They would not even let him leave his house, watching his every move like vultures. Perhaps if he had gone straight to Axekami, tried to spread the knowledge to others, they would have killed only him. But he had come home, shattered by what he had seen, to think and recuperate; and they had been following him all the way. It was only then they had let themselves be seen, let him know they were on him like a shadow. They allowed him to come all the way home, back to his family, and then they showed themselves.
And Ruito knew that his life was at an end; he had discovered too much.
Kaiku felt she would choke on sorrow as she felt him make his choice. There was no escape, and no way to unknow what he knew. He would be killed, and so would his family. But they could at least leave the player’s table with honour, instead of at the foul hands of whatever creatures the Weavers would employ. He would not let his family be subject to tortures or interrogation, to have their minds laid bare and flayed by the monsters he had stirred up.
It was no assassin who poisoned the evening meal that day, no agent of the Weavers who killed Kaiku that first time. It was her father.
When they were assured of his impotency, once they had scoured his apartment in Axekami and removed all his work, the Weavers sent the shin-shin. But the shin-shin were too late to do anything but clean up the evidence, and it was only through the strength of Asara that anyone was left to tell of it at all.
Kaiku’s eyes flooded with tears. She felt all the despair, all the loss, the terrible realisation that her father had borne. No wonder he had seemed haunted when last he returned to their home; he had been broken by the scale of the conspiracy he had uncovered, shattered by the knowledge that neither he nor his family would be allowed to live. Destroyed by the choice he had to make, to poison his loved ones or leave them to a far worse fate.
The Weavers had killed Aberrants for two hundred years, preached hatred towards them, used their positions of power to ingrain it into the consciousness of the people of Saramyr. But they were not doing it out of the desire to keep the human race pure, nor for any religious reason. They were cleaning up their own mess, covering their tracks, destroying the evidence.
The source of the Weavers’ power was also the source of the blight that was wasting the land.
THE WEAVERS OF SARAMyR
This final realisation was too much for her. Starving, exhausted and frightened, she slid back through the crack in the wall and away from the ledge. She did not know how long she stumbled until she fainted, but she welcomed oblivion with open arms.
Twenty-Three
A nais tu Erinima, Blood Empress of Saramyr, stood at the top /‘t of the Imperial Keep and looked over the city below. A
/
^V pall of smoke was drifting up from the north bank of the Kerryn, joined by several thinner cousins nearby, polluting the evening sky. The air was as dry and hot as the inside of a clay oven. Behind her and to her left, Nuki’s eye was a westering ball of sullen orange, setting the horizon afire behind the grand bulk of the temple to Ocha that lay in the centre of the Keep’s roof. Beneath the walkway that supported her lay the Keep’s sculpture garden, a frozen forest of artistic shapes and constructions, open to the sky. The strange forms that inhabited the garden cast long, warped shadows across their neighbours. Narrow white paths wound through carefully tended lawns, gliding between the pedestals that the sculptures rested on.
She laid her pale, elegant fingers on the low wall that protected her from a dizzying drop, and let her head bow. An Imperial Guard in white and blue armour stood at his post further along the walkway, pretending not to notice.
She wanted to scream, to throw herself from this height and tumble to her death below. Wouldn’t that make an ending? Wouldn’t that be worth a song, or a poem? If the war poet Xalis was still alive today, he would make a good fist of it, describing her sharp and sudden finale in his equally sharp and sudden verse, the words like the cut and thrust of a sword.
The city was tearing itself apart. Most of the nobles had fled by now, back to their estates where they gathered what armies they had and waited to see which way the wind was blowing. The court had scattered, and that made the Weavers more important than ever;
THE WEAVERS OF SARAMyR
civil war was in the offing, and every house was scrambling to ensure they would keep their heads above water when the conflict came. In her heart, Anais knew that the author of her misery was within her own Keep: Vyrrch. And yet the alternative to him was to blind and cripple herself, to leave herself without a Weaver in the face of her enemies. Vyrrch may have dared to act in secret, but he could not overtly refuse to defend her or keep messages from her, or he would reveal his hand and the power of the Weavers would be jeopardised. If it was once proved that Vyrrch had meddled, then the nobles would retaliate. But not, she suspected, until after they had done their level best to kill her child.
The frustration was abominable. Even her supposed allies within her camp were against her. Why could none of them see? Did her years of sound rule count for nothing? By the spirits, it was her
child)
. Her only child, and the only one she could ever have. Lucia was supposed to rule. She was bloodline!
But what price for a mother’s love? How many would die for her pride in her daughter? How many would lose their lives before the people saw that Lucia was no freak, not a thing to be loathed, but a thing of beauty?
The unfairness of it rankled. She had been coping with the disorder until that idiot Guard Commander had ruined everything by arresting Unger tu Torrhyc. And then, when she was prepared to release him and show the people the generosity of their ruler, Unger was found dead, having smashed his own brains out against the wall of his cell. The stories circulated in the streets already, of how he bravely sacrificed himself before the Empress’s torturers could make him retract his words.
And at the centre of the web, Vyrrch. She knew it was him. But she had no way to prove it.
‘Anais!’ came the cry from below. She stirred from her maudlin reverie and looked down into the sculpture garden, where Barak Zahn tu Ikati was hailing her. She raised a hand in greeting and made her way down to him. He met her at the bottom of the steps. For a moment they regarded each other awkwardly; then Zahn put his arms around the Empress and hugged her, and she, surprised, returned the embrace.
‘To what do I owe this undue affection?’ she murmured.
‘You look like you need it, Anais,’ he replied.
He released her, and she smiled wearily. ‘Does it show so much?’
‘Only to one who knows you such as I,’ Zahn replied.
Anais inclined her head in gratitude. ‘Walk with me,’ she said, and she took his arm as they strolled through the sculpture garden.
The sculptures of the Imperial Keep dated back to pre-Empire days, monuments to the acquisitive instincts of the second Blood Emperor, Torus tu Vinaxis. Only good fortune had made him decide to choose Axekami as the place to keep his treasures, for the first capital of Gobinda was swallowed by cataclysm shortly after his reign ended, and much would have been lost. He was responsible for starting most of the art collections in the current capital; a man too sensitive and creative to be a good ruler, as history told when he was usurped by the now-dead bloodline of Cho. Anais found some of them restful, others interesting, but few inspiring. She had not the heart of an artist, which was why - she told herself - she had been such an effective Blood Empress.
‘Things are turning for the worse, Zahn,’ Anais said, as they ambled past a curving mock-organic whirl of ivory. ‘The people are becoming uncontrollable. My Imperial Guards are already stretched to the limit, and their presence only seems to incite the people more. Every riot put down breeds two smaller ones. The Poor Quarter is burning. Unger tu Torrhyc’s cursed band of followers are causing untold damage in the streets of my city.’ Her eyes dimmed. ‘Things are turning for the worse,’ she said again.
‘Then what I have to tell you will not improve your mood, Anais,’ said Zahn, rubbing his bearded cheek with a knuckle.
‘I already know,’ she replied. ‘Blood Kerestyn have marshalled their forces to the west. They are marching on the capital.’
‘Did you also know that Barak Sonmaga and the forces of Blood Amacha are marching from the south to meet them?’
Anais looked up at him, and for a moment there was the aspect of something hunted in her eyes. ‘To join with Kerestyn?’
‘Doubtful,’ said Zahn. ‘At least, there has been no intelligence to that effect. No, I believe Sonmaga intends to block Kerestyn from entering the city.’
‘At least until he can march in himself.’ Anais scowled.
‘Indeed,’ Zahn said ruefully. There was a silence between them, as they walked through the looming aisles of sculpture, their shoes crunching on the gravel path.
‘Say it, Zahn,’ Anais prompted at length. ‘You came here for more important reasons than to deliver a message.’
Zahn did not look at her as he spoke, but fixed his eyes on an imaginary point in the middle distance. ‘I came here to beg you to reconsider your decision to keep the throne.’
‘You are saying I should abdicate?’ Anais’s voice hardened to stone.
‘Take Lucia with you,’ Zahn said, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. ‘Leave the throne to those who desire it so much. Choose your child’s life over your family’s power. You can live in peace and prosperity the rest of your days, and Lucia will be safe. But your position is worsening, Empress, and you know what will happen if Blood Amacha or Blood Kerestyn have to take this city by force.’
Anais was furiously silent.
‘Then I will say it, if you won’t,’ Zahn continued. ‘You, they may well allow to live. But they will execute Lucia. They cannot risk her being a threat to their power, and the people will want their blood.’
‘And if I abdicate?’ Anais spat. ‘They will get to her, Zahn. She is still a threat even if I give up all claim to the throne. As many people who hate Aberrants, there are some who don’t and she will become a focus for their discontent, an icon for them to rally behind. Whether Kerestyn or Amacha become the ruling family, whether I abdicate or not, they will kill Lucia. They will send assassins. She is
too dangerous to live
, don’t you see that? The only way I can keep my child alive is to stay Empress and
beat
them!’
She was aware suddenly that she was shouting. Zahn put his hands on her shoulders to calm her, but she swatted him away.
‘Don’t touch me, Zahn. You have no right any more.’
‘Ah,’ the Barak said bitterly. ‘Yes, I have heard that you have taken to sharing your bed again with your wastrel husband. I remember when you—’
‘That is
not
your business!’ Anais snapped, her pale skin flushing.
Zahn held up his palms placatingly. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I forget myself. Do not let us argue; there are more important things at stake here.’
Anais searched his eyes for hints of mockery, but she found him honest. She relaxed. When Zahn saw she was ready to listen, he spoke again.
‘If you are adamant on staying, Anais, at least let your allies help you,’ he said. ‘There could be a thousand troops here in two days,
ten times that in a week. You could put down the uprising, keep the people safe, and once within the city we would be unassailable. Amacha or Kerestyn would not dare enter.‘
‘Zahn,’ Anais said wearily. ‘I trust you. But you know I cannot allow a force like that into Axekami. There are too many families involved, too many political uncertainties.’
‘Word has reached me that Barak Mos of Blood Batik has offered his troops, and that you accepted.’
‘Your spies are inept, my Barak,’ Anais said without rancour. ‘Mos has offered me troops, but I have not accepted yet. He is a different matter, anyway. My defence is in his interest: he has his son and granddaughter to protect. Durun would just as likely be killed as I if either Blood Amacha or Blood Kerestyn took Axekami.’
‘Mos is also the head of the only other family strong enough to take the throne,’ Zahn reminded her.
‘His son already
has
the throne,’ Anais replied. ‘I have not annulled our marriage through these years despite the obvious unsuitability of my husband. He has no reason to think I might now.’
‘Do you believe you can hold Axekami against your enemies, with the very people of the city against you?’ Zahn asked.
‘The people will learn to accept Lucia,’ said Anais. ‘Or I will
make
them learn. As to now, they are like children in a tantrum, and must be punished. I will keep them in order.’
They turned a corner, into the long shadow of a rearing thing that might have been a stone cobra, or perhaps a man and woman entwined. The evening sun shone through the gaps in the sculpture, reddening imperceptibly as dusk came on. Zahn gave it barely a glance. They walked on for a time in the sultry heat of the Saramyr summer before Anais spoke again. ‘I owe you an apology,’ she said. Zahn was surprised. ‘For what?’
‘I have been presumptuous. I have been so busy trying to win my opponents over that I have not considered one of my greatest allies. For weeks I have been introducing Lucia to the high families in an attempt to dispel the myths that have arisen about her; but you have supported me from the start in this, and I have never once invited you to see the cause you fight for.’
Zahn inclined his head. She knew as well as him why he was on
her side. ‘You are right, of course. I never have met her. I would be honoured if I might do so now.’
The Heir-Empress Lucia had finished her lessons for the day, so she went up to the roof gardens to enjoy the last of the evening light. Zaelis had stayed with her. She liked the tall, white-bearded tutor. He indulged her relentlessly, and his deep, molten voice was comforting. She knew - in the unique way that she knew things -that he had her best interests at heart. She also enjoyed the freedom she felt when she was alone with him. He was the only one around whom she could use her talents overtly.