Farlander (47 page)

For a moment he wanted to seize and shake her slender body in his grip, then slap her hard across the face, again and again, until she woke up to all of
this
– these lives that he and she were both living.

Instead, Ché cleared his throat. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Mm? Oh, I am well, thank you.’ She was seated in front of her mirror now, untangling her long golden curls with a fine-toothed comb carved from bone, her hair a luxury of her Sentiate calling. She paused to glance at his reflection. ‘Really, I am well. It has been a good season, what with the festival and all.’ As her comb encountered a stubborn knot, she held out a fist of blonde hair and tugged the comb lightly to tease it through. ‘In fact I am better than well – I feel wonderful, as though I was a young girl again. I have become the main object of desire for one of Sasheen’s high priests. Me! Can you believe it?’

‘Yes, I think I caught sight of his bare arse just now.’

‘Rainee? Oh no, my dear, oh no, the very thought of it. No, he is merely one of my regulars. Farando is of a different mould entirely. Alas he is indeed a little ugly, but he has strength, power, position, and he plies me with gifts and fine nights out in the city. I could not ask for more.

‘And you,’ she asked, twisting to face her son. ‘How are you?’

Ché was scratching at his elbow; not absently, but with a will. ‘I am fine,’ he said, and inside he thought:
She does not recall it is my
birthday
.

‘Your skin looks better today. Is the ointment working?’

Yes, she had given him another new ointment to try out, in the hope that it might soothe the scaly rashes that forever afflicted him. He shrugged – a measured, careful gesture, like all his movements.

‘If only I could remember what I used on you when you were young.’ She shook her head, exasperated. ‘It’s lost to me. Am I getting old, do you think? Mm?’ She studied her reflection in the mirror. ‘Has my face begun to turn away from the sun at last – along with my memory?’

‘You’re old enough for melodrama, I’ll give you that. I’m glad that you are well, mother, but I must leave you now.’

‘So soon?’

‘I’m being timed on this exercise. And I must find out what this is about.’

Ché climbed on to the windowsill, but turned back for a final remark. ‘Something is wrong in this,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

He was gone even as she opened her mouth to say farewell. ‘Oh,’ she said, instead.

She returned to her reflection, humming softly as she raked her golden curls, taking care not to notice the rhythm of a heaving bed resounding through the floor just above her head.

*

‘You counted coup as instructed?’

‘I did,’ replied Ché.

‘Excellent. Any collaterals?’

‘Two Acolytes. Their deaths were . . . necessary.’

‘Two? You could not have found some way around them?’

‘It would have taken more time. I chose the most direct course of action.’

‘You always do. It is the R
shun in you, I fear. Fine. And how, please tell me, was your mother?’

Ché drew back a fraction from the wooden panel facing him. He sat in an alcove within a shadowy chamber, somewhere within the intricate maze comprising the lower floors of the Temple of Whispers. The alcove itself was pannelled in darkly varnished teak. At its rear, at head level when sitting, was a small lattice-work screen, the vacant spaces in between dark with the mystery of who and what might lie behind. A cool and spicy draught wafted through the gaps, though the absence of sound suggested that the space beyond was small, and private.

‘My mother seems well enough,’ the replied flatly to the unseen inquirer.

‘I am pleased by that. She’s fine woman.’

The voice was pitched annoyingly high, making the speaker sound perpetually on the verge of hysteria. Ché knew of four different voices that would speak to him from this alcove – all four of them acting as his handler, though he had no idea who they might be. Neither, for that matter, had he any idea who his fellow assassins were, for they were all trained separately and so rarely allowed to meet.

Again Ché leaned closer to the panel as he waited for more.

‘Will you not question me, Ché, as to why you were sent there today?’

‘Would you tell me?’

A soft chuckle. ‘No, I would not. But I do know of someone who will, in her own, roundabout way. She would like to talk with you now, young Diplomat.’

‘Who do you speak of?’ he kept his voice steady, though his heart had skipped into a faster rhythm.

‘Report to the Storm Chamber immediately. She awaits you there.’

*

Ché rode in a noisy climbing box, flanked by two masked Acolytes gripping naked daggers; smeared in poison, he knew, for a scent of the stuff was evident in that confined space. The climbing box creaked and cranked alarmingly as its massive counterweight pulled it slowly towards the very peak of the steeple. When it stopped, with a lurch that caused all three of the men to wobble, the doors were pulled open by another guard already waiting on the other side.

The rooms at the top of the tower were large but windowless, and their footsteps echoed as they strode beneath high ceilings adorned with friezes of ornate plaster, depicting faces frozen in every conceivable emotion. The gleaming floors underfoot were of polished wood laid with the furs of exotic animals, their fierce heads still attached and snarling silently at the passers-by. The furniture, though sparse, was elaborately plush and stoutly crafted. The air was stuffy, the light dim.

Acolytes stood guard at the occasional closed door, through which voices could be heard, distant and muffled. Everywhere drifted smoke, carrying the reek of narcotics; it seemed to gather around the yellow orbs of the gaslights hanging along the panelled walls.

The Storm Chamber itself was approached by a broad flight of steps carved from pink-veined marble. On either side of each step stood an Acolyte with a naked blade held ceremonially across the crook of his left arm. Here Ché’s escorts came to a halt, motioning for him to continue alone. Ché did as instructed, and climbed.

Through their masks, he noticed the guards’ eyes were glazed as though drugged. They stood like statues, breathing so shallowly that even their chests failed to visibly rise. Boredom washed off them like heat.

At the very top of the steps, a huge embossed door of cast iron barred his progress. At that point, the female guard standing next to it turned and pounded it with a gauntleted fist. After a brief delay, the mighty door creaked and swung inwards. A torrent of sounds burst forth: the twittering of birds, the cascading of water, music and laughter. An old priest appeared at the threshold and bowed.

Ché entered, uncertain what to expect.

Windows ran from floor to ceiling for the entire circumference of the circular chamber. They sloped inwards as they rose, giving a clearer view of the sky. Right now they showed a wrapping of white clouds and showers of early autumn rain as it gusted against their transparency.

Ché squinted about, taking in every detail possible of the Storm Chamber with a single sweeping glance – just as he had been meticulously trained to do. In truth, he had been expecting something different from this; perhaps something darker, less inviting. More holy. Instead it was a warm and open space. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace in the very centre of the room, hooded by a metal chimney which ran up through the middle of the floor of a platform built above it; an upper storey, reached by steps, and enclosed by thin wooden walls. Retiring rooms he supposed; private areas of relaxation where the caged birds could still be heard.

In the cosy space around the hearth itself, plush leather armchairs were arranged so as to face towards an easel, on which was displayed a detailed map of the Empire. A group of priests slouched upon the armchairs, with their feet propped upon padded stools, drinking spirits, smoking hazii sticks, or just talking amongst themselves. Servants moved among them, bearing platters of fruits, and seafood, or else bowls of narcotics, and Ché knew their tongues would be missing and their eardrums punctured. As for the priests themselves, he recognized each and every one of them gathered around the fireplace.

Ché was a Diplomat, an imperial assassin. A great deal of his so-called negotiations involved powerful movers within the Empire itself. It was his business to get to know these people, for some day he might be ordered to kill any one of them.

They had the rank of general, mostly, so they kept their faces free of the usual ornate jewellery worn by priests of Mann. The exception was a single spiked cone of silver pierced through the left eyebrow in military fashion, as Ché himself wore. Their clothes, too, were the plain ceremonial robes of the Acolyte order, though there was nothing otherwise plain about these men.

He scanned each countenance in turn. There was Archgeneral Sparus, ‘the Little Eagle’, small and quiet and intense, not long returned from putting an end to the insurrection in Lagos and minus his left eye, which he had covered for good taste with a black patch. Then General Ricktus with his badly burnt face and hands, ugly to look at, and his black hair sprouting in patches above ears that were little more than ragged flaps. Beside him, General Romano, still young, boyish even, though the most dangerous man in this gathering, and the one most covetous of the throne itself. And, finally, General Alero, the old veteran of the Ghazni campaigns, who had gained the Empire more territory than anyone save for Archgeneral Mokabi himself – and had been damned for it, for stopping when he did.

All of these men were possible contenders for the throne, key players in that subtle yet deadly game of political manoeuvring that was the backdrop to all that occurred within the Empire. Each had their own factions at hand. In relative terms, the Empire of Mann was still young, and it had been proved that anyone could claw their way to the throne if they were determined enough to do so. The Matriarch herself stood as living testament to this fact.

Three other figures occupied the room. One was young Kirkus, the only son to the Matriarch. He slouched in a chair, his eyes hooded from intoxication, though becoming lively for some reason whenever they glared towards Romano. The second was the young man’s grandmother, mother to Sasheen herself, fast asleep in her chair or so it seemed. Around her sandaled feet padded a few scaly lizards wearing collars of gold chain. The last of them was Matriarch Sasheen herself, who stood before the map with a sparkling goblet in one hand, dressed in a long, green chiffon gown that hung loosely open from throat to ankles, save for the waist where it was cinched by a belt of the same material, and which showed her nakedness underneath. As she moved, flashes of soft belly, or pubic hair, or full swinging breasts caught the eye, drawing attention from her face, which was plain and without beauty; the dark eyes were a little too close together, the hooked nose too long, but still, there was something attractive about the woman. Perhaps it was the manner in which she flaunted herself, as though this world was all hers and she could do with it as she pleased. Or perhaps it was due to her smile, which she used often.

‘But can it be achieved before winter?’ she inquired of old Alero, as she studied the details of the map.

General Alero shrugged in his chair. ‘Only if we commit to it now and stop wrangling over the finer points.’ The aged veteran appraised the younger men around him, causing a pause in their discussions.

‘And you still maintain it can succeed?’

The general chose his next words with care, as one might pluck the exact coinage from a palm where precious few remained. ‘Yes, I believe so, though only with some good fortune. There are many things that could go wrong with the plan, and too little room to improvise. If it works, well, it will lead to a resounding and decisive victory. The Free Ports will be ours. If it fails . . .’ he shook his head ‘. . . it will be Coros all over again.’

The rain could be heard against the group’s overwhelming silence. Ché stood motionless. He saw, from the corner of his eye, bright birds swooping high across the room. A servant padded after them, dabbing up their droppings with a cloth.

‘I still say it is madness,’ broke in Sparus, the Little Eagle. Leather squeaked as men turned to face him. He drew a long breath from his hazii stick, letting them wait for him to continue.

‘Two separate naval actions against the Free Ports, not to mention the most important component, a sea invasion of Khos itself – and, by that time, with winter closing in fast. That’s presuming the land force even succeeds in reaching Khos intact, and that’s a huge gamble in itself, that our diversions will work, that the invasion fleet will avoid interception. Even then, if our land campaign falters in any way in the field, it will be mired helplessly until spring. The Mercians will have time to rally, while our First Expeditionary Force will be trapped with no way out. It would be
worse
than Coros.’ He looked straight at the Matriarch, his one eye glittering. ‘For I will say this. If the campaign fails, you will lose your throne along with it.’