‘Dhamzel, Dhamzel!’ The urgent whisper penetrated Laili’s dreams; Laili woke to see a pale, pinched face hovering above hers. It was Miu, the little slavegirl who brought their food from the kitchens.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The Torella. I think you’d better come see.’
Wands of gilded sunlight lit the bed, the polished floor; it must be mid-morning and yet the apartments were eerily hushed, with no usual bustle of activity …
Laili reached for her overgown and drew the woven cord tightly around the waist, hoping the curve of her swelling belly was not too obvious.
Miu beckoned her across the antechamber towards the closed doors of Sarilla’s rooms; Laili thought she could hear someone muttering on and on distractedly inside.
‘She won’t let me near her,’ said Miu. ‘Says her head hurts. Threw the qaffë pot at me and smashed all the cups.’
‘Maybe an infusion of feverfew would help her … or willowbark. Can you run back down to the kitchens and see if they have any?’
Miu shrugged.
‘Cook beat me for breaking the cups.’
‘Please, Miu.’
As soon as the girl had gone, Laili tapped on Sarilla’s door.
‘Go away.’
‘It’s Laili.’ Laili opened the door a crack and slipped inside. The room was smothered in darkness and for a moment, she could see nothing. Then as her eyes became accustomed, she made out a pale figure, insubstantial as a ghost, felt a breath of movement as Sarilla wandered past her.
‘I’ve sent for some feverfew for your head. Why not lie down and rest?’
‘No, no, no …’
Laili caught hold of her and began to guide her towards the bed.
‘Let me just open the shutters a crack—’
Sarilla clutched her head, turning away from the sudden brightness.
‘Ai—’ Her fingers wove convulsively through her unbound hair, twisting, tearing.
‘It’s all right,’ Laili soothed, trying to prise away the clawing fingers. ‘Let me bathe your forehead …’
‘Close the shutters. Close them!’
Sarilla’s unpainted face had become a shrivelled mask: an old woman’s face. Laili, shocked at the alteration, turned to close the shutter again. Sarilla was instantly at her side, clutching at her hands.
‘Get me some, Laili. Here.’ She tugged at the heavy emerald ring on her finger, pressing the cold stone into Laili’s palm. ‘Sell this.’
‘But I can’t leave the palace,’ Laili said, ‘you know that.’ Especially now that my condition is becoming so obvious, she thought.
‘Then get Miu to go buy some.’
‘Buy what, Sarilla?’
‘Boskh!’ cried Sarilla shrilly. ‘It cures headaches, megrims … I must have some more! How can you stand there and watch me suffer?’ She began to moan, clutching at her temples, swaying her body from side to side.
Boskh. Laili took in a breath to steady herself; the stale darkness of the shuttered room was oppressive and now Sarilla’s cries grated like the scratch of sharpened talons.
‘I’m sending for a physician.’
‘What use are physicians?’ Sarilla wailed.
‘Who else should I send for? I don’t know who to ask for help. Zhan Ymarys?’
‘No!’ Sarilla sank to the floor, rocking her body as though consumed with grief. ‘Don’t let him see me like this. Don’t tell him.’
‘But what can I do? I can’t leave you in this state.’
‘Just get me some more boskh. Please, Laili.’ She stroked Laili’s hand with hers, held it up to her withered cheek. ‘Be kind to your poor Sarilla—’
‘I’ve brought the infusion.’
The slavegirl stood in the open doorway, holding a fragrantly steaming bowl.
‘Infusion? I ordered no infusion!’ Sarilla suddenly strode forwards and struck the bowl from the girl’s hands, sending scalding liquid splashing across the room.
‘Hai!‘ The girl fled.
Laili hurried after her, catching her as, sobbing, she fumbled for the doorhandle.
Tm so sorry. Are you hurt?’
‘I’m not coming back. Don’t ask me,. She’s gone mad. I’m not coming near that madwoman again.’
‘Please do just one thing. Call the physician. Just that. You don’t have to come back. But tell him it’s urgent.’
Still sobbing, Miu pulled open the door and went running out down the stairs.
Laili went back into Sarilla’s room to find her seated before her shadowed mirror, applying paint to her face in the semi-darkness.
‘I must look my best for Ymarys,’ she was muttering. ‘For my dearest friend. My hero. There!’ She turned to face Laili. ‘Will I do?’
Rouge smeared her mouth into a lopsided gash; kohl and malachite blurred the dark circles around her eyes. The effect was both garish and grotesque; a mask to frighten children.
Laili swallowed.
‘Maybe you would let me finish your toilette for you?’
‘It doesn’t matter …’ Sarilla rose, her trailing sleeves knocking pots onto the floor and went wandering away into the antechamber. ‘He doesn’t love me any more. He doesn’t even call.’
‘Do lie down, Sarilla. Please.’
Laili went after her and put her arms about her shoulders, easing her onto the couch.
‘There. Let me wipe your face.’ Laili began to remove what she could of the smudged paint whilst Sarilla twitched and mumbled on the couch.
‘Look Ymarys, the damask hangings are not too badly worn. But so much dust! I know it’s quiet here in Mynezhil … but it’s so peaceful … you’ll come to like it, I’m sure …’
‘Sarilla,’ Laili said. ‘I’m Laili. Don’t you recognise me?’
‘Laili?’ Sarilla peered at her as if from a great distance away. ‘What are you doing in Mynezhil? It’s such a long journey to make … and you in your condition …’ Laili glanced around, hoping no one had heard, wondering what other secrets Sarilla might babble in her confused state.
‘Just a little more dust …’ Sarilla whispered. ‘Just a few grains more …’
* * * * *
Lai sat huddled on a coil of thick rope, watching the sun come up over the Yssil. He had walked the streets of the city till dawn, until, numb with tiredness, he had ended up here on the quay, watching the brown rats scavenging in a rubbish heap.
The anger still gnawed though it had dwindled to a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.
Damn Arlan Azhrel. What business was it of his what he did with his life?
It sounded so logical – to expiate the guilt by devoting himself to a selfless life caring for the sick.
And somewhere inside the pain and confusion he knew a part of him desperately wanted to accept that role. The pull was so strong. He had felt that pull last night as he knelt beside Eryl, wanting to help her, to cure her.
But for the wrong reasons.
Maybe he should have let her drift away into the darkness … away from that living hell of heat and foul fumes. But the only true cure would be to end the inhuman conditions the brandslaves were forced to endure. And how, where would he begin?
Memories of fire and terror danced across his sleep-starved brain. Shackles burned into his wrists and ankles … He cowered in fear before his tormentors again. Enslaved. They could do anything with him, to him. His abused body protested, his mind screamed for release.
He found he was shivering, shivering in the chill of dawn.
No. He could not challenge the might of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar alone.
‘Goddess,’ he whispered, ‘tell me what I should do.’
Silence. Baby rats chased after their mother, shrilling piercingly.
If he had learnt anything during his long apprenticeship in the Grove, it was that there were no easy answers.
And all he had wanted was to go home. A wave of black, bleak homesickness washed over him, engulfing him.
Nothing had gone right since the night he left the arena a free man. All his plans had been frustrated, all his dreams shattered.
The quayside blurred; he knuckled his eyes, wiping away the salty wetness. He was not crying. He would not cry. To cry was a sign of weakness – and he could not afford to be weak. His eyes were watering with weariness, that was all.
Now he regretted rejecting Azhrel’s offer of a bed, now the thought of crisp, clean sheets seemed like a promise of heaven.
On the quay an old woman was brewing up khassafri; its sweet nutmeg aroma drifted enticingly towards Lai. He got to his feet and walked stiffly, slowly across to her stall. Sipping the hot liquid from a mug, he felt its warmth seep through his body.
A sudden echo of hunger, aching hunger, seared his belly.
How many times in the donjon had he lain, half-starved, unable to move from weakness, longing for food, any food …?
And he still had the money he had saved for his passage home to Ael Lahi.
A short while later, he rattled the gates of the dye works.
‘Go away!’ growled a hostile voice. The foreman came out, eyes bleared from lack of sleep.
From somewhere beyond the sheds Lai heard the creak of the treadmills; the morning shift was already at work.
‘I’ve brought food and drink for the injured.’
‘The slaves are not allowed to accept gifts. Understand?’
‘Don’t you recognise me? I was here with Dr Azhrel last night.’
The foreman peered at him.
‘Dr Azhrel came back before dawn. He mentioned no food or drink.’
‘It’s only fresh bread – and khassafri. It’ll nourish them – and they’ll recover the sooner.’
‘Well …’The foreman opened the gate a crack.
Lai made to go in – but the man’s arm shot out, barring the entrance with his coiled whip.
‘I’ll see they get it.’
‘Can’t I just—’
‘Not unless you’re with the doctor. Zhudiciar’s orders. A special dispensation for Dr Azhrel – no one else. Give the doctor my thanks.’
He took the steaming jug from Lai and the fresh bread. Lai watched him lumber away towards the sheds … and wondered whether the slaves would ever receive his gift.
Scents of herbs sweetened the sun-baked air, feathery tamarisk and golden fennel. Half-hidden in creeper was a rusted bell-chain; Lai tugged it and heard the distant clamour of a silver-tongued bell.
He waited in the dusty lane, sun hot on his head. Birds rustled in the creeper, drabbet wrens and squabbling sparrows.
He was just going to leave when he heard footsteps approaching; the door opened, affording a glimpse of the verdant haven beyond. An elderly woman stood staring suspiciously up at him.
‘Is the doctor in?’
‘He’s been called up to the palace. Torella someone-or-other’s been taken ill. Touch of the sun, shouldn’t wonder. Is it urgent?’
‘I’ll call back … later.’
The Arkhan stood on his balcony, watching the sun setting behind the distant hills. The breeze that stirred his hair, his clothes, was welcome after the heat of the day. Below, Perysse still shimmered in a haze of heat, a mirage-city, insubstantial as a dream.
Melmeth passed a hand over his eyes. Maybe it was only a trick of the failing light—
He adjusted the folds of his silken robes, squaring his shoulders, bracing himself to face the coming encounter. He had rehearsed in his mind many times what had to be said … and yet this dull feeling of dread would not leave the pit of his stomach. He was sure that what he was doing was right, was inevitable, could even be justified as for the good of his people – and yet …
‘Ophar is here, Lord Arkhan.’ Fhedryn’s voice was low, discreet; Melmeth was so preoccupied he had not even heard the steward enter the cabinet.
‘Show him in. And see we are not disturbed. By anyone.’
Melmeth turned to greet the High Priest of Mithiel. A servitor, busy lighting the lucerna over the Arkhan’s desk, hastily extinguished the taper and withdrew, bowing.
‘Sit, Ophar. Wine?’
‘I do not partake in this sultry weather, zhan.’ The High Priest sat down stiffly opposite Melmeth at the desk. In spite of the heat he was wearing his full priestly regalia as though to emphasise the formality of the occasion.
‘The reason I called you – to consult you, that is—’ Melmeth was already stumbling over his well-prepared words, daunted by the old man’s austere manner. ‘I – I intend to divorce Clodolë.’
Ophar said nothing.
‘You disapprove.’
Ophar considered for a moment or two longer, prolonging Melmeth’s torment.
‘There are few precedents. One or two of your illustrious ancestors felt obliged – when they tired of their consorts – to accuse them of heinous crimes. The resulting sentence of death enabled them to take a new consort of their choice. But these are legal matters more pertaining to the Haute Zhudiciar than to me—’
‘I don’t want her to die!’ Melmeth cried. ‘It’s just that I have come to realise that we have nothing in common. We are utterly unsuited.’
‘And she is barren.’
‘I need an heir, Ophar. I want an heir.’
‘But a legitimate heir.’
‘Five times Clodolë has conceived, five times she has miscarried. The physicians say she can bear no more children.’
‘Mithiel could still bless you both with a child. I hear you have not been near my lady’s bedchamber in over a year.’
‘Oh. So you are suggesting it’s my fault?’
‘The lady Clodolë is of one of the oldest Mhaell families in Ar-Khendye. I prepared the astrological charts myself; there was no one more suited to you out of all the eligible brides. Your stars were well-matched.’
‘But we are not.’
‘You risk angering the other members of her clan if you put her aside. Her dowry brought you the lands to the—’
‘Yes, yes, I have thought of all this too.’
‘Then why did my lord call me here to ask my opinion – when his mind is already made up?’ Ophar asked drily.
‘I—’ Melmeth raked his fingers back through his hair which felt hot and lank with sweat. ‘I wanted your blessing.’
Ophar pursed his lips together.
‘As High Priest of Mithiel, I could only bless a second union once your consort elect had made a public profession of her faith in the Temple of the Flame.’
‘And if she were not of our faith—’
‘Out of the question. She would have to be converted to the Way of the Flame. I would, of course, undertake her instruction myself.’
The High Priest must have heard the rumours, must have guessed his intentions. How could he ask such a sacrifice of Laili? How could he ask her to give up the beliefs which had shaped her, made her the woman he had fallen in love with? For a brief second he was gripped by the desire to take the tyrant’s way out, to call his tarkhastars and have the crafty old man put to death. But he was no tyrant – and Ophar knew it. He would have to find another way.
‘Very well.’ He waved a weary hand in dismissal. Ophar took his hand, kissed the ring of the flame and withdrew a few steps.
‘One thing else, lord—’
Melmeth looked up.
‘A signature. That is all I need. It will take but a moment of your time.’
‘What’s this?’ Melmeth scanned the document, trying to focus on the looping script, bringing it close to the lucerna. His eyes ached; the letters seemed to blur together in the dim light.
A moonmoth drifted in, drawn to the lucerna, and blundered into the flame.
Melmeth gazed down at the dying creature; its wings were brown and sear as a fallen leaf.
‘They were so beautiful. And now they are dying.’
‘Dying by the hundred. Your signature, zhan.’ Ophar dipped the quill in the ink, placed the pen in Melmeth’s fingers.
‘But this is a warrant for Dr Azhrel’s arrest!’ Melmeth threw the pen down, ink spattering the marble desk.
‘He is at his arcane practices again. He must be stopped.’
‘Your proof, Ophar?’
‘I have witnesses. Azhrel has been seen collecting the dead husks of these creatures, brushing the powder from their wings into a jar. He alleges he is making a study of its effects on the human body; he says it cures wounds and infections. But I have proof that here in Myn-Dhiel they are putting the dust to other uses.’ Ophar’s eyes narrowed accusingly. ‘I hear it is much in demand as an aphrodisiac, a narcotic.’
‘I will not sign this warrant.’ Melmeth pushed the parchment aside.
‘The city is half-drowsed on this invidious stuff.’
‘If the moths are dying, then why worry? It’s over.’
‘is there something the matter with your eyes, my lord?’
‘Just weary … weary of reading too many documents.
‘Maybe I should call your physicians—’
‘Azhrel is my personal physician,’ Melmeth said pointedly, ‘and my friend. Understand me, Ophar?’
Ophar hesitated a moment – then snatched up the warrant and with the most perfunctory of bows, turned on his heel and left.
Alone. The silence of the empty audience chamber lapped about Melmeth like a cool tide. He rested his head on his hands.
He loved Laili and he knew that she loved him. They deserved to be together. Why was Ophar putting so many obstacles in his way?
For a moment he wondered that if he had signed the warrant, Ophar might have been prepared to be more flexible.
But how could he sacrifice Azhrel to placate the hierophants? Some compromise would have to be found … but what? The needling ache at the back of his eyes was becoming difficult to ignore. Like the insidious whine of an insect it pervaded his consciousness until he could no longer think coherently.
Boskh. Boskh would dull the pain.
His fingers moved across the marble to the dead moth.
What am I doing!
He watched himself, as if from a distance, disgusted at his craving yet unable to stop. A little more, just a little more to deaden the ache … The fingers lifted the dry body, tapped the dust onto one palm. The palm was rising, his parched mouth opening to welcome the dust—
Ahh. The dust-grains seemed to melt to snow on his tongue, spreading a cold, white luminescence through his brain. Pain receded into a distant frost haze. His thoughts were clear, lucid as glassy ice.
A white calm enveloped him, a calm of drifting petals on a dark, deep pool … Nothing mattered any more … All he had to do was lie back in the dark waters and … float … float away …
‘Torella? Torella?’ The little slavegirl rapped at the door to Sarilla’s bedchamber. The physician’s here to see you.’ She rattled the handle vigorously. ‘She’s locked it, Dr Azhrel.’
‘Is there another key?’ Azhrel said, frowning.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I was told the Torella was not in her right mind. Why did no one stay with her?’
‘The dhamzel Laili stayed until she was called to attend on the Arkhan.’
‘Torella!’ Azhrel cried, knocking loudly on the door.
There was no reply.
Azhrel took a blade from his leather bag and, after some intricate fiddling, managed to release the door catch and the door swung slowly inwards.
Sarilla, her hair in wild disarray, was standing at the moonlit window, surrounded by a cloud of whitewings. She wore only a thin silk shift.
A starspun shiver of sound tingled through the dark room; Azhrel felt the hairs at the back of his neck lift.
‘Torella,’ Azhrel said.
She turned to him, smiling serenely. The moths clustered to her breast and shoulders, a heaving cape of white down.
‘Do you like my new gown? Do you think Sardion will like it?’ She pirouetted unsteadily around, moonmoths crawling from her arms and breast, their wings ragged, all glitter dulled. Some dropped sluggishly to the floor.
‘It is charming,’ Azhrel said, moving towards her, ‘and I would like so much to see you more clearly. Shall I light the lucerna?’
‘No! No!’ She seized hold of his hands, clutching them, nails digging in. ‘No light! It hurts so …’
On her bare arms and breast there seemed to be a fine tracery of purpled lines, punctuated by tiny puncture marks freshly dark-stained with blood.
‘Then let us move closer to the window … turn around for me again. Torella. That’s right.’
Humming to herself, she twirled about whilst he strained to see the lines staining her skin more clearly. At length, he caught her by the hand and gently drew one finger up her arm, following the track of the line. She was burning with fever and she winced as he touched her.
‘Since when did these appear?’
She did not appear to hear his question. At her feet the dead moths lay, a carpet of pale husks.
‘Oh dear,’ she cried, sagging suddenly to the floor, sifting the disintegrating moths through her fingers. ‘Now what shall I do? There’s none left … and they’re all dead …’
Azhrel shut and barred the windows and then lifted Sarilla into a cushioned fauteuil; she weighed hardly more than a child and her translucent skin felt oddly dry, brittle as petalpaper.
‘You are not well, Torella. You must rest.’
‘All dead …’ she repeated desolately. He was not certain she knew he was there or had heard a word he had said.
A light tap at the door startled him. A young woman stood in the doorway, shielding a lantern flame with her hand.
‘I was told the Torella was sick,’ she said. ‘I will sit with her.’
‘She has a fever. Make sure she drinks this powder with plenty of water.’ He snapped the catch on his bag shut. ‘Fan her, sponge her with cool water – but above all keep the windows shut. Don’t hesitate to send for me if there’s anything you’re at all concerned—’
‘Don’t worry, Dr Azhrel. I’ll take good care of her.’
As soon as Azhrel had closed the door, Lerillys took her hand from the lantern and the golden light splashed out into the darkened room.
Sarilla hissed with pain. ‘No light!’
‘I said I would stay with you,’ Lerillys said petulantly, ‘but in the dark? Am I supposed to do nothing all night?’
‘It hurts so.’
‘And what would make it hurt less?’ Lerillys asked.
‘You’re cruel. You know very well.’
‘Ah, but it will cost you, Sarilla dear. What pretty gift will you give me this time?’
‘My casket. In – in the red lacquered chest. My black pearls.’
Lerillys found the casket and began to sift the jewels through her fingers.
‘I remember seeing an emerald set in gold …’
‘It was Sardion’s last gift to me,’ Sarilla said distantly. ‘I – I couldn’t give it away.’
Lerillys snapped the casket shut; Sarilla flinched at the sound. ‘I can get a better price in the city.’
‘Not my emerald, Lerillys. Take the amethyst earrings …’
‘Amethyst doesn’t suit me.’
‘Take anything you like … but leave me Sardion’s emerald.’
‘Anything?’ Lerillys said greedily. ‘Just give me the dust.’
Lerillys took a little twist of petal paper from between her breasts. ‘Here you are, then.’
Sarilla’s fingers jittered as she tried to unwrap the twist. ‘Don’t spill any, sweet Sarilla.’
Sarilla put one fingertip into the white dust and licked it. ‘Are you sure it is pure? It has a strange aftertaste.’
‘It is from the Arkhys’s own supply.’
Sarilla tipped the contents into her mouth all at once.
‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ Lerillys said, softly. She took another slip of petalpaper from her sleeve and left it on the open jewel casket.
‘Better,’ echoed Sarilla, her eyes closing.
Lai, lost in a haven of dreams, heard a distant blur of voices.
‘He said he’d wait for you, doctor. I told him you might be some time.’
Thank you, Mirali.’
‘I wasn’t sure what the young gentleman wanted …’
‘He’s a friend.’
‘I left your supper in the watercrock to keep it cool—’
‘Yes, yes, Mirali … now go to bed.’
Click of a doorlatch. Lai opened his eyes, still half-asleep, wondering for a moment where he was.
Azhrel was standing in the doorway, watching him.
‘I must have dozed off …’ Lai pushed the tangle of hair from his eyes, blinking in the dying lucerna light.
‘So how can I help you?’ Azhrel went over to the lucerna, trimming the charred wick, replenishing the oil until the dying flame suddenly flowered, illumining his face. He seemed preoccupied, remote.
‘I wanted to know how they were. Eryl and the others at the dye works. The foreman wouldn’t let me in without you.’
‘No.’ Azhrel sat down and pulled the alquer bottle towards him.
‘What’s wrong? Has one of them deteriorated? They were all doing so well—’
Azhrel poured himself a glass and offered the bottle to Lai; Lai shook his head.
‘Nothing like that.’ Azhrel took a long, contemplative mouthful and picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk, flicking through them.
‘What, then?’
‘Ach, I don’t know.’ Azhrel took another mouthful. ‘Things I’ve seen tonight. Things I don’t begin to understand. Maybe I made a mistake. A grave mistake.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lai was fully awake by now. ‘What kind of mistake?’
‘Playing god.’
‘You mean using boskh?’
‘You’d think I’d have learned by now. There are no miracle cures.’
‘But you saw what happened – I saw it too. It works.’
‘Yes, it works. But I was wrong. To use my patients to prove a point when I knew so little about it myself.’
‘You saved their lives.’
‘Does that make me any less contemptible than the overseers who wield the whips? I used them – I experimented upon them.’
‘They would have died if you hadn’t experimented—’
‘Have you read my notes?’
Azhrel pushed the papers across the desk-top to Lai. Lai scanned the lines penned in Azhrel’s clear, strong hand.
‘“Observations on the use and abuse of the substance known as boskh …” You tried the dust on yourself!’
‘I’m not entirely unscrupulous. Yes, I experimented on myself first. See?’ Azhrel showed Lai his left hand. ‘A careless slip of the knife in my laboratory.’
A thin, deep scarline was gouged across the palm below the thumb; the scar tissue bore the same, pearlescent film that Lai had seen form on the injuries in the dye works.
Lai ran his finger along the iridescent scar.
‘Healed to perfection. Not a trace of swelling or infection.’
‘So why this crisis of conscience?’
‘I like to call myself a man of science – but I can’t find any explanation for this – premonition.’ Azhrel pointed to a glass display case. Looking over his shoulder, Lai saw a series of moonmoth specimens pinned out. ‘This sense that something’s gone awry …’
‘Awry?’
‘Chrysalis; male, female. See the spiked tip to the ovipositor, curved like a wasp’s sting?’ He tapped the case with his nail. ‘That intrigues me. But no mothgrubs, no caterpillars. It just doesn’t add up.’
Where was their mystery now? Dry, decaying shells, pinned to a sheet of card, they seemed no more magical than dead flies found on the sill of a locked room.
‘Miracle cures … and pernicious addiction. I know there’s a connection – but I can’t prove it. If only there were time to conduct proper tests. Investigations.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Lai heard himself saying.
‘I thought you were waiting for a ship to Ael Lahi.’
‘I am. But until it arrives, my time’s my own. Tell me what to do.’
‘You watch … and listen. Any report of moonmoths, go straight to the source and collect any trace of their presence you can find. I’ll give you phials, tweezers, all you need. Write down all details in this notebook, no matter how trivial they may seem.’
‘And you?’
‘Me?’ Azhrel yawned. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ve been out since dawn.’