Chapter Thirty-Five #2
Titus’s fists clench. Rage radiates from his tensed body. He has become fire itself, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he burned
this whole place down. Or worse, turned into the cat and tore Mehuda to shreds.
To give him an extra moment to consider and find some self-control, I interject with, “Titus is a member of this household.
He has a right to know what is happening.”
Mehuda nods vigorously. “The young prince has every right. But it cannot be told.”
He stares straight into my eyes, as if willing me to an understanding.
It cannot be told.
Not that he won’t tell. He can’t tell.
“Master Mehuda,” I say carefully. “Are you incapable of giving us the information we need?”
His giant grin is back in a flash. “Such wit! Such intelligence!”
Titus’s rage deflates like air pushed from a bellows. “Oh,” he says. “Ooohh.”
“Master Mehuda would not even be here to not tell you,” the tailor says, “except for the fact that . . .” His face screws up with effort.
“The . . . no, that word won’t work. His .
. . no, the name cannot be said. The Great One!
Yes, the Great One didn’t realize a tailor could be important.
Therefore, the tailor was not subject to the full brunt of the Great One’s . . . blessings.”
Titus and I lock gazes, and I remember our earlier conversation. “A sway,” I say.
“A sway,” he agrees. “One powerful enough to compel a whole household.”
“Another candidate,” I say.
Titus’s frown is deep. “He’s not here to take over the city. He’s here to kill Syla and me.”
“More than that,” I add. “He’s after your gauntlets and horn. This is his last chance to get them.” Which means he’s using
the annual ball to draw Titus and Syla out into the open.
Master Mehuda claps his hands, delighted. “Oh, oh, everyone is so glad, so glad, that you both are here!”
“Has the potentat been swayed?” Titus asks him.
“Her Shining Exaltedness is the first in everything!” Mehuda says.
I ask, “What about the legatat?”
Mehuda wrinkles his nose as he worries over specific words, figuring how to say what he wants.
Finally he says, “Not . . . permanent.”
“So she was swayed but now she’s not?” I ask.
“Permanent . . . I can say permanent! Permanence. Permanancer. Oh, the Great One did not think to include that word in his
blessing! The Great One used a permanancer at first. But no longer. She escaped, sun and moons bless her.”
Titus and I exchange another look. Is it possible? Permanancy is a rare Gift. I’d thought the girl we met on the road was one of the river refugees, but maybe she had just escaped the Great One.
Mehuda continues, “The blessings have faded, you see. He renews them constantly, but at great effort and cost. It is hard
to keep up so many wonderful blessings without a permanancer.” He draws near enough to me that I can smell the orange nectar
on his breath. “Do you see, mountain girl? We have a chance.”
His words may be cheerful, his mouth wide with a determined grin, but tears leak from his eyes and sweat continues to pour
from his forehead. What has it cost him to fight this persuasion and ask for help?
“What about Syla?” Titus says. “Is she all right?”
“It is not known.”
“You don’t even know if she’s all right?”
Master Mehuda shakes his head. “It is not known,” he repeats.
Titus’s face is turning dark again.
I say, “Master Mehuda, I know this is difficult for you. Is there anything at all you can tell us about Syla? Please try.”
The tailor opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He tries again and manages, “No one has laid eyes on . . . the little
one . . . in many days.”
Titus steps toward him so fast that Mehuda’s grin wavers. “You mean she’s missing? Did she escape, like the permanancer?”
“Easy,” I say to Titus, as though calming a recalcitrant horse. “Give him a moment.”
Titus wisely takes a step back.
The tailor says, “No eyes on her. But not gone.” He tries a word, fails, and tries again. “The little one must eat. Leftovers left for her. Gone in the morning. Good appetite!”
“She’s in hiding!” Titus says. “But still in the palace?”
Mehuda nods vigorously. “So wise, my prince. So wise. The little one waits for the wise prince to return.”
Tension melts away from Titus’s shoulders. “That means she has what we need. She came through. Of course she did. She’s Syla.”
“Do you know where she’s hiding?” I ask.
“I have a good idea,” Titus says. “We used to—”
“Do not say, do not say!” Mehuda shrieks, covering his ears. “The Great One might ask questions!”
“I will not say,” Titus assures him.
“Find the little one,” the tailor orders. “Then come for your final fitting when Sulestra says goodnight. You will be wardrobed
in Her Shining Exaltedness’s dressing room.”
I say, “We’re still going to the Sundereve Ball?”
“It is the only way,” Mehuda says, as though reading our minds.
“The only way to do what, exactly?” I ask.
Mehuda opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He tries again, fails. Finally he settles for repeating, “Find the little
one. It is the only way.”
“How will we get to the dressing room?” Titus asks.
“With silence!” He jabs a finger upward for emphasis. “And stealth! The north wing will remain mostly clear today. Master
Mehuda has seen to it. A few cleaning boys will be no bother.”
Titus is nodding. “We’ll be there at sunset.”
“My prince and his maiden,” the tailor says, his grin as fixed and wide as a skeleton’s. “You will help us, yes?”
“Master Mehuda,” I say gently. “We will do everything we can.”
“Absolutely everything,” Titus agrees.
Mehuda’s smile finally slips. It’s as though his legs betray him, and he crashes onto the torn settee like a man exhausted
from battle. He slumps over, buries his face and beard tusks in his hands, and weeps.
The corridors are eerily silent as we hurry through the north wing of the palace. Torch flames whisper as we pass, our footfalls
muffled by long, thick rugs. Titus leads the way with confidence, but he keeps a hand on the dagger at his waist.
We turn a corner and encounter a man with a bucket and mop, dressed in a servant’s uniform. The rug in this hallway is rolled
up while the “cleaning boy” scrubs the stone beneath. He gives us a single measured look, then puts his head down and goes
back to work.
Two turns later, we reach a set of double doors with heavy iron hinges. The doors are carved from reddish-brown wood and polished
to display the richest swirling grain I’ve ever seen.
Titus doesn’t bother knocking, but simply pushes them open and cautiously enters.
“There’s no one here,” he says, and gestures for me to come inside. He closes the door behind us.
We’re in a bedroom the size of a ballroom, lush with rugs and wall tapestries. A giant four-poster bed is draped in shimmering ivory silk. Directly above, the high ceiling is a glorious fresco, depicting the sun and moons pathing across a sky that goes from daylight blue to deep midnight.
A writing desk and chair, in the same rich wood as the door, faces a floor-to-ceiling window looking north over the Edge of
the World. Potted palm trees frame the window on either side.
I would get nothing done at that desk. I would just bask in the view of sunlit nothingness during the day, moonlit infinity
at night.
“This is a bedroom fit for a potentat,” I whisper reverently.
Titus chuckles. “Yes, these are her rooms.”
“And they were just open? Unguarded?”
“Mehuda’s doing, I’m sure. This way.”
He leads me beyond the window to a thick velvet curtain of royal purple, which he pushes aside to reveal another room.
It’s a giant octagonal space with shelves for laid-out gowns and all manner and color of shoes. One wall displays jewelry
glittering with gems, another hosts a large vanity and cushioned stool for applying cosmetics. Two long mirrors face each
other on the only empty walls. I stare at the locked chest resting at the foot of one mirror.
“This way,” Titus says, and he walks right up to a mirror and disappears.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
“It’s an illusion wall,” comes his voice. “You can walk right through it.”
I approach cautiously. My nose is a hairsbreadth away from itself when I feel the tiniest feather of air, like I’m staring into an open space.
I step forward, and the dressing room disappears.
I’m facing the wall of a dark tunnel carved into stone.
To my left, the tunnel stretches into endless darkness.
To my right, it slopes downward into slightly brighter gloom.
“The potentat is a lightbender,” Titus explains. “She can’t hold an illusion forever, but with the help of an augment and
a permanancer, she was able to create a few of these little secrets.”
“Where does this tunnel go?”
“That way leads to an egress in the thieves’ quarter,” he says, pointing into the darkness. “But this way leads to the Edge.
Syla will be there, waiting for me.”
He heads into the brightening gloom, and I follow. The tunnel slopes gradually downward, then steeply downward. A tiny rivulet
of water accompanies us, tracing the edge of the floor. Rust-colored lichen creeps up the wall on that side.
The air grows warmer, less musty. We turn a corner and find a crossbow pointed at us. The holder is a small silhouette, backlit
by the tunnel’s opening to the bright Edge of the World.