by Col Buchanan
And Baracha recoginzed it for truth, and felt lessened by the realization, and looked away.
The days turned into weeks. They were restless and tense and suffering from grief, all of them, in their own way. They began to snap at each other. Often, they had to hush their sudden arguments for fear of betraying their presence. They wrangled over who was eating the most food, drinking the most water; they fought over who should empty out the bucket of slop at night, or keep watch for unexpected visitors, or cook, or wash up, or who should sleep where. They even argued over their daily card games of rash, using chores and food instead of coins to place bets, until at times they almost came to blows over these games, hurling accusations of cheating or collusion, everyone disgusted, the loser skulking off feeling sore.
It was in the middle of one of these heated debates, right at the very end of the second week, all three of them shouting red-faced at each other, when a voice sounded from the far corner of the room and asked them all to kindly shut up.
It was Ash, sitting up in his pallet, his eyes screwed in annoyance.
'Master Ash!' exclaimed Aleas.
'Yes,' replied Ash, as though agreeing that it was, indeed, he.
*
With the ports still closed and no ships allowed to leave, fewer captains were willing to approach to the island of Q'os with their cargos, and those that did sail into the harbour inevitably sold their goods at exorbitant rates.
As a consequence, food prices in the city rose to levels that only the wealthy could afford. By the fifteenth day of the self-imposed blockade, riots broke out over the desperate shortages of food. A warehouse district in the north was razed to the ground. Elsewhere fires raged throughout the city, and streets were barricaded. In Punishment Square a cavalry charge cut down two hundred people demanding bread: the majority of them hungry women and children.
The ports were reopened the next day.
*
The temple of the Sentiates was deserted today save for those who lived within its walls, for it had been shut down like all other entertainments in Q'os while the city properly mourned the loss of the Matriarch's son.
Che, for his part, did not consider Kirkus much of a loss. He knew the young man's form only too well. Kirkus had been a spoiled lout with delusions of greatness, wreaking havoc wherever he went while he waited for his mother to move aside and allow him to assume the throne. Who knew what monstrosities he might have unleashed on the world, had he ever attained the position of Holy Patriarch? If he had lived to achieve such a position, he would have been the first Patriarch born and raised for the role – all previous rulers having clawed their way to the top, and having clung there by tenacious fingertips for as long as they could. None yet had survived long enough to pass on the throne to any descendants. Such was the constant dogfight for the throne.
Che had been stunned by the news of the young man's death, on finally returning to Q'os – not by the death itself, but the success of the Rshun in achieving such a feat. Professionally, he could not help but admire them: a direct frontal assault on the Temple itself? He had marvelled at the sheer audacity of it upon hearing the reports. No one had foreseen it, certainly not Che himself. The imperial Diplomats were trained in more subtle methods; they did not plan in such direct terms.
Here at the Temple of Sentiates, Che's mother had been aghast at what she considered a tragedy for the Empire. In some odd way she considered herself to be personally involved in the affairs of the Temple of Whispers, especially when they involved the Matriarch herself. No doubt it was a result of the pillow talk she so often engaged in with priests from the Temple. Che knew that she attracted a higher class of customer than most.
'Your skin looks terrible today,' she admonished, as they sat by the fountain on the seventh floor of the Sentiate temple.
'Thank you for reminding me, mother.'
'You haven't been taking care of yourself. You look exhausted.'
He leaned his face away from the soft play of her fingers. 'I've been away,' he said, 'on a matter of diplomacy. It proved difficult.'
'Yet you have been back for days, for I have my sources. You should be well rested by now, surely?'
The air was cool here, freshened by the gentle cascades of the fountain. Che could see a reflection of himself upon the surface of the pool, but it was dim, shadowy, without detail. He trailed the tips of his fingers through the rippling water, scattering himself.
'I've not been sleeping well,' he confessed.
She studied her son more closely. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, and refused to meet it.
'Something troubles you?'
Che looked up. On the other side of the chamber a group of eunuchs sat gossiping amongst themselves. He could barely hear their words over the splashing of the fountain, but he still lowered his own voice as he spoke.
'Mother…' he began, and paused, struggling with the words he wished to say. 'Have you ever thought of leaving this place?'
'Leave the temple?' She blinked in surprise.
'Q'os, mother, and the order of Mann. Have you never thought, perhaps, that we might leave it all behind and make a life for ourselves that is of our own choosing?'
She glanced quickly towards the eunuchs. 'Have you lost your mind?' she hissed, leaning closer. 'Leave the order? What would possess you to say such a thing? Why would I wish to leave my home, my friends?'
Che turned away from her eyes blazing with indignation. She composed herself.
'My son, whether you like it or not, this life suits me. I feel safe here. Whatever I desire, I may have. And in return, I can contribute in my own small way to the greater good of Mann. I'm needed here. I am considered of worth.'
'You are a whore,' he replied, before he could stop himself.
He felt the sting of her hand across his face. The eunuchs stopped their chatter to stare at them across the playing of the fountain.
'Mind your own,' Che warned them, and they looked away quickly.
'Mother,' he tried again, even more quietly. 'You're in danger here. Surely you must know that. You are the means by which they keep a leash on me.'
'Nonsense. I have made many friends over the years, Che – people in high positions. They know my loyalty to Mann. They would not allow any harm to visit me.' She paused, narrowing her eyes. 'But why? Do you plan something that may anger your superiors?'
Che saw the danger he was in then, and held his tongue.
He scooped a handful of water over his face. It helped revive him, though the liquid tasted oddly sour against his lips.
'I'm merely tense,' he said at last. 'Perhaps I need to find a more peaceful line of work.'
He stood up, his chin still dripping water. 'I must leave you now.'
All trace of suspicion fell from his mother's features. 'So soon? You have only just arrived!'
Che nodded. For an instant he wanted to reach down to her and rest a hand against her face – to touch, connect, feel close to this woman who remained a stranger to him, even now. But he knew she would find that gesture strange, and that it would only betray him further.
'I shall see you soon, mother. Take care.'
*
The voice reeked of spices today. It was not the same high-pitched, whining voice that had spoken to Che just before he departed for Cheem, nor the brusque baritone one he had delivered his report to upon his return. This was a female voice, the one he heard least frequently of all.
Even so, he did not like this voice. He did not like any of them, but especially not this one. Che was always unsettled when he heard it come drifting through the wooden panel facing him in the wall of the shadowy alcove – muffled as it was, it sounded dark and ancient, like death.
'I have a new assignment for you,' it said to him now.
'I'd assumed as much.'
A wheeze, dry as tinder. 'You forget yourself, Diplomat. Restrain that arrogance, or I shall see it clipped from you.'
She mistakes my resentment for arrogance,
thought Che. How typical of these people.
Che composed himself, enough at least to mutter an apology.
'Very well,' she said. 'Now, your assignment. The Holy Matriarch will be leaving Q'os soon. She will require a Diplomat to accompany her on her forthcoming campaign, as is our custom. In case, as it were, some diplomacy is required within the army itself.'
In other words, Che mused, in case one of the generals refuses his orders or tries to seize power for himself. Che was to serve as the Matriarch's bully boy, then – the threat that would keep everyone in line while in the field.
'The invasion, it goes ahead then?'
'Of course it does. The Matriarch has been politically weakened by the death of her son. A military victory in the field would do much to reinforce her position.'
'What do you need of me?'
'Ah, I sometimes forget how your instructors teach you on a need-to-know basis. Perhaps it is my age, and my faculties fading.' Again that wheezing sound. Che suddenly realized that it was a chuckle. 'I shall explain to you then. You see, we have a tradition in our order, a tradition which stems back to our earliest days of empire. When a Patriarch or Matriarch takes to the field, they in turn take with them a chosen Diplomat.'
'Why me?' he asked bluntly.
'You have never asked such a question before,' murmured the voice.
Che held his tongue. It was starting to disturb him, these things emerging from his mouth before he knew of them. His facade was fracturing; though, worse than that, it seemed that he could not bring himself to stop it from happening.
'It is you,' said the voice, 'because most of your fellow Diplomats have already been despatched to Minos to begin our early negotiations – and also to reinforce the belief that Minos, not Khos, is our intended target. You, Che, are the best that remains behind.'
Perhaps that was even the truth of it. 'My orders?'
'Simple. Obey the Matriarch in all things.'
'That is all?'
'There is one more thing.'
He waited, knowing by now that his handlers liked to leave the most important aspect of his mission to the very last.
'Matriarch Sasheen takes a great personal risk in this venture,' continued the voice, then hesitated, as though bolstering its will to say what must be said next. 'If it becomes apparent that she is about to fall into the enemy's hands… or, likewise, if she decides that all is lost and tries to flee for home… then you, young Diplomat, must kill her.'
'Kill her?'
'Kill her.'
Che glanced over his shoulder, as though someone might be listening.
'Is this a test?'
'No, it is an order. We cannot risk a Holy Matriarch of Mann falling into the hands of the Mercians. Nor can we have her turn tail and run. The prestige of the Empire would suffer too greatly from either occurence. Either she is victorious or she is to die a martyr's death. Is this clear?'
His breath had caught in his throat. He wondered how many previous Diplomats, accompanying a Holy leader in the field, had been given the same instructions. Perhaps all of them, he realized – for never had one of their leaders fallen into enemy hands, or for that matter fled from a battle.
Suddenly, everything Che had ever understood about the Empire's structures of power – and who truly ruled it – shifted in a fundamental way.
'Yes, it's clear.'
'Good. Then be on your way, my child.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Ministry For all the great size of the Ministry of War, its corridors and halls tended to have a deserted feel to them, so that one could make the long walk from one end of the building to the other and barely lay eyes upon another person. It was quiet like the hush of a museum or library. Occasional murmurs could be heard through thick doors of tiq, and in the halls the heavy strokes of clocks ticking. Dogs barked and children shouted in the park outside, though the sounds were muted as they passed through the white-framed windows that flooded the interior with light, the hundreds of glass panes shivering now and again with the distant rumble of cannon.
Guards were stationed at sensitive areas throughout the building. They stood as unmoving as statues, contributing little by way of presence, watching the rare passerby with slow, unfocused eyes.
Two did so now. They knew the man who strode towards them and the general's chambers, for he was Creed's chief aide and disposed to visiting the chambers several times in the course of a day, though this morning his face was paler than usual, and his steps hammered to the pace of a fast heartbeat. As he approached the men on sentry duty, they could see the small green squares of graf leaf still stuck to his face where he had cut himself shaving, and the rough shambles of his dark hair that had yet to be combed through with any order.
The general's personal secretary, young Hist, looked up as the man swept past his neatly ordered desk. The secretary opened his mouth to speak, but the two guards blocking the door intervened first.
'Your business, Lieutenant Calvone,' one of the guards intoned as the man came to a breathy stop before them.
'Not now,' Bahn snapped, and pushed through even before they had time to step aside.
*
'Urgent despatch, General,' Bahn announced as he entered the room with a slip of paper clutched in his hand.
General Creed, Lord Protector of Khos, did not respond. He sat instead with his eyes closed, on a reclining leather chair, while his ancient concierge, Gollanse, plaited his long black hair for the day.
'General,' tried Bahn again, and when again the general still did not respond Bahn sighed, and reminded himself: You cannot rush this man.
Gollanse hummed something tuneless as he finished braiding the man's hair. In the sunlight it looked black as crow's feather, only succumbing to traces of grey at the temples. The general was proud of his mane. He wore it loose during action, for he knew it lent him a youthful flair despite his advancing years. He sighed as Gollanse patted his shoulder to inform him he had finished.
General Creed rose from his chair and looked at Bahn for the first time.
'Report,' he said, from across the room.
'Despatch from Minos. From one of their agents, sir. In Lagos.'
'Read it for me.'
Bahn coughed to clear his throat. ' "From the Ministry of Intelligence, Al-Minos, Overseas Section. General Creed, be advised we have learned that one of our agents has been successful in the interception of an imperial dispatch in the vicinity of Lagos. The dispatch congratulates Admiral Quernmore's part in quelling the island's recent revolt, but rescinds his previous standing orders relating to the speedy return of the Third Fleet to Q'os following such an outcome. Instead, the fleet is ordered to remain at Lagos for now, pending further instructions. We believe this may relate in some way to the Free Ports."'
Bahn had already read the letter several times. Still, his fingers began trembling again. Steady yourself, man. It might mean nothing. 'It was sent to us by carrier bird four days ago, sir. We received it this morning.'
General Creed betrayed no outer signs of alarm, though Bahn had been expecting such calm. Since the death of his wife three years earlier, the general had ceased to be startled by anything that occurred in this never-ending war with the Mannians. It was as though nothing, ever again, could be as bad as the news he had received on the day of her death.
'I thought they were being overly quiet of late,' General Creed murmured from across the room, where he had turned to the windows overlooking the Shield, his hands clasped behind his back.
Somehow, in spite of the words, the general's calm tone settled Bahn's nerves. He realized once more how much store he placed in this old man's abilities as a leader.
He has turned into my father, mused Bahn, and I the young boy.
His hand sought out one of the two wooden chairs before the desk and he sat himself down heavily. Bahn was of a different cut to the general. He had been awoken shortly after dawn by Hanlow, of the Khosian intelligence corp, after a long and sleepless
night in which his thoughts had refused to settle. At the door of his townhouse he had accepted a dispatch from the early-morning visitor, a decoded version of the message already scrawled down one side of it. Creed would still be asleep, Hanlow had said, and he did not wish to simply leave it on a desk. After Bahn had read the note his eyes had flicked to meet Hanlow's and he had cleared his throat. Very well, he'd said. He would take it to Creed himself.
Once the messenger had gone, the simple business of finding his left boot had turned into a one-sided argument with his wife. Marlee's patient decorum had only worsened his sudden bad temper, and he stomped around the house flinging items about in search of the errant boot. In gradual measures a black rage had descended upon him, a mood new to him, and wholly foreign.
Bahn had turned and shouted at Marlee at the top of his lungs, an occurence as shocking as striking her a blow. His son had fled the room; Ariale began to wail from her bedroom upstairs.
Marlee followed after her husband, talking to him calmly, allowing him no room in which to breathe. He watched himself, as though a passenger inside his own body, aware of his voice ringing loud and sharp in the ever-brightening rooms of their house, shocked by the things he was saying to her, to himself; by the outrage that coursed through him without reason.
At last Marlee had seized his arm in a sharp grip. 'What is it?' she had hissed. Bahn had forced himself to look her in the eye. At once the spell left him.
What am I doing? he had wondered, as he returned to his normal self.
Breathing out a long sigh, Bahn had caressed her arm as an apology. 'Maybe nothing,' he said softly, and he drew her to him, smothering his face in her berry-scented hair as he pressed her hard body against his own, her slender waist clasped within his hands. And in that embrace he felt all the weariness of the war rush into him like the years of an old man suddenly being poured into someone young and undeserving, and he thought again, trembling, What am I doing? – for it seemed in that question that everything he had ever loved or had offered purpose in his life lay furled within its answer.