Crown of Smoke Page 9

  “I am, in that I’m part of something that had such a damning mark on history. That’s not why I make this request of you. I ask because circumstances are incredibly precarious at this juncture. All the reports I’ve had of the Prince have only enhanced my respect for him. He is the leader on which we pit our hope for a better tomorrow.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The Prince is also human. It’s his humanity that is one of his greatest strengths. But it can also be a weakness in relation to one aspect of his life.”

  I finally caught a whiff of her meaning. Nisai’s father was struck down with the Rot just as my father had been. He could just afford better care from the start, from the finest Physicians. “The Emperor.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Nisai’s a student of ancient history. Wouldn’t he already know about this?”

  “The secret is closely guarded. And has never been committed to ink.”

  “But surely if it was centuries ago—”

  “You found the facts confronting, did you not? As for the Prince, even the most reasonable person in the world would struggle with the knowledge that the very people he has sought safety with are the reason he needs safety in the first place. If his father had never become Afflicted, he’d have had a very different life. And even if he is able to accept that we are not our ancestors, we are not even our parents” – she gave me a rueful smile at that – “I would not want to do anything to impede his recovery. This revelation would only cause him stress and confusion.”

  Uncertainty roiled in my guts. Nisai would want to know about this. Just as I would want to know. I’d like to think it wouldn’t change anything about what we’re doing here. But there are so many moving pieces. Every day seems to uncover a new secret, and if there’s anything I’ve learned since the perfume trials in Aphorai City, it’s that I’m only ever getting the barest whiff of what’s going on behind the scenes.

  Sometimes the only way to truly know which way smoke will blow is to light the incense. Only once you do, there’s no taking it back. I’ve had my fill of secrets, but I’ve also had my fair share of trouble from opening my mouth before I’ve realized what I’m talking my way into.

  “I’ll do as you ask,” I told her.

  At least for now.

  I stare at the vial in my hand.

  Unlike the bejewelled or finely cut crystal I’ve seen before, this one is plain. Utilitarian. It’s hard to believe it contains the same substance. But it doesn’t make it any less precious.

  Dahkai.

  I once thought I might rise through the ranks in the Eraz’s perfumery back in Aphorai to the point where my work would involve the so-called darkest bloom. It’s no longer just a perfume for rich people or those who believe in the gods and want to send a special prayer to Kaismap, thinking they’ll see the future. Now it’s the key to so many people’s lives. To Father’s life. I never imagined I’d be here, doing experiments that might stand a chance of curing the Rot.

  My hands shake as I work out the tiny stopper. I pause, willing my breathing to evenness. There’s no room for clumsy mistakes here. This work is far more precise and fiddly than anything I’ve ever tried before. It requires a deft touch.

  I take a hollow copper tube, thin as a newly sprouted reed, from the rack and thread it into the vial just until it touches the surface of the liquid. Clamping my thumb over the other end traps a single drop. I transfer it carefully to the repository of the distillation apparatus and close off the pipes. It will mix with the other carefully measured ingredients as they steam. Now it’s simply a waiting game while the flame heats the vessel.

  And at the end … something to test.

  “Any progress?”

  I startle at the Magister’s voice behind me. The copper tube drops to the floor with an almost musical series of hollow notes. My cheeks burn. The last thing I want her to think me is bumbling – unworthy of working with such a rare ingredient.

  As her footsteps approach, I retrieve the tube and place it in the pile of used ones to be cleansed. Then I make a show of taking down the latest steps in the journal I’ve been provided. My daily lessons with Nisai mean I’m slowly getting the habit of making the ink form letters, even if my notes are still more shopping list than explanation, sometimes with little sketches in place of the words I don’t yet know.

  “May I?” She asks, gesturing to the notebook.

  I step aside.

  “Mmhmm,” she utters as she reads.

  I hope it’s a noise of approval.

  “Ah.”

  There it is. The snag.

  She straightens. “I’m afraid we’ve already tried introducing a fixative with each distillation. It didn’t have a noticeable effect compared with omitting it.”

  “You mean it’s wasted?” I look meaningfully at the still where the steam from the formula I’d painstakingly prepared is beginning to condense and drip into the receiving flask.

  She smiles, but it’s a brittle kind of smile. “It was good thinking. I can see why you’d pursue it.”

  A strange concoction of guilt and frustration simmers at my core, rising like the steam that is now useless. Can’t she just get angry? It’d be easier to deal with anger than … disappointment.

  She passes my notebook back along the bench. “The ingredients may be lost. But it’s an important lesson for the future – we should make sure to discuss the approach you’re going to take before committing supplies to it. After all, it wouldn’t be efficient for me to expect you to scour my notes at this stage.”

  I feel my face flushing again. At this stage. A polite way of saying, “You’ve got talent, but your skills aren’t yet up to snuff … and while you’re at it, learn to read properly.”

  “Perhaps for now, you should stick to making salve. We need to ensure there’s enough to keep the Affliction from progressing further in the resident patients. It’s an important task – it will free me up to push forward with the more experimental work.”

  The message is clear – if we were in a perfumery, I’d be demoted to being a powder rat, grinding ingredients for incense and nothing more.

  She gives me another smile, this one more encouraging, and heads for the door.

  I return to the bench, removing the flame from the distillation apparatus to begin the cooling process. Being ordered back to making salves almost feels like being sent back to my village.

  I swallow down the sting of it. The quicker I can make the current standard treatment, the quicker I can rejoin the work towards a cure, and the quicker I can get it to Father.

  The cure would give Nisai choices, too. If the Emperor was healed, he could resume the throne. Sort out what’s going on in the capital with the Regent and whatnot. The Hidden Prince might not have to remain hidden any longer.

  I take down a clean measuring flask from the rack.

  Lives and empires turn on what happens in this very lab.

  There’s no time for pride.

  CHAPTER 7

  ASH

  When the sleep is as deep as death’s embrace, it’s a long, clawing journey to consciousness.

  I find myself lying on my back, the stone warm and clammy beneath me. Judging by the way I feel, the latest fight in the underground arena wasn’t a dream. Someone or someones – I expect a couple of Zostar’s brutes not involved in the show – must have dragged me back to my cell. I test each limb gingerly. Nothing is broken, no wounds beyond the superficial. Bruises, scrapes, aching muscles.

  I need a plan. Del, Lark and the others are relying on me. I have to help them escape just as much as I have to warn Rakel and Nisai. And Ami is here, too. If she lived. I’ve tried to keep track of how much time has passed since I saw her, but I can’t be certain. Nothing in the darkness is certain.

  How in Kaismap’s far-seeing name am I going to get us all out of here?

  Not sprawled on my back, that’s at least for certain. I groan and sit up.

  “Del,” I murmur
through the wall.

  “Ash? You’re awake! Thank the Blessed Twins.” He’s whispering, but the fervency in his words rings clear. I imagine he is making the sign of Zir and Tro on each shoulder. He may have been left for dead by his family down here, but his Hagmiri heritage has not left him. Once again I feel a pang of sadness. He doesn’t deserve this. None of them deserve this.

  “Are you whole, Ash?”

  A harsh, low laugh escapes my lips. Whole. What a foreign concept. “I’m well enough,” I tell the boy. “How long has it been since they returned me?”

  “Five bowls of sludge and a change of the stench bucket.”

  Sludge. Wooden trays splattered with a ladle of thin barley porridge. A dry husk of Ekasyan bread if we’re lucky. I never thought it would become something I despise. But if Del has seen what passes for a meal in here five times, it’s been days since the arena. Only Kaismap knows the atrocities Zostar and his lackeys have committed since.

  “Did they take you? Do anything to you?”

  “No. Some of the others, though.”

  “Larkai?”

  “She’s here. They didn’t take any of the young ones. Just those about my age. A couple didn’t make it back. But the whispers said an Edurshain girl on the next corridor made a blade from her spoon and put down two of them when they tried to take her. Two grown men, Ash, can you believe it? I’ve never met anyone from Edurshai before. Are they a warrior people?”

  Other than the ambassador to the Imperial court, I’d never met any Edurshain before Rakel and I travelled into their lands. I involuntarily rub my arm, where a dart pierced the skin as a parting gift from the young tuldah herder without whom we couldn’t have saved Nisai.

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  There’s a scrabble in the next cell and a whisper I don’t catch as Del confers over at the opposite cell wall. Then he’s back at the gap in the mortar. “Mish. Her name’s Mish.”

  Mish?

  “Lark speaks of her like she’s her new hero,” Del continues, a little awe creeping into his words. “I get it, too, especially after she managed to find out on the whisper trail where your friend is being kept.”

  Edurshai is so sparsely populated that it wouldn’t be a flight of fancy for it to be the Elelsmish who helped our search for the ingredients for Nisai’s cure.

  And if it is her…

  I shake my head. Oh, Mish. I really should have tried to persuade her to stay with her people, even though she did seem like she was already on the outside. Off to seek her fortune, she said. Is this gods-forsaken place where she ended up? I add her to my mental list of those held here. In their freedom, I’ll perhaps find some small measure of atonement.

  “What about me?” I ask. “While I was out? No other tests?”

  “A few came and bled you. I couldn’t catch everything they said, but they think your blood is … different to ours. Magic or something.”

  I run my hand over my wrists. My fingertips find the scabs of several tiny incisions, some new, some almost fully healed.

  “Magic belongs with our—”

  “Shadows,” Del finishes grimly.

  The scuff of sandalled feet approach my cell. I shift to sit cross-legged and face the bars running along the front. Just in time.

  “Please record that after four days since the incident, the subject has regained consciousness.”

  The owner of the imperious voice paces slowly in front of the bars, hands interlaced behind his back, his plain black robe dragging through the filth of the dungeon floor.

  Zostar.

  On the other side of the hall, as if he’s determined to keep the furthest he possibly can from me, a younger physician scrawls notes on a hand slate. Next to him sits a small cage containing a bright orange bird, its head tucked under its wing, asleep.

  “Please also note that the subject appears disorientated, perhaps suffering from mild delusions, evidenced by talking to himself.”

  “I was praying.” The last thing I want is for this fiend to realize I’ve a way to communicate with Del and the others.

  “Indulge me. What does a Child of Doskai pray for, if not to master the gift from his god?”

  I taste bile. “Magic belongs with our shadows. Behind us.”

  “I’ve never truly fathomed why so many cling to that platitude, as if it offers protection. Weak minds, perhaps.” He produces his white kerchief and mops sweat from his brow, the heat of the dungeons no place for his head-to-toe rough-spun wool. “The only safety in this world,” he continues, “is derived from knowledge of how to defend one’s position. Magic brings strength. We’re on the verge of realizing your full potential. I personally will be overseeing the next phase. Others in your position would be grateful.”

  “The only thing I’d be gratified by is your end.”

  “You’re sounding as myopic as my former colleagues,” he says, clucking his tongue as if talking to a child. “I expect now they see the heights I’ve ascended, they’re regretting not valuing my work. I wouldn’t have asked for much once I’d made my breakthrough,” he mutters. Though now he’s speaking into the air in front of him, as if addressing someone who isn’t even here.

  The hair on the backs of my arms rises.

  “An invited lecture,” he continues with his invisible conversant. “In the grand university hall. A soiree hosted by the rector. Perhaps a building named in my honour.” He shakes his head, then heaves a melodramatic sigh. “Indeed! Hardly indulgent when the magnitude of setting us once again on the path to progress is taken into account.”

  He pivots and starts back towards the bars, eyes agleam in the torchlight. “You could be a part of a brave new future. You are a beneficiary of Doskai’s divine generosity. He would not have his Children wait for some imagined afterlife in the heavens. He would make you divine here in the mortal realm. Impervious to injury. Resistant to disease. Free of fear. And I am not too proud to admit it would be far superior to have you as a willing participant in my research.”

  It’s you, Ash. The final ingredient is you. I believe you’re the key.

  Rakel was right about whatever was needed to heal Nisai. Now it seems Zostar thinks I’m the key to something far more terrible.

  “And if I was to participate willingly?”

  He perks up at that, stepping closer still.

  Just a little more. I only need reach your throat, old man.

  “Assist me to unlock the same potential in others that you’ve demonstrated, and I will see that your librarian friend remains unharmed. Assist me well enough, and she may even go free. Who knows, perhaps I might feel so obliged that I would make a case to the Regent for your own release, should you agree to serve our cause.

  “But you must decide soon. My research progresses, and should I discover what I need without your help, the offer shall be withdrawn. After all, you’ve never been an ideal specimen. And the new regime has no tolerance for recalcitrants.”

  Rakel’s words echo in my memories. Honour can go broil in shit and sulphur. When she thought I would sacrifice myself for Nisai’s honour, she’d snapped. Any kind of alliance with Black Robes is anathema to everything I stand for. But in the dungeons, honour won’t bring me any closer to finding a way out of here.

  Teeth clenched, I nod.

  Zostar’s gaze fixes on seemingly nothing again. Coming back to himself, he gestures to his assistant. “Please note that the subject has turned a corner in his relations with the programme. He will resume testing willingly.”

  Another black-robed figure sprints down the dungeon hall, skidding to a halt, breathless. “My lord.” He addresses Zostar, even though the physician never carried a noble title before. “We’re under attack! In the next branch. Smells of blackpowder. Everyone choking.” The young man is bent over, hands on his thighs, each sentence barely making it out between wheezes.

  “Attack?” Zostar clucks his tongue. “Don’t be so foolish. It will simply be a buildup of fumes from the hot spring
s. Close off that wing and open the vent shaft.”

  “But my lord, if you don’t—”

  “Pass the order. Close off the wing. There will be much greater casualties if we do not.”

  I’ve known physicians to cut off a hand or foot to try to save a patient. I can’t decide if Zostar’s order is humane or heinous. Perhaps both.

  “No, my lord—”

  “No? No?” With strength that uncannily belies his age, Zostar grabs the messenger by the throat and slams him against the wall. “Perhaps you’d like to join them? That can be arranged.”

  The younger man sinks to the floor. If his eyes were wide before, now they’re round with terror. “Please, my lord.” He points to the cage at the third physician’s feet. The bright-feathered bird is now on its side, legs stiff and straight. Still.

  “Move,” Zostar barks. “Now.” He launches into a shuffling run, the messenger scrambling after him. The receding slaps of sandalled feet against the rough-hewn rock are almost farcical.

  The younger physician’s expression shifts to disbelief as he watches them go.

  “Hadn’t you better run along after Lord Zostar?”

  He slumps aginst the bars of my cell. “They’re dying in there. Asphyxiating.” His tone is strangely distant. “Our work was meant to help people. So they could be like you. No Affliction. No succumbing to a festering wound.”

  He’s in shock, but this is not the moment or place I want to engage in a philosophical conversation.

  “I wanted to help people,” he repeats. “That’s why I wanted to be a physician. And now…” He gazes up the hall and then back to me with the haunted look of a person who has just realized what they’ve become.

  I seize the opportunity, my hand darting out through the bars and closing around his wrist. “You can help them now. Give me your keys.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t. Lord Zostar, he’ll—”

  I yank his arm into my cell. He stumbles against the bars. Off balance, he struggles, but it’s the pitiful flailing of the weakest animal in the herd. I can feel my strength returning, coursing darkly through my veins as one hand keeps him pinned in place and the other reaches for the ring of keys hanging at his rope belt.