“But Mother,” says Amaya, “those are Efean names.”
“So must they be Efean, now that their father has turned his back on them.” She holds her head with the pride and dignity that has been hers all along. “He made his choice. It is time to go on without him.”
In the water’s sheen I see my face so clearly that I wonder who I truly am and who we all are, we who walk above ground not knowing what lies beneath that we have been taught to forget.
The game called Fives has five obstacles. A person has five souls.
This cannot be a coincidence.
The City of the Dead is the mask that conceals what was here before the Saroese came. The invaders buried the magic of Efea beneath their tombs.
“This way!” calls Kalliarkos triumphantly from halfway around the pool.
We gather ourselves and trudge after him. Mother walks, leaning on Cook. I examine the cavern and its mysteries one last time, but hurriedly follow as the others vanish into an opening in the wall. Chalk marks a narrow passageway where a lit lantern hangs as a beacon. I wonder if Ro-emnu left it. When I enter, I find what appears to be a tomb robber’s tunnel punched through the main wall. A crude set of steps boxed in by timbers leads me on a long and crooked path past more buried rooms and dark passages. The steps are lit at intervals with lanterns so I walk from one dim aura to the next.
I emerge into the back of a storage room carved out of rock and filled with barrels. The wall stinks so foully of urine that I cover my nose as I squeeze past. A low archway leads into another storage room stacked with crates. A curtained opening admits me to an underground warehouse filled with ceramic vessels used to transport olive oil. Tripods hold lamps burning so brightly that I shade my eyes.
Six Efean men stand guard, each wearing the trowel of the masons’ guild inked into his left shoulder. Five wear the knee-length wrapped linen skirts typically worn by Commoner men, and like most laborers they go bare-chested. The sixth is an elderly man dressed in a long formal keldi and linen tunic. He is talking quietly to Kalliarkos and Mother. Maraya and Cook hold the babies. Amaya has curled up on the floor and has actually fallen asleep.
“We did not see him pass through this warehouse, my lord,” the elderly man is saying. “Once you reach the steps, there are other routes by which a person may make his way to the city streets.”
“So be it,” says Kalliarkos with a gracious nod. “I will not ask you to speak against one of your own. Perhaps he feels he has discharged his obligation. What do I owe you, Honored Sir?”
The old man bows respectfully. “Nothing but your trust, my lord. As we agreed beforehand, we must bind your eyes to lead you out so as not to reveal the location of our gathering place.”
“I gave my word and I will honor it.”
Two of the men make a chair of their linked arms to carry Mother. They treat her like a great lady, although she is too weary to realize it. I like them for the respect they show her. When they pull an eyeless cloth mask over my face, I do not protest.
By the time our guides remove our masks I have lost all sense of location and time. They propel us along a walled corridor into an oval dining hall with round tables and benches in the Commoner style. It has canvas for walls, a roof raised on brick pillars, and lamplight in plenty because it is nighttime. Thynos and Inarsis stand comfortably together looking over a shadow-washed garden. In the distance the fifth night-trumpet blows, the last one before dawn’s fanfare. The two men turn and see us.
“There you are, Kal.” Thynos’s tone is light but the way he pounds Kalliarkos on the back reveals a much deeper affection. “Nar and I were beginning to despair of you.”
Inarsis examines the silent masons and our ragged party. “I admit I underestimated you, my lord.”
Kalliarkos’s grin dazzles. “You are pardoned, General Inarsis. This time. But don’t do it again.” He looks at me, and I wink at him, and he laughs.
Having deposited Mother on a bench, the masons retreat. Kalliarkos follows them into the corridor. I hear his low voice, their laughter and genial replies. His knack for making allies has served him well.
“Food!” Amaya descends locustlike upon a platter of olives, flatbread, and baked fish.
“Are those twins?” says Thynos with a side-eyed grimace, but we girls ignore him in favor of digging into the food while Cook offers a sampling to Mother.
“Maraya?” she says, pushing away the food. “Jessamy? Amaya?”
We hasten to her. She touches us on the lips, and then each baby in turn. She is our mother, who guards our breath.