The guards took Rian back toward the gate of Kushor-An, down the causeway of giant guardians. His first thought was that they were going back to the Lady Marada’s house so someone could point and say, “It was him!” If she had used her magics to see who the intruder had been, there was nothing he could do about it. But they passed the way that led to Marada’s house and continued up the broad avenue toward the Baran Dir.
The guards didn’t know quite what to make of him. They had expected him to put up a struggle, so he had gone quietly. He had heard the man who had confronted him called Lord Karuda by the others, so he knew he was correct in his initial assessment. It was mildly annoying that they had found all his knives; Karuda himself still carried the siri. Like a trophy. Careful, Kushorit lord, Rian thought grimly. Trophies like that come with high prices.
As they walked, Rian saw Karuda half draw the siri, examining the bare hilt and the ring, rubbing his thumb over the places where the figured gold had been removed. Rian eyed him warily. He suspected Karuda was too sharp for his liking. As they neared the great gate, the noble raised his hand, stopping them under a large brass lamp hanging from the harness of one of the giant elephant guardians. He stepped closer to Rian, looking him over thoughtfully, then said, “You’re a kjardin. Which lord do you belong to?”
He had the pronunciation as right as his Kushorit accent would allow. Rian rapidly weighed the merits of claiming Riverwait or Markand and decided on neither. “No one. Not anymore.” Let Karuda think he was a thief, an outcast, anything. Just don’t let him think it would be a good idea to send me back. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that that could be a possibility. I’m not going back to the barrow. Not alive.
Karuda’s brow lifted skeptically. If he knew enough to look at the remains of the caste marks in Rian’s ear and use a word that didn’t have an equivalent in Kushorit, then he knew how unlikely it was that a kjardin had been allowed to leave his Hold without catastrophe or scandal. Karuda asked, “The High Lord?”
Relief at the wildness of this guess let Rian look honestly puzzled. “No. I was from Sorde.” That was a small Hold even closer to the mountains than Riverwait and surely Karuda wouldn’t know it.
“I went to the Sintane once with the Kushorit ambassador,” Karuda said, eyeing him deliberately. “Kjardin don’t leave their Holds.”
Rian could have given him half a dozen ready lies, but something told him that Karuda would see through them immediately. He said only, “This one did.”
Frowning, Karuda only looked at the siri again, sheathed it, and moved on.
The dawn light was beginning to illuminate the Baran Dir, the faces that surmounted its many towers gazing in massive beneficence over the smaller temples and the sprawl of wealthy homes and gardens that stood just outside its moat. It wasn’t meant to look like an ever-rising mountain like the Marai, but it was built up on two high stone terraces that raised the central towers more than a hundred feet in the air. The stone was a lighter color than the other temples and glowed a rich gold in the dawn.
They couldn’t be taking him to the Baran Dir. As far as Rian could tell it had something to do with hospitals and healing. The Marai was really the main temple in the city, though the Baran Dir seemed to occupy the most central location. It was hard to remember that Duvalpore was organized according to the invisible geography of the Infinite and not the real world.
Near where the avenue turned into a causeway to cross the Baran Dir’s moat, they turned west on another wide paved street, skirting the edge of a large plaza that was nearly empty at this early hour. There were walls on the far side, all carved with elephants engaged in game hunts in the forest, the theme brought partly to life by the heavy band of trees and foliage visible just over the top. They were heading for a gate guarded by stone lions and some of the misshapen spirit creatures. Rian concealed his increasing bafflement; Duvalpore was laid out in a strange fashion, but he didn’t think a prison could be situated anywhere near here.
Past the gate was a short paved avenue, shaded by palms and sycamore, lined with walls carved like stone latticework. Rian caught glimpses through the openings and realized they were actually on a causeway, crossing a stretch of water too large to be a canal. In Duvalpore moats were considered spiritual rather than defensive barriers; it was as if they were going into a temple’s precincts.
At the end of the causeway they went up a set of steps to a large garden square. At the top Rian finally saw what had to be their goal. The square was enclosed on three sides by a rambling and complex arrangement of buildings. Sprouting long verandas and roofed balconies, some were as much as three or four stories tall and were built around enormous old trees. The peaks of the red-tiled roofs were ornamented with huge carved beams that pointed upward like horns at the ends.
As they led him across the garden, they passed plots all taken up with bright flowering shrubs, the vivid colors muted by the gray dawn light, and two large square pools, one deeply sunken into a stone basin with steps leading down into it. There were guards posted at intervals and a few workers occupied with cleaning a raised stone channel that watered one of the basins.
They were not going to the broad shaded portico of the main building, but toward an archway in the garden wall that seemed to lead to an interior court; palms and other trees hung over the wall. The arch was framed with polished and gold-tipped elephant tusks. If it was a prison, then the Koshans and the Kushorit really were as rich as the stories claimed. He stopped at the base of the steps that led up to it, planting his feet when one of the guards pushed him. He said, “What is this place?”
Lord Karuda glanced back at him, his expression closed, and didn’t answer. The biggest guard gave Rian another hard shove. He shifted his weight to keep his balance and stood his ground. Rian supposed that sort of treatment was always effective on the peasants in the market, though he would have thought any one of the porters who carried burdens yoked on their backs could have beaten the man into the ground one-handed.
Karuda pressed his lips together, annoyed. Rian had the feeling they didn’t want to make a disturbance here. The aggressive guard uncertainly fingered his sword, contemplating further persuasion, and looked to Karuda for instruction. Finally the noble said, “This is the Celestial Home.”
Rian just stopped himself from calling Karuda a liar. He looked at the large complex of buildings again, reluctantly admitting to himself that it did look a lot like a Kushorit palace. All right, you only thought you were in trouble before. The guard gave him another hard shove. Rian kept his balance and ignored it. Karuda shook his head, for a moment looking almost as puzzled as Rian felt, then turned and went up the steps. Rian followed without persuasion, much to the guard’s annoyance.
Just past the archway the lush garden court was shaded by palms and ilex and a massive cypress whose roots had dislodged many of the paving stones around the square pool. The scent of flowers mingled with sandalwood incense. On the far side of the pool was a pavilion with a red-tiled roof supported by stone pillars. There were cushions on the polished wooden floor, and courtiers on the cushions: three young men, probably of the warrior-noble rank like Karuda, but in their silks and gold they looked as soft as doves. Standing to one side was a Koshan priestess, robed in blue and clutching a silver-wrapped staff. She was a small elderly woman with thin lips and a grimly determined expression.
Another young man who didn’t look soft at all was pacing on the far side of the pavilion. His long dark hair was pulled back from a narrow face with sharp, handsome features. He was dressed in a simple open jacket and trousers of watered green silk, but his armbands, anklets, and pectoral were heavy gold. He stopped abruptly and turned toward them as Rian was brought in. Rian saw the man’s face was dark with anger.
Karuda bowed, and though Rian wasn’t practiced at interpreting the different levels of the Kushorit bow, he knew that one signaled an even greater degree of homage than the Celestial One normally received. I know who this is, he thought, feeling a shock that was like a punch to the pit of his stomach. The guard behind him kicked at his knee, and Rian knelt smoothly, back straight, sitting back on his heels. It was the proper etiquette for showing fealty to the High Lord of the Sintane, and even if they didn’t know that, the gesture could hardly be interpreted as disrespect.
He hadn’t expected the Emperor to be so young. He had thought of him, if he had thought of him at all, as somebody like the Celestial One, if not quite so ruinously old. This man couldn’t be much above twenty, if that. “That’s him?” the Celestial Emperor said, his full lips curling with contempt.
Uh-oh, Rian thought. He hadn’t accused Lady Marada of being a murderer to anybody except Maskelle; the Emperor couldn’t have heard about that. I’m either dreaming or dead, he thought. Probably both. Even if had been obvious that he shared the bad opinion of Marada held by the servants attached to the Marai, that couldn’t have found its way to the Emperor’s ears in so short a time, unless his spies had near supernatural abilities.
“It is, Your Majesty,” Karuda said. His voice was colorless, only the tension it took to keep it so betraying any opinion. Rian didn’t think Karuda was a possible ally, but he could tell the noble wasn’t entirely happy with his role in all this. Whatever all this was.
The Emperor said, “Stand up.” Rian stood.
The blow caught him across the cheek. Rian saw it coming, rocked back on his heels to absorb the force of it. He felt one of the Emperor’s rings open a cut under his cheekbone. He didn’t hit nearly as hard as the Holder Lord used to.
For just a moment the Emperor’s expression was disconcerted, possibly at Rian’s lack of reaction. He turned away, paced almost to the edge of the pavilion and stopped, fists knotted. He jerked his head at the courtiers and said, “Get out.”
All three immediately got to their feet gracefully, though not wasting any time, and made their bows. When they had gone, there was quiet. In the trees birds sang, greeting the dawn, and the tension stretched.
Then the Emperor turned his head and asked softly, “Where did Maskelle find you?”
At least he’s not asking about Marada, Rian thought. At least not yet. He hesitated, but he couldn’t think why the Emperor had the remotest interest in him. If he really cares so much who Maskelle travels with, why aren’t Rastim and the others here? He said, “On the Great Road, two days south of Duvalpore, lord.” He had no idea what the Kushorit called the Emperor when addressing him directly and knew that making a mistake would be a serious tactical error, so he used the Sitanese honorific for the High Lord.
Fortunately no one seemed to care. The Emperor faced him, staring. “Two days … Before she came to the city?”
“Yes.”
“The implication is obvious,” a new voice said. Another man stepped up into the pavilion from a hidden path through the foliage. Rian managed not to twitch at his sudden appearance. He was older, his dark hair graying and pulled back behind his head in an elaborate knotted braid, his face hard and calm. He wore enough gold to mark him as a noble, but there was no ostentatious display, and his air of power didn’t require the support. “Our information was correct. She has made foreign alliances.”
“What use would an alliance with the Sintane be?” the Emperor snapped.
True, Rian thought, just managing to keep his face straight. The warring lords of the Sintane made terrible allies for each other, let alone for the Celestial Empire, which they regarded with suspicion and fear. They suspect Maskelle of making a foreign alliance? It was all part of her past, the mistaken vision, the throne and her second husband’s heir. But they must have known she was here that first night, when the Celestial One came to the post house. If they suspected her of treason, then why wait until today to fetch Rian in? Surely the Celestial One’s presence would not have been enough to stop men under the command of the Emperor himself.
The Koshan priestess, standing forgotten on the other side of the pavilion, said suddenly, “The Voice of the Adversary has no need of alliances. Chancellor Mirak knows this.”
That explained part of it, anyway. Rian remembered the priestess Barime, at the Illsat Keo, had mentioned Mirak as an enemy of the Koshans at court. Mirak gazed at the old woman with amusement and said, “This priestess has divided loyalties.”
“So, now Hirane makes a foreign alliance? The Master of the Baran Dir and the Celestial One conspire against me?” The Emperor snorted derisively.
At least he’s not a brainless lordling, Rian thought. The Emperor seemed more than able to make up his own mind. Not that that was likely to help Rian’s situation. Though he had to admit he still had no idea what his situation was.
Mirak, wisely, didn’t argue, and the priestess Hirane simply stood silently, though a grim smile played about her lips. The Emperor stepped up to Rian again, his face grim but thoughtful.
Rian made himself relax, expecting another blow, but the Emperor only said, “You weren’t sent by the Sitanese High Lord, were you?”
“No, lord,” Rian said, keeping his tone even but willing the younger man to know it was true.
“Are you warming her bed?”
Rian’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t answer.
The Emperor studied him intently. “She draws men to her. Then she kills them. She’s done it many times before. She did it to my father.”
He was trying to sound mocking, but was too obviously taut with anger to be saying these things for his own amusement. Saying I heard about your father and he was a power-hungry little shit of a lordling who should have been gelded and hung out for the birds to eat was hardly likely to improve the situation any, so again, Rian said nothing.
After a long heartbeat of silence, the Emperor stepped back. He glanced almost angrily at Karuda, as if it was his fault Rian was here, then said, “Take him away.”
Karuda and his men led Rian down the stone-paved path through the heavy foliage. It was narrow, and with the trees shading it and the dim morning light, it was ideal for making an escape attempt. Except for the small fact that the Celestial Emperor was less than twenty paces away and the last thing Rian needed was to get himself and Maskelle accused of another attempt on the throne.
The path led toward the high log wall of one of the buildings, to an archway that opened into a high-ceilinged entrance hall, the woven lattice panels over the openings to the upper level balconies letting in light and air. The walls and pillars were carved with scenes of priests and warriors and more of the strange multiheaded spirit creatures, the designs touched with gold and pearl inlay. Rian began to feel conscious of the state of his clothes, not improved by climbing palisades and the swim in the canal. Prison he had been prepared for; this sent prickles of unease up and down his spine.
They went through more large, airy rooms, lit by bronze candlestands or elaborate lamps that hung from the heavy beams overhead. Rian saw two guards posted at the end of a hall, dressed for show in breastplates and crested helmets with half masks, and a few sleepy servants scrubbing tile on one of the upper galleries. They passed a hall where the walls were paneled in huge sheets of ivory covered with delicately etched scenes of clashing armies. He had been to the High Lord’s Hold at Belladira and thought it rich beyond imagination, but this place made it look like a pigkeeper’s hut. The Markand Heir, so greedily pleased with the treasures that had come to him when the Holder Lord had died, would have writhed in envy.
They went up a spiral stair of large stone blocks that had wide windows overlooking another tree-filled court. The stairs led up to a landing with two guards posted outside the doorway. Rian tensed, knowing this must be their goal, but it was only a room, large and high-ceilinged, with a broad balcony looking down on the shaded garden. Rian looked at Karuda, now truly baffled.
The noble said, “You’re a guest here, not a prisoner.”
“A guarded guest.”
“Yes. For now.” Karuda didn’t leave, but just stood there, watching him. Rian went to the balcony, saw that there were guards down in the court also, though it might be possible to go up the timbered wall and onto the roof. Rian turned back into the room. It was furnished like a Kushorit house with cushions, a few carved chests and a low table. There were doorways leading off into at least two other rooms, and the wall paintings and the carving along the doorposts and the lintels was of a high quality, inlaid with fine wood and stone.
Karuda asked suddenly, “Will she come for you?”
“That’s the plan, is it?” The noble made no answer, and Rian knew he was right. He was being used as bait for Maskelle. The sanctimonious bastards. He was used to controlling his anger, had swallowed down rage through that entire impossible year at Markand, but this almost broke his control. He found himself smiling tightly, an expression which Karuda weathered but that made the guard who had followed him into the room shift warily. Rian said, “You’ll get more than you bargained for.”
“She’s an old woman—”
Rian laughed. Karuda stopped, and Rian could see the noble didn’t believe his own words either. He repeated, “You’ll get more than you bargained for.”
Karuda hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, then turned and walked out, the guard following him. The others remained at the door.
Rian went to the balcony again and gripped the carved balustrade, letting out his breath. Marada and her possible plots, the Celestial One and the damage to the Rite, all suddenly seemed of little importance. We’re for it now, he thought grimly.
Maskelle entered the Celestial Home through the Golden Door, the main entrance that lay across a short bridge from the Great Square of Kushor-An. She went down an avenue lined with mimosa, under stone arches that, like the Passage Markers on the outer approaches to the city, served as protective barriers. The cloud cover had set in and the morning light was diffuse and dimmer than it had been at dawn, though the early rain hadn’t started yet. The walk across to Kushor-An had been a long one and given Maskelle time to think. That this was all part of some sort of trap was obvious.
The Golden Door was just that, a great golden gate balanced so exactly that it would swing open or closed with a touch. It stood open now. There were guards, but they didn’t try to stop her, some staring nervously, some making what they thought were unobtrusive warding gestures. Beyond the Door, steps led up to the broad portico of the Great House, with three levels of galleries above it going up to the huge red-tiled roof. Built of heavy timber from the upland forests and supported by round stone pillars, this was the ruling center of the Celestial Empire. It was so familiar and so strange. Like returning to a well-known place in a dream or vision.
Speaking of visions … It was an obvious trap, but as to who was behind it … That is not so obvious, Maskelle thought. It was encouraging that she could still think. Anger had been a heady intoxicant and she had always enjoyed that sensation of being balanced on a blade’s edge. Rage usually left her oddly clearheaded, but this time it was even more so; Rian’s life might hang in the balance and she didn’t intend to make a mistake. The awareness that if she wasn’t careful she would deliver herself into her unknown enemy’s hand helped as well, but it was less important. She was rather looking forward to confronting an enemy just now. Any enemy.
Arrayed on the portico were a group of Imperial guardsmen and a young warrior-noble she didn’t recognize. Maskelle stopped on the paved path about twenty paces away, leaning on her staff, and counted guards. “Only ten?” she said, her voice sounding brittle and bitterly amused, even to her own ears. “That’s an insult.”
The noble stepped down toward her. “Revered, we’re to escort you only—” Maskelle stopped listening. She had expected contempt or impertinence at the very least from these young men who had been hardly more than children when she left Duvalpore. The noble’s air of determined resignation reminded her they weren’t doing this of their own volition, and it saved all their lives.
A direct line of power ran under her feet from the Baran Dir to the Arkad Temple, and through it she could feel the strong reverberation of the Marai, and farther off, the subtle echo of the Illsat Sidar. She drew on it and used it to widen her perception of her surroundings, right up to the clouds hanging high overhead heavy with water. Stimulated by the contact with the power running through the earth, the power of the sky inherent in the clouds leapt out. Drawing on the temples for the strength, Maskelle channeled it down to impact harmlessly on the stone pavement equidistant between her and the guards.
For an instant the world was raw light and sound. She gripped her staff and stayed on her feet, temporarily blinded and deafened. Her ears rang and her teeth hurt. When her vision cleared, the guards were scattered. Some sprawled on the ground from shock and terror, but all were unhurt. They had dropped their bori clubs and swords; all were hurriedly dragging off their helmets. Heat burned into Maskelle’s palm from the silver in her staff, and she knew that all the metal within yards around this court was now hot to the touch. The air smelled raw and burnt. A dark hole steamed in the pavement where the power had struck. There, she thought, a little dazed herself. Are you pleased? Every dark spirit within miles will be drawn up to the city boundary, waiting for you to leave. She answered herself, Yes, I am pleased. I reminded them of what I am and why they shouldn’t trifle with me with no harm caused to anyone but myself. Something wasn’t quite right with that, but she would worry about it later.
The noble staggered to his feet, staring at her. He didn’t try to stop her as she walked past him and climbed the steps to the portico.
She passed through the ivory-framed archway into the entrance hall, quiet now and dim, with the clouds cutting off the morning sun and the lamps not lit. It was fragrant with the scents of the fine inlaid woods in walls and floor. The semiprecious stones set into the carving gleamed in the shadows. It was too quiet, even for this time of day.
As Maskelle passed the antechambers and rooms reserved for waiting supplicants and petitioners, all empty, she knew that they had been cleared because of her presence. They should have been full of officials on real business and people who meant to try to seek some personal favor or matter of justice from the Imperial secretaries, who also had their audience rooms in these halls. To clear this place quickly, without resorting to threats of violence that would only cause full-blown riot—especially among the regional governors and high court advocates who were sure to be here—was an impossibility. Only one man could have emptied the place with a simple request. Maskelle’s jaw ached from unconsciously grinding her teeth.
She came to a huge room, the ceiling going up the full four stories to the peak of the roof, with the center portion open to the gradually lightening sky and covered only by the giant skeleton of the heavy support beams. The floor was paved with fine white stone, with two steps down to a shallow pool in the center, directly under the open roof. The floor under the pool was mosaicked to resemble a natural pond, blue water laced with lotus and other languid flowering water plants. The illusion of an outdoor pond was increased by the presence of a dozen or so large graceful herons, standing or stalking elegantly about the shallow pool.
The wide doors just past it led into a large dark room, this one with the empty feel of a place normally bustling with people. It had a floor of wood inlaid with ivory and the ceiling arched high overhead, the sections between the carved beams painted a deep indigo and starred with gems that glittered like ice in the light from a few gold candlestands. At the far end, on a dais raised two steps off the floor, was a heavy gold bench.
Seated on the steps in front of the Throne, his staff across his knees, was the Celestial One.
Maskelle stopped a few paces from him, folded her arms, and said, “Why did you clear the halls? Did you think I’d kill everyone in my path?”
“I wanted no one to take the opportunity to interfere with you—any further, that is,” he said, sounding tired. “Your friend is well. I made certain of that.”
The anger went out of her suddenly. She was tired too, and her ears hurt. And it came to her that it had cost the Celestial One something to cross the city by boat to be here before her, to reach the Great House from the Celestial Home’s canal dock and clear the halls before she reached it. She crossed the short distance between them and sat down beside him on the steps. “Well.”
“I’m too old for these plots,” he grumbled. “That was always your duty.”
Maskelle sighed. “Thank you. I think.”
“I meant to deal with the plots, of course.” He gestured in irritation. “Raith insists this was his own idea. Perhaps he even believes it. The boy is just as stubborn as you.”
The Celestial One was one of the few people in the Empire who could use the Celestial Emperor’s given name and talk about him as if he was an errant acolyte while seated three feet from the Throne. She asked, “It wasn’t Marada?”
He frowned at her, puzzled. “Who?”
“A Court Lady visiting from Garekind. I saw you speak to her at the Marai, the day we arrived.”
“Oh, her. I can’t tell the Court Ladies apart anymore. She had requested an audience with me to gawk, the usual reason these foreign visitors do.” He glanced at her sharply. “Why do you think she caused this?”
Maskelle shook her head. “She was the only stranger close enough to Veran to … do whatever was done to him.” There was so much she didn’t know yet. She needed to find out if Rian had managed to get into the guesthouse, if he had found anything. “She’s a favorite of Raith’s.”
“That will make matters difficult.” The Celestial One rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Is there any proof or only suspicions?”
“Just suspicions.” That is the thing I don’t understand, Maskelle thought. Someone with dark power did this, that’s obvious enough, but how did they learn so much about the Rite? Even with access to the Koshan libraries in Kushor-At, theoretical knowledge wasn’t enough. It would take practical experience with building and shaping the sand patterns of the wheel, and weaving it in and out of the Infinite to make that new section, and make it so quickly.
That knowledge might have come voluntarily from poor dead Veran, or maybe even the Voice Igarin, but … But I doubt it, Maskelle thought. Rian had found out enough about both men to support her gut instinct. As Igarin had grown older, he had grown closer to the Infinite, as most Voices did. He had hardly left the Marai at all in the past few years. Veran had been well occupied with his studies and his instruction to younger Koshans; Lady Marada had been the only odd intrusion into his life. And the Temple Master and some of the Voices had examined the books and notes in Veran’s quarters, and confirmed that there was no trace there of the unknown symbols. Something had used Veran, that had to be it. Something had invaded his mind and used him like a tool, and Marada had killed him to keep him from telling anyone.
“And what about the Rite?” The Celestial One sounded like any querulous old man in the market, complaining about taxes and the price of rice. “Who is working on that while we chase each other across the city?”
“Vigar and the other Voices—”
“Balls,” the Celestial One said distinctly. Maskelle, though more used to his eccentricities than others, almost fell off the step. “I wanted your opinion. I had Vigar’s already.”
“I don’t know what my opinion is.” Maskelle gestured helplessly. “It feels wrong to remove the obstruction, but we can’t leave it in. The Equinox is tomorrow, and if they all work on it together and no one trods on someone’s sleeve and falls on the Wheel, they’ll barely finish in time as it is.” She rubbed her face. “I think the Adversary finally spoke to me again in the Illsat Sidar but what It showed me has nothing to do with the Rite.” She wasn’t going to tell the Celestial One about seeing Sirot. “I think I’ve done something to myself, so I can’t understand what It says even when It does speak to me. My first decent vision in seven years and I can’t understand it.”
The Celestial One watched her worriedly. “That isn’t possible.”
“Just because something’s never happened before doesn’t mean it’s not possible. It could be happening right now and we wouldn’t know—” Maskelle stopped in confusion. She had heard a whisper just then, not the chiding voices of the Ancestors, but the strong tone of the Adversary. It lingered, like the taste of copper in her mouth. A warning. Something is happening now, but we don’t know what or where. She swore under her breath. These warnings that made no sense were going to drive her mad.
The Celestial One was shaking his head. “Calm yourself. Meditation—”
“I’ll try it,” she said, standing up suddenly. She wanted to leave, now. Whatever the answer was, she was more likely to find it in the Illsat Sidar or the Marai than here. “Tell me where Rian is and we’ll go.”
The Celestial One’s mouth twisted. “There is something more. Raith wants you to spend the night here. As a gesture of fealty.”
“What? Is he deranged?” She realized she had shouted the words. Anticipating that must have been another reason the Celestial One had cleared the place. “I should be with the Rite tonight, with Vigar and the others.”
The Celestial One snapped, “I am as aware of that as you, I assure you.”
She waved a hand in frustration. “Then what’s the point of this?”
“He believes this will demonstrate your reformed character.” The Celestial One’s expression as he said the words suggested that there was an extremely foul odor associated with them. “If the boy were a fool, this would be easier to stomach.”
Maskelle grimaced. “He gives me an opportunity to start trouble and heartily wishes that I’ll take it.”
“That too,” the Celestial One agreed grimly.
“Doesn’t he understand we don’t have time for all this posing? I should at least be there when the Voices complete the Rite, just in case … You did tell him about the Rite, didn’t you?” she demanded.
“Yes. But he doesn’t understand. None of them do,” he answered, resigned. “They have little awareness of the Rite. It has been with them their whole lives, their parents’ lives, back to the time of the Ancestors, as constant as the sun or the air, and they think it will continue as always, with or without our interference.”
Maskelle turned away, rubbing her aching temples. “I hope they’re right.”
As soon as Rian judged it had been long enough for the guards to relax their initial vigilance, he tested his theory about the roof.
It was relatively easy to reach the edge from the balcony by standing on the balustrade and leaning out from the supporting post. Fortunately, the guards in the garden below did not look up, and the view from the far side was blocked by a large palm. The tiles were slick enough to make it chancy as it was; if the rain started they would be as slippery as looking glass.
Rian managed to drag himself up onto the roof after a few breathless moments, then saw that this part of the building was overlooked by an adjoining structure, with jutting cupolas and a long gallery just under the eave of its peaked roof. Before he could move more than a few yards toward it, someone saw him and the alarm was raised.
Cursing, Rian retreated, dropping back down to the balcony. The guards at the outer door hadn’t noted his absence, but the thump when he landed caught their attention. They rushed into the room, drawing bori clubs, only to stop when they saw him standing on the balcony, arms folded, glaring at them. After staring suspiciously at him, they finally went back to their post.
Rian paced impatiently, kicking one of the brocaded cushions. The effort of the climb had accomplished nothing except to open the scabbed-over cut on his forearm that itched and bled sluggishly. He knew it must already be too late to stop Maskelle from coming to the Palace, even if he managed to escape right now.
Suddenly a crack of lightning, close enough to make Rian flinch, reverberated through the room. He stepped to the balcony again while the echoes of thunder died, squinting up at the sky. It looked no darker than it usually did. That was strange, he thought. While it rained with dreary regularity in the lowlands, it didn’t often storm except at the beginning of the rainy season. The two guards at the door were commenting on it in soft voices, as surprised as Rian was.
Wait, he thought. That couldn’t be … Well, it could. He had warned Karuda himself.
There was no more lightning and Rian went back to pacing, telling himself she could take care of herself and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t get out to help her. Still, he had come up with several increasingly unlikely escape plans when he heard her voice outside in the stairwell.
He was at the door in a heartbeat, though the two guards hurriedly moved to bar his way. He started to shove past them, bori clubs or not, then saw Maskelle climbing the steps, with a stone-faced Lord Karuda trailing her. A moment later, a young priest appeared carrying the Celestial One up after them.
Karuda was trying to say something to Maskelle. She ignored him, using distracted pokes from her staff to nudge the startled guards out of the way as if they were sheep that had strayed into the road. She shoved her way into the room and said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Rian reminded himself he couldn’t grab her and shake her and demand to know what in hell she thought she was doing here.
“What did they do, throw you into the canal?” she persisted, looking him over worriedly.
Rian had almost forgotten about the expedition to Marada’s house. It seemed an age ago. With Karuda standing there watching both of them, he said tightly, “Can we discuss that later?”
Maskelle turned to Karuda, who had followed her into the room. “Go away. Take the guards with you.”
Rian had time to notice that Karuda looked the worse for wear himself, that he had removed his archer’s wristbrace and had a new red burn on his hand in roughly the same shape. Stubbornly, Karuda said, “I have been ordered—”
He was interrupted by the entrance of the Celestial One, who had been set down on the landing by his attendant priest. The old man hobbled into the room, shaking his head. He was followed closely by Hirane, the priestess who had been with the Emperor in the garden, and two more priest-attendants. The Celestial One looked at Karuda sourly. “I know your orders, young one. Go to Mirak and tell him his plot is successful, if he intended it to greatly inconvenience the Voices of the Ancestors and all the upper ranks of the Marai, and indeed, all their servants and the lower ranks as well.”
Karuda looked at the Celestial One as if he wanted to argue, then his lips set in a grim line and he turned to leave. Rian said, “My sword.”
Karuda didn’t stop, but a moment later one of the guards came back from the landing with Rian’s siri and all three of his knives. He handed them over quickly and withdrew.
Rian buckled the sheathed siri to his belt again and hastily put his knives away. “Is this over now?”
Maskelle shook her head, her face drawn and exhausted. “No, not yet.”
Rian froze in the act of tucking the last knife into his boot, looking up at her. “What?”
She said, “I have to stay here the night, apparently as some half-witted show of faith.”
Half-witted is right, Rian thought. “What about the Rite?”
The Celestial One muttered, “That is what I would like to know.”
“I did my best,” the priestess Hirane snapped. “I only caught word of this because one of my sixth-level priests had a dawn meditation with the Chancellor this morning.”
“This didn’t go through the Imperial Secretaries?” Maskelle asked, frowning.
“It appears to have been a private act on the part of the Throne,” Hirane replied, her pinched expression betraying what she thought of that. “I couldn’t discover who was behind it. Mirak was in favor of it, certainly, but I couldn’t tell if he instigated it or not.” She looked at Maskelle, and for the first time her face softened a little. “It may be that the Throne thought of this for himself.”
Maskelle muttered something under her breath and turned away, going out to the balcony.
The Celestial One looked after her, then shook his head. “We must get back to the Marai. Today will be critical.” He gestured to his attendants and Hirane to follow him.
Rian was thinking hard. Whether this plot was Mirak’s or Marada’s doing was irrelevant at the moment; whoever it was, they were sure to try again. And nobody’s using me as bait again, either.
Rian checked the landing and saw that the guards were gone. He slipped out onto the stairs and moving quietly, went down to the floor below. The room there was empty as well, but he heard voices from the door that led out into the garden and stepped softly across to it.
Karuda was informing the guards in the garden of current developments. Rian heard the noble’s footsteps crunch away on the gravel path, then one of the remaining guards muttered, “You should have seen it. She called lightning out of the sky.”
Rian listened to a biased account of Maskelle’s arrival at the Celestial Home, wondering how much of it was true. It explains the lightning, at least, he thought. When it seemed there would be nothing else worth hearing, Rian went quietly back up the steps and into the main room. Maskelle still stood out on the balcony, leaning on the balustrade. There was much he needed to tell her, but he couldn’t think where to start.
When she heard him behind her, she stirred restlessly, and without looking back at him, said, “Now you’ve seen for yourself.”
He didn’t have time to figure that one out. “They think the High Lord sent me to you, that you’re in some kind of plot with him. One of them does, anyway,” he added, remembering the young Emperor’s reluctance to accept the suggestion.
This at least made Maskelle glance back at him, baffled. “I’m in some kind of plot with who?”
“The High Lord of the Sintane.”
She snorted and turned back to the view. “Oh, as if that’s likely.”
Rian made himself take a deep breath. She was safe, for the moment, anyway; there was no point in letting their enemies’ tactics get to him. He thought he knew what was bothering her and decided they might as well get it out in the open. He said, “The Emperor is your son, isn’t he?”
She didn’t turn around. “Yes. Not by law. I gave him up to his father’s family. He had a better chance at the succession that way. And I didn’t really want a child.” She gestured around at the suite, at her temporary captivity. “So this is what I get for it.”
Rian said, “I’ve got three.”
“Three what?”
“Three children. In Riverwait.”
Slowly she turned around, leaned back against the balustrade, and folded her arms. Frowning thoughtfully, she asked, “How many wives?”
“None. Kjardin aren’t allowed to make bonding contracts. But we’re popular with women who want children. And then I was the Lady Holder’s favorite, so she—”
Maskelle held up a hand. “I think I have the idea.” Her tone was somewhat cool, but at least she had lost that air of deadly introspection.
“There’s something else—”
“I don’t know if I can take anything else just now.”
“I found something at Marada’s house. A box with something like an ivory ball in it that glowed when I touched it. I took it so you could look at it. There were other things too, subtle things. The house didn’t look right. If you want to search it again, we don’t have much time. They know somebody was there, but they don’t know who.” He added ruefully, “Or at least I thought they didn’t, until this happened.”
“An ivory ball that glowed? That doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard of before.” Maskelle considered it, troubled. “She’s brought foreign magic into the city and it will be interesting, to say the least, to hear how she’ll justify it. Where is the box now?”
He told her where he had hidden it, and finished, “I wanted you to see it before anybody else, especially the other priests.”
“Yes, if it’s priests she’s after…” Maskelle said slowly. Then she grimaced. “Why do I have the feeling she already has what she’s after?”
Rian leaned on the balustrade next to her. If there were guards left down in the garden, they weren’t visible. “The Rite?”
“Yes.” She massaged her temples. “I’m beginning to wonder if the second Wheel has to be on a power center after all. The Infinite is very close to our world right now. Maybe it’s enough that a Wheel be on a line between two power centers. Or very close to one.”
He nodded. “The canal between the Baran Dir and the Marai. We should find out who gave her that house.”
“It was the Throne,” Maskelle said, with a trace of bitterness. She shook her head with a grimace. “We need to pay Marada another visit.”
Rian watched her worriedly. “But you think it’s already too late.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “First let’s get that box.”
But when they went to the spirit shrine near their guesthouse where Rian had hidden the box, they found nothing but a ruined scrap of mud-stained silk—the scarf he had used to carry it.
Maskelle examined the silk, feeling a leftover residue of some magic clinging to it. It had a foul taste, sour and strange, and she couldn’t quite remember encountering anything like it before. And with the number of dark powers she had encountered in the past few years, that was hard to believe. “You’re sure they couldn’t have followed you?” she asked Rian, who was searching for tracks along the mud and grass at the edge of the canal. Not that she thought it was much of a possibility.
He gestured in exasperation, sitting on his heels to examine a disturbed clump of grass more carefully. “They turned out half the neighborhood to catch me. Why let me get all the way across the city with it if they knew where I was? And they couldn’t know I’d be stopped before I got it to you.” He shook his head.
“Yes. She used magic to find it.” Maskelle let out her breath. “Foreign magic.” In my city. She remembered poor Veran and anger stirred, hot and welcome.
“She’s a sorceress, this woman?” Rastim asked, looking from Maskelle to Rian. He was poking a stick into the mud and searching around the base of the statue, as if hoping the missing object had merely been misplaced. He had seen Maskelle and Rian down in the street with the Celestial One’s entourage and came out to ask what they were doing.
“For her sake, I hope so,” Maskelle said. She went back to the road, where the Celestial One’s white palanquin waited, his attendants parting for her like a shoal of startled fish. He lifted the curtain and peered out.
“Proof?” he asked.
“No.”
He closed his eyes and sighed, starting to withdraw into the palanquin.
She said, “I need a free hand.”
He stopped, watching her, his rheumy eyes expressionless. She lifted her brows. “You don’t trust me.”
His mouth twitched, not in amusement. “I trust you as far as you trust yourself.”
That’s a hard one to answer, Maskelle thought ruefully. She said only, “Remember the Rite.”
He was motionless as a statue for one suspended moment. Then he nodded once and withdrew into the palanquin like a turtle into its shell.
The procession started away, the acolytes moving to the front to clear the way with sistrums. Maskelle walked back to the shrine.
“Did he say we could do something about Marada?” Rian asked, looking up at her.
“Yes.” Maskelle smiled. Something to do, at last. “Tonight she’ll be getting a visit from the Adversary.”