Pile of Bones (23 page)

When they were certain that Mardian and the basilissa had gone on ahead, they crossed the patio. Morgan’s knowledge of the arx was useful but incomplete. All she could do was steer them in what felt like the right direction. She was, however, familiar with the most heavily guarded areas. These they avoided, sometimes stopping short around a blind corner, inches from a group of miles. The few archers whom they saw were on their way to the battlements or the towers, distractedly counting arrows or making minute adjustments to their bows. They tended to dislike confined spaces and were more comfortable atop the arx than within
it, like birds clinging to the sides of an aerie. Babieca tried not to think about what would happen if they were caught. Musicians weren’t known for their ability to withstand torture.

They came to a junction. Lamplight flickered against the rhombus patterns in the walls, throwing long shadows across horseshoe arches. Morgan stopped. Her eyes narrowed. Silently, she drew an arrow from her painted quiver. She notched it, took aim, and spoke:

“I know you’re there. I can here you breathing.”

There was some light scuffling. Then Eumachia stepped from the shadows. Her girl’s tunic, decorated with green fringe, was wrinkled and dusty. She wore a tortoiseshell comb in her hair, along with a rock crystal pendant that gleamed in the semidarkness.

“Chasing foxes again?” Morgan replaced the arrow. “You should be careful. Everyone’s a bit agitated tonight.”

“My mother searches for you.” She managed to look haughty, but only for a second. Then her eyes filled with worry. “You’re to be stripped of your die, repudiated by your gens. Before, they were just going to hurt you a bit, then let you go. But now—”

“Don’t concern yourself with that.” Morgan gave her a sly look, as an older sister might give to a younger. “Can you keep quiet about seeing us?”

“Where are you going?”

“What part of ‘don’t concern yourself’ haven’t you grasped?”

Eumachia folded slim arms across her chest. “Tell me.”

“Morgan,” Fel began, “this isn’t a good idea.”

The sagittarius looked thoughtfully at the basilissa’s daughter—a short, scrawny girl, somewhat resembling a dusty arras. “The last time we saw each other, she had the chance to make things a lot worse for me. Yet she didn’t. Her fox trusted me, and so did she. I think we can trust her now.”

“Brilliant,” Fel murmured. “We’re basing our decisions on automata now.”

“We need to find the other basilissa,” Morgan said. “She’s being held in the north wing.”

Eumachia frowned. “There are only rats in the north wing. Pulcheria’s in the west wing, under heavy guard. They’ve converted one of the guest apartments into a cell.”

“We just overheard your mother saying that she was in the north wing.”

“You heard what you were meant to hear. My mother is accustomed to having people around her, listening to whatever she says. No ruler tells the truth in public.”

Morgan considered this for a moment. She turned to Fel.

“I know you’re not happy with how this is going, but—”

“Point taken,” the miles said. “The girl’s obviously smarter than us. We might as well listen to her.”

“What’s the quickest way to the west wing?” Morgan asked Eumachia.

“Follow me.”

“Swear that you won’t lead us straight to Latona.”

“What do you take me for?”

Morgan gave her a long look.

Eumachia sighed. “I swear it—on my grandmother’s ashes.”

She turned to the right, and they followed her. The corridors narrowed and widened, seemingly of their own accord, like living veins. Eumachia knew exactly where she was going and didn’t hesitate for a second. Babieca, significantly less sure of what was about to happen, found himself sweating. The tunica clung to his back and shoulders. The cithara in its case felt twice as heavy, a burden weighing down his every step. What were his weapons—a harp and a crooked short sword? Fel and Morgan had weapons that could inflict serious damage. Roldan, he supposed, could call out to the lares. Even Julia seemed like she might be good in a fight, and the bee in her tunica would certainly be a surprise.

They rounded a corner, and Eumachia stopped. It wasn’t a pause—the girl stopped short in clear surprise. Narses, the high chamberlain, was sitting on a stone bench. His pose was
casual, as if he’d been reading, or resting his legs on the exedra. He was not surprised to see them. His dark eyes took them in calmly. His beard, red-gold in the lamplight, was uncommon for a spado. His limbs were long, which was usual, but he also had a broad chest. A falchion hung from his belt, fastened by a series of delicate gold chains.

“Well.” He spoke in a thin, slightly nasal voice. “I see you’ve chosen to be recklessly stupid. That takes some measure of courage, at least.”

Eumachia inclined her head. “Chamberlain. We were—ah—”

“About to commit treason?”

“No. I mean—fine, perhaps a
bit
of treason, but not—” She turned to Morgan. “This was your plan. You talk to him.”

“But you were doing so well,” Morgan said dryly.

Narses turned to regard her. “You fired the shot.”

“Yes, Chamberlain.”

“That must have been a costly roll indeed.”

“It was.”

He rose from the exedra. “Whatever Latona is planning, I am on the wrong side of it. I have known that for some time.”

“Did you try to capture us?” Babieca asked suddenly. “When we were testing the fibula, someone called the aedile. Was it you?”

His eyes glittered. “That was when the aedile still listened to me. Now, like the arquites, he is only receptive to orders carried out in my name.”

“Mardian betrayed you.”

“Our students often do. They outgrow us and decide that we no longer deserve our position. A little ambition can be a remarkable incentive.”

“Will you help us?” Eumachia demanded. “At this point, it’s not as if you’ve got a choice. My mother will have your head in a basket, come morning.”

Narses smiled. “Children get to the point, don’t they? I suppose you’re right though, bobbin. Latona has decided
that our views are incompatible. That usually doesn’t end well for the one not wearing a diadem.” He drew his sword. “I’ll take you to her cell. I don’t have the key, but I suppose an old spado couldn’t hurt your company.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Julia laughed. “The high chamberlain is too modest. He’s an accomplished fighter. He’s led troops into battle.”

“That was another life,” Narses replied. His eyes told a slightly different story, though. He still remembered the chaos of the battlefield, and his arm didn’t tremble beneath the weight of such a fine sword.

They followed the spado. How ironic, Babieca thought, that they’d seen him as the enemy, the puppet-master. All along, it was invisible Mardian who’d been working against them, forging letters, waving about his master’s seal. Now it was the chamberlain leading them by uncertain lamplight, blade drawn, more a soldier than a courtier.
Not like other boys.
The snatch of song drifted through his mind. He’d heard it long ago. Some things couldn’t be held by a song. They were sharp and complicated. He looked back. Roldan caught his gaze and smiled a little, as if to say,
Aren’t we having a fun night?

Narses held up his hand. They stopped. Morgan and Fel joined him, hugging the wall and trying to soften their footfalls.

“Six miles,” the spado whispered. “One for each of us.”

“We’re
seven
,” Eumachia insisted.

Narses gave her a stern look. “You are the basilissa’s daughter. Your life is worth more than ours, and when the battle begins, you will hide. Am I understood?”

“I’m not hiding.”

“We could bind your hands now, and settle the matter.”

Flushing, she looked down. “I’ll hide.”

Julia drew her dagger. Her hand wasn’t steady. Roldan did the same. His weapon, at least, was finely balanced. Julia’s dagger looked as if she’d made it out of spare parts, like the fake fibula. He drew his own blade, trying to make
it look as if the gesture were natural. He was sweating so much that it nearly dropped from his grasp.

Narses saw him and shook his head slightly. “Your talents lie in the musical realm, my boy. Stay behind us and play something to distract them.” He looked at Roldan and Julia. “The same goes for both of you. Play to your strengths. Don’t just start stabbing with those things. You’re barely holding them the right way.”

The spado reached beneath his gold-fringed tunica. Carefully, he drew out his die, which hung from a leather thong. Babieca had never seen a night die before. It was carved from flawless obsidian, and its pips were like sunken eyes. Narses touched the die for luck. Then he surveyed the ragged, hilarious company before him.

“We have only one chance,” he said. “If they call for reinforcements, we’re lost. Move fast, and follow your instincts. Understood?”

They nodded.

“Very well.” He raised his sword. “May Fortuna have mercy on us.”

Babieca swallowed. He felt as if he might puke and hoped that he wouldn’t. Julia was also frightened—it shone in her eyes. Roldan’s expression was impossible to read. As always, he seemed to be listening for something. His eyes were far away.

Then they were moving.

Fel swung around the corridor, with Morgan and Narses by her side.

“Chamberlain—” One of the miles stepped forward. When he saw Morgan, his eyes widened. His hand went to his sword. Yet he hesitated. He was the only one of rank among them, and he’d been trained to take orders from the spado. Whatever Latona might have told him, a shadow of that instinct remained. His hand paused on the hilt.

Narses, however, did not pause. He burst forward, slashing at the scalloped hem of the man’s lorica. There was a narrow line of flesh visible in the gap between cuirass and
greave. It was a small target, but the spado had no trouble finding it. His blade cut into the man’s thigh. Blood sprayed his tunica, vibrant like cherries against the costly fabric, and the miles cried out. He tried to draw his sword, but the strength left him, and he sank to one knee. His eyes widened in pain and astonishment. Without hesitation, Narses drew the wet edge of the blade across the young man’s throat. Babieca saw a flash of white bone. It reminded him of driftwood, or a day die, brilliant and smooth. The miles choked, mailed hands going instinctively to the ruin of his throat. Blood painted the ground in irregular arcs. He fell forward.

Narses stepped over him, blade still raised.

The other miles were moving quickly now. They were clearly shaken, but their instincts had taken control. One of them was inching backward. If he could reach safety, he’d be able to raise the alarm. He tried to keep his movements small. Morgan dropped to one knee. Fitting an arrow, she waited a few seconds. The angle must be true. The miles took another step back, and she fired. Babieca felt the arrow whisper as it passed him. The miles turned his body, perhaps trying to avoid the shaft. He wasn’t quick enough, though. It pierced his shoulder. With trembling fingers, he touched the arrow. Babieca thought he might manage to say something—a curse, or even a question—but Morgan struck him again, this time in the leg. He fell. Blood spread like a carpet beneath him.

Fel raised her die. “I choose—”

One of the miles struck her from behind. Her scale lorica deflected the blow in part, but it knocked her forward. The roll was interrupted. She turned and slashed low. The miles anticipated her. Fel reversed her blade and thrust upward, smashing the pommel against his jaw. He reeled, nearly dropping his sword. Leaping forward, she pierced the link between his knee and the edge of his cuirass. The fasteners gave way, the sinew parted, and her blade drove into his flesh. He screamed. Fel gave the blade a savage turn, pulling it out diagonally. The bone cracked, and his leg went limp, like a doll’s. Blood ran down the leather, and he staggered
backward, eyes bright with pain. She cracked the pommel of her blade against his temple, and he fell, shuddering. This was not glory. This was blood, shit, and bile rising in Babieca’s throat. Narses glided across what already littered the floor. He moved with a dancer’s certainty, his curved sword a pitiless half-moon.

Two more miles appeared, running down the corridor. They must have heard the clamor. There could be more behind them. Shaking, Babieca drew his cithara from its case. This was neither the time for a lullaby nor a drinking song, and those were all that he knew. Except. A memory teased his ear. Something he’d heard on the street. A song of fountains, shadows, and cold sweat. He began to play. His fingers were numb at first, but they gradually loosened. Realizing what he was doing, one of the miles started toward him.

For a second, the song faltered. Then, to his astonishment, Julia stepped in front of him. Eyes narrowed, she advanced with her little knife bared. The miles actually laughed. As he got closer though, she dropped to her knees, rolled to the side, and buried the dirk in his foot. It easily parted the sandal, its tip bursting through the leather sole to strike the ground. Julia backed away, like a mortified child who’d just done something awful. Blood filled his sandal. Cursing her family, he reached for the knife to pull it out.

Babieca finished the last bar of the song. A cold wind tore through the chamber, raising gooseflesh on his arms. The tracks of blood ceased to flow across the floor—instead, they congealed, sprouting a layer of ice. The blood-ice twined around sandals, bursting forth in frozen vines that moved up the walls. For a second, he was scared of what he’d done. This wasn’t a trifling pub song or some gentle nenia to put everyone to sleep. These notes were hungry. They sucked at mailed hands and woven sandals, freezing whatever they touched. The two miles who’d been running down the corridor found themselves fixed to the ground. Legs straining, they reminded him of wind-blown wheat, rippling back and forth.

Roldan stepped forward. He drew Felix’s knife across
his palm, and a drop of his blood landed on the stones. Then he gestured at the frozen miles.

The lamps flickered. They seemed to tremble on their chains, guttering with smoke. Their dancing grew more frenzied.