looking, restoring the inch of space around him. ‘You want me to give you a quarter, so you can give me a quarter back in change?’
‘I don’t make the rules,’ the lad said impatiently, already looking to the next customer before him.
Ash blew the air from his lungs. He waved the business away with his hand then pushed his way clear of the stall before he lost his temper with it all. He started back the way he had come, but he saw the two auxiliaries coming that way towards him. Instead he turned and walked for the other entrance at the opposite end of the market, wishing only to return now to the seclusion of his rooftop, where he could enjoy his breakfast alone with his own company.
‘ Ken-dai!’ came a shout that stopped him in his tracks. ‘ Ho, ken-dai!’
Ash turned swiftly, and instantly spotted a dark face above the passing heads, barely a dozen paces from where he stood; a man from Honshu like himself.
The man was looking down at him from where he sat upon a sedan chair borne by two muscled slaves, a scented kerchief held to his nostrils like a white blossom. When their eyes met the man raised a hand in greeting. Ash glanced around, pulling the scarf a little higher over the bridge of his nose; watched as the figure clambered down to the ground. His two armoured bodyguards were already clearing the vicinity by shoving people out of the way.
‘ Ken-dai!’ the man exclaimed again in their native Honshu, while one of his bearers snapped open an umbrella to hold above his head.
Ash replied with a curt nod.
‘You’re wise to travel about like that. They’ve been arresting many of us in the city for questioning.’
Ash said nothing, and there was a moment of awkward silence between them. The stranger was of a similar age to Ash, and dressed in fine robes of Honshu silk. He was a little overweight, and Ash could not help but notice the many glittering rings of gold and diamonds upon his fingers. A silk merchant perhaps, drawn to the Mideres on the silk winds long ago; or perhaps even a political exile like himself.
‘How is the old country?’ the merchant asked in obvious hope that he would know.
‘I couldn’t say,’ Ash confessed. ‘It’s been many years now since I was there.’
The man’s nod was heavy with meaning. ‘Yes, such a voyage as that should be made once in a lifetime. I can’t imagine how these sailors do it, coming back and forth, playing such odds as that.’ He sniffed beneath the dripping umbrella, raised the kerchief to his nose again. As he did so, Ash saw the tattoo on his left wrist – a circle with a single eye within it.
‘You were with the People’s Army?’ he blurted.
The merchant saw what he was looking at, then dropped his hand as though guilty of something. ‘What of it?’
Ash looked at the rich clothes and jewels that he wore; at the slave holding up the umbrella, hair lank in the rain; at the other bearer still standing behind the sedan, eyes downcast; at the two armed thugs paid to do his bidding.
‘You have fallen far,’ Ash drawled.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, levelled again in anger. He looked to one of his guards.
‘Grab this one!’ he snapped.
Ash was already moving, though, pushing his way through the crowd in the direction of the exit. ‘Bring him back here!’ he heard the man shout, and then Ash was dashing through a clear space between the stalls, his bag of bread swinging in his hand and people cursing in his wake.
He slowed as he neared the exit; stopped entirely as he found himself trapped by the Thief Toll that blocked it – a line of caged turnstiles with slots for quarters.
He was struggling for his purse when one of the bodyguards made a grab for him through the bars that had sealed him in. The man missed, shook the bars in angry impotence.
The second guard pushed into the adjacent stile, fumbled too in his clothing for a coin as his other hand snaked in through the side grille, groping for Ash’s hood.
Ash dropped a whole marvel into the slot, hardly surprised that it was accepted, and broke free from his grasp as he pushed through the stile into the Serpentine beyond.
As far as the eye could see, the thoroughfare was filled with snaking processions of red-robed pilgrims. On the opposite side of the road stood the old quarter of the district, with its winding alleyways and its tilting, top- heavy buildings of stone. Ash dived headlong into the procession, weaving through the pilgrims as he tried to get across. He glimpsed men and woman whipping their bloody backs and breasts in frenzy; others chanting as they sported skewered cheeks, their faces held aloft and ecstatic.
Then he was through them, trotting into the mouth of a narrow alley with the two bodyguards emerging close behind.
‘Clear away!’ he bellowed as he picked up speed. He dashed headlong past folk and pilgrim tourists bartering over trinkets and whores, trying to lose himself in the maze of passageways and small plazas that were the guts of the old district.
They were fast, these boys. Even in their boots and their leather armour they were keeping pace with him, pounding along the flagstones of the passageway in single file with their shoulders brushing the walls, whooshing air from their lungs in a manner suggesting they could keep this up all day.
Ash was wondering if he shouldn’t pick up his pace a little more, but then he saw the passageway open out ahead of him, and a less taxing option presented itself.
He reached for his sword from beneath his cloak, drew it the instant he was clear of the alley.
In his next two steps he had stopped himself and was spinning around on the ball of his foot, his other leg stretching out so that he was low, extended, his sword pointing in front of him.
In the last instant he adjusted the aim of the tip a fraction, and then the first guard ran straight into the blade, shoving Ash back a pace with the force of his impact. They both grunted, and then the second guard ran into the first one, right into the blade sticking out of his back.
Ash straightened from his stance, the hilt of the sword still in his grip. The two men grimaced and sweated and tried to pull themselves free while Ash inspected their wounds. The first guard looked at him; looked back down at the blade in his side.
‘I’ve avoided you organs,’ he told them both. ‘Keep the wounds clean and you should live.’
Without warning he jerked the blade free. They sagged to their knees, hands reaching for their sides. People nearby were staring in wonder.
Ash cleaned the blood from his blade on one of their backs, then picked up his bag of bread and trotted away.
Che strolled home feeling light and loose-gaited, the taste of the Royal Milk still lingering on his tongue, his body trembling with the energy of a coiled spring.
His new and exclusive apartment was located in the southern side of the Temple District, that area which surrounded the Temple of Whispers, where lesser skysteeples rose above priestly mansions and apartment blocks and ornamented buildings of entertainment. He walked back through the steady rain listening to the birds singing from the parks and the rooftop gardens, wondering in his elevated mood if they were celebrating the return of life to the city streets, for there was an atmosphere of excitement in the air today, this first day of the Augere. In the streets, children watched the red-robed pilgrims march by in chanting processions, goggling at the numerous races of the Empire, drawn here in record numbers for the fiftieth anniversary of the Mannians’ seizure of power.
In his apartment, Whiskers was there already, tidying the large empty rooms in her meticulous way. Che felt a moment of affection when he saw the woman; after only a few weeks, she had become a welcome detail of stability in his scattered life.
‘I leave in the morning,’ he announced to the house-slave, even though she couldn’t hear him, for she had been rendered deaf by hot oil some time during her captivity. ‘Whiskers,’ and he waved a hand to catch her eye, ‘no need for that now.’ But the woman continued to polish the shelving, paying him no mind.
He looked at the slate board that hung about her chest, swinging free as she bent forwards, along with a stub of chalk fixed to a length of string.
He had so far refused to use the board to communicate with the woman, largely because Whiskers refused to use it herself; as though she preferred to let it hang there uselessly like an accusation of all that had been done to her. Instead, he preferred to talk to the woman, persisting in the hope that some communication might still pass
