Last of all came Arunis. Pazel held his breath. The sorcerer looked exactly like what they had all taken him for — a thickset merchant, rich and rather tasteless, dressed in dark robes as expensive as they were neglected. He wore a little self-mocking smile, and kept his pudgy hands folded before him like a schoolboy. Less than a day had passed since those hands had worked spells of murder aboard the Chathrand.
'Kela-we ghothal! Stop!'
The Father brought his sceptre down like a nightstick, square against the mage's chest. Arunis halted, blinking at him. Pazel saw Thasha glance up in fear. The Father was chanting in a rage: Pazel heard something about a devil's chain and a Pit of Woe. Aya Rin, he thought helplessly, this can't be happening.
Every eye in the shrine focused on the two men. Arunis smiled timidly, like an obliging citizen at a military checkpoint. He made a wobble with his head, as folk of Opalt do when they wish to show either goodwill or confusion, or both. The Father answered with a growl.
Arunis dropped his head. He shrugged, his lower lip trembling, and even those who knew better saw him for an instant as a good soul, one used to being last in line, one who had never dreamed he would be lucky enough to witness history in the making but who even now would give it up rather than cause any trouble. He turned to go. But as he did so he glanced once more at the Father.
Their gazes locked. Arunis' cold eyes glittered. Then quite suddenly the Father's ferocious glare went dull. Like an automaton he took the sceptre from Arunis' chest and stepped back, waving him through the arch. Smiling, the mage scurried inside.
Pazel closed his eyes. If he had been turned away! Oh, Thasha! We thought of everything but that!
He was so relieved that he barely noticed the ceremony itself — the monks' recitation of the Ninety Rules, the song of the Tree of Heaven, some baffling Simjan custom involving an exchange of horsehair dolls. But he noticed other things. Prince Falmurqat was smiling genuinely at Thasha — the poor dupe. And the Father, who had come forward into the shrine, seemed to have recovered both his hawklike gaze and his wrath. But he never directed these at Arunis — indeed, he seemed to have forgotten the man altogether.
Stranger still, one of the aspirants beside the Father kept turning to look at Pazel himself. It was one of the mask-wearers — man or woman Pazel could not tell. And of course he did not know if the gaze was kindly or cruel, or merely curious. But why should a young sfvantskor be curious about him?
Then he caught Thasha's eye, and saw her courage and clarity, and even a hint of the mischief that was hers alone in all the wide world. And suddenly his fear for her leaped out, like a predator from the grass, and he could think of nothing else. Stop it, stop the ceremony, get her out of here!
It was time: Thasha and her groom were kneeling down on the stone. Once more the cleric raised the knife and cup. Falmurqat held out his thumb, and seven drops of his blood were added to the milk already tinted with Thasha's own.
'Drink now,' said the cleric, 'that our fates be mingled, nevermore to be unbound.'
He sipped, and handed the cup to Falmurqat the Elder. The cup made its way around the dais, everyone taking a tiny sip. But when Pazel's turn came, he froze — furious, horrified, his brain on fire. The cleric prodded him, whispering: 'Drink, you must drink.' The Mzithrinis stared with the beginnings of outrage. Thasha flashed him a last look, impossibly fearless. He drank.
The guests breathed a collective sigh, and the cup moved on. Pazel took the Blessing-Band from his pocket and held it in plain view. Thasha and her betrothed drank last. The cleric took the cup again.
'Now, beloved Prince. What would you avow?'
Prince Falmurqat took Thasha's hand, and stroked it ever so gently with his thumb. He was about to speak when Thasha wrenched her hand away.
'Your Highness, forgive me. I cannot wed you. This marriage is a tr-'
She got no further. At the back of the congregation Arunis made a furtive gesture. The lethal necklace tightened. Thasha reeled, clutching at her throat.
Pazel dropped the ribbon and lunged to catch her. Pacu Lapadolma screamed. Eberzam Isiq leaped onto the dais, shouting his daughter's name. The cleric dropped the sacred milk.
Pazel held her to his chest, hating himself, hating the world. No answer but this one. No other door to try. He whispered to her, kissed her ear. Falmurqat watched in speechless horror. Thasha writhed and twisted, her face darkening with every beat of her heart.
'Away! Give her air!' Dr Chadfallow was battling forwards. Behind him, wrathful and suspicious, came the sorcerer.
Thasha's struggles grew so violent that Pazel almost lost hold of her. He was flat on his back, arms locked desperately around her chest, face buried in her shoulder. Then all at once her struggles ended. Her eyes widened in amazement, then dimmed, and her head fell back with an audible thump against the stone.
Pazel surged upright, raising her, choking on his tears. 'You Pit-damned devil!' he shouted. 'You killed her this time!'
None knew who he was accusing — the boy was clearly hysterical — but from the gaping crowd Arunis babbled in protest.
'Not I! Not with that little squeeze! Look for yourselves! The chain is loose!'
Few heeded the raving merchant from Opalt (by now everyone was shouting something), but to Thasha's friends his words meant just what they had prayed for: an instant when the very power that had laid the curse was consciously holding it at bay. Pazel's hand shot out, caught the necklace and snapped it with one brutal wrench. The silver sea-creatures Isiq had had fashioned for Thasha's mother — naiads and anemones, starfish, eels — flew in all directions. The necklace was destroyed.
But Thasha lay perfectly still.
Pazel spoke her name again and again. Dr Chadfallow felt her bloodied neck, then bent an ear swiftly to her chest. A look of pain creased the surgeon's face, and he closed his eyes.
Utter pandemonium broke out.
'No heartbeat! No heartbeat!' The cry swept the shrine. Already guests were spilling out through the arches, taking news of the disaster with them. A vast howl rose from the mob outside.
'Annulled!' shouted the Father, raising both his sceptre and the ceremonial knife. 'Without a marriage the Treaty of Simja is annulled! There is no peace between the Mzithrin and cannibal Arqual! I saw death, did I not tell you, children?'
'There must be peace, there must!'
'There won't be!'
'We'll be killed! They'll punish Simja for sure!'
'Death! Death!' screamed the Father.
'Get that blade out of his hands!' shouted King Oshiram.
'Where is the monster?' bellowed Isiq. 'Where is he, where's the fiend who slew my Thasha?'
But Arunis was nowhere to be seen.
Falmurqat the Elder took his son by the arm. 'Let us away!' he said bitterly. 'This is all a deception, and an old one at that. To marry off a convulsive, one not long for the world, and thus to shame the enemy when she expires.'
'Hush, Illoch, what nonsense!' cried his wife.
But the old prince paid no heed. 'Some of us read history,' he said. 'Huspal of Nohirin married a girl from the Rhizans. She died of seizures in a month, and the Mzithrin took the blame. This pig admiral must have counted on his girl lasting a bit longer, that's all.'
Pazel thought the worst had come. Isiq would fly at the man; the insults would reverberate beyond the shrine, beyond Simja; in hours or days there would be sea-battles, by week's end a war. But Isiq did not react at all, and with immense relief Pazel realised that the older prince had used his native tongue. But what if that changed?
Switching to Tholjassan, he looked up at Hercol.