The Grass King’s Concubine (30 page)

The bee abandoned the flower and flew back toward her. It hovered at her side, then landed, softly, on her forearm. Its legs tickled; it bent forward to brush her skin, hunting nectar. Aude sat still, breathing shallowly. Bees must not be alarmed—the farmer’s boy had told her that. If they
were alarmed, if they stung, they died. She did not wish to kill this beautiful creature. The bee crawled slowly down her arm to her hand, then took off, darting around her toward the nearest rose bed. She twisted to watch it. It swooped from flower to flower, brushing their petals lightly, looped away onto the next bush and the next, working its way along the beds past the fountain and toward the boundary wall. Leaves whispered in its wake, petals swayed sending bursts of fragrance back to her, a trace of sweetness. The bee reached the row of orange trees and vanished amid the foliage. Aude sighed and looked down into her lap. She could not run. She could not even hide, not here where the Cadre knew every inch. Tears threatened, and she sniffed. There would be none of that. She would not be weak. She would not.

Somewhere out there, on the steppe, somewhere beyond this palace and its borders, whatever and wherever they were, Jehan would be hunting for her. He had followed her this far. She would not believe he would give up on her. She wished he were here, to hold her, to stand with her against the Cadre. He was not. He would expect her to be sensible and strong and do her best to escape.

Well, she would not let him down. She pushed her hair back from her face and looked up.

The bee was back, hovering at eye level. Despite herself, she smiled at it. It flew a slow circle in front of her and once again began to track back across the roses. This time, Aude rose and followed, bare feet prickling on the pebbles. The bee flew a little ahead from rose to rose, drawing her on that thread of fragrance to the oranges. When they reached the trees, the bee swooped, up to brush the foliage and then down low, through leaves, past fruit, back into the darkness of twigs. Aude dropped to her knees, peering into the green gloom. Leaves whispered around her, catching in her hair. Citrus dust drifted down, coating her nose and palate. Under the trees, all was dark and cool and just faintly damp. The soil lay black under its cover of fallen foliage and twigs. The bee zigged over it, a small point of brightness, tracing
some unseen path back and back to the base of the wall. Aude squinted, eyes adjusting to the low light. Where? Yes, there, half hidden behind a tree bole, flush to the wall was the bee, circling slowly over a pile of dead leaves. It made no sense to her. Did some bees live underground? The bee flew back toward her, then to the wall again. On hands and knees, she squeezed into the space under the low branches and stopped. The bee returned to its circling. She said, “Look, I don’t think…” A flick of wings, and the bee spiraled downward, into the leaves. Aude hesitated. She did not want to harm it. Perhaps it was simply reentering its nest. And yet…Carefully, she reached out a hand and touched the leaves. Dry and stiff. She brushed one or two aside and stopped.

There at the foot of the orange trees was a grille. She cleared more of it, hands swift and keen. It was perhaps two feet square, backing onto the wall and made of metal. She slid her fingers through its bars, cautiously, and gave a small tug. It shifted, rocking a little under her pressure. She pulled again, and one corner lifted up. Leaning forward a little, she could see curved ceramic—the bottom of a pipe or conduit.

She sat back on her heels. She was stupid. She should have thought of this long before. Water. Everything in the last few days had revolved around water. The arid plain. This courtyard, with its bath and its pitchers and its empty drainage channels. The picture wall with that long river snaking through it. The flower beds, the bath, the fountain, all must be fed and drained somehow, and this grille was a part of that. She looked about her for the bee. It hovered a little to her left. She said, “Thank you,” and smiled. It looped once around her head and flew off to inspect the nearest rose.

Perhaps it was serendipity. Her uncle, back in the Silver City, would shake his head at her and recommend she see her doctor. Jehan…Jehan would have searched for and found this way out long before. The bee had led her here on purpose. Somehow, improbably, she had an ally in this place, however small. Someone had heard her and offered her the help she required. It was up to her to take it.

She turned her attention back to the grille. The bars were set wide; it was easy enough to slip her fingers around them and pull. Nor did it seem to be bolted or otherwise bound into place. She set her shoulders and pulled backward, rocking on her feet. The angle made it difficult; she could not get close enough simply to haul upward. Inch by inch, it shifted, scraping and dragging its way out. Leaf fragments dusted up around her, making her cough. She set her teeth against them, gave one final heave, and toppled back as the grille came out. She sat for a moment panting, arms hanging loose, legs akimbo. Then she turned and, on her stomach, wriggled her way forward under the lowest branches. The gap opened onto a shallow semicircular drain, running from the garden to the wall and sloping gently away from her. She considered that. If this was the conduit—a conduit—feeding the water channels, then it must presumably be entering the courtyard on the opposite side, providing her with not one but two potential routes out. Why had the bee led her to this one? That was worth pondering. Something dangerous in the other direction? Maybe it simply led to a central cistern. Or maybe the bee had its own motives for drawing her this way. She shook her head and set the question aside. She would worry about that later. She peered into the pipe. Yes, there it went, passing through a low arch under the wall. Would she fit through there? She wriggled some more and slid her hand into the space. How deep was it? She groped around, trying to gauge. Eighteen inches, perhaps two feet; there were times, then, when the water ran quite deep. Another exploration revealed that the conduit was wider than the grille by around three inches on either side. That was good. She could fit and have some leeway to move forward. As to the arch…she slithered forward, stretching out her arm. The pipe narrowed through it by maybe a foot in width. That was going to be tight. But not impossible.

It was her only way out. She had to try it. She wound herself back onto the path and looked down at her clothes. A T-shaped dress over soft trousers and a short chemise, all
tied at the waist with a wide sash. Not much protection against stones or debris. Her clothes from the steppe were rags. She stripped down, keeping only the trousers and chemise. Bare arms…She hesitated. Wide sleeves would ride up, catch and impede her. She had seen nothing in the closets with tight cuffs or even wrist ties. The floor of the pipe had looked to be in good shape—she could manage. She wrapped the sash around her waist again and looked about her for something she could use as a weapon. The Cadre allowed her no knives, no scissors. When Sujien came to loom over her, she defended herself with lamps and cushions. Those were too large to carry, even assuming that they would be of the least use. Nowhere in the courtyard had she seen a loose or cracked tile whose edges might serve her. She would go unarmed, then, and rely on nails and teeth and such cunning as she possessed. She straightened her shoulders. She had no idea how long it would be before any of the Cadre chose to check on her. Delaying would serve no purpose. She dropped to hands and knees and worked her way to the open grille. She peered down into it. Dust. No water had flowed regularly here for some time. The terra-cotta smelled dry and clean. She slipped her hands into the hole and wriggled forward, dipping her head under the lip, pushing with her toes. Darkness ahead. She paused, halfway in, to allow her eyes to adjust. Another shove and her hips reached the gap. For a moment, she hesitated. What if she got stuck? She had to do this. She had to escape. She pushed again, and her hips slipped through easily. She realized she had been holding her breath and released it in a long sigh. Her arms were already at the arch, up to the elbow. She wriggled, and her legs followed her down. She lay on the floor of the pipe, head level with the arch. Faint light filtered down from somewhere ahead. She began to inch her way forward, hunching her shoulders to pass them through the arch, twisting to make her hips follow. It was easier than she had expected. Beneath her, through the silk of her garments, the clay was cool and smooth. Once through the arch, she was able to raise
herself onto her elbows and use them to draw herself onward. Thin light trickled done around her from a new grille above her, throwing leafy shadows. Another courtyard, most like. She could smell oranges. She stopped. Could she lift a grille from down here? She had not thought of that. It would be of no use to her to emerge into another sealed courtyard. This conduit had to emerge somewhere: That should be her concern. She inhaled slowly and moved forward into darkness.

Pull and heave, heave and pull. Another foot on, and another and another. A gap opened suddenly to her left, and she froze. A breath of stagnant water…another drain, joining this one. Another three feet. A faint hint of light ahead of her and another grille, another tight archway, another wall. She was across the next courtyard, then. She paused again under the grille, breathing air that was perhaps fractionally cleaner. Forward again into dust and darkness, past tributary pipes and grilles, scenting roses and pine and frangipani. She counted arches, marking walls, one, two, five. She reached the next arch. From somewhere above her in this new courtyard came the faint hum of bees at work. Practical Jehan, doubtless, would ascribe that to coincidence. Aude chose to believe otherwise. A bee had led her here, and bees watched over her now. She wriggled and crawled her way onward, comforted.

Another arch, and this time there was no grille, no hint of amber light and gardens. Ahead of her, the pipe slipped into solid darkness. She swallowed. She was under something else, then, not a garden but what? A building? Water must pass under the rooms—how else did it reach the faucets of the Concubine’s bathroom? At least twice already she had made her way through sections that hinted at that. This one was larger. Some kind of hall, then. It would end. Her elbows and knees burned. The slope was steeper, now, and the side openings more frequent. There was a new tang to the air. Something, somewhere in this darkness, smelled of rust and decay. She made herself move faster. From several side channels came a thick odor of yeast, rich and
overripe and cloying, making her gag. She squirmed and pushed on, taking small, shallow breaths. The surface of the pipe felt smoother. Down here under the hall—or temple or crypt or whatever was overhead—there were no shards of old leaves or traces of earth.

Something shimmered up ahead. She paused, frowning, trying to focus. Another bee? Surely they would not venture down here where there were no blossoms to harvest?
A rat
, said some nervous corner of her brain.
Remember the Brass City. Rats live in gutters and sewers and drains
. She shuddered. When there were rats and mice in her townhouse, the servants closed off the affected rooms, brought in cats and traps and terriers. No one expected her to deal with the problem.

There had been mice and worse in the inns she and Jehan had stayed in on their long journey. She had learned to hold back her shrieks, but her flesh still shrank away. “You wouldn’t last long in most homes,” said Jehan, disapproving. But he had held her hand when the night was full of scrabblings and scratchings, helped her comb through her hair for lice and hunt fleas from her garments. He would go on now, and so would she, because to do otherwise would be to let the Cadre win. She inhaled and moved. A rat would not shimmer. Perhaps she was approaching a cistern or an access point to a well.

Another shimmer, this one brighter. She blinked and stopped abruptly, eyes streaming. She shut them, saw small spots dancing against her lids. Not a rat. Not a creature of any kind at all. Light. The pipe must have turned without her realizing. She had found an exit. The bee had drawn her to an exit. She opened her eyes slowly and waited to let them readjust. About twenty yards in front of her was an oval of warm amber light, dappled by darker bands. Another grille, no doubt, this one set vertically into a wall. She found she was laughing, quick gasping bubbles of relief shaking her chest.

She hurried down the last section, almost sliding on the ceramic in her haste. The grille was much the same size as
the earlier ones but its bars were finer, set closer together, running side to side as well as up and down. The last foot or two of the pipe in front of it was ramped with debris: twigs and bark strips, broken shreds of parchment, feathers, small bones, strips of old fabric, counters for games, hairpins, sharp-edged potsherds or chips of glass. She poked at it with careful hands, picking out the pieces that might cut or tear and pushing them behind her, parting a way for herself through the heap. She had done enough damage already to her skin. Her fingers closed on something small and hard—another bone, perhaps, or a game piece or the boss of a hair ornament. It was curved, heating up in her palm. She opened her fingers to study it.

An earring made of tarnished bronze and shaped like a wave or a crescent moon. A smaller curve—a bird, perhaps—took wing from it. The hook that would have held it to an ear was missing. Once, some time before this place turned to silence, someone—a maid, a minor lady—had worn this. Aude closed her hand over it again and tucked it securely into her sash. It might do as a lock pick, if she was careful. She turned her attention to the grille.

It was well made, this one, and set snugly into the stone surround; at its base, it extended perhaps an inch below the level of the pipe. She pushed at it once, and it stood firm. This was going to be considerably more trouble than the first one. Nevertheless, it would have to be opened from time to time, surely, or else all the rubbish carried in the water would have blocked it long ago. She peered at the edges. Yes, there was the hinge, at the base below the level of the pipe. Which meant that any latch or lock must, logically, be at the top. She wriggled, trying to get an angle by which she could see upward. The grille impeded her; she had to roll onto her back, lying with her hair in the garbage. On the outside of the grille was a bolt, holding it closed. If she could just reach it.…The mesh was too tight for her fingers. She rolled again and fished through the debris. A longish hairpin might do, or a strong piece of wood. The earring would be too short.