Bloodline Rising Page 7

  I just pray none of Achaicus’s men is in the habit of staring at the ceiling.

  I hope I have not missed their little gathering. I think of my lord, sitting in his chair by the window. Does he wonder what has happened to me? What if he has given me up and passed this task on to Thales? Not that the fool could manage it: he is good at cutting throats but has not half my cunning. He would be dead and floating in the harbour before he knew what befell him.

  How long have I been lying here? The angle of the light has changed. Now the sun slants into the room rather than glaring in through the window. The afternoon is drawing on. Poor Yannis: I would not wish to be the one explaining to my father that I have gone, just as if I had melted into the air. Tasik will be looking for me now. Oh Jesu. A cold, sick feeling grips my belly.

  I am too late; I must have missed Achaicus’s gathering. It is all Tasik’s fault. Well, I am not going home. Niko and Iskendar will be wondering where I am. I remember my Eye, a line struck through it. When I discover who did that they will be sorry – and I will find out, they may be sure of that. It is time I went back to my underground palace. Then I will have to return to my lord, and tell him that I have failed. I think of Black Elias, his bloated body bobbing in the harbour…

  The door opens, hinges creaking. In comes Achaicus, at last. I’m sure it’s him – I think he has even drunk wine with Tasik before in our courtyard at home. His hair is thinning on top – I can see a patch of pale skin at the crown of his head. I barely breathe as he goes to the oaken desk, picks up a silver-wrought jar and pours himself a long draught of raki. I can smell the aniseed-scented kick of it from here. He drains the cup in one. I do not blame him: with a conscience like his, Achaicus must need all the strong drink he can get. I hear him let out a tiny sigh. He stands still for a moment, gazing out of the window, then crosses to the couch and sits.

  Maybe I am not too late after all.

  Time drips past like stiff honey on a cold day. Achaicus sits there quiet as a corpse; it makes my skin creep. I do not like the way he is so calm and still, as if his soul is cleaner than a new-born babe’s. He gets up and pours himself another dose of raki. He’s drinking at least: that’s something. This second draught goes down without a pause as well; and just as he sits again, there is a knock at the door.

  “Enter,” says Achaicus in his bored-sounding voice.

  The guard shoves the door open and someone walks in: a stocky man about my father’s age but not so tall. Reddish-brown hair curls tight about his forehead, and he wears a close-cropped beard. He moves briskly, as if he has not time to spare for anything.

  It is Constans. It is the Emperor.

  I nearly fall off my beam and have to dig my fingernails into the wood and grip hard with my legs.

  The door closes behind him, quickly, quietly. Achaicus is on his feet in a moment, bowing his head. “Your Majesty,” he says. “You need not have troubled yourself; I was expecting a summons to your chamber of state. Is there anything you desire?”

  “No cause to fuss, Achaicus,” Constans says. “It’s hardly a tax, walking the length of a corridor.” He sits on the couch I hid behind, one square, callused hand resting on each knee, leaning back. Constans was bred up in the palace but he has the hands of a soldier. Tasik used to say he felt sorry for Constans – all he wants to do is lead his men in the field, but always he must return to the palace and be fussed over by eunuchs and flatterers, and read endless parchments. “Come, Achaicus,” Constans goes on, “sit down; there’s no call for all this pacing about. I am here to talk about all this fuss over Essa – you must know these things always reach my ears.”

  Save for my mother, Constans is the only person who calls Tasik by his given name.

  And what of the letter I stole, I think. What do you know of that, my Imperial Majesty? I am sure they can hear the beating of my heart.

  Achaicus smiles sadly at Constans. “Ah, so you have had word of it. It is a great pity.” Achaicus sounds as if his dog has just died, but there is such a great clanging lie in his voice I wonder Constans does not laugh.

  But he just leans back in his seat. “Tell me all,” he says. “I am greatly confused – the last I knew, Essa was my faithful right hand in Armenia, but judging by the whisperings from my agents, and all the scrolls I have been forced to read on the subject, anyone would think he is about to stab me as I sleep.”

  Tasik would never! Constans is his oldest, dearest friend. I have heard it said they are more like brothers. I will pay you out for this, Achaicus Dassalena. I will make sure Constans sees that letter whether my lord the Emperor of Thieves likes it or no.

  “Your Majesty,” Achaicus says in a low, sorrowful voice, “we must open our eyes to the truth: God’s Fire has become too close to Muahi’ya. Almost every evening, they would speak long into the night. God’s Fire spent more time with the Arab’s retinue than he did with your generals. Even Theodosius doubts him – the commander of your own desert army.”

  Constans shakes his head irritably. “Theodosius is the fool who let Armenia fall into Arab hands in the first instance,” he said. “I do not trust his word. Essa’s task was to learn the secrets of Muahi’ya’s soul by befriending him, and that is what he has done.”

  “It is not just Theodosius,” Achaicus says quietly. “It is widely known that God’s Fire is a traitor not only to you, Your Majesty, but also to the True Faith.”

  Constans laughs then. “Gone to the way of Mohammed, has he? Well, Essa was ever thorough in his work. Not many of my men would have themselves circumcised out of service to me.”

  So is it true, then, that Tasik has turned to Islam? He would not, surely. He is barely even a good Christian – I have heard him pray often enough to the strange warrior-gods of the north.

  Achaicus sighs heavily. “Your Majesty – I know not how to make you feel the severity of his betrayal, and the danger to your own soul in allowing this infidel to—”

  “You speak to me as though I were a child, Achaicus,” Constans says. His voice is light, playful even, but I would not wish to be sitting where Achaicus is now. “You have served me since I was fourteen summers old, and much as I value your devotion, you would do better not to forget that I am well able to look after the needs of my own immortal soul.”

  Achaicus bows his head. I would sell my own mother to see the look on his face. “Of course, Your Majesty. But you are always so bound up with the needs of your people I wonder if there is one thing you have forgotten.”

  You liar, I think. The words of the letter ring in my head: On this day of our Lord, we the undersigned, do solemnly declare our belief that Constans son of Constantine is no longer fit to bear the ruling of our most glorious Empire…

  “If I have forgotten something, I pray you may tell me what it is,” says Constans in the same low, dangerous voice. He is looking up at the ceiling. His eyes widen for the briefest moment but then he looks away. He saw me! But he cannot have done. I would surely be in the hands of those guards by now if he had. I have been up here so long my mettle is sunk – I will be seeing phantoms next, and shivering at breezes and floorboards creaking in the night. I close my eyes and cling tighter still to the beam. It is pressing into my belly now and I wish I could get down, but I cannot move.

  “Your Majesty knows better than anyone the importance of his own dear people,” Achaicus says, almost in a whisper. I think of the bishop again, the one they dragged through the streets and tore to death. I think of the fear in Demos the charioteer’s eyes when I threatened to spread word of his cheating.

  They say there is no man more powerful than the Emperor, that he is second only to God. That is true, but nothing and no one wields more strength in this land than all the people of Constantinople when they are stirred up into a rage.

  A strange stillness spreads over Constans. “I would be a fool, Achaicus, if I did not know the strength of my own subjects,” he says.

  “Well then,” Achaicus replies. “It is a true shame
they have chosen to believe all this foolish talk about God’s Fire. The word in the market-place, Your Majesty, is that your dear friend is a traitor and a witch, that he converses with beasts and toys with strange barbarian powers a faithful Christian ought never to think of. He is also a brigand and a thief of the first order, and thinks nothing of plundering gold wherever he can.”

  Well, it is true enough about the gold – before Tecca died, hooded men used to knock at the door in the thick of night, delivering up locked chests full of treasure and rich spices. We thanked God, then, because Tasik’s soldier-pay – even though he was Constans’s most prized assassin – had been dwindling as the Palace’s coffers drained. But as for the rest of Achaicus’s tale, I do not understand why he is serving my father so.

  What in Christ’s name does he mean by saying that Tasik converses with beasts?

  Is it to draw attention away from Achaicus’s own misdeeds, like the sleight of hand used by the travelling magicians who bite coins in half and hide hen’s eggs in your ear? But then I realize there’s most likely another reason for Achaicus to blacken my father’s name – me. He knows I was the one who stole his letter, and he is taking his revenge.

  If anything ill befalls Tasik, it will be my fault.

  Constans passes one hand over his face, as though he desires to wipe away his weariness. “These past ten years, God’s Fire has ever been spoken of as a hero,” he says.

  Achaicus shakes his head. “I am sorry, Your Majesty. But too many now say God’s Fire has sold his soul to the devil and his services to Muahi’ya. Have you not heard of the strange powers he is thought to possess? And by retaining him in your favour—”

  Constans holds up one hand. “I know, Achaicus. You need not go on.”

  Strange powers? What strange powers?

  A deep quiet falls on the room. How can they not hear me breathing? I can hear them: I can hear their hearts beating. Oh, Tasik. I must warn him. I shall show him I am no coward—

  “Do I have your leave, then, Your Majesty?” Achaicus says at last.

  After what seems like ten long winters have passed, Constans nods his head. “Do what you must,” he replies. “And may God save both our souls.”

  “Very well.” Achaicus is on his feet in a moment, and he sweeps out of the room, his crimson robe sailing out behind him.

  AS THE door closes, I sit up, clutching the beam. “What will they do to him?” My voice comes out in a harsh whisper. I might have known Constans my whole life, but he is still the Emperor and he could have my neck wrung in the blink of an eye.

  Most people would leap with fright to find a child looking down on them from up in the ceiling beams, never mind after a delicate conversation like that, but not Constans. He does not even get up from the couch; he just sits there, looking at me. He smiles, shaking his head. “I thought I had seen something. What odd talents you must have, my child, to hide and sneak in the way you do. To think, the son of my dearest friend has become the most wanted criminal in the Empire. You had best come down from there.”

  “You’re no friend of my father!” I hiss. “You have just ordered his death – Achaicus is the traitor, not him.”

  “Come down,” Constans says. “I do not wish to call the guards. Good God, Cai, if all I hear is true, you have been leading those who love you a merry dance long enough. Do as you are asked.”

  I scramble down as far as the window-ledge and sit there, glaring at him. “I’ll come no further,” I say. “You’ve just betrayed my father – how do I know you’ll not order your guards to cut my throat?”

  “Well enough,” Constans says. “You have no reason to trust me, but hear this: I have already seen the letter you stole, and I know that Achaicus Dassalena tried to finish me. Nothing will ever convince me your father is a traitor, but Achaicus is right: however the tale spread, this city is no longer safe for your family, and anything is better than meeting death at the hands of the mob.”

  “What will Achaicus do to him?” I say. I cannot bear it. I cannot stand to think of Tasik coming to a traitor’s end, the breath choked from his body, blood pouring from his mouth and eyes.

  “Nothing,” Constans answers. “He will not get the chance: you will all leave the city before the sun rises. But it must be you who warns your father – I can trust no one else in this place to do it. Till I saw you I had thought I must hide my face and go to him myself. Go quickly.” He pauses, and our eyes meet. His are a light hazel colour, slightly slanted and flecked with greenish lights. The lashes are pale, rusty-looking, darker at the tips. I will never forget this moment, I know. It is just me and the Emperor. He is the most powerful man in all the world, but he is a coward. He should have ridden through the streets till he found my father. He should have stabbed Achaicus Dassalena through the heart where he stood. “Go quickly,” he repeats, “and may God watch over you.”

  I am running. I do not even care if anyone sees me; I must get home. What if Tasik is not there? I must find him. Darkness is drawing across the city sky like a deep blue curtain, and one by one unshuttered windows begin to glow. How can folk light their lamps and think about their suppers when at any moment, Achaicus Dassalena’s men might find my father and take his life? I should have gone back to my lord, to the Emperor of Thieves, many hours since, but I do not care about him any more. If I have crossed his mind at all, he must think I am dead by now, my throat cut in an alley for stepping on the wrong foot, just like so many other Thief Children. I’ve been a fool to give him my service all this time.

  I must go the quiet way – through the secret alleys and lonely streets that decent folk never visit. I do not go across the roof-tops, I just run, shouldering people aside whenever they get in my way. I am used to moving quickly, but now I am running faster than I have ever run in my life – my legs feel as though they are burning, and I cannot draw enough air into my body; I’m gasping as if I have swum underwater for leagues and leagues.

  I must get home before Achaicus’s men reach it. Tasik will not go easily with them – if Achaicus is even of a mind to allow him a trial. For all his honoured bravery and beauty, for all the songs they sing of him in the market-place, Tasik is a barbarian, and most likely his trial shall be nothing more than a thin wire pulled tight around his throat till he breathes no more.

  But I will reach him first, and we’ll get away – by sea, most likely. There’s always some boatman willing to look the other way if the coin’s enough. Oh, my beloved city. I cannot bear this; I cannot bear to see her, smell her, for the last time. I cannot bear to look on the lamplit windows, the shadows of the grapevines as they droop down from the roof-tops to the streets, the great dome of Santa Sofia, mother of all churches. I am leaving the perfumiers’ quarter, and the rich, rolling scent of rose-oil, spikenard, cloves, ambergris and lavender makes me want to weep because I am smelling it for the last time. Now I am running past a tavern, and the smash of broken cups, the roaring of drunken men is my city’s farewell song. I will never rule the Underworld; I will never replace my lord, the Emperor of Thieves.

  Will he mourn me? Will he wonder, ever, what became of the Ghost?

  But wait. Someone follows: I hear breathing, I feel their gaze burning into my back. Surely Achaicus does not have men on my trail already? Should I run, or face them? I must—

  “Ghost!” a voice calls. I’d know it anywhere. It is just Niko – trust him always to find me at the wrong moment. Probably he wants to ask me some foolish thing. I turn—

  My head, something has struck the back of my head – a burst of pain so deep I feel it run through my whole body. I am betrayed. All is going dark – and look: there is Niko. I can see his foolish, round face – his open mouth a black hole, his eyes gaping. Oh, Niko, why did it have to be you? I hear someone laughing.

  “Not fast enough this time, little Ghost.” It is Thales. Niko and Thales. Not Iskendar, then, who I always thought might be the one.

  The darkness closes in on me; it clouds my sight.
<
br />   I cannot see at all now; and everything is black.

  People

  Cai, a slave

  The chief, a slave trader

  Amin, a slave

  Sia, a slave

  Various slave traders, seamen

  The Devil’s Cub, a barbarian prince

  Anwen, his wife

  Thorn, their hostage

  Cenry, their son

  Sanctus, King of the Saxons

  Helm, his half-brother

  Frith, Helm’s brother

  Cai’s Journey from Constantinople

  Slave Ship

  THE DREAM shifts – somehow I know I am dreaming – and now I am back in the courtyard at home. The fountain bubbles softly, but I hear no voices. It is so quiet here. Overgrown vines hang loose from the trellis, stroking the dusty flagstones. Fear slips through my body like ice-water. Sunlight sears the flagstones and the white, crumbling walls. Everything is too bright. The windows yawn, open black mouths revealing nothing within.

  I have come home but there is no one here to meet me. They have all gone.

  “Tasik!” I call. “Ma! Mama, Elflight, Asha!” Why do I call? No one can hear me. I move towards the cook-room door but I cannot go inside: I am too afraid of what I might find.

  But I must find Tasik. I cannot be too late. And then I see a dark pool spreading across the bright hot flagstones. It comes from the far side of the courtyard. I cannot bear this, I cannot – but I must see. I am not moving fast enough; the air has thickened and clings to my limbs like warm honey, trapping me.

  “Tasik!” I shout again, but there is no reply. The dark pool is spreading and it seems to shine, leading a trail beneath the eaves. A breath of wind stirs Ma’s chimes as they hang in the vine, and their soft clanging is the only sound save the regular whisper of my own breathing.

  I force myself to move, pushing back the long green tendrils still heavy with grapes, now rotting where they sprouted.