Thief Mage, Beggar Mage, page 32
Peniki was sitting on her stoop, red-raw hands braiding razor-edged leaf blades together and she raised her eyebrows as Tet stumbled out of the rickshaw. ‘Not feeling well, Sai?’
He grimaced, holding on to the rickshaw with one hand to stop himself from falling over. His stomach clenched, and though he tried to swallow the feeling away, the next moment Tet was doubled up, vomiting a blood-laced mess of half-digested Imradian food onto the dust of the road. ‘I just, just need to lie down,’ he said as he wiped the spit from his face.
A wave of dizziness slammed into him and the sun-stained late afternoon went white, then empty.
*
Tet woke to find Peniki and the annoyed rickshaw-runner heaving him up the stairs.
‘—hardly just leave him there, and what did you expect me to do – carry him myself?’ said Peniki.
‘It’s not my job to drag drunkards to their beds,’ the runner grumbled back. ‘He smells like he bathed in a vat of cashew wine.’
Tet’s back thudded along the narrow spines of the steps, and he grimaced, twisting himself free. ‘I can walk,’ he slurred. He wasn’t drunk, though it felt like it. Like the worst part of an evening of too much millet beer and not enough food. He retched again, and they dropped him.
‘Not all over my house,’ said Peniki. ‘Who do you think must clean?’ There was a shrill note of fear under her lecture.
‘Leave me.’ Tet’s mouth filled with the rotten metal taste of blood. He made himself swallow it, thick as old milk.
Peniki grunted in something that could be irritation or concern, and was probably a grudging mixture of both, but her skirts swished and her steps creaked away, fading as she left him lying only a few feet from the attic door. The runner clicked his tongue and called Tet a few choice words, then he too went. Tet lay with his cheek resting on the wood, watching the tiny cracks in the grain, counting the dirt grains gathered in the corners. The smooth-worn steps were cool against his temple.
After a few slow breaths, he pushed up from his palms and began to crawl laboriously. The distance seemed like miles. When he finally made it to the little pallet bed, he felt vaguely relieved. Even with the full enormity of his death and the nothing that was coming after, Tet still clung to petty things like not wanting to die on the floor with his face smeared in his bloodied spit.
He curled up onto his knees. The sun filtered in bloodied streaks through the chinks and cracks in the timbers, and there was a half hour or more before full dark. Tet could not allow himself to fall asleep, terrified that if he closed his eyes and lay down his head, then he would never wake.
And what if I can hold on till the night and call Kani – what if she’s changed her mind?
It didn’t help him to dwell on what-ifs and maybes. Tet refused to think of the body in the square and what it could mean. Perhaps there was no more Kani left. Instead, he dragged out his leather satchel and found his small round bronze mirror and razor. The beard was another mask belonging to Sektet Am, and if Tet was to die tonight, he wanted it to be without hiding under layers of anonymity. It seemed a fitting and honest desire to face his end as nothing but the person he had never really been allowed to be.
His hands trembled, there was no lather, and the blade was dull. Tet cut his face, scraped his skin raw, but at the end, under the trickles of blood and the rash, he saw himself again, dimly in the half-light, in the beaten bronze.
‘Merithym.’ His breath clouded the dull surface. His chest ached.
The light was fading. The cramping in Tet’s stomach came and went with a vicious regularity, each wave longer and more painful than the last. His lungs were withered as last-year’s leaves and each breath scratched raw. He coughed, over and over, a thin harsh sound.
Soon I will be a corpse too. Another body gone cold because of the White Prince. Perhaps Tet’s end would not be so public, and it could be argued that it was all his own damn fault for making any kind of bargain with Ymat Shoom, but it was the White Prince who held Nanak’s opals, who pulled the wings from his enemies and scattered his people like dry grains into ill soil.
It was almost dark and Tet closed his hand tight around the little flint-pouch. As soon as the blackness had draped itself completely over his room, he struck the first shower of sparks, and Epsi appeared, small as a rabbit. Then Vitash, wolfish and all bared teeth and snarls. Nanak, who regarded him with tea-bowl eyes brimming with the knowledge of his approaching death.
Now was the final spark of hope, the chance of truth, revelation, life. ‘Bring me Kani, bring me my soul again.’ The words barely sounded above a whisper.
Nanak faded away and Tet was left with the other two. They looked nervous, tasting his death in the room. Vitash whined and growled, and Epsi crawled onto Tet’s lap to nose at his badly-shaven face. She licked the dried blood from his chin, and her tongue was warm, alive.
*
Kani did not come to him in raw silk pyjamas, half-asleep and narrow-eyed as a winter fox. Instead she was dressed in all her finery, the sweep of her hair held back with a single pin, eyes fresh-kohled and darkened.
‘I am not dreaming,’ she said from her high perch on Nanak’s back.
t was true. The night had only just fallen, and there was no magic mystery of dreaming for her to pretend otherwise. She’d always known. He’d always known. It had simply been another part of the game they played.
‘No.’ Tet coughed into his fist. ‘You never were.’ He was relieved to find her alive, and not a dismembered corpse, spat on in a public square.
‘Of course not.’ Kani was white-faced as a devil, her gloved hands tight in the thick ruff of Nanak’s fur. ‘Only this time you’ve pulled me not from a bed, but from my duties. I’m to attend another of the prince’s grand parties tonight. He will wonder at my absence.’
‘I won’t keep you long.’
She stared at him and shuddered. ‘You’re already dying,’ she said, and there it was again, the fish-flash of her true voice. Her scent of burning syruped-petals, her scent of the prince’s incense, of dragon scales, of sweet-almond and musk. Her breath like winter, her cold, cold hand and her black hair, loosened now from its braid. ‘I thought we had more time.’
‘I’m ready to bargain.’ Tet felt like laughing or crying. It was hard to decide. Perhaps it was neither, and death had taught him a new emotion, one there was no word for. Maybe it was hope; he hadn't had enough to learn the feel of it.
‘You will give me your name?’ she asked softly, as though the question pained her.
‘In exchange for my soul.’ It was swinging on its chain, resting below her throat, beetle black and full of magic.
A slow relaxed feeling passed through Tet; the wind had changed direction and was bringing warmth from the south. He stroked one hand down Epsi’s small head, fur silk-soft under his fingers. It was over. He smiled weakly. ‘Merithym.’ He threw the name between them as an offering. ‘And now I suppose I must trust you.’
Kani’s throat moved. ‘I have my own honour, Merithym.’ She took the beetle in one hand, sliding the chain up and over her head, and held it out to Tet from Nanak’s back. ‘By your name, I hold you to do me no harm.’
It took all the strength Tet had left to lurch off the bed and cross the tiny space to Nanak, to touch that small thing Kani held out to him like a scrap of dried meat offered to a starving dog. He closed his white fingers around it, and the pulse of magic boomed through his palm and shuddered up his arm. In moments, Tet had the chain over his head and the oresh-beetle against his chest, its claws already breaking through the skin. He could feel it taste it hear it, as though the whole world had suddenly brightened back to life.
It was not everything it used to be, but it was enough to drag him back from the mouth of death. A few day’s respite, but Tet had a plan now, one where he would take a chance that would free him from gods forever. And he had the breathing space he needed.
‘Don’t release your soul yet, Merithym,’ said Kani. ‘Or every damned god in this city will come hunting you down. And I need you for the moment.’
Tet had no choice but to do as she said, he felt the constraints of it, a fishhook under his tongue. And Kani had a point. He was not yet ready to face down the three gods of his temple, and certainly not Nyangist, who would be eager to tear him limb from limb, slowly.
But Tet was not unarmed, his teeth had not been quite ground down. He stood straighter. He was almost a whole man again. His name was now his own, and if Sinastrillia was right, he would one day be stronger than he could ever have dreamed or wanted.
‘And what is it you need me for,’ Tet studied her familiar ambitious face, her tired and whitened face, ‘Oshaketri?’
Kani's mask remained expressionless. When she spoke again, when her mouth parted like a split plum, the voice that came out was familiar as the taste of skin, and Kani was obliterated.
'How did you know?' Dozha inclined his head, the only sign of his calm curiosity.
Tet shrugged, pressing his transmuted hand against his chest as though he could push his soul back into place, right through his ribcage. 'A fleck of white.' A lucky guess. A desperate guess. All the times he had seen Kani and yet not seen her, the shift of her magic, the shift of Dozha’s skin under his palm. The smell of temple incense and dragon’s smoke in his hair. The jut of their chin, the twist under their words.
'A fleck of white,' Dozha repeated, the words so slow they could be made of frozen honey.
'Behind your ear.' Tet smiled thinly. 'Among other things. The shape of your face, the way you turn your head, the things you say. You hid yourself with fictions I did not expect—mummer's acts, false limbs, painted masks, but there were still tells.'
'I'm clearly not as good an actor as I'd thought.'
'No.' Tet shook his head. 'You are a very good actor. And a very good mage. But you should never let the audience see behind the curtain.'
Dozha snorted in wry amusement.
'You can shift your shape, but you cannot hold it for long. Therefore, if you needed to be the prince's bride, you had to have more tricks than magic.' And how that thought rankled—how far had Dozha gone in his deception, had he magicked his curiosity into a cunt for the prince, received him like a lover? It twisted at Tet's throat.
'A bride for one night only,' said Dozha. 'But that's not enough. I used magic to hold the illusion together, to misdirect you. There should've been no way for you to see through it.'
Tet pushed the image of Dozha/Kani under the White Prince out of his mind. 'In truth, I didn't.'
'What?' Dozha frowned.
'I didn't see through it. Kani was an expert fabrication. I only saw Dozha beneath her skin because I had to.'
'You make no sense.'
Tet was admitting too much. He almost laughed at his own sentimental dreams. He had fallen, and for a man who was a trickster and serpent’s son. It didn't matter what Dozha was, only that he was. That he breathed, that his heart still moved blood through his body. They both still lived, and that was no small thing. What was an admission of love next to that? Let Dozha know how he felt, it didn't matter. 'Kani had to be you, or you were dead. I chose to believe that you were not.'
The glow from the dogs lit the attic room, leaving the two mages no shadows where they could hide from each other. Deeper and stranger than that – each held the other's name like a talisman. For the moment, Dozha was the stronger, and Tet was hampered by the threat of the gods’ revenge, but the future would come when he swallowed his soul back and had power beyond dreaming.
If this was a maket game, it had ended in a stalemate. There was only silent truth between them. Though Dozha was dressed in the mask of Kani, in her armour and arm, Tet saw him clearer than ever before.
'The body in the square,' Tet explained. 'If you were Kani, and Kani came to me tonight, then that corpse could not possibly be you. I did not want it to be you.'
'She was an assassin,' Dozha said. 'The girl the White Prince caught. Shoom does like to throw around the money he claims not to have.'
'I couldn't tell, not properly. And I needed to know before I died.'
'I see,' Dozha said, but he sounded confused.
Tet's soul thrummed against his chest and he took a deep breath, feeling magic curl through him. It would be nothing now to strip Dozha's wardings from him and finally see exactly who he was. Instead, Tet asked a question. 'Why did you give me your name?'
Dozha shrugged, and Tet caught a hint of darkening flush in his cheeks under the white make-up as he ducked his head. 'Perhaps I did not like the idea of controlling you.'
'Then why not tell me all the truth?' He was truly curious. Dozha was too full of contradictions. A typical mage.
'Habit,' Dozha said. 'We can talk of this another time, and since we are at a deadlock, with neither being able to control the other, I'll have to break the first of many habits and ask you for your help.' He looked up, and there was that sly grin, that fox's grin.
'My help?'
He nodded. 'I can get to the prince tonight and I can get the breastplate, but I cannot leave without your assistance. It will need to be finely timed.'
'What will?' Although he was asking Tet, Dozha had already assumed obedience. As though he could still make Tet do whatever he wanted simply by saying his name in the right way. Perhaps he was right. Not because he knows my name, but because he gave me his, gave it freely. Under the many masks of the thief prince of the Underpalace was a man of honour, a man who paid his debts.
Dozha's expression of thoughtful concentration was remarkably his own, despite that painted, perfect face. 'Time, my Merithym. I'll need a moment.'
Tet tested the limits of his magic, letting the boxed-in power flow through him from toes to fingertips. He might not be able to stop time as he was now, but he could, if his soul was truly his own again. Would. When the moment was right. 'Ymat Shoom told you what I can do.' The power pushing through him was honeyed wine, sweet and dizzying. 'Or Sinastrillia did.' That seemed more likely.
'It was her idea.' Dozha let go of Nanak's ruff and dropped down to the ground as supple and smart as one of the city's cats. 'She's a master game-player, and she sets her board in her favour.'
Dragons could see futures and they loved their strategy games, but Tet did not like to know how neatly he had been placed and manipulated on Sinastrillia's Grand Board. And who exactly had she been playing him against? And why? 'She wants to set up a new empire, and a new emperor to lead it.'
'I know that,' Dozha leaned back against Nanak's flanks, and the dog turned her immense head to lick at his face. 'What piece do you think I am?' He returned Nanak's affection by stroking behind her vast ears, cooing at her as if she were the fat pup of a free-dog, and not a monster made of magic.
Oshaketri the Emperor. The greatest piece on the Grand Board, a rival to the White Prince. And Tet may have been a wind tile, but now he was Merithym, the Emperor's Mage. This was the future Sinastrillia saw, the one where Tet lived.
The future where he healed the cracks in time he'd made as an arrogant, terrified and drunken youth. 'You want me to stop time, Sinastrillia wants me to fix time. She wants me to follow this future where I walk at the heels of her Emperor like a slave-dog. And what kind of emperor would you be—'
'A one-armed one, with a working brain, and no desire to smash my armies uselessly against the city walls of men who should be our friends and not our enemies.' Dozha gave Nanak a final pat, stepped up to the edge of the bed, and knelt on the mattress, his hands catching Tet's wrists.
One hand firm and flesh, the other cold, heavy. Metal under silk. A clockwork hand. 'And what kind of mage would you be?' Dozha said it with a laugh and answered his own question. 'One who would destroy the gods and perform miracles. One who is loyal and expects loyalty in return. Merithym.'
And maybe Tet was thrice-damned, but he heard it in Dozha’s voice, and he believed. ‘Then that is what you’ll have,’ Tet said. He closed his eyes, and felt Dozha’s forehead press against his own for a moment. He angled his head to kiss the plum mouth, to taste Dozha the way the prince had tasted him.
‘Do we have time for this,’ Dozha said, half-laughing, but not pulling away.
‘I’m the Lord of Time,’ Tet reminded him, but the mage was right. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to let go. They could die tonight. This could be the last time they touched each other’s skin, breathed the same sweetened air. ‘Dance with me, Osha.’
Dozha sucked in a sharp breath, then nodded.
THE GILDED PISTIL
*
The two mages made their plans between biting kisses, soft gasps. They were ready but for one thing; Dozha wanted to say goodbye to someone before he made his way back to the White Prince's side.
‘You think we will fail?’ Tet ran his fingers through Dozha’s hair, marvelling at this last moment. Perhaps he was dreaming, taking him here on the pallet bed was not real but just some final vision before death. ‘Who is so precious to you that you risk making the prince wonder where you are?’
‘Laketri.’ He smiled wryly.
Of course. More fine shards carefully placed in the correct order.
‘Jealous?’ Dozha prodded him with one metal finger. ‘Don’t be. She’s my sister. I’m not that depraved, you know.’
‘Hush,’ Tet said, and kissed him goodbye.
*
The Pistil played host to another of the White Prince’s parties. Tet was no guest, but he walked through the crowds of merchant-queens and -princes, city-speakers, and rich women, wise women, old men who were saved from war by the armour of their stored goods. The deer-headed women and the clockwork birds, the chemical globes and the sweet stink of seven-petal.
He had been here before, wearing a rich man’s face, with a false daughter to sell to the White Prince. He’d had a sackful of jewels and coin and Ymat’s word to pay for his mask.
This time Tet carried everything he planned to keep. A small satchel, a handful of coin to see them safe when they ran. If they ran. The flint-pouch tucked behind his wide belt. The rest Tet had left behind for Peniki to discover. She’d be a wealthy woman and her smile would be brighter for it. I wish her well.
