Chapter XVI

  The Royal Ward

  In which they are guests of the king

  After some debate, they decided on nighttime to enter the Royal Ward. Night was a time for thieves, the basis of Alia’s objection. But night belongs also to hunters, Tregarde countered. Would it not be best to arrive in an hour they were least expected, and where they might have the ability to explore by stealth? See what sort of weaponry the guards might have?

  Having time to get their bearings in the Royal Ward without hostile surveillance appealed to them. Thus they gathered their belongings and stood on the gate pyramid where they’d arrived in the fortress.

  The portal staff brought them to another pyramid. However, unlike the pyramid in the gate fortress, this one was exposed to the open air.

  A very strange air.

  Like rain clouds, a pinkish mist floated low in the sky. Through the mist light filtered, but from a sun unseen.

  “We’re under the dome of the Royal Ward,” Edana said with undisguised satisfaction. “Apparently stealth will not be an option here, because this dome seems to have the same limitations as the gate fortress barrier.”

  Tregarde sighed. “Damn. I had thought the Conservationists would have treated themselves better, and allowed themselves to see the day and night.”

  A great whirring sound interrupted. Two heartbeats later, they were greeted with a strange wonder: Three contraptions swooped out of the mist. They were shaped like the flat bottomed boats Edana had seen sailing around the Gryphon’s Way in Athyr-ai. Except each boat had a canopy overhead, and windows in the canopy, which astonished the Rasena Valentians. Behind the windows sat men, who were looking out at them.

  “The windows are see through,” Bessa said. In Rasena Valentis glass was rare and costly, and windows constructed with it were never transparent. Nay, the glass in windows were always thin, opaque, and colored—colored especially to show off the wealth of the owner.

  More than transparent glass, the flying boats boasted huge iridescent wings, shaped like those of a dragonfly.

  All at once the boats floated above them, surrounding them on the platform. The wind it generated kicked up grit, forcing them to close their eyes. Suddenly a strange voice issued forth. A multitude of syllables poured out, all of them incomprehensible to Edana.

  But to Selàna and the Lyrcanians, the words were maddening.

  “I think … is he saying to ‘halt’?” Sheridan’s voice came from somewhere to Edana’s left.

  “I think so,” Alia shouted. “It sounds like he’s speaking Anshani. But he sounds so strange.”

  Selàna’s voice floated from across the platform to Edana’s ears. “This does sound like Anshani. But an older form. Amavand taught some of it to Zephyra. And before that, the man was speaking in the Athyriian language. Maybe he’s trying to figure out what we speak.”

  An ominous buzz shook their very bones, forcing all but Edana to collapse helplessly to to the ground. The amulet Ziri had given her for the raid on the Red Daggers’ lair protected her even now. Involuntarily, Edana’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. Screaming was impossible. What was happening to them?

  Prudence and guile took over, and she made herself fall as if overcome by the same magic that brought down her friends. If she appeared impervious to Zanbellian magic they might want to study her, or even deprive her of the possessions she relied upon for her defense.

  Just as she landed on the floor it began to rush away from her. Faster and faster, higher and higher. From the corner of her eye she saw Bessa and Tregarde propelled upward by an unseen force.

  And then all at once Edana found herself on thin carpet, at the feet of two men staring down at her. Bessa and Tregarde lay on either side of her.

  The men wore pleated linen kilts covered with metal pteruges. Dull black bronze armored their boots, and the vegetal pattens embossed in the bronze made those boots a work of art. Identical patterns beautified their black bronze cuirasses.

  And each man pointed javelins at her.

  Edana made no attempt to move. What would these men do if they thought she needed to be “subdued”? Finding out would hardly be in her best interest, she decided.

  One man opened his mouth. More unintelligible syllables followed, but she caught two or three words in the language of Athyr-ai. Would it be worth it to let them know she couldn’t understand them?

  “Please, I don’t know your language,” she said.

  The men recoiled. They exchanged glances with each other, then one of them turned to face the front of the flying ship, and said something.

  From the corner of her eye, Edana saw a man sitting in a chair. A series of instruments were arrayed before him. His hands moved over them in a well-practiced fashion. He didn’t turn around, only shouted a response.

  Edana tried to relax her muscles. The last time she’d been immobilized like this, she was in the power of a ruthless warlord who used a compulsion spell on her. But the sensation she felt now was nothing like then. For one thing, her mind still worked the way it ought. It was simply that her limbs were immobilized.

  In response to whatever the driver said, the guards kept their javelins pointed.

  The whirring and fluttering of the—dragonfly boat?—continued on. The speed of the dragonfly boat, and the little twists and turns as it maneuvered made Edana’s head feel light, dizzy. Her stomach roiled, and she feared she might vomit.

  Fortunately, she soon felt the descent of the dragonfly boat.

  They had arrived at their destination.

  Because she lay face up, she did not miss the canopy suddenly raising itself up, like a lid hinged on a box. With the canopy raised, she now saw a ceiling far above—they were inside a building.

  Voices of many people came to her ears. Someone must have spoken to her captors, for the men were gesticulating at Edana and her companions. For a moment nothing happened.

  Then, once again she was lifted by an unseen force. Someone must have been skilled at telekinesis, for Edana and her friends were now positioned flat on their backs, as if they were on a bed.

  Except they were moving. Floating, into a crowd of excited onlookers. Edana stared back at them, for nothing stopped her from moving her head, only her limbs.

  The men and women in the crowd wore pleated linen and silks, the women wore their hair in elaborate up-dos, and the men wore rings in their long hair and beards.

  One woman with wing-like eyebrows caught Edana’s attention. She wore an elaborate beaded gown, a kalasiris of shimmersilk that hugged the curves of her voluptuous figure. Slack in her right hand was a flamingo-feathered fan. A man stood tall beside her, in a short pleated kilt of golden sea silk. The kilt came mid-thigh, the better to show off his well-developed leg muscles. Both the man and woman wore a circlet of moonbow stones on their heads.

  Royalty?

  Whoever they were, in status they were high up enough to have some say over the fates of her and her friends. Better, then, to observe them with care.

  The man made a gesture and uttered one word. By his tone Edana suspected it was a command. Immediately more javelin-men appeared, surrounding her and the others. Once more she began moving.

  From her vantage point she saw little of the crowd. Instead she focused on the rooftops, intrigued by the gorgeous flowers hanging from them. Hanging gardens? Each building was carved with friezes near the rooftop, an alternating sequence of blocks with three-grooves followed by metopes with fantastical themes. One building used ravens for the theme, another one beautiful naked women, and yet another showed frolicking nymphs. Did the themes serve as addresses of a kind? Something to indicate what one might find in the building?

  Some rooftops held spectators, who peered down at them, pointing and shouting foreign words.

  The procession came to a halt. Edana found herself between Bessa and Sheridan. To Sheridan’s right floated Selàna and Alia, and Tregarde floated to Bessa’s left. Guards stood about the six of them, all in a circle. The next thing she knew, colorful lights swirled about them.

  When the swirling stopped, Edana stood now, upright, alongside her friends. Before them sat a regal couple, dressed in elaborate samite and brocaded silk. Their crowns were elaborate, too, triple-tiered of moonbow steel and studded with adamant, rubies, and pearls. Below their thrones, on a dais, waited three other men in robes of red velvet.

  With a flick of his wrist the king gave instruction, for the red-robed men stepped off the dais. The trio began chanting in their alien language, and waved their hands about. Abruptly they stopped chanting, and stepped back.

  “Listen, and comprehend. Speak, and be understood,” the one on the left intoned.

  In Rasenan. Or so Edana’s ears heard it.

  Beside her, Bessa gasped. “What is this sorcery?”

  But the red-robed sorcerers had nothing further to say. Now came a man in white linen, bearing a staff of office mounted with a white swan. It was he who addressed them.

  “You stand now before King Sarvin and Queen Rekhetre. If you value your life, you will answer every question they put to you. Hold nothing back! Speak the truth, and the truth only, lest you be devoured!”

  Cold dismay washed over Edana as the depth of their peril sank in. Too casually did these Zanbellians practice death magic! Her eyes strayed to her silver bracelet, which she quickly allowed her sleeve to cover.

  The herald—or so Edana mentally designated the white-robed man—swept over to Alia. He struck the floor with his staff, and looked expectantly at her.

  “What would you know of us?” Alia asked.

  “Ta-Setian, tell us of how you came to be here,” said Queen Rekhetre.

  “Your men met us at the portal in your town square. That’s where we came through.”

  The queen’s long lashes fluttered, somewhat impatiently. “But how? No one in our living years has done so.”

  “And how long have you lived?” Alia returned.

  An apt question, though neither the king nor the queen appeared to be Ta-Setian. The king looked as if he might be in his sixties, with gray at his temples and salted through his otherwise black beard. As for the queen, Edana estimated her to be in her forties. One thing about Ta-Setians was that regardless of their age, they never looked to be in any stage of senescence.

  The king rumbled, “We are not so old as you may be.”

  “Do we not both desire clarity, your highness?” came Alia’s swift reply.

  The king eyed her. The huntress had a bluntness Edana could appreciate. But could the king? Would he interpret her as challenging him?

  But a smile tugged at the king’s lips. He spoke without rancor. “Indeed, immortal one. We approach my sixty-eighth birthday. Let us say of my wife only that I am over twenty years her senior, and she has not yet lived half a century. And you?”

  Alia dipped her head to him. “I salute you as my elder then, for I am all of thirty-two.”

  This must have astonished the king and queen, for their eyes grew wide, and they exchanged a glance with each other.

  “Indeed? Indeed? We understand your people live a long time,” the king said. “But I never thought to meet one of your kind in the flower of youth.”

  Alia only shrugged at this; undoubtedly she saw no purpose in pointing out the obvious fact that everyone must be born, and pass through youth if they were to become old. The huntress tended not to point out the obvious. Instead she cocked her head at them.

  “From the way you and everyone reacts to us, I am skeptical you thought to meet any one at all.”

  “That is so, that is so.” But the king said nothing further, studying her and then the others in their turn.

  Questions jostled about in Edana’s mind, but she kept her silence. Once more she was unwilling to test whatever limits these strange folk might have: Only Alia had been given leave to speak.

  The queen resumed her interrogation. “From whence do you arrive here, Ta-Setian?”

  Alia raised her chin. “My name is Alia Ironwing, Queen Rekhetre. Would it please you to know the names of my companions?”

  Because if the queen were indifferent to their identities, the implications were not pleasant.

  Queen Rekhetre made an open-handed gesture. “I would be pleased indeed.”

  And so Alia introduced them. Not in the style of Bessa of Silura, as Lady Nensela might have said of herself. But strictly their names, and Edana wondered if the huntress intended to obfuscate their origins. To those in the know, their names and faces alone signaled different cultural origins, and hinted of socio-political factors. But if the Zanbellians were not in the know, Alia was keeping them ignorant for the time being.

  The huntress continued, “As for how my friends and I came to be here, it is by your own laws, as I understand them: to come to Zanbil, one must have an item of equal value to one of your coins.”

  “You have come to trade?” Again the queen exchanged a glance with her king.

  “Perhaps.”

  Alia let the silence stretch as the royals regarded her with interest. Their eyes swept over the group once again. Silent, Edana hoped novelty and curiosity alone might win them through whatever trial the king and queen were testing them against in their own minds.

  “Tell us, if you will, the year by your reckoning?” King Sarvin asked.

  “Ah. I do not reckon time the same as you do,” Alia said, and Edana wondered if she meant as a Ta-Setian or as a Lyrcanian. Of course, the Zanbellians no doubt thought she meant the former. “But for our common purposes, we are approaching the four-hundred and fiftieth year after the Fourth Cataclysm. The event in which Zanbil ceased to be seen, or heard from.”

  The king sat back in his throne, audibly expelling his breath. The queen whispered, four-hundred and fifty, but said nothing else.

  Several heartbeats passed. The king drummed his fingers lightly against the arm of his throne. Upholstered in red silk, the throne itself was carved from obsidian. The queen’s throne appeared to be amethyst, and upholstered in pink silk.

  “What you say is obviously shocking, to us,” King Sarvin began. “In the years since the Fourth Cataclysm, no one has come to our kingdom. Not by way of our laws, and not against them, either. For what purpose did you come here?”

  Suppressing a smile of triumph, Edana glanced at Bessa from the corner of her eye. Her oldest friend had been wise to prime them for this moment.

  “Knowledge. Education,” Alia replied. “Though Zanbil has not been heard from in nearly half a millennium, its fame is still known, and to this day sages speculate on the fate of your land. Many people doubt it ever existed. May I ask—is your isolation by preference, or happenstance?”

  Subtly, Edana exhaled in relief. The first part of Alia’s answer showed her prudence, for it would pass muster if any one the red-robed men were a Truthseer. More, the question she asked cut right to the heart of the matter: would they be permitted to leave Zanbil?

  The king visibly swallowed, and the queen stiffened.

  “And so we come to it,” Queen Rekhetre said. The heaviness in her voice made her sound as if she were her husband’s equal in age. “We shall not answer you here. We shall not answer you now. But count yourselves our guests.” She clapped her hands, and from out of the curtains stepped six animachina.

  The living machines were constructed to look like women, but alternating as gold or silver. Skin luminous and natural looking as that of a human’s, but gold. Or silver. The golden women wore their hair up, in elaborate braids. The silver women wore their hair loose, down to their waists. Both sets of women wore stark white linen, sewn shut only on one side. And thus, they showed off their shapely legs. Each woman wore a belt loosely slung about her hips, from which dangled ivory wands with golden floral patterns embroidered in them.

  “If you will follow us, please,” said one golden one.

  Edana studied them, and to her surprise, the animachina were not identical. While each gold android resembled the other golden androids, it was in the fashion of sisters, not identical twins. The same held true for the silver women.

  As for the one who spoke, her eyes were a deep orichalcum, with no irises. Unsettling, and yet another indication of her lack of humanity.

  Bessa leaned over to Edana and murmured, “No wonder Grandmother didn’t let Papa make these for the estate. Too disturbing.”

  Seeing the mechanical women made Edana agree with Matrona Aurelia. A soulless lifeform with human intelligence seemed inherently sinister to her as well. Yet curiosity won out, and she followed the pseudo-women without complaint.

  What strange welcome to Zanbil.

  In her quarters Edana allowed the pseudo-woman to give her a tour. The golden woman spoke softly, in a sing-song voice. As for the room itself, everything was sumptuous — moonbow shimmersilk curtains around her bed, velvet curtains on her windows, and soft carpets woven with some mix of wool and silk Edana suspected would be a treat for her bare feet. But first —

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Where might I bathe?” She removed her boots, which she had worn to battle the shadow guardians and to handle the dead.

  Certainly Zanbil must boast at least the equal of plumbing in Rasena Valentis, but Edana was curious if their baths were greater in luxury. While she appreciated Tregarde’s suggestion to wash away the scent of death from their persons, the cramped tubs available to them did not allow her to truly recuperate.

  Through lowered eyelashes she contemplated the mechanical woman. Could it survive in a pool of water? If she “accidentally” knocked it into the bathing pool she might find out. But the Sower willing, she would not have to make use of such information. Hopefully the pseudo-women were not also violent.

  “Follow me, O honored guest,” said the construct.

  Leading Edana to a bath of white marble veined with turquoise. Marble. Which must be quarried. Proof the Zanbellians once traded with land-dwellers in its floating-in-the-sky days.

  Perhaps, Alia had said, regarding the matter of trade. In old Zanbil Edana would not have possessed anything a Zanbellian might value. Except perhaps her much-needed kibisis, woven of starsilk by a sorceress. But even that she doubted, given that a floating city likely would have access to many sorcerers who could capture the light of the stars for their own purposes.

  Nevertheless. Nevertheless, in new Zanbil, items such as marble did not readily come to hand. And wool? Did the city support sheep? Flax for their linen? They surely ate food, which implied farms. But they likely would only have had what was in their Royal Ward when they erected their barrier.

  Edana shook her head. While trade seemed to interest the king and queen, she suspected they were after something more. Something tied to the reason why no one had seen or heard from them in four and a half centuries.

  “May I ask how I would summon you, should I need you?” Edana asked, surveying the bathing chamber. Instead of a pool, the center of the room held a tub. And Sower be praised, it was large enough for four people. Big enough for her to stretch out her muscles. Fancy, too, round and fronted with marble. Three small steps butted up against it. Half of the tub was circled by a projecting ledge, on which were arrayed glass bottles and soft-looking towels.

  The pseudo-woman stood still, in the entryway. “I am called Gulalla, visitor. Gulalla-katin, because I belong to the palace.”

  Edana paused, and mentally chided herself. Hadn’t she just thought it relevant if the queen wished to know her name? And wasn’t the point to ascertain if she and her friends would be treated as disposable and expendable? But it never occurred to her the machine women might have names … if the machines truly did have sapience, she must not treat them as if they were mere utensils.

  The color of the water in the tub caught her attention. Pink, rose scented bubbles frothed. From soap, like what the Anshani used in their baths? This version looked promising.

  “How long have you been here, Gulalla? Serving in the palace, I mean?”

  As far as she knew, constructs were somewhat immortal: they remained functional for centuries, so long as no one damaged them or deactivated them.

  Gulalla blinked, so rare an action that Edana was caught off guard. The golden pseudo-woman had not blinked at all in the quarter of an hour Edana spent with her.

  “Six hundred and ninety-three days, visitor.”

  “In my land I am addressed as Optima Nuriel. You may do so, if you wish.” For the moment Edana would keep to formalities, hence optima.

  “Yes, Optima Nuriel. You will find towels and cleansing agents in the cabinet there. When you have completed your bath, my second shall bring you sustenance.” She extended one long index finger towards the lacquered cabinets on the right side of the room.

  “Oh? I will not dine with my friends?” Neutral voice; if there was a game at play here Edana would not acknowledge it until circumstances were more favorable to her.

  “Not in this cycle, Optima Nuriel. In this cycle, the period of visitation is over.”

  “Cycle?”

  “Every four hours, a new cycle begins. We will have entered the early sleep cycle by the time you emerge from your bath.”

  To test her, Edana merely raised an eyebrow. Could the construct read human expressions?

  Gulalla folded her hands behind her back. “Do surfacers not sleep in two phases? First sleep in Zanbil is for three hours, perhaps four. Then a short period of wakefulness for up to two hours, until the second sleep of four hours. Is this not how things are done in your land?”

  Ah. Gulalla correctly interpreted Edana’s raised eyebrow, and she asked a question, not merely responded to an inquiry.

  “Not in this formal way you do it,” Edana answered. Her own preference was to sleep later, to be tired enough to sleep entirely through the night. But the practice Gulalla described was not unknown to her, and such an intermittent pattern of sleep sometimes happened to Edana as well, as on the night in Aletheia’s Fane when Selàna’s screams had awakened her.

  A thought occurred to her: “Do you sleep, Gulalla?”

  Gulalla cocked her head, prompting Edana to realize at that moment how much she depended on eye movements to gauge someone’s emotions and thoughts. Without irises, Gulalla did not necessarily seem to be looking at her. Someone who wouldn’t meet her eyes was normally suspect, but in Gulalla’s case she found no familiar visual guideposts of deception or evasion.

  “I have prescribed periods of inactivity,” Gulalla replied. “But no need for sleep, as you do.” She straightened and faced Edana full on now. “If your sense of modesty inhibits you from undressing in my presence, please leave your clothes on this bench here, and Mahbanu will deal with them. You will find in the cabinet beside it a dressing gown for your modesty’s sake.”

  “Thank you.” Edana paused. Part of her was impressed by Gulalla, but the uncanny construct still left her uneasy. Modesty alone didn’t reign over her; she didn’t wish to undress while she remained uncertain if she were a prisoner. What did the royals of Zanbil have in mind for her and her friends? But something Gulalla said prompted her to ask aloud, “And who is Mahbanu?”

  “My night-sister. My service is in the first, second, and third cycles of the day. Mahbanu will attend to you in the fourth, fifth, and sixth cycles. I am here now only because Mahbanu is occupied with her own tasks, but she will attend to you once you dismiss me.”

  Rapid calculations suggested Zanbellians divided the day into twelve hours, and further subdivided them into the four hour cycles Gulalla mentioned earlier.

  More questions danced on the tip of Edana’s tongue, but she decided she could wait for Mahbanu. “Thank you, Gulalla. I shall see you in the morning, then?”

  Gulalla cocked her head again. “You shall see me in the first cycle.”

  “You don’t call the first cycle the ‘morning’? Or dawn?”

  “Dawn?” Now Gulalla raised her eyebrow.

  “The hour of sunrise. What is your first cycle, if it is not dawn?”

  “Dawn,” Gulalla repeated. “Sunrise. This is unknown to me. First cycle is first cycle. If you wish, I shall make inquiries as to ‘dawn’ and ‘sunrise.’”

  That the Zanbellian construct was unaware of sunrise confirmed the barrier over the Royal Ward also prevented celestial light from penetrating to the inhabitants below. Interesting.

  Edana held up her hand. “No need. Again, thank you.”

  Gulalla bowed, spun on her heel—barefoot, Edana noted—and left without ceremony, shutting the door to the bath.

  Though she had bathed barely two hours ago, the bath looked and smelled intriguing. No reason not to soak for a bit, at least. The soreness of her ordeal in Protector Amavand’s citadel had not left her, not with her added her toils in the gate fortress. May as well put this “between sleep” to good use.

  A brief inspection of the cabinets showed her bottles and pots of unguents and oils. Dust touched not a single surface. So. This part of the palace was still occupied, and maintained. Had Edana displaced someone from her quarters? Or, perhaps a prophet warned the king and queen they should prepare for visitors?

  Whatever the reason, a garment hung in the second cabinet Gulalla had indicated. Edana examined it. Like her coat it had sleeves, but nothing to fasten it shut in the front. No pins or brooches, or even buttons, only a matching sash.

  So this was a “dressing gown.” An item woven of cotton, a fabric unusual to Rasena Valentis. But Lady Nensela had brought some cotton fabric from beyond the Gold Sea, and introduced Edana to it, so she knew it when she saw it. Someone had dyed the dressing gown a rich teal, a color that would flatter her.

  To her surprise, though, when she held it up to her body she found it would only hit her mid-thigh. Never did she wear something so short unless she was playing sports in the women’s portion of a bath house.

  Not something she would wear while sneaking about the palace, then.

  Too bad she hadn’t thought to commission another disguise, like the one she’d worn to investigate Duke Gagnon’s quarters back in Red Pointe. A simple slave’s chiton and apron set that changed not only her clothes, but also her face and body. Then again, she had grown up in Silura, and knew what to wear and how to act.

  In Zanbil, she would have to walk the edge of a knife.

  With nothing else to do, Edana began to undress. Because she hadn’t wanted to try and fit it in her pack, she had worn the coat she’d purchased at the outfitter’s shop in Elamis. The night was just cool enough to justify wearing it in the gate fortress.

  But the sultry heat of the palace made her sigh in relief when she removed the coat. Even her feet felt toasty, as if the palace used a hypocaust system. However, removing her chiton exposed her moonbow blades. Letting untested strangers see her knives was out of the question. If they did not suspect she was armed, they would not try to confiscate her best means of defense. Quickly she solved the problem by placing them beneath the rolls of towels on the tub’s shelf.

  Inside the tub, the waters soothed her muscles, which still ached after her most recent efforts in soul-cleansing the gate fortress and attending to the corpses. So much did the bath relax her that she found herself dozing off. With a start she awakened.

  Someone was in her bedchamber.

  Instantly she was out of the tub. Wrapping one of the towels around herself, she tiptoed to the door and listened.

  Padda padda padda.

  Someone was indeed walking around. She opened the door a crack and peered out.

  A silver pseudo-woman was preparing a table, laying out a small dinner.

  Edana shut the door. She toweled off, then rummaged through the collection of skin creams and oils. What she hoped was such, anyway; the alabaster jars bore cartouches on top with hieroglyphics she could not read. One jar of cream had the whiff of ginger lilies, a gorgeous flower introduced to her in the viridarium of the Fire Lords. Undoubtedly Zanbil used viridaria as well; surely no self-respecting king would lack one for his own palace, at least? How else would he dine on summer fruits in winter, and serve exotic delicacies to his guests?

  A little of the cream went a long way. The oddly short dressing gown—how did Gulalla suppose it served the purpose of modesty?—presented her with a problem: she could not conceal her knives by strapping them to her thighs as she usually did.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Fixing her eyes on the door handle, Edana remained silent. Curiosity bade her to see if the machine would enter without permission. But not once did the knob rattle.

  “Optima Nuriel? Your dinner is ready,” came the voice from the other side of the door.

  Nothing for it but to go out, as is. Edana hastily hid her knives in a towel she rolled up, then stuffed it in the cabinet where she’d taken the “dressing gown.” The bottom of the cabinet held slippers which felt soft and comfortable on her feet. With a sigh she belted the garment of dubious worth tightly about her waist.

  “Are you Mahbanu?” Edana asked when she stepped back into the bedroom.

  The silver woman bowed. “At your service, Optima Nuriel. Will you sup? I have prepared only a light refreshment, as the sleep cycle is imminent.”

  Edana looked over what Mahbanu had brought, curious to see what served as light refreshment in the palace of a king of fabled Zanbil.

  As it happened: a freshly baked flatbread, a small dish of honey with a large chunk of honeycomb, a cluster of green grapes. From a viridarium? Or had Zanbil been taken to secret land as far south as Ta-Seti or Lyrcania, southerly enough to have an extended growing season? White crumbly looking cheese on the plate next to the honey told her Zanbil must keep domestic animals. The only kind she knew that produced such cheese required grass to eat, another point in favor for Zanbil being relocated to a secret land.

  Rather than wine to wash down the light meal, Mahbanu had brought a small pot of spiced warm milk, sweetened with honey.

  “This looks tasty. Thank you,” Edana said.

  Though she meant her words with all sincerity she didn’t sit, having a more pressing point of curiosity in the form of thick elegant drapes of a material Lady Nensela called velvet. Back home such rich material must be imported from across the Gold Sea. Here in the Royal Ward it covered one section of wall. Edana grabbed hold of the outer edge and pulled it back.

  Warm, rosy gold light poured into the room, through the amazing see-through glass windows. Without sun, moon, or stars how did Galallu speak with such confidence about the time? The windows showed her the empty streets of Zanbil, even on what was clearly a major promenade. Flowering trees lined the broad road, along with flowering shrubs. At some distance ahead an older couple relaxed on a balcony in a home along the promenade.

  No other signs of life or activity.

  Edana released the curtains, letting them fall back into place. When she turned from the window she caught Mahbanu nodding in approval.

  “It is best to close the curtains at the cessation of fourth cycle,” said Mahbanu.

  For now she must take the servant at her word, and thus she returned to the table. Daintily she sampled everything, hoping she did not betray her wariness. Surely there was no point in poisoning her, correct? Or drugging her? Yet all the same she would not extend her trust until she knew more of her hosts.

  In the meantime, she gambled that any ill effects from the food would make itself felt in only a few minutes, so she decided to stall for time.

  “Mahbanu, I am getting the impression that these cycles are strict. Gulalla said I could not dine with my friends, because ‘the period of visitation’ is over. Is life so regimented, here in Zanbil?”

  Mahbanu stood beside the dining room table, with her hands clasped behind her back. When she turned her full face toward Edana, a pair of peacock green eyes stared out at her. Like Gulalla, Mahbanu lacked irises.

  “This is of necessity, Optima Nuriel: we have no means to reckon time. We lack a sun, and we lack the moon and stars.”

  “No dawn, and no sunset?”

  Like Gulallu, Mahbanu cocked her head. “Indeed not, Optima Nuriel.”

  Edana sat back in her chair and tented her fingers, contemplating anew Tregarde’s observation about the point of a barrier. The purpose of the gate fortress barrier made sense: to trap within. But why would the Conservationists not want their people to observe the heavens? The Sower appointed certain times to honor Him; doing so required the Eitanim to keep track of the moon, of the solstices and equinoxes. The same was true for those who worshipped as gods the Restorer or the Sea Lord or the Huntress. What did pious Zanbellians do without the heavenly signposts to guide them?

  “Where is the light coming from in the sky?”

  “Unknown to us. It is impossible to navigate the mists of the firmament.”

  Ah? Was this by design? Or by accident? “I see. How do you know what time it is? How do you know when the cycles have begun or ended?”

  In one hand Mahbanu held a bronze grater over the cup of milk, and with her other hand she grated a small piece of tan-colored bark. The fragrance of the bark reminded Edana of malabathrum.

  “The accuracy of our water clocks is unparalleled,” she said, tapping the excess spice-dust from the grater and into the cup.

  Sales-pitch patter. Did Mahbanu believe this? Did the Zanbellians really put their faith in this claim? Edana asked aloud how the clocks were adjusted or synchronized. Mahbanu froze, and Edana went cold with dismay. The queen’s reaction when Alia told her the year took on a deeper dimension.

  “What about where we are? You have goods that come from the kingdoms of the Gold Sea, is that where we are?”

  The thought made her heart sink; for this would necessarily mean she was far from Anshan. Far from Anshan, and whatever good Alia and the venatori might have done for the king of Anshan. Zanbil was her mission, and she had not meant to thwart the others in theirs.

  Mahbanu blinked. Again reminding Edana that the pseudo women did not do that. Blinking must be an indication of some surprise or puzzlement, she guessed.

  “What is this ‘Gold Sea’?”

  The question told her much. “Do you know what the sea is?”

  “I do not.”

  “Ah.” Feeling no ill effects, Edana picked up a cluster of grapes and began to pluck off a few. They became her snack as she explained what seas were, and of the sun and the moon and the stars.

  Then the bells rang out. One, two, three, four, and now five chimes, deeply resonant so that Edana felt it in her bones.

  “Fifth cycle has begun,” said Mahbanu. “Each cycle is heralded by a bell with the appropriate number of tolls.”

  Mahbanu sat at Edana’s invitation, and her voice was tinged with curiosity when she asked her own questions.

  Never having met an artificial being before, Edana put certain questions to her.

  “My purpose? I am Mahbanu-katin, for I belong to the palace. I serve the people here, during cycles five through eight.”

  “How do you serve? What are your tasks?”

  “Whatever is required of me.”

  “Surely there are limits? If I required a new item of clothing, what would you do about it? If I wished to take an excursion, could you saddle a horse for me? Control those dragonfly-boats? If I wanted marble, would you quarry it?”

  Mahbahnu smiled slightly. “I lacked precision, for which I apologize. If your clothes needed mending, I would see to it. If you needed new clothes, I would ask what color and pattern you wanted, then I would set the loom to make them as you sleep. If you needed to leave the palace, I would ask for one of the ornithopter pilots to take you: I do not leave the palace.”

  Edana paused in the act of bringing her cup to her lips. “You do not leave? By choice, or design? Even if the king sent you out on an errand, you would not leave?”

  “What purpose would I have outside these walls? I serve the palace. The king has never sent me beyond the palace. Nor has the queen. What would they have me do?”

  “Fetch items, deliver messages? Attend to their needs if they leave the palace?”

  Mahbanu shook her head. “This is not so. I have never done this.”

  “And your night sisters or day sisters, do they leave?”

  “I am a night sister. I have none of my own, only a day-sister. We none of us leave the palace.”

  Edana looked closer at her, then gave a start. Gulalla did not exactly resemble the other golden animachina; Mahbanu did not exactly resemble the silver animachina, both of the ‘sisters’ resembled each other. Identical in facial structure, with only their skin color, hair, and eye color being different. As though both were fashioned from the same mold, but gilded in two different coatings.

  To hide her churning thoughts, Edana finally sipped the milk and honey concoction. One flavor was similar to the malabathrum she already expected, but sweeter. As well, cardamum, cloves, and something exotic she could not name.

  “Who does leave the palace? Who were the men who snatched up me and my friends in their dragonfly boats?” With her spoon she broke off a small piece of honeycomb, which tasted like the wildflower honey Lady Nensela favored.

  “You speak of the ornithopter. This answer I can give you: the Watchers in the the Tower observe the portal plaza. It is my understanding that this task is normally pointless, for no one has come through the portal in generations. They summoned the guards, who came and brought you here.”

  “Generations? That is unfortunate. Isolation is usually not healthy for a people. How has Zanbil fared?”

  “I have nothing to compare it to…unhealthy, do you say?” Now it was Mahbanu’s turn to raise her eyebrow.

  “Per a friend of mine; who is well-versed in human nature. She’s a Ta-Setian who has lived about three thousand years. But she said the sages of Zanbil maintained a library, a Tower of Knowledge. Is this still true?” A perfect pretext to go back to the window, and pull back the curtains again. “Where is this library?”

  Mahbanu joined her at the window. “You can’t see it from here; it is not along Farsak’s Way. If you were on the other side of the palace it would be visible to you, though.”

  “And the Watch Tower?”

  Mahbanu pointed to the north west. “There, the white tower with all the windows.”

  So now she knew the portal’s general location in relation to the palace. And also that if she tried to sneak out through her own window, she might be spotted by anyone in that tower. Let alone the couple relaxing on the balcony along the promenade—Farsak’s Way.

  “I see. How about knowledge? Can you tell me the history of your Zanbil? Since the fall, or before it? What are your skills?” Once again Edana closed the curtains.

  “Lore I know, but not as much as a sage, and I would bring you before one if you wished to know things as they know them. But if your sleep is troubled, I could play music for you. Or sing a lullaby.”

  Mahbanu also attended to bodily needs: drawing baths, massaging sore muscles, or binding up small wounds. For anything more she would find a healer, and nurse Edana according to the healer’s instructions. Were Edana a small child, Mahbanu would also recite children’s stories to her.

  “I am not a small child, but I would like you to tell me these stories,” Edana said. She pushed away her plate and cup. Children’s stories would tell her something of Zanbil, not least of which what sort of lessons the Zanbellians wanted to teach their children. What sort of people did they wish their children to be?

  Mahbanu gave a small shrug of her shoulders and began clearing away the dishes. “This I will do, if it helps you to sleep. Look yonder in the cabinets along that wall.” She pointed to a row of tall, floor-length cabinets each hand painted with pictures of roses or lilies or lotus flowers.

  Edana opened the one painted with roses, and found it full of clothes.

  “The one with the night jasmine painted on it has what you need to sleep in. Gulalla says you are modest. I will take these dishes, and return to you. Please dress in the meantime.”

  With brisk efficiency Mahbahnu placed the table setting into two wooden containers, with Edana’s used dishes in one, and the leftover food in the other. Then she took her wand and waved it over the boxes, which promptly lifted into the air. The boxes floated before her as she walked. Like Gulalla, she firmly shut the door behind her.

  Alone, Edana selected a longer gown from the “night-jasmine” cabinet. Almost all of the options were silky and almost completely sheer, unsuitable for her purposes. Finally she found a caftan-style gown, black and embroidered with violet roses.

  But first she stepped outside her room and looked around. Night sisters—the silver pseudo-women—were standing outside five other doors. All of them turned at once and looked at her.

  “Hello. Which room is Bessa’s?” Edana asked, affecting a cheerful demeanor.

  The second night-sister across the hall, three doors down, nodded. “She is here, O honored visitor. “But the hour of visitation is over. Please return at First Cycle.”

  While the construct sounded neutral, a question insisted upon itself: what would this living machine do if Edana attempted to press the matter? In stories animachina were often imbued with personal combat abilities.

  Edana shut the door and leaned against it.

  If she were going to explore, she must find her chance during the “first cycle.”