It's just more ... more that will be taken away.

It was with awe that Esmenet greeted her own image in the mirror, an awe she saw reflected in the admiring eyes of her body-slaves. She was beautiful-as beautiful as Serwe, only dark. Staring at the exotic stranger before her, she could almost believe she was worth what so many had made of her. She could almost believe that all this was real.

Her love of Kellhus clutched at her like the recollection of an onerous trespa.s.s. Yel stroked her cheek; she was always the most matronly of the three, the quickest to sense her afflictions. "Beautiful," she cooed, staring at her with unwavering eyes. "Like G.o.ddess ..."

Esmenet squeezed her hand, then reached down to her own still-flat belly. It is real. It is real.

Shortly before they finished, Fanashila returned with Moenghus and Opsara, his surly wet nurse. Then a small train of kitchen slaves entered with her breakfast, which she took in the sunlit portico while asking Opsara questions about Serwe's son. Unlike her body-slaves, Opsara continually counted counted everything she rendered to her new masters: every step taken, every question answered, every surface scrubbed. Sometimes she fairly seethed with impertinence, but somehow she always managed to fall just short of outright insubordination. Esmenet would have replaced her long ago had she not been so obviously and so fiercely devoted to Moenghus, whom she treated as a fellow captive, an innocent to be shielded from their captors. Sometimes, as he suckled, she would sing songs of unearthly beauty. everything she rendered to her new masters: every step taken, every question answered, every surface scrubbed. Sometimes she fairly seethed with impertinence, but somehow she always managed to fall just short of outright insubordination. Esmenet would have replaced her long ago had she not been so obviously and so fiercely devoted to Moenghus, whom she treated as a fellow captive, an innocent to be shielded from their captors. Sometimes, as he suckled, she would sing songs of unearthly beauty.

Opsara made no secret of her contempt for Yel, Burulan, and Fanashila, who for their part seemed to regard her with general terror, though Fanashila dared sniff at her remarks now and again.

After eating, Esmenet took Moenghus and retreated back to her canopied bed. For a time she simply sat, holding him on her knees, staring into his dumbstruck eyes. She smiled as tiny hands clutched tiny toes.

"I love you, Moenghus," she cooed. "Yes I do-I-do-I-do-I-dooo."

Yet again, it all seemed a dream.

"You'll never be hungry again, my sweet. I promise ... I-do-I-do-I-dooo!"

Moenghus squealed with joy beneath her tickling fingers. She laughed aloud, smirked at Opsara's stern glare, then winked at the beaming faces of her body-slaves. "Soon you'll have a little brother. Did you know that? Or perhaps a sister ... And I'll call her Serwe, Serwe, just like your mother. just like your mother. I-will-I-will-I-will I-will-I-will-I-will!"

Finally she stood and, returning the babe to Opsara, announced her imminent departure. They fell to their knees, performed their mid-morning Submission-the girls as though it were a beloved game, Opsara as though dragged down by gravel in her limbs.

As Esmenet watched them, her thoughts turned to Achamian for the first time since the garden.

By coincidence she met Werjau, scrolls and tablets bundled in his arms, in the corridors leading to her official chambers. He organized his materials while she mounted the low dais. Her scribal secretaries had already taken their places at her feet, kneeling before the knee-high writing lecterns the Kianene favoured. Holding the Reports in the crook of his left arm, Werjau stood between them some paces distant, in the heart of the tree that decorated the room's crimson carpet. Golden branches curled and forked about his black slippers.

"Two men, Tydonni, were apprehended last night painting Orthodox slogans on the walls of the Indurum Barracks." Werjau looked to her expectantly. The secretaries scribbled for a furious moment, then their quills fell still.

"What's their station?" she asked.

"Caste-menial."

As always, such incidents filled her with a reluctant terror-not at what might happen, but at what she might conclude. Why did this residue of defiance persist?

"So they could not read."

"Apparently they simply painted figures written for them on sc.r.a.ps of parchment. It seems they were paid, though they know not by whom."

The Nansur, no doubt. More petty vengeance wreaked by Ikurei Conphas.

"Well enough," she replied. "Have them flayed and posted."

The ease with which these words fell from her lips was nothing short of nightmarish. One breath and these men, these piteous fools, would die in torment. A breath that could have been used for anything: a moan of pleasure, a gasp of surprise, a word of mercy ...

This, she understood, was power: the translation of word into fact. She need only speak and the world would be rewritten. Before, her voice could conjure only custom, ragged breaths, and quickened seed. Before, her cries could only forestall affliction and wheedle what small mercies might come. But now her voice had become become that mercy, that affliction. that mercy, that affliction.

Such thoughts made her head swim.

She watched the secretaries record her judgement. She had quickly learned to conceal her astonishment. She found herself yet again holding her left hand, her tattooed hand, to her belly, clutching as though it had become her totem of what was real. The world about her might be a lie, but the child within...A woman knew no greater certainty, even as she feared.

For a moment Esmenet marvelled at the warmth beneath her palm, convinced she felt the flush of divinity. The luxury, the power-these were but trifles compared with the other, inner transformations. Her womb, which had been a hospice to innumerable men, was now a temple. Her intellect, which had been benighted by ignorance and misunderstanding, was becoming a beacon. Her heart, which had been a gutter, was now an altar to him ... to the Warrior-Prophet.

To Kellhus.

"Earl Gothyelk," Werjau continued, "was thrice heard cursing our Lord."

She waved in a gesture of dismissal. "Next."

"With all due respect, Consort, I think the matter warrants further scrutiny."

"Tell me," Esmenet said testily, "whom doesn't doesn't Gothyelk curse? As soon as he Gothyelk curse? As soon as he stops stops cursing our Lord and Master, then I shall worry." Kellhus had warned her about Werjau. The man resented her, he said, both because she was a woman and because of his native pride. But since both she and Werjau knew and accepted his debility, their relationship seemed more that of combative yet repentant siblings than antagonists, as they most surely would have been otherwise. It was strange to work with others knowing that no secrets were safe, that nothing petty could be concealed. It made their interactions with outsiders seem tawdry-even tragic-by comparison. Amongst themselves, they never feared what others thought, because Kellhus made sure they always knew. cursing our Lord and Master, then I shall worry." Kellhus had warned her about Werjau. The man resented her, he said, both because she was a woman and because of his native pride. But since both she and Werjau knew and accepted his debility, their relationship seemed more that of combative yet repentant siblings than antagonists, as they most surely would have been otherwise. It was strange to work with others knowing that no secrets were safe, that nothing petty could be concealed. It made their interactions with outsiders seem tawdry-even tragic-by comparison. Amongst themselves, they never feared what others thought, because Kellhus made sure they always knew.

She graced the man with an apologetic smile. "Please continue."

Werjau nodded, his expression bemused. "There was another murder among the Ainoni. One Aspa Memk.u.mri, a client of Lord Uranyanka."

"The Scarlet Spires?"

"Our source insists this is the case."

"Our source ... you mean Neberenes." When Werjau nodded in a.s.sent, she said, "Bring him to me tomorrow ... discreetly. We need to know precisely what they're doing. In the meantime, I will speak to our Lord and Master."

The flaxen-haired Nascenti marked something on his wax tablet, then continued. "Earl Hulwarga was observed performing a banned rite."

"Irrelevant," she said. "Our Lord does not begrudge the faithful their superst.i.tions. A strong faith does not fear for its principles, Werjau. Especially when the believers are Thunyeri."

Another switch of his stylus, mirrored by those of the secretaries.

The man moved to the next item, this time without looking up. "The Warrior-Prophet's new Vizier," he said tonelessly, "was heard screaming in his chambers."

Esmenet's breath caught. "What," she asked carefully, "was he screaming?"

"No one knows."

Thoughts of Achamian always came as small calamities.

"I will deal with this personally ... Understood?"

"Understood, Consort."

"Is there anything else?"

"Just the Lists."

Kellhus had called on all Men of the Tusk to attend to their va.s.sals and peers-even their betters-so they might report any inconsistencies of appearance or character, anything that might suggest recent subst.i.tution by a skin-spy. The names so volunteered were marked on the Lists. Every morning, dozens if not hundreds of Inrithi were numbered, then marched beneath the all-seeing eyes of the Warrior-Prophet.

Of all the thousands so far listed, one had killed the men sent to retrieve him, two had disappeared before arrest, one the Hundred Pillars had seized for interrogation, and another, a Baron client to Count-Palatine Chinjosa, they had affected to overlook, hoping to uncover the greater ring. It was a blunt and inelegant instrument, to be sure, but short of Kellhus risking exposure, it was all they had. Of the thirty-eight skin-spies Kellhus had been able to identify before revealing his hand, fewer than a dozen had been taken or killed.

The most they could do, it seemed, was to wait for them to surface behind other faces.

"Have the Shrial Knights gather them as always."

Following the Summary of Reports, Esmenet walked the circuit of the western terrace, both to bask in the sunlight and to greet-albeit at a distance-the dozens of adulants gathered on the rooftops below. She found their attention both distressing and exhilarating. Even as she despaired over her worthiness, she tried to think of ways she might reward their unwarranted patience. Yesterday, she had several guardsmen distribute bread and pepper-soup. Today, thanking Momas for the sea breeze, she cast them two crimson veils, which twisted like eels in water as they floated over their palms. She laughed as they scrambled.

Afterward she oversaw the afternoon Penance with three of the Nascenti. Originally, the rite had been intended to shrive those of the Orthodox who had fomented against the Warrior-Prophet, but against expectations many Men of the Tusk began returning, returning, some once or twice, some day in and day out. Even Zaudunyani-including those initiated in the first secret Whelmings-started to attend, claiming to have suffered doubts or malice or some such during the misery of the siege. As a result, the numbers who gathered had increased to the point where the Nascenti had to start administering Penance outside the Fama Palace. some once or twice, some day in and day out. Even Zaudunyani-including those initiated in the first secret Whelmings-started to attend, claiming to have suffered doubts or malice or some such during the misery of the siege. As a result, the numbers who gathered had increased to the point where the Nascenti had to start administering Penance outside the Fama Palace.

At the direction of the Judges, the attendees stripped to the waist and a.s.sembled in long, uneven rows, where they knelt upright, their backs slick and burnished in the setting sun. While the Nascenti recited the prayers, the Judges methodically worked their way among the penitents, lashing each man three times with a branch shorn from Umiaki. With each stroke they cried out, in succession: "For wounding that which heals!"

"For seizing what would be given!"

"For condemning that which saves!"

Esmenet still wrung her hands as she watched the dark branches rise and fall. The bleeding unnerved her, though most received no more than welts. Their backs, with protruding spine and ribs, seemed so frail. But it was the way way they watched her, as though she were a milestone that marked some otherwise immeasurable distance, that troubled her the most. When the Judges struck, some even arched back, their faces riven with expressions wh.o.r.es knew well but no woman truly understood. they watched her, as though she were a milestone that marked some otherwise immeasurable distance, that troubled her the most. When the Judges struck, some even arched back, their faces riven with expressions wh.o.r.es knew well but no woman truly understood.

Averting her gaze, she spied Proyas kneeling in the rearmost line. For some reason he seemed so much more naked than the others. Possessed of an old animus, she glared at him, but he seemed incapable of meeting her eyes. After the Judge had pa.s.sed, he buried his face in his hands, shook with sobs. To her dismay, Esmenet found herself wondering whom he repented, Kellhus or Achamian.

She did not attend that evening's ceremonial Whelming, opting to take a private dinner in her apartments instead. Kellhus, she was told, remained preoccupied with the Holy War's imminent march on Xerash, so she dined and joked with her body-slaves instead, siding with Fanashila in what-she gathered-was a dispute regarding coloured sashes. Let Yel be teased for a change, she thought.

Fanashila could scarce contain herself, so overwhelmed was she with grat.i.tude.

Afterward Esmenet ducked into the nursery to check on Moenghus, then crossed the hall to what she had come to think of as her private library ...

Where Achamian had been recently installed.

The Fama Palace was a place of architectural flourish and extravagance, sheathed in the finest marbles and displaying the elegant sensibilities of the Kianene at every turn, from the bronze fretting that shuttered the windows to the lines of inset mother-of-pearl that traced every pointed arch. At its outskirts the complex consisted of a radial network of courtyards, compounds, and galleries that stacked higher as the structure climbed the various faces of the summit. She and Kellhus occupied the suite of apartments on the height's pinnacle-the highest point in Caraskand, she liked to tell herself-overlooking the Apple Garden with its ancient teeth of stone. This, Kellhus had said, exposed them to unconventional means of attack. Sorcery, it seemed, paid no heed to walls or elevation. And this was why Achamian had to reside so painfully close.

Close enough, she realized, to hear her cries on the wind.

Akka ...

She stood before the panelled door, realizing in a rush the lengths to which she had gone to avoid all thought of him. He'd not been real that first night he had come to her. Not at all. He'd been real enough when she glimpsed him in the Apple Garden, but he'd seemed perilous perilous as well, as though his mere image might strip away all that had happened since the Holy War's march from Shigek. as well, as though his mere image might strip away all that had happened since the Holy War's march from Shigek.

How could seeing someone old peel the years from one's eyes?

What am I doing?

Fearing she would lose her nerve, she rapped on the wood with her left hand, staring at the bruised serpents tattooed across its back as she did so. For the briefest of instants, before the door swung open, she was sure that it wasn't Achamian but Sumna Sumna that would greet her on the far side. She could almost feel the brick of her window's sill pressing cold against the back of her naked thighs. And she remembered, with a visceral intensity, what it was like that would greet her on the far side. She could almost feel the brick of her window's sill pressing cold against the back of her naked thighs. And she remembered, with a visceral intensity, what it was like being being her wares. her wares.

Then Achamian's face floated into view, more grizzled perhaps, but as stout and heartwarming as she remembered. There was far more grey in his pleated beard: the fingers of white had joined into a palm of sorts. His eyes, though ... they belonged to someone she didn't know.

Neither of them spoke a word. The awkwardness was like ice in her throat. He lives ... he really lives He lives ... he really lives.

Esmenet fought the need to touch him, to ... rea.s.sure herself. She could smell the River Sempis, the bitter of black willows on the hot Shigeki wind. She could see him leading his sad mule, receding into the distance that had, she thought, swallowed him forever. What brought you back to me? What brought you back to me?

Then his eyes fell to her belly, lingered for a heartbeat. She glanced away, looking airily to the shelved walls beyond him. "I've come for The Third a.n.a.lytic of Men The Third a.n.a.lytic of Men."

Without a word, Achamian strode to a brace of shelves along the southern wall. He withdrew a large chapped folio, which he hefted in his hands. He tried to grin, but his eyes would have none of it. "You can come in," he said.

She took four tentative steps past the threshold. The room smelled of him, a faint musk she had always a.s.sociated with sorcery. A bed had been erected where her favourite settee had been-where she had first read The Tractate The Tractate.

"Translated into Sheyic, even," he said, pursing his bottom lip in appreciation. "For Kellhus?"

"No ... for me."

She had meant to say this with pride, but it had sounded spiteful instead. "He taught me how to read," she explained, more carefully. "Through the misery of the desert, no less."

Achamian had blanched. "Read?"

"Yes ... Imagine, a woman woman."

He scowled in what could only be confusion.

"The old world is dead, Akka. The old rules rules are dead ... Surely you know this." are dead ... Surely you know this."

He blinked as though struck, and she realized it had been her tone and not her a.s.sertion that had prompted his scowl. Achamian had never begrudged her her s.e.x.

He looked to the embossed lettering across the cover. There was a curious, endearing reverence to the way he drew his fingers over it. "Ajencis is an old friend of mine," he said, holding out the book. His smile was genuine this time, but afraid. "Be gentle with him."

Taking care to avoid his touch, she lifted the thing from his hands, swallowed at the thickness in her throat.

A moment of locked gazes. She thought to murmur something-a word of thanks, maybe, or a stupid joke, like those they'd used to cement so many loose moments between them-but she found herself walking toward the door instead, hugging the leather tome to her breast. There were just too many old ... comforts between them, too many habits that would see her in his arms.

And he knew this, d.a.m.n him. He used used them. them.

He called out her name, and she paused at the threshold. When she turned, her eyes were forced down by the stricken expression on his face. "I ..." he began. "I was your life life ... I know I was, Esmi." ... I know I was, Esmi."

She bit her lip, resisted the instinct to deceive.

"Yes," she said, staring at her blue-painted toes. For some perverse reason she decided she would have Yel change their colour tomorrow.

What does he matter? His heart was broken long before- "Yes," she repeated, "you were my life." When she raised her face, it was with weariness, not the ferocity she had expected. "And he he is my world." is my world."

She stared across the broad planes of his chest, followed the grooves of his stomach into the downy gold of his pubis, where she could see the base of him shining in the erotic gloom of partially drawn sheets. For some reason he always seemed so vast when she laid her cheek on his shoulder. Like a new world, both beguiling and terrifying.

"I saw him tonight."