Thick as Thieves

  Dedication

  For my editor, Virginia Duncan,

  one of those guiding stars

  whose influence is all the more

  profound for being so often unseen

  Epigraph

  If a man who claims to see the future is a fool,

  how much more so, the man who believes he can control it?

  We think we steer the ship of fate,

  but all of us are guided by unseen stars.

  —Enoclitus

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Envoy

  Map

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Megan Whalen Turner

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was midday and the passageway quiet and cool. The stone walls kept out the heat while the openings near the high ceilings admitted some of the sun’s fierce light. Midday, and the houseboy was gone on an errand, probably stealing a nap somewhere, so I was alone at the door to my master’s apartments, holding my head in my hand and cursing myself for an idiot. I was not prone to stupidity, but I’d made a foolish mistake and was paying the price. My knees shook and I would have leaned against the wall for support, but it had recently been whitewashed and the blood would stain—I did not want to be reminded of this moment every time I passed until the stones were whitened again.

  Sighing, I tried to think through the fire in my head and my shoulder. I wanted a place where I could withdraw until the pain had eased, but my usual retreat was an alcove off the main room of my master’s apartments—on the other side of the door in front of me. I was absolutely not going through that door until summoned. I’d invited disaster already that day by offering my master an evidently entirely inappropriate glass of remchik. The bottle of remchik was smashed, the glasses were smashed, and, judging by the pain in my shoulder and my side, the small statuette of Kamia Shesmegah formerly resting on his writing desk was smashed as well—from which I gathered that the emperor had not, in fact, offered my master the governorship of Hemsha.

  I rubbed my head and checked my hand to see if it was still bleeding. It was, but not much.

  In my defense, it had not been unreasonable on my part to assume that my master would become governor. He was still the nephew of the emperor and the brother of the emperor’s chosen heir, the prince Naheelid. The governorship of Hemsha, a minor coastal province with a single small harbor, was not outside his expectations. I am the first to admit that he has a habit of overreaching, and I had been very quietly relieved that he had set his sights so low.

  After the debacle in Attolia, he’d taken us to rusticate on his family estate. We’d hidden there for more than a year while the laughter died down, my master fighting with his wife the entire time—she had been, unsurprisingly, unenthusiastic about his attempts to marry the Attolian queen. Finally, we had returned to the capital, where my master found that even his oldest friends had turned their backs on him. When he’d applied for the post of governor, I’d thought he was conceding defeat. I’d thought that if Hemsha was far away from the capital, at least it was equally far away from his wife. I would have sworn on my aching shoulder that there was no reason for him to be denied such a reasonable request. Which is why, when he returned with one of his cousins, I had been waiting for him with a tray of glasses and a newly opened bottle of remchik, ready for congratulations.

  “I so hate presumption in a slave,” I’d heard his cousin say, as I crept out of the room.

  I sighed again. I hated being beaten. Nothing could make me feel so stupid and so angry at myself, and on top of everything else, I’d have to deal with the smirks and pitying remarks of other slaves. It did my authority no good to be seen with my face covered in blood, but I really couldn’t go back into my master’s apartments.

  “Kamet?”

  I had already bowed and begged pardon before I realized that it was Laela beside me. She reached to touch my shoulder and I flinched.

  “Dear Kamet,” she said. “Is it more than the face?”

  I nodded. My shoulder wasn’t going to heal for some time, I could tell.

  Laela had been one of my master’s dancing girls. When she fell out of favor, she’d asked if I could do anything for her—afraid of where she might be sold to next. I had persuaded my master that she should stay with the household as a matron over the other girls, and she was one of the few slaves I could trust to do me a favor. “Come to my room,” she suggested.

  Shaking my head slowly, I said, “He will call me back.” He always did, sooner or later. I needed to be closer than her rooms, which were deep in the slaves’ dormitories.

  “I’ll make sure the houseboys know where you are,” she said, and took me gently by the arm to lead me down the hall.

  As matron, Laela had a narrow room much the same size as the alcove where I slept. With the curtain pulled across the doorway, it was almost dark inside. She watched me lie down, then went to fetch a bowl with cool water and a cup to dip in it. After I’d had a drink, she soaked a cloth in the bowl and laid it on my face, wiping away the blood. It made her bedding wet, and I mumbled an apology.

  “It will dry,” she said. “Faster than your face will heal. Whatever did you do?”

  “Offered him a glass of remchik.”

  She made a puzzled sound, though she and I both knew that slaves were beaten for all sorts of reasons and sometimes for no reason at all.

  “He didn’t get the governorship of Hemsha.”

  “Ah,” said Laela. She wasn’t a dancing girl anymore; she was as experienced as I was in listening to rumor and sorting out its meanings. “Well, you couldn’t have known,” she told me, but I didn’t agree.

  “I’m a fool,” I said.

  “You handle him well,” Laela reminded me. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  Her words helped as much as the cool cloth on my face. My expertise had been painfully acquired over the years, but it was mostly reliable. I did usually handle my master better than I had that day, and I was proud of my skill.

  “I should see to the girls. They’ll need to know he’s in a mood,” Laela said. “I’ll come back if he sends for you.” And she went away, leaving me to rest while I could.

  When Laela came to fetch me, it was already dark. She lifted a lamp to my face and winced.

  “You look like a pomegranate,” she told me.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. My voice was mocking, but she knew I was grateful. I was stiff as well as sore, and she had to steady me while I got to my feet. She walked me as far as the entrance to the dormitory, then left me to make my own way.

  “Kamet, you look like a pomegranate,” my master said.

  I said nothing.

  “Get your clothes off so I can see the rest of the damage.”

  Slowly, I peeled my tunic off, in order to allow him to inspect his handiwork. He always did, after a beating, partly to be sure that any serious injury was seen to, and partly just to admire the bruises. When he was done with me, I was shaking and sick, my skin prickled with a cold sweat, but he had wrapped my chest and shoulder in bandages and given me a dose of lethium to put me to sleep. He helped me over to the cot in my office, then gently covered me with a blanket, checking to see that I was as comfortable as possible be
fore he went back to his own sleeping room.

  I moved very gingerly for the next few weeks, in part because of my healing body and in part because my master was still in a dangerous mood. It was best to stay out of his sight as much as possible until his temper evened out. I kept the curtain pulled across my alcove, though it was stifling in the small space, with no movement of the air.

  The quarterly accounts had come in, and they kept me busy. The allowance for household costs was delivered to me four times a year, mostly on the basis of these accounts, and they had to be examined thoroughly. I oversaw all of my master’s finances, not just for the palace household but for his outlying estates as well. His slaves and servants answered to me, and I in turn to him. Reading between the lines, I suspected that the steward at the family estate was at his wit’s end trying to keep my master’s wife’s expenses in check. I might have had some sympathy for him—she was very strong-minded—but I’d been unimpressed by what I had seen of his management. I decided to cover the added expense for the quarter, but I thought that I would replace him soon. I could move a man I had in mind from one of my master’s smaller estates. The incompetent steward was a free man—he could be turned out without the trouble of selling him.

  When I heard the houseboy open the apartment door, I twitched the curtain on my alcove aside. My master was out and Kep, the houseboy, could only be coming in to speak to me.

  “It’s Rakra, Kamet, about his pay.”

  I nodded and the houseboy showed Rakra in. A burly man in his thirties, he’d been a houseman on the family estate and had returned with us to the capital. In the palace, he had little to do to earn his pay and had perhaps too much free time to sample the pleasures of the city.

  Rakra looked me over, his eyes lingering on my bruised face, and I felt my own eyes narrow. Pomegranate? I wondered, but he didn’t say it, just snorted. Honestly, I looked a little more like an overripe melon at that point—purple and green.

  “I’ll need more money,” Rakra said. “Same amount as before.”

  Quite a few of my master’s palace servants came to me for advances on their pay. I made loans out of the discretionary funds in my budget and charged them a fee, deducted from their pay at the end of the quarter—in this way making a bit of money for myself. There was an embroidered bag holding all my savings sitting in my master’s cashbox under my desk. Unlike Rakra, most of the people in need of a loan arrived at my threshold with some embarrassment, not with bold demands.

  “Better our master doesn’t know about our business, eh?” Rakra suggested.

  “Ah,” I said.

  This was exactly the sort of loss of discipline I hated to deal with after a beating. Rakra assumed my loan-making was a secret. He’d heard a rumor that I was in disfavor and thought he could threaten me with its revelation. In my experience, crooked men assume others are crooked as well, and I was reconsidering Rakra’s character. He opened his mouth to say something even more unpleasant, I was sure, but I held up a hand to stop him.

  “Very well,” I said. “I will take what you owe from next quarter’s pay and charge you no fee.” I bent under the desk to lift the cashbox, and opened it with the key on a tie around my waist. I counted three coins into his meaty palm while Rakra looked pleased with himself.

  “I’m sure my master is well aware of the payday loans,” I told him. This voided the power of his threat, and was also true. There was no reason my master should not know of my loans, and I had always assumed he did. Rakra’s eyes narrowed, belatedly wary, but I dismissed him with a wave of my hand toward the door and looked back down at my work. Rakra hesitated, but I went on ignoring him until he left. I could have discharged him from my master’s service—I had that kind of authority—but Rakra had been hired by the steward at the family estate, the very one whose accounts were out of order. I resolved to check the expenses more thoroughly, and I did not want Rakra returning in disgrace to the estates too quickly, as it might alert the steward to my suspicions. I would soon know if there was a larger problem to address. If there was, I would bring it to my master’s attention and possibly he would be pleased with me.

  Once the accounts had been attended to and the money disbursed, there were housekeeping arrangements to be made. My master’s rooms were growing shabby, and if we were not to be displaced to Hemsha, he would expect them to be updated. The lingering ache in my shoulder reminded me that I needed to find him another statue of Shesmegah. I called in various merchants to discuss new rugs and furnishings, doing as much as I could from my little office. The tradespeople had representatives in the palace and they were wise enough to show no sign they noticed my bruises. Unlike Rakra, they knew the authority I wielded over their purses.

  Laela stopped by to fill me in on some of the stories circulating among the lower echelons of the palace—the laborers and slaves. They knew little and made up more. She told me that Abashad had been named general and admitted to the Imperial Council of War. She said she thought the poor little country of Attolia was doomed, but that was not news. Our emperor continued to pretend he did not mean to invade the Little Peninsula and had browbeaten the Attolians into exchanging ambassadors, but all of the city-states there, Eddis and Sounis as well as Attolia, were doomed. We all knew it. I think Laela had a friend among the servants set aside for the Attolian ambassador. She told me that Ornon was a pleasant enough man who didn’t harass the slaves or otherwise increase their labors.

  “Little countries get eaten up by larger ones,” I said with a shrug. “It is the nature of the world. They will be better off once they are integrated into the empire.”

  I used some of my funds to purchase a bracelet for Laela to thank her for her good turn for me, because people like Laela and me cannot leave debts outstanding.

  After my bruises faded, I resumed my other business for my master. Not everything could be arranged from my office, and anyway, I liked to exercise my privilege to go in and out of the palace at my own discretion. My master’s previous secretary, who had trained me as a child, had warned me that I must not spend every day looking into ledgers by the light of a smoking lamp or my eyesight would suffer. My eyesight is poor, but probably would have been worse had I not taken his advice to go out of doors as often as possible.

  In fact, if my eyesight had been better, the whole course of this narrative might have been different. I would have seen the Attolian waiting ahead of me in an empty hallway of the palace in time to dodge into one of the side passages used by the menial slaves and servants. Instead, I approached, unaware that he was an Attolian until it was too late to change direction without drawing his attention. Thinking that we had met by chance, I kept my eyes down and moved a little faster.

  He was a very large Attolian, by size and dress a soldier. When I saw him casting glances up and down the passage to see who was nearby, my stomach sank. My master had tried to usurp the Attolian throne. His failure had endeared him neither to his wife nor to the emperor. He may have been a laughingstock in the emperor’s palace, but I doubted that anyone in Attolia was laughing.

  “Kamet,” said the Attolian with a firm nod of greeting. This was growing worse and worse. I didn’t think anyone in Attolia knew my name, and if this soldier did, he probably also knew that I was the one who had set fire to our rooms to create the distraction that would allow my master to escape the fortress at Ephrata. Our meeting in this hallway was not an accident.

  The soldier stooped to bring his lips close enough to my ear to say very quietly, “My king blames your master for the loss of his hand.”

  That, too, was an issue—and a perfectly reasonable sentiment on the part of the Attolian king. The Thief of Eddis had been arrested in Attolia’s capital city, and my master told me he had deliberately stoked the queen of Attolia’s rage, hoping to prompt war between the two countries. Attolia had exercised an old-fashioned option for dealing with thieves, and my master had been quite pleased. Only now, that same Eddisian thief was the king of Attolia—the queen
had married him to save her throne, choosing him over my master. Oh, my poor face, I thought, and oh, my poor ribs—they’d just recently stopped hurting every time I tried to stand up or bend over to tighten my sandal. I could only assume the Attolian meant to exact a petty revenge on my person. It wasn’t my fault that my master was an enemy of his king, but I doubted that mattered.

  At least the Attolian was still talking. The longer he talked, the better my chances that someone might come along. Thank the eternal gods he was a chatty Attolian, or so I thought at the time.

  “My king wants your master to suffer the loss of his right hand,” the Attolian was saying, and I admit I was distracted as he grabbed my wrist and it took me a minute to realize that he was speaking metaphorically. He meant me—I was my master’s right hand. It dawned on me that I might be facing something far, far worse than a casual beating in one of the back passages of the emperor’s palace. I tried to pry his fingers apart as I looked desperately up and down the corridor for help. There was no one, not even a blurry sign of movement in the distance that would indicate a witness was coming.

  Surely the Attolians understood it was uncivil for a guest to beat to death someone else’s property in a deserted hallway of his host’s palace? Maybe not. They weren’t very civilized, and it would be a significant revenge, petty, but intensely disruptive. I was an expensive slave and my master relied on me—his entire estate was going to fall into chaos until he found a replacement secretary—but when all was said and done, I was still just a slave. Maybe the Attolians would pay some small percentage of my worth to my master as an apology and in so doing add a little more insult to injury. Given my master’s uncertain position at the emperor’s court, they might get away with it. The Attolian king obviously had a deep well of spite and I would have appreciated his low cunning more if I hadn’t thought the Attolian was about to wring my neck.

  “Meet me at the Rethru docks after sunset,” he said.

  That sentence made so little sense that I stopped picking at his fingers to stare up at his face. I was close enough, as he had me by the wrist, to see him quite clearly. He was a typical Attolian: sandy-brown hair, a broad face, light-colored eyes. Altogether he had a simple, straightforward look to him, and he seemed perfectly serious. He put his hands to my shoulders and stared back down at me, as if he thought I was stupid or didn’t understand his heavily accented Mede. He could have just spoken in Attolian, but instead, he used very simple sentences. “I will help you escape your master. Come to the Rethru docks. Be there after sunset. And I will take you to Attolia. You will be free in Attolia. Do you understand?”