Love had never been part of Shupansea’s emotional vocabulary. Indeed, no Beysa had ever dared to love-not when her blood was venom and all her male offspring were condemned to death in her womb. At home they sacrificed the royal consort, and the Beysa insured her line with casual, guilt-free affairs.
Could she doubt for one heartbeat that the nightmares-the cold fear that lived in her belly-were the underside of her love for an unlucky Rankan prince?
Shupansea shivered from the fear, and the everpresent dampness that permeated the palace. She shrugged her gown over her shoulders and looked beside the bed for her slippers. It was no wonder that Rankan women swaddled themselves in layer upon layer of cloth. Sanctuary was always damp; it was hot and damp in the summer, then chilly and damp the rest of the time. Either way you wrapped yourself in soft, absorbent cloth for comfort.
She opened the door quietly, half expecting to find Kammesin crouched beside the latch-hole. The corridor was empty, but her lamplight caught the final sway of a nearby drapery. Despite her age, Kam-sin had retreated to her alcove and, after another moment, began snoring gently.
A faint smile crossed the Beysa’s lips as she headed for the sunrise wing. Twice a year everyone who was anyone changed residence from one side of the palace to the other-adjusting the social hierarchy in the process. The best people had sunrise suites in the warmer months and sunset suites in the dreary winter.
At first Shupansea and her comrades-in-exile had taken all the good rooms for themselves-winning themselves no friends among the Rankans. Moving days had been tense, bristly affairs with frequent brawls between the servants and the occasional duel between the incoming and outgoing residents.
The palace, like the city, had mellowed in the last year. Some of the Beysibs had moved to renovated estates beyond the walls; some of the Rankans had as well. Those who remained got along better-as well as any court in either empire-and Beysibs began mixing with Rankans on both sides of fortune’s wheel.
The man whom Shupansea sought could have had an apartment on the sunset side, but he chose, for reasons of his own, to live in counterpoint to both the Beysa and his prince.
“Ambitious people have stronger stories,” Hakiem always insisted when moving day found him marshalling his possessions against the tide. “And unhappy people have tragic ones.”
The Beysa never argued with the storyteller, who was her closest friend among the natives. Privately she thought he was wrong, at least about tragedy. She knew her own story, and that of Prince Kadakithis, and she’d gladly have changed with a sunrise resident whose life was both comfortable and dull.
Trusted servants slept in alcoves and on pallets beside their masters’ doors. The more alert and reliable managed to be wide-awake as Shupansea walked by with her lamp. Most of the Beysibs kowtowed to her shadow, some of the Rankans glowered with scant respect-but not as many as once had done. The Beysa ignored them, which was what they all expected anyway.
Hakiem’s knotted latchstring was drawn to the inside of his door, and Shupansea was suddenly aware of the late hour. The storyteller said he was always ready to be her ears-any day, any night-but he wasn’t a young man. Men and women offered themselves to a Beysa or a Prince in the sublime confidence that their gift would never be called.
Twice Shupansea pulled her knuckles soundlessly back from the door. The third time she touched the wood, but still there was no sound as the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
“Hakiem? Friend?”
The room was empty; the storyteller’s pallet was rolled up into a daycushion. Shupansea felt awkward and foolish. Hakiem was old enough to be her father, but that didn’t quite make him old. Certainly he was charming, witty, and-now that he was better groomed and bathed regularly-cut a handsome figure among the court ladies who commonly complained that men talked only of war and politics. Surely he had offers -no doubt his assignations were more easily arranged from this side of the palace.
She resolved to make no mention of her untimely visit and was about to leave when the lamplight fell on a pile of drawings. She saw her prince with a bloody sword, and herself with bloody hands-and curiosity got the better of her good sense.
Lighting Hakiem’s lamp from her own, Shupansea settled down to examine the colored sketches more closely.
Not all of Sanctuary ran on palace time. The Street of Red Lanterns was ablaze well past midnight. The Maze didn’t start to get interesting until respectable people pulled their shutters in. And a dive like the Vulgar Unicorn hit its stride a good deal later than that.
Through all Sanctuary’s vicissitudes, the Vulgar Unicorn had been a touchstone of a sort of stability. Its bartenders-human and otherwisewere uniformly ugly; its wenches were invariably on the downside of careers that had never looked promising. Its food was uncompromisingly vile, and the swill they tapped from their kegs . . . The beer at the Vulgar Unicorn was generally regarded to be the worst of mixing sludge from the harbor and goat urine; the wine-well, the beer was better than the wine.
Irony of ironies: Hakiem the Storyteller, who had spent the better part of his adult life in a drunken stupor, begging coppers to squander on the vulgar wine, now had enough money to buy the tavern’s entire cellar, and he could no longer drink the bilge. The taste was the same in his mouth, and it brought back bittersweet memories of a vanished Sanctuary, but he dared not swallow. Fortunately no one noticed when he hawked the bloody liquid at the floor.
He was in disguise-that is, he wore the old clothes he’d sworn to incinerate years ago. Most people knew he’d come up in the world; most people didn’t recognize him when he looked liked his old self. A few even worried about him and warned him away from the Unicorn now that he had a few coins in his pouch and access to the palace. Those few were probably right, but he could no more live without the Vulgar Unicorn than he could . . . Than he could live in the palace day after day.
Late at night, long after his respectable patrons had shut down their respectable soirees, Hakiem eased back to the Sanctuary they could not imagine and harvested another crop of tales. He had an apprentice of sorts, the fisherman’s lad, Hort, who did the first winnowing and pruning, but nothing could replace his own senses. And nothing could replace the parade of life in the Vulgar Unicorn.
He let his eyes go out of focus-an easy task since his hair had begun turning white as well as gray-and was struck by a wild insight that shook him in his shoes: His beloved Unicorn and the palace weren ‘t so very different after all. He gulped his mug of wine and blamed his seeping eyes on it.
But, no, the comparison was in his mind and the similarities would not go away. The Vulgar Unicorn and the palace were both places where style was generally more important than substance. They were both places where you belonged, or you didn’t belong-and where you had to always prove that you still belonged. Both had reputations which exceeded reality, and-might as well admit it-both were parasites in the city’s lifeblood.
Dark Shalpa knew how many honest men it took to support a thiefeven one who lied as all thieves lie. Hakiem guessed it took about as many as it took to support an aristocrat.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Hort said cheerfully as he took the chair opposite his mentor.
Hakiem raised his head to see twins smiling at him. Puttering Nethergods! What did these people put in their wine? Old habits, however, died hard and stood him in good stead as he reestablished conscious control over his body with slow, deliberate gestures. Old habits, and the fact that he had drunk no more than half a mug of sour wine.
“You’ve forgotten everything I’ve taught you,” he said, using drawling sarcasm to mask the stiffness in his tongue.
“What sort of introduction is that? Make a point, Hort. Get your audience’s attention. Add color. What manner of ghost; what sort of look-”
They had played this game before. Hort puffed up his chest and spread his arms wide. “Ye gods, old sot, your eyes are as red as the gutters in Shambles Cross; you’re as pale as a man who’s seen his mother’s ghost dancing naked with Vashanka’s tent peg!”
Hakiem swallowed hard, and not because of the wine. The boy had talent; had learned everything he’d been taught. He didn’t need a mentor any longer.
“Better, lad. Much better. You do yourself, and myself, proud. Now, tell me, what have your pointed little ears heard this week?”