Page 10 of The Ragpicker King
“Ah, yes,” Merren said with an uncharacteristic bitterness. “He destroys my family and is rewarded with a Charter. It couldn’t have gone to some other Gremont?”
“It seems his mother is bestowing it upon him as a method of getting him out of exile,” said Andreyen.
“Be that as it may,” said Jerrod. “Merren, murdering him wouldput you in a great deal of danger.” He looked at Kel. “Tell him, won’t you?”
“I think Merren is a careful person,” said Kel. “And Gremont does not deserve better.”
“Thank you,” Merren said, looking gratified.
“Is that really what you think?” said Jerrod, looking annoyed. “Or do you just want Antonetta Alleyne’s future husband dead?”
Kel smiled tightly. “Why must it be one or the other?” He turned to Merren. “Do what you think you must,” he said. “Though it would be better if I knew none of the details.”
Ji-An raised an eyebrow. “Because then you’d have to keep secrets from Antonetta Alleyne, and that troubles you?”
“Why would that trouble me?” said Kel, feeling very tired indeed. “I keep secrets from everyone.”
It was always a test, going through the gates, Lin thought. Not a test of herself, but a test of the Sault and its mood toward her: the Goddess Returned they had not expected, had not—in many of their minds—truly asked for.
Two guards were at the gate today: her old friend Mez and Adar Gamel, one of the younger Shomrim. He had just turned eighteen, the age when he could begin his guardian duties, and was still gangly as a new colt. He did not like Lin and did not bother hiding it.
“Greetings,Goddess,” he said as she passed, infusing the word with mockery. Mez smiled at Lin, clearly embarrassed by his companion’s tone.
“Lin,” he said. “Out visiting a patient? Is all well?”
“Very well, Mez.”
“The Maharam wants to see you. He said to let you know when you returned.”
He gave a half-apologetic shrug as if to say he had no idea what this summons was about. Lin did not doubt this was true. She smiled at Mez and, ignoring Adar’s glare, swept through the gate, cuttingacross the Sault toward the Etse Kebeth. She did not hurry away, not wanting to show any outward sign of distress. Inwardly, her stomach felt knotted up like rope.
She still remembered the night it had happened—her announcement, the flaming of the ships in the harbor like stars exploding. There had not been doubters that night, save her grandfather, but time had passed and things had changed in the walled city.
Mez and Adar seemed to sum up the divided opinion of the Sault. Some believed her to be the Goddess or thought she should at least be given the chance to prove herself. Others felt it was clear she was lying. They did not say so to her face, but the whispers ran through the streets like poison: What second miracle had she performed, since that first one? And why, of all the Ashkar women in the world, would the Goddess have chosenLin Casterto herald her return?
As she cut across the Kathot, she saw Arelle Dorin sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by other young women. Lin gave them a wide berth. The last time she’d met Arelle alone in the street, the other girl—whom Lin had known all her life—had looked at her coldly and said, “The Sanhedrin’s coming soon enough. Enjoy this while you can.”
She was right, too, Lin thought. Not that she was enjoying this, but that the Sanhedrin were coming. It was something she tried not to think about. She had the time she had, and access to the Shulamat during that. She could not think about the future.
In the meantime, Lin occupied a liminal space: not quite the Goddess Returned, but not her old self, either. She was now allowed access to the Shulamat, to the books and tools she needed for her studies. She came and went with little questioning. She continued to see her patients, for had the Goddess not been a healer? She had her defenders: Chana, Mariam, Mez. One day, she had opened her door in the Sault to discover a silver bowl on her threshold. It was inscribed with the words of a spell meant to ward off theshedinandlilin,evil spirits who sickened babies and snatched old people from their beds. She was not sure if it had been placed there to protect her or to protect othersfromher.
Either way, it was doing nothing to keep away the dreams that had haunted her for months now. Strange dreams of the Goddess herself, of the flames rising and surrounding Aram—and sometimes dreams that made even less sense: of a man throwing a book into the sea, of a Malgasi man finding something golden and dangerous inside a cave. Even last night, she had dreamed of a dark-haired woman with fire spilling from her hands and of a man turning to ash against a white marble pillar.
The Shulamat was quiet at midday, still under the sun like a sleeping cat. Lin cut through the dusty, washed-stone interior, passing the gold lattice-gate behind which were the Shulamat’s books. Books she had held in her hands now, feeling their weight, the texture of their bindings. Smooth leather sometimes, or heavy silver, carved and inscribed, or stiffened fabric whose glued-on precious stones were beginning to fall away. Three months ago, she could never even have imagined touching them. When she did, it was all worth it: the resentment and hostility, whatever damage she had done to her own soul with her lies.
(And then there was her most precious volume, which she had reclaimed after the Maharam had confiscated it:The Works of Qasmuna,so rare and so forbidden that she kept it wrapped in black velvet. The Prince had given it to her personally, and she could not help but see his face every time she opened the pages.)
She made her way through corridors spangled with dust motes that shimmered in the syrupy sunlight and passed out into the enclosed garden behind the Shulamat. Here the air smelled sweet, for honeysuckle crept down the stone walls, and the ground was carpeted with blue lupin and yellow crocus. Fruit hung heavy from the pomegranate and date trees that lined the paths.
She could see the Maharam, standing in the shadow of a plane tree. He was not carrying his staff; he seemed absorbed instead inscattering seeds for a boisterous group of sunbirds. A few of them hopped away as Lin approached, but the Maharam did not look up. Instead he whistled, and a sunbird with a bright-red head hopped closer to him, nearly sitting on his slippered foot.
Lin did not greet the Maharam, merely stood patiently (a task made easier by the fact that her skirts had become caught on a pricklysahjacactus) waiting for him to speak. At last he said, “Have you ever wondered at the purpose of this garden?”
Before three months ago, I was notallowedin this garden.But Lin only said, “Must a garden have a purpose, other than to be a peaceful retreat?”
The Maharam reached into the pockets of his voluminous robes and took out another handful of seeds. “When the first Exilarch, Judah Makabi, fled Aram, he took with him not only its people but also the seeds and fruits of the plants that grew there, in order that none of them might vanish from the earth. Everything that grows in this garden once grew in Aram. King’s crown and white anemone would carpet the mountains, and roses and tulips the valleys. We preserve them all, growing them where we can, so they can be carried back to Aram when it is restored.” His dark eyes studied her. “Your task, of course.”
Lin heard a snort from behind her. She turned and saw Oren Kandel passing by them on the path. She had, of course, seen a great deal of him since she had assumed her new role—such as it was. The Maharam had appointed him as caretaker of the Shulamat, and he was always there, glaring from the shadows. He walked off stiffly now, a burlap sack over his shoulder.
