As expected, Yakalaka visited Aralim a week after she had first suggested he steal Rattar’s enchanted knife. He used precisely the same excuse that the Grand Mage had suggested, that he was planning an elaborate heist, and she went on her way once more. Miresh continued her studies, and spent her days at home playing cards with Naeen or sketching on a proper sketchbook that Rattar had bought her.
Almost halfway through the month, Miresh arrived home just before the servants had prepared dinner. She sat next to Aralim as pork and garbanzo beans and a green leafed salad were served. Hayan was late, and Naeen wasn’t very talkative. Miresh said she was getting really good at binding coins together. Then, she put down the cut of white meat on her fork and turned to Aralim. “Rattar said you should come to the Palace tonight, and act like you’re stealing. You won’t be caught by the guards.”
“The knife is done?” Aralim asked. Naeen looked up—they hadn’t discussed the current schemes with her yet, but there had been no plan to keep it from her.
“It is,” Miresh said.
When they were almost done the meal, Hayan finally arrived. He sat with them and eagerly explained his absence. “I auditioned for a stage play at a local theatre,” he told them. “For the part of Ghanam in Ghanam and Paraclar.” He speared a cut of pork and chomped on it while regarding them with excitement and pride. His thin shoulders were raised onto the tabletop. Then it dawned on him that neither Miresh nor Aralim were familiar with drama from a foreign region of the world.
“Sorry,” Aralim said with a smile.
Hayan ground the meat in his jaw quickly and then explained around it, “It’s the most recent play from Yil’avar the renowned poet. Last year it sold all two hundred tickets available at the Sceptre in Old Numa.”
“Do you think you’ll get the part?” Miresh asked.
“I hope so,” he said, with a smile. He picked up his knife and cut into the meat on his plate again.
Aralim asked. “What’s the play about?”
Hayan nodded and launched into a long explanation. “It’s a tragedy. Two brothers, Ghanam and Paraclar, find a gemstone the size of a head in the cave near their house. For the first act, they try to find someone to buy it and plan to split their fortune, but when Paraclar discovers that Ghanam plans to sell the gem secretly, he murders his brother and then runs from the law. I won’t tell you how it ends though, you’ll be surprised!”
“You said it’s a tragedy,” Aralim pointed out.
Miresh smirked. “And your character dies halfway.”
The actor shrugged. “It’s an important part, and pays well too.” He took a sip of ale, and looked around. “Where’s Naeen?”
Aralim realized she had stepped out at some point, leaving her seat at the table empty and her food half finished. She had never opened up to them, and seemed troubled by the strangest of things. The other day, when Aralim had rejoined her at the card table after Yakalaka’s first visit and told her what the Councillor had said of professional gambling in the Iron Palace. Naeen had given him the most reaction he had ever seen from her, emphatically asking if she’d be out of her place to look into that more. But today, she had just disappeared again. Aralim didn’t go out of his way to help her; if she was far enough along the Path to get help, she would. If not, he would not waste his power on a task that wouldn’t bring him further.
That evening, Aralim left the West Corid mansion and sought out three taverns and pubs throughout the final hours of twilight. This had been Rattar’s suggestion, and Aralim recognized the wisdom in it. The thought of their estate being watched by spies was mildly discomforting, but also to be expected.
Once the sun had been set for two hours, Aralim abandoned his time at the noisy drinking dens and sought out the Iron Palace. The gates were still open—they rarely closed—but no members of the Aura stood guard. A few armed sentries were all that stood between Aralim and entry. They raised their hands and stopped him.
“You’re the Walker of the Path,” one guard said, leaning on his spear. “Your daughter is the Grand Mage’s apprentice. Why are you here so late though?”
“I was invited,” Aralim said. “See? This letter?”
It was signed by the Eternal Emperor—Rattar had procured it as their plan had taken more shape. The guard gasped and bowed, but his comrade paused. “Let me see it,” he said. “His Ascendance never has guests at night. Even his women are invited for noon.”
The first guard tensed. “Silence yourself before the Blade hears. Those are blasphemous words.”
They both looked over their shoulder, and Aralim glimpsed the big man in orange armour stoically standing at his post still. The second guard gave the letter a quick glance and then shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “Go ahead in.”
Aralim sighed, and took the page back. In the interest of stealth—should it be required—he had left his lantern staff at home. He felt incomplete without it. His first few steps through the gate brought him before the looming holy warrior. The Blade of the Emperor didn’t look at him, just stared forward at the gate, his face hidden behind a plain visor.
The grove surrounding Rattar’s home was eerily quiet in the dark. Aralim had walked in night-time forests before, but the sound of crickets or flies continued, as did the breath of the forest itself. This grove was maintained by magicians and groundskeepers and was as silent as the privacy of a single, unoccupied room. Vines had climbed the old masonry of the initial arch into Rattar’s meditation courtyard. The cushions that often decorated the mosaic floor had been collected and the kapok tree in the centre of the space quietly kept guard of the temple.
There were no lanterns lit in proximity to the cabin the rear of the yard. The walls of the meditation shrine joined the sides of a two storey structure, inhabited by the Grand Mage. Aralim opened the door cautiously, and stepped into a dimly lit study. Surrounded by three sagging bookshelves, Rattar sat in a small armchair. His wrinkled forehead was slack, and his head had lolled back against the red cushions.
“Rattar,” Aralim said.
The Grand Mage opened his eyes slowly. “Aralim,” he said, quietly. He leaned forward and tilted his neck, grimacing. “Is it that time already?”
“It is,” Aralim said. “I don’t know if I was followed or not. I went to the inns you mentioned.”
“Good,” Rattar said. “Hopefully, only Yakalaka knows you came. She’d be watching my shrine, of course.”
“Even with the Emperor’s Blade standing there?” Aralim asked.
Rattar shrugged. “Most of the plots that unfold here do so under the Aura’s scrutinizing. The Emperor knows exactly what all the spies and schemers are up to.”
Aralim smiled. He almost asked why the Emperor didn’t stop it, but there was no way to stop powerful politicians from pursuing greater power. The Emperor was like a true lord of the Path; he had both great strength and the awareness that he needn’t act petty to keep it. He was powerful, simply and completely.
“Here’s the knife,” Rattar said. He passed Aralim a small glass blade.
Even the hilt-less handle of the tiny weapon appeared glass. Most regions of the world that Aralim had heard of were entirely without glass, while in Numa’nakres they made trinkets out of the stuff. If it’s even really glass, Aralim thought. He turned the simple object over in his hands. “It’ll heal its victim?” he asked.
Rattar nodded. “And our eyes and ears will tell us who,” he said, quietly.