When the guards came Empress Mesema stood, walked to the stairs, and left the garden without a word. She was pale, trembling, not the clever lady Rushes had heard about from Demah. It was Pelar’s sickness. Rushes wanted to tell Mesema that the emperor might have been someone else when he took Pelar, that she shouldn’t be angry at Sarmin; but she was gone, disappearing down the stairs, and she missed her chance.
I killed Jenni. I should feel sad, she thought, the loss of a life, but mostly her heart beat fast and her skin felt cold. She had been so frightened when she saw Jenni holding the knife against Nessaket and the baby, and the moment when she ran had been filled with such determination, such will, as if the Pattern Master still lived inside her.
She stood, and all the guards clustered around her like flies on old meat. She froze in fear, but then she remembered that they were protecting Daveed and they meant no harm. She let them lead her down the stairs and through Farra’s room into the hall, towards the crib that waited under Nessaket’s window.
She moved at a slow pace, so that she did not crash into the backs of the guards. She felt tired. She could not remember the last time she had slept. When she got to the room she sat down as the guards searched the room and Daveed’s bedding. They searched for mundane threats; they were no proof against ghosts and the pale-sickness. Finally they took position in the corridor and in every corner.
She put Daveed to bed, and waited. Nessaket had gone to speak with the second austere. She wondered if Mylo would be with him, speaking of Mogyrk’s arrival and all of his other plans. She dozed. A scent tickled her nose, bringing her back to her mother’s smallhouse on the plains. They used to gather around the cooking-fire during the winter, warming their hands over the stew. But it was wrong; this was not a palace scent. She stirred herself alert, stood up and checked Daveed. He was asleep in his silks, his cheeks red and round. But half the guards had left the room-unthinkable-this was all wrong. She ventured towards the corridor and looked out. People were shouting, running. Smoke spilled into the corridor from one of the Old Wives’ bedrooms. Fire is the signal.
She gathered Daveed and hurried towards Mesema’s room, a trail of guards behind her, but a sudden spill of flames, like water rising from a fountain, blocked their way. She smelled lantern-oil; this fire was no accident. She felt the heat against her skin and backed away into the guards behind her. “Fire,” she said, stupidly. They took off their jackets and beat at the flames, but the burning carpet created a terrible smoke and Daveed woke up and began to cough.
“Shush, shush, little one,” she whispered, coughing herself, turning towards the Great Room. She would head for the big doors; surely they would be safe if she could get to the other side. But what of the empress, and little Pelar? No time to think of them. Must get out. She ran, a dozen concubines running with her. But the doors were blocked. The guards struggled to pull them open, panic in their voices. “Open at once!” they shouted, “The royal princes are trapped inside!”
Someone on the other side shouted, “Mogyrk’s will!”
The guards kicked and clawed. Smoke billowed into the room, hot in Rushes’ lungs, burning her eyes. Barely able to see she stumbled against the wall. The baby coughed again and she clutched him to her chest, heart beating fast. We must get out! Screams echoed around her. A hot wind blew against Rushes’ cheek, accompanied by a rush of flame. She jumped back asthe fire burst from the jewel-coloured cushions. It was then she saw Gala, pale as winter snow, run through the room, mouth open in a skeleton’s grin, laughing like a demon from Herzu’s hell. Not just Gala; something rode on her back, drove her through the crowd of screaming concubines like a war-horse. A ghost. This was what they had been waiting for-for Gala, and others, to be empty enough for them to ride. The horror of it filled her lungs as much as the smoke, stopping her breath.
The guards drew their swords and moved in on Gala, coughing and wiping at their eyes. Only one remained with Rushes and Daveed now, one faithful protector, but against fire he could do nothing. She had to save Daveed. The moving shelves! She hurried to them. “I can take the prince this way, down to the Little Kitchen,” she told him, taking out the shelves as she spoke. He helped her climb in, knees up, Daveed cradled against her chest. “Release the brake and lower me,” she said.
“I can’t protect the baby in the Little Kitchen,” he said, suddenly doubtful of the plan. He was an older man, fatherly, and she wondered if he had children or grandchildren, if he protected them as he protected Daveed.
“Quickly! He will burn!”
He frowned, finally nodded agreement and closed the door, leaving her in darkness. It reminded her of Gorgen, in the pantry, and she clamped her lips together to keep from screaming. Just a minute or so. It would take only a minute to get down to the Little Kitchen. She prayed that Empress Mesema had found a way out, away from the flames.
The guard lowered her in jerks and bounces, every time feeling as if she would fall and break her bones and the baby too. But then she was there, pulling up on the door that Old Hagga always stood by, where Mina used to put the trays, and she slid out onto the floor of the Little Kitchen. She gave a sigh of relief and gathered Pelar against her breast. His coughing began to subside, and he looked around the room with interest. That was a good sign he was feeling better. Her eyes on the baby, Rushes took a step forwards and nearly crashed into Mylo.
Mylo smiled at her, but not with the beatific smile she had come to know. This smile was the smile of a wolf or a grass-cat. “Good! I knew you’d figure it out,” he said. “and you brought me something precious. Is that Prince Pelar?”
Rushes backed away, holding Daveed to her chest. Mylo was supposed to be in the courtyard, or locked in the dungeon along with his priest. “No. It’s Daveed.”
“Where’s Pelar?”
“With his mother.” She looked around. “I thought you would be in the courtyard.” I thought I would be safe in the Little Kitchen. But no place is safe.
“Soon,” he said. “Give me the baby.”
“I’ll carry him,” she said.
He lifted a club, sticky with blood. Whose? “Give him to me.”
“No!” Others wandered into the kitchen now, some curious, others angry, kitchen knives and fire pokers in their hands. Hagga was not here. Had they hurt her? She turned back to Mylo. “Why-”
The blow came, sharp and quick, a cracking against her skull. Daveed! But she did not drop him. The last thing she felt as her knees buckled and her sight grew dim were gentle hands, lifting the silk bundle from her arms, and Daveed kicking, protesting, beginning to realize he was not safe any longer. The lesson came too early for him. Not fair… Daveed!