“Psamag had a lurid reputation,” said Sethennai. “Killing prisoners, massacring civilians, burning villages, heads on stakes—everything rumour can devise, and most of it true—although I do not think it was true that he had an elite force of undead soldiers as his personal bodyguard. Eventually the clan-liege of Torosad found him to be a liability. So he was banished, and finding, as one does, that he had a set of skills for which people were prepared to pay him, he became a mercenary. If you were rich, Psamag became the man you needed for the nasty jobs, the things you didn’t want to admit to your civilised friends. So, of course, he was the man Olthaaros needed to help get rid of me.”
“Still don’t see why I couldn’t pretend to work for him.”
“Because he’s smart,” said Sethennai. “He’s wilier than Olthaaros. And if he caught you it wouldn’t be a clean death.”
“But I’m still going to be sneaking into his fortress,” said Csorwe.
“As a servant you’ll probably never run into him. Everyone will think you’re harmless, and you can explore the fortress as much as you like if you pretend you’re running errands.”
Csorwe sighed. He was right, of course, as much as she would have liked to bring her sword. “Can I take a knife?”
“If you must,” he said. “But do not underestimate Psamag. The only reason he’s still here is that he feels Olthaaros owes him more money. I have to admit it does bring me some joy to know that Olthaaros has found it impossible to get rid of him. Psamag describes it as safeguarding his investment. He’s dangerous, and he has a long memory. The best thing you can do is to stay out of his way as much as you possibly can.”
* * *
Three days later, Csorwe made the trek across the Speechless Sea to the walls of Tlaanthothe. When it got dark she slept under the stars in a rock crevice, like a scorpion.
The fortress in the wall was constructed around an enormous door, as heavy, ugly, and impenetrable as the wall itself, though perforated at the base with several doors of more reasonable size. The doors were staffed at all hours by armed guards, who checked the passports and permits of those who hoped to pass through, in wagons or on foot.
The traffic approaching the city was constant and slow. The queue of wagons, carriages, cattle, and small mazeships tailed back into the desert for nearly a mile, and the roadside was dotted with stalls selling ironwort tea and hot skewers to the travellers.
Close up, the fortress itself was a jagged mass of stone protruding from the desert. It looked older, as though the earth had coughed up a clot of crenellated rock that had stuck in its throat. On top was the Great Gate of Tlaanthothe, like an emerald on top of an incredibly ugly jewel box, where the big ships came in.
Csorwe unfolded herself from her crevice and dropped lightly from ledge to slope to the surface of the road. It was early morning, still half dark. She slipped into the queue close to the door, behind a large covered wagon bearing the brandmark of a Qarsazhi weaving company.
She watched as the wagoners exchanged paperwork with the fortress guards. Then there came a painful groan as one of the smaller doors creaked open. The wagon passed inside and the gates slammed shut.
Csorwe greeted the fortress guards with false brightness. It was the first time she had spoken Tlaanthothei to anyone but Sethennai and she was self-conscious about her pronunciation.
They spent a worryingly long time inspecting her passport and letter of reference, but Sethennai had put some effort into forging these, and they must have been convincing enough to pass, because they handed them back to her.
“You need to take your coat off,” said one of the guards.
“What?” said Csorwe, instantly on guard. “Why?”
Under the lamb’s-leather coat she was wearing a plain knee-length tunic and sandals, suitable for her disguise as a servant. But underneath that she had a very serious knife strapped to her leg.
“We’re searching everyone who comes into the fortress,” he said. At least he didn’t sound sleazy about it. Maybe it was too early in the morning.
She took off the coat obediently and handed it over, stony-faced. One of them shook it and turned out the pockets, finding nothing. It was a good thing she had left all her travelling gear hidden up in the hills. Unless they’d find it suspicious that she didn’t have anything on her? How thoroughly were they going to search? Sethennai had been right. It had been a mistake to bring any kind of weapon. What should she say? Could she claim she’d been frightened of bandits on her journey?
She was so glazed that it took her a second to realise the guard was handing her coat back to her.
“You can go,” he said.
They waved her on through the smallest door. Beyond was an enormous wagonyard, full of people, pack animals, and vehicles. Nobody paid any attention to a servant girl. Csorwe’s nerves were frayed from her encounter with the guards, so she was glad not to be bothered.
She kept her head down and her eyes on the ground as she made for the kitchens. This was her own idea, and she was pleased with it. Any place as big as the fortress needed somebody to cook and wash up, and Csorwe had always been good at kitchen chores.
The kitchens were loud and very crowded. Csorwe made herself useful—fetching water or chopping garlic or taking a turn at the roasting spit. It was several hours before anyone realised she was not meant to be there.
“I’m new, sir,” she said, staring up into the folds of a pristine apron, and the thick moustache that loomed above it between a pair of narrow tusks.
The cook raised one eyebrow.
“New today,” she said. “I might have come to the wrong place.”
“Hm,” said the cook. “Maybe.”
“Please, sir,” she said, making her voice soft and plaintive. “They told me I’d find a job here.” She held out her false passport and a letter of recommendation from the alleged Dr. Pelthari.
The cook glanced at the melon that Csorwe had been seeding and slicing. She was handy with a knife, so this was neat work. Each slice was so fine that the flesh of the melon was translucent, like a wafer of ice. He looked around the kitchen, one side of his moustache twisting up as he chewed his lip.
“Well, heaven knows we could use another pair of hands. Fine.” He took her papers away and handed them off to someone, and that was the last she heard of them.
She sliced melons for the rest of the day, and when the sun set, she followed a group of the other girls to their bunkroom.
“New, are you?” one of them said, resigned but not unkind. Most of the kitchen staff here were Tlaanthothei or Oshaaru, but this was a Qarsazhi-looking girl, slight and pretty, with coppery skin and very straight black hair in a long braid. “I’m Taymiri. Guess I’d better show you where to get sheets and things.”
Taymiri showed her to a spare bunk. Csorwe didn’t say much, suddenly fearful. Her plan was flimsy at best. It was only a matter of time before somebody realised she wasn’t who she said she was, and that she wasn’t meant to be there.
“You’re quiet, aren’t you?” said Taymiri. “Homesick, I expect. It’s not so bad here once you get used to it. I’ll show you ’round tomorrow.”
Csorwe lay awake in her bunk. She had got used to the sound of Grey Hook at night. The fortress was different: footsteps, echoes, chains, and the rumblings of great mechanisms.