that never quite fit the new order Father had established. He continually did things that struck the boy as odd-like the way he not only dared approach his Empress but actually sat upon the edge of her bed. He gazed at her with bold candour. The play of dim light and shadow did not flatter him, drawing deep, as it did, the long ruts of his face.
'Narindar,' he said with a solemn nod.
The young Prince-Imperial struggled to preserve the drowsy sorrow of his gaze. He had heard no few tales about the Narindar, the Cultic assassins whose name had been synonymous with dread-that is, before Father had unmasked the first of the Consult skin-spies.
Funny, how men had only so much room for their fears.
'I can arrange everything, if you wish, Your Glory.'
'No, Sankas. This I must command myself…' She caught her breath by biting her lower lip. 'The damnation must be mine alone.'
Damned? Did Mother think she would be damned for murdering Uncle Holy?
She doesn't believe this, the secret voice whispered. She doesn't believe a Dunyain can be a true anything, let alone the Holy Shriah…
'I understand, Your Glory.' Biaxi Sankas said, nodding and smiling a humourless smile that reminded the boy of Uncle Proyas and his melancholy devotion. 'And I admire.'
And the boy craned his head up to see the tears at last overwhelm her eyes. It was becoming ever more difficult, finding ways to make her cry…
She clutched her boy tight, as if he were her only limb remaining.
The gaunt Patridomos bowed precisely as low as jnan demanded of him, then withdrew to afford his Empress the privacy that all anguish required.
CHAPTER NINE
The shape of virtue is inked in obscenity.
Early Summer, 20 New Imperial Year (4132 Year-of-the-Tusk), The High Istyuli
'I am the smoke that hangs from your cities!' the Nonman screams. 'I am the horror that captivates! The beauty that chases and compels!'
And they gather before him, some kneeling, others hanging back with reluctance and terror. One by one they open their mouths to his outstretched finger.
'I am the plummet!'
Twelve walkers, little more than grey shadows in the veils of dust, lean to the rhythm of their exertions. The forests, vast and haunted, are behind them. The Sea, trackless and heaving, is behind them. The dead who mark their path are long rotted.
The plains pass like a dream.
Food becomes scarce. Xonghis continually scans the ground for sign of voles and other rodents, leads them on a winding course, toward this or that high-circling bird of prey. Whenever he finds a warren, he directs the Wizard to tear up the ground while the others stand ready with their weapons. Arcane lights prise the earth in broad sheets. When the Imperial Tracker guesses true, most are killed outright, while the others are stunned or
