Farlander (72 page)

Ash hauled out the crossbow he had taken from Aléas. Carefully, he slotted the two bolts he carried into its grooves. It was a short-range weapon, but the bolts were heavy. From this height that might suffice.

Ash took another sighting of Nico, then hoisted the crossbow and aimed it high. He inhaled deep into his belly, concentrating on the flow of air through his lungs. His body slowly relaxed.

A moment arrived, and it still seemed strange to him, even after all these years, that moment in which he no longer felt that he was breathing, but being
breathed.
Slowly he exhaled and he felt his finger tighten against the trigger.

The bolt shot out faster than sight could follow. Ash didn’t move from his posture, but stayed fixed like that as his eyes picked out the dark bolt falling in an arc towards the sand of the arena.

It struck the post just above Nico’s head. Ash blinked away sweat. It was gushing now from his scalp like blood from an open wound, carrying his tears away with it.

Flames licked around the boy’s feet. Smoke billowed about him. Nico was choking, and fighting to free himself.

Ash inhaled again. He lowered the crossbow by a fraction of an inch. Exhaled.

Released.

*

The more Nico struggled to breathe the more his lungs burned. He coughed and fought to break the chains that held him to the post. The smoke was making him light-headed; his bare soles flinched against the touch of flames. For a moment, he was back in Al-Khos, on the hot tiles of that roof, with Lena cajoling him from behind. It seemed as though his whole life revolved around that single mistake.

Nico would have done it all so differently, had he the choice.

He was close to his own death now. Strange how life seemed so vividly real near its end. Colours bled in tones he had never before noticed; even the tan sand was an infinite variation of light and shade, captivating his eyes. He could taste smells that went far beyond pleasant or unpleasant. He could hear individual voices in the great wash of the crowd; words even, tones of meaning. Why could it not always have been this way, so rich and vibrant? He could have sat for days on end and simply rejoiced in it all. Perhaps, he thought, this is what it is like, too, when we are born.

What a shame, then, to lose this brilliance of life until the very moment of our death. This was what the Daoists talked so much about, he realized. His master had certainly talked of it: the way the world stilled when you yourself became still, so that at last you could see it, sense it, capture it as it truly was. Real and infinitely uncoiling.

He heard something strike the wood above his head. Nico paid it no mind. Instead he looked down at his feet, and saw the pit of flames gathering force beneath him. A surge of heat billowed around him like scalding water. He was going to burn to death. He was going to be eaten alive by those flames.

Nico had heard a story once of the time the Mannians invaded the country of Nathal. A monk in the city of Maroot had sat in the street in front of the High Priest’s manor and doused himself in oil, and then set the oil alight, and burned himself alive without the merest flinch, in protest at the crimes the Mannians were still perpetrating against his people.

How had the man done that, Nico now wondered. How had he found such stillness?

The heat was engulfing him. He blinked, trying to see. It was too real, all of this. Part of him refused to believe it was happening. It was not the part of him that mattered, though – not the part that recoiled from the flames and choked on the smoke and the smell of cooking meat, and began to scream and struggle in animal panic.

Nico rolled his eyes, desperately seeking something to grip his mind upon. The Acolytes stood with their burning brands, their eyes behind their inhuman masks narrowing against the drifting smoke.

The pain rising from his feet was quickly edging towards agony, an agony that he knew he could not bear. The smoke obscured everything now.

Nico tilted his head back in an attempt to draw air. A blue sky, the clouds breaking to the east and etched by sunlight. Amongst them, between spaces in the smoke, a sudden dark motion. Something falling towards him.

He gazed at it, mesmerized by its spinning flight.

He was shocked by a sudden impact. Began to choke again on a sharp taste of blood. His vision faded into itself, fixed blurrily upon the sun or something else that burned just as brightly. Then, even that faded to nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY

His snoring woke her early that morning. The light was still grey in the crack between the curtains hanging over the one small window of the bedroom. The air of the room was still, and stank of sex. Reese lay there in the dimness, watching Los sleep: the thin creases on his cheek against the feather pillow, his boyish open pout as he breathed, his blond lashes. She considered waking him with a probing hand in his lap. Some love play to ease the tightness in her chest, the anxiety coursing in her blood. But she made no move.

Instead, Reese studied the beams of the ceiling, and tried to make sense of her dreams of her son until the room became infiltrated by the first warming tones of the sun. Then she rose in silence.

She opened the back door and let the cats into the kitchen, simply to fill the cottage with some life, and pretended annoyance as they curled around her bare ankles as she washed and prepared herself for the day ahead. Los had stopped snoring now that she was up and about. She picked up his discarded clothes, reeking of wine and fragrances and smoke, and went out to the yard and threw them in a wooden tub next to the big stone trough full of rainwater which she would use to wash them later.

Birds sang out their rich melodies above the dumb clucking of the chickens. From out of the east, the fan of daylight was spreading into the sky above the trees and the swathes of canegrass standing still in the breathless morning. Reese stood with one arm cocked and a fist on her hip, looking out over it all. She tried to think of nothing. She wished only to breathe in the soft clarity of the world as it rose from the memory of night, and with that clarity dispel the nameless sorrows that had come to her in the form of her dreaming. She felt tense, as though she would cry if only she would allow herself to.

Inside again, Reese busied herself with chores until she came to Nico’s room. She opened the rickety door with its pale scratches at waist height, and glanced about her on the floor of the empty room for something to pick up or straighten out or put away, until she stopped, and put a fist to her hip again, and wondered what she was doing.

I have become like Cole’s mother,
she thought in annoyance.
Banging my stick at the silent walls all night long, to scare away mice that no one else can hear or see any sign of.

Reese could not recall when she had last entered this room. She hadn’t felt sure what to do with it since Nico had run off to live in the city, whether to leave it be and allow herself the hope that he might some day return to her, if only for a short visit, or whether to face a harsher reality, one that Los had been keen to impose on her since Nico had departed with the farlander – and now her own dreams too, it seemed – that her only son was gone, and gone for good.

The room was bare beyond the mere absence of Nico’s belongings. It had never remained this clean and tidy when he had lived here, though he had, to his credit, been tidy enough. A few things of his still remained: his tin bird whistle on top of the windowsill, which he had lost long ago and she had found again after he had left; next to it some smooth, mottled pebbles from a streambed; his fishing rod and tackle propped in the corner, in their canvas wrapping. The bed was made as Nico himself had left it so long ago; the edges of the sheets tucked into the straw mattress, folded over the pillow.

Dust everywhere, though, she saw now as she looked long and proper.

Reese hurried out and filled a pail with water and vinegar and returned to her son’s room and began to wipe everything clean. She worked until her forehead was greasy with sweat and the sun had risen above the line of trees visible through the watery window glass. Occasionally the urge to cry welled up in her again, and she would work all the harder until it had passed, her knees aching as she washed the creaking boards of the floor, her back complaining as she stretched to reach the beams of the low ceiling. She left the sweeping until last; on lifting Nico’s few belongings to brush beneath them, she was sure to place them back precisely as they had been before.

At last Reese straightened up, wiping the damp curls away from her face with the back of her hand. She stood and scrutinized the polished surfaces until she was satisfied the room was properly clean.

The window faced her, now bright with sunlight.

Reese unlatched it and pushed open the frame, and stood back with her hands clasped together as though she was waiting for something to enter. A moment passed, and then a sudden breeze blew into the room, and Reese inhaled deep and long as the morning air caressed her face and filled her lungs from the bright world beyond.

‘My son,’ she whispered, as tears ran inexplicably down her face.

*

A body lay naked on the marble altar, its arms folded neatly on its chest. Its eyes were closed.

The corpse had been ritually cleansed by the grim, silent priests of the Mortarus, the secretive death cult of the Mannian order. For an hour they had carefully sponged the body with cloths bleached white by the bile of living sand eels – the same bile that had whitened their priestly robes, their stiff masks, the banners of Mann that hung on the high walls around them. In the silence of the Temple the bright cloths had been dipped into a bowl of blood-warm water, the ripples disturbing the fresh petals drifting around the brim, the cloths raised dripping into the air and throttled almost dry in fists. With a hiss of ritual words the priests had then drawn the cloths across the lifeless skin.

When this work was complete, and the priests of the Mortarus departed in a shuffling procession of chants and rustling robes, a scent of wild lotus lingered about the corpse, and the wound across its neck had been stitched, a black line barely noticeable beneath their skilful applications of paste and powder. They had been unable to do anything about the expression fixed to the corpse’s face though.

It was this that Sasheen was finding most difficult to bear.

‘What are your commands, Matriarch?’ came a soft voice from behind her.

The priest Heelas, Sasheen’s personal caretaker, stood a dozen feet from the altar with his head bowed. He kept his eyes fixed on the marble floor, as though unwilling to look at the kneeling form of his Matriarch, or at her mother perched on a wooden stool by her side.

Sasheen did not hear him, though the echoes of his voice lingered, finally whispering their way through her grief.

‘What?’ she said, in a distant voice.

‘You called for me, Matriarch.’

Sasheen wiped a hand across her eyes and, for a moment, her vision cleared. She took in the still form of her son as though for the first time, a mere husk now, empty and bereft of meaning. Only for a moment could she look into his face fixed in a strangled contortion of horror.

Something stirred within her. Her back could be seen to stiffen.

‘Stop everything,’ she said in a cold whisper.

‘Everything, Matriarch?’

‘
Everything
,’ she repeated, and there was a rising force to her words, a hard strength that contradicted the weakness of her tears. ‘The ports and bridges. All transportation. Fountains. Temples. Entertainments. Business . . . If a mere beggar reaches out for money, have his hands removed. I want it all to stop, do you hear me?’

Sasheen inhaled a shuddering breath, scenting the lotus in the air. ‘My son is dead,’ she said, ‘and they shall show their respect.’

Caretaker Heelas clenched his hands together, and allowed a few heartbeats to pass before speaking. ‘What of the Augere, Matriarch?’ he asked carefully.

She had forgotten about the forthcoming week of celebrations.

‘Yes,’ Sasheen said darkly. ‘That, too, all of it. We shall commemorate the Augere at a more fitting time.’

The caretaker’s silence was one of stunned astonishment. He remained composed, however, and bowed his flushed head low.

‘Is that . . . all?’

‘All? No, it is not all, Heelas. I want this city torn apart. I want these people found and brought to me alive. Explain to Bushrali that if his Regulators do not accomplish what I ask of them, he will find himself beginning a new career – as a eunuch in one of our Sentiate harems. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, Matriarch.’

‘Then go.’

The man left with uncharacteristic haste.

Sasheen’s fists were shaking, she discovered. She clenched them tight.

‘Calm yourself, child. Calm yourself.’

Matriarch Sasheen turned on her mother. ‘Calm myself? My son lies dead and you tell me to calm myself? I should have you dragged from here and burned alive for those words.’

The old crone sat on a simple wooden seat, her translucent hands folded together. ‘If it would make you feel any better, my dearest, then order it so.’

For the space of a heartbeat Sasheen truly considered it.