Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(132)

Certainly she had made an effort to mimic concern; her lips tightened, her brow furrowed. But here, too, something was missing. Where were the widened eyes, the involuntary glance at her husband that would have indicated true fear? Where was the surprise?

“How ghastly,” Pyrre said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Those of us who live in the hollow of the Blank God’s hand have no fear of Ananshael.”

Pyrre pursed her lips, shot her husband a skeptical glance. “I guess that explains why I never became a monk.”

“You never became a monk,” Jakin replied, “because you have breasts and you like men to look at them.”

“A thousand pardons,” Pyrre interjected, turning back to the abbot with a horrified look on her face. “After months on the road with only me for company, my husband sometimes forgets his tongue.”

“No apology needed,” Nin replied, although his features had hardened somewhat.

“In truth,” Pyrre continued, “I’m overly attached to this sad little life of mine. Hard to say why, really. It mostly consists of trudging, overcooked rice in the evening, sleeping in the rain, undercooked rice in the morning, and more trudging.” She pursed her lips speculatively. “Occasionally my knee gives out. Sometimes there are gallstones.”

“And yet you would not give it up,” Nin concluded.

“Not for all the gold you’ve got hidden in your granary.”

“A nice gambit,” Nin replied. “But we have no granary, let alone gold.”

Pyrre turned to her husband. “It’s worse than we thought.” She returned her attention to Scial Nin. “This thing that killed your brother. Are we in danger?”

Nin raised a reassuring hand. “You made it here—that is the crucial fact. You should be safe in the buildings and central square. We can give you an escort when you descend the path once more.”

“We thank you,” she responded. “And again, we’re sorry for your loss. It’s bad luck to lose a friend—even for stoic monks indifferent to death. Perhaps we can take your mind off it with news of the outside world. You’re just a step or two off the main trade routes.”

That opened the floodgates, and for a while the robed men lost some of their austerity in their eagerness. Nin did his best to maintain order, but more than once two or even three monks spoke at the same time, each trying to pitch his voice just a little louder than the others.

“How many ships of the line has O’Mara Havast taken this year?” asked Altaf the Smith. The man had plied his trade at the Bend before joining the Shin, and he retained a keen curiosity about the Annurian navy.

Chalmer Oleki wanted to know if the rebel Hannan tribes had stepped up attacks on the empire. Phirum Prumm, true to form, asked nervously if any plagues had swept Channary recently. “My mother,” he added apologetically. “She lives there still, at least she did when I departed.”

“I have no news of your mother,” Pyrre responded, “much to my chagrin. I can tell you that the atrep of Channary has redoubled his efforts to keep the city streets clear of filth, and the plague has not visited the city since.”

“How about the Urghul?” Rebbin wanted to know. “There were rumblings of war this year when we went down to trade with them in their winter pasturage. Something about a new chieftain unifying the tribes.”

“The Urghul,” she replied, turning her palms to the ceiling helplessly, “are the Urghul. One day they seem massed for an assault over the White River, following this new shaman or chief or whoever he is. The next, they’re sacrificing captives or buggering elk or whatever it is they do for sport.”

When the questions got around to Akiil, Kaden’s friend had the temerity to ask the merchants to describe “with careful attention to detail” the body of Ciena’s new high priestess. Pyrre laughed at that, a long melodious laugh, while the abbot shot the youth a look that promised penance on the morrow.

Kaden had been at Ashk’lan so long that he didn’t know most of the names and places his brothers asked after. At best they were dimly recollected echoes from a childhood so far away, it might have been a different life. In some cases, they were pure fantasy, and he let the strange syllables wash over him, rapt. For a while he forgot the questions pricking his mind, the nagging and unformed suspicions about the merchant and her husband. It was enough just to listen.

Pyrre responded to the questions in long, literary cadences while Jakin was blunt and direct. It seemed that someone named the Burned King was trying to unite the Blood Cities of southeastern Vash. Tsavein Kar’amalan continued to hold the Waist, as ruthless and shadowy as ever. An odd rumor out of Rabi had it that the tribes of the Darvi Desert were trying to force a passage over the Ancaz, though how they could hope to establish a foothold on Annurian territory held by Annurian legions was unclear. On and on and on it went until at long last, Halva Sjold asked the question Kaden had been waiting for: “And the Emperor? Sanlitun is still the strong, stubborn oak I remember from twenty years ago?”