Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [153]
There was news, in the zenana; the Bhodistani woman was dead. One of the Mahrkagir's men—the wolves of Angra Mainyu, Tizrav had called them—had made a wager that given a choice between the point of a dagger and a morsel of food, the woman would eat. The Mahrkagirhad taken the wager. She never flinched as the Drujani dagger pierced her heart.
It passed for entertainment, in the festal hall, and the Mahrkagir was happy.
I heard, too, other news; news of the D'Angeline lordling who never smiled, whose beauty shone like a star in the cold, dark halls of Dar-śanga. In the zenana, Joscelin was already coveted. It afforded me a certain bleak amusement. Otherwise, I felt nothing.
Rushad stole cat-footed to my couch, bringing a gift hidden in his right hand. "See?" he said, opening it to reveal a single pellet, dark and resinous. "Opium! If you take it by mouth, they say, the effect lasts longer, much longer, and the . . . the pain is not so great, it is as if it were happening in a dream."
"I see," I smiled and shook my head, closing his hands over his treasure. "You are kind, Rushad, but it is not needful. Keep it."
He looked at me with dismay. "The Mahrkagir has spoken of you. He will send for you tonight; I know it, everyone knows it!"
"I know." I frowned, listening to the sounds of the zenana. Someone sighed, someone cried out, the door to the privy closet closed with a bang. I thought I had heard a voice murmuring sleepily in Hellene, Lypiphera. Pain-bearer. It was my imagination, like as not. "I know, Rushad. But I cannot afford the luxury of waking dreams."
He went away disheartened. In truth, I was not sure of the wisdom of my choice. Of a surety, I had need of my wits . . . and yet. I had no plan; I had not even located Imriel de la Courcel. There was naught I could do. Even if I were able to speak with Joscelin—and I dared not risk it so soon—what would I tell him? That the Akkadian eunuchs despised their master and took bribes willingly? It was something, but not much. No more than he could learn on his own. Mayhap it would have been wiser to meet the Mahrkagir wrapped in a cocoon of dreams.
Or not.
I watched a Carthaginian woman draw lovingly at the mouthpiece of a water-pipe, limbs disposed in languor. Those who entered the world of dreams emerged only by force. It seemed a kindness, yes. Until the Mahrkagir takes it away. Then they will suffer fresh torments and wish anew to die.
I would have reason enough. No need to seek further.
So I waited in hollow despair, until the latticed doors opened and Nariman the Chief Eunuch conferred with the Drujani guards. The hushed and waiting silence fell as he returned. His pursed red lips quivered, and there was malice in his gaze as one plump hand rose, pointing first at me.
Even though I had expected it, my heart skipped a beat.
No one wept for me, as they had for the others summoned last night. Well and so; I was Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and I needed no one's pity. I rose from my couch with dignity, inclining my head to the Akkadian escorts. "Khannat," I murmured in their tongue, taking one's arm; thank you. I felt his body stiffen, rigid with unnamed emotion, and then he bowed his head once, briefly.
Five others were chosen, and a boy, the little Menekhetan who'd been summoned last night. He was still alive, his eyes more sunken and hollow than any child's ought to be. This time, the Menekhetan women on his carpeted island merely keened, low and agonized.
Thus were we summoned.
Our Drujani guards affected a careless demeanor, clanking in armor, talking over us as we ascended the narrow stair. I heard beneath their tone an undercurrent of excitement and knew why. I was something new; something different. My Akkadian escort's eyes gleamed in the darkness, mouth fixed in a grimace. At the top of the stair, we waited, while each one of us was searched for weapons.