“Then you’ll help us, Uncle,” says Kalliarkos, his words more command than request.
“You can’t free them.” Thynos stares Kalliarkos down. “No one can.”
This time Kalliarkos does not give way. “Yes, I can. Jes and I can. And we are going to. So your choice is either to aid us or get out of our way.”
26
At the speed to which Kalliarkos whips the horses we quickly return to the city. Inarsis directs us to a barracks compound for Efean soldiers, where he obtains the things we need. The gate-wardens at Eternity Gate allow Kalliarkos and Thynos to enter the City of the Dead without a single question, even though it is the middle of the night. Inarsis walks ahead, carrying lamps, and I walk behind, carrying a jug of broth slung over my shoulder and a covered tray that the priests believe is an offering, but which really contains clothing.
The lower paths that lead through the community mausoleums and the Weeping Garden are quiet. A few mourners wait with tomb wreaths and offering trays to set before the bones of their ancestors. Path-wardens bow as we walk past. Partway up the hill Lord Thynos veers off, leaving us.
Out of the darkness Lord Ottonor’s tomb rises before us. A single oil lamp burns on the porch, as it is said, “The everlasting flame of memory burns on the strength of a man’s fame.” Years from now, when his living oracle ceases to speak, offerings will no longer be laid at his door, because his clan has been exiled. Its seal of bricks will be broken, his bones interred in a vase, and the tomb cleaned and anointed for a new inhabitant, one whose fortune may burn brighter and flame burn longer than Ottonor’s fortune and fame, marred as they have been by his disgraceful ending.
We proceed around to the oracle’s alcove at the back of the tomb. The alcove is a narrow cleft built into the wall where supplicants can kneel and hear the oracle’s voice through a tiny opening no bigger than my hand laid flat. I kneel and peer through, but no light burns within. What if Lord Gargaron had them smothered the way tomb servants were back in the old empire?
My pulse roars in my ears. I dare not whisper to see if anyone is alive inside because the oracle is not our ally and might call for the priests.
After making sure no path-wardens are in sight I pull off my linen sheath, fasten on my Fives jacket, and wriggle into a climbing harness used to train fledglings as they learn more advanced skills. Kalliarkos hands me a packet of tapers and flint for light. I climb up on Inarsis’s shoulders. My feet balanced on his hands, he hoists me so I can scramble up onto the roof.
From this height I look around. The City of the Dead is a low hill with the four kings’ tombs on the central height, each marked by three lamps. Below the kings’ tombs lie the palace tombs, each lit with two lamps. Lord Ottonor’s tomb lies among the lesser lords’ tombs lower down.
The air shaft has a short brick chimney with gaps in it to catch the crosswinds. Its mouth is covered by an iron grate. A smell wafts up, thick with death and tainted with blood.
What if they truly are dead?
Suddenly sparks spin aloft from the far side of the hill. Distant shouts stir the slumberous night. Thynos’s diversion is in progress.
The grate shifts easily. A whisper of sound alerts me to movement inside the tomb.
Faintly I hear a woman say, “That’s right, Doma. Breathe. You have given birth before.”
Mother is alive.
Heart racing, I swing my legs over the shaft and feel out the courses of brick. The opening is exceedingly small, no doubt to discourage tomb robbers. While Kalliarkos stands watch, Inarsis grounds himself as my anchor and lowers me into the tomb. I fend off the walls with elbows and knees, scraping my way down. It’s a very tight fit. When my feet touch the floor I slip out of the harness and give a pair of tugs to show I am in.
Invisible in the darkness, fabric flutters across my left hand like the brush of wings. A cardamom-scented breath hisses along my cheek.
“What unwanted demon’s shadow troubles our holy rest?”
Its raspy voice makes me jump with a flare of such panic that for an instant I can’t think. Then, fumbling, I unwrap one of the oiled linen twists, strike a spark on flint, and light the taper. A woman at my elbow winces back, shielding her eyes. She is not young, as newly entombed oracles are meant to be. She is so old that her hair is as white as bone. But she is highborn Patron through and through. Her painted hands bear no calluses. This woman has never done a day’s labor in her very long life.
“Get out, foul shadow! Be banished! Return to your flesh and disturb us not.”
Her burning stare unsettles my fixed determination. Oracles are sacred. We honor their connection to the gods. But she looks more than a little crazy, trembling with fear and indignation. She’s in my way and I won’t let anyone stop me, not even the gods’ voice.