Crown of Smoke Read online

  No wonder she leans beside an open window, chewing on the end of a stylus as she reads a scroll. She somehow looks younger in the pose. I don’t even know how old she was when she gave birth to me – but back then she couldn’t have seen many more turns than I have now.

  Unless she’s the same as Sephine – ageless.

  When she notices me, she holds up a hand. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming so I commenced another experiment. You don’t want to breathe too many of these fumes. Let’s walk, shall we?”

  “Sure.” Suits me. I’d not exactly relished the idea of sitting face-to-face with her.

  She strides ahead, guiding me through the main corridor and up a spiral staircase carved from the stone structure itself. It’s windowless, and I lose track of how many circles we wind upwards, thankful for the way my legs have toughened up over the past moons.

  When we emerge outside, the sight sends my skin prickling.

  I had imagined the complex was big. But this is something else. The curving corridor indeed goes around in a complete loop – we only saw one part of the structure upon our approach. Now, we’re looking out over what I can only think of as a great, circular valley completely enclosed by the stone complex. A continuous balcony, wider than three of Father’s house joined together and edged by a low stone wall, forms a rim around the top, like the lip of a vast oil jar. The other side is so distant it fades into a blur, either from the lack of braziers on that edge, or because I still can’t see long stretches as I used to.

  Terraced plantations slope gently down to a centre point far below. The gardens remind me of the Eraz’s estate in their layout, though unlike in Aphorai, the terraces go down and down and down to where they disappear from view. I recognize some of the plants – saffron crocuses, yolketh shrubs with their fleshy leaves full of the bitterest juice, a line of purrath trees, their sweet blossom perfuming the night air. Many of the other plants are unknown to me.

  The Magister moves to the edge of the balcony and sits on the wall itself.

  I keep a pace or two back. “What exactly is this place?”

  “The Sanctuary serves many functions. It has been a stronghold for centuries for those who dedicate their lives to Asmudtag. A place where in hostile times we can retreat, watch and wait.”

  “Sephine spoke of Asmudtag. I thought the temple … wasn’t into that kind of thing.”

  “The temple itself indeed favours the Younger Gods. But the Scent Keepers retain the link to what came before. Asmudtag was the first deity, self-willed into existence. Like the Divine Primordial themself, the Order is dedicated to balance in all things. And we have always worked towards that end. I will continue to do so until the day I go to the sky. It is to this work I sacrificed so much. As did you.” She bows her head at the last.

  “Sacrificed?” I scoff. “You mean lost. Or are you forgetting I didn’t really have a choice in the matter?”

  Somehow, she maintains that still-water calm. “I wanted to show you this to try to help you understand. These gardens are the very reason I came here in the first place. Noticed how it’s particularly clement? Some believe the entire Sanctuary is imbued with the will of Asmudtag. Others would argue it’s the specific combinations of weather, altitude and the thermal springs at the base of the valley. Regardless, the conditions of the Sanctuary allow us to grow flora from a vast array of climates.”

  I push my hands into the sleeves of my robe. Mild, she says. Pff.

  “We have a specimen of every plant from the Empire. Some even from the warring lands beyond the Midlosh Sea. Since the Shadow Wars, the Sanctuary has, in essence, been the home of scentlore. Most recently it has been crucial to continuing my own – and Sephine’s – research into finding a cure for the Rot. I’m getting closer; my treatments are lasting longer and longer. I know from Luz’s reports you’ve seen the evidence for yourself. But we’re not there yet. If you stayed, I would hope you would become a part of that work. You have talent.”

  “Talent inherited from you?”

  “Perhaps. Aptitude tends to run in the female line. But it is unpredictable. Generations can be skipped. Whether you inherited it from me or not, you have more than proved yourself. Surviving the elixir of the Scent Keepers is testament to that. Your success in healing the Prince also speaks to a natural ability.”

  I begin to pace, needing to move my body while my thoughts catch up with themselves. Though the drop into the gardens isn’t huge, I keep away from the edge. Even the slow descent into the circle of darkness unnerves me, and after the sultis, I’m not about to start messing with any plants I don’t recognize. “Why didn’t you just bring me here in the first place if you really cared?”

  “Those who join the Sanctuary are expected to forfeit their old lives,” she says, running a hand over the balcony wall as if reassuring herself that she’s seated on something solid. “There was little I could do to help from this far away. What I could do, I did. Sandbloom saw to your freedom when Sephine perished, did she not? And I had faith in you.”

  My folded arms tighten over my chest. “You were testing me.”

  “Shrewd. That is good. But on this occasion, it wasn’t the only reason. The best way to get you out of immediate danger was to get you out of Aphorai City. All the information our people have assembled on the eldest imperial son over the turns speaks of a single-minded pursuit of justice. Which is to say, Iddo Kaidon’s own personal interpretation of justice. It’s hard to comprehend he and his brother come from the same line.”

  “You really do care for Nisai’s safety, then.”

  She nods vigorously. “He’s the hope for the future. Thoughtful. Humane. Willing to listen to opposing views. When he ascends the throne, if he has the right people around him, he stands a chance of ushering in an age of tolerance and learning we haven’t seen in the centuries since the Great Bloom. We need him. Desperately. Otherwise things are only getting worse.”

  She flows to her feet. “Please. Walk with me. There’s something else you must see.”

  I follow her around the top terrace, the curve so gentle you could almost think you’re walking in a straight line. The more I see of this place, the stranger it feels. A kind of ancientness that makes my lifetime seem but a whiff on the wind.

  Finally, we come to a door two segments over, flanked by a pair of guards. One moves to open the door ahead of the Magister. They exchange a solemn nod, but neither speak as we pass. Hardly reassuring.

  Inside, there’s a small chamber lit by those eerie green wall sconces. The Magister waits until the outer door closes, then turns her attention to me. “You may want to brace yourself,” she advises as she pushes open the inner door.

  A cloud of warm air greets us, just like it did earlier in the kitchens. But this place carries with it a reek that doubles me over into a gag. I’d know that smell anywhere.

  Rot.

  The stench is so thick it’s as if it’s coating the very walls. A mix of anger and disgust courses through me. The only time I’ve smelled anything remotely like it was in the dungeons beneath Ekasya Mountain when I was trying to find Ash – so many of the prisoners there seemed to be Rot sufferers. I never thought I’d come across something like that again.

  The Magister grimaces. That she’s not enjoying this either is small comfort.

  We walk along the halls. They’re near identical to the ones where me and the others have been assigned sleeping quarters, the stone doors shut. About half a dozen along, the Magister stops and presses the mechanism.

  “Hello?” she all but whispers around the opening.

  “Come in,” a weak voice calls.

  She opens the door and gestures for me to follow. Inside, the stench of decaying flesh subsides a little, though it’s still an underlying taint in the room.

  The room is sparsely furnished. On the bed, a middle-aged woman lies propped on her side. The hip that faces the ceiling is heavily bandaged. Despite the air being slightly clearer in here, I’ve got no doubt abo
ut what lies beneath the dressings.

  The Magister performs a strange gesture, palms together, thumbs under her chin, first fingers to her nose. Maybe it is a prayer. Maybe it’s a gesture of respect or apology. “Please forgive the intrusion.”

  “You’re always welcome, Yaita.”

  “Taimez, may I present my daughter, Rakel.”

  The woman beams. “And so she is! No doubt, given those eyes.” She looks me up and down. “Your mother talks of you often, you know. Proud as peppercorns, she is. Wouldn’t hear the end of it if I was the only one here.”

  I muster the closest thing to a smile I can give through gritted teeth. What does the Magister even know of me? Guess it’s easier for her to blow smoke about how proud she is to strangers than it is to do the right thing. But I don’t want to be rude to this woman. Though she’s cheery, she must be in awful pain.

  “Has there been any change?” the Magister asks her.

  “Still holding.”

  “But no closer to scabbing over?”

  Taimez looks almost apologetic, as if she were the one speaking to a patient about their recovery. “Afraid not.”

  “Stay strong,” the Magister says, taking Taimez’s hand and squeezing gently. “I’m refining the formula in a new direction. This could be the one.”

  “If the Primordial wills it.” She gives a half-shrug with her free shoulder.

  “She is all,” the Magister intones.

  “She is all,” the woman returns.

  “We’ll let you rest,” the Magister says, and leads me from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “You’re testing your concoctions on her?” I can barely contain my outrage. “What if it was the wrong thing? It could make it even worse.”

  “The Affliction is a death sentence. We’re doing everything we can to help, which is more than I can say for anywhere else in the Empire now Sephine’s gone.” She gestures up and down the hallway. “We provide them with hope, and in the absence of a cure so far, we give them as much comfort as we can.”

  “Hope?” I blurt, thinking of the guards we passed at the main door to this wing. “They need to be locked up to have hope? I won’t be a part of that, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  “They are free to roam the grounds during the day,” she says as we pass back through the main door with no obstruction from the guards.

  I take a gulp of clean air, feeling a little ashamed at the sheer relief of being free of the smell of impending death.

  “They agree to a curfew at night to ensure they’re getting adequate rest to aid their convalescence. Pain can addle the best of minds, so we must also take precautions that they don’t attempt to leave once they’re here.”

  “They may as well be prisoners.”

  “No. Ask them yourself if you wish. They are pilgrims who have sought the healing power of Divine Asmudtag, selected by the Order for their devotion. They give us the opportunity to know when we’re getting closer to a cure, and we do everything we can to extend their lives. Their gift to us could save your father and so many others.

  “I’ve dedicated my life to trying to cure this plague,” she continues. “The manner in which I did so is something for which I shall need to atone. I am truly, deeply sorry for the pain it caused you. However, I will not apologize for working towards ending the suffering for so many.”

  I can’t argue with her logic. But my heart is raw at the thought of those poor patients beyond the guarded doors.

  “So indeed” – her voice is cool now, like she’s distancing herself again – “immerse yourself in past wrongs, nurture whatever ill will you bear me for the way I failed to nurture you. But know this: when you are ready to turn your face towards the future, to focus on what is yet to come and to be a part of making that, I would have you at my side. By the grace of the Primordial, you have proven yourself more than proficient – you are an innovator. And that is what we need. A new twist on the old recipes. I fear we’ve fallen stale here, repeating the same incremental experiments. We need a new approach. You’ll be provided with your own supplies, your own apparatus.”

  My own apparatus? Access to these gardens? In other circumstances, it would be a dream come true. I want to believe that there’s a role for me to play here. That I could help find a cure. Not just for Father, but for all those who suffer from the Rot. But there’s still a missing ingredient in this perfume she’s wafting around me.

  “There are plenty of people with the Rot in Aphorai. Sephine did her experiments there. Why couldn’t you?”

  She nods, no longer distant, but smiling. Like she’s pleased with me again. It ignites something inside me, the unexpectedly warm glow of her approval. I shake my head to clear it.

  “I had to come here because of the key ingredient. Sephine had her position, and Sandbloom’s as Chief Perfumer, to siphon as much for her experiments without causing attention. I was making my own progress, but there wasn’t enough for both of us. I had to make a choice. A terrible, difficult choice, to come to the one other place where there was a supply.”

  She points. “There, don’t you see?”

  As she’s talked, she’s kept walking slowly, a seemingly aimless stroll around the huge circular terrace above the gardens. Now it’s clear she had a destination in mind.

  I follow her arm, squinting down at the rows and rows of plants now directly below us. My eyes still aren’t what they used to be before healing Nisai, so I’d missed it until it was highlighted. But now my attention is drawn, I see. Distinct foliage I haven’t laid eyes on since that fateful night in Aphorai. The night Nisai was poisoned. The night all of this started.

  Dahkai.

  The darkest bloom. The most precious commodity in Aramtesh. A plant that has only ever been successfully cultivated in Aphorai City. The bulk of it shipped to the capital as the most expensive perfume in the Empire.

  “We’re running out of time,” the Magister says. “My topical salve helps, but it’s only a temporary solution – a reprieve from the symptoms. Our research indicates that a true, lasting cure will rely on the most finite resource in Aramtesh.”

  Finite is right. There won’t be another Flower Moon for a generation.

  “If we don’t manage to create that cure with our remaining stores of dahkai, the disease will continue to spread. If we take too long to find the correct formula and there are too many patients to cure with the amount we currently have, the disease will have won. For ever.”

  The weight of her words bears down on me. She’s talking about a point of no return. Where we couldn’t help even if a cure was found. There simply wouldn’t be enough of it.

  “The question, my daughter, is this: will you stay and help me?”

  CHAPTER 5

  LUZ

  All things in their due and proper order: first, I need information.

  Aphorai City greets me like an old friend. If an old friend were harbouring a barely concealed grudge.

  I’d made far better time travelling back solo, and entered the gates in nondescript trader garb – travel-stained linen smock and loose-fitting trousers. I augmented the outfit with a cartload of woven Edurshain baskets I’d bought from another trader on the approach to town, and for good measure added the legitimacy of actually paying the required tax. The product sold swiftly in the markets, especially as I could afford to not haggle more than the minimal amount necessary to maintain appearances while I caught up on local gossip. If I’d offloaded the goods too cheap, someone would ask questions.

  After that, I visit an inn near the Eleventh Gate, where I’ve kept a room on retainer for the past two turns. I’m greeted by the innkeeper’s daughter. She gives me a saucy wink followed by a hopeful smile.

  “Business first, my lovely.”

  She somewhat sulkily shows me to my room.

  When I emerge on to the plaza in the next sector over, I’m no longer a trader: I’m the Chief Perfumer of Aphorai, en route to inspect one of my premium wor
kshops. Today’s business is necessary, but since Sephine’s death I feel off balance performing the expectations of the position. It’s only the barest hint of insecurity, but it chafes until my mood is raw.

  Naturally, I abstain from revealing my discomfort upon arriving at my destination. I take pains to greet the various workers, flipping a coin to the powder rats – incense grinders are the lowest paid of all the roles – and two or three coins to those among them I know have young children to feed. It’s as likely the silver will end up lining the pockets of a dreamsmoke den owner than a fruit seller’s, but that’s not my choice to make.

  Finally, I reach my office. The solitude is a welcome, if temporary relief. I roll the antique river-reed blinds over the windows that look on to the inner courtyard. Sometimes the semblance of privacy is almost as good as the real thing. As long as one stays cognizant of the difference.

  No matter the duration for which I’m detained elsewhere, my servants ensure a plain taper is always burning. Now, I use it to light a flame under an oil steamer, tapping several drops of lemon balm essence into the receptacle. I wash the dust of the street from my hands with violet water then remove the silver circlet holding back my hair and shake it out, combing my fingers through before setting it back in place.

  My desk is piled high with parchment. I’ve been gone longer than usual – I don’t venture to the Sanctuary often; it’s not the sort of place one goes on a whim. When I am required to make an appearance, I can usually make the trip swifter than the last one when I was … encumbered. Still, whatever orders, would-be supplier tenders and regulator reports that are in that stack can wait.

  First thing’s first.

  I write and seal a small scroll and hand it to the errand boy who stands outside the room. “Take this to Lady Sireth. The new samples she requested are available for inspection at her earliest convenience.”

  The lad scampers off, and I settle down to the tedious side of the Chief Perfumer of Aphorai’s role – administration.

  It’s several hours and a tray of sweetmeats later that a strident voice rings out over the din of the workshop.