Shatterglass by Tamora Pierce
She shook her head. “I’ll go to Ferouze’s with you,” she said, thinking, Maybe I can do him some good.
After a moment’s hesitation, Keth nodded.
“Let’s get cleansed, then,” said Dema, leading them to the priests. “Keth, take our horses. Just have someone return them to Elya Street.”
Tris endured it as the priests worked their cleansing with incense and prayers, her mind racing furiously. As they mounted their horses, she asked Dema, “Do you think your Keepers will listen?”
“They must.” Dema gathered the reins and urged his horse to a trot down Noskemiou Way.
Dema
As Dema trotted through Achaya Square, he saw that the priests of the All-Seeing had already erected cloth barriers around the defiled statue until it and its surroundings could be purified. They turned to watch him pass. Seeing their eyes on him, Dema remembered his own, slow process of cleansing at their hands — a day and a night stolen from his hunt for the Ghost! — and the priests’ complete lack of interest in the methods needed to trace a murderer. What if the Keepers of the Public Good ignored his arguments? When all was said and done he was still an arurim dhaskoi of less than a year’s standing, without enough service to Tharios to give weight to his words. He must not waste a trip to Balance Hill or worse yet, waste the clan’s bribe money. In theory the Keepers were duty bound to hear any Tharian, but there was a great deal of difference between the ear of the Keepers when they were awake, and that of vexed, half-asleep Keepers. There was also a difference between the Keepers and their obligations, and the interests of those who served the Keepers.
It was the sight of Phakomathen, stabbing into the gray mists of rain, that gave Dema an idea. The Keepers would have to listen to him if he came with support from Heskalifos, particularly those mages who attended the conference on visionary magics. He turned his mount aside, and rode to the university.
He arrived at the conference hall shortly before the midday break. He waited outside until the doors opened and mages of all races and nationalities spilled out, then strode through them into the hall. The morning’s speakers were still on the dais, talking to one another and collecting their notes. One of them was Jumshida Dawnspeaker; another was Tris’s teacher, Niklaren Goldeye.
Jumshida smiled when she noticed him. “Dhaskoi Nomasdina, is it not?” she asked, her rich voice friendly. “Have you come to join us?”
“Actually, no,” he said, nervous. “I’ve come to beg you for help. The Ghost killed another yaskedasu last night — another woman who lives in the same house as Kethlun Warder.” Jumshida drew the circle of the All-Seeing on her forehead. Dema continued, “I’m on my way to Balance Hill to speak to the Keepers. It was my hope that you would lend me your support.”
Was it his imagination, or did she stiffen?
“I fail to see what use I might be to the arurim”, Jumshida said.
“You underestimate the honor you have in the city,” Dema replied. “You are First Scholar of Mages’ Hall, Second Scholar of Heskalifos. You are responsible for bringing together the greatest vision mages of our time, to produce a work that will define vision magic for centuries.” Children of the First Class also learned the art of flattery. One of their maxims was that bees went to sweet-smelling flowers, not earth-smelling mushrooms. “How would the Keepers not value anything you have to say?”
Everyone but Goldeye left discreetly, watching Jumshida from the corners of their eyes. “What, exactly, do you wish them to value from me?” asked Jumshida, smoothing the folds of her mage’s stole.
“That Khapik must close until this monster is caught,” replied Dema. He took a breath. “And that cleansing the site of a murder must wait until the arurim can trace every influence present.”
“Very sensible,” Goldeye said tartly. “I can’t believe this hasn’t been raised before.”
“Why should the Keepers listen to any thoughts I might have on Khapik?” asked Jumshida. “Have you considered the serious hardship a closing would place on the shopkeepers and the yaskedasi? They exist day by day on their earnings. As for the other …” She looked at Goldeye. “You don’t understand, Niko. Killing destroyed the Kurchali emperors, with their mass executions and their gladiators fighting to the death on sacred days. Why else would the blood plague have begun here, where people bled to death through the very pores of their skins? It was a thousand years ago for you of the north, but it took us three centuries to recover from the disorder of those times.” She turned a stern face to Dema. “You are a Tharian, Demakos Nomasdina. You already know these things. It was the cleansing, and the banishment of pollution through death, which saved us from the chaos that followed the emperors.”
“But it hurts us now,” argued Dema, wanting her to understand. “In the case of these murders —”
She covered her ears with her hands. “You speak blasphemy,” she retorted when he stopped talking. “So the rumors are true. You risk your soul and the safety of Tharios in your pursuit of the Ghost. I will not sully my hands by association, Dhaskoi Nomasdina. And you must decide which is of more value: a few lives, which are fleeting at best, or your family’s standing and your own immortal spirit.” Her body stiff with disapproval, she picked up her notes and walked away.
“I’ll go with you,” Goldeye said, his voice clipped. “I may be only a shenos, but perhaps the Keepers will listen to me.”
Dema hesitated. Would support from a shenos, even one as famed as Niklaren Goldeye, hurt or help him?
As if he read Dema’s mind, Niko said, “I’ve been wanting to talk to them in any case. I want permission to scry the past on the sites where the victims have been found. It’s possible your priests missed something as they cleansed.”
At that Dema bristled: surely the priests knew their craft! Still, he told himself, it couldn’t hurt to have a reputable mage at his side.
Most importantly, he was desperate. He’d seen the look on Keth’s face, when the glassblower recognized the dead woman. He remembered the accusations the people had thrown at him in the Forum and elsewhere, that he didn’t care about their lives. Recently, to enter the arurimat, he’d had to pass through a crowd that grew larger with each murder. They watched him in silence, their eyes accusing: how many more would he allow to die?
“Do you have a horse?” he asked Goldeye.
One of the Nomasdina clan servants awaited Dema at the First Class entrance at Serenity House. The woman greeted him with a bow, took charge of his horse and Niko’s, and handed Dema a heavy, jingling purse.
“Your mother says that coin always gets a quicker response than chits to be redeemed,” explained the servant. “She also instructs me to tell you to take care. She hears what is being said of you, and worries that you risk forgetting your obligations to the clan in your eagerness to meet your obligations to the arurim.” She bowed again and led the horses away.
Dema had visited Serenity House with his family and knew how things worked here. As servitor passed him on to servitor, he distributed the bribes that would ensure he was being sent in the right direction, a silver bik each. When he and Niko reached the greeting room set aside for the First Class, Dema gave five silver biks to have his name presented to the Keepers. Then he and Niko were granted a private room in which to wait. Servants came with food and drink; others came with dry tunics for them both.
After a short time a clerk arrived to write down the reason they had come; Dema bribed him appropriately. Several hours later, when their clothes, dried and pressed free of wrinkles, were returned to them, another clerk came to clarify what the previous clerk had written down. She too received the proper bribe.
As the long hours dragged by, Dema and Niko talked of all manner of things: their educations as mages, Niko’s travels and how he’d come to teach Tris, Dema’s family history. They even napped for a time. It was nearly midnight when Niko asked, “I know the customs of Tharios and the blood doctrine. I confess, I’m curious — why do you keep sticking your nec
Dema looked at him, startled. “You don’t think I could catch him if I could dog his trail?”
Niko smoothed his mustache. “If there had only been one murder, I would say, almost certainly. But with each killing he has shown he is clever — and in our world, clever criminals always have ways to foil magical tracking. In any event, you have put your standing in Tharios in great danger. Why? He’s killed no one close to you. Is it the defilement of public places?”
Dema raised his eyebrows, shocked. “Defilement? That’s for priests to worry about. The busier you keep priests, the less chance they have to pry into our private lives. But the Ghost …” He thought for a moment, then sighed. “The All-Seeing, in his wisdom, arranged my birth to an honorable family in the First Class. I have privileges, but I also have a duty to the lower classes, to protect and guide them. Not everyone takes that duty seriously, but we Nomasdinas do. Even if it’s to yaskedasi and the rest of the Fifth Class. They trust us to watch out for them. That’s what I mean to do.”
“And if the Keepers don’t listen?” Niko asked gently.
Dema wanted to tell the older man that this was ridiculous, but he couldn’t. Refusal was always a possibility. “I’ll have to think of something,” he said, feeling defensive.
“Perhaps you ought to start thinking now,” suggested Niko. “Just in case.”
10
Tris watched as Keth roused everyone and gathered them in Ferouze’s sitting room to break the news of Yali’s murder. The result was chaos. Xantha collapsed in hysterics. Ferouze punched the wall before she started to cry; Poppy sat and rocked as tears streamed down her face; the male lodgers hammered Keth with questions. Glaki clutched her doll and screamed for her dead mother and her Aunt Yali.
“Get her out of here!” shrieked Ferouze. Poppy lurched to her feet and scooped up the child, taking her outside.
Tris went to the wailing Xantha and considered slapping her out of her hysterics. A seed of pity stopped her. Instead she took the scent bottle she carried for such occasions from the purse on her sash. She removed the top and waved it under Xantha’s nose. Immediately the blonde inhaled and coughed. The men standing near her flinched from the smell.
“What is that stuff?” demanded the flute player, a pretty young fellow with bronze skin and gray-green eyes. “It’s hideous!”
“The friend who made it calls it ‘Infallible,'” replied Tris, corking the vial. She chose not to mention that her foster mother Rosethorn had no respect for hysterics. The herbs in her version of smelling salts were chosen with that attitude. “We need some water.”
As Xantha drank the water, Tris looked around. The drummer held Ferouze, his muscled arms tight as he kept her from lashing out again. Tris remembered hearing something shatter as she brought Xantha around: the pieces of a basin lay on the floor at Ferouze’s feet. Glaki could step in that mess, she thought, and fetched the broom to sweep up the shards. Finished, she looked for Glaki. The child and Poppy were still missing.
One of the male yaskedasi was also gone. He soon returned, having spread the news throughout the neighborhood. Others came with him, men and women, old and young, to weep and to curse the killer and the city that didn’t care if yaskedasi died. It wasn’t long before Tris’s head ached fiercely. Little Bear and Chime had escaped the room when the first guest arrived.
When Tris gave a final look through the crowded chambers, she saw Poppy had returned. The brunette sat with Ferouze as they shared the contents of a jug with their neighbors. Poppy wept still, without making any sound.
Tris asked one of the men for directions to Yali’s room, where she assumed that Poppy had left Glaki. She figured that the little girl would cry herself to sleep, but Tris didn’t like the idea that Glaki would wake alone.
Tris walked out to the courtyard, glad to be in cooler, less stuffy air. She let rain fall on her head for a moment, enjoying its comforting feel on her braids. It was over the rain’s soft patter that she heard hiccups. Glaki was huddled on the stair to the upper galleries, weeping into Little Bear’s fur. Chime sat on her shoulder, crooning as she groomed the child’s tangled hair with her claws.
For a moment Tris could only stare, appalled. Did Poppy just bring the child out here and leave her to cry alone?
How often had Tris herself done this, crept into a corner to weep, knowing the only ones who cared about her were the animals of the house? She had not lost a mother or an aunt as Glaki had, but time after time she had been passed on to yet another relative. It was overhearing the talk that decided that she and her many strangenesses would be sent to some other family member that had always sent Tris to cry in secret. When Cousin Uraelle, who had kept her the longest, died, Tris had wept not for the mean, stingy old woman, but for the loss of the most permanent home she could remember.
She touched the girl on the shoulder. Glaki flinched against Little Bear, throwing up an arm to protect her face. Gently Tris pressed her arm down. A handprint showed clearly on the girl’s cheek. Poppy had slapped Glaki to silence her.
“It’s just me, Glaki. You saw me yesterday, remember?” Tris kept her voice gentle as she sat on the flagstones of the ground floor gallery. She leaned back against a wooden pillar.
“Mama,” the child mumbled at last. “Aunt Yali. When do they come home?”
Tris drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She knew she wasn’t good with children, though her heart went out to this one. What could she say? What did people say?
She could only know what she would say. She hated people who tried to evade the truth. “They died, Glaki. Mama and Aunt Yali died. They won’t be coming home.”
Fresh tears welled in the girl’s eyes. They spilled over her stained cheeks. “No,” Glaki replied, shaking her head. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” Tris said gently. “Yes.”
Glaki began to sob again, then to wail. Tris bit her lip, trying to decide what was right. In the end it was her knowledge of Sandry, her good-hearted sister, that guided her. Tris sat beside Little Bear and pulled Glaki onto her lap. The little girl fought, straining to get back to the dog. “Doggie!” she screamed, her face turning beet red.
“It’s Little Bear. That’s his name,” Tris explained, panting as she hauled on the struggling child. “He’s not going anywhere. If you sit with me, he’ll be here, and so will Chime. We must talk, Glaki. You have to learn some hard new lessons. I wish I had someone nice to teach them to you, but you’re stuck with just me.” She finally got the little girl onto her lap. Glaki howled, battered Tris’s chest with her fists, and drummed her heels on the ground. Tris held on grimly, still talking softly. “It isn’t right, what’s happened to your mother and Yali. I hope you grow to be someone incredible, to repay you for all this misery. Why is it, do you suppose, the gods are said to be favoring you when they dump awful things into your lap? Is it because the other explanation, that sorrow comes from accidents and there are no gods doing it to help you be a strong person, is just too horrible to think of? Let’s stick with the gods. Let’s stick with someone being in charge.”
As she continued to speak, rattling along about any topic that came to mind, whether Glaki could understand or not, she held the girl close. Tris was so used to the child’s struggles that she didn’t notice at first when Glaki’s screams began to grow softer, her small body relaxing into Tris’s hold. It was only when Glaki was quietly sucking her thumb, whimpering against Tris’s chest, that the older girl realized she could loosen her grip. Her hands and arms stung from being locked in the same position for so long. She smoothed damp, tumbled curls away from the child’s face. “That’s very good.” She hesitated, then awkwardly kissed Glaki on the forehead. “We can’t let you make yourself sick on top of everything else.”
It was some time before Glaki would let Tris get up without hysterics. Each time the child’s voice rose, Tris woul
“Chamberpot?” Tris asked. Glaki nodded. With a groan Tris struggled to her numb feet. “You don’t have a real privy here?” Glaki shook her head. “Wonderful,” Tris said, easing the kinks in her spine. She held out a hand. “Show me where,” she said.
Glaki took her hand and led her up the stairs. Little Bear, with Chime on his back, followed them.
“Let’s go to where you sleep,” Tris suggested.
From the neatness of the room and the absence of dust, Tris guessed that this was Yali’s room, not Iralima’s. As Glaki used the chamberpot, Tris opened the shutters to let some air in. She leaned outside for a moment, calling her favorite breeze to her. It had come all the way from Winding Circle and was Tris’s most faithful attendant in the hot south. When she held out her hand, the breeze wound around it. “Find Niko,” she instructed it. “Tell him I’m all right and that I don’t know when I’ll be home.” It sped off on its way.
It had been frustrating to send her winds out before in search of a woman being killed, but what else could she do to help right now? Keth was torn up in spirit, too much so to attempt to make another globe. No one had mentioned it, but it was plain to Tris that they couldn’t rely on the killer waiting a day in between strikes, not when he’d taken Yali just a day after the previous victim.
She had to do something. Her breezes were all she had.
Tris looked around. Glaki and Little Bear had curled up together on the bed, the child watching the dog as he slept. Chime sat on the windowsill beside Tris, cocking her head, her eyes curious.
“Will you stay there a little while and be quiet?” Tris asked Glaki. “There’s something I need to do. It’s going to be windy in here, but don’t worry. It’s just me. I’m a mage. There are things I do with winds and breezes.” She wasn’t sure that the child understood, but she thought it did no harm to talk to her as if she could. Tris had never understood the need for adults to address children in baby talk.