Leave us, commanded a woman's voice.
Matriarch? said another.
I would speak with him.
As you command.
Nico was walking along a narrow mountain path. Goats chewed on the sparse grasses above him, watching him from the corners of their eyes as he passed.
Baa! he cried out, letting them know that he was aware of their attention.
Why does he make such a noise?
It's the spice. He's partly in his dreams now.
Nico was thirsty, and he could scent water ahead. He crested a rise and looked down into a ravine. A river gushed along the rocks at its bottom. He grinned.
Boy! a voice commanded, from somewhere high.
Nico looked up into a woman's face. It was a plain face, but made ugly by the emotions shining through from behind. He was reminded of a bird, something black and malicious.
She was asking him questions, and he was talking… talking about his master and the city and what they were doing here. A young man stood by her side, staring down at him. His expression grew meaner as Nico talked, the lips curling back. A wolf making ready to attack.
The woman stared with eyes hard as glass, unblinking. It seemed that if he kept talking she might stop fixing him with that hungry stare. Nico wanted away from it. He wanted to return to his own private space. He talked of Cheem, and the monastery in the mountains there. He talked of Aleas, Baracha, old Osh. He talked of the ancient Seer up in his hut, how he might scratch at his lice but could do things Nico still did not understand.
Stop rambling, demanded the woman, and she clutched his face in her talons.
She asked of his master again: what he was planning on doing next. Nico told her of the Temple of Whispers, how they had considered ways in which they might get inside it, so they could find Kirkus, and slay him.
She became angry at him then, though he didn't know why. Perhaps he had forgotten his chores again. Perhaps he'd had another shouting match with Los.
She squeezed his face hard, then stood up.
Perhaps your grandmother was right, she said to the young man by her side. If this is what they're training to be Rshun these days, there is little to be feared.
She hovered over Nico. A drop of spittle appeared between her thin, ruby lips. It stretched and fell, plopped against his closed eye.
You came here to murder my son, little Rshun. So I tell you now, your friends will soon be dead, your order destroyed, and you – she prodded him with a toe, and he flinched from it – we will make an example of you.
The young man was breathing heavily. He wanted to tear Nico apart. I'll finish him now, myself, he growled.
No. You may have some fun with him, but keep him alive. The games are to be held again tomorrow. We'll send him there. Are you listening, young pup? Again she nudged Nico with a toe. We'll send you to the Shay Madi, where you can meet your death in front of the crowds. They can witness how fierce the Rshun truly are, and how we must tremble before them.
She swept away, her robe a billowing mass behind her.
The young man grinned with sharp teeth.
He stamped hard upon Nico's hand, so that something cracked inside it.
Nico screamed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bravery of Fools A procession was leaving the Temple of Whispers. It was a royal procession, a fact made apparent from its size and grandeur and the banners it displayed, those of the Matriarch herself, showing a black raven on a white background. From the rooftop, Aleas, Baracha and Ash watched as it crossed the bridge over the moat and wound its slow way eastwards, where the games were to be held today, in the Shay Madi.
Along the streets, red-garbed devotees rushed in their hundreds to see this unexpected procession of the Holy, crying out as though their wits had fled them entirely. Columns of Acolytes emerged and disappeared again in the thick fog like ghosts of men, some detaching in squads to hold back the press of devotees. Palanquins borne by dozens of slaves swayed past, one after the other, their occupants hidden behind heavy, embroidered curtains. Lesser priests pounded on drums, or gyrated in a rising frenzy, or whipped their bare backs with the branches of thorny bushes. Aleas watched closely, counting them as they went by.
'It might help us,' said Baracha, tensely, 'with so many gone from the Temple.'
Ash replied with a shrug, then he straightened up and began to sort items from a canvas bag that lay open on the concrete roof. Today he was dressing for vendetta, as they all were. He wore reinforced boots, tan leather leggings padded around the knees, a stout belt, a loose sleeveless tunic, and bracers. Over this he threw on a heavy white robe that reached down to his toes. Baracha donned an identical robe. They stood facing one another, flexing their limbs in their new garments.
'Stiff,' Ash grunted.
'Like wearing a sack of canvas,' Baracha agreed.
These priestly robes would have to do; they had been easier to replicate than the fully armoured dress of the Acolytes.
Beside the two men, Aleas tugged a cloak from his own bag and began to shrug it over his head.
'No,' ordered Baracha, 'not yet.'
The big man hoisted a harness of heavy leather, slipping it over Aleas's shoulders so that it was fastened in an X across his torso. To this, he and Ash began to secure the various tools of their trade, or at least those they had been able to gather together, throughout the night, from the various black-market traders they knew within the city. These consisted of a set of throwing knives, their blades perforated with a series of holes for lightness; a small crowbar; a foldable grappling hook and climbing claws; pouches of ground jupe bark mixed with barris seed, along with pouches of flash powder; an axe with separate haft extensions; crossbow bolts; two bags of caltrops; a medico, and a coil of thin knotted rope; a leather flask of water; two small casks of blackpowder, air-tightened with tar, more difficult and expensive to procure than all the rest of the equipment combined. It was a ridiculously heavy burden, and Aleas soon felt his legs buckle beneath the weight.
'You're going to be acting as our pack mule,' his master explained. 'Which means you stick to us no matter what, and whenever we call out for something you pass it to us quick.'
Baracha hefted a small, twin-firing crossbow. 'When you're not passing us gear,' he said, thrusting the crossbow into the young man's arms, 'you'd damn well better be shooting at someone.'
Aleas jerked his head, straining a nod. The tension was growing in him.
Ash helped get the robe over his sudden additional bulk.
'You look like a pregnant fishwife,' he said, clapping a hand to the lad's shoulder.
Aleas frowned, and waddled around, making exaggerated movements. He could tell from their expressions that he wasn't a pretty sight.
The temple bell struck eight o'clock.
'Your army is late,' commented Baracha.
'Have faith. It will be here.'
Ash returned to the parapet. He set one foot up on the ledge, supporting his crossed arms on his raised knee. He watched the last of the royal procession pass by. He looked up at the tower. For a time, he simply stood and took it in.
They were located on the safest vantage point they had been able to find, the high-up roof of a casino built on a street that ran along the perimeter of the moat. The premises were still open at this early hour, if the lights and sounds pouring from a few open windows below were anything to go by. Aleas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, afraid to sit down, in case he could not get up again unaided. He joined Ash at the parapet, though after a moment of looking at the tower he gazed out instead over the rest of the city, the merest outline of it visible
