Transformation Read online

  I wondered if Aleksander planned to kill the eighteen nobles. Surely he was not that big a fool, though his own father had done something similar on more than one occasion. Hostages were another favorite Derzhi tactic, but it seemed too obvious. The nobles would not be naive enough to lay down their arms when entering the palace, and if Aleksander threatened them, they would fight. Unless ... I glanced at the elegantly laid head table with its twenty-one seats. The Derzhi had very strict guesting customs, drawn from their origins in the desert. When water was life to all, deprivation of water was seen as a crime unworthy of a true warrior. The bitterest enemies could share a well peaceably on one day, even while planning to slaughter each other on the battlefield the next. Guesting ...

  The great double doors behind the dais were thrown open and a line of fur-clad men—all wearing the orange-striped silk head scarf of the House of Mezzrah—began to file in and take places at the head table. They were glowering suspiciously, but seemed to relax at the sight of the table, the other chattering guests, and the feasting dishes being carried in by a parade of female slaves. They didn’t know. These powerful, ruthless warriors had no idea that their kinsman’s body hung lifeless and freezing in the public square of Capharna, executed less than an hour past by the smiling, red-haired Prince who graciously followed them through the doors, honoring each man with his special attentions. If they drank only water, they would not betray themselves, but the moment they ate Aleksander’s meat or drank his wine, they would become his guest-friends, all past disputes, all grievances settled and forgotten ... whether they knew of them or not. They could not take revenge for the hanging without betraying a thousand years of Derzhi tradition, because they would have shared Aleksander’s table after the murder was done.

  Breathless with astonishment at the Prince’s brazen stroke—and the enormity of the risk he had taken—I took my place at the back of the table and helped arrange cushions and swords and boots and cloaks until the guests were as comfortable as they could be in Prince Aleksander’s house. The sourest of all of them was Lord Barach, Vanye’s father, his gray braid hanging well below his bare shoulder, who sat in the place farthest from the Prince. From the look of him, he was there only at his House elders’ command.

  It was time to put aside my distracting speculations lest I be noticed. Derzhi nobles had been known to cut off a slave’s fingers or scald his hands in boiling tea if food was dropped or spilled or improperly served. Carefully I filled the crystal wine goblets and doled out the hot flat loaves of herbed bread, then offered the platters of succulent roast lamb and savory brown-crusted pork. There were fruits to be sliced or peeled, pickled eggs, sugared dates, and tiny salted fish to be laid out for those who wanted them. Nazrheel, the bitter tea, to be poured. More wine. Zeroun’s lessons and those of other forgotten teachers repeated themselves continually in my head—the sum of a slave’s scholarship.

  Always kneel just behind. Never allow your body to touch the guest. Always offer to the Prince first. If he points at it or nods his head—the gesture can be so slight as to be almost undetectable—give the taster, the shivering slave who sits in the shadows behind him, a portion first, then arrange the remainder on the Prince’s plate. Do not breathe while serving the Prince, lest your breath offend him at dinner. Never let the guests run out of meat, lest the Prince appear ungenerous. Never let them run out of nazrheel, as this is seen as a bad omen. The gray-haired lord has his knife across his plate. He is in the middle of the ephrail, the purification fast. No meat, cheese, or eggs—nothing from a beast can cross his lips. No wine or spirits. Only fruit and tea. When the Prince is finished, nothing more must be served to any guest. The hand washing must be done before....

  When would they hear of it? When would they know how they had been tricked? What would they do? When would they understand why one cushion, the seat at the far-left end of the table, remained vacant? Sixty witnesses to their guesting, too many to kill to remedy their mistake. Even Lord Barach had eaten and drunk.

  “Is there no mead or brandy to be had in Prince Aleksander’s household?” asked the slender man in dark purple who sat just to the Prince’s left. “I prefer a sweeter drink to ward off the night’s chill.”

  “Of course, my lord,” I said quietly, then quickly fetched Suzain brandy from the sideboard. It was the sweetest and fieriest available. I knelt behind him and poured a few drops into his goblet. “If it does not please, I can bring mead.”

  He lifted the glass. “Ah. Well chosen.” As I filled his goblet with the dark amber liquid, he drew his fur-lined cloak about his shoulders. “One would not mistake the Summer Palace of the Derzhi for the Winter Palace. The names are most assuredly switched.” The mild voice bore a trace of an accent.

  I glanced at his face very quickly. He must be the Khelid. How could I have failed to notice how different he was? White-blond hair cut short and straight about his face. Smooth, pale, white skin, absolutely unlike the ruddy, weathered Derzhi or the reddish-gold color of my own race. A pleasant, narrow face. Ageless. Smiling. As I indulged my idle curiosity, his eyes met my own ... eyes of ice-blue, eyes as clear as the morning sky in the highest mountains ... eyes that terrified me beyond anything I had seen in sixteen years, beyond nightmares, beyond the most fearful encounters of my youth, for never before had I faced such eyes defenseless. There was no difficulty with keeping my breath from offending. I could not breathe. I bowed my head, breaking off the contact instantly. The brandy was useless. Nothing could ever warm those eyes or what was behind them.

  The rote of my lessons kept churning senselessly in my head.

  Always lay the meat across the bread. Never look the guests in the eye. Slaves have been killed for looking into a guest’s eyes ...

  ... and they were not such eyes as the ones I had just glimpsed. Did he know I had recognized him? Did he know it was possible, that there were those of us in the world who had been trained to see what he carried within him? However crippled I was, however lost, however removed from the person I had once been and the life I had once lived, I could still recognize a demon.

  I set the bottle of brandy within his reach and began to withdraw my hand, but he caught my wrist in short cold fingers with smooth, tight skin and perfectly manicured nails. Surely there were many reasons why a slave’s hands would tremble.

  “You’re the one,” he said, soft enough that neither the Prince on his right, nor the Derzhi lord on his left could have heard him. He pulled me closer by twisting my wrist with fingers of steel until my face was just beside his own. I kept my eyes fixed on the table. Then, with his other hand, he traced the lion and the falcon on my cheek, the touch of his cold fingers setting a blaze on my skin that was far more terrible than the smith’s glowing iron. “You’re the cause of all this. The catalyst ...” I felt him try to peel back my skin with his razor eyes. “... the damaged property. This Aleksander is clever beyond all our imaginings. To bring you here within sight of them ... Charming. Dangerous.” He was not talking to me, but to himself. Well and good. He could not recognize me; they didn’t know our names. I wanted nothing ... nothing ... to do with him.

  Perhaps I should have looked about the room and tried to read the souls to find one who might be worth saving. Perhaps I could have mustered the skill for deeper looking even after so long. If I had cared for a single man or woman in that assembly, I would have stood up and cried out a warning and welcomed whatever punishment would come. But time had taught me that care for any being carried consequences too painful to be borne—consequences far beyond lashes or starvation—and even in the presence of uttermost terror, I could not face them. Desperately I wanted to be back in my hole in the ground, naked in the dark. Hidden. Asleep. Alone.

  “Seyonne!”

  The Khelid released my hand, even as I cursed the Prince for speaking my true name in the demon’s hearing.

  I moved quickly around the Khelid and knelt beside Aleksander, bowing my head as low as I could without putting it in his lap
or his plate. “Your Highness.”

  “I wish you to wash the hands of my table guests.”

  “My lord ...” I almost choked on the words that tried to tumble out of my mouth. What in the name of the gods was he doing? The washing at the close of a meal was usually the job of younger slaves ... attractive women or youths made available for a night for those guests who took a fancy to them. I had not been required to do it since I passed twenty-five and had enough scars to make me less than pleasing.

  “And you will use this for the drying cloth.” Into my hands he placed an orange-striped silk scarf. Sierge’s.

  I was beyond all speech. I bowed my head and said the prayer of the dying ... even though I no longer believed in prayer.

  The room was noisy with conversation and the clattering of dishes and bottles. I’d hardly noticed it until I walked numbly to the end of the table to take up the jug of hot water with rose petals floating in it. Magicians were drawing rings of fire in the air and producing bouquets of flowers from out of them, as I poured water into the small porcelain bowl beside the first Mezzrahn Lord. Though I could not look up at him, I felt his eyes on me as I held out the bowl. He would be curious. One male slave, clearly past the bloom of youth, to do the washing. Two greasy thick-fingered hands dipped into the bowl, sloshed about a little, then stopped abruptly. He had noticed the scar on my face. He could not avoid it as I knelt in front of him. His hands began to quiver as he withdrew them from the hot water. I emptied the bowl into a slops jar and pulled out the scarf. A wrenching moan of dismay rumbled from his chest, and I had scarcely touched his outstretched hands with the scarf when he clenched his fists. I steeled myself for a blow, but he did not do it. Could not. For once I blessed Derzhi tradition. I moved to the next man.

  Four of them grabbed the scarf, and I had to remain kneeling in front of them with my hand open, waiting until they released it to me again. Three of them came near breaking my fingers. Three of them grabbed my ear and twisted my head to look closer at the mark on my face. The last seven refused to have their hands washed at all. Though considered somewhat barbaric, it was not a full breach of etiquette. None of them killed me. None of them broke the guesting laws. They knew they were guilty. They had forsaken their caution for whatever blandishments the stout Fendular had whispered in their ears. Perhaps they had convinced themselves that Vanye was indeed ugly and stupid and not worth offending the Emperor’s heir or his Khelid emissary. They could blame no one but themselves.

  I left the Khelid and the Prince until last. That was the custom. I could scarcely bring myself to touch the Khelid’s small fingers again, but at least I didn’t have to look at him. After I cleansed the Prince’s hands, Aleksander lifted my chin and smiled at me wickedly as if I had been his accomplice instead of his tool.

  “Well done, Seyonne. Are we Derzhi not a polite people?”

  “Yes, my lord,” I whispered.

  “You are dismissed. None of my guests have asked for you.”

  I touched my head to the floor and withdrew. I could not get out of the palace fast enough, and I barely made it into the cold night air before heaving up the scant contents of my stomach.

  Chapter 5

  I could not sleep that night. I tried everything I knew, but never had the cold seemed so bitter or the darkness so filled with dread. Whether open or closed, my eyes could see nothing but the Khelid’s ice-blue eyes, and my haven of darkness became a well of madness. I huddled in the corner; I paced the five steps from wall to wall until I was dizzy and could not stand upright ... anything to keep myself from thinking, from remembering, from seeing. I peered at the ceiling until I found the thread of gold that marked the square of the trapdoor, and I hung onto that thread as a drowning child hangs onto his father’s hand. I translated the muffled steps and voices above my head into human beings who had souls, who had eyes that were not demon’s eyes. And when all grew quiet and the thread of gold winked out, I moaned and buried my face in my arms.

  Not a week this time, Durgan. Not five days or three. If you have a soul, slave master, don’t leave me here too long or you’ll find a raving lunatic when you open the door again.

  One might have thought the demon had taken up its residence in me, feeding on anger I could no longer recognize in myself, because I had forbidden it for so long. I told myself it could not know me. It was not a demon’s nature to associate a bodily form with those it had encountered at other times in other places. Yet such reasoned arguments held no sway when I crouched naked in the dark and tried so desperately to lose myself in sleep.

  Well, we can always bear more than we believe possible. By the second day from the execution feast, I was sleeping again, though not peacefully. I received three rounds of food and water, and thus I believe three days passed before Durgan dropped his ladder to me again. Though I had regained my composure, I was up the ladder almost before it touched the floor.

  The sturdy slave master examined me curiously as I knelt shivering in the clean straw of the deserted slave house. It was early morning.

  “These last days have not been so easy as before, have they? I heard you cry out.”

  “It’s no matter, Master Durgan.” A slave barracks was one of the noisiest places in the world to sleep. Most slaves had plenty of fuel with which to feed nightmares; I happened to have more than most. But one could not afford to let slip any hint of madness. Mad slaves were dangerous; they disappeared very quickly, and one didn’t ask where.

  “Make yourself ready. You’re to be in the First Audience Hall today. I’m told a table sits beside the Prince’s chair. You’re to be seated at the table, prepared for writing work, by the first hour of third watch. You can get paper and ink and whatever else you need from the Third Steward. Any questions?”

  I asked where the Third Steward was to be found, then asked what I might be expected to be writing in the large drafty First Audience Hall.

  “It’s the Dar Heged begins this day. There’ll be letters and messages and judgments and proclamations.”

  “Is it usual for a slave ...?”

  Durgan cocked his head to one side and ran his gaze over me. “No. Not usual at all. I’ve heard”—he flicked his eyes to the left side of my face—“that maybe His Highness thinks to have a little reminder of recent events on view when his lords come.” Durgan caught himself up and flushed. He’d been thinking out loud rather than answering me. I had just happened to voice the question that was already in his head. “Get on with you and mind your tongue.”

  “Always,” I said, and bowed to him before taking myself to the cistern. On that gray morning I had to crack ice to get to the water for washing. Others had been there before me, for the surface of the cistern was a miniature mountain range of ice shards: broken, pushed aside, and frozen to each other again, as if some ghostly hand had done it. The dull shaving knife lay in a scattering of frozen hair of every color and texture. I had yet to see those who shared the slave house with me. The men who glided through the palace passageways and kitchens in their fenzai and shorn hair might have been players in a traveling company for all I knew. Only three people in the palace were real. Durgan, for he fed me and spoke to me. Aleksander, who controlled my life. And the Khelid ... the demon. I shuddered at the memory and put him out of my mind. There was nothing to be done about the demon.

  Durgan was sitting on the floor at the far end of the slave house in front of a small brazier, sharpening a long, old-fashioned sword. On my way out the door he glanced up. “I’ve been told you have a name.”

  I halted, but said nothing, prepared for another taste of bitter truth.

  “Ezzarians don’t like their names used.” He resumed his sharpening, moving the blade rhythmically across the gray stone. It was a statement, not a question, yet it was left open at the end. He was not finished with what he wanted to say. It was very curious.

  “You know something of Ezzarians,” I said in the same manner, though I was certain that whatever he knew, it did not approa
ch the truth. Privacy ... secrecy ... was our lifeblood.

  “My family is from the south. Karesh.”

  Karesh was a small town in the rolling southern grasslands of Manganar, perhaps four days’ journey from the Ezzarian border. We had traded in Karesh when I was a boy, and it had seemed a crowded metropolis to a child from a land of small, scattered woodland settlements. “Karesh has the finest ale in the Empire,” I said. “And our miller would buy no other wheat.”

  “Aye.” The thick fingers pressed the shining blade to the stone. The conversation was finished. Much more had been said than words could convey.

  I started out the door again, then paused, closed my eyes, and spoke quietly over my shoulder. “Master Durgan, do not cross paths with the Khelid.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw his head jerk up, and I felt his eyes on my back as I ran across the busy courtyard to the kitchen door, thinking I was the greatest fool ever to draw breath. One kind word changed nothing. Durgan carried a lash.

  The winter Dar Heged was held for twenty-three days in the first month of the year. Every Derzhi House in the northern Empire would send representatives to present the Emperor with their tax revenues, to hear what levies of men and horses and food would be needed for spring campaigns, to resolve disputes with other families, and conduct whatever business needed the attention of their sovereign lord. The streets of Capharna were teeming with warrior nobles and their retinues, grim-faced soldiers guarding the tax-levy wagons, excited families reunited with distant kinsmen or children who had married out of their House, street vendors and shopkeepers and innkeepers raking in revenues from the influx of visitors, fights breaking out between parties to land or property disputes. Dar Heged was a time for marriages and betrothals, treaties and alliances, trades, bargains, and negotiations of all kinds.

  I did not observe any of the activity in the streets, only the business brought before the Prince. He sat in the lesser of two huge gilded chairs at one end of the smoky Hall, flanked by ten counselors representing the ten oldest Derzhi families. The counselors were only for show. The Emperor, or in this case his son, had the final and only say in any matter. The line of taxpayers and petitioners stretched across the cavernous room, and the walls were crowded with observers: families, servants, and whomever else had managed to get themselves past the door wardens.