The voices burst clear at the top. I ducked below a row of railings and made small.
‘Hundreds are dead and for what?’
‘We have retreated!’
‘At what cost when the ergish regiments were pushed straight onto the front lines? Now those caliphs cannot defend their own people!’
‘Where then are those caliphs? Stand down!’
At the sudden uproar of shouting that followed, I covered my ears. My climb had brought me to a narrow balcony that I figured must span the atrium and big doors. Ahead, light poured from a hole in the dome of the ceiling, contrasting the grey hall I could still see if I looked back. Crouching low, I crept forward to peer between the railings.
At least a hundred people filled the amphitheatre below, in so much colour and detail that I couldn’t make sense of them all at first. I scanned for costumes I’d seen before. Some, though only a handful, wore robes like the High Commander’s. There was a cluster of men in rough brown cassocks. Five very serious looking men in dark blue gowns and talliths stood at the edge of the central floor. Two men I knew were engineers by their working gear of hide and metal, sat together. Neither was Rusper Symphin.
Only one woman was here. Arrayed in flowing silks of shiny silver, head decked with many twisted braids, she sat flanked by two blue-and-white officials. It was Lieutenant Jharis himself on her right.
Plamen’s voice: ‘Sanhedrin gives audience to the Caliph of Verunia.’ I craned my neck to better see the far right side of the floor. Over there, slightly elevated, the High Commander stood at a rostrum in the cascade of seating tiers.
‘Verunia!’ called a second voice, high and nasal.
The floor’s central circle was flagged in mosaic: the crescent-moon-and-rays emblem I had such good reason to remember. Now a skinny-legged man in livid red retreated to its edge, while the purple-gowned Caliph of Verunia stepped in from the left.
‘Ekharaan of the Sanhedrin,’ he said, and gesturing to the woman, ‘Sinarre. I hereby call the Honorary Caliph to account upon defence of greater Vorth. Rath have now been sighted on the northern bank of the Empty River, the last hopeful frontier before the capital. There is only one fortress. Fears are growing, and rightly, for the desert communities that stand wholly undefended.’
‘Arif, your caliphy is emptied and your people well protected,’ said one of the serious blue-gowns.
‘I speak for Laudassa and Methar,’ said Arif.
‘And what of Shad?’ someone shouted. ‘Are the people of the south not entitled to the same? Their regiments were all but obliterated in the border defence!’
‘And that,’ replied Arif, ‘is why I should encourage Shad’s caliph to join me himself before the Viceroy in demanding the release of his remaining forces from Antissa.’
I concentrated hard, doing my best to understand what they were talking about down there. As yet I’d still heard only seeming scraps of an older language in the desert’s Prate: like ekh and sen for mister and missus; lengthening into ekharan and sinarre for more important people; names of the Vedish foods and dishes and, of course, some of the swears—but why, even in the Prate, did they have to use such long and complicated words for everything? Already, there were so many names I hadn’t heard before. “Shad” was one of Vorth’s “caliphies,” just like Verunia, that much I grasped. But how many caliphies were there? Which of these men were their caliphs?
That same blue-gown was speaking: ‘Why then do you press for defence of Methar? Should not the caliph speak for himself in this matter?’
‘Caliph Bardon is not here, Vizier Nasser,’ Arif replied, ‘inconveniently.’ A few in the tiers exchanged smug grins and laughter.
‘Nor Caliph Khalin!’
Well, that answered that.
Arif went on for a bit then. Something about “the old Vedish way,” whatever that was, and more laughter rippled on the tiers. The amusement wasn’t shared by the five blue-gowns however, who huddled in, even while Arif was giving his piece, to confer with one another. As they did, a new man stood from the tier behind them. His robes and turban were black, hemmed with gold, and his face made me think of a weasel.
‘Your Verunia emptied by choice,’ he said archly, addressing Arif. ‘Laudassa and Methar are surely free to do the same.’
Arif answered: ‘I might have expected better from you, Dranz. You forget that Antissa already shelters the people of two caliphies. The streets are overcrowded, the farming quarters barely meeting the demands now bloated by our own evacuees—to say nothing of what others the fortress has seen fit to house here.’
My heartbeat quickened.
Plamen warned, ‘Have a care.’
After a strange pause, Arif continued: ‘And now we are informed that the city’s pipes begin to falter. Our very water is at stake!’ A round of jeering went up, almost drowning out another warning from Plamen at the rostrum. I saw the weasel in black and gold make a sour face. Arif raised his voice—‘It is clear that few more may be accommodated here, and so it is we risk desertion of our people to the mercy of an enemy unchecked. The lives of all Vedans are the burden of the throne.’ Another pause. ‘I would thus present the clerics of the temple of Chidh Eshipas, who have travelled from Laudassa to be in attendance at this council.’
My eyes followed his purple, welcoming arm to the cluster of men in brown cassocks.
‘Erg-baked madmen!’ the black-and-gold weasel spat with venom, but returned to his seat when Plamen again called the room to order.
As the mingled reactions of insult and amusement rolled and peaked and washed out, I counted the clerics. Fifteen. Their skins, I thought, were not naturally so dark, but rather blackened and hardened as if scorched by the sun. Most were heavily bearded. All wore tall, square hats and placid expressions, sitting primly with their hands on their knees.
Arif was speaking: ‘. . . and as Caliph Bardon chooses to remain in Methar, I call upon Omran, Caliph of Laudassa, to speak on behalf of both middle caliphies.’
The purple caliph drew back from the mosaic while another stood. It was the fat man I’d seen walking beside him in the hall, his dangling droplets of amber now swaying on an awkward journey to the floor. Stepping onto the mosaic, he placed his hands on his belly and said, ‘My courtesies to Verunia.’
Arif bowed.
‘Indeed, it is a matter of greatest delicacy that I bring before the Viceroy and Sanhedrin. As will be well known among the ekhars of this most solemn council, Laudassa and Methar are home to among the last sacred monuments left by the Builders. I do not deny, of course, that the value of such sites has long since diminished among the Vedans of our age and modern thinking. However, I can no more deny that the clerics remain bound by their own tenets to safeguard them.’
‘Pelkhish fantasies!’ scoffed the weasel.
‘Dranz!’ a blue-gown rebuked him. ‘Tether your tongue and hear Laudassa.’
‘I’ll have order,’ Plamen drawled.
The headdress jangled again as Omran shook his head and continued: ‘You may refute the clerical tradition as you wish, esteemed ekharaan, but those traditions do not exempt them from protection in war. Neither the clerics of Laudassa, nor those of Methar, will consent to evacuation by order of the throne or Viceroyalty. Thus is my entreaty to the Honorary Caliph at this time that measures be taken forthwith in defence of their sites.’
‘Does the good caliph have intentions of returning to Laudassa, I wonder?’ someone sneered. ‘Or will he, perhaps, be taking residence in the capital instead?’
Heckles came from several directions, and Arif swept out in front of Omran as if to shield him. ‘Who said that?’ he demanded in outrage.
‘Speaker to rise,’ Plamen called.
Someone did: a man in layers of green.
‘Vizier Ramed,’ said Arif. The challenger raised his palms facetiously as if in answer. ‘Caliph Omran should not be present at this assembly were it not that he feared for the people of Laudassa. Yet you insult him!’
‘Caliph Omran is no cleric,’ the green argued with a small laugh. ‘Why must he persist in honouring such archaic customs?’
Omran rejoined: ‘Vorth is not yet invaded, ekharan. There is no cause to wantonly abandon the traditions of the south.’
Up on their tier, the clerics hummed and nodded.
‘Yet it would appear reason enough for you to abandon Laudassa, Caliph Omran,’ said the green. ‘You have not yet answered my question.’
As the green-layers grinned, Omran’s cheeks puffed out ruddy, but Arif placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Nor will he. The fact is plain. The people of Vorth are not defended in war.’
‘We are not at war,’ said a new voice—one I knew—from the right.
Arif looked towards the source, then gently brushed his pointed beard as if to hide his own small smile. ‘Begging your patience, Honorary Caliph, but Naemia’s invaders are in force upon your doorstep. You cannot deny that the threat of the Rath is immediate.’
‘I denied nothing of the kind.’ The balcony blocked my view to him.
But it was Plamen who spoke next; briskly, loudly and clearly reminding the council that, by “royal decree,” Vorth had withdrawn from all engagement in active warfare, and that by the very same decree the Viceroyalty had been empowered to do no more than defend.
‘Defence, High Commander, is precisely what has brought Caliph Omran and his clerics to the Sanhedrin,’ said Arif. ‘As the capital’s neighbouring caliphy, I see no reason that Laudassa should be refused its own garrison.’
‘That is impossible,’ said the new voice, still invisible, on the right. And now I heard movement from there.
‘Council gives audience to Honorary Caliph Symphin, Viceroy,’ said Plamen, and the nasal man in red announced the same thing twice as loudly.
Arif and Omran left the mosaic to make way for Rusper Symphin. As the engineer tapped down the shallow steps, I saw none of that scorched leather and metal armour, gloves or goggles of his workshop. Headgear now gone, I saw a shock of grey and white: straight, thinning hair raked back over his scalp, behind his ears. His robes were crimson, gold-hemmed, flared at the shoulders, wrists and waist. Under his collar ran the chain of that medallion. He seemed larger, even from above.
‘The capital is fully aware of the danger Vorth faces,’ he said, his voice crisp and vital as he walked along the edge of the mosaic. ‘Our borders have been breached by Ratheine force and attempts to repel those numbers have failed. The north’s invaded.’
Arif folded his arms.
‘The conclusion we cannot draw is that the caliphies of middle and southern Vorth stand under threat. Little is known of this enemy, why they are here—indeed, why their hordes beset Naemia’s coast in the last decade! And yet for all the devastation they wrought upon that realm, an unchecked force intent on conquest would have reached Antissa by now. It has not.’
Another blue-gown interrupted: ‘Viceroy, they have occupied the borderlands.’
I flinched.
‘Occupied. Yet made no inroads south of the Empty River,’ answered Rusper Symphin.
A cough from Arif. ‘Honorary Caliph, you wish to understand the pale creatures before defending the Satrap’s realm against them?’
‘The lives of more than two thousand Vedish soldiers have been claimed,’ Rusper Symphin replied. ‘The Satrap will hazard no more. It is by His Majesty’s decree, not my own will, ekharaan, that our forces stand down, and by those same royal wishes that they muster here at the fortress.’
But the blue-gown had more to say. ‘What then is your answer to the Caliph of Laudassa?’
Rusper Symphin didn’t turn; simply narrowed his eyes at Arif of Verunia. ‘I have not, as yet, had the pleasure of hearing a request from that caliph.’
At this, with a little bow, Arif stepped further back from the edge. The eyes of the room swung to Omran of Laudassa. The fat man cleared his throat then, turning to Rusper Symphin. ‘Viceroy, on behalf of Caliph Bardon, absent from this audience, I would implore that the Third and Fourth Regiments be detached from the fortress garrison and deployed in defence of the middle caliphies.’
‘Impossible,’ said Plamen from his rostrum. ‘Following the losses on the north border, Methar’s eight hundred constitute the Mooncircle Army’s most integral unit now. Caliph Bardon himself would be hard-pressed to withdraw it from the fortress, all the more so should he station it south.’
The fat caliph’s hands abandoned his belly to flap the air as if it were suddenly too hot. ‘My clerics must have protection!’ he exclaimed. ‘Honorary Caliph, I beseech you, an engineer of this city. If harm should befall the monuments of the Builders—’
‘Thank you,’ said Rusper Symphin as he took a step towards Omran. ‘As you quite rightly suggest, I am only too well versed in the legacy of the Builders. But I fear the High Commander is correct. As caliph, you may withdraw and deploy your territorial regiment at will. Know however that such an action would be acutely displeasing to the Satrap, at a time when I am certain you should not wish to invoke his displeasure. Nor will I authorise such deployment. For the present time, defence of the middle caliphies, and indeed their temples, hinges upon our control of central Vorth and the capital. Your clerics are encouraged to accept the temporary refuge of the fortress should they lack faith in that control.’
Suddenly a cleric shot to his feet from the cassocked throng. ‘The Stones of the Builders will not be defiled. We will stand by our temples to the last!’
‘You will do as you think best,’ Rusper Symphin said patiently. ‘But until the Rath move south of the Empty River, there will be no pledge of outer garrisons.’
Arif argued further for a while; saying something about decentralising forces, wider control, evacuees to come . . . Just as I’d been thinking I was keeping up, it threw me off. Plamen shook his head to all of it, anyway.
‘But surely . . .’ Omran stammered.
Plamen was firm. ‘The capital will not provide Laudassa with forces. By decree, Methar’s Fourth Regiment will remain in Antissa. If the Rath advance south, contingents may be stationed in the middle caliphies. No sooner. Nor,’ he added to compete with rising heckles, ‘have we cause to believe the Satrap will relax his concentration of defence.’
The heckles lost their momentum, turning instead to a general hum across the tiers. The two caliphs spoke to one another urgently. So did the huddle of blue-gowns. The clerics were quiet, their hoary faces all blank. Even the one who had stood and protested sat silent with his hands back on his knees.
‘And yet,’ said green-layers, ‘have we not just now heard the Viceroy’s word to Laudassa to protect the middle caliphies once the Rath make that advance?’
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
‘Ekharan,’ said Plamen. ‘Do not presume to feign ignorance of the constraints under which the Viceroyalty must act. The Viceroy endeavours, weekly, to steer His Majesty’s stance.’
‘Endeavours of the kind have been received with further displeasure,’ Rusper Symphin added. ‘In his present condition, anticipating full-scale siege of the fortress, the Deepworks will remain the Satrap’s foremost priority.’
And just like that I felt it—that missing piece slot into place. Of course! The Deep, all those levels under the citadel, were being built under this “royal decree.” Whatever it was that had happened to the Satrap of Vorth, he’d pulled back his full army from the north of his country and, instead of fighting the Rath, begun to dig out a shelter. At least it made a kind of sense. It was why, I supposed, the Chief Engineer was in charge.
‘How many times must we listen to this same song?’ Arif complained. ‘At every call to council the Honorary Caliph tells us all that his hands are tied by decree, and yet we know that he dispatches armed scouts in the desert. What, I wonder, might the Satrap think of that?’
This won a big burst of applause, full of more jeers and heckles. I couldn’t help but be impressed at how Rusper Symphin didn’t flinch; how still he stood as it ran its course.
‘Armed yes,’ he replied, ‘but under orders to avoid any and all confrontation. There is no other way to acquire knowledge of Ratheine movement beyond the confines of the city.’
Up leapt the black-and-gold weasel. ‘Well!’ he cried. ‘If the liberty may be taken to interpret decree, why not make good your solemn promise to Laudassa and Methar without further wasting of words?’
Several around him started clapping, but it petered out before reaching the same climax. I wondered if I actually had any clue what all this was. Hadn’t the black-and-gold said exactly the opposite before?
The Viceroy faced him. ‘Vizier Dranz, you would have me countermand sovereign orders?’
Black-and-gold flashed a smile. ‘Viceroy. It is for you to assure us that our sovereign’s authority is absolute.’
A man surged to his feet on the lowest tier – it was Captain Mondric. ‘Of course it’s absolute, you craven earthworm! Rest your faithless pipes, and while you’re at it, your—’
‘Captain!’ Plamen warned.
Black-and-gold stood his ground. ‘I would hear it from the Viceroy. Honorary Caliph?’
‘Commander!’ blasted Mondric.
‘Peace,’ said Plamen.
As well as I could, I studied Rusper Symphin’s face. Though he was calm, or looked it, his forehead shimmered. The heckles died. Once they had stopped altogether, he answered: ‘The rule of Satrap Syphus is still absolute.’
What came then sounded worse than all the eruptions so far. A single laugh. A hollow sound, almost metallic, it came from the silvery woman. She didn’t stand or try to speak; merely smiled where she sat while the two blue-and-white officials of the Iron Shield mimicked her smile. Eyes darted about and met each other across the mosaic. The silence held, the air so charged I felt the hairs creep on my neck. Black-and-gold remained standing. The Captain slowly took his seat. Had I missed something? What had happened?
‘The ekhars of the Sanhedrin are justly concerned,’ a blue-gown said into the hush. ‘The Deepworks alone progress too slowly for the liking of the First Circle.’ His blue companions all nodded with their fancy talliths. ‘Caliph Symphin, how long until this decreed shelter is prepared?’
Rusper Symphin rounded on his heel. ‘If I may correct the speaker—’
‘Vizier Basra,’ hailed the nasal red man in a spare split-second.
‘—who has most evidently not been in attendance at this council of late, by reminding him of facts. Those facts being that in spite of recent piping complications, our Deepworks have been progressing precisely to schedule!’ His eyes, now blazing, swept over the heads of the council. ‘Nor will I stand for further claims to the contrary. If the work is too slow for the ekharaan of the Sanhedrin, I would invite them to consider the true scale of that work. My engineers are forging a fortified, self-sustaining habitation twice the size of this district within the hill of the fortress. Not since the time of the Builders has Antissa even attempted so vast a construction!’ He was seething. ‘But perhaps it is the citadel’s failing foundations that ekharaan would prefer to a death at enemy hands? Because, you mark me, that is how your pedantry will be rewarded, Basra!’
He glared at the blue-gown, who had the grace to look sheepish, at least.
‘That is but one of our concerns, engineer,’ said black-and-gold. ‘Your ability to defend even this fortress stands in question.’
‘You will apply the correct terms of address in this chamber,’ Plamen admonished.
Black-and-gold gave an over-indulgent bow. ‘Begging the Honorary Caliph’s pardon.’
‘Pelkhish toad,’ Mondric cursed. Soft, but it carried.
‘You too, Captain.’
Mondric folded his arms.
Still with that oily little smile, the black-and-gold weasel continued: ‘Need I make repeated mention of how wary the ekhars of the Sanhedrin have grown of one’s exclusive royal audience?’
Rusper Symphin squared his feet on the mosaic. ‘You are aware, no doubt, Dranz, that the Satrap commands my presence alone at this time. Precisely to allay such misgivings as this, I have on occasion persuaded His Majesty to admit the High Commander in my stead, yet even that arrangement is fragile.’
‘Ah, Viceroy. But it is the High Commander’s admission to the tower that compounds our misgivings. Begging his pardon, of course, he works too closely with your interests for his presence to assure the Sanhedrin that your orders represent sovereign will.’
A short silence.
‘Interests?’ repeated Rusper Symphin.
‘This is dangerous speech, Dranz,’ growled Mondric, rising slowly again as if preparing to take a leap across the floor. ‘Choose your next words with great care.’
‘My words are chosen,’ said the weasel.
‘The Captain is to be heeded,’ said Plamen, low. ‘Vizier Dranz, you will resume your seat directly or be removed from this chamber.’
But the weasel, Vizier Dranz, seemed less than interested in his seat, declaring loudly: ‘But I am standing for the proper way of things, ekharaan. As such is my right, High Commander, I would call for a vote of no confidence in the Chief Engineer’s aptitude to head the capital’s defence!’
‘Guards!’ barked the Captain.
The chamber suddenly erupted with so much noise it seemed to stretch the marble walls and fill the dome. From under my balcony walked two black-caped guards. Rusper Symphin stood back as they crossed the mosaic, climbed up the tiers and pulled the black-and-gold weasel from his place. Through the ongoing roar of voices, they marched him down across the floor, back through the atrium under me, and out into the grey hall. As he was released I saw him stumble and snatch his turban from the floor. He tugged his robes straight and pointed a finger back into the chamber.
‘You will have to do better than this, Symphin!’ he hissed. Then turned and blustered away between the columns.
‘Council to order!’ Plamen sounded through the chaos. ‘Verunia and Laudassa to withdraw, you have your answer.’
Rusper Symphin faced the storm. ‘So there are ekhars among you who lack faith in my ordinance. I fault you none of your doubts. Were it not for the High Commander as my aide, I should share them. But perhaps I might beg your indulgence.’
He glanced left—I ducked down.
When I peeped through the railings again, none other than Loquar scurried into view from the atrium, nervously tugging at his turban as if fearing the council might throw things at him. He carried a long box under his arm.
Engineer again, Rusper Symphin addressed the council and described what he had showed me in his workshop: that flammable reaction of the chemical chrozite; that yellow powder. I tried to follow what he said, but the council never once silenced. They shook their heads and swapped their gibes. The two caliphs looked bored, and the blue-gowns began their own conversation. The engineer persisted, turning to the box. Loquar lifted its lid – perhaps with just a little too much ceremony – and Rusper Symphin took out its contents. It was the weapon of wood and metal I had seen. Only now he gave it a name. “Fusil,” he called it.
Longing to be closer, I pressed my face up to the bars just as Captain Mondric heaved a sigh and slapped his knees. ‘Might we, please, Viceroy, be spared another gadget in this chamber?’ More laughter followed. Another smile from silver woman, as well. Men pointed, mocking and taunting, and I hated all of them. ‘The Sanhedrin can afford to spare no interest in your cogwheels!’ one blue-gown scoffed. Green-layers flung his arms wide: ‘They won’t win us a war!’ And in moments, the amphitheatre was ringing with demands that his futile contraptions be taken away.
The shimmer on Rusper Symphin’s forehead had now run down to his temples. He clapped the box shut again—not noticing as Loquar yelped and sucked his fingers—then panned the faces all around him.
He tossed and caught something small that caught the light from the ceiling. Then left the floor, Loquar following.
Time to go.
I crept away from the railings and went back down the stairs.
----------------------------------------
‘Roll down those sleeves.’
I obeyed. And Plamen watched me, steely silent. I’d been waiting for another half-hour and now the council had broken; footfalls flowing through the grey hall again.
‘Follow me.’
As I shadowed him out of the room, Hetch re-appeared. ‘She will see you, High Commander.’
‘Then you may tell her to expect me,’ said Plamen without stopping. The dwarf disappeared into the grey gloom behind the columns.
Plamen was a tall man and his strides so long that I had to jog a little to keep up. Servants greeted him smartly as they passed, but always frowned back at me. Through a doorway at the base of the citadel’s spire, we stepped into the open air of an outside terrace. Sunlight streamed into my eyes, sensitive after so long in that dark bubble, and Plamen’s bootfalls became a beat. There were columns here too; stouter ones with tilted friezes of those winged creatures I kept seeing everywhere. Low hedges flanked the terrace walkway with gardeners tending to them. Through the V of his parted shears, one looked at me, then just as quickly looked away.
It was almost too green here, like a roofless house of leaves and bright grasses, even bushes tamed to form the rooms and corridors between them, spotted all over with flowers. In tiers and partitions, the gardens were bordered inside a half-circle of the citadel’s wall; raised in turn from the streets of the district another level below. Beyond that, over the orange roofs of the Inner City estates, Antissa tumbled towards the battlements and sun-bleached blue that skipped the desert. The life I’d known felt far away and very, very long ago.
As Plamen’s pace began to slow, I saw the fat Caliph Omran ahead. With him, Rusper Symphin: ‘We will do our very utmost for the clerics. Meanwhile you must try to take our full national predicament into account.’
Omran bowed, rattling his headdress beads. ‘Verunia holds a banquet this night at his estate. Will the Honorary Caliph be attending, I wonder?’
Rusper Symphin smirked. ‘Ekharan should be cautious of his questions,’ he said pleasantly, ‘always assuming that the Honorary Caliph has not in fact been invited.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘Never mind.’ He smiled. ‘I have, as you know, matters of my own to attend to. You will find Caliph Arif to be an exemplary host.’ Seeing me with Plamen then, he nodded to the caliph. ‘You will excuse me.’
‘Of course.’
The figures parted. As they did, a hot wind reached the terrace from the desert and flapped Rusper Symphin’s crimson robe. Though it had only been a night and a morning since I’d seen him, I’d forgotten how searching those green eyes were up close.
‘Two days early,’ he said to me, his tone more formal than before. ‘There can hardly have been much to . . . hell-sands, what the dredth happened to your face?’ It was hard to meet those eyes today; he was like a king.
Plamen shifted his weight and I remembered his instructions. ‘I was fighting,’ I said.
‘Fighting with whom, please?’
‘Gutterwaifs,’ Plamen said into my silence. ‘You know the urchins that harry the crowds around the wall.’
A moment’s pause. ‘Yes . . . yes, I do.’ He cast a gaze over my wounds, glanced up at Plamen, then back at me.
I swallowed. Con-on-the-flagstones flashed from memory and I tried to pretend that there was something in my eye. Too late; he could see my tears spilling and I knew, if chance allowed, Plamen would have probably cuffed me for it. I dragged an armful of new sleeve across my face and waited. Waited for someone to say something.
‘Well, you’ve been fittingly clothed,’ puffed the engineer. ‘Again.’ He ignored my sniffing. ‘Might I assume you’re here to accept a certain offer?’
From Con-on-flagstones, my mind leapt to Jerome-running-from-kicks. I squeezed my eyes shut.
‘Florian, I realise it’s a warm day and a bit of an effort, but I’ll need a yes or no.’
I opened my eyes, let them clear, looked into his: belying his tone, steady and patient.
Family dead. Con dead. Jerome . . .
An ibis cried out over the gardens.
‘Yes.’
His face gave a moment’s twitch. ‘Good. Your lodgings are prepared in the lower chamber of my workshop, with additional clothes. Looking at you now, you may just pass for a Vedan once attired in the swathes. High Commander, your thoughts?’
‘He must be wary of speaking,’ said Plamen. ‘He may not look as Naemian as the others in shelter, but his accent is strong.’
Rusper sucked his teeth. ‘That I grant you. Very well, let us fall upon a pretence. Let us say he is Elmine. At present there are Elmines who do serve in the citadel, so it’s hardly a great stretch. Do you understand, boy? If confronted, you’re not Naemian. You’re Elmine. Agreed?’
Like him, in a way. Again: ‘Yes.’
‘For all you know it’s true,’ he added, before raising a hand at the change in my face. ‘Argue later. For now . . .’ He delved into his robe, then grasped my hand a bit roughly and pushed something into its palm. A key. My heart made a different kind of jump. ‘You know what it opens, I trust.’
I nodded and said, ‘Yes,’ one more time.
‘Get to work, Flint. I want to know what they are.’
----------------------------------------
The bathtub was gone. In its place, under the pipe that had filled the bath for me before, was now a low-set bedframe with a mattress and quilt. A little table stood beside it; also a pot, a brass mirror and a stand of hooks at the end. On one of the hooks hung a sling-bag of the kind I’d seen servants carrying around. I took off my sandals and hung them on the hook beside it. A box-lantern was mounted on top of the stand, but it had no element, so the room was dark. The clothes were laid out on the quilt: a second pair of breeches—fancy ones—a second shirt and a blanket.
No, not a blanket. Now I recognised the hessian cloak worn by so many Antissans. “Swathes” they called it. Despite my aching, punished body, I tried my best to get into the thing, but it was all flaps and pointless folds without any holes for my arms, so I gave up and hung it up with my sandals instead.
All of this, I thought, he’d put together before I’d said yes.
The Deep shuddered around me and I went back up the steps. The wall-lantern shone low there, dimming the vaulted rows of russet bricks while big machines peered out from shadows. Rusper’s papers swamped the table, piled high and furled like parchment mountains, weighted down at the foothills by heavy tools. Some bore screeds and screeds of writing, others complicated pictures: rows of circles like so many slices of sausage. Meaningless. And it made no difference when I brightened the lantern to see them better.
At Rusper’s worktop, abutting the wall, was a contraption I couldn’t begin to figure out in the slightest. A tall, broad box of hardwood and metals with horn-like finials on top, it looked like a cupboard at first; the worktop’s surface cut to fit around its sides, leaving the larger part below. The section above the worktop’s surface had a kind of dial on its front panel. Set about an inch into the wood, it was a half-circle of pale parchment inscribed with symbols and pictures. Some of them I knew, some I didn’t. There was a sort of arrow fashioned on it, made of brass, and pointing upwards. And at the base of the half-circle, a kind of toothy gear, or wheel. I crawled under the worktop to investigate some more, finding that a pair of narrow pipes protruded from its side and disappeared straight into the wall. There were little doors under here too, almost as if it really were a cupboard. All three were locked.
Whatever. Just leave it alone.
Walking the room, I studied containers here and there, and opened a few. One contained at least a hundred tiny metal balls, heavy when I rolled them on my palm. For a while, not knowing what else to do, I simply sat down on the floor and rolled them up and down the grooves between the bricks.
A small girl came later. She had wide eyes, a head shaven so closely it was almost bald, and wore a little yellow jacket. I stood up quickly when I saw her and put the metal balls back inside their jar, but she didn’t seem to care what I was doing. In a valley of the parchments on the table she set a tray of food and hurried out without saying a word.
I ate alone. Then sat, chin in my hand, fondling the key. Nothing stopped me now, I knew that, as I stared across at the tall cabinet. All I needed to do was open that door and take it out. But I didn’t. They fascinated me, of course they did. But they unsettled me even more than that. Mine had done something to me, something unnatural. And painful. I’d seen and felt it, and even heard it speak words inside my head! I’d been so close to being sure that it had saved me from the Rath. Maybe it had. But maybe . . . had it also tried to kill me?
At last I willed myself to move. Trying not to think about it too much, I went and wriggled the key into place, turned it and let the door fall on its hinge. A chill began at my ankles, crept up my legs. My eyes scaled the shelves; the stacks and rows of his letters and broken seals, a strip of lace. And there they were on the highest shelf, the two little coloured domes that made my stomach freeze.
I wasn’t ready.
So I went back down to my chamber and crawled onto the bed. As I lay there, staring at the pipe in the ceiling, I tried to count the bruises I’d find tomorrow morning. Now I was still, the pain doubled and I started to wonder if even a bone or two was broken.
If I slept I didn’t know it, but after some time the triglycerate upstairs brightened a bit. Through the cracks under my eyelids I watched him look in from up the steps; a reptilian outline of flares and collars behind the beams. Only when his lantern withdrew into the workshop did I remember that I’d left the cabinet door open. Stupid. Softly as I could, I crept upstairs and peered back in.
But he’d closed it. Not seeing me, he shuffled off the crimson robe he’d worn in council and threw it over a machine. Eased down into his chair at the worktop; cradled his temples and raked his fingers through his hair a few times. When he raised his head to look blankly at the wall, the eyes I saw were lined and raw. The king of the Sanhedrin wasn’t there: this man was tired and old.
I went back to my bed and slipped under the quilt. It was a black and white motley of squares that had little red birds stitched in a few. The weave of its cross-hatch was warm but open enough to let cool air reach my skin. I pulled it close and made up my mind, as the Deep breathed in and groaned again, that it was mine.