Shattered Pillars(44)
Samarkar did not linger to see if they succeeded.
* * *
The flat rooftops of Asitaneh were hardly uninhabited. Not only were there men and women working here, even under the blazing light of the sun, but there were tent cities, roof gardens, children playing tag from house to house. Samarkar got an unexpected glimpse of the inner courtyards as she trotted past, forcing feet and legs that felt coated in some heavy, rubbery substance to rise and fall with monotonous regularity. Sweat trickled between her breasts and shoulder blades. She felt herself the brunt of many stares, but did not return them.
When she came to the broad boulevard upon which the palace fronted, she found an exterior stair she could drop to and descended. She’d not be late: the fight had lasted a hundred heartbeats, no more. But she was in disarray—sweat-soaked under her cuirass and helm, the quilted cloth of her arming coat squishing unpleasantly with every movement. As she reached the street, Samarkar stole a glance at her palms: scraped, bloody, the fingertips chafed raw.
Well, if Uthman Caliph wanted a martial female dancing in attendance, that was what he’d get. And not the high-court version, perfumed and jeweled, either.
Samarkar stood for a moment, still breathing deeply. Rahazeen. Here. Temur was in danger, and Hrahima, and Brother Hsiung. And all of Ato Tesefahun’s household too. Her feet itched, her body half-turned with the desire to run back to Ato Tesefahun’s house and make sure that everyone was safe—to give them the warning. But private appointments with the caliph were not plucked in meadows. She carried paper and a stick of pigment. Perhaps she could disguise her voice enough to hire one of the loitering messengers near the palace doors to run a letter back to Brother Hsiung. If she wrote it in Song, the contents should be safe enough from casual prying.
No: she’d send the message from the palace. Surely they would accommodate her. Surely they would also read her letter, but being attacked by Rahazeen in the very streets of Asitaneh was nothing she needed to hide from the caliph in order to convince him that the threat was serious and Temur worthy of his support.
She strode up the boulevard, projecting every featherweight of boldness and bravado she could muster. People gave way before her again; she’d at least regained that much presence. She’d have to muster the rest before she reached the caliph’s chambers.
It gave her something to focus on when her mind wanted to chase itself in circles of worry for Temur. He can protect himself. And if he cannot, our companions certainly can.
It didn’t help.
She took the broad steps up to the palace gate at a jog, strips of lacquered wood rattling flatly with every bounce. A portico ostensibly protected the doorway, but it was high and at this hour the sun shone under it, sweltering on the heads of a score of kapikulu. An enormous arched doorframe loomed open overhead: Uthman Caliph had faith in the peace of his city, or faith in the strength of his guards. Or he was simply aware of the emotional power over his people that was offered by the pose of strength and security. No weak king would leave his door standing wide.
That appearance of openness was abrogated by the stiff ritual posture of the kapikulu who flanked it, cerulean coats brilliant on the pale stone as patches of sky glimpsed through cloud. Samarkar found it effective nonetheless and noted it for her own applications, when a time and place should be found. For now, she paused at the top of the steps, hands on hips, and waited.
A doorkeeper lurked within the shaded arch, perched on a folding-framed sling of natural canvas. He was a snarled-looking little man with crooked, skinny legs and arms that seemed to stick out every which way, but the wiry muscle knotted across his calves and shoulders bulged when he scraped and made a courtesy. He wore nothing but a white loincloth, and while Samarkar did not envy his horny bare feet the searing touch of the stone steps and threshold, she would have given a great deal to be out of the black oven of her armor.
Ungrateful, when it had saved her the bite of a thrown dagger. But if she then roasted to death because of it, there would be little time for her gratitude.
The doorkeeper looked up at her inquiringly.
“Samarkar,” she said. “A Wizard of Tsarepheth. I am summoned to an appointment with his serene Excellency, Uthman Caliph Fourteenth.”
When he heard a woman’s voice, the doorman did not react. Kapikulu were raised from a young age to be stoic and impassive, and a caliph’s doorkeeper must certainly be able to maintain his composure in the face of all things … but Samarkar suspected in this case he’d been warned in advance. Perversely, this made her more uneasy—but if the caliph wanted her visit to go unremarked, surely he would have had her present herself at the servant’s entrance rather than walking in the front door like a visiting queen, albeit one inexplicably shorn of her retinue.