The Waterless Sea by Kate Constable Page A

Antaris, and on Ravamey, she shared a two-roomed cottage. The endless rooms of the Palace and its corridors, its galleries, its unfolding courtyards, its slyly curved walls, its niches and alcoves and unexpected doorways, its screens and curtains bewildered her. The passageways echoed with secretive whispers and rustlings, as the courtiers and their servants tiptoed in their dainty slippers from room to room, passing snippets of gossip behind their hands, scrutinising the robes of other courtiers, sneering, smirking, scheming, snubbing one another.
    This behaviour was not entirely strange to Calwyn. The closed community of Antaris had its share of gossip and intrigues, and there were those who sought favour with the High Priestess and those who sniped sarcastically at other women. Even so, this was beyond anything she had known in Antaris. There, at least everyone had useful work to do; here, idleness and inventing insults had been elevated to a way of life. Somewhere, she supposed, the real work of governing Merithuros must go on, though she was yet to see any evidence of it. It seemed that the rebels might indeed have cause to complain that the Empire was poorly ruled.
    She sighed, and touched Heben’ s arm. ‘Don’ t worry. If the twins are here, we will find them.’
    But privately she was not so certain. At first, they had had some idea of conducting a systematic search of the Palace. Now she knew how immense and how convoluted the Palace was, she suspected that such a search would be impossible.
    That afternoon, Calwyn planned to walk with Halasaa around the area that the courtiers called the Garden of Pomegranates: a long, colonnaded terrace with secluded nooks and alcoves leading from its shaded walkway. It was a favourite haunt of the minor members of the royal family, and Heben was nervous about them exploring it alone, though he agreed that it was an ideal place for concealment.
    â€˜I pray you, don’ t speak to anyone if you can avoid it,’ he begged Calwyn. ‘Even as a country cousin, you’ re not yet ready for a conversation with one of the Imperial Family. And please, please, don’ t take Mica with you!’
    â€˜Mica’ s searching the laundries today,’ said Calwyn. Posing as a maidservant, Mica had worked tirelessly since their arrival, scouring the immense labyrinth of servants’ quarters, kitchens and storerooms, cellars and sculleries that teemed beneath the fine rooms of the Palace.
    â€˜I reckon there’ s more below than there is above!’ she’ d declared. ‘You got the easy job, you two!’
    Heben looked relieved. Then his forehead creased with worry again, and he cleared his throat. ‘There is one more thing, Calwyn. Your hair.’
    Calwyn raised her hands to her head in a fleeting, defensive gesture. She was proud of the effort she’ d made in transforming her thick plait into a twisted rope, fastened precariously in a knot on top of her head. ‘What about my hair?’
    â€˜Your hair is beautiful,’ said Heben diplomatically. ‘But –’ ‘But?’
    â€˜If it were arranged. . .differently. . .perhaps more people would appreciate its beauty.’
    I will help you. Unexpectedly Halasaa’ s words sounded in her head.
    Calwyn stared at her friend sceptically, but he smiled with gentle confidence. In Spiridrell, too, we arrange our hair. Let me try.
    â€˜Well, if you like,’ said Calwyn doubtfully, and she pulled out the pins that held the shaky bun in place and let her thick mass of hair tumble down.
    Halasaa’ s hands were deft and skilful. With the aid of pins and combs, he built a swift, complicated edifice of hair that towered high above Calwyn’ s forehead. Staring into the mirror, she had to admit that now she could pass for a lady of the court, though she felt wary of turning her head too quickly, lest it all come cascading down.
    â€˜I still can’ t drape these