Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

By the time Simon reached the Temple district, the main procession had passed, though the streets were still busy with curious onlookers. He tugged his hood over his head and mingled with the crowd.

The Temple’s white dome rose ahead, dazzling in the pale winter sunlight. Between the crowding buildings of New College, he glimpsed the pale striped walls. The surprisingly light-hearted decoration of pastel pink and green marble had always reminded him of an expensive wedding cake.

The small square before the main doors bustled with the junior nobility of House Numisma, all dressed in their finest for the occasion and in no hurry to enter. Senior members would already be inside, Grace among them.

No one paid any attention to Simon as he skirted the square and ducked into a narrow passage between the Temple precinct and New College gatehouse. The passage led into the Temple’s east cloister, separated from the grey walls of the two-hundred-year-old New College by a path and strip of green turf.

Simon walked briskly along the cloister until he came to a side door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and stepped into the Temple.

Stone pillars separated the side-aisle where he stood from the main hall. A profound hush hung in the air, the breathless sound of hundreds of people shuffling in their seats and trying not to talk above a whisper.

He peeked out from behind a pillar. Dust-hazed sunlight streamed in through the round window at the top of the dome to illuminate the ritual circle directly beneath. Around that, chairs for the audience had been arranged in concentric circles. Most of the seats were already full, with late-comers still filing in down the aisle from the main doors.

Occasional twangs and squeaks came from the far corner, where a small orchestra were readying themselves. Then they fell silent, and the audience stilled to watch the nine Theurgist Adepts in their white robes file into the sunlit centre of the hall.

Simon couldn’t see Grace anywhere. The Adepts took their positions around the circle. The ritual would begin soon. His information had to be brought to the attention of whoever would direct the Inquiry, and quickly.

To his right, stairs led up to the gallery. He climbed partway up, until he was high enough to overlook the hall. His vantage point gave him a good view of the ritual circle, where the theurgists were busy scattering salt. Assistants circled the audience dispensing incense-scented smoke from swinging thuribles.

The tall white-haired lady seated in the front row, wearing a green silk gown and gold-laced headdress, must be Lady Numisma. Her neighbours looked like other House seniors, but Grace wasn’t among them.

The audience stirred as an assistant led in a young woman dressed in a simple white gown. She perched on a stool in the centre of the circle. The theurgists paced and chanted around her while she remained still, waiting with patient composure.

Still searching for Grace, Simon scanned the seats further from the front. His heart sank. Back in the undercity, coming here to find her had seemed so straightforward, but if she was on the other side of the hall, at the back, he might not even see her in the sea of heads.

The musicians stood. A long blast of trumpets rolled across the hall, accompanied by loud drumbeats.

Just as Simon had given up on finding her, Grace’s face swam into focus. She was sitting across the hall at the back, in the middle of the row, next to a frail-looking old lady.

His hands tightened on the stair rail. The older lady was his mother — awake, out of her bed, and out in public for what was surely the first time in years. She spoke and gestured in an animated way, pointing up and across the hall. Grace was trying to soothe her.

Simon frowned. It wasn’t like his mother to make a scene. What was she pointing to? He peered up at the gallery.

A carved timber screen shielded the gallery from view. It was a relic from an earlier age when women weren’t permitted in the main hall, lest men be distracted from the pursuit of enlightenment. Noble ladies could sit up there and observe proceedings below without themselves being seen.

Through the decorative scrollwork, Simon glimpsed movement. Somebody was up there. Several somebodies. Unease prickled down the back of his neck. Whoever was in the gallery, they didn’t look like ladies. As he watched, something black appeared through the screen: the projecting end of a long black object, like a pipe.

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It was the muzzle of a gun.

He froze, too shocked to think or move. In the hall below, the audience watched the ritual unfold in measured steps. None of them looked up. None of them knew they were in danger.

Trumpets blasted a long fanfare. Drums beat and pipes shrilled, filling the hall with noise. The Theurgist Adepts swayed and chanted.

‘Guns,’ Simon shouted. He leaned over the handrail, waved his arms, and bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Gunmen. In the gallery.’

The music was too loud. A few heads turned in his direction, but it wasn’t enough.

He charged down the steps, his boots slipping on the smooth-worn stones, jumped the last step and hit the hall floor and ran. Pain stabbed his side. His bad leg buckled. He grabbed a chair back for support, and limped on from chair to chair.

Still the musicians played, and he had no breath left to shout. He reached Grace and seized her shoulder.

She turned and gasped. Her neighbours in the audience stared at him in disapproval.

‘Grace,’ he panted. ‘Gunmen in the gallery.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘There’s no time!’ He glanced up at the gallery. From this angle, he could see nothing. He turned back to Grace. ‘Do you trust me?’

‘You should, you know,’ his mother said mildly. ‘He’s right. We’re in very grave danger.’

The first gunshot sounded like a firecracker, a pop hardly noticeable over the drums and trumpets.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Simon grabbed Grace and his mother and forced them both to the floor, shielding them as best he could. Screams came from the front of the audience. The music faltered and stopped, each instrument falling silent at a different time.

Bang. Bang.

Everyone near Simon now cowered on the floor for the little protection offered by the wooden chairs. Grace shivered in his arms. Bangs and thumps and cries of fear and pain ran together into a continuous terrifying noise.

Warm liquid splattered Simon’s arm. He flinched and didn’t look where it had come from. Someone nearby groaned; another sobbed.

His own fear felt unreal to him. It should be dark and silent. He should be buried under rock alone, not huddled with warm bodies waiting for death to pick him from a crowd.

The gunfire continued sporadically, and so did the screams. Rationally, he thought — if rationally was a word one could use in these circumstances — the gunmen had targeted the front rows first, the leaders of the House. Now they fired randomly, spreading terror, but surely they wouldn’t kill everyone.

Cowering here, surrounded by other cringing bodies, gave an illusion of safety. When the bullet came, it would hit one of those others, not him or Grace or his mother. But he knew the illusion for the cowardly lie it was: his life wasn’t charmed. No angel hovered over him or those he loved. If they remained here, they’d be killed like a fish in a barrel. It was only a matter of time.

Nearby, someone whimpered. No bangs, no sharp cracks of gunfire.

‘Grace,’ he whispered urgently. ‘When I say go, run for the side-aisle.’

She was trembling, but she nodded. He felt her tense as she prepared to move.

‘Go.’ He shoved aside the chairs and with his arm around his mother, helped her to her feet.

Grace sprinted for the pillars. He limped after her, half-carrying his mother, expecting any moment a bullet to punch into his back. He ducked behind the pillar.

His mother and Grace huddled beside him, backs against a reassuring mass of cold solid stone. From the main hall came groans and sobs, but no gunfire. On the wall in front of him a marble plaque commemorated an ancient Lord who had paid for roof repairs or something — the text was worn nearly illegible. Next to that a ceremonial flag hung from a staff set in a brass socket. And right of that was a door, similar to the one he’d entered the Temple by.

He ran to the door and seized the iron handle. It didn’t turn. He tugged and twisted and yanked and the door didn’t budge. He grabbed the flagstaff and pulled it from its socket with a vague idea of using it as a lever.

‘Simon,’ Grace said.

He turned. Three men approached from the side-aisle to their left. Old scars threaded the dark face of the man in front, and Simon knew him: Scarface, the mugger from the alley. Last time he’d seen him, he’d been running from Andra.

Scarface raised a gun. ‘Stand where you are.’

Simon stepped in front of Grace and his mother. ‘Run,’ he told them. They didn’t move.

‘You. I know you.’ Scarface grinned. ‘You’re the one the Boss wants.’

Simon raised the flagpole in front of him like a quarterstaff. It was a solid four-foot pole capped with brass. As a youngster he’d been fairly skilled with a staff, but then he’d had two strong legs, and his opponents hadn’t been trying to kill him.

He remembered the stance, the basic strikes and blocks. He remembered too, his instructor’s advice on being outnumbered. It was ‘Don’t be.’ He didn’t recall any advice on fighting a man with a gun, but he thought it would be similar.

Could he knock the gun away before he was shot? It seemed unlikely. There were three of them, anyway. The best he could hope for was to distract them long enough for Grace to run.

Distantly, he noted the silk flag trailing softly over his arm was Oryche, white labyrinth on black. He wasn’t sure if that was an omen, or just irony.

Amid his terror, something clicked into focus. You’re the one the Boss wants, Scarface had said. ‘I think I know your Boss.’

‘So? You’ll be seeing him soon enough. Or do we kill you? The reward is dead or alive. Dead would suit me.’

Simon adjusted his hold on the staff. His right hand couldn’t grip properly. ‘Think you’re brave, hiding behind that gun? It’s a coward’s weapon. Didn’t help your squinting friend much, did it? Come on. Either shoot me or come and get me like a man.’