Yama held the book higher. The white-haired man said, “Why aren’t you waiting at the gate?”
“The guard was attacked, and I got scared and ran. Thieves have been after what I carry ever since I have come to this city. Only last night I had to kill a man who wanted to steal from me.”
The white-haired man jogged his palfrey so that it stepped sideways toward Yama, and he leaned down to peer at the book. He said, “I can certainly see why someone would want to steal this.”
“I have been told that it is very valuable.”
“Indeed.” The white-haired man stared at Yama for a full minute. The two guards watched him, although their lances were still pointed at Yama, who stood quite still in the light of the three machines. At last, the man said, “Where are you from, boy?”
“Downriver.”
Did he know? And if he knew, how many others?
“You’ve been amongst the tombs, have you not?”
“You are very wise, dominie.”
It was possible that the Aedile knew. Perhaps that was why he had wanted to bury Yama in a drab clerkship, away from the eyes of the world. And if the Aedile had known, then Prefect Corin had known too.
One of the guards said, “Take the book and let us deal with him. He won’t be missed.”
“I allowed him in,” the white-haired man said. “Although he should have waited by the gate, I will continue to be responsible for him. Boy, where did you get that book? From one of the old tombs downriver? Did you find anything else there?”
Before Yama could answer, the second guard said, “He has the pallid look of a tomb-robber.”
The white-haired man held up a hand. His fingers were very long, with nails filed to points and painted black. “It isn’t just the book. I’m interested in the boy too.”
The first guard said, “He carries a power knife in his satchel.”
“More loot, I expect,” the white-haired man said. “You won’t use it here, will you, boy?”
“I have not come to kill you,” Yama said.
The second guard said, “He’s a little old for you, Iachimo.”
“Be silent,” the white-haired man, Iachimo, said pleasantly, “or I’ll slice out your tongue and eat it in front of you.” He told Yama, “They obey me because they know I never make an idle threat. I wish it were otherwise, but you cannot buy loyalty. You must win it by fear or by love. I find fear to be more effective.”
The second guard said, “We should check the gate.”
Iachimo said, “The dogs have not raised any real alarm and neither has the guard.”
The first guard said, “But here’s this boy wandering the grounds. There might be others.”
“Oh, very well,” Iachimo said, “but be quick.” He swung down from his palfrey and told Yama, “You’ll come with me, boy.”
As they crossed the road and plunged into a stand of pine trees beyond, Iachimo said, “Is the book from the City of the Dead? Answer truthfully. I can smell out a lie, and I have little patience for evasion.”
Yama did not doubt it, but he thought to himself that Iachimo was the kind of man who believed too strongly in his cleverness, and so held all others in contempt and did not pay as much attention to them as he should. He said, “It was not from the City of the Dead, dominie, but a place close by.”
“Hmm. As I remember, the house occupied by the Aedile of Aeolis has an extensive library.” Iachimo turned and looked at Yama and smiled. “I see I have hit the truth. Well, I doubt that the Aedile will miss it. The library is a depository of all kinds of rubbish, but as the fisherfolk of that region have it, rubies are sometimes engendered in mud by the light of the Eye of the Preservers. Nonsense, of course, but despite that it has a grain of truth. In this case, the fisherfolk are familiar with pearls, which are produced by certain shellfish when they are irritated by a speck of grit, and secrete layers of slime to enclose the irritation. This slime hardens, and becomes the black or red pearls so eagerly sought by gentlemen and ladies of high breeding, who do not know of the base origin of their beloved jewels. Your book is a pearl, without doubt. I knew it as soon as I saw it, although I do not think it was you who held it up at the gate.”
“It was my friend. But he got scared and ran off.”
“The guards will catch him. Or the dogs, if he is unlucky.”
“He’s only a pot boy from one of the inns by the waterfront. I struck up a friendship with him.”
“From which he hoped to profit, I expect,” Iachimo said, and then stopped and turned to look back at the way they had come.
A moment later, a thread of white light lanced through the darkness, illuminating a distant line of trees. Yama felt the ground tremble beneath his feet; a noise like thunder rolled through the grounds.
Iachimo grasped Yama’s shoulders and pushed him forward. “One of the weapons mounted by the gatekeeper, unless I am mistaken. And I am never mistaken. Your friend has been found, I believe. Do not think of running, boy, or you’ll suffer the same fate.”
Yama did not resist. Both Tamora and Pandaras were armed with the pistols taken from the gatekeeper, and Iachimo did not yet know that the gatekeeper was dead. Besides, he was being taken to the very place the others were looking for.
Yama and Iachimo descended into a narrow defile between steep rock walls studded with ferns and orchids. Another white flash lit the crack of sky above. Pebbles rattled down the walls in the aftershock. Iachimo tightened his grip on Yama’s shoulder and pushed him on. “This matter is consuming more time than I like,” he said.
“Are you in charge of the guards? They do not seem to be doing a very good job.”
“I am in charge of the entire household. And do not think I turned out for you, boy. It was the book. But I admit you are a curiosity. There could be some advantage here.”
Yama said boldly, “What do you know about my bloodline? You recognized it, and that was why I was not killed.”
“You know less than I, I think. I wonder if you even know your parents.”
“Only that my mother is dead.”
A silver lady in a white boat. The old Constable, Thaw, had said that he had plucked Yama from her dead breast, but as a young boy Yama had dreamed that she had only been profoundly asleep, and was searching for him in the wilderness of tombs around Aeolis. Sometimes he had searched for her there—as he was searching still.
Iachimo said, “Oh, she’s dead all right. Dead ages past. You’re probably first generation, revived from a stored template.”
The narrow defile opened out into a courtyard dimly lit by a scattering of floating lanterns, tiny as fireflies, that drifted in the black air. Its tiled floor was crowded with gray, life-sized statues of men and animals in a variety of contorted poses. Iachimo pushed Yama forward. Horribly, the statues stirred and trembled, sending up ripples of gray dust and a dry scent of electricity. Some opened their eyes, but the orbs they rolled toward Yama were like dry, white marbles.
Iachimo said in Yama’s ear, “There’s worse that can happen to you than being returned to storage. Do we understand each other?”
Yama thought of his knife. It occurred to him that there were situations in which it might be more merciful to use it against himself rather than his enemies. He said, “You are taking me to your master.”
“He wants only to see the book. You will be a surprise gift. We’ll see what shakes out, and afterwards we’ll talk.”
Iachimo smiled at Yama, but it was merely a movement of certain muscles in his narrow, high-browed face. He was lost in his own thoughts, Yama saw, a man so clever that he schemed as naturally as other men breathed.