by Col Buchanan
Sasheen did not hear him, though the echoes of his voice lingered, finally whispering their way through her grief.
'What?' she said, in a distant voice.
'You called for me, Matriarch.'
Sasheen wiped a hand across her eyes and, for a moment, her vision cleared. She took in the still form of her son as though for the first time, a mere husk now, empty and bereft of meaning. Only for a moment could she look into his face fixed in a strangled contortion of horror.
Something stirred within her. Her back could be seen to stiffen.
'Stop everything,' she said in a cold whisper.
'Everything, Matriarch?'
'Everything,' she repeated, and there was a rising force to her words, a hard strength that contradicted the weakness of her tears. 'The ports and bridges. All transportation. Fountains. Temples. Entertainments. Business… If a mere beggar reaches out for money, have his hands removed. I want it all to stop, do you hear me?'
Sasheen inhaled a shuddering breath, scenting the lotus in the air. 'My son is dead,' she said, 'and they shall show their respect.'
Caretaker Heelas clenched his hands together, and allowed a few heartbeats to pass before speaking. 'What of the Augere, Matriarch?' he asked carefully.
She had forgotten about the forthcoming week of celebrations.
'Yes,' Sasheen said darkly. 'That, too, all of it. We shall commemorate the Augere at a more fitting time.'
The caretaker's silence was one of stunned astonishment. He remained composed, however, and bowed his flushed head low.
'Is that… all?'
'All? No, it is not all, Heelas. I want this city torn apart. I want these people found and brought to me alive. Explain to Bushrali that if his Regulators do not accomplish what I ask of them, he will find himself beginning a new career – as a eunuch in one of our Sentiate harems. Is that clear?'
'Perfectly, Matriarch.'
'Then go.'
The man left with uncharacteristic haste.
Sasheen's fists were shaking, she discovered. She clenched them tight.
'Calm yourself, child. Calm yourself.'
Matriarch Sasheen turned on her mother. 'Calm myself? My son lies dead and you tell me to calm myself? I should have you dragged from here and burned alive for those words.'
The old crone sat on a simple wooden seat, her translucent hands folded together. 'If it would make you feel any better, my dearest, then order it so.'
For the space of a heartbeat Sasheen truly considered it.
Her hand dropped limply to her side. She turned back to her son, lying on the altar within an arm's reach before her, his final resting place before he was interred in the dry vaults of the Hypermorum.
Sasheen spotted something lying on his chest. She reached for it, her long nails hovering for a moment. Delicately, she plucked something from the bare skin, catching one of the wispy hairs on his chest as she did so. She inspected her fingertip. An eyelash.
It trembled against her breath, fluttered free, falling from sight.
My son is dead, she thought.
Sasheen had never known pain like this before. It was a kind of madness, like that lurching of the stomach when you realized you had forgotten something vital, but it was much too late to correct it – except that sensation was now prolonged and constant, so that it consumed her every waking moment, and every sleeping one too; a screeching, tearing, animal terror that threatened to choke her if she did not release it in some way.
A wetness tickled her palms: her nails digging hard enough into her flesh to draw blood.
'Soothe yourself, child,' came the old crone's voice once more from her side. 'You are the Matriarch. You are the highest example of Mann. You cannot afford to be seen this way.'
Sasheen shrugged off the withered hand that settled on her shoulder.
'He was my son. My only child.'
'He was weak.'
The words hit her like a slap.
'Daughter,' soothed the old woman. Her tone might have been mistaken for an apology though it was not. 'Come, sit with me a moment.'
Sasheen glanced about the chamber. No one was in sight, save for the Acolyte guards posted at the distant entrance. All of them had their backs turned to her.
Sasheen shuffled across to sit before her mother.
'I cherished him too,' said the old woman. 'He was my grandson, my own blood. But it isn't Kirkus you grieve for, Sasheen. He died swiftly, and no longer does he suffer. You grieve only for yourself.'
Sasheen looked down at her clenched hands. She could not pry apart her fingers.
The old woman scowled. 'You must adapt to this loss, my child. Even a wild animal grieves for the death of its young. But like any animal, you must adapt and move on. You can bear another child, still. Rest assured, this grief is a passing weakness. You must hold fast to who you are.
'My son was not weak.'
'But he was, Sasheen, he was. How else could he have fallen without even a struggle? We pampered him, you and I. All these years we thought we were teaching him strength, when in truth he was merely learning how to hide from us his own deficiencies. If we had not been so blinded by our affection for him, we would have seen that – perhaps corrected it.' She held up a palm before Sasheen could protest. 'We must take from this lesson what we can. We have each become pampered in our own ways, daughter. We are rulers of the world, after all. But for our own sakes we must consider this as a warning. We are surrounded by enemies every moment that we breathe, and we will fall to them in the same way, to the knife, to the poison, if we fail to show them our fortitude. You wish to fall like your son, hmn?'
A silence, Sasheen's eyes staring at the floor.
'No, I thought not. So I will make a suggestion. We shall inform Cinimon of a new purging – for ourselves, for the order at large. We will cleanse the flaws from ourselves, and at the same time rid the order of those who do not deserve to follow the calling of Mann. Perhaps, in its own way, it will help you through this loss.'
Sasheen blinked, barely seeing at all. 'Perhaps,' she answered in a small voice, and it was a release, in a small way, to relinquish her will to that of her mother, even if it was only for the moment. 'Perhaps,' she breathed again, as she folded herself on to the cool floor of stone, and wept.
The old woman rose. She wore a heavy cloak over her robes, and paused for a moment as she removed it. With stiff limbs she knelt next to her daughter, as though intending to offer comfort. Instead, she lay the cloak across her daughter's head and body, so that she resembled nothing more than a shuddering mound on the floor.
The old woman frowned.
*
It was four in the morning, according to the bell that chimed from the Mannian temple at the southern end of the great square. On cue, a patrol of city guards marched into the plaza, wielding shuttered lanterns and long, studded clubs. Their captain scanned the area for signs of disturbance, but no one was in sight in Punishment Square at this hour of curfew. All was quiet save for the distant barking of a dog.
A shadow drew further back into an alley. It waited until the patrol had passed. A movement followed: a hand motioning for someone to come forward. Together, two forms loosed themselves from the murk and padded silently into the square.
They rushed across the marble flagstones in bare feet, barely making a sound. At the very centre they paused, looked up to take in the horror that hung there – the burnt corpse of a young man nailed to a scaffold. A wooden board hung about his neck. It was branded with a single word, though it was too dark to make out now. They already knew what it said.
Rshun.
Quickly, one of the figures hoisted the other on to the scaffold. The climber set to work with a knife. The body dropped an inch. With a moment's more work it fell free and crashed roughly to the ground.
'Damn it!' hissed Aleas, still balancing on the scaffolding. 'Could you not have caught him?'
Serese looked up from the corpse, her face twisted in a grimace. In
a whisper she said, 'This is a little difficult for me, all right?'
'Fine,' replied Aleas, swinging back to the ground. 'And it's the easiest thing for me.' He stooped and pulled free the board from about its neck, then wrapped the body in thick sacking. With a grunt, he hoisted it on to his shoulder.
Quickly, they hurried from the square.
*
Patrols were everywhere. A curfew had been declared, no one to be allowed on the streets after midnight. Earlier, they had heard talk of the ports being sealed. No one was being allowed to leave the city.
It took over an hour to track their way across Q'os to the industrial areas on its south-eastern coastline, where they were to meet with Master Ash and Baracha. It was mostly wasteland here. Vast warehouses lay slumped beneath the faint light of the stars, sinister in a way that reminded them of the dark entrances to caves. Aleas and Serese avoided these structures by crossing a strip of marshland, at times wading up to their knees through cold, sucking water. Beyond, they struggled up the face of a dune stained with soot.
The night sea shone before them with scuffs of luminescence. A breeze blew against their faces, salted and fresh. Aleas panted for breath, the weight of Nico's body now a burden he could barely continue with. Serese did not offer to help him.
Together they descended the other side of the dune, and made their way down into a secluded cove that was all but hidden from sight. Baracha sat there by a small fire, chewing tarweed and nursing the bandaged stump of his left arm. He lifted his blade with the other as they approached.
'It's only us,' said Aleas, and his master relaxed and returned the blade to his lap.
A dark recumbent form shifted to acknowledge them: Ash, lying on the sand on the other side of the fire, head resting on his pack. He grunted, forcing himself to sit up.
They had spent the day gathering driftwood into a pile on the sand of the little cove – or at least Aleas and Serese had, for the two Rshun were barely fit to stand. With care, Aleas now lay Nico's body on top of the pile, a few sea-smoothed logs tumbling loose. Ash limped over as he did so. Clumsily, the old farlander began to yank off the sacking.
'I think perhaps it's better left alone,' suggested Aleas, placing a hand on Ash's shoulder. Ash shrugged free of his grasp. He only stopped when the body was uncovered and he could gaze down on it by the light of the fire.
The old man drew in a sharp breath. He swayed for a moment, enough for Aleas to steady him.
Gently, Ash's fingers dabbed at the blackened flesh. They brushed against the end of the crossbow bolt buried in the boy's chest. Ash did not move for many minutes.
Baracha stumbled over with a burning length of wood. Without ceremony he stuffed it into the inner depths of the pile, twisted it as though stoking an already lit fire. The pyre began to smoke. They stepped back from it and after a time caught sight of the first sparkle of flame.
Baracha picked up a handful of sand. He cast it on to the newborn flames, reciting words beneath his breath. Aleas comforted Serese; both cried freely now, for the first time that day. The flames crackled higher, twisting through the crisscrossing of logs to take hold of the body on top. Colours danced amongst them: vivid blues and yellows and greens from the sea minerals that caked the wood. Fat spat from the pyre. A smell of burning meat came with a shift of the breeze.
After a while the pyre collapsed into itself, consuming Nico.
In the distance, far out to sea, the sun's first light leaked into the predawn sky. Shadows shafted across the horizon as the castings of unseen clouds.
Ash recited something in the farlander tongue. He repeated it in Trade, perhaps for the benefit of his young apprentice.
His eyes, though in shadow, were alive with two pinpricks of flame. He declaimed: 'Even though this world is but a dewdrop… even so… even so.'
*
Ash had instructed them to obtain a clay jar wrapped in leather to hold the ashes. Wearily, but with much presence, he raked the grey dust until it lay in a flat bed across the scorched sand. He paused. For a moment, he watched particles of dust playing in the remnants of heat.
For his mother, he thought, as he scooped ashes into the jar with the aid of the stick. Portions of bone lay scattered amongst it, and he scooped the smallest pieces up too. Once it was full, he stoppered it, and lay it carefully in his canvas pack.
He had a smaller jar too, a clay vial really, the length and thickness of a thumb, to which was fixed a loop of leather twine. Into this he scraped some more of the burnt remains and plugged it with its wooden stopper. He slung it around his neck, so that it hung there against his chest like a seal. It felt warm against his skin.
In standing up, a sudden pain flashed through his skull. Ash swayed. Someone was talking to him, though he could not see the owner of the voice. He teetered backwards, fell.
Sprawled on the ground, barely breathing, hands tugged at him. A voice asked if he was all right, could he hear them? The pain stabbed again, deeper than ever. Ash gritted his teeth, cried out in the harsh farlander tongue. And then unconsciousness took him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Consequences There was no way out.
All the ports had been closed following the death of Matriarch Sasheen's only son. Checkpoints were set up on the city's main thoroughfares and in many of the lesser side streets. The city guards compared the faces of passersby with sketches they held in their hands. People gossiped that Rshun had come to the city – one of them a farlander – and killed the boy priest, and were still here amongst them. Some said it had been an act of revenge for the young Rshun burned to death in the Shay Madi. Patrols roamed everywhere. At night a curfew was enforced under penalty of execution. Squads of soldiers, led by grim-faced Regulators, crashed into hostalio rooms, or illegally open tavernas, brothels, private apartments, demanding answers by force, dragging away suspects, searching always for someone.
As though that wasn't enough to disturb the regular life of the city, speculation on the imminent military campaign began to pass freely amongst its populace. Soldiers had been flooding into the city for weeks now. Sprawling encampments had grown up on the northern and western edges of the city, along with shanty towns of hangers-on – pedlars, prostitutes, craftsmen, vagabonds – all massed on their outskirts. In the First Harbour a vast fleet was gathering. It was larger than anything seen in living memory: men-of-war in the main, but sloops and transports too.
Some said these were going to Lagos to replace the Sixth Army there, but they were considered fools and quickly shouted down as such – for all knew that only a token garrison would be needed on the island now. Lagos was a name spoken only in a hush these days. In the aftermath of its failed insurrection, it had been laid to waste at the personal command of Matriarch Sashseen herself. The stories that came from the island told of desolate killing fields without sign of life, dotted occasionally by mountainous funeral pyres where once towns and villages had stood – for every man, woman and child of the island had been put to the torch. New settlers from the Empire's crowded cities were being offered parcels of land there. They were emigrating in their thousands.
Wiser heads considered Cheem a more likely target for the forthcoming invasion. Perhaps the Matriarch had finally grown tired of her trading fleets falling prey to the inhabitants' piracy. A less likely option was the Free Ports, though that would be a risky undertaking, since their navy remained the finest in the world; it must be, for even outnumbered, it had held off the predations of the Empire for over ten years.
Perhaps, then, they were to attack Zanzahar, offered the obligatory jokers in such conversations. They joked about that because it would be the greatest folly of all.
Q'os was a city astir then with uncertainty and speculation, and while it may have been safe enough for those who claimed it as their home, its streets were treacherous for those who could not. Baracha, with his apprentice and daughter, and a still unconscious Ash, knew well that they were being hunted by their enemies. It was vital that
they left, and sooner rather than later.
But the ports were closed.
With no other options available, they sought out a place to hide. They planned to wait for shipping traffic to begin again, a matter of weeks at most they believed. After all, the city relied on sea commerce for its survival. It couldn't choke its trade for long.
They found a deserted warehouse not far from the cove where they had cremated Nico's body. The wooden structure had been partly cremated itself in an old fire that had destroyed most of its north and west sides. But the parts of it to seaward were still roofed and, in amongst the blackened ruins, they found some corner offices that remained relatively intact.
It was there they holed up and waited, and looked after Ash as best they could.
The old Rshun was lost in some form of unconsciousness. His breathing was shallow but regular and he uttered no sounds, and did not ever move. Occasionally his eyelids flickered as though he dreamed.
Most days, Baracha sat within the warehouse staring through one of its gaping windows out to sea. When not doing this, he paced about the confined space of the inner office, swearing under his breath at the loss of his hand. Whatever pain he suffered, immense as it must have been, he covered up in his own Alhazii way. The stump, at least, appeared to be healing well.
He rarely even looked at Ash, lying lifeless and gaunt on his pallet. Instead he seemed to entirely avoid the old man in his present state of weakness, seemed somehow appalled by it.
'I hope I never fall ill when it's only you to look after me,' admonished Serese one morning, noticing his lack of concern, the old Rshun lying on one side of the room, Baracha sitting by the window on the other. She was dripping water into Ash's mouth from a sodden rag, so she did not see her father turn and regard her with eyes hooded by a frown.
Perhaps she had been too young at the time, Baracha reflected, to remember how her own mother had lain like this, unconscious for a week, before she had passed away.
And perhaps, said an echo in his mind, she remembers it only too well, and is simply stronger than you.