The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 17: Renegades: Section I: Uta

Uta: The House of Many Purposes: Qemassen

The meeting tonight would be the first in months, Zioban's communications having become infrequent—coded messages sent disguised as letters, or innocuous marks scratched here and there in chosen places around the city. Uta didn't know every location where Zioban chose to communicate, but she knew enough, and he—or she—knew where to find Uta.

Uta yawned as the basement filled with slaves. They trotted to the entrance weary and discarded their exhaustion at the door. Elation was the mood of choice when Zioban grew near.

Uta only wished it was elation she herself felt any longer.

In her more generous moments, Uta assumed the gap between meetings was to ensure the Semassenqa didn't continue to hunt the slaves down, but as she'd watched Himalit et-Moniqa from beyond the tiny punctures in the wall, she'd begun to wonder. What if she'd been wrong about Zioban's identity? Why hadn't she caught some sign that Himalit was who Uta had supposed her to be? Why was all Aurelius's time taken up with Bree—Vivaen—and his child? He was king now. He had the power to free Zioban's people, and yet he did nothing.

The lack of meetings meant she hadn't had the opportunity to study either the male or female Zioban—to dissect their mannerisms or their voices for signs of Aurelius and his sister.

Uta turned to her left, taking in her fellow slaves. Just who looked out from behind these funereal visages? Before, she'd thought it likely most of the slaves were from the lower city, but Safot had been a rebel without Uta even knowing.

In their death masks, with firelight deepening the hollows and ridges wrought in leather, stone, and ceramic, the slaves could be corpses descended from their pyres. When the Lora came, and the slaves rallied with them against the Semassenqa, there would be real corpses littering the streets.

Uta's chest swelled with feeling for this motley tribe of strangers.

Did Aurelius's breast ache with that same sorrow and triumph?

She hoped so.

If Aurelius and Himalit were Zioban, they would know about the hollow walls that snaked throughout the palace, and they would also know to be careful with what they said and did within palace confines. The fact that Uta hadn't seen or heard anything suspicious could mean nothing at all.

Nothing, or everything.

She clutched her cane more tightly.

Her cane. Samelqo's cane.

The rounded handle seemed to sizzle beneath her fingers, burning a hole through her skin. She'd been a fool of a woman to bring it with her, when anyone could see it and know her for the heq-Ashqen's widow.

Qirani eq-Maleq kept telling her she shouldn't need it any longer, that it was only the horror she felt over the attack that made her believe she needed it. Yet, whenever Uta tried to set it aside, her legs failed her.

Uta discretely turned her head, peering to either side through the slim, crescent eyeholes in her mask. It didn't seem as though anyone looked her way, but with everyone's faces covered, it was impossible to know for certain.

She needed to calm herself. Few people were likely to recognize the cane. Madaula would have, but Uta happened to know that Madaula had scampered downstairs to the Hamatri to meet with her new lover. Besides, Madaula would never give Uta up. The girl hadn't one heqet of guile in all her bones.

Uta drew the cane in close against her stola and inhaled sharply.

The cellar swelled with anxious bodies—men and women thirsty for a sight of their saviour, longing for reassurance after the prolonged silence. They didn't speak to one another, barely registered the bodies closest to them. Their masks all faced forward, toward where Zioban was expected to appear.