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 Jassi, lady of my heart and elsewhere, I m not, no I m not, but if you
scratch every time a Temueng itches, you ll wear your fingers down to nubs.
Now go and do what I said. He wrinkled his nose.  If he walks, come tell me.
She shrugged and left.
Taguiloa closed his hands over the window sill, squeezed his eyes shut,
breathed deeply. This was make or break. He knew as well as Jassi that he was
taking a big chance. If the slave walked out chances were he or another like
him would not be back. Chance. He touched his left shoulder. Tungjii, up to
you, keep your eye on us.
He pushed away from the window, hunted out the travel papers and the metal
credeens he was holding for all but Brann. He stood looking at them a moment,
then tossed them on the bed, kicked off his sandals, stripped. Moving quickly
about the room, he washed, brushed his long black hair, smoothed it down, tied
it at the nape of his neck with a thin black silk ribbon, making a small neat
bow over the knot. He dressed quickly in the dark cotton tunic and trousers,
the low topped black boots that he thought of as his humble suit. When he was
finished, he inspected himself carefully, brushed a hair off his sleeve,
smoothed the front of the tunic. Neat but not gaudy. Smiling, he collected the
papers and creedens, left his room and went down the hall to Harra s.
She let him in, went back to the skirt she was embroi-dering, using this bit
of handiwork to calm her nerves and pass the time. He looked around. Except
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for them the room was empty.  Seen Brann?
 She went out with the changekids this morning early. Excited about
something. Harra narrowed her eyes.  That s your go-see-the-massa outfit.
 The Imperial Hand sent a slave to fetch me. His eye twitched, he put his
hands behind him, not as calm as he wanted to appear.  I m letting him stew
awhile.
 Don t let it go too long. But you don t need me telling you that. Think it
could maybe be about Brann?
 I don t know. He asked for me, Jassi says.
 Ah. Then it s either very good news and we re on our way to the Court or it s
very bad news and the Hand s going to be asking you questions you don t want
to an-swer. She paused a moment.  Last doesn t seem likely. If he was going
to be asking nasty questions, he d send an empush and his squad to fetch you,
not some slave.
 Right. Here. You keep these. He gave her the troupe s papers and the
credeens after separating out his own.  In case. A wry smile, a flip of his
hand.  In case the Hand is sneakier or crazier than we know. Get Negomas and
Linjijan back to Silili.
 And Brann?
 If I don t come back, be better if you keep as far from her as you can. You
know why she s here. He moved his thumb over his own credeen, slipped it into
his sleeve.  Well, I ve killed enough time. I d better get downstairs.
 Keep your cool, dancer.
 I ll try, mage-daughter, I shall try.
TAGUILOA FOLLOWED the silent slave through the West Gate onto the broad
marble-paved avenue fronting the lake, thinking about the year he and Gerontai
had come here. They d got to the lower levels of the Temuengs, the merchants
and magistrates and minor functionaries, but the powerful had ignored them and
they made their way back to Silili without getting near the Emperor s halls.
Meslar Maratullik was the Emperor s Left Hand, running the Censors and the
Noses, head of security about the Emperor s person. Hope and fear, hope and
fear, alternat-ing like right foot, left foot creaking on the gritty marble.
Following the silent sneering slave, he walked along that lakeside boulevard,
past walls on one side, high smooth white walls with few breaks in them, only
the massive gates and the narrow alleys between the meslaks; The lakeside was
planted with low shrubs and occasional trees, stubby piers jutted into the
lake, with pleasure boats, sail and paddle, tied to them. The lake itself was
quiet and dull, the water reflecting the gray of the clouds gathering thickly
overhead. No rain, just the grayed-down light of the afternoon and a steamy
heat that made walking a punishment even in these white stone ways as clean
and shining and lifeless as the shells on an ancient beach. Now and then bands
of young male Temuengs came racing down that broad avenue on their high-bred
warhorses, not caring who they trampled, whooping and yelling, some-times even
chasing down unhappy slaves, leaving them in crumpled heaps bleeding their
plebian blood into the noble stone. Taguiloa s escort had a staff with
Maratullik s sign on a placard prominently displayed so they escaped the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]