ELEVEN

The Baraks Grigi tu Kerestyn and Avun tu Koli walked side by side along the dirt path, between the tall rows of kamako cane. Nuki’s eye looked down on them benevolently from above, while tiny hovering reedpeckers swung back and forth seeking suitable candidates to drill with their pointed beaks. The sky was clear, the air dry, the heat not too fierce: another day of perfect weather. And yet Grigi’s thoughts were anything but sunny.

He reached out and snapped off a cane with a twist of his massive hand; a puff of powder burst out from where it was broken.

‘Look here,’ he said, proffering it to Avun. His companion took it and turned it slowly under his sleepy, hooded gaze. There were streaks of black discolouration along its outer surface, not that Avun needed such a sign to tell it had been blighted. Good kamako cane was hard enough to be used as scaffolding; this was brittle and worthless.

‘The entire crop?’ Avun asked.

‘Some can be salvaged,’ Grigi mused, waddling his immense frame over to the other side of the dirt path and breaking off another cane experimentally. ‘It’s strong enough, but if word gets out that the rest of the crop is afflicted . . . Well, I suppose I can sell through a broker, but the price won’t be half what it could be. It’s a gods-cursed disaster.’

Avun regarded the other blandly. ‘You cannot pretend that you did not expect as much.’

‘True, true,’ said Grigi. ‘In fact, half of me had hoped for this. If the harvest had picked up this year, then some of our allies would be having second thoughts about the side they had chosen. Desperation makes weak links in politics, and they’re easily undone when times turn.’ He tossed the cane aside in disgust. ‘But I don’t like seeing thousands of shirets in market goods going to waste, whatever the cause. Especially not mine!’

‘It can only strengthen our position,’ Avun said. ‘We have made preparations against this. Others are not so fortunate. They will see that the only alternative to starvation is to oust Mos and put someone who knows how to run the empire on the throne.’

Grigi gave him a knowing glance. There was something else that they did not say, that they never spoke of any more than necessary. Getting Grigi on the throne was only part of the plan; the other part was getting the Weavers away from it. Neither of them had any particular animosity towards the Weavers – no more than any other high family had, anyway, in that they resented the necessity of having them – but they sensed the popular mood, and they knew how the common folk felt. The peasantry thought that the Weavers were responsible for the evil times that had befallen the empire, that their appointment as equals to the high familes was an affront against tradition and the gods. Avun did not know whether that was true or not, but it really didn’t matter. Once Grigi was Blood Emperor, he would have to cut the Weavers down to size, or the same thing that was happening to Mos would happen to him.

But it was a dangerous game, plotting against the Weavers under their very noses. For like all the high families, Grigi and Avun had Weavers in their own homes, and who could tell how much they knew?

They walked on a little, until the dirt track emerged from the forest of kamako cane and curved left to follow the contours of a shallow hill. Below them, Grigi’s plantation spread out like a canvas, uneven polygons of light brown tessellating with fields of green, where the cane had not yet been stripped and still retained its leafy aerial parts. In between were long, low barns and yards where harvesting equipment was left. Men and women, genderless beneath the wide wicker hats that protected them from the sun, moved slowly between the rows, cutting or stripping or erecting nets over the unblighted sections to keep off the persistent reedpeckers. From up here, all looked normal, and faintly idyllic. An untrained eye would not guess that there was poison in the earth.

Grigi sighed regretfully. He was being philosophical about his loss, but it still made him sad. Waste was not something he approved of, a fact evidenced by his enormous frame and ponderous weight. In Saramyr high society, it was usual to prepare more food than was necessary, and let diners pick and choose as they would; people ate only as much as they wanted and left the rest. That lesson had never taken with Grigi, and his fondness for fine meals and his reluctance to leave any on the table had made him obese. He wore voluminous robes and a purple skullcap, beneath which his black hair was knotted in a queue; a thin beard hung from his chin to give his fleshy face definition.

To look at him, it would not be easy to guess he was a formidable Barak, and perhaps the only contender to the throne since he had annihilated Blood Amacha’s forces. He appeared rather as a pampered noble, gone soft on luxury, and his high, girlish voice and passion for poetry and history merely corroborated the illusion. But gluttony was his only vice. Unlike many of the other Baraks, he did not indulge in narcotics, bloodsports, courtesans or any of the other privileges of rank. Beneath the layers of fat there was hard muscle on a broad skeleton well over six feet in height, a legacy of a ruthless regime of wrestling and lifting heavy rocks. Much like his companion Avun, whose languid, drowsy manner hid a brain as sharp and unforgiving as a blade, he was often underestimated by those who assumed that the weakness of character that led to such excess hinted at a weak mind.

If he had any fault, it was the one that his entire family shared: he was bitter about the twist of fate that had dethroned his father and allowed Blood Erinima to become the high family over a decade ago. If not for that, Kerestyn would still have been the head of the empire. It was his bitterness that led him to make an ill-advised assault on Axekami during the last coup; ill-advised because, despite his clever disposal of Blood Amacha, he had not counted on the cityfolk uniting to repel his invading force, and they kept him out long enough for Blood Batik to enter the capital at the east gate and take the throne themselves.

Now the people of Axekami wished they had let him in, he thought darkly.

But if it was fate that had torn Blood Kerestyn from the Imperial Keep, then it was fate that would put them back there. His father was dead now, and his two older brothers carried away by crowpox – so called because nobody ever survived it, and crows gathered around in anticipation of a meal. The mantle had passed to him, and now things were turning his way again. Nobles and armies flocked to his banner, supporting the only real alternative to the Blood Emperor Mos. This time, he vowed, he would not fail.

They ambled in the sun for a time, walking along the side of the hill to where the trail began to take them back through the fields of kamako cane, towards the Kerestyn estate. It was one of several that the family owned, and he and Avun had been using it as a base for the diplomatic visits they had been conducting among the highborn of the Southern Prefectures. The Prefects were gone now, rendered unnecessary by the Weavers, who made it pointless to appoint largely independent governors over distant lands when instantaneous communication meant that they could be overseen from the capital, and thus power kept with the Imperial family. But the Prefects’ wealthy descendants remained, and they were appalled at seeing their beloved land rendered barren by the blight. They were eager to make promises to Grigi, if he could stop the rot in the land. Of course, he had no idea how, but by the time they knew that it would be too late.

‘What news of your daughter, Avun?’ he asked eventually, knowing that the Barak would walk in complete silence all the way back to the estate unless he spoke first.

‘Her ship should have arrived several days ago,’ he said offhandedly. ‘I expect to learn of her capture very soon.’

‘It will be something of a relief to you, I imagine,’ Grigi said. He knew the whole truth behind Avun’s rift with his daughter; in fact, he had been instrumental in spreading the smokescreen to save face for Blood Koli. ‘To have her back, I mean.’

Avun’s lip curled. ‘I mean to ensure that she does not embarrass her family this way again. When I return to Mataxa Bay, I will deal with her.’

‘Are you so confident that you have her, then?’

‘Her movements have been known to me ever since she arrived in Okhamba,’ he said. ‘And my informant is extremely reliable. I do not predict any difficulties. She will be in very capable hands.’

When Kaiku arrived at Zaelis’s study, she found Cailin already there. It was a small, close room with thick wooden walls to dampen sound from the rest of the house. One wall was crammed with ledgers, and a table rested in a corner with brushes scattered haphazardly across it and a half-written scroll partially furled. The shutters were thrown open against the afternoon sun, and the air was hot and still. Zaelis and Cailin were standing near the windows, their features dimmed by contrast to the bright external light. Birds peeped and chittered on the gables and rooftops below.

‘How could I have guessed you would be first to offer your services?’ Cailin said wryly.

Kaiku ignored the comment. ‘Zaelis,’ she began, but he raised a seamed palm.

‘I know, and yes you may,’ he replied.

Kaiku was momentarily wrongfooted. ‘It appears that I have become somewhat predictable of late,’ she observed.

Zaelis laughed unexpectedly. ‘My apologies, Kaiku. Do not doubt that I am grateful to you for the good work you have done for us these past years; I’m glad that you still have the enthusiasm.’

‘I only wish she were so eager to apply herself to her studies,’ Cailin said, arching an eyebrow.

‘This is more important,’ Kaiku returned. ‘And I have to go. I am the only one who can do it. The only one who can use the Mask.’

Cailin tilted her head in acquiescence. ‘For once, I agree.’

Kaiku had not expected that. She had been ready for an argument. In truth, half of her wanted them to argue, to forbid her to go. Gods, just the thought of it made her afraid. Crossing the Fault was bad enough, between the terror of the spirits and the murderous clans and the hostile terrain; but at the end of it waited the Weavers, the most deadly enemy of all. Yet she had no option, not in the eyes of Ocha, to whom she had sworn an oath of vengeance. She did not want to throw herself into danger this way. She merely had to.

Zaelis stepped away from the window, out of the dazzling light. ‘This may be more important than you imagine, Kaiku,’ he murmured in his molten bass.

Kaiku had the impression that she had come in at the end of a grave conversation between the two of them, and she was unsure what she had missed.

‘The Xarana Fault has always been our sanctuary,’ he said. ‘It has hidden us and protected us from the Weavers for many years now . . .’ He trailed off, then looked up at her, his gaze shadowed beneath his white eyebrows. ‘If the Fold has been compromised, all may be lost. We must know what they are planning, and we must know now. Go with Yugi and Nomoru; find out what the Weavers are hiding at the other end of the Fault.’

Kaiku made an affirmative noise, then looked expectantly at Cailin.

‘I will not try and dissuade you,’ Cailin said. ‘You are too headstrong. One day you will realise the power you have and how you are squandering it with your negligence; then you will come back to me, and I will teach you how to harness what you have. But until then, Kaiku, you will go your own way.’

Kaiku frowned slightly, suspicious at this easy capitulation; but she did not have a chance to question it before Zaelis spoke again.

‘It is all connected somehow, Kaiku,’ he said. ‘The Weavers in the Fault, the strange buildings they have constructed all over Saramyr, the information that Saran brought, what happened to Lucia . . . We have to act, Kaiku, but I do not know which direction to strike in.’ He looked at Cailin. ‘I think sometimes we have hidden too long, while outside our enemies have strengthened.’

But Kaiku had caught something in his explanation that chilled her. ‘What did happen to Lucia?’

‘Ah,’ said Zaelis. ‘Perhaps you had better sit down.’

Mishani lay awake in the guest bedchamber of Chien os Mumaka’s townhouse, and listened to the night.

The room was simple and spacious, as Mishani liked it. A few carefully placed pots holding miniature trees or flowers stood on tall, narrow tables. Prayer beads hung from the ceiling, tapping softly against each other in the warm stir of the breeze that stole around the edges of the sliding paper screens. They were supposed to be left open, to provide a view of the enclosed garden beyond, but Mishani had kept them shut. Her attention was not on the external sounds of Hanzean: the distant hoot of an owl, the ubiquitous rattle of chikkikii, the occasional snatch of distant laughter or the creak of a cart. She was listening for sounds within the house: for a footstep, for the quiet hiss of a partition being drawn aside, for a dagger drawn from its sheath.

Tonight was the last night she was going to spend at Chien’s hospitality. One way or another.

She had slept little and lightly these past four days. When Nuki’s eye was in the sky it was almost possible to forget the danger she was in; Chien was an excellent host, and despite everything she had even begun to enjoy his company. They dined together, they had musicians perform for them, they wandered the grounds or sat in the garden and talked. But it was when the sun went down and she was alone that the fear came close enough to touch her. Then the immediacy of her situation struck home, and the air was full of whispered doubts. There were too many things wrong. Why so suspiciously generous in offering to provide passage from Okhamba? Why the convoluted route of the carriage from the jetty to the townhouse? And why did he never take her outside the walls of his compound, in all of these five days? In Hanzean there was theatre, art, spectacles of all kinds that a host was virtually obligated to show a visitor; and yet Chien had not offered any. On the one hand, Mishani was relieved at not being forced to parade around a port town, for any public exposure was dangerous; but the fact that Chien seemed to know that did not bode well for her.

If Chien was to make his play, she knew it would be tonight. This evening she had gone through the ritual of informing him of her departure on the morning of the morrow. It was perhaps a little inelegant to seem in such haste to leave after staying for the bare minimum of time that etiquette required, but her nerves had frayed enough so that she did not care. If she got away from this, she was unlikely ever to come across Chien again anyway. He was too well connected in the maritime industry to risk it. He had not seemed offended; but then, he was still frustratingly hard to read.

Tonight, she resolved, she would not sleep at all. She had asked one of the handmaidens to make her a brew of xatamchi, an analgesic with a strong stimulant side-effect usually taken in the morning to overcome menstrual pains. The handmaiden had warned her that she would be up all night if she took it so late in the day, but Mishani had said that she was willing to take that risk, and only xatamchi would do.

The handmaiden had not been exaggerating. Mishani had never taken xatamchi or anything similar before – her cycles were mercifully gentle, and had been all her life – but she knew now why she had been advised against it. She could not imagine being further from sleep as she was now, and she felt marvellously aware despite the late hour. In fact, the inactivity of lying on her sleeping-mat was chafing at her, and she longed to go out and stroll around in the garden at night.

She was just considering doing so when she heard a soft thud through the paper screens on the other side of the room. Someone else was in the garden, she realised with a thrill of fright; and she knew with a sudden certainty that her enemies were coming for her at last.

Her ears strained as she lay there, seeking another sound. Her heart had become very loud in her ears; she felt the pressure of her pulse at her temples. A whispered voice: a short, terse command from one to another, too quiet to make out. It was beyond doubt, then. Now she could only wait to hear the dreadful sound of the paper screens sliding back, to pray to the gods that they would pass by, change their minds somehow, just leave her where she lay.

Her eyes were closed, feigning sleep, when it happened. A whisper of wood sliding against wood, slow and careful so as not to wake her. A soft breeze from outside, carrying with it the fresh, healthy smell of the trees in the garden; and another smell, a faint metallic tang of sweat. Then, overwhelmingly, the stink of matchoula oil, a few breaths of which would render a person unconscious.

The creak of leather as one of them crouched down next to her mat.

She screamed at the top of her lungs, throwing her blanket aside in one violent movement and flinging the handful of red dust that she had kept gathered in her palm. The intruder, surprised, jerked back in alarm, and the dust hit him full in the face: abrasive bathing salts that she had smuggled into her bedroom. He cried out in pain as the scratchy crystals got into his eyes and bubbled on his tongue and lips, fizzing with the moisture there. The second shadow in the room was already lunging at her, but she had rolled off the mat and got to her feet. She was wearing an outdoor robe instead of nightclothes, and her curved dagger sheened in the wan moonlight.

‘You tell your master Chien that I will not be taken so easily!’ she hissed, surprising herself with the strength in her voice; then she cried: ‘Intruders! Intruders!’ as loud as she could manage. The gods knew what good that would do – she doubted it would bring any aid, since it was the master of the house that had sent these men – but she was not going to allow herself to be stolen away in the night without making it known to everybody she could.

The one who was not blinded ran at her, oblivious to his companion’s cries. He was wielding a pad of cloth that reeked of matchoula oil. They wanted her alive then, she thought, through the cold panic that was gripping her. That gave her an advantage.

She backed away as he came at her, and slashed wildly with her blade. She was no fighter: she had never been threatened with genuine physical violence in her life beyond the occasional slap from her father, and did not know how to react to it. The intruder swore as the dagger cut into the meat of his forearm, then he smacked her hand aside, and numbing force of the blow sent the blade skidding away. Though slender in build, he was much bigger and stronger than her, and she had no hope of overmatching him. She tried to run, but he grabbed at her, only half-catching her wrist; she spun and tripped on her hem, and in a flail of hair and robes she crashed through the paper screens and fell down the two short wooden steps to the townhouse’s central garden.

She landed on the path that ran around the inside edge of the house, the paper screens falling around her. The impact was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She scrabbled to free herself from the light wooden frames of the screens. Her ankle-length hair was tangled and caught in everything, and she kept kneeling on it and having it wrench painfully at her scalp.

Then the screens were torn away from her, and there was her attacker. In the warm, moonlit night, she could see him better. He was dressed in bandit clothes, and his hair was unkempt, his face swarthy and angry. She slipped out from under his grip, another scream rising from her to wake the household. She got only a few paces across the garden before he caught her, hooking his foot under hers so that she tumbled again, rolling into a flowerbed and cracking her wrist on a rock. Then he was on her, pinning her hands with one arm while she thrashed and kicked.

‘Get off me!’ she cried through gritted teeth, and she felt the impact as one of her kicks connected and the man grunted. She thought for a moment that he might release her, but instead he knelt one leg agonisingly hard on her stomach, driving the breath from her, and he wadded the matchoula-soaked cloth in one hand and brought it to her face. Then she was being smothered, and his relentless palm was moving with the shaking of her head and would not be dislodged. The stinging reek was in her nostrils, on her lips, and her lungs burned for oxygen. She bucked and twisted in panic, but she was small and frail and she did not have the strength to get him off her.

Then, a shriek from somewhere in the house, and running feet thumping across the turf. The pad was pulled away suddenly, the knee released, and Mishani gasped as she sucked in the air, wild-eyed.

But the man who held her had only dropped the pad to pull a knife, and it was already driving towards her throat. Something deep and faster than thought made her shift her shoulders and shove with her knees, now that she had the purchase to do so. She bucked him forward enough so that he automatically put out his arms for balance, his knife-stroke arrested; and an instant later an arrow took him through the eye, the force of the shaft throwing him off her and sending him tumbling into a shallow pool at the base of a rockery.

She scrambled to her feet before he had come to rest, sweeping up the knife that he had dropped and brandishing it as she turned to face the ones who were running across the garden. Panting, dishevelled, her mass of black hair in a muddy mess, she glared at the shadows that came for her and held her blade ready.

‘Mistress Mishani!’ said Chien, the foremost of them. Behind him were three guards, one carrying a bow. At the sound of her name, she raised the dagger to throat-height, daring him to come closer. He scrambled to a halt with his hands raised placatingly before him. ‘Mistress Mishani, it’s me. Chien.’

‘I know who you are,’ she told him, an unforgivable tremble in her voice from the shock of being attacked in such a way. ‘Stay back.’

Chien seemed confused. ‘It’s me,’ he repeated.

‘Your men have failed, Chien,’ she said. ‘If you want to kill me, you will have to do it yourself.’

‘Kill you? I . . .’ Chien said, lost for words. Behind her, she heard a guard call out. Chien looked over her shoulder. ‘Are there more?’ he asked her.

‘How many did you hire?’ she returned.

The second attacker was dragged out behind her into the garden. He was limp. Poison, she guessed. His employer would want no evidence left.

‘Mistress Mishani . . .’ he said, sounding terribly wounded. ‘How could you think this of me?’

‘Come now, Chien,’ she said. ‘You did not get to where you were without seeing all the angles. And nor did I.’

‘Then you have not considered the right ones, it seems,’ Chien said. He sounded desperate to convince her, almost wheedling. ‘I had nothing to do with this!’

Mishani glanced around. There were no escape routes; guards were everywhere now. She could not fight her way out of here. If they wanted her dead, they could simply shoot her.

‘Why should I believe you, Chien?’ she asked.

‘Put down the blade, and I will tell you why,’ he said. ‘But not here. Your business and mine is between us.’

Mishani felt a great weariness suddenly. She tossed the dagger away with an insultingly casual gesture, then gave the merchant a withering look. ‘Lead on, then.’

‘May we drop the façade now?’ Mishani demanded, when they were alone.

They stood in Chien’s accounting office, a sombre room heavy with dark wood and weighty furniture. Scrolls cluttered the shelves and lay across the desk where the merchant usually worked, heaped untidily against stacks of leather-bound tally books. The Blood Mumaka crest hung on one wall, a curving pictogram rendered in gold-edged calligraphy against a grey background. Chien had lit the lanterns in their brackets, and now the room was alive with a soft, warm glow.

‘There is no façade, Mistress Mishani,’ Chien said, then blew out the taper he was holding and put it back in the pot it had come from. He turned to her, and there was new strength in his voice all of a sudden. ‘If I wanted you killed, I could have done it many times by now, and by subtler means. If I wanted to give you up to your father, I could have done that, too.’

‘Why are you still playing this game?’ Mishani said quietly. She might have been muddied and bedraggled, but her poise and gravitas had returned, and she seemed formidable for such a slight woman. ‘Your words betray you. You know the state of play between myself and my father. You have known from the start. If you do not mean me any harm, then why insist on inviting me to stay at your pleasure? You have been well aware of the uncertainty and doubt I have suffered these past days. Does it give you joy to torment me? Your maliciousness shames you. Do with me as you will, since you seem to hold all the cards here; but give up this sham, Chien, for it is getting tiresome now.’

‘You forget who I am and who you are, that you can throw insults around so lightly!’ Chien snapped, his temper igniting. ‘Before you waste another breath on calling me honourless, then listen to me. I did know that you were estranged from your father, and that he wanted you back. I also knew that your arrival in Okhamba had been marked by merchants in the Barak Avun’s employ. You got away from Saramyr without being seen by his people, though the gods only know what luck you must have had; but the moment you showed up in Kisanth you were spotted. They were going to wait until you returned to Saramyr, watch what ship you were travelling on, and have someone there to meet you when you disembarked. Those were your father’s men. I’m not. In fact, I’ve made a considerable risk on your behalf, and he most likely now counts me one of his enemies!’

Mishani was pleased that she had rattled him. She did seem to have a way of getting under his skin; she had learned that in the time they had spent together.

‘Go on,’ she said. This was suddenly interesting.

Chien took a steadying breath and stalked to the other side of the room. ‘I had a carriage meet us at the docks, and brought you and your friends here before your father’s men could get to you. It was necessary to take a circuitous route through Hanzean in case we were followed; I imagine you noticed that. The location of my townhouse isn’t generally known.’ He waved a hand to dismiss the point. ‘I saw your friends to safety, but you I knew would not be safe. You said you were heading south. I couldn’t let you. Not until I’d found out who your father had hired and what they knew. They would have been on you before you got ten miles down the Great Spice Road.’ He gazed at her earnestly. ‘So I have kept you here, under my protection, for these past days, while my men have been trying to divine just how much trouble you’re in.’

‘This was your protection?’ Mishani said softly. ‘I was almost killed, Chien. You will forgive me if my faith in you has been shaken somewhat.’

Chien looked pained. ‘That is my shame. Not what you would imagine, Mistress Mishani. I have not tormented you or betrayed you. I have tried to safeguard you, and I failed.’

Mishani regarded him coldly. His explanation fitted, at least, but it seemed to her frankly unlikely. Still, she could not think why he would waste the effort on making it up, nor why, if he meant her harm, he had not done it to her by now. Why kill his own men? She supposed that it could be a trick – kill his men to win her trust; she had seen cleverer ploys than that in her time at court – but what advantage would that win him? She considered asking him why he was protecting her at all, then thought better of it. Any answer would likely be a lie. What was there that he thought she could do for him, what point was there in his winning her favour? He knew she was politically impotent.

‘I didn’t tell you before,’ Chien said. ‘If you realised that I knew about you and your father, you would have tried to get away from me as soon as you could. That would have only got you caught faster.’

Mishani had surmised this already, just as she had guessed why the intruders started off trying to kidnap her and ended up trying to kill her. Their orders were simple: alive if possible, dead if necessary. She was not in the least surprised at her father’s ruthlessness.

Chien looked at her levelly, his blocky features even, the lantern light limning one side of his shaven head. ‘Mistress Mishani, you may believe me or not, but I was going to tell you all this in the morning to try and prevent you from leaving. I left it too late, it seems. Your father’s men found you, and nearly had your life.’ He walked over to her. ‘If there is anything I can do to atone for my failure to protect you, you have only to name it.’

Mishani studied him for a long moment. She did believe him, but that did not mean she trusted him. If he was in alliance with her father, or even if he wasn’t, there was something down the line that he wanted from her, something that she did not even know she had in her power to give. Chien’s attempt at an explanation had made him more puzzling than ever. Was this an elaborate trap, or something entirely unexpected? Was he telling the truth about her father’s men?

It didn’t matter. He owed her now, and she needed him.

‘Take me south,’ she said.