Watcher's Web (29 page)

Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.

There were
footsteps in the alley. A familiar deep voice rumbled, “Looks like
I’ve found the little bat who flew away.” Iztho.

His voice
sounded like home, like cups of lukewarm tea taken in the
civilisation of a colourful courtyard, like sumptuous dresses and
talk of lessons and learning, promises of education, Union
citizenship and returning to her parents. Civilisation, real help,
reliability.

He was alone
like a big, wet, forlorn grizzly bear. No soldiers, no gun. Just a
long-fingered hand with many glittering rings reaching out for her.
Dark patches under his eyes stood out against sallow and pale
skin.

Jessica
scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t
have . . .” Her voice would no longer cooperate.

“I’ve found
you, Lady. That’s all that matters. Let me take you back to the
guesthouse. I’d say you could do with a good meal and a bath. I’ve
spoken to the authorities. I think I have a good chance to get us
out of here soon.”

Jessica didn’t
say how glad she was to hear this news. She walked in step with
him, letting silent tears run down her face. When her nose started
to run, Iztho passed her a cloth that smelled of fresh flowers and
mountain air. “Come now, Lady. I don’t like crying women.” His
voice had lost its edge, like it had done when he sang.

The entrance
hall to the guesthouse was dark. The matron had moved her table out
into the courtyard under the balcony, with the stacks of
concertina-folded records against the wall, as far as possible from
the rain. She was writing something and squinted up from her work
as the footfalls of Iztho’s boots echoed in the corridor. He spoke
in keihu, remarking on the lack of light, and the matron said the
servants hadn’t been able to get fresh recharges.

Jessica
thought of the line of boats carrying sacks of crackling pearls all
the way from the Pengali settlement.

With the rain,
the dining tables had been moved from the courtyard to the overhang
of the balcony. Patrons sat at empty tables, their silhouettes
black against the rain-swept pavement. The air hummed with
discontented voices.

Iztho led her
up the stairs. “The next few days are what the locals call the
Bachelor days, the eclipse.”

“Eclipse?”

“When one sun
goes behind the other. It’s a strong one this time. The Day sun
completely behind the Evening sun.”

Something
clicked. “That’s why it’s so gloomy.”

“Not really.
The eclipse only lasts for the morning. The gloominess is because
of the monsoon, but yes, it will be extra gloomy if it’s overcast
like this during the eclipse. Most cultures on Ceren or indeed on
Asto have old superstitions that relate to occultation. Most
involve rebirth or cleansing or a wake. A start of new life.”

Jessica could
just about imagine what Pengali would make of that.

“Anyway, the
lady owner of this guesthouse apologises. She says it’s not usual
for so many of her servants to run off. She says that usually, the
promise of money keeps them here for the festival, but many of them
have taken unscheduled leave.”

The
Pengali. They’re up to something.
Jessica clamped her hands around herself. As if
she didn’t have enough trouble already.

“It also seems
the supply of recharged pearls has dried up.”

“I know—I
heard.”

“You
. . . heard?” He frowned. “You understand keihu?”

She shrugged.
“Just a bit. That woman uses her hands and eyes a lot. It’s not all
that hard to follow what she talks about.”

“No, Lady,
don’t be so indifferent about it. You have a special talent for
languages. I have been pushing you as hard as I can, but I’m
stunned. I have never met anyone with an aptitude for languages
similar to yours. It is a very rare and useful talent indeed.”

A hot blush
crept over Jessica’s cheeks. She averted her eyes. “Words make
pictures in my mind. They’re all the same in every language. When I
find the pattern, I see the picture; I don’t hear the word.”

The corners of
his eyes crinkled with his smile, although his face never lost that
intense look. He inclined his head and gestured to the door to her
room. “Will I see you at mealtime, Lady?”

She responded
with a nod, rehearsed and polite as she had seen him do, but she
restrained an urge to rub her cheeks. What was wrong with her? Just
about every comment by a man made her blush these days. A few steps
brought her to the door of her room. There she stopped and turned
around.

“I told you
before: call me Jessica.” The words had left her mouth before she
could stop them, more out of habit maybe than anything. Jessica—was
that her identity? Even though she had found out that Anmi was her
real name?

Anmi,
Anmi.

Daya’s voice
echoed in her mind. Anmi Kirilen Dinzo. Survivor of a disaster way
before written history on Earth.

There were
others, Daya said. Would they look like her, or him, tall and lank
and pale?

She scratched
her arms, which came out in red stripes from nail marks. Damn, she
was so itchy. There must have been something in the last meal that
caused hives. Come to think of it, her last meal had been ages ago
and she had consumed nothing except that vile blue drink with Daya.
Good. She was allergic to it.

Iztho stared
at her. Drops of rain ran down his face and glistened in his hair
like diamonds. “Go and get changed. You’ll get sick if you stand
out here wet. Put on your pink dress. I would like to see it on
you.”

*     *     *

Jessica spent
a long time in the bathroom, trying out all the jars on the shelf
for something that would wash away Daya’s smell. The bottles
contained powder, or tonic, or little nodules and with every
container she opened, her hands trembled more. She didn’t know what
she was doing. There was no way that she would just go back home
and everything would be fine. Her former life no longer had a
purpose. She’d live in constant fear that Daya would reveal the
truth.

And then
Daya’s assumptions . . . if he truly knew so much about
her, he should also know about that visit to a specialist with her
mother, a thin man with glasses who had, while looking only at his
papers, assured her that her blood lacked female hormones.

I
couldn’t give him any children, even if I wanted to.

Did she want
to? Of course she didn’t.

No, that
was bullshit, talked into her head by feminist teachers at school
who insisted that all girls
should
want
a career, and that family was less important. OK, so she could have
all the careers in the world; she was smart enough to get into any
course she wanted. But without purpose, school bored her. Daya had
said that the two of them were more human than anyone else alive.
The human mind was conditioned to want most what it couldn’t have,
and what she wanted most was family.

The bathroom
blurred before her eyes. Some goop from a bottle ran from her hand,
dripping down her leg. Jessica sank down into the water and
cried.

Anmi.
Daya’s
voice was clear as if he sat next to her.

Jessica didn’t
reply.

Where
are you?

Again, she
made no reply.

I need
you. I’m . . . sorry.

Well, he
needed to come up with a better apology than that.
I need you.
What about her?

I love
you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened either. I lost
control.

Lost
control of your drinking, more like.

Can I
come to see you?

No!

Look,
you need to get out of here. There’s something afoot in the city.
It looks like the Mirani army are using the Bachelor festival as
cover for some activity. I’m afraid they want to bust you
out.

Don’t
give me any of that bullshit. I’m in safe hands.

With
that Mirani rescuer of yours?

Iztho? A
chill went through her.
Stop seeing threats where there are none. I’ve been safe
here.

But
you’ve seen what the Mirani did to me?

Again, that
chill of doubt. Was the snowy city that was Iztho’s home the same
place where Daya had been tortured?

But no, he was
diverting attention away from the problem. She was with another man
and he was jealous. Simple as that.

Just
stop bothering me.

With that, she
cut off her end of the communication. And stared.

There was no
water in the bath. The water, steaming and bubbling, arced in
web-like strands from one side of the bathroom to the other. Just a
second, and then the whole construction collapsed. Jessica gave a
squeal and curled up in the bath. She only just managed to brace
herself for the scalding of near-boiling water.

What the
fuck?

Trembling, she
clambered out of the bath and mopped up the mess with a cloth. Her
body had gone berserk. Dangerous, deadly. No wonder Ivedra had been
locked up all of her short life. No wonder an army was after
Daya.

What
does that mean to me? That I should be locked up like the criminal
I am?

Stephen’s
death was an accident.

What if
I, like Daya, can’t always control accidents?

She’d watched
him kill the soldier. The man had been trying to kill him just as
Stephen had been trying to rape her, but that didn’t make it all
right.

In her room,
the pink dress hung over a chair. She slipped it over her head and
examined herself in the mirrored stone next to the door. She didn’t
like the deep magenta as much as the blue, but the colour
accentuated her eyes. Still, she didn’t quite look as good as she
had in the dressmaker’s shop. For one she didn’t know how to roll
her hair into a bun and had no make-up.

Secondly, her
guilt marred her looks. No matter how much she prettied up the
outside, she was still a murderer.

No
longer an innocent girl. Face the truth, Jess: you’re a monster.
You’ve always known that.

There was a
knock on the door.

She went to
open it. Iztho stood there, carrying a jug, the strap of his lute
case slung over his shoulder. “I thought you might want some
company, Lady.”

“Yes, thank
you.” Anything to get away from those horrible thoughts.

He came into
the room and put the carafe on the table. Familiar, like he
belonged here. He felt like such a steady presence, not taken with
nonsense and speculation.

While she
brought over the glasses, he unpacked the instrument. Soft tones
drifted through the room. He sat down on a chair, his back to the
window so his silver hair glistened in the light. He poured the
drinks, his blue eyes meeting hers as he passed her the cup.

Jessica
settled on the couch, cradling her cup against her chest. Damn that
blush! “If we leave from here, where are we going for this
. . . training I need?”

That was
Daya asking the question.
Get out of my head, you creep.

“My home city
of Miran.”

See,
there you have it.
His voice sounded sarcastic.

Shut
up.

Iztho went on,
oblivious. “You will like it there. Miran is a breath of fresh air.
Clean, cool and strong. We value knowledge and learning.” Iztho
strummed a chord and played sweet lilting notes while he spoke.

“Where will I
stay?”

That intense
look again. “I live with my family in the noble quarter of the
city. I want you to stay at my house. I hope that would not be
viewed as inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Jessica wiped furiously at her cheeks. She had to
be almost glowing in the dark.

He played a
few more chords before answering. “In the Mirani nobility, there
are many rules. In Trading families, there are even more. For an
heir of a Trading family—the oldest son of the oldest son.” A soft
melody flowed from the strings, slow and haunting. Jessica sipped
from her cup, closing her eyes to listen. Suddenly, Iztho played a
few angry, discordant notes. She opened her eyes, shocked, but he
sat bent over the instrument and continued with the gentle
song.

The water in the river
flows down

But my heart wants to
go up until

The weight of the
water crushes

My desire to be
free

He stopped playing to
empty his drink; he slammed the cup on the table.

Jessica
whispered, “Iztho?”

His shoulders
went up and down with a deep breath. He slouched over the lute, not
looking at her.

Finally, he
spoke. “Trading is a hard business. There is no time to relax. The
reputation of the family has to be held up. My father was a Trader,
and his father before that, and so on, all the way back to the
foundation of the Trader Guild.” He played a few more notes,
staring at the table.

Jessica
whispered, “But you’d love to play music instead?” She picked up
the carafe to refill his cup.

“I’ve always
been different. From my brothers, from my
nephews . . .”

How Jessica
could relate to that. She passed him the newly-filled cup, seeing
only his crystal-blue eyes. “I love your music.”

God, her arms
itched, her chest burned and the feeling now crept from her palms
to the soft skin on the underside of her forearms. She scratched
and scratched.

A
long-fingered hand came into her field of vision and grabbed her
wrist. His deep voice rumbled, “Don’t. You’ll make it worse.”