Thank the Lord of Living and Dying the child’s not mine, he thought.
A very long time he stood there, watching the fires. The house finally collapsed completely, caving in like a gutted ox. Bil left early on, pleading sickness and weariness, carried back in her splendid new litter, green silk shimmering like leaves, its bearers white robed like new bones. She had begun preparations for the baby, opening the house’s nurseries, interviewing wet-nurses and servants, exploring the relative merits of silk and silk velvet as material for clout cloths. Found it tiring, she said, in her current state.
Darath stayed for longer, standing gravely beside Orhan, cynically dressed in old clothes to dump afterwards rather than try and wash out the stink.
‘Come and get drunk with me,’ he said to Orhan after the front wall came down with a roar and a burst of morbid applause.
‘Maybe not a good idea.’
‘No, but a necessary one.’ He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Come round tomorrow. Well after noon. And don’t spend too much time brooding.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ Orhan grasped his lover’s hand suddenly, almost hungry for him to stay. ‘I would come. But …’
‘What do you think I see in you, Lord Emmereth? I don’t just marvel at the beauty of your cock, you know.’ Darath squeezed his hand back, smiling at him ruefully. ‘Necessary evil, Orhan. I’ll fuck you tomorrow, make you happy again.’
And so he was alone, with the last of the crowd of voyeurs and carrion crawlers and those with nothing else to see and nowhere else to go. The night drawing in. Night comes. Some of us survive. No desire to go home and look at his own walls and imagine them burning instead.
He walked away aimlessly into the city. Another hot day. Thin high clouds making the evening sky grey and yellowed like diseased skin. In the Street of All Sorrows women had been pouring water to keep down the dust and the air smelled sweet with it. A street trader stood in a shady alleyway with a tray of little paper kites that bobbed in the air on strings hung with copper bells. Strange, to think that one day soon he’d be buying such toys for Bil’s child.
Camellias blossomed all down the sides of the street, red and pink and pallid white. Pethe birds flickered in the branches, chasing butterflies. The leaves on the bushes were curling and browned, dropping to the ground, trampled to a mush underfoot, soiling the stones.
That’s another good omen, Orhan thought. My, my, I’m melancholy this evening. Too many late nights and early mornings. Too much time spent with old books. A thinness of the blood, a confusion of the red and yellow humours. Burn sage and lemon peel and tallow candles, take hot baths regularly, avoid milk and sweet things. Try not to kill people, and, if you do, try not to think too much about the fact they’re dead.
He turned off All Sorrows into Beating Heart Lane, where there were no flowers and nothing was currently dying. A small, thin alley, a cut-between housing a quiet wine shop and a baker’s, leading to the Street of the Butchered Horse and then the Street of Flowers. Down the Street of Flowers itself, sweet with yellow lilies, where fashionable crowds were strolling before a late dinner, making eyes at each other, smoothing down their silk dresses, raising their arms casually so that golden bracelets and heavy gemstones best caught the light. A beautiful boy slunk past him, red hair, a mouth like a rose. Orhan stared. Should have gone with Darath, he thought mournfully.
His footsteps were leading him to Darath’s house. Darath wasn’t even there. He turned away, wandered aimlessly for a while, had almost reached the Court of the Broken Knife when one of his guardsmen raised his hand to stop him.
‘Someone’s following us, My Lord. Someone—’
An explosion of white light. No sound, but a sudden strong, sweet smell. Orhan fell backwards, his head striking the marble paving stones. Blind: brilliant silver in his vision, black patterns moving. Another burst of light, and then silence, and then someone was helping him to his feet.
He stood up dizzily, his clothes feeling hot and dry, flaky and rough on his skin. The square smelled of other things now, scorched stone, burnt things. Always burnt things. Two of his guards were dead on the ground, black and bloodied. Smoke and flames rose from their clothes. He regarded them gravely, as his remaining guards began to pull him away. More dead.
‘Run! My Lord! Run!’
More light, licking around the square. Quicksilver, pouring in thick trails. Melting the stone. Orhan screamed. Began to run with his guards, swords drawn uselessly, shouting prayers. A great burst of green-gold fire caught him on his arm and his shirt was burning, pain tearing up his skin. He staggered, knocked off balance, white light pulsing behind his eyes. Endless voices screaming. All he could smell was burning flesh. He fell to the ground again, beating at his burning clothes. A guardsman dragged at him, hauled him towards the nearest doorway. Wood and stone exploded above their heads. The tinkling of shattered stonework falling in tiny fragments like glass beads, making music on the paving of the street.
A figure leapt forward in the corner of his vision, threw itself at another, slighter man standing in the corner where two houses met. A howl and a burst of light, suddenly extinguished. The two men rolled on the ground, grappling with each other. Light burst up again, and a scream. Blind. Silver. The outline of a man’s body flashed black in Orhan’s closed eyes, bones and heart visible through the skin. Writhing like water. Like the way the rain had beaten on the ground. Men can’t move like that, he thought somewhere in some distant part of his mind. Can’t move like that. His vision flickered back slowly, light and shadow dancing around in his eyes. When he could see again his guard lay sprawled at odd angles, his body jerking. The mage was gone.
Orhan crawled forwards. Tried to stand. The pressure of his weight on his arm made him scream: he fell back down, dazed with pain. Hands reached for him. He felt himself pulled up gently, helped into a nearby shop. Sat gasping and shaking in a small bookseller’s. Two guardsmen sat flanking him, swords on their knees.
They sat like that for a long while. The third guard lay in the street. Should go and see him. Should check he was alive. Should help him. But Orhan’s body shook uncontrollably. Couldn’t move.