The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 4: Friends: Section II: Uta

Uta: Qemassen: The Palace: Samelqo's Tower

The last ghostly rays of the sun stretched across the horizon like the fingers of a dying man grasping for the hand of a beloved, lighting Samelqo's room through the panoramic window. Torches and braziers supplemented what remained of the natural light, burning bright against the blue walls, and the first stars shone from a clear sky like the fuzzy light of a candle shrouded by gauze curtains.

Surrounded by the teal walls of the audience chamber, gazing at the heavens outside, Uta could have been inside Tanata's temple instead of the tower on the Talefa hill. No doubt, when her master had long ago taken up the role of heq-Ashqen, he'd decorated his new rooms with precisely that intention. Would he have chosen differently, had he known they were the only walls he'd see in his twilight years?

Uta peered at Samelqo from the bench beside his desk. He was so lost in his writing he didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he was thinking about the fire.

When she'd returned from the lower city with news of the destruction, Samelqo had dismissed her and Madaula. The sound of glass shattering against the wall as they'd descended the stairs still seemed to linger in the beautiful prison, though when Uta had returned to him, whatever mess he'd made had been cleaned by his own hand. The small gash on his left palm bore that out. She'd forced him to let Qirani see to it.

She cared for him, yet only last night she'd sneaked through the labyrinth beneath the city to meet again with Zioban, a man who bore no love for Qemassen's priesthood or the Semassenqa. It was as though the Uta who woke up in the morning was no longer the Uta who laid down to rest at night.

She eyed the papyrus Samelqo was working on. Last night, Zioban had implored Uta and her fellow slaves to use what tools they could to help the rebellion. At the time, she'd lamented that she had no tools to contribute. What was a skilled scribal hand compared with the firm muscles and strong arms of a labourer? But as she'd drifted to sleep in the Hamatri, alone now that Lara had been taken to bed by Shaqarbas, she'd pictured the small army of scroll cases and court documents stored in Samelqo's tower, the coded messages Uta was so often instructed to send to eq-Anout.

Taking one of those messages would be simple enough. With her constant access to the tower, taking any of the scrolls in Samelqo's possession would be as easy as breathing. The document he was drawing up tonight had something to do with slaves, even if she hadn't spied the details. Eventually he would ask her to file it or send it—time enough to memorize its contents, perhaps even to copy it. If it proved useful, Zioban might speak to her personally, and most importantly, she'd have done what he asked. She'd have made herself of use.

All she had to do was choose her moment, of which she had many. The heq-Ashqen never balked at leaving her unattended. Samelqo trusted her completely.

Her heart clenched.

When Samelqo's wine cup clacked against the table its sound was that of the glass smashing against his walls after she'd told him of the devastation in the lower city. For how long could she convince herself that working against the Semassenqa wasn't the same as plotting against Samelqo?

A blot of ink flooded the papyrus she was writing on, and Uta swore beneath her breath in Vetnu.

Samelqo looked up from his own work, a frown distorting his wrinkled face, one of the brows Uta so diligently helped him shape raised judgementally. He detested cursing, and unluckily for Uta he could speak Vetnu as well as he could Massenqa. By now a look was all he needed to make his point.

Uta chanced a cheeky smirk in response to his glare. It had the intended effect, and the heq-Ashqen returned his attention to the scroll on its ledger.

"Have you applied the medicine Qirani eq-Maleq prescribed, Sese?" she asked. How much easier it was to slip back into the role of Samelqo's Uta. The one who nagged him to take his medicine, the one he'd rescued twenty years ago from the king's supposed justice.