Go away. Go away and do not return. For your sake as much as mine, leave and do not come back.
I recognized her as soon as you opened the latch. Do you think I could have forgotten her eyes, I who have dreamed of them every night in all the years since? Do you think me a fool? Letting me rant and rant, and then slipping it sidelong out of your pocket, and do I recognize, and have I ever seen? I do not know how you managed to hold on to that locket and I do not care to know. It has no meaning. It is not what it seems.
Because Amata had no children. Three went up the Spire, but only one survived to face the Anathema. Only one, and that one was Kiri, Kiri who became our Ba‘l Melqart. This is the truth of the matter, as every schoolchild knows. To speak otherwise is blasphemy, and anyone who would do so an apostate. Amata died. She died saving Kiri, whom she loved, who became Ba‘l Melqart, who looks over all of us. They bore no issue—he is Ba‘l Melqart, seedless, without heir, the eternal and the singular.
And if it was otherwise—if Amata had lived, and if she had been swelled with child, and if she had delivered that child, then what every schoolboy knows would be a lie, wouldn’t it? And who knows what else might be false, if that was false?
I have nothing else to say. Go away, Amanuensis. Go away and never speak of this again. Crush that locket with a stone and throw what is left into the sea. Take a ship to some distant land, to one of the foreign cities.
What? Yes, why not? Take the ratchet; the purple and the argent go well with your color, as they went well with hers. But it will not be enough protection, that I can promise you.
You foolish, foolish girl. You foolish girl.
By the God King, you look so much like her.
(13): Gemeti
5:37 PM
Manet? What are you doing here? What have you done to yourself?
You look awful, and you smell worse. I’d offer you something to steady your nerves, but I suspect you’ve had plenty of that already. Sit down—no, not there. That is the nice chair, and you seem to have spent the last day rooting in filth. Yes, there. The one with the stains.
But . . . look at your finger! We need to get you to a doctor immediately. . . .
Slow down, slow down. You’re not making any sense. You went where? And spoke with whom?
* * *
Yes, I see the locket. What is the point of it? Amata? A . . . passing resemblance, I suppose. They both have dark hair and dark eyes, like you and I and half the rest of the women in the city. Fine, fine, say it is her? What does that matter? Why should that have worked you into such a state?
* * *
Manet, I cannot . . . I will not pretend to understand how it must feel to have been taken from your family at so young an age. I can imagine how that would leave . . . scars. But surely you realize that what you’re saying is madness. Nonsense. Every orphan girl in the city must have some similar fantasy.
He said that it was Amata. And who is he, exactly? A hoarder living in the tenements? And you believed him? Because men lie, Manet. Because he liked the idea of having something important on his wall, or because he paid a great deal for it and did not want to feel a fool. Or he lied because he was lying to a beautiful woman, and he thought the more he lied the longer you’d listen. Men lie all the time, to themselves even more than to us.
I paid a visit to Pirhum this morning. Because I was worried about you, obviously! Seeing you now I think I made the right decision. He said that you’ve been acting irrationally. He said that after the locket arrived you grew . . . obsessed, and that you left the house the other day in a huff, and he hasn’t heard from you since.
I am told that the seven perfections come at the expense of . . . that is to say, it is my understanding that sometimes those blessed to serve as Ba‘l Melqart’s memory struggle to . . . that there is a cost to so high a position.
I was simply asking a question. Is it not true that graduates of the White Isles are prone to . . . confusion? Some occasional instability? Then is it not possible—is it not possible—that this fixation you’ve developed on the locket is the result of your professional hazard? Pirhum seemed to think so, and while I would usually discount the opinion of a jilted lover I’m rapidly coming around to his point of view.
Of course I’m worried. I worry when a friend comes running into my apartment unexpectedly, dressed in the clothes she wore the night before, stinking like an outhouse, her small finger cut to the bone, talking madness and hiding a ratchet in her jacket. Are you looking into a sideline as a bravo? How do you even know how to use one of those?
Oh, perfection of the body, of course. If dancing were the same thing as killing, every club girl would be a mass murderer. And who will you wield it upon, dare I ask? Who will be the audience for your new performance?
Better. Better. Just calm down. Here is water. Drink it first, then go to the bathroom and pour some over your head. No favor, I assure you, or rather one that you do me. You have picked up the unmistakable odor of dog shit since I last saw you. We should throw out what you’re wearing.
The locket will keep! The locket will not walk off alone into the city while you’re bathing. Take it with you then, whatever you want.
Shower first, then talk. I’ve some clothes that should fit you, though the pants will be tight around the waist. I’ll lay them on my bed, then run out and pick us up something to eat.
Please, Manet, calm down. Take a long shower and see if . . . see if some of these ideas don’t simmer away in the steam. I only want to help.
(14): Patriarch Shadrach
6:43 PM
Hello, Manet. Please excuse my abrupt arrival; no one likes to be surprised coming out of the shower. But it seemed best that we have a little chat, and sooner rather than later. If the robes, hat, and guards did not make it clear, I am Patriarch Shadrach, and I hold the incomparable honor of being Ba‘l Melqart’s first servant. But only the first, for are we not all in His service? Loyal and loving children, seeking to honor the father and uphold His law? Indeed, is that not the very purpose of the White Isle? Amanuensis, meaning “slave-recorder”?
That being the case, I confess to finding your actions of the last two days troubling.
Your friend does not deserve your venom. True, Gemeti is one of numberless subjects who repay Ba‘l Melqart’s kindness and protection with loyalty, who place that loyalty, a loyalty not only to a father who guides them but to the city He has built, above petty personal friendships. Can you truly fault her for coming to us with her concerns?
What does it matter if she came to us, or we sent her? We would have known anyway. I can assure you, Gemeti is far from the High Chapel’s only source of information.
It seems mastery of one’s temper is not numbered among the perfections. Still, you might make an attempt—and I will add, as a brief but perhaps valuable aside, that these two men are members of Ba‘l Melqart’s life guard, and their staves are primed. And, also, that there are a dozen waiting in the corridor outside whom I did not think to bring into our friendly chat.
All of which is to say, do take your hand off the hilt of that ratchet. Thank you.
Where were we? Yes, my questions. An uncomfortable reversal of your normal position, I know, though one on which I’m going to have to insist.
How did you first hear about Nutesh? We’ve been aware of his interest in matters better served by the official histories, but in and of itself he seemed no trouble. A harmless sort, at least if you hadn’t embroiled him in circumstances so far outside his capacity.