Page 87 of The Only Way Out Is Up

“That will do.” Ky makes a shooing gesture. “We can manage from here.”

The woman bows and withdraws. Ky takes my hand and pulls me in, then shuts the door behind us.

This room is merely the size of our entire house. There’s a table, chairs, and several sofas, and through a doorway I can see another room with a vast pillowy bed. The walls and ceiling are covered in elaborate gold-and-silver traceries, and sigwork lamps hang in crystalline sconces. Ky throws herself down in an armchair with a sigh, perching sideways with her legs over the armrest. I take the sofa opposite, feeling like I’m staining the thick cushions with my dusty leathers.

“Home,” Ky says. “I’m home.”

“I can see why you’d be glad to be back,” I venture. The distance between us, which felt so narrow back in Malkuth, now yawns like a chasm. “It’s…”

Words fail me. Ky gives a sympathetic chuckle. “It’s a lot, I know. I’m sorry, this must be awkward for you.”

“Just a little.”

“It’s all just…” She waves a hand vaguely. “Ritual. For show. People here are just as awful; we all just smile and pretend to be ever so nice to one another while we stab each other in the back.”

“Are we likely to get stabbed in the back here?”

“I hope not. You can trust Bradley. He and my father grew up together, and he practically raised me after my mother died. He keeps a close watch on the rest of the staff. Besides, everyone’s watching us right now. A direct attack would be too obvious.”

“There wasn’t exactly a crowd there to greet us.”

“That’s not the way things are done on Hod. Believe me, everyone knows we’re here. By tonight we’ll have a stack of dinner invitations a meter thick.”

I feel a stir of panic at that. It must show on my face because she laughs.

“Relax. We don’t have time for any of that. We’ll register for the Ascent, and then you’ve got to get Star into shape. It’s only four days until the first round.”

I nod. An awkward silence follows. She seems energized, feet kicking in nervous excitement, but I’m exhausted already. One of the maids has mercy on us and leans around the doorframe.

“Master Taj’s suite is ready.”

“Great.” Ky twists and leaps lithely to her feet. “Come on, I’ll show you how the bath works.”

My rooms are, if anything, more luxurious than Ky’s—in her suite the furniture had the scuffs and wear of daily use, while here everything is as pristine as if it had been made yesterday. She breezes past the gilded ewers of fresh-cut flowers to demonstrate the bath, a massive marble thing with taps for hot and cold water on demand. I probably could have figured it out on my own, but Ky grins at me like a child demonstrating a favorite toy.

Once she departs for her own rooms, I have to chase a couple of servants away to actually get some privacy. Then, cautiously, I run the water as hot as I can stand it and shed my worn Heaper garb. Slipping in is a little-by-little process of exquisite agony. I sink down, water closing over my face, and feel the heat of it on every centimeter of my skin.

This I could get used to.

Eventually I have to empty the tub and fill it again, watching my accumulated filth whirl down the drain. The hot tap catches my eye—it’s a simple sigwork construct, a few sigils built into the pipe so subtly it’s hard to notice them. They’re orange, orange sigils just to heat water for a bath a little faster, and there are at least three taps in this room alone. Now that I’m paying attention, there’s sigwork everywhere, even in the toilet. (Maybe to keep it from clogging?)

There’s a knock at the door. “Taj?” Ky says. “Have you drowned?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Shall I come rescue you? We’ve got work to do.”

If I say yes, she might actually do it. “I can rescue myself, thanks.”

Amid all this splendor, the last thing I want is to put my filthy clothes back on. Fortunately there’s a fluffy gray bathrobe hanging nearby for exactly this purpose. When I emerge I find Ky, freshly bathed herself, fussing over several outfits laid on the table with a couple of maids. She’s wearing a well-fitted shirt, jacket, and trousers; with her hair done up and her slim figure, it gives her an almost androgynous look I find ridiculously attractive. I make sure the bathrobe is loose enough to hide any importunate stiffenings.

“These should be close enough,” Ky says. “We’ll take proper measurements later, but Saree’s a wizard at doing things by eye. Here, try this one for now.”

I’d been worried since she first mentioned clothes that I was going to be expected to wear something hideously awkward and end up looking like an idiot. Or more of an idiot, anyway. Thankfully none of these outfits are as bad as I feared, and the one she indicates looks almost practical—thick, loose pants; a sleeveless vest; and a light jacket, all of fine but sturdy material. I gather it up and head back to the bathroom.

“Nice” is Ky’s judgment when I emerge. “You need a shave and a proper haircut, but we’re getting somewhere. You look like a real runic master.”

“Is that what I’m dressed as?”