Iome had often wondered why her father did not destroy the old bridge, have the statues placed on the new bridge. But looking at it now, she understood. The old statues were rotting, the stone pitted by years of exposure to ice and sun, eaten by the lichens that stained the statues in vermilion and canary and dull green. There was something picturesque, something venerable about those ancient stones.
The place where Chemoise led Iome to look for Sergeant Dreys' spirit was very quiet. The waters in the channel flowed as slowly as honey, as was the custom in late summer.
The high castle walls loomed some eighty feet above the copse, casting blue shadows, bruising the waters of the moat. There was no burbling or tinkle. Pink water lilies bloomed placidly in the shadows. No wind stirred the air.
The grass here grew lush. A hoary oak had once spread its branches over the river, but lightning had blasted it, and the sun had bleached it white as bone. Beneath the oak, an ancient autumn rose made its bower, its trunk as thick as a blacksmith's wrist, its old thorns as sharp as nails.
The rose climbed the oak some thirty feet, creating a natural bower. Roses of purest white hung above Chemoise, like enormous stars in a dark-green sky.
Chemoise took a place on the grass beneath the rose bower. The lush grass here was bent. Iome imagined that it had been used as a bed for lovers.
Iome glanced over her shoulder at her Days. The thin woman stood atop the copse, some forty feet back, arms folded, head bowed. Listening.
Then Chemoise did an odd thing in the privacy afforded by the rosebush: she lay on the grass and hiked her skirts up a little higher on her hips, and just lay, with legs spread. It was a shocking pose, and Iome felt embarrassed to see such a thing. Chemoise looked for all the world as if she waited for a lover to take her.
On the banks of the river, frogs chirped. A dragonfly as blue as if it had been dipped in indigo flew near Chemoise's knee, hovered, flew away.
The air was so still, so silent. It was so beautiful, Iome imagined that Sergeant Dreys' spirit really might come.
All through the walk here, Chemoise had remained calm, but suddenly tears spilled over her long lashes, ran in rivulets down her face.
Iome lay beside the girl, put an arm over her chest, held her, the way that he must have.
“You've been here before, with him?” Iome asked.
Chemoise nodded. “Many times. We were supposed to meet here this morning.” At first, Iome wondered how—how did they get outside the city gates at night? But of course Dreys was a sergeant, in the King's Guard.
The notion was scandalous. As Iome's Maid of Honor, it was Chemoise's duty to see that her mistress remained pure and undefiled. When Iome became betrothed Chemoise would have to swear to Iome's virtue.
Chemoise's lip began trembling. She whispered low so that the Days could not hear: “He filled me with child, I think, six weeks ago.” At the confession, Chemoise reached up and bit her own knuckle, punishing herself. By carrying this child, Chemoise brought dishonor to Iome.
Who would believe any oath that Chemoise swore, if one could see that she herself had been defiled?
Iome's Days might know that Iome was virtuous, but the Days was sworn to silence by her own vows. She would never reveal any detail so long as Iome lived. Only when Iome died would the Days publish the chronicles of her life.
Iome shook her head in dismay. Ten days. In ten days Chemoise was to have been married, and then no one would have been able to prove that she'd been unchaste. But with her betrothed dead, the whole city would soon find out.
“We can send you away,” Iome said. “We can send you to my uncle's estate in Welkshire. We'll tell everyone that you're a newlywed, newly widowed. No one will know.”
'No!” Chemoise blurted. “It's not my reputation I worry about. It's yours! Who will swear for you, when you become betrothed? I won't be able to!”
Plenty of women at court can serve in that capacity,” Iome lied. If she sent Chemoise away, it could still tarnish Iome's reputation. Some people might think that Iome had disposed of her Maid of Honor in order to hide her own indiscretion.
But Iome couldn't worry about such things now, couldn't consider her own reputation when her friend hurt so.
“Maybe, maybe you could marry soon?” Chemoise said. At nearly seventeen, Iome was certainly old enough. “The Prince of Internook wants you. And then—I've heard—King Orden is bringing his son for Hostenfest...”
Iome drew a sharp breath. King Sylvarresta had spoken to Iome several times during the past winter, hinting that the time would soon come for her to marry. Now her father's oldest friend was finally bringing his son to Heredon. Iome knew full well what that meant—and she felt shocked that she'd not been forewarned. “When did you hear this?”
“Two days ago,” Chemoise said. “King Orden sent word. Your father didn't want you to know. He...didn't want you to be in an excitable humor.”
Iome bit her lip. She had no desire to become allied with King Orden's spawn—would never have considered it for a moment.
But if Iome accepted Prince Orden's proposal, then Chemoise could still fulfill her obligation as Maid of Honor. So long as no one knew that Chemoise carried a child, then her sworn statement of Iome's fidelity would not be challenged.
Iome bristled at the thought. It seemed unfair. She wouldn't consent to a hasty marriage just to save her reputation.
As the anger flared in her, Iome stood. “Come on,” she said. “We're going to see my father.”
“Why?” Chemoise asked.
“We'll make this Indhopalese assassin pay for his murder!” Iome hadn't realized what she intended to do. But she was angry now, angry with her father for not telling her about the impending proposal, angry with Chemoise for her embarrassing lack of scruples, angry that Raj Ahten's assassins could murder Heredon's guards—and that the city's merchants would then beg their king for clemency.
Well, Iome could do something about this mess.
Chemoise looked up. “Please, I need to stay here.”
Then Iome understood. An old wives' tale said that if a man died while his lover carried his child, the woman could capture her lover's spirit in the unformed child, so that he would be born again. Chemoise only needed to be present at sunset in the place where she'd first conceived, so that the father's ghost might find her.
Iome couldn't believe Chemoise would put credence in that old fable, yet she dared not deny the girl such a boon. Letting her sleep under the rose bower could do no harm, would only cause Chemoise to love her babe more fiercely.
“I'll see that you come back before sunset,” Iome said. “And you can stay an hour after. If Dreys can come to you, he'll do so then. But for now, I must speak to the King.”
Before speaking to the King, Iome took her Maid of Honor to look upon Dreys' murderer, while the silent but omnipresent Days followed at Iome's heel.
They found the spice merchant chained in the dungeon beneath the Soldiers' Keep, the sole occupant of that dreadful place. Iron shackles and cages hung from the stone walls, and the whole dungeon carried the scent of ancient death. Huge beetles scurried about. In one far corner of the dungeon was a great hole, the oubliette, where prisoners could be kept. The sides of the hole were stained from urine and feces, for those condemned to that awful hole lived in the muck that guards threw down from above.
Dreys' murderer was chained hand and foot to a post. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-two.
His eyes were dark, as dark as Iome's, but his skin was more brown. He smelled strongly of anise, curry, garlic and olive oil, as did the rest his countrymen. The murderer had been stripped to nothing but a breechcloth. Both his legs were broken. A ring had been ripped from his nose. His jaw was swollen. Fresh welts covered his face and ribs. Someone had bitten a chunk out of his shoulder. He'd live.
On his thin ribs, one could see runes of power branded into the flesh, white scars each about an inch to the side. Five runes of brawn, three of grace, one of stamina, one of wit, one of metabolism, one of hearing, two of sight.