Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [89]
Overhead, the constellations drew pictures in the sky for her, patterns that the Moth-kinden had names for back when the Wasps had barely grasped the skill of metalwork, and perhaps those names had been coined here, originally, from the wisdom of the Masters of Khanaphes.
Before she had changed, before Uctebri’s rituals and her brother’s death, she had seen only points of light up there. Now she saw great forms striding across the sky, and she knew that the same forms had been known to the Inapt peoples of the world since the start of time.
Her guards had not seen her come out to stand here, and her staff believed her asleep in her chamber. It was a simple piece of misdirection to have them look elsewhere as she passed. In all the embassy, only one knew that she had departed it, and he had followed, his footsteps dragging softly on the stone flags. That he had stepped outside would not be remarked on. He was an old slave, for all his prestigious influence, and few cared where old slaves chose to walk, so long as they were present to fulfil their duties later.
‘Gjegevey,’ she said.
‘Your, mmm, Imperial Majesty,’ came his quiet voice. She sensed the presence of the tall, hunchbacked Woodlouse-kinden at her shoulder.
‘It must be tonight,’ she said. ‘The call is too strong, and I feel that if I let another dawn pass me by, then I will fail in some test. Or they will think me afraid. I am not afraid, Gjegevey.’
‘I am sure you are not, although were I, hmm, in your position, I would fear for my very being,’ he said diplomatically.
She turned then and took his hand, feeling it lean and angular with bone, his skin dry and smooth, his Art making it feel harder than skin should. He had gone still, knowing that Empresses did not touch slaves, or at least not slaves who wished to live.
‘Do not fear me, Gjegevey.’
He said nothing, but when she looked across to the archway leading from the Place of Foreigners to the square before the Scriptora, his eyes followed hers.
‘This is not wise,’ he whispered.
‘I came here for no other reason. The old powers of this place must respect me, must recognize me, and they shall never do that if I slink away like a whipped slave. I will go to them tonight. I cannot take my guards or my servants, my spymasters or my artificers. None of these can understand, and likely they would die. There is only one of my retinue who might be of use to me in penetrating those dark tombs.’
He met her gaze, but only for a moment before he lowered his eyes. ‘Surely your, ahm, Mantis-kinden . . .’
‘Not there, Gjegevey. Not in that place. Faced with what we shall find there, I do not know if my bodyguards would remain true to me. Only you shall accompany me.’
‘You ask a great deal of your slave, ah, Majesty.’ For a moment his withered face was screwed up, lines upon lines, but then he mastered himself. ‘Well, it has been many centuries since one of my kind went to visit the Masters of Khanaphes, even assuming the old stories are true. I shall be your guardsman and your servant and your, mm, intelligencer on this journey, Majesty, and should we ever see the sky again I shall be thankful.’
‘Then follow me,’ she said imperiously, and strode off towards the arch that linked the Place of Foreigners with the government of Khanaphes. The night, as well as her own skills, would prevent any Apt eyes from seeing her. Her soldiers kept a close lookout, but of all things, they did not expect to see their Empress walking past in a white gown, all alone save for her aged