Steles of the Sky (33 page)

Between those torchères was a narrow, waist-tall reading table, its mahogany surface black with age. As they came closer, Ümmühan could see that it was also black with aged silver; the whole of the surface had been inlaid with verses from the writings of the Prophet. Upon it rested an embroidered silk scarf, gold-fringed and shining, covering something rectangular that might have been mysterious, anywhere but a library.

Ümmühan did not think that in this case, it would prove to be a box.

Her fingers itched to uncover it, but she waited. The Hasitani gestured her to take a seat on one of the strange tall backless chairs. She did, her slippers kicking above the floor until she hit on the strategy of hooking her heels on a rung.

The Hasitana reached out gently and drew the cover from the book. Ümmühan caught her breath in pleasure.

The cover over the boards was silk, too, figured with expert embroidery. It might have been white once, but if it had been, age had mellowed it to the color of fresh cream. As Ümmühan tucked her fingers under her hips to keep from grabbing at it like an excited child, the research sister turned the book to face her and opened it with clean, reverent hands.

Ümmühan gasped aloud.

“You’ve heard of this book,” the research sister said with a smile.

“Oh, yes,” said Ümmühan. “I have heard of this book. Rumors of its existence, at least, though I had scoffed at them.”

“Of course.” The research sister’s amusement showed around her veil, leading Ümmühan ever closer to the conclusion that here was a kindred spirit. “The world is full of rumors of magical artifacts that have vanished in antiquity, untraceably, and that never seem to come to light again.”

Ümmühan permitted herself a real, delighted laugh, something no man had ever heard from her. For men, she reserved her delicate and disingenuous giggles. This laugh was the truth, and it rang about them clear and loud and a little rough at the edges. “Is it complete?”

Silently, the research sister nodded.

A complete copy of the Prophet Ysmat’s writings, and her life and the lives of her disciples as put down by those who had known them: such a thing was rare enough in its own right. This one, however, had been transcribed with gold ink onto vellum dyed with indigo. The Scholar-God’s sacred colors of white, indigo, and gold shone from every page. Each word of the book was a perfect invocation to the Scholar-God in the Prophet’s own words. It might be one of the most powerful protective talismans the world had ever known. It was certainly the most sacred thing Ümmühan herself had ever seen.

“There are some that say one of the scribes who penned it was Ysmat herself,” the research sister said. “But there is no provenance for that, alas, and it’s just a little too good to be true. Especially as the binding seems to be original, and uses some techniques that were not available until the second century.” When Ysmat of the Beads had been over a hundred years martyred, she did not need to say.

“Nevertheless,” Ümmühan breathed. “It is a holy thing.”

An invisible aura of clean comfort filled the library as the book sat open before them. Confronted by that book, Ümmühan had the inexpressibly
safe
sensation of sitting in her mother’s kitchen, cross-legged on the clean floor, eating sweet cakes off of leaves and sipping milky tea.

She would have closed her eyes to bask, but that would have meant losing sight of the book.

“The abbess,” said the research sister, “wishes to reward you for your sacrifice and your service to the Sisterhood. She had expressed a desire that you be allowed to read a page of your choice, Ümmühan.”

The room seemed to spin as Ümmühan’s breath shortened. Her veil stuck to her open mouth and nostrils. She clawed at it, giving herself air at the expense of dignity. “Any page?”

The research sister nodded. “If you would like a moment to think—”

To think! To disbelieve. A moment in which this gift might vanish like the impossibility it was. A moment in which Ümmühan might be struck dead for her presumption.

I have been a good and dutiful daughter of the Scholar-God,
she told herself.
I have done what I have done in Her name, and only in Her name. This is freely offered. I am not giving myself airs.

“The Lay of Istajama,” she said.

Gently, the research sister turned the pages. She seemed to know approximately where in the book the story fell and slowed as she approached it. At last, she stopped.

“Here,” she said. With her finger she marked the beginning of the passage.

Ümmühan at first read silently, but the words were so beautiful she could not help but pronounce them aloud. In her best stage voice, she told the version of the life of the woman history knew only as The Mute—the slave poetess who had been a friend and ally of the Prophet, and who had gone before the King of Asmaracanda to plead for the Prophet’s life. She had not been treated kindly, as was too often the lot of women, but her eloquence was such that though the king had ordered his men to abuse her body, he had spared her life. He had made her his own possession, for the beauty of her speech, and eventually he had taken her to his bed—after the execution of Ysmat for what was then termed blasphemy.

But the Mute’s story did not end there. Because her eloquence was such that in due time she had converted the king to Ysmat’s word, and the proper understanding of the Scholar-God’s will and intentions. And, eventually, through him had the teachings of the prophet he had martyred spread to every land.

Ümmühan read through it twice, swept with pity and outrage and reverence for her ancient colleague and her courage and her suffering. When she raised her head, her veil wet upon her cheeks, she found the research sister regarding her.

“I thought you might want that one,” the woman said.

Ümmühan laughed through the tears. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“It was earned,” the woman said. “Now, when you have collected yourself, tell me what information you came here seeking.”

Ümmühan swallowed. She dried her eyes on the edge of her veil and gathered herself. Gently, regretfully, she closed the indigo book and allowed the research sister to cover it again.

“I have learned the name of a djinn,” she said. “I wish to have it recorded in the library, and see if we can learn which djinn he is.”

The research sister gave her a satisfied nod. “That’s a useful thing to know,” she said. “Let’s see. The books would be over here.”

She scampered up the ladder like a monkey playing in a date palm. She slid back down without touching a rung, one-handed because the other arm was balancing a pile of books against her chest. Ümmühan’s heart almost choked her, but the research sister tossed her veils with satisfaction as her sandals barely thumped against the floor. She spread books on the table and opened them, skimming for content before pushing them under Ümmühan’s nose. Ümmühan could barely read fast enough to keep up with her, and she didn’t even have to
find
the relevant passages.

She nibbled her lip and squinted at the cramped, archaic letters, word-forms that had changed immensely over the last few hundred years. At last, one turn of phrase from a quoted conversation and the line of a quick, elegant pen-sketch caught her eye. She turned the book again and offered it to the research sister. “What do you make of this?”

The research sister read thoughtfully, brow furrowing, more than once. Finally, she said, “What makes you think this is your djinn?”

Ümmühan had to think about it. “The voice,” she said, having contemplated it. “The tone of archness. He’s a clever one and loves to fence. And there, the shape of the jaw and nose—do they wear the same faces, down the centuries?”

“If they do, it is something new we have learned because of you.” With careful, precise pen strokes, the research sister made a note in the wide margin of the book. She wrote Ümmühan’s name, and that she was a priestess of the Women’s Rite. Then, the ink dulling on the nib, she paused with the pen half-extended to Ümmühan and said, “Are you sure?”

Ümmühan stared at the pen. Then she lowered her veil, took the quill, dipped it, and carefully wrote the seventeen syllables of the djinn’s name. The pen almost dripped; she set it hastily down in the ink pot and let her hands shake while the research sister efficiently and easily sanded the page to set their marginalia.

They were silent for a moment, the research sister busy at her archival tasks and Ümmühan shaken with the import of what she had just done.

“Well, congratulations,” said the research sister. “You’ve managed to uncover the name of the djinn that made the Sorcerer-Prince the greatest power in all the world, and then arranged for his destruction.”

Ümmühan swallowed. “Well. I guess that explains how al-Sepehr knew his name.”

*   *   *

After the library, Ümmühan was summoned to dinner with the abbess. They ate well: a nourishing oven-braised stew of lamb and herbs in gravy thickened with lentils and onions, stone-baked flatbread to use as scoops, sliced plums and oranges purple as bruised flesh. After the first few moments of contented chewing, Ümmühan sipped honeyed tea with mint and said, “It is good that this abbey was saved from the fires.”

“Prayer or the caprice of the winds,” the abbess replied. “Who can say? And speaking of caprice … we are under a Rahazeen sky, Ümmühan. You must be careful, as must all the Hasitani and all those who celebrate the Women’s Rite.”

“A Rahazeen caliph may not be as permissive as the Falzeen Uthmans were, you mean.”

Decorously, the abbess addressed herself to her bread. It was crisp on the outside, chewy within, rich with oil and garlic. It scarcely needed the lamb. When she had swallowed, she gave a satisfied breath and said, “Sacred or not, the Rahazeen can be ugly toward women. Especially learned women. Especially the Nameless, and given your report, we must accept that Kara Mehmed is allied with them…”

Ümmühan had her own theological theories about that, mostly revolving around the Nameless feeling insecure in the prophet status of their patron, the Sorcerer-Prince Sepehr al-Rach
ī
d, and thus feeling the need to undermine the sacredness of Ysmat of the Beads and by extension, all women.

She said, “You’ve heard of the skinned bodies, then?”

The abbess nodded.

“Do you think then, that the Sorcerer-Prince has returned?”

The abbess swirled her tea in its gold-chased ruby glass and sighed. “It may not matter if he has already returned, if enough people can be made to believe he has.”

Ümmühan felt her brow wrinkle, and hastened to smooth it. Wrinkles were the courtesan’s most mortal enemy. “Abbess?”

“Belief,” the abbess said. “That in itself could give the Nameless the power to raise their prophet. And I do not see that ending well for any of us, my brilliant child.”

A silence followed, into which they both stared. Finally, the abbess turned to Ümmühan and said, “Get close to this Nameless warlord if you can. Do what you can to prevent this. In the service of Ysmat of the Beads, and of the Scholar-God.”

*   *   *

Yangchen awakened to silence, and thought at first that the storm had passed. The darkness was utter and still. The brazier had died, but the wagon remained warm—warm enough, at least, that her breath didn’t mist when she poked her face out of the blankets—if perhaps not exactly
cozy.

It was not until she heard Anil-la stirring and sitting, somewhere in the darkness on the other side of the wagon, that she realized how unnatural the hush really was. Even in the night, she should have heard the sounds of the encampment—the rattle of harness, the footsteps of the guards, the noises that animals made as they greeted one another or argued in the darkness. There was nothing. All that reached her ears were the breathing of Tsechen, Anil-la, and the ladies—and the occasional soft creaking of the wooden walls.

And she did not think that it was night. In fact, she felt well-rested, as if she had slept her fill, for the first time since the caravan left Tsarepheth.

As if a bolt of electricity had jolted her upright, Yangchen found herself on her feet. “Doctor Anil, light!” she said.

A moment later, his violet witchlights shimmered into existence, suffusing the wagon with a warm, consoling glow. All around, Tsechen and the women were sitting up, pulling blankets to their chests. As Anil-la gazed at her, Yangchen was aware of her chest heaving, her undressed hair pulling from its loose braid.

“Where’s Namri?”

“He is well, Dowager,” said the nurse.

“We’re snowed under,” Yangchen said.

Anil opened his mouth, then shut it again and stepped up onto a chest against the wall. He unlatched one of the high, narrow windows and tried to push it out; it jammed after a handspan, and white powder shifted in through the crack. It piled on the floorboards and quickly melted into puddles.

He said, “It’s a good thing the brazier went out, or we’d all be dead.”

Yangchen almost told him that she and Tsechen had cleared the vents, but thought better of it. Wizards rarely liked to be reminded of their failings. And Tsechen, with a glance in her direction, spoke first.

“It’d be a peaceful death,” Tsechen said dryly. When Yangchen shot her a
look,
mouth drawn up as if with a purse string, she smirked. “Well, it would have been.”

“More peaceful than surviving,” Yangchen answered.

“Most deaths are.” Anil-la heaved again. There was a creak of compacting snow, but the window would not open further. “Roof,” he said.

There was a hatch, with slats nailed to the wall below it to serve as a ladder. It led to the rooftop cargo deck. As he put a boot on the first slat, Yangchen asked, “And if that doesn’t work?”

“I’m a wizard,” he said.

But it worked. He heaved the hatch up and endured the deluge of snow sifting on his hair and shoulders. Following a dazzle of painful light, cold fell into the wagon like an invisible waterfall. Namri began to wail, and the nurse coddled and jiggled him, making humming coos that only served to intensify his screaming. Yangchen gasped and threw her arms up across her breasts, hugging her own shoulders. The ladies in waiting did likewise. Tsechen bent down and grabbed bedding, which she threw around the women’s shoulders before approaching Yangchen with a robe.