But the thoughts that seeped back into his consciousness as his mind cleared only seemed to him to be a different kind of pain: the nagging ache of his growing frustration, of futility, isolation and regret. He sat up, telling himself angrily that this was no more than he could have expected. Had he really become such a fool that he believed his own press—believed that the Hegemony would grant his every whim because of what he had done for them? Or that Moon Dawntreader had been secretly longing for him to return, thinking only of him all these years, as he had thought only of her—that they would fall into each other’s arms like the lovers in the wretched Old Empire historical he had been addicted to in his youth?
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Gods … he was exhausted, he should go to bed before he sank any deeper into this trackless bog of self-pity. He had always known what the reality of the situation here would be; he had just never wanted to believe it. He let his eyes take in the timeless, vaguely alien contours of the room, picturing the layout of the townhouse, one of the best in the city: ten rooms, their walls covered with beautiful murals of sea and mountains, in which he lived all alone, in rattling emptiness—as he would likely go on doing for years, unless he … unless he …
He stood up abruptly, and spoke the music off again. This had been his own choice. He had made his bed; he might as well lie in it.
As he started across the room, his eyes caught on the package he had brought inside, still waiting on the stolid, square-legged table beside the couch. He sat down again, taking the lidded basket into his hands, breaking the seals that held it together. He lifted off the lid and set it aside; sat staring in amazement at the thing which lay in a nest of sea grass inside.
It was a mask—a traditional Festival mask, handmade, exquisitely crafted; like the masks he remembered from his last Festival on Tiamat, and not the hurried, uninspired things he had seen cluttering shops in the Maze as this Mask Night approached. He had not bought one; had not even looked at them twice.
And yet this mask was new, not some relic that had been stored for a generation in someone’s closet. … He touched it tentatively, wonderingly, seeing the glittering pinpoint diamonds of the stars, fragile veils of nebulosity spread across the dark silken reaches of space; the wings of midnight; the utter blackness of a Black Gate’s heart, of the Transfer, of eyes without sight … and at its heart, a face made of light, reflecting, mirroring the world and all its variety … showing him his own face, looking back at him. And suddenly he knew whose hands had made this thing for him; who had sent it to him, and why.
He smiled, taking the mask in his hands, lifting it carefully out of the basket and holding it up to study it. He laid it back in its resting place again after a long moment, and got to his feet, stretching. “Tomorrow,” he murmured to it, feeling his perspective restored; feeling an odd sense of peace settle over him as he climbed the stairs, in search of a resting place of his own.
TIAMAT: Carbuncle
“Jerusha.” BZ Gundhalinu stood aside, letting Jerusha PalaThion enter his townhouse. He closed the door again hastily on the din of Festival revelers. They had been celebrating in his alley, as they had been celebrating all through the city, for three solid days now since the Assembly’s arrival. He felt his face settle into a frown of concern as he saw her expression. “What’s wrong?”
The tight line of her lips curved up into an ironic smile. “I wish those didn’t have to be the first words out of your mouth every time you see me unexpectedly, BZ.”
He laughed, ruefully, as he led her in through the hall to the sitting room. “So do I.” He settled into a chair, inviting her with a gesture to do the same. The room was lamplit; the heavy draperies drawn across the windows in the wall behind her shut out prying eyes and the city’s endless artificial day, letting his body at least pretend to believe that it was night, and time to rest. He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “This had better be good. Riots? Bomb threats? Assassination attempts on the Prime Minister?”
Jerusha shook her head, glancing down. “Nothing so simple, I’m afraid.” She looked up again. “There’s no easy way to say this. Tammis is in trouble. He’s down at the station—”
“Ye gods,” Gundhalinu sat forward. “He’s been arrested?”
She held up her hand. “No. He got beaten up and robbed. He was trying to pick up a male prostitute. He picked the wrong one. …” She shrugged.
“But he’s—” Married. Gundhalinu didn’t finish it, realizing all at once why their marriage was a troubled one.
“I’m keeping him at the station because he won’t go to the medical center.”
“His wife works there.”
She nodded, and ran a hand through her hair. “I thought you’d want to know.”
He sighed, looking away from the unspoken sympathy in her eyes. “Bring him here.”
He waited. The time passed interminably, until at last there was another knock at his door. He opened it. Tammis stood in the sheltering alcove, with Jerusha hovering like a shadow at his back. He entered the townhouse at Gundhalinu’s nod, moving stiffly; his lip was swollen, his eye bruised. Jerusha raised a hand in farewell and disappeared into the crowd.
“Thank you for coming,” Gundhalinu said, closing the door.
“Did I have a choice?” Tammis frowned.
“No. But thank you anyway.” Gundhalinu led the way to his sitting room again, offered his guest a seat again.
Tammis sat down, warily and painfully. “Why am I here, Justice Gundhalinu?” he said, and Gundhalinu saw him flush as he asked it—afraid that he already knew, afraid of the gods only knew what consequences.
Gundhalinu took a seat on the couch across from him. “Because we need to talk, about the reason why you won’t go to the med center.” He studied the boy’s face surreptitiously, meeting his resentful stare; searching for resemblances, and finding them. He glanced at the trefoil Tammis wore, its clean light winking against the soft folds of his dirt-smudged vest; glanced down at his own trefoil.
“What makes you think that’s any of your business, Justice?” Tammis said, holding himself like the son of the Queen. His voice was not as steady as he probably wished it was. “Are you doing this because you’re sleeping with my mother?”
Gundhalinu stiffened; he did not answer for a moment, trying to pull his thoughts and his resolve together. “Not exactly,” he murmured at last. “I’m not sleeping with your mother. But I am your father.”
Tammis froze as the words registered; although there was no surprise at all in his eyes. He did not ask if it was really true. The silence continued between them, while other emotions claimed the space behind his eyes.
At last Gundhalinu got up from his seat, moving across the room to stand before the boy. He looked down into the bruised, apprehensive face, observing Tammis with a trained eye. “I expect right now you feel like bloody hell,” he said, barely touching Tammis’s bruised cheek. Tammis flinched away from his hand. “But I don’t think it’s life-threatening.” Not meaning simply the obvious damage.
“How would you know?” Tammis said irritably.
“I’ve survived this long,” he answered gently. Tammis looked up at him. “I have some first aid supplies in the bathroom, if you want them.”
“No.” Tammis shook his head, looking down.
Gundhalinu nodded, understanding too why he would not end his physical suffering even when he could.
“You say you’re my real father, and that’s why I should talk to you. But that’s only what you say. You don’t know anything about me. What makes you think you can understand me, if my—my own family can’t?”