Weavers of Saramyr

'Do not threaten me, Vyrrch. You know well that if the hand of the Weavers was suspected of meddling in the politics of the land, then my enemies and allies alike would destroy you. Your insane kind are an accessory to government, not a part of it; and you know as well as I that the high families would sooner see an Aberrant on the throne than a Weaver. You may have ingratiated yourself so much that we think we cannot do without you; but you are here on our sufferance, and you would do well to remember that. Like rebellious dogs, you will be put down if you try and bite your masters. And the Weavers grow altogether too bold.'

'Do you think so?' Vyrrch mocked. 'Perhaps, after you have persuaded the people to accept an Aberrant freak as their ruler, then you will persuade the high families to get rid of us? I don't think it likely, do you?'

'Do not speak of freaks to me, you vile thing. I have no interest in the Weavers' displeasure. You are not part of the government of this land, and you have no say in it. Now I am late for a meeting.'

She turned and stalked away, and Vyrrch did not call her again; but she felt his gaze burning into her back all the way along the corridor.

Barak Mos was a man of great presence, though physically he was not as tall as his son. He was broad-boned, with a wide chest and shoulders and thick arms, and there was a squatness about him -with his strong, bearded jaw, flat head and short limbs – that lent him an impression of impressive solidity. At just under six feet in height, he towered over Anais; but she had never faced him in anger, and she knew him to be gentle towards her. She had dealt with enough of the son's tempers to be able to field his father's, anyway.

She met him in a room of her chambers that she particularly liked, dominated by a massive ivory bas-relief of two rinji birds passing each other in flight, their long necks and white wings

outstretched, their ungainly, sticklike legs curled up beneath them. The three-dimensional effect of one bird occupying the foreground as it flew between the viewer and the other bird had always appealed to Anais. It appealed to Mos too, apparently, for he was admiring it as she entered.

'Barak Mos,' she said. 'I apologise for keeping you waiting.'

'No trouble,' he replied, turning towards her. 'Rather, let me apologise for the inconvenient hour. I would not have come, but I have grave information.'

Anais gave him a curious look and then invited him to sit. For such a gruff man, he was being excessively polite. The apology was a pleasantry; to get Barak Mos genuinely to say sorry was like getting blood from a stone, which is why she had been so impressed when he had asked her forgiveness for his son's debauched ways.

Two elegant couches were arranged around a low table of black wood, looking out across the room through a partition to the open balcony beyond. On the table was a bowl of kama nuts, giving off a fragrance that was bitter and fruity and smoky all at once. It was the recent fashion among young ladies of the court to keep some kama seeds in their pockets to lend them this enticing fragrance, and Anais had grown to like the scent.

They settled themselves, Anais reclining and Mos sitting on the edge of his couch, leaning forward with his hands clasped before him. She noticed suddenly and with embarrassment the lack of refreshments in the room. Mos caught her gaze and waved absently.

'Your servants came,' he said. 'I sent them away. I won't be here long. Order something for yourself, if you like.'

That was more like the Mos she knew; tactless. As if she needed his permission to call for refreshments in her own home. She decided against it, more concerned with hearing the Barak's news.

'I don't have to tell you that this goes no further than us,' he said, giving her a serious gaze.

'Of course not,' she replied.

'I am only telling you this out of concern. For you, for my son, for my granddaughter.'

A small smile of surprised gratitude flicked over the Empress's face at the term. She had not expected to hear him acknowledge Lucia so.

'I understand,' she replied.

He seemed satisfied. 'Your Weaver, Vyrrch. Weave-lord, sorry. Why is that?'

'Why is what?'

'Why is he a Weave-lord?'

Anais was bewildered. She thought a man in Mos's position should know that, at least. 'It is the title bestowed upon the Emperor or Empress's Weaver. Usually it is also because they are the best at their craft.'

Mos harumphed, seeming to digest this. 'Do you trust him?'

'Vyrrch? Heart's blood, no. He would murder my daughter if he thought he could get away with it. But he knows what would happen if the high families thought a Weaver had slain the Heir-Empress. Aberrant or not.' She hesitated to use the word, but there was no other that fitted her purposes.

'That's true enough,' he said, shifting his broad bulk. 'Let me be blunt, then. I suspect that Weave-lord Vyrrch and Barak Sonmaga tu Amacha are working together against you.'

Anais raised an eyebrow. 'Indeed? It would not be a surprise to me.'

'This is bad business, Anais. I have spies, you know that. I don't much approve of them, but they're as necessary as Weavers are in the game we play. I sent them to find out what they could after this whole business began, and I suppose one of them struck lucky. We heard about a man named Purloch ru Irisi. He's a cat-burglar of some renown and great skill. I can vouch for that: he got into this Keep, and into the roof gardens, and he got to Lucia.'

Anais felt a jolt of terror. 'He got to Lucia?'

'Back when all this started. Weeks ago. He could have put a knife in her, Anais.'

The Empress was rigid on her couch. Why had Lucia said nothing? Of course, she should not have been surprised. A life of being hidden had made her secretive, and she was so unfathomably introverted at times. At those times, Anais did not understand her child at all. It made her sad to think of the gulf between them, that her daughter would not mention something so important. But that was just her way.

'Murder wasn't his mission, though,' Mos was continuing. 'He got a lock of hair instead. He wasn't after her; he didn't know anything more than what he was sent for.'

'Why? Why the hair?' Anais asked, her eyes darkening.

'His employer needed proof she was an Aberrant, so he could spread the news and stir up the nobles. The Weavers have some test, some way of telling. The gods only know the ins and outs of their science. But they need a part of the body: skin, hair, something like that.' He shrugged. 'Anyway, this Purloch was clever. He wouldn't take on a task like that without insurance. Too smart to be someone's pawn. He wanted to know who it was that hired him; so he traced the middlemen back to their source. Sonmaga.'

Anais nodded to herself. She had never solved the mystery of how this furore suddenly started, how the high families all seemed to know at once about her child being different. Sonmaga! It would be him.

'Do you have proof of any of it?'

Mos looked momentarily embarrassed. 'Purloch disappeared directly after he had completed his task. There is no testimony against Sonmaga, and if there were, it would be useless. A thief's word against a Barak's?'

'Did this… Purloch know about Vyrrch's involvement?'

'He knew nothing, or he said nothing,' said Mos. 'There is no link, or at least none that anyone but a Weaver could follow. But there was one thing that sat uneasily with me about the whole affair. Purloch's fee was huge. All that effort and expense on Sonmaga's part, just to hire a man to steal a lock of hair. Points to one conclusion.'

'Sonmaga must have suspected,' she said.

'He already knew she was Aberrant,' Mos agreed with a nod. He seemed to have no problem with the word, used in conjunction with the one he had called 'grand-daughter' moments ago. She took heart in that.

'Because somebody told him so,' she concluded. 'Vyrrch.'