'The Weavers will know,' he said. 'There are no secrets from them.'
'Do you really believe that?' Mishani asked him. 'I would not have thought you prone to their scaremongering.'
'They can pluck the guilt from a man's mind,' Ukida said.
'Only if they have reason to look there,' she replied. 'Trust me, Master Ukida. I have lived alongside the Red Order a long time. I know what the Weavers are capable of, and what they are not. There is a risk, but it is small. You are my only hope.'
Ukida studied her carefully, then folded up the letter and bowed to her. 'It shall be done,' he said tightly.
'You have my deepest gratitude,' Mishani said. And with that, she returned his bow, purposefully choosing a more humble attitude than she should have. She knew him: arrogance would not play well, even though he was still her servant. He seemed faintly shamed by her action.
She departed through the doorway to the back of the shop as the herbalist returned, his timing impeccable. Ukida paid for his supplies and left, the letter carefully concealed in his robe. Muraki tu Koli sat at her writing desk in her small room, her quill scratching and jerking in the light of a lantern. The lack of windows meant that she took no account of day or night, and she had little desire to see the murk-shrouded disc of Nuki's eye anyway. Aside from the occasional meals that she took with her husband, she rarely left this room. She was nearing the end of her new volume of the adventures of Nida-jan, and she was lost in the world she had created, spurred along by the unstoppable momentum of the story. A part of her still felt bitter at the necessity of haste, for she took great pride in her work and she resented that matters of the real world had conspired to make her rush it; but though unpolished, her tales still had an energy all their own, and she lived for that.
She did not hear Ukida's chime outside the curtained doorway, nor did she notice him enter uninvited. Her retainers had learned not to wait for her to reply, for she never did. He simply entered, bowed, and placed a letter on the edge of her writing desk. He cast an appraising eye over her, noting that she was very pale and looked consumptive. Bad air, bad eating habits, no exercise, no sunlight. She would sicken soon. He had told her so, and had dared to tell Avun too, but he had been politely ignored. With another bow, he withdrew.
Muraki continued writing. It was several hours before she stopped to ease the cramp in her hand, and then she noticed the letter and wondered how it had got there. She picked it up and unfolded it, read what was within. There was a short interruption in her breathing, a soft intake of surprise. She read it again, crossed out several of the pictograms, read it once more and then burned it to ash in the lantern. Then she sat back at her desk and stared at the page that she had been writing.
After an hour, she got up and went to find Ukida, her soft shoes whispering as she went. Avun tu Koli entered his study with a wary tread. It was dim and cool in here, the swirled lach floors sucking what warmth there was from the room. There was little furniture but a huge marble desk before a row of window-arches that looked out across the shrouded city, and a few cabinets for storing paperwork and stationery. He kept his private space orderly and spartan, like his life.
He glanced around the room, unconsciously furtive in his movements, then, satisfied that it was empty, he slipped inside and let the curtain fall behind him.
'Welcome back, Avun,' Kakre croaked, and Avun jumped and swore.
The Weave-lord was standing behind his desk, but Avun had somehow not seen him there. His eyes had skipped over the intruder, a blind spot in his mind.
'You seem unusually nervous today,' Kakre observed. 'You have good reason to be.'
'Do not try anything foolish, Kakre,' Avun warned, but there was little strength in his voice. 'Fahrekh's actions were nothing to do with me.'
'Convenient, though. Oh, indeed,' the Weave-lord replied, shuffling around the edge of the desk. 'What excellent timing he possessed, to strike just after you had done your level best to exhaust me.' He cocked his head to one side, the gaping corpse-Mask tipping in a grotesque parody of curiosity. 'Where have you been, my Lord Protector?'
Avun calmed himself, regaining his composure. Like his daughter, he valued the ability to control the expression of emotion, and it was a measure of how scared he was that Kakre had noticed his fear.
'I went to Ren to discuss the construction of a new pall-pit there,' he said.
'And was that not something you could have left to an underling?'
'I wanted to be there personally,' Avun replied, walking further into the room to assert that he was not afraid, that he had nothing to be afraid for. 'It is well to keep myself involved in small matters as well as large. It helps me to keep perspective.'
'Here is your perspective,' Kakre hissed. He cast one withered hand towards Avun, and the Lord Protector's insides wrenched as if twisted. The agony made him stagger, but he gritted his teeth and did not scream as he wanted to.
'You thought my anger might calm if you got out of my way for a few days?' Kakre snarled. 'You thought I would forget, perhaps? That my addled mind would not remember what you had done when you returned? Like Fahrekh, you underestimate me greatly.' His fist clenched, and Avun did cry out this time, and dropped to one knee. His pate was sheened with sweat and his face taut with pain.
'I knew… you would make… the wrong assumption,' Avun gasped.
'I think I know you well enough, Avun, to be confident that you were conspiring with Fahrekh to kill me,' Kakre said. 'Treachery is second nature to you. But you chose the wrong victim this time.'
'I… it was not… I…' Avun could barely manage a breath now. Kakre was increasing the pain, and it was like knives had been shoved into his guts and were slowly revolving.
'More denials? I could search your thoughts to find the truth, if you would prefer,' the Weave-lord offered. 'Though I am not as precise as I used to be. The results could be… unfortunate.' His dead face stared passionlessly from beneath the shadow cast by his hood. 'It would be easier just to kill you.'
'You cannot kill me,' Avun spat. Loops of crimson spittle hung from his narrow chin.
'Would you like me to try harder?'
Avun's teeth were pressed together so tightly that it was an effort to force them apart to speak. 'The Weavers… die with me…'
Abruptly the pressure on his organs loosened. Not much, but enough to let him breathe precious air easily again. He sucked in great lungfuls, on his hands and knees now. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the floor.
'Interesting,' Kakre said, his tone flat. 'And what did you mean by that, my Lord Protector?'
Avun delayed his answer for a moment, savouring the respite, choosing his words carefully. They meant the difference between life and death. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared up at the hunched figure who stood over him.
'There is nobody else who can lead your armies,' he said.
'Is that the best you can do?' Kakre mocked. 'Pitiful. There are many subordinates, generals of the Blackguard who would be eager to take your place.'
'And who chose those generals? I did. And I have been systematically removing all the good ones from positions of power for years now.'
Kakre was silent. Avun got one foot beneath him and rose unsteadily, clutching his thin stomach with one hand.
'Search their records, if you wish,' Avun said. 'None of them have any real experience of mass warfare. They are peacekeepers, men whose expertise is policing our cities. The old generals were useless since we had Aberrants and Nexuses to fight with, so I got rid of them. You did not pay close enough attention to that, Kakre. It is well to keep yourself involved in small matters,' – he managed a red-stained grin – 'as well as large.'
Still the Weave-lord said nothing, merely regarding him from within the dark pits of the Mask's eye-holes. Avun stumbled to his desk and leaned one arm on it, supporting himself. He felt like he had swallowed broken glass.