Stands a Shadow

Chapter TEN

A Matter of Diplomacy



‘The Holy Matriarch requests a moment of your time,’ cooed Guan, standing there with his twin sister, both watching him with their hooded, arrogant eyes.

Ché gripped the open cabin door a little harder as they all swayed with the violent motions of the ship. All around them, the flagship groaned and complained against the buffeting of the heavy seas. The sister was studying him closely, and he stared back at her, her face as sharp and lean as her brother’s, her thin lips slightly parted on one side.

He held his forefinger up. One moment.

Ché closed the Scripture of Lies in his hand, making sure they saw it first, then replaced it on his neatly made cot in plain sight. He stepped out into the passageway and followed them.

He was glad of a chance to stretch his legs, despite his usual sense of foreboding whenever he was summoned by the Matriarch. He hadn’t ventured out much these several days past, the weather being too poor for dallying out in the open. Today was the worst so far. The ship pitched so steeply from side to side they had to walk with their hands along the walls of the passageway to keep their balance.

One by one they stepped up onto the main deck and bent into the blasts of wind. A gust sent the sister stumbling sideways, tottering with outstretched hands before her brother tugged her by the sleeve back to his side. A wave crashed against the hull and threw a froth of water hissing over the decking, knocking over a few sailors so they went sliding amongst it in their rainslicks.

The three priests wiped their faces dry, and in a line made for the steps that zigzagged up the flank of the quarterdeck, where they started to haul themselves up.

‘A little choppy today!’ the sister, Swan, called back at him.

Guan looked back too, his expression cool.

The man hadn’t spoken with Ché for some days now. Perhaps Guan had finally taken his hint about wanting to be left alone.

Still, there was a look in his eyes; something wounded in them. Not the reaction he would have expected if these twins really were Regulators in disguise. Perhaps he was simply being paranoid after all.

This is why I am without friendships, he thought.

At the door of General Romano’s cabin they passed a pair of Acolytes stationed as guards, sheltering as best they could beneath the tiny porch. Within, even over the din of the gale and the waves, the raised voice of Romano could be heard cutting through the laughter of his people. Like many, the young general had been revelling in drink and narcotics since the bad weather had confined them all to their quarters.

On the topmost floor, at the door to Sasheen’s private cabins, the three of them stood within the porch as the honour-guards searched them for weapons. The sister was last, and as she was carefully patted down Ché noticed how her brother watched the process with a frown. She ignored his scrutiny, though, looked at Ché instead with her features softened by a delicate smile.

Pretty, he thought, and glanced down at her body without subtlety, her wet robe clinging to it.

‘Clear,’ said the Acolyte as he finished, and his partner knocked on the door.

Heelas, Sasheen’s personal caretaker, beckoned them into the salon, where priests of the entourage lounged in a subdued silence. Heelas led the three of them across to the door of Sasheen’s private cabin and rapped a knuckle on it gently, then opened it and passed through without waiting for a response.

The moment Ché entered the room he could feel it, the anger in the air. Sasheen sat on her great chair at the rear of the spacious cabin. She was wrapped in a fur coat over plain robes. Her chest was rising and falling quickly. Ché noticed a broken wineglass at the foot of the wall, and drops of red wine amongst the shattered glass, running one way then the other as the floor pitched from side to side.

Around the Holy Matriarch were gathered those of her inner circle. Her old friend Sool was there, sitting by her side on a cushioned stool, turned half around so she could stare out through the windows at the ragged sea and clouds beyond. Klint the physician was as ruddy faced as always as he pulled absently on one of his piercings. Alarum, vaguely known to Ché as a spymaster in the Élash, offered a congenial nod of the head, eyes keenly observing him. Lastly, Archgeneral Sparus, the Little Eagle, stood in the centre of the room as though he had just stopped pacing, one eye covered with an eyepatch, the other pinning Ché in its glare.

Ché ignored him and glanced around the room itself. His quick search took in the jar of Royal Milk bracketed on a table behind Sasheen, then stopped at the two bodyguards standing outside on the balcony, huddling beneath their hoods.

‘Diplomat,’ Sasheen declared with a rueful twist of her lips. She was intoxicated, he could see, though it was only obvious by her reddened cheeks and nose, for the Matriarch spoke with focus. ‘I have a task for you, Diplomat.’

Ché bowed his head. ‘Matriarch,’ he said with false calm.

‘I need you to send a message to General Romano. As swiftly as you can manage it.’

Ché stifled the beginnings of a smile. And so it begins.

‘And what is the tone of this message, Matriarch?’

‘A warning only,’ rumbled the Archgeneral Sparus with a glance to Sasheen. ‘His catamite lover should suffice.’

‘Make an example of him,’ drawled Sasheen. ‘A fitting one. Do you hear me?’

Another bow of his head. ‘Is that all?’

Sasheen pinched the bridge of her nose, not responding.

‘You may go,’ replied Sool.

The twin priests accompanied him back outside. Ché hesitated in the shelter of the porch. He looked to the brother and was about to address him when he changed his mind, spoke to the sister instead.

‘Any notion as to what this is about?’

She looked amused by his directness. The brother shifted by her side, glanced to the two guards standing behind them.

‘Romano has been slandering the Holy Matriarch,’ Guan replied before she could speak. ‘In his chambers, intoxicated with his entourage.’

‘In what way?’

Swan leaned towards him, her piercings dripping water. ‘Her son,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s been slandering her son.’

Ché blew an exasperated breath of air from his lips, understanding at last.

That afternoon they caught their first sight of Lagos, ill-fated island of the dead.

The bad weather finally settled down, as though it wished to strike a more solemn chord for the occasion; really it was only that they had sailed into the lee of the island. South they headed towards the harbourage of Chir, with the rest of the fleet tightening up around them. White cliffs rose along the coastline, and green slopes covered by grey flecks that were the famous Lagosian long-haired goats.

It seemed that every one of the thousand souls onboard the flagship now crowded along the rails. Ché watched the Matriarch where she stood on the foredeck, flanked by her two generals and their entourages.

He studied the trio closely, curious as to how they must feel gazing upon green Lagos, that island of insurrection, its entire population so famously put to the torch. The Sixth Army, still stationed there, now due to become part of the Expeditionary Force, had been led by Archgeneral Sparus when they’d finally put down the rebellion. And it had been Sasheen herself who had given the order to kill the majority of the citizenry in retribution for their support of the rebels, even against the protests of many within the order itself, horrified by the loss of so much potential revenue in slaves.

In doing so, the Matriarch had stamped her authority on the pages of history. She would never be forgotten for this act of genocide.

Yet now, facing Lagos for the first time, Sasheen offered nothing but stiff-necked formality as she stood by the rail, while around her, the gathered priests of her entourage seemed more proud than anything else at having reacquired this most prized of possessions.

Back in Q’os, the news-sheets were filled with stories of the island’s pacification, and how the land was now open to immigrants from across the Empire. They played down the true extent of the slaughter wrought upon the Lagosians, and blamed them when they did mention the burnings and the clearances by pointing out how the rebellion had first begun: as a protest by the surviving Lagosian nobility, unable to stomach the continuing losses of their tenanted lands to their new Mannian masters.

Only a single detail betrayed anything of Sasheen’s inner condition. Beside her, on the rail, she had planted the living head of Lucian – the first time she had chosen to display him in such a way in public. The Matriarch held a palm against its scalp to keep it there, so that the leader of the insurrection could look upon his desolated homeland in his own unfathomable silence.

Horns sounded from the foremost ships of the fleet ahead. They were approaching the harbour of Chir at last, one of the greatest marvels of the known world. Soon, as they rounded a rocky headland, Ché gazed open-mouthed at the legendary Oreos as it rose impossibly high before him, that colossal arch which spanned the natural mouth of the harbour inlet of Chir, the clouds of mist rolling beneath it.

The cityport of Chir, once rich from its trade in wool and salted meat with Zanzahar, and the former high seat of the Lagosian civilization, sprawled around a rocky inlet that formed the largest natural harbourage in the Midèrēs. The city had constructed the Oreos across its harbour entrance as the grandest of statements to the world. Cast in iron, it resembled a blade bent into a curve so that its flatness cut the wind in two, gleaming a brilliant painted white beneath a sky that had finally broken to reveal the sun.

He’d never before travelled to Lagos or its port of Chir, though he’d read much about them, and of the feat of art and engineering that he now gazed at. The mists were caused by seawater pumped by the motion of the waves into the body of the arch itself, and out through the countless nozzles arrayed along its underside to create the finest of sprays.

On some days, banded colours could be seen within the hazy span of the Oreos. It was common to see four or five or even six rainbows stretching through the spray or reflecting across the surface of water. The Rainbow Catcher, the people of Lagos often called it, with affection. Or they had done, when they had still lived here.

Ché could see one now, a bow of vibrant colours like a second archway, and beyond it, tinged by its hues, the sprawl of the city around the banks of the harbour, with imperial ships already at anchor there. He shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up to the top of the Oreos. He could make out tiny figures up there, white-robed priests gathered along a railing, taking in the sights of the cityport from its high elevation.

Ché would have studied the scene for longer, but his eyes just then caught movement up on the foredeck. It was Romano’s catamite, Topo, striding over to the general and the woman in his lap to exchange a flurry of heated words.

Topo whirled away and stamped towards the steps.

With a final glance cast at the approaching Oreos, Ché pushed himself from the rail. He tracked the youth as he returned alone to Romano’s cabin, red-faced and shoving past the guards at the door. Ché waited a few moments longer to ensure that no one was joining him, then set about delivering his message.

He entered Romano’s chambers silently via the rear balcony, while everyone overhead, including the guards, stood on the landward side taking in the sights of the harbour.

In the cabin, with the sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom, Ché murdered a bodyguard with the slash of a knife across his throat.

He stepped back from the mess as the man collapsed onto the rug.

‘Hello?’ came a voice from the bathroom beyond.

Ché stood still for some moments while the man gargled blood at his feet. He listened until he heard the gentle splash of water once more from the other side of the door. With a garrotte dangling from one hand, he pushed the bathroom door slightly ajar. Steam escaped around his shaven head.

He looked in to see the man lying in the wooden bathtub, muttering to himself with his eyes squeezed shut. Ché slipped inside, and stopped behind his head as he gripped the garrotte in both fists. He gazed down on Romano’s young lover. There were fresh scars over his pale, lean body; scabbed bruises the size of bite marks.

Ché observed the great bronze pot of a water-heater sitting on the stove at the foot of the tub, and knew what he must do.

The young man jerked, and snapped his eyes open as Ché looped the garrotte around his neck and pulled hard on the cork handles.

Brown eyes, Ché noted, near popping out of their sockets; and there, within the glassy pupils, a shadow, Ché himself looming large. The youth snorted and wheezed for air, his face bulging. His hands scrabbled at the garrotte around his throat. His legs flailed in the water spilling in waves over the side to splash around Ché’s sandalled feet. The Diplomat maintained his steady pressure. He thought of nothing as he performed the act, though he felt, strangely, a rising sense of anger.

At last, Topo stopped floundering and lay limp in the settling water. Ché maintained pressure for a few moments more, then released the garrotte with a gasp.

Panting, he kicked open the door of the stove beneath the heater and tossed in a log from the wooden bin that sat next to it, then after that as many more as would fit. Then he unlatched the lid of the pot to expose the warming water within. Quickly, he hauled the body out of the bath, with his hands slipping on its slick skin. Ché was strong enough for all his modest height; still, it was an effort to lift the dead weight of Topo into the great pot, to make it fit as the displaced water rose up around it, so he could replace and refas-ten the lid.

By the time he was finished the flames of the stove were starting to roar. He imagined the smoke tumbling out of the chimney far above his head; hoped it wouldn’t draw Romano’s early return. He stepped from the bathroom and listened for the sounds of footfalls.

Behind him, the bronze water-heater made a sudden popping sound. Ché stopped.

Another thump sounded from within it.

He’s still alive in there.

Ché hesitated, at once caught in a moment of self-doubt. He glanced back through the doorway, struggling with an impulse to rush inside and unlatch the lid and haul the lad out from there.

He fought it down. He’d spent too long at this already.

Ché strode across the main cabin while a faint scream pursued him to the open window. It shook him to hear it; his hands trembled as he clambered out onto the balcony, cursing himself for his own carelessness.

From the bathroom, the scream grew in pitch until it was consumed by the piercing shriek of steam that suddenly blasted through a whistle.

In the early evening chaos of the Chir harbour, Ché waited in line before the thronged gantry, impatient to be off the ship so that he could sample some of the attractions of the ancient cityport.

On the other side of the gantry, the dockside was awash with slaves manhandling fresh supplies onto the waiting ships, and a host of newly arrived immigrants from elsewhere in the empire, drawn to the island’s sudden land rush now that it was conveniently deserted. Through them all, in stamping columns, the grim, orderly troops of the Sixth Army marched aboard the transports in preparation for the dawn departure, when the newly combined army and fleet of the Expeditionary Force would set sail for Khos.

He was first aware of trouble when he heard the distinct sound of shouting up towards the quarterdeck. He turned instinctively towards Sasheen’s quarters, saw that the Matriarch’s door was lying open, her honour guard nowhere to be seen.

Ché swore under his breath, then bounded for the steps and the open doorway. He passed the two twins, Guan and Swan, standing at the top of the stairway with their expressions wholly neutral.

Inside, the guards were struggling with a group of priests who were trying desperately to protect General Romano. The man raved beyond reason, his spit flying towards the Holy Matriarch, who sat in a chair flanked by her two personal bodyguards, watching his fury with a self-satisfied smile. Ché’s eyes widened as he saw a flash of a blade in the young general’s hand. A priest shouted and tried to grasp it. Beyond them, bizarrely, the severed head of Lucian sat balanced on a table, watching it all with an expression of manic glee.

Footsteps sounded behind him as Archgeneral Sparus marched into the room. He took in Ché and the rest of the scene in a single unhurried glance from his eye.

‘I’ll kill you for this,’ Romano was screaming. ‘I said nothing I wouldn’t say to your face! Your son was a coward – and you, you are the—’ one of his fellow priests hissed and clamped a hand over his mouth. Romano heaved to be free of it while another priest did the same, two hands over his mouth.

Ché stepped aside as the guards forced the struggling group backwards out of the room. Archgeneral Sparus stared at Romano without expression as he was dragged outside, then closed the door behind them.

Clumps and curses on the steps outside. Silence settling.

‘He does not mean what he says,’ pleaded an elderly priest on his knees before the Matriarch. ‘He is intoxicated, and distraught at his loss. He’s lost his mind for a while, that’s all.’

Sasheen flashed her eyes at caretaker Heelas.

‘Out,’ Heelas said to the kneeling priest, and lifted him with a tug of his robe to shove him outside after his master.

A wet snort came from the severed head on the table. Lucian was trying to laugh.

‘And you,’ Heelas snapped as he crossed the room. ‘Back in your jar, little man.’ Heelas lifted the head in both hands and let it settle back amongst the Royal Milk.

Moments passed without anyone saying a word. They looked to Sasheen, who no longer smiled, but instead glared at the door through which Romano had just departed. Her eyes flickered to Ché. She nodded, gracefully; looked to the rest of the priests still gathered in the cabin. ‘I have reason enough, as witnessed by all here, to execute him now and be justified in doing so.’

‘Matriarch,’ Sool said, bending close to her. ‘He will soon calm himself and see his position. That will be the end of it, if you let it end here. He will understand the message given to him. He will submit.’

‘It’s civil war otherwise,’ added Archgeneral Sparus. ‘In Q’os, once his family found out, and here, in the fleet, if his men caught wind of it. A third of the Expeditionary Force could turn against us.’

Sasheen’s fingernails scratched along the ends of the armrests.

‘I will not forget those words,’ she said harshly. ‘I will never forget what he said to me, about my own son, to my face.’

In the absolute blackness the rats fussed around him. Ash ignored the creatures, his ears keen for any sounds above. Every set of footsteps overhead was a story untold to him.

It was his twenty-first day in this reeking bilge, at least by his own rough reckoning. Hours previously, he’d heard the thunderous racket of the anchor being dropped and felt the shudder of it through the timbers of the hull. At once, he’d experienced a sudden urge to climb out of his hole and make his way through the ship to the uppermost deck, so that he could see where it was the fleet had anchored; see too if he could leave the ship for good.

He’d mastered the desire though. He knew he should wait until the silence of the crew heralded nightfall before he stole outside and chanced a proper look.

In the deep hours of the night, when all was indeed silent above him, Ash decided it was finally safe enough to make his move. Fully clothed and with his sword in his hand, he left the bilge as quietly as he could, and carefully made his way up through the bowels of the ship.

The weatherdeck was the most dangerous place for him to be, and Ash crouched low as he finally made his way onto it, checking the positions of the sailors on night-duty to fore and aft. He sucked down a lungful of air and almost groaned aloud from the freshness of it. Clouds blocked most of the stars overhead, but a dim light glimmered off the masts and the furled sails.

He looked about him, blinking at the lights of a cityport that shone through the masts of the fleet. When he turned to seaward, his eyes widened to take in the awesome arch that stood with feet on either side of the harbour opening, and the clouds of barely visible mist at play beneath it.

The Oreos, Ash instantly recognized, and knew they were in Chir, in Lagos, island of the dead.

It was Khos, then. There was no other reason for the invasion fleet to be this far west, not unless they planned to wage a reckless war against the Alhazii and risk losing their supplies of blackpow-der. No, they were stopping here for supplies or men, before continuing onwards to Nico’s homeland; the boy’s mother and his people.

Ash hung his head, and for a long time he didn’t move.