The Nameless picked up a silver spoon and scraped away the top layer. The tea was tainted, so she discarded it entirely. The bread was stale at the edges. She tore it open, removing the damp, warm center and rearranging it with what remained. Setting the lid back on the tray, she noted the Cook staring at her. Without pause, she glanced at his forearm.
Safe to report: Batcher 4034895 found to be poisoning Her Radiance’s food.
Carrying the tray, she retreated. Her jaw tightened.
Not safe to report: Next time, this Nameless will consider taking what Her Radiance needs by force. Not authorized to harm the Cook. Perhaps Batcher 4034895 has Hands that aid with his treason.
Squaring her shoulders, the Nameless proceeded to the Dripstone, a place where machines tumbled piles of linens in boiling water to clean them. Rows of Washers in black robes and masks stood on both sides, some working their scarred hands to empty baskets of sheets into the thundering machines while others took them out and laid everything on tables for folding and drying. An endless procession. Day and night. Day and night.
“Silence is our freedom.
Order is our mercy.
Hail the Sovereign.
Hail the Resh.
Hail the Destroyer.”
The Attendant gathered what she needed. Clean sheets, tested for foreign powder with an invisible scan of magic, napkins, towels. Those assigned to the Sokâr’s crest were thin from overuse, torn at the hem. Her teeth ground together, and she tasted copper in her mouth.
She touched her hand to the ring on her thumb. A worn band of black aethersteel.
Reminder: Choir Mother’s teachings.
Hands do not feel.
Hands only serve.
Hands protect from the shadows.
And so, the Nameless turned and pillaged the package assigned to another crest. Twisting the dagger at her wrist, she sliced through silk bindings to inspect the contents.
A breath to ease the tension in her lungs.
This would do.
These linens smelled fresher; were not torn. Were soft and thick enough to touch Her Radiance’s delicate skin and keep her warm in the night. A smile behind her mask because none could witness it.
Safe to report: Negligence continues, but the Choir Mother’s orders supersede games of politics.
Her Radiance is to be kept safe. Protected.
The Nameless obeys.
Her Radiance did not need much. She hardly slept, and she had no access to the Lustral baths. Still, the Attendant snagged Lustrals as she passed, tucking the small, rounded crystals into the finely pressed folds of her violet robes. Some could be used for tea to treat Her Radiance’s weariness, to ease her restless dreams, to soothe her when the mysterious Fever came for her.
Just as she turned to go back to the maintenance halls, the Onyx Horn rang out in the Deep. It was a mighty bellow, shaking the floors and walls beneath her feet. Its mournful voice sank like teeth into her very bones, echoing outward and blanketing the entire city in its roar. The signal to end the Litany of Silence. The signal for the Attendant to return to her Host and tend to her after hours of chant.
Hands firm on the packages in her arms, the Nameless wound through the maintenance halls to Her Radiance’s chamber. At the door, she pressed her hand to the stone, funneling mana into the hidden wardthere and dissolving it. The handle popped open with a hiss, and she shouldered the door open as she entered.
Cold snapped at her exposed hands and face, so sudden that her toes curled inside her fur-lined boots. Her eyes blinked to adjust to the dark. The Polis crystal here was old. It did not wake as easily to sound as the crystal in the newer portions of the Lattice. No matter.
The Attendant’s feet did not pause in their stride. Muscle memory took her to a nearby table. A dilapidated thing, but functional. She placed the trays there and set the linens on the rough cot beside it. Turning, the Attendant allowed her gaze to follow a trail of discarded shimmering garments.
A pair of worn slippers. The Sokâr’s gown—pure alabaster silk with ornate lace and golden trim—lay crumpled on the ground. A moth’s discarded cocoon. And there, some feet ahead, sat the creature itself.
Her Radiance was seated on the floor, barefoot, wearing nothing to ward against the cold but a thin white shift. Around her were scattered tomes of every shape and size and journals with notes scribbled in black and red ink. A Polis lantern illuminated her ethereal countenance, and the Attendant had to remind herself to take a breath.
