Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [171]
"So he would not be punished," I said.
Uru-Azag's eyes glittered. Of anyone in the zenana, the Akkadians despised me the least, despising themselves more. Most of their companions, the soldiers of Zaggisi-Sin, had died—properly, in battle, albeit in the grip of a madness they could not comprehend. Those who remained, the attendants of the zenana, had chosen survival and paid the price of their manhood. "For a glimpse of sky?" he asked. "No. Not while Nariman is not present.”
"Khannat," I said, inclining my head. "Thank you." And I went to see Erich.
Usually, I spoke gently to him in Skaldic, cajoling. This time, I merely stood over him without speaking. For a long while, he ignored me. I waited until he bestirred himself and looked up at me, blue-grey eyes blinking through his lank hair. In the alcove, Imriel crouched and watched, wary as an animal.
"Help him," I said to Erich.
I didn't think he would . . . and then I heard a sound, as he did. It was Rushad, on the far side of the zenana, stuffing his knuckles against his mouth to stifle an outcry as the Skaldi rose. He moved slowly, Erich did. For how long—weeks? months?—he had risen only to use the privy, and that seldom more than once a day. Hours of immobility had stiffened his joints. For all that, he was a young man, and strong.
There was a silence in the zenana as he mounted the short stair. I held my breath. At a single word, it would be over. Someone would betray us; someone would fetch Nariman. And then we would be punished, all of us—Erich, Imriel and me, mayhap the Akkadians, too.
No one spoke. I felt curiosity prickling on my skin, a stirring of interest, life.
For the first time, I remembered something of Blessed Elua's golden presence.
The iron nails screeched as Erich set to and heaved, muscles straining across his shoulders, the tendons in his arms standing out. The lowest board came loose, clattering on the tiled step. A breath of cold air swept through, fresh and clean, smelling of the sea. I fought an urge to laugh, or weep. Erich leaned his head against the rough planks, resting, drawing in the air in great gulps. Imriel, flattened against the wall, stared at the gap in starved disbelief.
The second board, better nailed, came harder. Erich loosened one end, but the other was fixed tight and flush and his fingers could find no purchase. Silent as ever, he shook his head.
"Shamash!" The curse came from behind me; I turned to see Uru-Azag snatch the curved dagger all the Akkadians wore from his belt. "Lady," he said, handing it to me. "Give him this."
Erich worked the thin blade under the board, prying down on the hilt. The wood creaked, and the nails gave—only an inch, but enough to get his fingers beneath the board. His strength did the rest. And there was the gap, large enough to admit a person.
"Tell him to dig out the nail-holes," a woman's voice said in zenyan. I turned to see a Carthaginian woman, and several others watching behind her. "My father was a carpenter," she said. "If he widens the holes, we can put back the planks and Nariman will not see."
I nodded, relaying her instructions in Skaldic. Erich worked the point of the dagger into the holes, enlarging them. Despite the cold air, beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
"Like so," the Carthaginian said, going to help him. Together, they fit the upper board back in place. It held. The lower board proved more stubborn, two of the nails bent. "Here," she said, passing it back, miming pounding with a hammer. "Someone. The nails must be made straight."
Taking the board gingerly, two Ephesian women laid it on the floor and began beating at the bent nails with the heels of their slippers. By now, nearly half the zenana had crowded around to watch. A Chowati berated them, attempting to describe a better method. One of the Akkadian eunuchs came over to kneel beside them, drawing his dagger and pounding the nails with the hilt.
"Rushad," I murmured, slipping through