She looked out of the window. The courtyard was busy as always: men and women hurried to and fro; manxthwa lowed and nuzzled one another; arguments and exchanges went on at the feet of the double row of obelisks that led from the gate to the Keep. At least here it was not as downtrodden and dreary as the rest of the city, though there was something of a fierce industry in the manner of the people who came and went, as if they were eager to be done with their task so that they might get away. In the gloom of the overhanging miasma, the golden, sculptured slope of the south wall towered above them, intimidating in scale. They passed down a gentle ramp into a wide bay swarming with attendants, and there they disembarked and went through a guarded doorway reserved for nobles and important retainers which circumvented the subterranean servants' quarters. The guard barely glanced at them.
They ascended a set of stairs and entered the corridors of the Keep proper, a multitude of elegant lach passageways and many rooms, from huge and grandiose halls and galleries to tiny and exquisite chambers. Ukida led and Mishani followed, adopting an attitude appropriate to her rank as a physician's assistant. She felt curiously buoyant despite her fear, in a literal sense as well as an emotional one. She had been forced to alter her appearance beyond wearing the correct dress to make herself convincing in her role. She had cut her hair.
She had thought it would be much more of a wrench than it turned out to be. Her hair had been long since she was an infant, and ankle-length since adolescence. It was the feature she was most proud of. It lent her gravitas, for its sheer impracticality bespoke a noble existence, and she had thought it as permanent as her small nose or her thin eyebrows. But nobody would believe a physician's assistant would have hair so long: for one not born to nobility, it was immodest.
And so it became an impediment to her seeing her mother, and in such a light expendable. Mishani was always deeply pragmatic and little given to sentiment. Though she barely recognised herself in the mirror now, she knew that to be a good thing. With her hair worn up, her whole aspect was changed, and at a glance she seemed a completely different person. Some artfully applied make-up, shifting the emphasis of her eyes and cheeks and mouth, completed the deception.
We all wear our masks, she had thought to herself as she had put on the final touches.
She had not realised the weight of her hair till now, and the sense that came from her neck and scalp that there was something amiss was fractionally irritating. She wondered if she would get used to it, in time. It was shoulder-length when worn straight, but it was too similar to her old style that way, so she had arranged it with pins and combs so that it piled up and around her head in a style associated with educated women of low birth.
There would not be many in the vastness of the Keep that would know who she was, even without the changes she had wreaked upon herself. Still, as they neared the Imperial chambers, there would be more and more retainers of Blood Koli, and the danger would increase.
But first, they had to face the Weaver. She could only hope that her mother's plan would work.
Mishani had to chide Ukida for hurrying several times as they made their way through the corridors. He was sweating and plainly agitated, and Mishani cursed his inability to conceal his terror. It did not take a Weaver to know that something was wrong; if anyone asked, she had advised him to put it down to his anxiety at Muraki's condition. Ukida had assured her that her mother had feigned illness these past few days, and his own false diagnoses had confirmed it. Muraki had left strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed today by anyone but Ukida and the assistant he would bring. The retainers and the Weavers had been informed, so there would be no surprise at Mishani's arrival.
And yet it would take only the smallest thing to go wrong, and disaster would befall them. It was not only Mishani's life and Ukida's that were at stake here. Mishani knew far too much about the plans and dealings of the Libera Dramach and the high families in the south, and if she were caught those secrets would be ripped from her mind by a Weaver. What she was doing was selfish and irresponsible, but she did not care. She was going to see her mother. Whatever the cost.
They made their way up several sets of stairs, taking less travelled routes whenever they could. Once Mishani had to grab Ukida's arm and feign interest in an ornamental vase that was set in an alcove, so as to avert her face from a woman she thought she recognised. But most of the servants here were those who came with the Keep when Blood Koli took it over, so they did not know her; and the corridors were quiet, for there were no nobles or their retinues to populate them. The Imperial Keep was all but empty of guests now, though Ukida spoke darkly of the upper levels where the Weavers lived.
'We are nearing the section where the Imperial chambers lie,' he muttered at one point. Shortly afterward, they saw a boy of fourteen harvests or so, who spotted them and ran away in the direction they were heading.
'I was afraid he would not be there,' Ukida said, taking what solace he could. At least so far, the plan was working well.
They dawdled for a while, pretending to examine a tapestry but ready to move if anyone should come; then, when Ukida judged that enough time had passed, they continued down the corridor to where the Weaver would be.
The Imperial chambers were guarded much more strictly than the rest of the Keep. It was impossible to maintain maximum security in such a huge building, when the day-today running of the place required ingress and egress on such a scale. But the Keep was designed so that certain sections could only be accessed by a small number of entry points, and these were where the vigilance was greatest. Each entry to the Imperial chambers was watched over by a Weaver, and Weavers could steal the thoughts from a person's mind.
The corridor ended in a stout door. Before it stood a Weaver with a Mask of silver, fashioned in the countenance of a woman. Mishani sent silent thanks to the gods that it had not been Blood Koli's own Weaver; but then, why should it? Weavers did not belong to families any more.
Just as the Weaver came into view, the door behind him opened and Muraki tu Koli appeared, supported by the boy they had seen earlier. Ukida sped up and hurried towards her. Mishani hesitated a moment at the sight – Mother! – then followed him.
'Mistress! What are you doing out of bed?' he cried as he approached.
'Ukida,' she said in a voice barely above a whisper. 'I am so glad you are here. I felt ill… I had to take some air.'
'I have brought the assistant you asked for,' he motioned at Mishani, but Muraki did not even look at her. 'Come now, back to your bed. I will take you.'
Ignoring the Weaver, they headed past him and into the Imperial chambers.
'Wait,' rasped the voice behind the silver Mask. It was turned towards Mishani.
'What is it?' Ukida said, and by good fortune his fear made his words come out as authoritative snap. 'She has to rest; she should not have been wandering.'
'I do not know this one,' the Weaver said, meaning Mishani.
'I asked for her,' Muraki said. 'Let her pass.'
'A moment…' said the Weaver, and Mishani knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach what would come next.
She felt the Weaver's influence brush her mind, detestable tentacles slithering over her thoughts. She shuddered. He could not fail to see her as she really was, to dredge up memories of her life in Blood Koli. Frantically she tried to hide her past beneath a muddle of images, but the images that came to her were the junks in the harbour at Mataxa Bay, or pictures of Lucia and Kaiku and incidents that would only make her identity more obvious. She stared, transfixed, into the black slits of the silver Mask, the woman-face hiding its disfigured owner; heard the wheeze of his breath and was touched by the decay of his mind.