City of Bones (32 page)

“What is your connection with the Master Warder?” That was new, and far more important. Knowing he was risking another blow, Khat tried to focus; his mind was starting to drift, trying to distance itself from his body. How to answer? His choices were limited, but which would help him more, lies or truth? Knowing he was running out of time, he said, “Ask him.”

The Justice shook his head and turned away. “Take him down.” This hadn’t happened before. The one behind him grabbed a handful of his hair, jerking his head back. Khat tensed helplessly—it was the preferred method of attack for street throat-slitters—but the man only unlocked the manacles from the ceiling chain, and with the sudden release of his own weight Khat’s legs collapsed.

He lay in a heap on the stone floor. His wrists were still manacled tightly together, but he was too dizzy and sick to move anyway. Blood began to flow back into his deadened arms, and sensation returned with a thousand pinpricks. The two vigils pulled him up, giving him a little time to get his feet under him before hauling him toward the stairs.

They were taking him back to the upper levels. He couldn’t believe it. The stairs came up into a short hall, low-ceilinged and smoky, and they went down it, pausing only for one of the Trade Inspectors to unlock an iron grille barring a doorway. He got barely a glimpse of the room beyond it before the rod of office cracked against the back of his knees and he was knocked sprawling. He landed on a carpet that was dust-covered and smelled of blood and urine, and dug his fingers into it, trying to find the strength to get up, or at least struggle. The rod came down between his shoulder blades, pinning him down.

Then Elen’s voice, grim and determined, said, “Let him up.”

Khat twisted his head, squinting to see her. She was standing across the room, still wearing the threadbare brown robe from last night.

“What concerns you with this thief, Honored son Dia’riaden?” That was the High Justice with the handy rod of office. He would know that voice from now on.

“You have the word of the Master Warder. Release him.”

“Without explanation?”

“I wasn’t aware the Master Warder owed you an explanation. Must he come here himself, or do I merely need to send for my lictors?”

Khat suspected that if Elen was in a position to make Riathen come here, or to send for her lictors, she would have already done so by now. Possibly the High Justice did too. Amusement in his harsh voice, he said, “Hardly necessary.”

The bruising pressure from the rod eased, and Khat tried to lever himself up. He was thumped to the ground again, effortlessly. “But I am not in the habit of releasing street trash to young women without some excuse.”

Elen came forward. She said, “I am a Warder, warranted by the Elector, under the hand of Sonet Riathen, Master Warder, and I have given you his order. I will not ask for your obedience again.” Her hands came up, palms outward, as if she were preparing to use her power.

Khat felt a sudden easing in the pressure, almost a flinch; then the rod was removed.

“Very well. Take him.” The voice didn’t betray anything, but that flinch had spoken volumes. This High Justice might try to find Elen amusing, but he feared her power.

Khat struggled to stand, hoping his legs wouldn’t give way again. If Elen had to help him … there was simply no way she could lift his deadweight, and he hated the thought of making her look ridiculous in front of these men. He made it to his knees, then caught hold of the rough stone of the wall and managed to haul himself up. His legs shook, and he clung to the wall, helpless for a moment.

The High Justice was watching, his cold eyes derisive. Then he bowed his head mockingly to Elen and turned away. She gestured sharply to the vigils who remained, and one hastened over with the key to the manacles.

Khat met Elen’s eyes, and noticed she looked awful. Pale under her sun-browned skin as if she was ill, and white around the lips from rage. He would have to tell her so as soon as they got outside.

The manacles dropped away, and the vigil withdrew. Khat worked his hands, trying to get some feeling back, wincing at how hard it was to move his fingers.

Elen whispered, “Come on.”

He followed her down another low, short passage, up more stairs. He kept bumping into walls, but no one tried to stop them. He dimly remembered seeing these places on the way down last night, but now they were going up, and that was all that mattered.

They came out into a large, sandy-floored chamber filled with staring vigils; then they were through a doorway and out into the dusty street. The brilliance of the sun was like a blow, and he staggered under it.

Elen took his arm, steered him out of the way of a handcart and across the street to where a public fountain played under an awning. He sat down on the cracked tile basin, weaving back and forth while she fumbled in her robe for copper bits and the keeper brought her a battered tin cup without being asked. From here they could see the graceless, heavy stone pile of the High Trade Authority. This was the Fourth Tier, near the downward gate, and from the shadows he could tell it was still early morning.

She waited until he finished three cups of water and poured the fourth over his head, then asked, “How are you?”

“I’m better than I was.” His wrists were badly bruised and lacerated from the manacles, and he didn’t think his arms and shoulders would ever stop hurting. His back alternated between aching and stinging as the sweat got to the newest cuts. But the air smelled fresher than Fourth Tier air ever had before, and after the prison it felt almost cool.

She sat next to him and used the dusty hem of her robe to wipe the sweat off her face, oblivious to the long dirty streaks she was leaving on her nose and brow, saying with weary relief, “I’ve been trying to make them release you all night.”

He was still too stunned to know how lucky he was, Khat decided. And recalling how he had suspected her of every perfidy under the great bowl of the sky during that night, he said, “Thank you.”

She snorted. “What was I supposed to do, leave you there?”

He was glad it was a rhetorical question. “Where’s Sagai?”

“Waiting with Arad-edelk, at the Academia. It’s all right, he was never caught. I convinced him not to come with me because I thought it better if the Trade Inspectors didn’t see him. Oh, here. They gave me back these, before they brought you out.” She was handing him a dusty brown bundle: his battered robe wrapped around his knife and the Warder’s token she had given him yesterday morning.

. Having the knife back didn’t make him feel any less vulnerable. Maybe it was sitting here in sight of the place, but he doubted it. Khat put the knife away and tried to give her back the token. “Don’t you need this?”

“No. I have others.” She hesitated. “I think it’s what saved you. It was proof that you were working for a Warder, and I knew you had it. That High Justice couldn’t simply dismiss it, the way he did everything else I said.”

The High Justice. There was something that that should tell him, but he couldn’t think. He wanted to fall over backward into the fountain, but it would probably pollute the water terribly.

Elen was looking down at her dirty sandaled feet, distracted. “Last night I waited outside the Academia, until I saw the Trade Inspectors go in through the main gate. I threatened and bullied my way back inside, and saw the lights and confusion around the Porta …” She looked up and frowned. “Your back is still bleeding. How bad is it?”

He tried to look, which was a mistake.

They were attracting an audience. The fountain keeper was still standing nearby, and a few beggars, a date peddler, and a water seller who had been resting under the awning were staring, fascinated. Some street vendors had put down their handcarts and gathered round, discussing the matter in low voices.

Elen glared around at them all. “This isn’t a show. Everyone move along, please.”

Whether it was the dirt on her face or the fact that she didn’t look anything like a Warder and they didn’t recognize her painrod for what it was, the bystanders shifted a little self-consciously, or backed up, but nobody went away.

Looking at her, Khat said, “They never saw anyone come out before.”

Elen’s expression was bleak. She rubbed her face again, and said, “We’re just lucky you didn’t have it. If they had found you with it…”

Khat’s mind wasn’t working too swiftly at the moment. He dumped another cup of water on his head to help him get his thoughts in order, and asked, “With what?”

“You know—
it
,” she said, glaring around at the onlookers. The last few edged back out of earshot, but she lowered her voice cautiously anyway. “I told Riathen that I was sure you had it with you. A bad lie, I know, but I wasn’t thinking properly, and that was all that would come to mind. I wanted to make sure he would …” She was turning red under her dirt. “Well, keep up his obligations to you. But Ecazar told the Trade Inspectors he didn’t have it, and they searched the Porta down to its foundation, so I suppose Constans must have gotten to it before you did. We’re stuck now. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Oh. That it. No, I know where it is.”

“But how can you? I was sure Constans had it.” She whispered, “Where is it?”

It was his turn to eye the onlookers. “I’ll tell you later.”

They stopped at a Fourth Tier bathhouse, which was as different from the lower-tier places where Khat usually went as Riathen’s house was from Netta’s. It had unheard-of amenities, and though Elen refused to go any further in than the cool shadows of the portico, she paid for a private room for him. He thought the fee for it shocking, but it was the only way the steward would allow him in the place, and the way he looked and smelled at the moment, Khat almost didn’t blame the man.

Elen also paid for the services of a physician who worked in a tiled chamber off the vestibule. Khat was more doubtful about that; he didn’t think he could stand to be touched by anyone, no matter how badly he hurt. But the physician turned out to be a little old woman in a clean white kaftan who clucked her tongue at him but didn’t ask any questions. She also didn’t make him nervous, which was something of an achievement at the moment.

He had never been treated by a city physician before, because the prices were usually so exorbitant, but it wasn’t much different from having Miram do it. The salve this woman used was considerably stronger, burning like salt on his flesh but taking much of the pain away after, so it was probably worth the coin. Elen had also bought him a shirt to replace the one that was in bloody pieces, and hired one of the bathhouse’s messenger boys to run ahead to Arad’s house in the Academia and tell Sagai that both of them were on their way. Not much of a message, but enough to keep him from worrying until they got there.

Khat hoped Riathen was paying her back for all this. After getting the stink of the prison off his body, he was almost thinking again. Elen had lied to Riathen to save him. Or at least she thought she had lied, not knowing he really did have the winged relic with him. She hadn’t trusted Riathen enough to believe the old man would keep his implicit promises to support them in their search. At the beginning of this he would have said Elen trusted Riathen with her life. Well, maybe she still did. It was only other people’s lives she didn’t trust him with …

When Khat finally emerged, Elen was pacing in the shade of the columned portico, and now she looked worse than he did, though she had washed her face. She had probably spent the night in the High Trade Authority too, though hopefully in less uncomfortable circumstances.

There were basins on the portico for passersby who just wanted to wash their feet or hands, but it was empty at the moment, and the two young attendants were lounging on the steps at the far end, talking. He handed her the winged relic. She stared at it, turning it over and feeling the raised design as if she couldn’t believe it was real, and said, “I thought you were hallucinating.”

“I thought you had confidence in me, Elen. That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

She tucked the little relic away. “It’s over. I can’t believe we really did it. You did it.” She frowned up at him. “How did you do it?”

“Just before they caught me, I put it in my pouch.” Khat started down the steps and into the street, toward the Academia, so she would perforce follow him. He wanted to see Sagai. And, considering the need for secrecy Constans had demonstrated earlier, he didn’t think their favorite mad Warder would try to come after them in such a public place, but still… His muscles were still trembling from fatigue, and he felt as if he had been run through a grain grinder. Elen was hardly in the shape for any magic, unnatural or otherwise. She looked hopelessly confused now, so he explained, “The one I was born with.”

“Oh.” She turned red instantly, as if from an abrupt attack of sun poisoning. “I forgot about that.”

“Most people do.” He eyed one of the street dumpling vendors, knowing he should eat something, but his stomach felt like a lead weight, and even the thought of bread made him ill.

Elen shook her head, still baffled, still red. “I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Neither did they.”

“But how … No, umm, I don’t want to know. But it doesn’t sound safe.”

“It was better than being caught with the damn thing.” He glared down at her, exasperated. “What did you want me to do?”

“Well, I certainly don’t know. Still…”

They reached the gates of the Academia without incident, and seeing the vigils waiting there made Khat a little uneasy. But Elen said, “I went in and out several times last night. Ecazar never made an issue of it.” She hesitated. “I only spoke to him for a moment, but he almost seemed sorry about what happened.”

“Sorry?” He looked down at her. “That bastard sent for them.”

Elen nodded, biting her lip. “Yes, he must have. He said he was going to. But something isn’t right. I need to think about this.”

Khat didn’t see it as a mystery. Someone had sent for the Trade Inspectors, and that someone had to be Ecazar. Both Riathen and Constans, much as he would like to blame either one, had a need to conceal their actions from each other that superseded even their desire for the relics.