Cordimancy (38 page)

52

Kikal Pilar ~ Toril

Kikal
Pilar was a true city, not just a provincial settlement. It surrounded its namesake lake on three sides, and sprawled across leagues of the surrounding countryside. A dozen roads converged upon it, many emitting clouds of dust from foot traffic. Patchwork fields crisscrossed the outlying land—some cream with spelt stubble, some rusty with late-season millet; a few plots were speckled with the orange of pumpkin and squash. Drier ground along the rim of the valley showed beige squares peppered with white bolls of cotton. At the city center, graceful towers anchored a cluster of stone structures that rose above the adobe of merchant shops and simpler dwellings. That would be the raja’s sanctum; a glimpse of green hill beyond it hinted at his private gardens.

Toril’s eyes took it all in, but his mind was elsewhere. He was scanning for soldiers with each stride.

They’d decided that they had to pass outer walls separately, looking as innocent and as different from their real selves as possible. Gorumim had known when Malena survived; he’d known some folk from Noemi were chasing him; he’d laid traps for them in Two Forks. They had no way to tell if he was aware of their continuing pursuit, but it seemed likely. Here, with hundreds or even thousands of troops at his disposal, was not a place to go boldly.

Hours ago, the women had melted one at a time into a loose caravan of festival goers headed for the city. Malena, braid coiled atop her head in decidedly un-Kelun-like fashion, was now walking with a youth and his grandfather, beside a zebu laden with paniers. Shivi, he knew, had hid gray locks beneath a hat of her own making and begged a ride on a farm cart; he was glad she could rest weary feet.

The day before, they’d stopped at a village at the first crossroads they came to. Toril had gone in alone, and he’d been able to exchange a coin in his belt for various articles of lowlander clothing. This was crucial for Oji, because if he covered with care, it gave him some ability to travel in daylight, passing as a boy. Still, the increasingly crowded road was a poor place to avoid scrutiny; the osipi had struck out across the countryside at dawn, promising to look for them after darkness fell, by scent, when he could move more freely.

The plan was for Toril and the two women to each rent a room at an inn—or attempt it, anyway—then make their way to the central plaza at sunset. They’d find one another, but keep their distance. If any of them approached the fountains there and splashed water on face and hands, it was a signal that they had a safe and private room; others could follow—at a cautious distance—and there would be shelter, food, and opportunity to make further plans.

They’d worked out other signals as well, but Toril hoped he wouldn’t have to use them.

He found himself swallowing. Ahead, a city gate had appeared through the dust, and it had a checkpoint; he could see guards out, inspecting pedestrians in businesslike fashion. They didn’t look hostile—Harvest Festival was a cheerful time, after all, and border conflicts were distant gossip fodder for most of the folk here.

But the guards did look… motivated.

Toril had done his best to disguise himself. With a sharp knife, he’d scraped away half-grown whiskers until he had a goatee of sorts, and he’d crushed some berries and rubbed purple juice into his eyebrows and sideburns. Both the cut of beard and the dyed hair were popular fashions here in the north; he’d seen them among travelers passing through Kelun mountains often enough.

The staff was a problem, though. He couldn’t leave it behind. Neither could he carry it openly; even if its provenance wasn’t obvious, and even if nobody challenged it as a weapon, the workmanship and engravings didn’t match the simple peasant clothing he wore. It drew the eye.

Toril had fretted about it all day yesterday, and again this morning, until he’d noticed threshers working a field and realized what their flails looked like. He bought leather from a tanner at a village they passed, wrapped the staff to cover its finish, bound it with cord, and lashed a second pole to one end. He’d even rubbed it with mud to suggest a history of use. It wasn’t perfect—brass endcaps glinted if you looked closely, and the pole was longer by a
hasta
than it should have been—but perhaps it looked enough like a tool to satisfy a casual glance.

He’d fallen in with a pair of farm hands—brothers, he learned—who planned to stay with a cousin and attend the dances and feasts during all the nights of the festival. The men were close to his own age, wore clothes like his, even had similar color in their hair; it had been easy for Toril to shuffle until they passed him by, then make a friendly comment and offer to share some of his baati and ghee. They’d accepted him with an easy camaraderie, swapping boasts about the kalu they would drink and the women they would woo.

Toril knew he sounded like a southerner, and he’d accounted for that in the backstory he made up. He’d grown up in Umora holdings, he said, then moved north a few years ago to chase a girl who broke his heart, and stayed to work with an uncle.

They had accepted it without curiosity.

“Hold up,” one of the guards called to them, lifting a hand. “We need your names and plans.”

The older brother stepped forward. “Tamorish and Emor ur Matimor.” He jerked a thumb at Toril. “And Merat, here.” He chuckled. “Got the same plans as everybody else, I guess. Just staying for the three days to have a little fun.”

The guard pursed his lips. “Where’d you come from?”

“We live out past Saviro. Feet are sore.”

The guard grunted. His eyes flicked to Toril but didn’t linger. “We’re looking for a few folks from a lot farther south. Young Kelun guy with a fancy staff, wife, maybe others. Seen ‘em?”

Tamorish shrugged. “Seen a bunch of strangers today. Don’t remember anybody like that, though.”

“How about any golden? Seen any yourself? Or heard anybody talking about seeing any?”

Tamorish shook his head.

The guard sighed and waved. “Well, welcome to the capital. Don’t lose all your wages on one night of carousing; they say the last night’s the best.”

53

last chance ~ Malena

When
Malena got to the plaza, Shivi was sitting beside the fountain. The old woman’s gaze crossed her with no reaction—Shivi looked for all the world like a street vendor frazzled by a long day of crowds, staring into space as she rested. The fatigue, Malena judged, was not an act—real frailty, real depletion, real numbness radiated. Shivi looked like she’d aged another ten years since the funeral pyre. But right away Shivi cupped hands in the water, splashed her face, and sauntered toward the nearest street to the east.

Malena sighed. She, too, had rented a room, but it had been tiny, accessible only via public entrance; if Shivi had something better, she was relieved. She turned east herself, pausing a time or two to admire scarves and saris and pottery at stalls along the way. Presumably Toril had already arrived and made contact, because Shivi seemed confident that no waiting was necessary.

A quarter of an hour later, Shivi turned into a narrow alley. She’d set a slow pace—not much more than a shuffle—and only knowledge of the arduous journey Shivi had been through kept the younger woman’s impatience at bay. Shadows were softening into dusk, and the lackluster sleep of recent days was wrenching yawns from Malena; if she had not been watching, she might have missed the slight form slipping into a gap. Malena pushed hair out of her eyes, using the movement as an excuse to glance around. Although the backstreet she was on was less crowded than the plaza, it wasn’t empty. Still, she caught no attentive watchers. After a boy and his dog ambled past, she crossed the street and rounded the same corner. A ladder rested against a high, sheer wall, and sandals and skinny ankles were disappearing over the top. She scampered up.

Rooftops stretched toward the horizon as her eyes cleared the edge. Heights varied; the building she’d climbed butted against a gable on one side, opened to lower structures on another, and was hemmed in by brick from a chimney and wall on a third. A glimpse of courtyard in the open space, and the hubbub of voices coming from it, suggested a tavern or inn of some sort. Directly ahead lay an expanse of rough tiles, still shedding heat from the vanished sun. They sloped, but just barely, creating a sort of elevated patio. Malena had heard of using such terraces to sleep under the stars, but this area was dirty and cluttered with broken furniture and inverted water jars; it looked like it had been forgotten for years.

Shivi hugged her, arms trembling, as she stepped off the ladder. “Welcome to my hideaway,” she said, smiling. “I don’t think we’re going to sleep very well, but at least we have some privacy.”

Malena returned the hug, still feeling a sense of wonder over the older woman’s forgiveness.

She stepped nearer to the open edge and looked down. She saw the hindquarters of a couple horses. A figure bustled across cobblestone, arms full of rugs or blankets.

“I spent hours looking before I found this place,” Shivi said. “Innkeeper said they were totally full, which was what I hoped. I told him I was desperate, and begged to rent his roof. And here we are.”

“It’s perfect,” said Toril’s voice from the ladder behind them.

They sat and compared notes, first about how they’d passed guards at the city gates, and then about how they’d spent the day. Dusk gave way to evening. Toril repeated gossip he’d picked up, describing Gorumim’s return. The general had reached the lake at dawn, apparently. There were rumors that he had osipi prisoners from the border conflict, and would have an audience with the raja where he presented them, with plenty of pomp, for interrogation.

“That will be when Gorumim strikes,” Malena said. “It’s the perfect excuse to get a bunch of ahu close.”

“Then it will be tomorrow night,” Shivi said. “In the plaza they were talking about a big parade with lanterns and whatnot to kick off the festival tonight, and I heard that the Guard always marches. Gorumim can’t avoid an appearance, so his evening is full. A wine merchant told me there’s a reception hosted in the palace on the second night, with lots of the rich and powerful invited. Showing off the prisoners there would fit.”

Malena cleared her throat, determined to ask the question that had haunted her all day. “Do you think the rest of the children are alive?”

Shivi put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re alive,” she said. “You can’t release magic on the scale he plans without some serious fireworks. The Blood Rift is proof of that.”

“I agree,” said Toril. “What we found back at Kirte darkened the sun, and we were only seeing the linger after the fact. I’ve felt nothing so awful since then.”

The knot in Malena’s stomach loosened a tiny bit.

“So, how do we stop him?”

“Go to the raja?” Shivi suggested. “He’s more equipped to fight Gorumim than we are.”

Toril grimaced. “Maybe.” He ran fingers through his hair and exhaled. “We haven’t had luck recruiting help, though. I wish Oji would get here. We could use his skill, and his ideas.”

“If we could get to the raja and tell our story to a thoughtful audience, we’d have a chance,” Malena said. “An assassination attempt is not something a raja ignores. But I have a different concern. Won’t there be layers of people insulating us?”

“For sure,” Toril said. “Especially with lots of visitors in town. We’ll never get into the throne room or his private chambers just by claiming we have urgent business.”

“Wouldn’t your name open some doors?” Shivi said.

Toril nodded and pointed at the long-handled tool he’d been carrying. “It ought to—as long as I have the staff to prove my identity. But Gorumim’s no fool. The guards at the city gates were expecting us. We’ve got to assume he’ll leave instructions with the bureaucrats at the palace as well. They’ll seize me the moment I appear.” He paused. “One of you might try—but then we’re back to being anonymous.”

“Could we bribe someone to get us in?” Malena asked.

Shivi shook her head. “Who? The loyalty of the raja’s staff is perfect. Besides, if Gorumim’s smart, he’s already offered a reward to whoever minds the gates, and it’s much more than the gold from Toril’s belt.”

Malena hugged her knees and stared up at the sky. They
would
find a way. They had to.

In the distance, laughter and clapping suggested that revelry was building up to the procession Shivi had predicted. The lilting of pipes made light counterpoint to the crashing of cymbals and the rumble of drums.

Abruptly, Toril cleared his throat. His face was a blur in the dark, but his posture had grown tense. “Anyway, I don’t think the feasting is all that wonderful. It wasn’t last year.”

Malena’s brow knit together. Feasting? What did that have to do with anything? What was he
talking
about?

Before she could respond to this non sequitur, Toril was reaching out to place a finger on her lips, and gesturing toward the top of the ladder. “And I’m not so sure seeing the raja tomorrow would be all that exciting, either.” He stood, carefully quiet, and crouched toward the edge of the roof as he spoke. “But I hear there’s good sport up in the west quarter. Wrestling, archery. Free exhibitions. What do you think about turning in early tonight, and planning to head uphill tomorrow afternoon, after I complete my negotiations with that caravan?” He paused, very low, listening intently.

Shivi’s hand shoved at Malena’s shoulder, and her other hand flicked fingers toward the gable behind them. “Maybe,” she said aloud, sounding far more casual than she looked. “But I’d like to wait till Famitu gets back. He may have made plans already.” She pushed Malena again, and jerked her head emphatically.

Malena stepped toward the leaning rooftop of the next building at the same moment that Toril abandoned all stealth, slid a foot out to the top of the ladder, kicked it hard away from the wall, and sprinted back across the tile toward her. She heard muffled thuds, a bang, then the sound of swearing from below. As she reached up for a handhold, she felt strong hands at her waist, lifting.

“Remember, they want
you
!” he whispered, gasping. “They’ll expect you to go down, so go up instead. Stay hidden. Try the plaza tomorrow, but be careful.”

A thousand questions flooded Malena’s mind. Toril thought that whoever had been on the ladder was an enemy. The Royal Guard? How had they tracked them here? Where would she hide? How would they meet again? How could they do anything for the children, if they were scattered and hiding?

But she didn’t have time to think. A shove from below propelled her forward, grinding her cheek into rough shingle. Her fingers clawed for purchase. She got a knee planted, scooted up. Behind, a tumult of shouting erupted. Some seemed to come from the alley, some from the courtyard.

She scrambled forward and up, heart pounding, imagining a spear between her shoulders or a hand grasping her ankle. At the ridge line, she considered standing; she could make quicker progress if she risked balancing and walking. But the thought of being so exposed and visible—even when light was scarce—filled her with panic. Instead, she rolled across the roof, pressing herself flat, and worked her way laterally to put as much distance as she could between herself and any pursuers.

All too soon, the slope ended. Looking down and sideways, she saw an expanse that looked like terrace, stretched beneath her dangling foot. It seemed like a bit of a drop, and not very flat…

Yelling, and the clatter of weapons, emanated from the meeting site she’d just vacated. She thought she heard a tenor rumble from Toril, punctuated by a shriek from Shivi. “There should be another woman!” someone shouted. “Check up there.”

Malena gulped, took one more look below and beside her, twisted, and released her grip.

Her feet, tensed to absorb an impact, skittered sideways on the awning. A knee smashed her chin as she slid. Grasping fingers found nothing more than air. Then her head rang with a tremendous impact, and all went black.

Nothing
made sense when Malena opened her eyes again. She stared up at the blurry blue rectangle above, and blinked, and tried to think what she was looking at. And what could be causing the splitting headache, or the dull pulse in her shoulder?

Sky.

She was staring up at sky.

And it was… day. Where had night gone?

She remembered falling, remembered pursuit and fighting...

Gingerly, she sat up. A palm-sized bruise at the back of her skull was swollen and painful, and red stained her fingertips where she touched—but the pain was tolerable, and the blood was scarce and half-scabbed.

Her hips and one knee ached as well. An ankle protested a bit when she wiggled it. But in general, the fall had left her in better shape than she deserved.

She had landed in an alley even narrower than the one Shivi had led her to yesterday, among crates stacked behind a shop. With the awning ripped away, it was a full two stories up to the roof she’d crossed—maybe three. No wonder they hadn’t imagined her jumping, or seen her at the bottom of the gap, in the dark.

What had happened to Shivi and Toril?

What time was it?

How would she rescue the children, all by herself?

By
afternoon, Malena was frantic. She’d straightened hair and clothes enough to camouflage her mishap, taken a deep breath, and limped off through the streets, hoping for inspiration about how to stop the imminent disaster with the children.

No such inspiration had struck. And time was running out.

Early in her wanderings she’d bought a hat with one of the coins divvied out to her from Toril’s belt before they entered the city. Its wide brim hid her face and gave her at least a semblance of anonymity. She’d taken time to eat, thinking that perhaps a full belly would help her mind work freely. She’d even bought a bag of tapers from a candlemaker and slung it over her shoulder, to provide a backstory for anybody who gave her more than a casual glance.

All the while, her mind raced, but it found no solution.

Toril and Shivi were likely in prison, or dead. The thought made her swallow each time it entered her brain—but she forced herself to face it; better to see truth and do what she could with it, than to expect what just couldn’t be.

The children were still alive, maybe. There’d been no darkening sky, no portents of sanguimancy to shake the ground or chill her heart. That was one glimmer of hope.

The other thought she clung to was Oji. He’d never made it to last night’s council as he’d promised. Maybe he was out there somewhere, putting a plan into action. She found that she thought of him with warmth, now—and that surprised her. And pleased her. When she’d first met him, she’d been put off by the strangeness, the odd body, the queer speech. But now she thought of the way he’d faced down his companions to defend her on the path outside Two Forks, the way he’d stood beside Toril in the murk of the Rift, the wordless hug he’d offered Shivi at the funeral pyre—and she realized that she considered him a trustworthy friend.

If he was still out there, free, he was doing his best to help.

None of that relieved her mounting panic, though. She couldn’t depend on anybody else to make this problem go away; it was up to her. She walked through the plaza twice, three times, but saw no familiar faces. She didn’t dare go back again; vendors and revelers—and a trio of soldiers who policed, keeping the peace—might notice if she made another circuit.