Page 99 of The Mercy Makers
Of course, she can’t just ask Shahd directly.
Iriset opens the thin drawer of slowly accumulating beads,buttons, wire, and crystal shards for mask making. Removing four tiny opals shaped like grains of wheat, she offers them. “You should take these, go to your family, and not come back.”
Shahd leans away, hurt. “You don’t want me here? You asked for me. You know I won’t tell—I haven’t, why would I now?”
“Because it’s dangerous. Before, I was only doing what Amaranth wants and surviving and trying to save my father. But now I’m going to do whatIwant.”
“To rebel? With Bittor méra Tesmose?”
Iriset blows a heavy breath, wishing she could get word from Bittor. She tucks the opals away. “Rebellion is more of a side effect of my real goal.”
Shahd waits for clarification. The young woman is almost vibrating.
“I want to prove a point. The Holy Silence is incomplete. Aharté’s teachings flawed. And the Vertex Seal iswrong. About so many things.” Iriset tries to speak evenly, but when she talks about Lyric, her voice trembles. “But especially apostasy. And mercy.”
“You really don’t fear apostasy? Or Aharté’s wrath?” Shahd’s voice is quiet.
“I’m married to Aharté’s wrath. What’s there to fear when he’s in my bed?” Iriset says viciously.
Shahd gasps—not at the tone, probably, but at the conceit.
Iriset swallows back the spike of emotion just to breathe for a moment, and glances down at her sketch, giving Shahd a respite from her gaze. “So, will you help me, Shahd?”
“Yes,” the girl breathes.
It occurs to Iriset a bit too late that she’s creating herself into another kind of god.
As most days Iriset has to act the part of Singix for hours, and she can hardly work at night now that she’s married to an attentive husband, it takes a bit of time for her to complete her initial redesign and choose the best locations for her new anchors.
Having Shahd on her side makes setting those design-anchors throughout the palace complex rather more straightforward. With an attendant, Iriset has no need to make excuses as everyone assumes she’s on her way somewhere, or merely pausing to examine some strange mirané bit of architecture or a flower she’s unfamiliar with and Shahd can give her the name of. In each anchor location, Iriset tucks a little shard of silicate or opal charged with an open loop inside a wall or under a tile or concealed in the roots of a succulent. The activation trigger will close all the loops at once and bring her design to life.
Shahd not only keeps watch but provides excellent distractions. When Iriset needs to plant an anchor in one of the dining rooms tucked inside the mirané hall while lunching with a trio of mirané princes on the council’s foreign relations committee, Shahd spills rose wine down her robes for a momentary distraction. Because she is sweet, quiet, and mirané herself, she never receives more than a tsk or pitying glance for her clumsiness. Once, she even distracts Huya for two entire minutes so Iriset can fiddle with a tricky anchor that needs to be set near a fountain with strong natural falling and rising forces that might disrupt the charge glue.
They never try anything if Amaranth is nearby, which she often is, drawing Iriset into her circle as if to prove that there’s no reason to leave, no reason to fear.
There are two other major threads to her scheme, and eight days into her restrictions, she’s working on one.
A nearly invisible design net, painstakingly knitted using strands pulled from the force-shield behind Lyric’s desk, spreads over her worktable among the detritus of mask making. She’s got her makeshift stylus poised over a thin smear of crumbled ochre that’s spread over the net. Iriset stops breathing, activates the net, and touches her stylus to the ochre.
A flash of heat warms her lips, and she watches as the reddish powder shivers and tiny particles are drawn to the center, as if by a magnet. The moment the particles are grouped tightly enough that she can see the shape of them in contrast with the rest of the ochre, Iriset hooks a falling line from the design net and casts it across to the string of ecstatic pins, and then holds her breath again as her design completes.
She’s looking down at a thin orange coin of reconstituted design-grade hematite the size of her little fingernail.
Iriset allows herself a smug grin—nobody does this kind of thing anymore, because it’s so much delicate effort for so little reward when a licensed architect can simply buy hematite in the Descent Market. Iriset can’t request hematite without answering difficult questions, but she can ask for red ochre for making her own dye combinations for painting masks. Red ochre is red because of hematite. Which Iriset has now extracted and formed into a very sleek coin.
Hematite is a perfect carrier for the disruptive dome she’s building to give the numen.
Sweat itches at the nape of her neck, and Iriset sweeps the remnants of ochre into a little jar, rolls the used design net tightly, and puts it with her styli in the hidden compartment. Then she stands and stretches. A sensation draws her attention, like a stringpulling from her stomach down her spine. Usually nausea climbs up, but this is a falling nausea, she thinks to herself, curious more than worried. Her body has been treating her to several kinds of queasy feelings lately, though they’ve tapered off.
Though she can’t work naked as she used to, she isn’t wearing the majority of Singix’s layers, and is barefoot. Eddies of natural force tease at her lips and open palms, and up her ankles. It’s soothing as so few things are these days, so she closes her eyes and opens herself up further, breathing her eight-count meditation.
Extending her fingers to catch a few more drifting force-tendrils, Iriset notices a stutter in the flow of the architecture. Blinking, she flattens her hands to the tiled wall, walking her fingers like spiders over the old design until she finds the stutter again.
The secret door opens easily under her hand when she reads the pattern of taps knotted in. Of course she hurriedly explores the narrow passage, and finds that the stairway opens into a small chamber on the level below. The room is clean, empty, with no furniture, but a beautifully mosaicked ceiling of four-petaled vivid red flowers and old sigils spelling out a very intimate love poem.
Clearly previous Vertex Seals kept lovers.
She wonders if her husband knows. If not, this could make an excellent escape route for her if it becomes necessary. A way to slip out from under the watch of her guards and secretary. Maybe even to plant her anchors at night when Lyric sleeps.
