Stands a Shadow

Chapter SEVEN

Assassin



Ash failed to notice the batwings flying towards him at first, for they were mere specks in the distant haze above the city.

He was working through a series of stretching exercises beneath the warming morning sky, loosening his muscles and easing the aches of his knees and back in preparation for what was to come, for he knew, deep in his guts, that today she would be coming out from her high raven’s nest at long last.

His attention was wholly focused on his movements, and on the sound of his own deep from-the-belly breathing. Ash was paying little mind to the sky, never mind to the noisy streets below him, even though they were thronged with people in their thousands. The early light seemed harsh to his eyes, the onset of another headache, he knew. He hoped it would not be a major one.

It was when he squatted down to stretch his ham and back muscles that at last he spotted them, a formation of batwings gliding low over the rooftops towards the Temple District, ranged across half a laq. He stayed low as one of them soared directly overhead, so close that he caught a glimpse of the rider slung underneath the wing and heard the rattle of metal and harnesses before it was past. It left a little stirring of air that narrowed his eyes.

Ash caught a flash of white in the edge of his vision, off to the left where a building rose opposite the western side of the playhouse. He ducked even lower, and sidestepped across until he was pressed against the parapet for cover. He raised his head slowly and ventured a look.

An Acolyte was moving on the far building, a longrifle perched over his shoulder as he strolled around the rooftop, occasionally stopping to look down on the streets below. Ash turned around, surveying the other nearby roofs on the other side of the playhouse. On many of them, those which were flat, he saw white-robes emerging into the daylight.

Before him, the door began to squeal open.

Ash froze on the spot.

The door of the playhouse roof was located in the great concrete hand that stood at its centre, and on the far side from where he was squatting. Ash glanced to the base of the hand, where his spare cloak lay wrapped around his weapons.

An Acolyte stepped out into view from behind the hand. His back was to Ash, and he held a longrifle fitted with an eyeglass in one hand, and a pistol in the other. The white-robe shifted his balance as though to turn around.

Ash acted without thinking by flinging himself over the parapet.

A moment of vertigo passed through him as he hung by his fingertips from the side of the building. His legs dangled into space above the much lower roofs of the original playhouse below, and the thousands of heads bobbing through the streets. The sounds of the crowds were loud in his ears now, like an ocean removed of all sense of harmony, ragged and crashing against itself.

What am I doing down here? he wondered, as he gripped with all his strength the rough concrete edge of the parapet.

A scrape of feet sounded overhead. He looked up to see the Acolyte looking down at him, only his eyes visible through the mask. A breeze tugged at the edges of the figure’s cloak; its curious patterns of silk glimmered in the daylight. In his mind, Ash saw the pyre burning again, and the white-robed Acolytes gathered around it, watching Nico burn.

‘Give me a hand there,’ Ash said to the man in Trade, and released the precious grip of his left hand to hold it out for him. It was not a request, but a command.

The Acolyte shifted uncertainly. His eyes darted to the offered hand. Ash could feel the fingers of his other hand starting to burn, knew that soon they would go numb altogether. He thrust his free hand once more towards the Acolyte.

‘Quickly there!’

The man laid his rifle down, though he held the pistol steady as he reached for Ash’s grasp. Ash pretended he was unable to reach any further with his hand. The Acolyte leaned out to grab it.

Their hands met and clasped together. With a grunt, Ash heaved with all the strength in his arm and pulled the Acolyte forwards, off balance, so that the man toppled over the parapet and fell.

He heard a shout as the Acolyte went past him, and then nothing.

Ash hauled himself up over the parapet. He regained his feet, scanning the surrounding rooftops. No other Acolytes were looking his way. He exhaled long and hard, and glanced back over the parapet. The Acolyte lay crumpled in the rain-gully between two of the playhouse’s roofs.

‘Huh!’ Ash exclaimed.

He stepped out into the chaos of the Serpentine with his hood pulled low over his face. It was a scene of festa in the wide boulevard and the side streets branching off from it. Many in the crowds seemed intoxicated already, and people waved the red-hand flags of Mann, or garlands of white and red flowers bought from the many flower sellers who had suddenly appeared on every street corner, next to the street merchants selling hot food, alcohol, narcotics. Soldiers were clearing the road and forcing everyone back to the sidewalks. He knew what that meant; knew too why they were flying batwings over the district and so earnestly checking the rooftops.

He jostled through the press, his roll of belongings carried under his arm. He found a clear space in an archway next to a hot-food vendor, from where he purchased a paper cup of hot chee and a wrap of pork meat and peppers, and enjoyed breaking his fast as children shrieked in excitement all around him.

An old mangy-coated dog came up to him, and sat and looked up at his food with drool dangling from its panting mouth.

‘Hut,’ he said to the dog as he tossed the last third of the wrap into its mouth. The dog wagged its tail across the paving, wolfing down the food in a few swallows. It looked up at him for more, its tail still swinging.

Ash wiped his greasy hands and held them up empty for the dog’s inspection. ‘No more,’ he growled.

The dog lay down. Ash tried his best to ignore it as he leaned against the wall to ease the weight on his feet. There he waited beneath the archway, his eyes cast along the winding canyon that was the Serpentine, towards Freedom Square and beyond, where the Temple of Whispers reared high above a rabble of roofs and chimney stacks. He scratched his unkempt beard and listened to snatches of conversation around him. People spoke of the invasion ships in the harbour getting ready to set sail; of the Matriarch setting off for war. Questions abounded as to where they were destined.

At noon, a great battle-cry rose up from the direction of the square. Minutes later, it was followed by more cheering from further along the Serpentine. Over countless heads Ash spotted a procession making its way along the avenue. Painted red hands swayed from the tops of elaborately carved poles, and beneath them priests rocked to the same rhythm, decked out in their white robes and mirror-masks of burnished silver.

He turned his back to the street and bent low over his roll of belongings. The dog blinked and watched what his hands were doing as Ash tugged free the crossbow and locked its arms back into their firing position, glancing over his shoulder to see if he was being observed. He pulled the double strings back and fitted a bolt into place, then another, the scent of grease filling his nostrils.

For a moment, he experienced the sense of wani; of having lived this moment before, and then it was gone.

When Ash stood with the crossbow gripped within his cloak, the van of the procession was already passing by. He surveyed the balconies across the street filled with families rejoicing. Above them, Acolytes were positioned on several of the rooftops, studying the scene below through the eyeglasses of their longrifles.

A roar from the crowd was spreading towards him like a wave, matching pace with a high palanquin that moved slowly along the street, near-lost in clouds of red and white petals, people flinging them from the sidewalks or from the balconies above. He caught a flash of her, Sasheen.

Soldiers struggled to hold back the crowds that surged forward for a closer look at the Holy Matriarch, or, even better, for the Matriarch to lay eyes upon them.

Sasheen looked resplendent today. She stood on a massive palanquin shaped in the form of a glittering, jewel-encrusted dolphin, with oversized reins stretching back from its mouth to a rail she was resting one hand on for balance. The palanquin was borne on the backs of two dozen naked slaves, and she swayed slightly as they marched, her body encased in a contoured suit of white armour, her golden mask sculpted in her own features. She was holding aloft a stubby, gilded spear.

The adoration of the crowd heightened as the figure of the Matriarch turned her masked face to regard them. People fell to their knees in devotion. Ash witnessed several pilgrims fainting on the spot.

The crossbow was shaking in his hand as he lifted it up and aimed it at her head.

All of his previous waiting, his long rooftop vigil, seemed like the blink of an eye now. His chance had come at last, his chance to lay the boy’s torment to rest within him. Ash tried to steady his aim, intensely aware that he was about to cross a line that could not be undone. He would no longer be Rōshun after this. Even though he had already cast that role aside by words, this deed would be the real ending of it.

So be it. I’m dying anyway.

He curled his finger around the trigger, tracking her as she came directly past him.

Something was wrong. A sheen of sunlight reflected for a moment off the space around her. Ash hesitated, squinting, and saw that she was surrounded by a box of incredibly thin glass. He knew what it was in an instant; the exotic, toughened glass so sought after from Zanzahar, and brought all the way from the Isles of Sky. Nothing could pierce it save for explosives.

He lowered his crossbow in disgust, tucking it quickly inside his cloak again.

Ash rocked back on the balls of his feet. To his surprise his heart was racing. He watched, stunned, as the Matriarch went by unmolested, his hand squeezing the grip of the crossbow in impotent frustration.

The dog whined from where it lay by his side. It prompted him to act. With haste he disassembled the crossbow and stowed it inside his rolled-up cloak next to the eyeglass and the sword. He glanced at the Holy Matriarch progressing along the Serpentine, knowing that he needed to keep her in sight, to follow until some opportunity presented itself. He hefted the burden and turned to pursue her.

The Rōshun pushed on through the crowds, leaving the dog staring after him.

Ash could smell the brine of the sea as he stalked the procession along the winding route of the Serpentine, knowing at last that they were nearing the First Harbour. Along the sidewalks the crowds were packed so tightly he was finding it difficult to keep up with even the slow pace of the Matriarch’s palanquin. It was like a dream of childhood, of trying to hurry through thickets of unyielding bamboo in the height of a storm. As he lost sight of her entirely, he growled and shoved through a group of men into a clearer side street. From there he proceeded by a different route to the harbour.

When he emerged onto the open quaysides, he stopped and took in the fleet lying at anchor there. It looked smaller than when last he had seen it, on the day he had bidden farewell to Baracha and the others on their journey home. The swarms of men-of-war that had previously been harboured there were largely gone now, save for a few remaining squadrons. The rest were heavy transports, the vessels surrounded by scores of rowing boats ferrying last-minute supplies and personnel from the quaysides. In their midst, the massive hulk of the imperial flagship loomed over them all.

He stood there watching helplessly as the foot-slaves bore Sasheen’s palanquin across a gangplank, and onto a large barge that awaited them in the water. The rest of the Matriarch’s entourage followed, and then the gangplank was pulled onboard, and long sweeps emerged to push the barge away from the wharf. It began to row out towards the flagship.

People brushed past him, though Ash barely noticed their touches. He didn’t stir, his eyes filled with the sight of the barge heading out into the deep water of the harbour. All along the quayside the crowds were waving their Holy Matriarch off, shouting blessings on her forthcoming victory. Ash shot a hungry glance about him, seeking some way to follow her: a free rowing boat he could procure, perhaps, or a space on one of the boats already going back and forth between the fleet and the quay.

Chancy madness, he knew, born from his own desperation.

Easy, he said in his mind. Calm yourself.

Once more Ash made his way through the press with his bundle of weapons, and found a quieter spot against the brick wall of a warehouse. He looked out to sea, hoping for some inspiration to strike him.

Gradually the crowds dwindled, until it was mostly only those involved in the loading of the fleet who remained. The sun arced higher in the sky, its heat carried away in a breeze that was playing off the water. In ones and twos, the ships of the fleet completed the loading of their stores and set off for the open sea, pulled by their own sweeps or by rowing boats and ropes.

The flagship itself began to depart, drawn towards the harbour mouth by its own minor fleet of small vessels. Ash forced himself to remain seated.

For a while he studied the majority of vessels still at anchor, the lack of movement on many of their decks. He turned his attention to the chaos still apparent along the dockside. Tempers were running high, various captains along with their crews arguing with quartermasters as they tried to procure what supplies they still required.

At this rate, Ash pondered, many of those ships would be setting off in darkness. He leaned back, pulling his hood further down over his face. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

Without hurry, the autumn afternoon faded towards the onset of twilight.

There was a story told of the Great Fool, that Honshu sage of the Dao who had decried all dogmas, yet had himself become a religion after his own death. Every Rōshun apprentice was taught the story during his training.

While walking in the mountains along the source of the Perfume River, the Great Fool’s newest follower, the branded woman Miri, had asked of him: How does one remain still, great master?

In reply, the Great Fool had cast a stick into the rushing torrent, and bade his followers to watch as it floated along with the flow.

But I am not a stick of wood, Miri had replied with frustration. How can I flow with the stream so naturally?

The Great Fool had tapped her forehead once, lightly.

By allowing your mind to be still.

It was a paradox that had impressed Ash when he had first heard it as a Rōshun in training, for he’d been in great need of a saviour back then. Cast into exile with his fellow comrades, his family lost to him and with no hope of ever returning home, he had needed, desperately, something in which to tame the bleakness in his heart, and the runaway thoughts in his head that told him to end this life of his that was no longer worth living. And so he had embraced the Rōshun way of stillness, and it had saved him.

There was another story, one the Great Fool had himself used to instruct his followers, which Ash remembered too from that time.

A madman is held in a cage, with a blinded tiger as a companion.

For as long as he can remember, the madman has been walking from one side of the cage to the other, circling the tiger as it circles him, the animal snarling in hunger. For as long as he can remember, he has been leaping aside from its blind attacks, or standing silently in a corner watching it work its slow way around the bars. Never has it stopped this ranging about, so powerful are its desires.

One day, the madman finds he can no longer carry on this way. He stops his pacing. He turns his back on the tiger. He sits down and waits to die.

He falls asleep, or so he assumes – for when he opens his eyes again, all is different.

The door of the cage is hanging open. At long last, freedom beckons him.

The madman steps outside. He sees how everything is one in this place of all-consuming light. He sees how the bars of his confinement have been dividing his vision into narrow vertical slices for all this time. He looks to the tiger still prowling the cage. He sees how he has attached a name to it, and an identity, and a story of all the times they have shared together. He sees too how immature and petty, how strong and noble, the tiger truly is.

It is then that the man steps back into the cage with his earnest companion. The animal wishes to devour him even now; it still fears for its lasting survival.

But it does him no harm, for he is the master here.

He is sane.

It was in this way that Ash was no longer certain of himself. He no longer knew if he was flowing skilfully with the Dao in clear and detached purpose. Perhaps, in his grief, he had lost the Way.

How to know, though? How could he ever know the right way from the wrong way, when everything seemed equally as dark and unclear to him now?

Just breathe and go with it, the Chan monks of the Dao would have said. So Ash inhaled the cool night air deep into his lungs, and exhaled in a single long release all the pressure and confusion that was caught up within him; and from his stillness he launched himself from where he sat, springing up like a man on fire and sprinting through the darkness across the hard paving of the quayside, out onto the wooden planking of a jetty, pounding all the way to the very edge of it, where he leapt with a whoosh of breath and dived headfirst into the sea.