Farlander

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fishing With Pebbles In any other city port on the Mideres, alarms might have rung out at the unexpected arrival of a war galleon flying no colours save for a neutral black, and carrying a force of men clearly fitted out for war.

But this was Cheem, and sights like that were as common as fish. As the vessel moored by the wharf side and the men disembarked with military discipline, a few of the local beggars – ex-sailors mostly, crippled or burned out – turned to see if it might be worth their while asking for spare change, and quickly decided against it. Only one of these beggars allowed his gaze to linger for any length of time: a man in his forties, his left arm ending abruptly in a leather-bound stump. Once, he had been a soldier in the Imperial Legion, and he was not so far gone with age and drugs to miss noticing the imperial military tattoos on the bare wrists and arms of the men disembarking, nor the camouflage attire they wore under their plain cloaks, nor their obvious self-regard.

Commandos, the old addict decided, and slid further back into the shadow of the doorway. He watched carefully as one of their officers approached a city guard. Arrangements were made. More guards were summoned upon and mules soon brought forth. Sailors from the same ship offloaded caskets heavy enough to be holding gold, and strapped them on to the mules. That done, the officer, a few of his men and an escort of guards set off into the city along with their loads.

The remaining men, perhaps seventy in all, were told to stand down. They relaxed nearby in the early morning sun, grumbling whenever they were picked out for duties. Small groups filtered out into the streets occasionally, given heavy purses and instructions to procure riding zels, mules, supplies.

From his doorway, the old addict, his cravings forgotten for a grateful moment, watched with a frown and a curious pang of nostalgia, and wondered which poor fools had provoked the Empire's wrath now.

*

A bitter wind blew through the open window of the tower, carrying with it the scent of rain. Osh, looking out at the darkening sky, drew the heavy blanket tighter about himself, and shuddered.

A storm comes, he thought, as he gazed across the mountains to the black clouds that crowded the far distance. So soon after the last one too. Winter comes early this year.

It was not a pleasing thought. Osh did not look forward to the winters here in the high mountains. The constant damp chill in the air made his bones ache, so that every movement cost him strength. The simple act of rising from his warm bed each morning was a battle of will that seemed to require ever more effort as the years went by. The winters made him feel his age, and in a way he resented them for it.

I grow weak in my old age, Osh thought. Once, I would not have been plagued with so many doubts as I am now.

Below him, Baso hurried across the courtyard with his thin robe flapping in the wind. Osh followed him with his gaze, thinking to call out to his old friend. But then he frowned.

It could not be Baso. Baso was dead.

He looked harder and saw, instead, that it was Kosh, red-eared and hunched against the chill wind. He disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt seeking an early breakfast for his ever-needy stomach.

It had been hard news, hearing of Baso's passing. It had stunned Osh to the core as he stood there in the courtyard, with the rest of the assembled Rshun, while the Seer told them of the loss of their men in Q'os. Osh's body had frozen with the shock of it, his chest tightening so that he could barely breathe. For a moment he'd thought he might be experiencing a heart attack, even though the bad turn had not lasted long. For the first time in his life, surrounded by men under his command, Osh had been unable to take the lead.

Only Ash had saved him face, and then Baracha. They had taken on the demands of reaffirming vendetta, allowing Osh to return to his room and close the door firmly behind him, there to grieve in his own private way.

Standing before the window now, an image came to Osh's mind of Baso laughing as a fork of lightning split the sky above his head. Osh smiled at the recollection. He had not thought of it in many years.

It was a memory from the second day of their flight from the old country, following the final defeat of the People's Army at the battle of Hung. Osh had been the only general to escape from that fateful trap. In a fighting retreat, he and the tattered remnants of his command had made it to the surviving ships of the fleet, harboured thirty laqs up the coast. Without adequate provisions, in disarray, they had set sail towards the silk winds, knowing that their homeland was now lost to them, and exile their only remaining hope; and a slim hope, at that, as the overlords' navy heaved into sight under full sail.

Unable to outrun them, the ships of his fleet found themselves trapped between the rocky coastline to the west and a storm front approaching from the deep ocean to the south, a sinker of ships if ever there was one; and, right behind, the closing ships of the enemy, outnumbering them at least three to one.

In a last throw of the dice, the fugitives in the fleet turned towards the approaching storm like the desperate men they were.

Baso had been merely a boy then, no more than sixteen, still clad proudly in his battered, oversized armour when most of the other survivors of the defeated People's Army had removed theirs for fear of drowning. All had seemed lost in those dark hours at sea. Prayers to ancestors tumbled from quivering lips. Amid the screaming gales, rigging and masts broke loose, waves swamped decks and carried men away, capsized vessels entirely. No one expected to make it through alive. Even Osh thought they were dead men, if not by the hands of their pursuers then by the ferocity of the storm; though he had kept his fears to himself as he ordered the fleet to push onwards, making a show of bravado for the sake of his men, though in reality, within his heart, he felt as broken as the rest of them.

But seeing Baso laugh out loud like that as the ship heaved under his feet and the sky raged above his head, so alive in the madness of the moment and without fear or worry for past or future, or even now… The sight had straightened Osh's spine a little, and lent him courage when he needed it most.

And now Baso was gone, like so many others, and precious few of Osh's original people remained. Kosh, Shiki, Ch'eng, Shin the Seer, Ash… he could count those left from the old country on a single hand now. Those few were all that linked Osh to the distant past in his homeland. It seemed that as each one passed away he grew ever more vulnerable to their loss, and fretted ever more deeply about who might be next.

It would be Ash, he knew. Ash would go next, and his former apprentice would prove to be the bitterest loss of them all.

Ash was still out there somewhere, no doubt in Q'os in the midst of vendetta – at his age, by Dao! Osh should never have let him go, he knew. Not a man in his condition. But, in his own grief, it hadn't crossed Osh's mind to try and dissuade Ash from his decision, at least not until later, after he had already departed, when Osh had paused to realize that his old friend was most likely not coming back from this one – just as Baso had not.

He didn't know why he felt such an intense premonition, for he had experienced no tragic dreams or heard morbid readings from the Seer. He simply felt a great heaviness whenever he thought of his old friend, as though certain he would never see him again.

The whole sorry business of this vendetta made him feel like that. Osh did not think it could end in any way but badly for all of them.

At the open window, he braced his body against another gust of wind. Somewhere out of sight, a shutter banged once, twice, and then fell silent.

I have grown melancholic in my old age, he reflected, but then he chuckled at his own folly. He knew that his age had nothing to do with it.

Osh pulled closed the shutters, sealing out the storm that approached across the mountains. He shivered once more, then returned to his books and his padded chair by the welcoming warmth of the fire.

*

It was late afternoon in Q'os. The Five Cities taverna was as busy as always at that hour, with the local dockworkers and street merchants knocking off for the day, and the customary mix of outlanders staying in the area's many hostalios drawn by the taverna's fine foods and wines. In a corner, beneath the little hissing flame of a gaslight fitted to the smoke-stained plaster of the wall, six individuals sat huddled in private conversation. The local patrons paid them little notice, save for the occasional glance at the young woman in her brown leathers, for she was a sight for sore eyes to working men who had sweated for their wages since dawn, and likely to return to wives aged beyond their years by regular childbirth and hard, daily graft.

'It's impossible,' Serese kept her voice low, though the noise in the taverna was enough to easily mask her words. She seemed not to notice the occasional lingering attentions of the male patrons elsewhere in the taproom. Perhaps she was simply used to such scrutiny, and had learned to ignore it. 'I'd doubt if there's anywhere in the Miders more heavily guarded than the Temple of Whispers just now. I can't see any way it could be breached.'

Baracha, musing over his shot glass of rhulika, raised a single eyebrow in disbelief.

'I tell you it's true, father. Even the moat around the tower has been filled with some kind of fish, tiny things with a craving for flesh. They draw crowds every day, for the city watch has begun to dangle criminals into the water just for the sport of it. I saw it only three days ago. There was a great feeding frenzy, and when they drew the man from the water, the flesh on his legs was stripped to the bone. How do you reckon on getting past such an obstacle?'

Nico, sitting in glum silence next to his master, looked up at that revelation. He had never heard of flesh-eating fish before.

'I'll tell you this,' Baracha said, still unconvinced. 'In all my life I've never known a place that could not be breached, given enough time and inspiration. If we cannot swim the moat, we can raft across it.'

Serese sighed in exasperation. 'Only if you can get past the boat patrols – and evade the watchers on the steeple itself. And the regular patrols along the shore.'

'Then we disguise ourselves as one of the boat patrols, row across to the tower itself, climb it.'

'Even at night you'd stand out. They've positioned lights all around the lower floors. You wouldn't get ten feet before a patrol or one of their flyers spotted you.'

'So we forget the moat. We steal ourselves some priests' robes, cross the bridge, enter the main gates in disguise.'

It seemed easy, the way Baracha put it.

'Yes, except no one is allowed through the gates until they've placed their hands through a grill. They're checked, to see if the tips of their little fingers are missing or not. In fact, no one is allowed to even set foot on the bridge until they've been checked for that proof of identification.'

'Well then, the answer's obvious,' said Aleas, and all eyes turned to him. He grinned handsomely. 'Each of us chops the tips from our little fingers, waits some moons for them to fully heal, then walks inside unmolested.'

'Shut up, Aleas,' warned Baracha.

Aleas raised his eyebrows and glanced at Nico. A look passed between them, though Nico didn't match his friend's easy smile. He was tired today. He had slept poorly, haunted by nightmares in which he had relived, over and over again, his actions of the previous night.

'If you are to find a way inside,' Serese continued, 'it must be by some method they have not foreseen.'

Aleas was bored of this. 'He can't stay in the tower for the rest of his life. If we can't breach the place, we can wait for him to come out. Maybe during the Augere. Maybe he will come out then.'

'And what if he does not?' demanded Baracha. 'They almost had us last night. Even now, as we speak, they're likely combing the city for us. All of us are outlanders here, save for you. It's only a matter of time before they find us out. This is hardly a friendly city in which to linger, in case you hadn't noticed.'

His words silenced the group. Nico found himself observing the rest of the taproom to see if they were being watched.

There: a man turning away too quickly from Nico's glance. Nico studied him for a moment, waiting to see what he did next. The man ordered himself another drink, and continued the conversation with his companions.

Nico breathed again, trying to relax. The fellow had likely been staring at Serese, nothing else. I'm seeing phantoms, he told himself. This foul city is getting to me. I wish we could leave now and never return to it.

Baracha sat back and exhaled loudly enough to show his displeasure. 'We should take it as a compliment,' he consoled. 'They show us a great deal of respect.' But it was no answer to their problems, and Baracha was clearly troubled as he smoothed the long sweep of his beard.

For the length of their conversation, Ash had been sitting quietly with his gaze lost in his drink and the hand of his wounded arm resting in his lap. As the silence lengthened, he raised his glass of wine with his good arm, took a sip, and set the glass back down.

'We are all forgetting the obvious,' he said unexpectedly, without looking up.

Baracha folded his arms and sighed. 'And what is that, oh wise one?'

'They are expecting stealth. Not attack.'

Aleas stared, eyes wide. 'Storm the gates, you mean?'

Ash nodded, faint humour pulling at the corners of his mouth.

'A wonderful thought,' said Baracha, 'except of course that it would need an army.'

Ash studied each of their expressions in turn. He took another sip of the wine, set the empty cup back on the table with a thump of decision.

'Then, my troubled friends, we must find ourselves an army.'

*

It was bright outside, the sun shining in a rare clear sky. It was not a particularly complimentary light however, for it merely showed up the city's drab, lacklustre character even more clearly than usual. As it filtered its way down into the canyon-like streets Nico watched as it transformed itself into something thin and muted instead.

'Meaning no offence here,' Aleas said, 'but I fear Master Ash might have lost his wits at last.' He was standing outside the taverna, along with Nico and Serese, as their two masters discussed something beyond earshot.

'I suspect he had few to begin with,' replied Nico drily. 'Do you think they will really go through with this? Truly?'

Aleas considered this question while he studied his master. 'They're both of the same cut,' he said, with a curt nod. 'Now that one has suggested it, the other will feel that he cannot back down. They will do this, even if they risk all in the trying.'

It was enough to set Nico's stomach afloat. He looked up at the distant heights of the Temple of Whispers, visible even from here in the eastern docks. He could not believe they were truly considering an attack on such a stronghold. Surely it was just talk, despite what Aleas might think. Their plans would amount to nothing in the end, and they would be forced to leave the city without finishing their vendetta. It wouldn't be the first time, or so he had heard.

But Nico understood Ash only too well now, and knew himself to be cradling a false hope. He turned away from the sight of the tower, tried to turn his thoughts to other things.

Serese studied him carefully. 'How are you this morning?' she asked.

'A little tired,' he confessed. 'I didn't sleep well. I think I will be glad to leave this place.'

'You do not like it here.'

'No, I don't. There are too many people and too few places to be alone.'

Aleas slapped his shoulder. 'Spoken like a true farmer.'

'When, in all the world, did I ever claim to be a farmer?'

'You didn't. It's the smell, mostly.'

Nico was in no mood for their usual banter, and would have said something short-tempered in return if he had not seen Baracha departing just then. The Alhazii jerked his head at Aleas and his daughter, beckoning them to follow.

Aleas nodded goodbye to Nico. 'Stay safe,' said Serese as they hurried to catch up.

Ash approached, his head bowed in thought.

'I must make some inquiries,' he informed Nico. 'Come.'

'Wait a moment.'

Ash turned back, impatient.

'This thing you're proposing – to attack the tower, I mean. It sounds like madness to me.'

The farlander's dark skin looked thinner in the afternoon sunlight. He had lost a good deal of blood the night before. 'I know,' he said, and his voice sounded tired. 'But not concern yourself with it. I made a promise to your mother to keep you safe, remember?'

'I think my mother's notion of safety and your own are two different things entirely.'

Ash nodded. 'Still, I mean to keep my promise. When we breach the tower, you will not come with me. It is too dangerous. You are hardly experienced enough for such a venture. I agree, Nico, there is a touch of madness to this plan, but I fear that a little madness is necessary if we are to see through our vendetta. When we are inside, you will stay with Serese and help us to escape the immediate area if we make it back out.'

'It isn't only myself that I'm concerned about.'

A little colour returned to the old man's face. 'I understand. But this is our business, Nico. These are the risks we must take.' He cast further debate aside with a shrug.

'Enough talk. Come.'

*

The house was on a street of many houses, all of them empty shells of former dwellings, their windows smashed or boarded up, their interiors strewn with wreckage, a few burnt black and gutted. Only the house itself was still lived in, neighboured on each side by a derelict in a terraced row of derelicts. Even then it looked barely more habitable than the rest of them. Its windows were grimy with soot and blanked from within by dark curtains. Paint that may once have been an optimistic yellow hung peeling from the brick walls. A weather-vane – depicting a naked man holding a bolt of lightning – dangled from the guttering of the roof and swung, creaking, in the soft breeze.

Nico stared up, feeling exposed beneath this swinging vane that looked as though it might topple at any moment, though probably it had hung loose like that for months before now, years even. Through the front door, the heavy knocking of the clapper still echoed within as Ash lowered his hand and stepped back to wait.

Behind them, the fringes of what was once an expansive block of buildings lay in collapsed ruins, destroyed by fire long ago. A great midden heap rose from the ruins to block out much of the sky. Rats worked across its flanks without shyness, scampering through scraps of rubbish that flapped like hands waving for help. The stench of rot was overwhelming. It was so prevalent that even the odd gust of wind could not shift it, but instead stirred it around in sudden, unexpected concoctions that made the throat gag and the eyes water.

Nico tried not to breathe as he turned back to face the heavily scratched wooden door of the house they were visiting. By his side, Ash hummed something under his breath. It didn't sound like music to Nico's ears; more a series of words spoken without actually opening the mouth.

'The art of melody was never discovered by your people then?'

The humming stopped, as Ash stared at him. The old farlander was about to speak when they heard from within a chair crashing over, or something equally as heavy. Someone swore. A chain rattled, then a bolt was withdrawn, and another. The door scraped against the floor as it was tugged inwards.

'Yes?' The woman was short, stooping almost to the waist. She clutched a lantern in one hand, a stick in the other to support her weight, as she craned her neck to squint upwards at the two strangers standing before her. Nico blinked down at her filthy face; her hair so scraggy it resembled fur; a moustache better developed than any he might have grown for himself.

'We are here to see Gamorrel,' said Ash. 'Tell him it is the far-lander.'

'What?' she said.

Ash sighed. He leaned closer to her ear.

'Your husband,' he said more loudly. 'Tell him an old farlander wishes to see him.'

'I'm not deaf,' she said. 'Come in. Come in.'

Inside, the house was much the same as on the outside. They followed the old woman as she shuffled slowly along the hallway, Nico and Ash stepping side by side as though in a processional march into the heart of some hidden temple – though a temple whose walls were built from brick coated with flaking plaster, and adorned with pictures hanging in frames too dim to see in the stuttering light of the lantern – held by the woman at the height of their waists – and a wooden floor illuminated before them, deeply coated in white dust and with grit that scratched the soles of their boots. Around them the air was filled with unholy stench, like cabbage boiled solidly for a day and a night. A rat scurried past their feet; others wormed along the edges of the hallway.

They ascended stairs that creaked beneath their weight in a manner suggestive of imminent collapse. They could only take one stair at a time, waiting for the woman to move on before taking another. Nico and Ash glanced at one another, saying nothing. Then another door: a sigil painted in red paint, or blood, depicting a seven-pointed star.

They entered a parlour: a room lit by a few smoky lanterns sitting on a table already covered with figurines, charms, stone mortars and pestles, knives, pins, other items unknowable. Sheets of cloth sagged across the ceiling, like the roof of a tent. Beneath them, on a chair positioned near the curtained window, sat an old man in a waistcoat with his hands resting upon his stomach, his eyes closed, snoring loudly. His lap was filled with a mound of rats, who lay there with tails entwined and watched the newcomers enter.

The man stirred at the sound of the door closing behind Nico and Ash. A lock of lank, black hair fell across his face and he scratched himself, then continued to snore.

'Gamorrel,' Ash said loudly, as he nudged the old fellow's foot, scattering the rats from his lap in the process.

The man did not jerk awake but instead opened the lids of a single eye just wide enough to peer out through them, as though to spy the lie of the land before emerging any further from the safety of sleep. At the sight of Ash his face twitched. He roused himself.

'I might have known,' emerged his time roughened voice. 'Only a Rshun would dare awaken a sleeping sharti.'

'Up. We have business to discuss.'

'Oh? What kind of business?'

A leather coin-purse dropped into his lap, the weight of it enough to jerk him upright. A grin stretched across his whiskered face, revealing teeth as brown as ale.

'Interesting,' he crooned, and rose smoothly without effort. 'Please, step into my chamber.' And he led just Ash into another room, and closed the door firmly behind them.

'Have a seat,' said the old woman, guiding Nico to one of the chairs by the window. 'Chee, yes? Some chee?'

Nico smiled and shook his head. He thought of the rats scurrying over everything, the grime and filth of the whole place, the dirt embedded in the old woman's yellowed fingernails.

'Yes?' she insisted and, before he could say no, she had shuffled off into another room, the suddenly open door releasing a cloud of steam that carried in it the humid whiff of cabbage. He heard her shoo something out of the way, and then the clinking of cups.

A mechanical clock was ticking somewhere in the parlour, though he could not see it amid all the mess and clutter crowded about the walls. The chair was uncomfortable, as though he was sitting on gravel, so he rose, and brushed a scattering of rat droppings to the floor. He sat down again gingerly. He was about to place his hands on the armrests, but changed his mind and settled them in his lap instead.

The old woman emerged precariously bearing a tray with a pot of steaming chee and two cups of white porcelain. 'Let me help with that,' Nico said, as he rose and took the tray from her, carrying it back to set on a small side table. She smiled and settled herself with care in the chair opposite him, remaining stooped even as she sat, her hand still resting on her stick. She watched him clearly as he poured the chee.

'Thank you,' Nico said, with a tight smile, and sat back with his own cup – though he did not drink from it. The old woman nodded, still studying him deeply. He wondered what it was that she saw.

'Tell me,' she said. 'Do you dream much?'

He thought for a moment. 'A little too much, of late,' he confessed.

'Some dream more than others, you know. Some see more than others, too. I can tell that you are one of those. You are fortunate. My husband, he is the same.'

Nico stared down into the cup in his hands. The chee looked pleasant enough, and the porcelain was clean. He glanced up and smiled and then looked elsewhere, and saw the clock at last standing on a pedestal against the far wall, next to a coat-stand, where a single flap-coat hung alongside a black top hat. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, and the smell of the steam still pouring through the open doorway was starting to make him feel ill.

Nico forced himself to look at the old woman. She was the colour of burnt stove grease. He met her soapy eyes and saw something vulnerable within them, a sensitivity scarred by old wounds. He saw boredom too, in the guise of her present attentiveness.

She nodded as though he had just returned to her. 'That is why he is a sharti you know. My husband, he is very powerful in the old ways. Many people still come to him – the poor, the desperate. Many call on his services.'

'You are not Mannians, then?'

'Eh? Mannians? No boy. The Mannians would seize us for slaves, or worse, if they knew what we were. We practise the old ways here, the first ways. Heretics they call us. We and the poor are who they despise most of all.'

She paused to lift her cup from the table and drew it to her puckered lips. She slurped noisily, twice, then returned the cup to the table.

'You do not know what I speak of… the old ways?'

Nico considered the question. He thought of his mother making the sign of protection each time she saw a single pica bird, a habit she had infected even him with. He thought too of how she always left a burning candle on an open windowsill every night of the winter solstice.

'Perhaps.' He shrugged. 'These old ways, they are still practised elsewhere?'

'Oh, they are practised everywhere, but only in the shadows. In traditions long hidden from meaning. By those old enough to remember our lives before Mann, mm? Only in the High Pash will you find the old ways lived by all and still with meaning. And further a-reach than that even – in the Isles of Sky, even there. That is how they live forever, you know. When they die, they use the old knowledge to return them to life. Yes, these are the things the Mannians would have us forget.'

Nico listened to her words with a glaze of apparent interest fixed to his face. He fought the urge to scratch at his ankles, where he could feel the fleas leaping and biting. He glanced at the closed door and wondered how long Master Ash was going to be. What were they doing in there, for mercy's sake?

The woman inhaled and wobbled the top of the stick from side to side in her withered hand. 'You are a kind boy,' she said. 'You listen to an old woman when you would rather be anywhere but here. Now then, I believe they are finished with their business.'

Nico set the chee down the instant he heard the door being tugged open. He was on his feet even as Ash emerged, with the other man following behind.

'… closer to the time then,' Ash was saying.

The farlander glanced at the cup of chee sitting on the table and stopped to pick it up. He took a large gulp, then smiled at the old woman as he set down the empty cup. He jerked his head for Nico to follow as he strode to the stairs.

'Thank you for the chee,' Nico said quickly, and followed after him.

*

They caught a tram back to the district of the east docks, sitting in one of the seats at the back. For a time, Ash sat looking behind him through the rear window.

'You think we are being followed?'

Ash faced forwards once more. 'Hard to say,' he muttered. He did not seem very concerned.

The tram was clattering past a great square fronted on three sides by buildings of white marble, filled in its entirety with milling figures in red robes, thousands upon thousands of them.

'Pilgrims,' said Ash before his apprentice could ask.

'I had another question in mind,' Nico said, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the crowds. 'Back at that house, did you get what you went there for?'

'I hope so.'

'And you're not going to tell me any more than that?'

'Not yet, no.'

Nico exhaled in exasperation. 'This is a great way to teach your apprentice. Tell him as little as possible, even when he asks.'

'In the field, it is always best if you work things out for yourself.'

Nico snorted. 'A convenient theory, in that it saves you having to answer any questions.'

'There is that, too.'

A bump in the road shook the windows of the tram. Ash twisted to look behind again. Once he straightened, he sat stroking a thumb against a forefinger in contemplation.

A few moments later he stood up, grasping for the luggage rack overhead for balance. 'Go back and wait for me in our room. Stay inside until I return.'

Without waiting for a response, he moved to the open exit and hopped down into the street, walking off quickly even as the tram passed him by, oblivious to Nico's face pressed against the glass of the window.

Some time later the tram entered the district of the east docks, and Nico began to recognize where he was at last. He gazed out the window at the passing streets, their vague familiarity an equally vague comfort to him. On the pavement a girl strode past. He caught sight of her dark hair.

Nico jumped up, made his way to the exit, and stepped out.

'Serese!' he shouted, but the girl was too far away to hear him.

He lost sight of her on reaching the end of the next block. It had been her, he was sure of it. Nico kept walking in the same direction, looking one way and then the other. The streets were busy with late-afternoon traffic. Pedestrians hurried along the pavements, trams and carts trundled along the roadway. A nearby temple rang out the hour, two bells and then silence.

He headed along a street of identical buildings, the windows tall and standing open to the city air, leaking sounds of industry from within. He stopped at one of the ground-floor windows to chance a look inside. It looked like a workshop, though a massive one, spacious and dusty. Hundreds of people, mostly women and young children, sat on rows of mats on the floor and worked at simple repetitive tasks that made no immediate sense to his eyes. Other children swept loose debris from the floor and the few grown men sweated as they pushed handcarts filled with material along the aisles. Those sitting on the mats tossed finished items into the carts as they passed by, while others grabbed things out. A few supervisors stalked between the workers, shouting at one every so often. After a minute, Nico passed on, seeing no sign of Serese. He had clearly lost her.

For a moment he considered returning to the hostalio, but the mere thought of sitting there all on his own, dwelling on what he had done last night, was a depressing one. He might as well take a stroll, even if the city streets were barely more welcoming than his room.

He walked on into a prettier district, where trees lined the avenues and small plazas offered space for chee houses or fountains of clear running water, the mood of the area less hectic than the eastern docks. Still, Nico could feel in his blood how he did not belong in this city. It had little for him to relate to, little he could settle his eyes upon in welcome recognition. It was all so daunting to him, not simply the scale of the architecture but the manner of the people themselves.

At least in Bar-Khos strangers still spoke to strangers. Smiles appeared readily on the faces of shopkeepers; if there was a sudden fight or argument, others would always be quick to calm things down. As war-weary as Bar-Khos might be, or perhaps even because of that, there was still a spirit of community amongst its beleaguered populace, a sense of lives shared in a common purpose that transcended creed or religion or acquaintanceship. Here, though, there was something sour and self-contained about the people. It was as though they had been promised much in their lives – yes, and had gained it all too – and yet here they were, even more harried and discontented than before.

Perhaps what Nico needed most was to see something green and spacious as opposed to this endless oppressiveness of concrete and brick. On a whim, he stopped a boy in the street and asked him where the nearest park could be found, hoping the youth would not squint at him in confusion and say there were no such things.

But the boy gave him simple enough directions, a mere block away it turned out. As he turned a corner, Nico's eyes lit up, for there, directly ahead of him, was indeed a small green park surrounded by a black iron railing. He quickened his pace and hurried through a gateway, his shoes crunching on a pathway of gravel. He slowed, gradually, to take in the scenery. It was attractive in its own way, and largely empty, save for the occasional figure squatting in the bushes to relieve itself, and a few drunks lying sprawled in the overgrown grass as though someone had staked them out under the sun.

Nico chose a spot as far away from these park denizens as he could find, and sat himself down beneath a tall cicado tree. With his face to the weakening sun, he almost began to relax.

Eventually, Nico closed his eyes and imagined he was elsewhere. He imagined he was back home in Khos, sitting in the forested hills that rose up behind his mother's smallholding.

On days like this one, back home, he had often gone hiking with Boon by his side, the pack on his back holding a loaf of keesh freshly baked by his mother, also some cheese, a flask for water, his bird whistle, some hooks and twine. He would climb away from the mundane problems of his life, sweating and panting his way into the crisp air of the higher valleys, his mood lightening with every footstep as Boon ranged to one side or the other, sniffing for rabbits, mice, anything he might chase.

Sometimes, after Boon had calmed enough to lie down and be still, Nico would fish in the cold mountain pools, catching one small rainbow trout after another, fish which he would proudly bring back to his mother for supper. At other times, in a more contemplative mood, he would find a slab of ancient rock overlooking some deeper pool, and would fish with pebbles instead, tossing in a small stone so that it plopped gently into the water. He would watch it keenly as it sank beneath the surface. If he was lucky, a young trout would dart for the sinking pebble from some hiding place by the edge of the pool, only to dart away again when it realized it was not potential food. In this way Nico would fish not for the meat of the animals, but for the sight of them. He would spend hours at this, hours.

If it was still early enough, Nico would choose the nearest mountain and climb to the very top of it, regardless of how tired or hungry or footsore he became, wondering if his father had ever come this way when he had hunted for game, or on one of his own solitary hikes. Once he reached the summit he would collapse to the ground next to Boon, his breath ragged in his throat, his eyes absorbing the vast spread of the land below and the blue-green press of the sea beyond. Salt would lace this high air that he sipped. His skin would cool against the soft ruffle of the wind. He would feel at peace with the world, his life placed in a truer context, his problems petty, without meaning; nothing really mattered, he would realise, not his fears and insecurities and hopes and desires, shifting and transitory, only the permanence of the moment, this presence of being. He would look into Boon's soft eyes and realize that the dog already knew this state of mind, and he would envy him his simple existence.

'Hello, you.'

The voice was of the present, and Nico returned to it simply by opening his eyes. Colours returned to his vision slowly, so at first all he could see was a green silhouette framed against the sky, looming above him. He craned his neck and shaded his eyes.

Serese, her hands on hips, frowning.

'You're on my spot,' she announced before he could say a thing.

'What?' he asked, sitting up.

'You, you're on my spot,' she repeated, and Nico smiled it her, puzzled, and cast a look around at the drunks and the addicts scattered about the little park.

'I see. You come here a lot, do you?'

She sat down next to him, and nudged him aside to gain more room against the tree. He felt her heat against his own; it sent a physical shock reverberating up and down his spine.

'Our hostalio is nearby,' she explained. 'My father refused to let me stay in the squalor he and Aleas have been putting up with down at the docks, so he had us all move to better quarters. They have returned to our rooms to lie low and discuss plans. I can't think of anything more tedious. I thought I'd take a walk, find somewhere to sit in the sun.' She looked about her, wrinkling her nose. 'And, I am afraid, this is it.'

Serese took a brown roll-up from her pocket and struck a match to light its tip. The smell of hazii weed filled Nico's nostrils as she inhaled life into the stick and exhaled.

'Smoke?' she ventured, passing it over to him.

His mother had claimed hazii was bad for the lungs, worse even than tarweed. True enough, she herself often coughed fit for dying after a heavy night of smoking it. Nico almost waved her offer away, but then he thought, why not, and took it warily. He drew a trickle of smoke into his lungs. With a cough he passed it back to her.

'Am I interrupting something?' Serese asked at his silence, for Nico was still partly back in the hills of Khos.

'No. Only a few memories.'

'Well, in that case I'll leave you to them.' She stood up in one single graceful movement, like a big cat.

'Don't go on my account,' said Nico quickly.

She held out a hand. 'I'm only playing with you. If we're going to spend the afternoon together, I'd rather it wasn't here.'

Nico couldn't help but agree, so took her hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. 'Where do you suggest, then?' he asked, their hands still clasped.

She shrugged. 'Let's walk a while.'

She released his hand, and instead slid an arm through the crook of his own. The air was growing cooler as the sun dipped behind the surrounding buildings. On all sides, pedestrians hurried to and fro; and iron-collared slaves carrying heavy burdens balanced on their heads. They passed several restaurants with the scents of cooking wafting from their open doorways.

'Are you hungry?' asked Nico, though he himself did not feel any need to eat.

Serese shook her head, her dark hair rippling around her shoulders. 'I need some fresh air. Don't you like to just walk sometimes?'

'Of course,' he replied quickly.

She passed him the hazii stick again, and he took a deeper pull this time.

'You and Aleas,' she said, 'you seem to have become friends after all.'

'I suppose so. Not that Baracha… I mean, not that your father approves very much.'

'No, he wouldn't. You are Ash's apprentice.'

Nico looked at her with questions in his eyes.

She shrugged. 'Master Ash is the best the order has, and all know it. That is something that displeases my father, for he has always had a consuming desire to be only the best. He can't stand it when he's not. But you mustn't hold it against him. My mother told me of his childhood, about his father, who was fierce and overbearing, but also small, in his own mind. He put down his son at every chance he could, and showed him nothing but contempt, till the day that he died. It has shaped my father's spirit in some way, and he can do nothing to change it.'

Nico considered this, and tried to match it with the overbearing Alhazii that he had come to know.

They strolled past side-street cafes, the chatter of the patrons becoming loud and raucous. The shadows began to stretch further.

'My mother is like that, too, in a way,' he said after a time. 'Something in her past still shapes her now.'

'Her parents?'

'No. My father.'

Serese said something in return, but he didn't hear it. His steps faltering, he came to a stop.

Straight ahead of them something was spinning quickly to the ground. As it landed, he squinted down at it.

A cicado seed, its fresh greenness contrasting with the dull greyness of the cobbles. Around it, all across the street, fallen leaves lay trodden and torn, and amongst them were similar winged seeds, though smaller than he was used to, not as large as they should be. Nico looked up, his eye travelling past floor after floor of the building they were walking alongside. Over the edge of its lofty roof hung the branches of a tree.

Serese followed his gaze. 'A roof garden,' she explained. 'The wealthy like to keep them.' Her lips pursed briefly. 'Come on,' she said as she ducked into an alley running to one side of the same building.

With Nico following her, Serese stopped beneath a ladder fixed to the brickwork over their heads: a fire escape running beside a window on each floor all the way to the top. He realized what she was thinking.

He felt distinctly light-headed as he gave her a boost up on to his shoulders; himself grinning, wobbling under her weight, as she flexed her knees and made a leap and a grab for the lowest rung of the wooden ladder. She hauled herself suddenly upwards, and Nico admired her lithe figure as she tugged on the latch securing it.

The sliding ladder clattered down, with her aboard, and came to a stop right beside him.

'What are you gaping at?' she breathed.

*

It was a small roof garden, though beautifully arranged. A careful hand had allowed it to grow naturally, without appearing overly wild. Around its edges stood undersized trees in clay pots, and bushy shrubs in troughs of soil covered in wood chippings; wild grass grew over most of the space between, dotted with blue and yellow flowers. At the very centre were a small fountain and water course constructed from smooth but irregular stones to give the appearance of a miniature mountain stream.

The artful combinations of growth screened off the surrounding buildings, giving Nico and Serese the impression of standing anywhere but in the midst of the largest city in the world. A shack with a doorway stood at the rear of the flat roof, obviously leading to some internal stairs. It was locked, when Serese tried it, which was only to her satisfaction. Together they sat on a bench beside the flowing water, both appreciating the secret garden in silence. From here the constant buzz of the city could only dimly be heard.

Serese lit another hazii stick, blew smoke into the fading light.

'You did well,' she said 'Last night, I mean.'

It was the one subject neither had yet mentioned.

'You think so? I was so gripped by fear I was numb with it.'

'So? You were hardly the only one. But you did what you had to do. You showed courage.'

Nico looked long and hard at the girl by his side eyeing her properly, without shyness or agenda. At once he noticed something else behind the mask of spark and beauty. Serese was on edge, and badly in need of company.

She took another deep puff of the stick, then passed it to him.

'Courage?' Nico repeated, as though trying out the word for the first time. For an instant the face of the one he had slain rose before him; the man's determined glare even as Nico stabbed him, changing first to wonder and then, by degrees, to a terrible awareness of everything lost to him. 'No, it wasn't courage that prompted me to stick my blade into that man's belly last night. It was fear. I didn't want to die there. I didn't want him to kill me. So I killed him first.'

He felt surprised at how he could speak so plainly about his deepest feelings. He wondered if something had changed in him, if he had grown a little older since last night. Perhaps it was simply the liberating effects of the hazii smoke.

'It's funny,' he said, still thinking out aloud. 'Since leaving Khos, I've come to realize a few things. My father for instance. He was the bravest man that I knew, though at the time I hardly understood it. I think, deep down, I always feared that he was a coward after all – for running away from everything like he did. I had such notions, when I was younger, of bravery, courage under fire and all that. The stuff of stories, of course. But now I've caught a glimpse of what my father must have gone through every day there under the walls. I wonder now how he was able to live that way for so long, to rise each morning knowing what faced him. I can see now why he chose a different life, away from it all, wherever that may be. I only wish I possessed half his strength.'

Nico looked again at the hazii stick in his hand: all but forgotten, it had gone out. He passed it back to her, his head swimming. 'Courage isn't something I know much about, Serese – not when it comes down to it. Whenever there's trouble, mostly all I feel is frightened.'

Serese relit the roll-up, sat with a fist supporting her chin.

'I understand,' she said quietly, exhaling. 'Last night was my first time, too. I don't think I'm taking it very well either.'

Her eyes seemed suddenly wary. A passing shadow drew their attention to the sky. They both looked up in time to catch sight of a passing flyer, its black bat-like wing carrying it upwards on the thermals above the city. Serese shivered.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes,' she assured him, though her voice betrayed her.

Take her mind off these things, his mind suggested.

'Tell me something about yourself, Serese.'

'What would you like to know?'

'I'm not sure. Your mother – tell me of her.'

It was a mistake, that question. He saw it instantly in her eyes.

All the same, she tried to answer him. 'My mother passed away some years ago. That's how I met my father; it was only after she fell ill. He came to us in Minos, and when she had gone he took me back to Cheem. I stayed there until I was sixteen, up in the mountains among all those men training to kill.'

'You never thought of following in your father's footsteps?'

'Me a Rshun? No, I would hate such a life.'

'How did you come here then?'

She smiled, though it was a twisted smile without humour. 'I went a little crazy with the boredom of it all. Twice I tried to run away. Once, I fell in love and caused a great commotion. Then old Osh suggested I move to Q'os. The agent here had begun to lose her health, and needed someone to help her. I snatched up the chance. Mistress Sar passed away ealier this year, from the coughing sickness. I agreed to stay on here until they could find someone else to replace her.'

Serese looked at the roll-up in her fingers, lifeless once more. She cast it away from her. 'And you, my inquisitor, how did you end up here, mixed up in all of this?'

'Lately, I've been wondering that myself.'

'You sound as though you regret it.'

Nico stood up and wandered over to the running fountain, feigning to study its miniature relief close up. In truth, he saw nothing.

'I didn't mean to pry,' she said to his back, reading something in his posture. 'I've just smoked too much weed.' She hesitated, seeking a better explanation. 'You have a way about you, Nico. It draws out words.'

The fountain really did look like a miniature mountain pool. Nico almost expected to see miniature trout swimming around beneath its surface. 'You're right, though, I do have regrets. Since last night I've been wishing I'd never left Bar-Khos. I know now that this,' and he looked about him, without focus, 'this is hardly any way to live. As a killer in the making. You know, I'd almost forgotten what I was learning to be, back at the monastery. I was so occupied with doing well. Today though, it stares me right in the face.'

Serese joined him, by his side. He could see her reflection in the water.

Nico wiped a hand across his face, exhaled into his palm. 'Perhaps I'll be fine once we leave this city,' he said, looking at her, forcing lightness into his tone. 'Tell me. Will you stay here in Q'os, after this is done?'

'No,' she responded. 'I'll have to move on, for my own safety.'

'Where will you go?'

'I was thinking, with the money I've saved… I think I'll travel for a while, and see Mercia again while it's still free. It's been some years since I left the islands and I hear it's safe enough for a woman to travel alone.' Her voice held a smile in it now. 'And I'll relax, and take life as it comes, and carry only those things that will fit into my pack. Simple and carefree. That sounds like a fine plan to me, just now.'

'It does,' agreed Nico, and in his voice there was a tone of longing that surprised even himself. Yes, it sounded a wondrous thing to do, to hitch a pack and travel across the islands of the Free Ports.

For a moment he enjoyed a fantasy of undertaking such a venture with this girl as his companion, living each fresh day without fear or threat to his life. He glowed with inner warmth at the thought of it, as unreal as it might be.

'Then come with me,' she said, a grin on her face. He turned to her, without expression. 'We would be good travelling companions,' she went on, still playing with him. 'I can tell.'

'We barely know each other.'

'But we get along, don't we? You can tell these things in the first moment of meeting someone.'

'Please,' he said, 'enough.'

'Oh, you don't like the sound of it.' And she pulled a face.

'I think, right now, I would give anything to be able to do just that.'

The smile left her eyes. Nico felt the touch of her hand on his arm.

'Then what keeps you here? You are an apprentice, not a slave.'

'Because I owe Master Ash a great deal, that's why. We have… an arrangement, and I will not break it.'

'You think he would not release you, if he knew your true wishes?'

'I don't know what he would do,' replied Nico. 'He would feel wronged, at the very least.'

'Nico…' She sighed. 'Ash is a good man. You underestimate him. I have watched him when he and you are together. He cares for you.'

Nico stiffened, loosing her hand from his arm. 'I doubt that. He tolerates me, yes. Mostly though he avoids my company when he can.'

Softly, she said, 'For one so canny, you have something of a blind spot.'

He did not understand what she meant by that.

'It's his way to be reserved. Even those who have known him for a long time he keeps at arm's length. He has suffered much, Nico. All the old farlanders have. I think, even though he would deny it, he fears the pain of further loss in his life.'

Nico did not respond, and the sound of the splashing water filled the little garden instead. It had grown cool, meanwhile, so that he shivered, and realized that a dampness had taken to the air. Already, he could see hints of his own breath clouding before his eyes.

'It's getting cold,' he said.

'A fog comes,' she replied.

'Fog? Now? This place has some strange weather.'

'It's from the mountains on the mainland. We'd better head back if we do not wish to freeze.'

Nico took one last lingering look at the roof garden, and then he turned his back on it, forcing a smile on to his face. He said: 'Master Ash has a story about freezing. I will tell you it on our way back.'

*

The room offered a bleak welcome when he at last returned to the hostalio. It had taken his last remaining coin to open the door, and Nico fumbled in darkness within the washbasin for any remaining quarters that might still be lying at the bottom of it. He found one, fortunately, and used it to turn on the gas lamp. He then settled down on the top bunk with the thin blanket wrapped about him, thinking of the past few hours while his body slowly warmed itself.

Ash returned in the evening, seeming even more weary than before. The old man bumped against the washbasin as though he did not even see it.

Another headache, thought Nico.

Ash merely grunted at him as he lay himself upon the lower bunk. Nico wondered what he had been doing all day, and considered asking him outright, but Ash would most likely tell him to be quiet. Besides, he had other, more urgent, questions to press upon him.

'It is a cold night,' the old man said at last.

'Freezing.'

'Have you eaten yet?'

Nico realized he had not. 'No, but I'm not hungry. This place robs me of any desire for food.'

With care the old man raised himself from the bed. He rifled through his pack and pulled out some oatcake wrapped in wax paper.

'Master Ash…' Nico began, and waited for the old man to face him.

Ash offered him the oatcake. 'Eat,' he commanded, though Nico only shook his head.

'Master Ash, I wish to ask you something.'

'Then ask it.'

Nico took a deep breath, gathering his courage. 'I've been wondering. I'm not so certain I'm cut out for this – to be Rshun.'

Ash blinked, as though he was having trouble focusing. He tore off the wrapping and bit off a chunk of the oatcake himself, still not taking his eyes from Nico.

In a torrent, the words tumbled from Nico's lips. 'I don't know if I have it in me. This work… it's worse than I expected it to be. And last night…' He shook his head. 'To fight as a soldier, to defend my homeland, perhaps that's one thing, but I'm not so certain of this.'

'Nico,' said the old man gently, his cheek stuffed with oatcake, 'if you do not wish to be my apprentice any longer, then tell me so, and I will settle things with you now so you may go home.'

Nico jerked upright. 'But what of our bargain?'

'You have seen it through as best you could. You have worked hard, and faced danger. Simply say the word. I will take you to the docks right now and find you a berth on a ship. You can stay onboard tonight, and by morning you can be sailing away from here. I will not hold it against you. I would do the same myself, if I could.'

Serese had been right, he realized. This was a good man.

Ash wrapped up the rest of the cake and turned away, fumbling to stow it back in his pack.

'Do you wish to leave?' came the old man's words, absently, his back still to Nico.

Nico gazed down at the farlander. The old man seemed almost frail tonight in his weariness. The way he stood, slightly slumped over the pack, not moving, not even breathing it seemed, as he waited for a reply.

Ash's question hung in the air gathering in volume, creating a distance between them; they were strangers to each other in that moment, separated by diverging paths.

It came to Nico in a flash. You're dying.

He blinked at the old man, reflecting on the headaches, the constant use of the dulce leaves, the urge to take on an apprentice. Ash was ill, and knew it was only going to get worse for him.

It was suddenly too much for Nico. He thought: I will never be able to live with myself, not for a second, if I leave this sick old farlander here, in this awful place, alone.

'No master,' he heard himself say. 'I think this city is just getting to me, that's all.'

Ash remained a moment with his back turned to him, his shoulders swelling as he took a fresh breath.

When he turned around, the distance between them vanished; once again they were returned to their familiar roles of master and apprentice.

'You should get some sleep,' suggested Ash. 'It will be a long day tomorrow. We can speak more in the morning, if you wish.'

Nico lay down, his head propped on one arm. Ash assumed his meditation position on the floor. There he breathed silently, his eyes fixed on a particular spot on the door.

Nico gazed at the ceiling, not more than two feet above his head. He studied the cracks in the plaster, the warm light flickering against them, the dark patches where damp had taken hold. He listened to the occasional clatter of coins as they tumbled within the walls, deposited in the floors above, and finding their long way down the collection chutes to some secure vault in the hostalio basement far below.

He wondered how long the old man had left to him. It must be a disease of some kind, something terminal.

Nico would stay with him, despite his own doubts. Even though he knew this was really, a decision based on loyalty and compassion, rather than any real desire to remain.

When he fell asleep a short time later, he dreamed of burying the old man next to the grave he had made for Boon. Serese was there, too. She spoke some words over the grave. Nico himself was silent: in place of a speech he lay the old man's sword against the packed earth. When they turned and walked away from the site, he felt a mixture of sadness and relief. It was as though with every step the heaviness in his stomach lightened.

He and Serese carried packs on their backs. For an eternal time after that, Nico dreamed that they were travelling together, carefree and in love.