Farlander

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Consequences There was no way out.

All the ports had been closed following the death of Matriarch Sasheen's only son. Checkpoints were set up on the city's main thoroughfares and in many of the lesser side streets. The city guards compared the faces of passersby with sketches they held in their hands. People gossiped that Rshun had come to the city – one of them a farlander – and killed the boy priest, and were still here amongst them. Some said it had been an act of revenge for the young Rshun burned to death in the Shay Madi. Patrols roamed everywhere. At night a curfew was enforced under penalty of execution. Squads of soldiers, led by grim-faced Regulators, crashed into hostalio rooms, or illegally open tavernas, brothels, private apartments, demanding answers by force, dragging away suspects, searching always for someone.

As though that wasn't enough to disturb the regular life of the city, speculation on the imminent military campaign began to pass freely amongst its populace. Soldiers had been flooding into the city for weeks now. Sprawling encampments had grown up on the northern and western edges of the city, along with shanty towns of hangers-on – pedlars, prostitutes, craftsmen, vagabonds – all massed on their outskirts. In the First Harbour a vast fleet was gathering. It was larger than anything seen in living memory: men-of-war in the main, but sloops and transports too.

Some said these were going to Lagos to replace the Sixth Army there, but they were considered fools and quickly shouted down as such – for all knew that only a token garrison would be needed on the island now. Lagos was a name spoken only in a hush these days. In the aftermath of its failed insurrection, it had been laid to waste at the personal command of Matriarch Sashseen herself. The stories that came from the island told of desolate killing fields without sign of life, dotted occasionally by mountainous funeral pyres where once towns and villages had stood – for every man, woman and child of the island had been put to the torch. New settlers from the Empire's crowded cities were being offered parcels of land there. They were emigrating in their thousands.

Wiser heads considered Cheem a more likely target for the forthcoming invasion. Perhaps the Matriarch had finally grown tired of her trading fleets falling prey to the inhabitants' piracy. A less likely option was the Free Ports, though that would be a risky undertaking, since their navy remained the finest in the world; it must be, for even outnumbered, it had held off the predations of the Empire for over ten years.

Perhaps, then, they were to attack Zanzahar, offered the obligatory jokers in such conversations. They joked about that because it would be the greatest folly of all.

Q'os was a city astir then with uncertainty and speculation, and while it may have been safe enough for those who claimed it as their home, its streets were treacherous for those who could not. Baracha, with his apprentice and daughter, and a still unconscious Ash, knew well that they were being hunted by their enemies. It was vital that they left, and sooner rather than later.

But the ports were closed.

With no other options available, they sought out a place to hide. They planned to wait for shipping traffic to begin again, a matter of weeks at most they believed. After all, the city relied on sea commerce for its survival. It couldn't choke its trade for long.

They found a deserted warehouse not far from the cove where they had cremated Nico's body. The wooden structure had been partly cremated itself in an old fire that had destroyed most of its north and west sides. But the parts of it to seaward were still roofed and, in amongst the blackened ruins, they found some corner offices that remained relatively intact.

It was there they holed up and waited, and looked after Ash as best they could.

The old Rshun was lost in some form of unconsciousness. His breathing was shallow but regular and he uttered no sounds, and did not ever move. Occasionally his eyelids flickered as though he dreamed.

Most days, Baracha sat within the warehouse staring through one of its gaping windows out to sea. When not doing this, he paced about the confined space of the inner office, swearing under his breath at the loss of his hand. Whatever pain he suffered, immense as it must have been, he covered up in his own Alhazii way. The stump, at least, appeared to be healing well.

He rarely even looked at Ash, lying lifeless and gaunt on his pallet. Instead he seemed to entirely avoid the old man in his present state of weakness, seemed somehow appalled by it.

'I hope I never fall ill when it's only you to look after me,' admonished Serese one morning, noticing his lack of concern, the old Rshun lying on one side of the room, Baracha sitting by the window on the other. She was dripping water into Ash's mouth from a sodden rag, so she did not see her father turn and regard her with eyes hooded by a frown.

Perhaps she had been too young at the time, Baracha reflected, to remember how her own mother had lain like this, unconscious for a week, before she had passed away.

And perhaps, said an echo in his mind, she remembers it only too well, and is simply stronger than you.

And Baracha recoginzed it for truth, and felt lessened by the realization, and looked away.

The days turned into weeks. They were restless and tense and suffering from grief, all of them, in their own way. They began to snap at each other. Often, they had to hush their sudden arguments for fear of betraying their presence. They wrangled over who was eating the most food, drinking the most water; they fought over who should empty out the bucket of slop at night, or keep watch for unexpected visitors, or cook, or wash up, or who should sleep where. They even argued over their daily card games of rash, using chores and food instead of coins to place bets, until at times they almost came to blows over these games, hurling accusations of cheating or collusion, everyone disgusted, the loser skulking off feeling sore.

It was in the middle of one of these heated debates, right at the very end of the second week, all three of them shouting red-faced at each other, when a voice sounded from the far corner of the room and asked them all to kindly shut up.

It was Ash, sitting up in his pallet, his eyes screwed in annoyance.

'Master Ash!' exclaimed Aleas.

'Yes,' replied Ash, as though agreeing that it was, indeed, he.

*

With the ports still closed and no ships allowed to leave, fewer captains were willing to approach to the island of Q'os with their cargos, and those that did sail into the harbour inevitably sold their goods at exorbitant rates.

As a consequence, food prices in the city rose to levels that only the wealthy could afford. By the fifteenth day of the self-imposed blockade, riots broke out over the desperate shortages of food. A warehouse district in the north was razed to the ground. Elsewhere fires raged throughout the city, and streets were barricaded. In Punishment Square a cavalry charge cut down two hundred people demanding bread: the majority of them hungry women and children.

The ports were reopened the next day.

*

The temple of the Sentiates was deserted today save for those who lived within its walls, for it had been shut down like all other entertainments in Q'os while the city properly mourned the loss of the Matriarch's son.

Che, for his part, did not consider Kirkus much of a loss. He knew the young man's form only too well. Kirkus had been a spoiled lout with delusions of greatness, wreaking havoc wherever he went while he waited for his mother to move aside and allow him to assume the throne. Who knew what monstrosities he might have unleashed on the world, had he ever attained the position of Holy Patriarch? If he had lived to achieve such a position, he would have been the first Patriarch born and raised for the role – all previous rulers having clawed their way to the top, and having clung there by tenacious fingertips for as long as they could. None yet had survived long enough to pass on the throne to any descendants. Such was the constant dogfight for the throne.

Che had been stunned by the news of the young man's death, on finally returning to Q'os – not by the death itself, but the success of the Rshun in achieving such a feat. Professionally, he could not help but admire them: a direct frontal assault on the Temple itself? He had marvelled at the sheer audacity of it upon hearing the reports. No one had foreseen it, certainly not Che himself. The imperial Diplomats were trained in more subtle methods; they did not plan in such direct terms.

Here at the Temple of Sentiates, Che's mother had been aghast at what she considered a tragedy for the Empire. In some odd way she considered herself to be personally involved in the affairs of the Temple of Whispers, especially when they involved the Matriarch herself. No doubt it was a result of the pillow talk she so often engaged in with priests from the Temple. Che knew that she attracted a higher class of customer than most.

'Your skin looks terrible today,' she admonished, as they sat by the fountain on the seventh floor of the Sentiate temple.

'Thank you for reminding me, mother.'

'You haven't been taking care of yourself. You look exhausted.'

He leaned his face away from the soft play of her fingers. 'I've been away,' he said, 'on a matter of diplomacy. It proved difficult.'

'Yet you have been back for days, for I have my sources. You should be well rested by now, surely?'

The air was cool here, freshened by the gentle cascades of the fountain. Che could see a reflection of himself upon the surface of the pool, but it was dim, shadowy, without detail. He trailed the tips of his fingers through the rippling water, scattering himself.

'I've not been sleeping well,' he confessed.

She studied her son more closely. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, and refused to meet it.

'Something troubles you?'

Che looked up. On the other side of the chamber a group of eunuchs sat gossiping amongst themselves. He could barely hear their words over the splashing of the fountain, but he still lowered his own voice as he spoke.

'Mother…' he began, and paused, struggling with the words he wished to say. 'Have you ever thought of leaving this place?'

'Leave the temple?' She blinked in surprise.

'Q'os, mother, and the order of Mann. Have you never thought, perhaps, that we might leave it all behind and make a life for ourselves that is of our own choosing?'

She glanced quickly towards the eunuchs. 'Have you lost your mind?' she hissed, leaning closer. 'Leave the order? What would possess you to say such a thing? Why would I wish to leave my home, my friends?'

Che turned away from her eyes blazing with indignation. She composed herself.

'My son, whether you like it or not, this life suits me. I feel safe here. Whatever I desire, I may have. And in return, I can contribute in my own small way to the greater good of Mann. I'm needed here. I am considered of worth.'

'You are a whore,' he replied, before he could stop himself.

He felt the sting of her hand across his face. The eunuchs stopped their chatter to stare at them across the playing of the fountain.

'Mind your own,' Che warned them, and they looked away quickly.

'Mother,' he tried again, even more quietly. 'You're in danger here. Surely you must know that. You are the means by which they keep a leash on me.'

'Nonsense. I have made many friends over the years, Che – people in high positions. They know my loyalty to Mann. They would not allow any harm to visit me.' She paused, narrowing her eyes. 'But why? Do you plan something that may anger your superiors?'

Che saw the danger he was in then, and held his tongue.

He scooped a handful of water over his face. It helped revive him, though the liquid tasted oddly sour against his lips.

'I'm merely tense,' he said at last. 'Perhaps I need to find a more peaceful line of work.'

He stood up, his chin still dripping water. 'I must leave you now.'

All trace of suspicion fell from his mother's features. 'So soon? You have only just arrived!'

Che nodded. For an instant he wanted to reach down to her and rest a hand against her face – to touch, connect, feel close to this woman who remained a stranger to him, even now. But he knew she would find that gesture strange, and that it would only betray him further.

'I shall see you soon, mother. Take care.'

*

The voice reeked of spices today. It was not the same high-pitched, whining voice that had spoken to Che just before he departed for Cheem, nor the brusque baritone one he had delivered his report to upon his return. This was a female voice, the one he heard least frequently of all.

Even so, he did not like this voice. He did not like any of them, but especially not this one. Che was always unsettled when he heard it come drifting through the wooden panel facing him in the wall of the shadowy alcove – muffled as it was, it sounded dark and ancient, like death.

'I have a new assignment for you,' it said to him now.

'I'd assumed as much.'

A wheeze, dry as tinder. 'You forget yourself, Diplomat. Restrain that arrogance, or I shall see it clipped from you.'

She mistakes my resentment for arrogance, thought Che. How typical of these people.

Che composed himself, enough at least to mutter an apology.

'Very well,' she said. 'Now, your assignment. The Holy Matriarch will be leaving Q'os soon. She will require a Diplomat to accompany her on her forthcoming campaign, as is our custom. In case, as it were, some diplomacy is required within the army itself.'

In other words, Che mused, in case one of the generals refuses his orders or tries to seize power for himself. Che was to serve as the Matriarch's bully boy, then – the threat that would keep everyone in line while in the field.

'The invasion, it goes ahead then?'

'Of course it does. The Matriarch has been politically weakened by the death of her son. A military victory in the field would do much to reinforce her position.'

'What do you need of me?'

'Ah, I sometimes forget how your instructors teach you on a need-to-know basis. Perhaps it is my age, and my faculties fading.' Again that wheezing sound. Che suddenly realized that it was a chuckle. 'I shall explain to you then. You see, we have a tradition in our order, a tradition which stems back to our earliest days of empire. When a Patriarch or Matriarch takes to the field, they in turn take with them a chosen Diplomat.'

'Why me?' he asked bluntly.

'You have never asked such a question before,' murmured the voice.

Che held his tongue. It was starting to disturb him, these things emerging from his mouth before he knew of them. His facade was fracturing; though, worse than that, it seemed that he could not bring himself to stop it from happening.

'It is you,' said the voice, 'because most of your fellow Diplomats have already been despatched to Minos to begin our early negotiations – and also to reinforce the belief that Minos, not Khos, is our intended target. You, Che, are the best that remains behind.'

Perhaps that was even the truth of it. 'My orders?'

'Simple. Obey the Matriarch in all things.'

'That is all?'

'There is one more thing.'

He waited, knowing by now that his handlers liked to leave the most important aspect of his mission to the very last.

'Matriarch Sasheen takes a great personal risk in this venture,' continued the voice, then hesitated, as though bolstering its will to say what must be said next. 'If it becomes apparent that she is about to fall into the enemy's hands… or, likewise, if she decides that all is lost and tries to flee for home… then you, young Diplomat, must kill her.'

'Kill her?'

'Kill her.'

Che glanced over his shoulder, as though someone might be listening.

'Is this a test?'

'No, it is an order. We cannot risk a Holy Matriarch of Mann falling into the hands of the Mercians. Nor can we have her turn tail and run. The prestige of the Empire would suffer too greatly from either occurence. Either she is victorious or she is to die a martyr's death. Is this clear?'

His breath had caught in his throat. He wondered how many previous Diplomats, accompanying a Holy leader in the field, had been given the same instructions. Perhaps all of them, he realized – for never had one of their leaders fallen into enemy hands, or for that matter fled from a battle.

Suddenly, everything Che had ever understood about the Empire's structures of power – and who truly ruled it – shifted in a fundamental way.

'Yes, it's clear.'

'Good. Then be on your way, my child.'