Braided Path 02 - The Skein Of Lament by Chris Wooding
‘Did you love her?’
Kaiku’s eyes flashed in disbelief. ‘How dare you ask me that?’ she snapped.
Saran gave an insouciant shrug. ‘I was merely asking. You sounded like—’
‘I loved what she taught me,’ she interrupted him. ‘She made me accept myself for what I am. An Aberrant. She helped me to stop being ashamed of myself. But I couldn’t love her. Not as she was. Deceitful, selfish, heartless.’ Kaiku checked herself, realising that she had raised her voice. She flushed angrily. ‘Does that answer your question?’
‘Quite adequately,’ Saran said, unruffled.
Kaiku stalked to the other side of the foredeck and stood with her arms crossed, glaring at the moon-limned waves, furious with herself. Asara was still an open wound that refused to heal. She had told Saran far more than she intended. It would be better to cut her losses and leave now, but she stayed.
After a moment, she heard him walk over to her. His hands touched her shoulders, and she turned around, her arms unknitting. He was standing close to her again, his dark eyes piercing in the shadowed frame of his face, heavy with intent. She felt her pulse quicken; a salty wind blew between them. Then he bent to kiss her, and she turned her mouth away. He drew back, hurt and angry.
Kaiku slipped from his grasp and turned her back again, her arms once more folded beneath her breasts. She could feel his frustrated confusion prickling at the back of her neck. She countered with a coldness in the set of her shoulders, an impassable resolve. Finally, she heard him leave.
Kaiku stood alone again, watching the stars, and added another brick to the barrier around her heart.
They arrived at Hanzean early in the morning of the next day. The harbour town was bathed in a pink light. Far to the east, the Surananyi was blowing, great hurricanes throwing up the red dust of the Tchom Rin desert to tinge Nuki’s eye.
As was customary, the sailors enacted a small ceremony around a tiny shrine that they brought up from its usual place belowdecks, and made offerings of incense to Assantua, goddess of the sea and sky, for their safe passage. All the Saramyr folk attended, but Saran and Tsata were notably absent.
Hanzean was less hectic than Jinka to the north, which took most of the traffic from Okhamba, but though the journey was slightly longer it was the home port of Blood Mumaka’s fleet. It was the most picturesque of the western coastal towns, and the oldest, being the first Saramyr settlement ever on this continent. Ninety miles to the southwest stood the Palexai, the great obelisk that marked the point where landfall was first made. Though Hanzean had never blossomed into Saramyr’s first capital – the cursed Gobinda had held that title – it remained an influential place, steeped in its own history.
Mishani had visited Hanzean several times, in the days before her estrangement from her family. She was fond of its quiet alleyways and ancient plazas; it reminded her of the Imperial Quarter in Axekami, but a little less carefully kept, a little rougher around the edges. Somehow more real. Now, however, the sight of the smooth stone towers and the red skirts of ornamental guttering around the market-dome made her feel a strange mix of relief and trepidation. Their journey had been bought at a price, but what kind of price she could not yet tell. Chien had not been interested in money; instead, he had exacted a promise from her, one that courtesy demanded she grant in such a situation, even if it was not in return for such a heavy favour as the merchant had done them.
‘You must be my guest at my townhouse in Hanzean,’ he said.
On the surface, it seemed innocent enough; but surfaces, like masks, covered over the truth beneath. Though no time had been set, etiquette demanded that Mishani stay for at least five days. And in that five days, anything could happen. She was far too close to Blood Koli’s estates in Mataxa Bay for her comfort.
She examined all the angles, looked for hidden meaning in everything. It was a necessary habit with Mishani, and she was particularly talented at it.
Chien was not an idiot; he could have negotiated great advantage for himself out of the deal. She knew what she would do in his shoes. If he truly had heard about the rift in her family, then he was aware that she had nothing to offer him, and he probably knew that Barak Avun was secretly searching for his daughter. He would simply trade her into the arms of her enemy.
Then why am I letting him? she asked herself, as she mouthed the words of the mantra to Assantua and paid attention to the sailors’ ceremony with only a small fraction of her mind.
Because she had made a promise. It was her refusal to compromise her honour that had made her an outcast in the first place; she would scarcely abandon it now. Chien knew she could not refuse his invitation without insult, and it would have revealed that she suspected him. He was probably just as puzzled about her motives as she was of his. What had she been doing on Okhamba? Why risk herself that way?
She had told him nothing, though they had talked often on the journey. His uncertainty was her advantage, and she had to keep hold of it. When they got to his townhouse, then she would see what could be done about her situation.
She had not shared her fears with Kaiku. Though Kaiku had initially had the same suspicions as Mishani, she had been calmed by assurances that Chien was trustworthy. It was, of course, a lie, but Kaiku was in no position to help anyway. She had to take Saran and his Tkiurathi companion back to the Fold, and her passionate outbursts would be counterproductive to Mishani’s intrigues.
Kaiku was content to let it drop, in the end. Mishani’s intention had always been to head south when they returned from Okhamba, anyway; Kaiku knew that. Mishani was next to useless in the Fold, except when Zaelis or Cailin called on her for advice or Lucia needed a sisterly hand. No, she had other errands to run, assuming she had liberty to run them after Chien was done with her. She was going to Lalyara, to meet with the Barak Zahn tu Ikati. Lucia’s true father.
They disembarked on Chien’s private jetty, after which he insisted that they come to his townhouse and dine with him before they set off. Saran appeared reluctant to Mishani’s practised eye, but he made no complaint. Kaiku, who was eager to put off her farewells to her friend, was happy to accept. Tsata and Chien exchanged a few words in Okhamban – in which the merchant was apparently fluent – and then he, too, acquiesced. Not being bound by Saramyr manners, Kaiku had feared he would say something rude; but Chien knew how to deal with Tkiurathi.
They were met at the jetty and taken by carriage through the quiet streets of Hanzean. Slender cats watched them curiously from rooftops; sun-browned women stepped aside as they passed, and then returned to sweeping the dust away from their doorsteps with reed brooms; old men sat outside streetside restaurants with cups of wine and cubes of exotic cheese; startled birds took flight from where they bathed in ancient fountains. Kaiku was rapt, enjoying the simple glory of being back in Saramyr and off that ship. Mishani wished she could do the same. She had noted that the carriage was taking a very indirect route to wherever it was going, heading down narrow, winding thoroughfares and doubling back on itself several times. The others had not noticed, or appeared not to; but for one who knew Hanzean well, it was obvious.
Chien’s townhouse was not particularly ostentatious. It was a squat, three-storeyed building like a crushed pagoda, with scalloped tiling on its skirts and a sculpted effigy of a spirit on each corner serving as a gargoyle. Enclosed within was a small garden, with colourful rockeries arranged with typical care and forethought. The grounds were small and tidy, merely a lawn within the compound wall and a few cultivated areas of flowers and trees, where stone benches were placed and a small brook ran. It was located in a wealthy district, on a street of compounds that were a similar size, and it stood out not at all from its neighbours.
The theme continued on the inside. While he was a man of undoubted wealth, Chien had chosen comfort and simplicity over opulence, and the only real displays of his merchant prowess were the rare and valuable Okhamban stone icons that rested on pedestals in some of the rooms. Kaiku shivere
The meal was exquisite, and doubly so after the preserved food that they had been getting on board the ship. Potcooked slitherfish, seasoned saltrice in delicate cakes wrapped in strips of kelpweed, a stew of vegetables and grilled banathi, and – most delicious of all – jukara berries, that only flourished in the last few weeks of the harvest, and were ruinously hard to cultivate. They ate and talked and joked, united in the common relief of being back on dry land. Laughing, reminiscing about the journey, they cut and speared food with silver finger-forks worn on the second and third digit of the left hand, and their counterpart finger-blades on the right. Occasionally they switched to delicate spoons, held between the unencumbered thumb and forefinger. Neither Saran nor Tsata appeared to have any trouble with the technique, nor with the rituals of politeness at the table. Mishani guessed that the quiet Tkiurathi was a lot better educated than she had initially thought.
Finally, the meal was over. Chien, as was expected, asked Mishani’s companions to stay and they, as was equally expected, regrettably refused. Chien did not insist; but he did offer to put a carriage at their disposal to take them out of the town.
They went out to the small lawn of the compound together, strolling idly in the muggy heat of the afternoon. The cooling breezes of approaching autumn had died off and left the air still and humid. Mishani walked ahead with Kaiku, the former as poised as ever, the latter as casual.
‘I will miss you, Mishani,’ Kaiku said. ‘It is a long way to the Southern Prefectures.’
‘I shall not be gone for ever. A month, two at most, if my errands are well.’ She gave her friend a wry smile. ‘I thought after this trip you would have had enough of me.’
Kaiku returned the smile. ‘Of course not. Who else would keep me out of trouble?’
‘Cailin tries, but you do not let her.’
‘Cailin wants me as a pet,’ Kaiku said derisively. ‘If she had her way, I would spend every day studying, and by now I would have been putting on that ghoulish make-up and that black dress as part of the Red Order.’
‘She does have a lot of faith in you,’ Mishani pointed out. ‘Most masters would not put up with such an errant pupil.’
‘Cailin looks after her own concerns,’ Kaiku replied, shading her eyes and squinting up absently into the sun. ‘She trained me to harness what I have inside me – for that, I will always be grateful – but I never agreed to spend the rest of my life as one of her Sisters. She does not understand that.’ Kaiku dropped her gaze. ‘Besides, I am pledged first to a higher power than her.’
Mishani laid a hand on her elbow. ‘You have done much to help the Libera Dramach over these past years, Kaiku. You have played an important part in many of their operations. Everything you do for them hurts the Weavers, even in a small way. Do not forget that.’
‘It is not enough,’ Kaiku murmured. ‘My family are still unavenged; my promise to Ocha unfulfilled. I have waited, and waited, but my patience is growing thin.’
‘You cannot defeat the Weavers on your own,’ Mishani told her. ‘Nor can you expect to undo two and a half centuries of history in half a decade.’
‘I know,’ said Kaiku. ‘But that does not help.’
They said their goodbyes, then Saran, Tsata and Kaiku departed in a carriage, leaving Mishani with Chien.
‘Shall we go inside?’ he offered, after they had left. Mishani acquiesced politely, and went with him, more aware than ever now that she was alone, and very likely walking into a trap.
NINE
Mos sat in the Chamber of Tears, and listened to the rain.
He had never been to this room before. That was not unusual; many of the upper levels of the Imperial Keep were almost entirely empty. It had been built as a somewhat impractical gesture of appeasement by the fourth Blood Emperor of Saramyr, Huita tu Lilira, in recompense to Ocha for the hubris of his predecessor. But not even the Imperial Family needed a building of the sheer size and complexity of the Keep. Even if Mos had summoned all his distant relatives to live there – which was hardly possible, since it was always necessary to have bloodline scattered about the country to oversee the diverse affairs of Blood Batik – they would have had trouble filling all the rooms. When the great fire of five years ago had destroyed large areas of the interior, the inhabitants had simply moved to new sections and carried on quite comfortably while the repairs were made.
The upper levels, where Mos had found the Chamber of Tears, were the least practical to get to, and their lach corridors held only hollow echoes. Laranya had said once that there could be people living up here, a whole community of lost wanderers that might have gone undiscovered for centuries. Mos had laughed and told her that she was being fanciful. Though they were deserted, they were not covered in dust or neglected, and he suspected that one of his advisers’ duties was to ensure that servants did not let any part of the Keep go to ruin.
The sound of falling water had brought him here as he wandered, seeking solitude, carrying his third bottle of wine. It was a wide, circular chamber with a domed roof, in the centre of which was a hole through which the rain fell onto the tiled floor and drained away through small grilles. The floor was slightly slanted towards the centre to keep the water there, so that it was possible to sit just outside the curtain of droplets and remain dry. A crafty system of guttering on the roof funnelled water down through secret channels to the statues that stood in alcoves at the periphery of the chamber, and tears ran from their eyes and down their faces, collecting in stone basins at their feet.
It was dusk, and no lanterns had been lit. The room was gloomy and sultry with the remainder of the day’s heat. The rain was unusual for this time of year, but it suited Mos’s mood, and he was drawn to it. He sat in one of the many chairs that formed a circle around the room, and watched the column of droplets come down, the carpet of tiny explosions they made as they struck the shallow pool in the middle of the chamber. The only light was the fading glow of Nuki’s eye, coming through the hole in the dome, outlining Mos’s brow and bearded jaw and the edge of the bottle he held. He took another swig, without finesse, a bitter and angry draught.
‘You should not be alone,’ croaked Kakre from the doorway of the chamber, and Mos swore loudly.
‘Gods, you are the last person I want to see now, Kakre,’ he said. ‘Go away.’
‘We must talk,’ the Weave-lord insisted, coming further into the room.
Mos glared at him. ‘Come closer then. I’ll not talk to you while you’re lurking over there.’
Kakre obliged, shambling into the light. Mos didn’t look at him, watching the rain instead. The vaguely cloying scent of decay and animal fur reached him even through the haze of the wine, like the smell of a sick dog.
‘What must we talk about?’ he sneered.
‘You are drunk,’ Kakre said.
‘I’m never drunk. Is that what you had to say to me? I have a wife to scold me, Kakre; I don’t need you for it.’
Kakre bridled, a wave of anger emanating from him that made the hairs of Mos’s neck stand on end.
‘You are too insolent sometimes, my Emperor,’ Kakre warned, loading the title with scorn. ‘I am not one of your servants, to be dismissed or mocked as you choose.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Mos agreed, taking another swig from his bottle. ‘My servants are loyal, and they do what they’re supposed to. You don’t. It makes me wonder why I even keep you around at all.’
Kakre did not reply to that, regarding him in malicious silence instead.
‘What do you have to tell me, then?’ Mos snapped, casting Kakre an irritated glance.
‘I have news from the south. There has been a revolt in Zila.’
Mos did not react, except that his frown deepened and his brow clouded.
‘A revolt,’ he repeated slowly.
‘The Governor has been killed. It was a mob, mainly peasants and townsfolk. They stormed the administr
‘They killed a Weaver?’ Mos exclaimed in frank surprise.
Kakre did not see any need to answer that. The spatter of the rain filled the void in the conversation while Mos thought.
‘Who is responsible?’ the Emperor asked eventually.
‘It is too early to say,’ rasped the Weave-Lord. ‘But the peasants were organised. And my agents in Zila had been reporting a rise in sympathy for that somewhat persistent cult that has been a constant diversion of our resources these past few years.’
‘The Ais Maraxa? It was them?’ Mos cried in sudden fury, flinging his bottle across the room. It smashed against one of the weeping statues, mixing red wine into the rainwater that collected in the basin at its feet.
‘Perhaps. I have warned you often that they would manage something like this eventually.’
‘You were supposed to prevent this kind of thing from happening!’ The Emperor stood up violently, knocking his chair away behind him.
‘They know about the harvests,’ Kakre said. He was not intimidated, even though he was physically dwarfed by the larger man. ‘Here in the north-west we can disguise the damage somewhat, but Zila lies on the edge of the Southern Prefectures. Down there, they see the blight destroying their crops before their very eyes; and all bad news travels through Zila on its way up the western coast. The Weavers are powerful, my Emperor, and we have many subtle ways; but we cannot see all plans, not when the very country turns against us. You should have let me tackle the Ais Maraxa when we first heard of them.’
‘Don’t shift the blame, Kakre!’ Mos raged. ‘This is your fault!’ He grabbed the Weaver roughly by his patchwork robe. ‘Your fault!’
‘Do not touch me!’ Kakre hissed, and Mos felt his body seized, his chest gripped as if by an iron hand. The strength flooded out of him, replaced by sudden panic. His hands spasmed open, releasing the Weave-lord, and he staggered backward, his throat bubbling with phlegm and his breath short. Kakre seemed to loom, becoming huge and terrifying in his mind: a hunched figure with emaciated white hands clenched into claws, held over him like the hands of a puppeteer over a marionette. Backing away, Mos slipped and fell into the column of rain, splashed into the shallow pool where he cringed, whimpering. Kakre seemed to fill the room, his Mask shadowed and cadaverous, and the very air seemed to crush Mos down to the floor.