travelogues and diaries and books of maps, and texts of religion and history. It was this knowledge, Che sometimes suspected, that really lay behind the sense of distrust he sometimes felt from his handlers; this abundance of learning of other cultures and the ideologies that ran contrary to Mann.
In the end he selected one of the works by Slavo, an account of the Markeshian’s travels – imaginary most likely – to the far side of the world and the foreign peoples he’d discovered there. It had been a while since Che had read that one.
As an afterthought, he turned to his copy of the Scripture lying closed on top of the bookcase. Only once had he actually read the thing in its entirety since his return to his life of Mann. It had been part of his re-education after living all those years as a Roshun apprentice in the mountains of Cheem, when the spypriests of the Elash had slowly reintegrated him into the ways of the divine flesh, before informing him that he was to become a Diplomat for the Section.
He lifted the thin volume and packed it only reluctantly.
In the darkening hours of evening, with the living room lit by gas lamps, Che sat down in his armchair dressed in a clean white robe, his stomach comfortably full, a modest glass of Seratian wine in his hand, gazing out onto the street below, lost in thought.
His mood of earlier was long gone. Instead, he felt vaguely depressed now that his packing was done and there was nothing left but to wait for morning, the reality of it finally sinking in. This life of a Diplomat allowed him to exist in relative, blessed isolation from his peers. Now, though, for weeks on end, he would be expected to live shoulder to shoulder with his fellow priests, and the Matriarch and her entourage of sycophants. He would have to watch his every step, his every word. Not an easy thing that, not now with his thoughts running ever more contrary to everything around him.
Since Cheem and his betrayal of the Roshun, a seething anger had been rising within Che. He could feel it whenever his temper snapped in a dozen little ways during the course of an ordinary day, or when he said things he shouldn’t be saying, or when he provoked those of authority with his seeming arrogance towards them, which in truth wasn’t arrogance at all, but a nonchalant mental shrug, a lack of caring. It was as though he wished to be challenged on his behaviour, as though he wanted to have it out with the priests at last, regardless of the consequences. A kind of deathwish perhaps, gathering slowly in momentum.
Che took another sip of the wine, appreciating the soft rasp of bitterness against his palate, the perfect accompaniment to the peppered rabbit he could still taste from dinner. In the kitchen, he could hear Whiskers cleaning the dirty pots and plates.
It had stopped raining at last, and people were stepping out to enjoy the evening entertainments of the streets below. For a while, Che watched a pimp running his little empire from the corner of the street, the fellow strutting and preening himself beneath the streetlights. When he grew bored of that, he shifted his attention to a group of young men and women sitting on a low wall behind a tram stop, passing hazii sticks amongst themselves, chatting and laughing, warming each other with their companionship. They seemed not much younger than Che, yet he watched them as though with the eyes of an old man.
At first he didn’t notice Whiskers as she emerged into the living area, her hands folded before her, waiting to be relieved for the night. The woman cleared her throat, and he turned and blinked and stared at her tired, sagging face.
Che had no idea what this woman was really called. Non-indentured slaves weren’t allowed names as a rule, save for what their masters chose for them; hence he’d coined her nickname when he’d first been given the keys to this apartment, and laid eyes on the house-slave that came with it, this middle-aged woman with blonde downy hairs on her face and a pair of fierce blue eyes. He knew that she was from the people of the northern tribes, though only because of the colour of her hair, and the blue-ink tattoo he had once glimpsed on her upper arm.
Not much of a life, he’d often thought. Seven days a week at his beck and call with only the late nights truly to herself; and even then, only if she wasn’t required in her master’s bed. He imagined she had been well used by her previous masters, for she was womanly enough. He’d toyed with the idea himself for a while, before deciding he preferred more consent in these matters.
Behind Whiskers, shadows hung across the apartment in heavy veils that shifted in the gaslight. They hid the clock that ticked its isolated ticks on the far table, and the piles of reference materials stacked against the wall, and the lacquered globe of the world, turned so often it needed oiling again already. Not much else, though, save for emptiness and bare walls and the sounds of the world outside it.
‘Stay a while longer,’ Che heard himself say to the woman, motioning with his open hands.
She seemed to misunderstand him, for a little colour came to her pale features.
Not for the first time, a suspicion crossed his mind that perhaps Whiskers really could read lips, as many slaves learned to do after they’d been rendered deaf – and that she was keeping the fact to herself for reasons unknown to him.
‘No, I didn’t mean…’ He shook his head and looked away, then noticed the ylang board on the small table before him. He gestured to it. ‘Perhaps you could join me for a game, if you play?’
Her stare took in his gesturing hand then returned to his eyes. Pity crossed her features. For an instant he saw it clearly, and he wondered what caused such an emotion towards him. The woman remained where she stood.
‘Wine?’ he asked, holding up the bottle above an empty glass.
When he looked up, it was to see the look of a cautious animal approaching.
Whiskers settled herself in the chair opposite as she held the slate board against her chest, then folded her hands neatly in her lap. He watched her as he poured out a generous measure of wine.
They played in silence, with the shouts and laughter from the street muted by the thick panes of window glass. Indeed she could play, at least enough to make a game of it at the beginning. Che went easy on her anyway, wanting to make it last a while. She played along with that too, an amused awareness in the occasional glance shot from beneath her thick eyebrows.
With each move she made, she held the slate against her chest so it wouldn’t get in the way as she leaned forward over the game board. Che finally pointed at the thing, catching her eye. ‘Please. Take that thing off.’
She blinked at him.
He pointed again, and made a gesture of removing it over her head.
She looked down at the slate, studied it for a moment. Then she pulled it off her with a rough hasty motion, and set in down against a leg of the table.
‘Now, how about the rest of your clothes?’
He watched her closely as she watched him. Was there a flush of colour on her face again, just a hint of it?
His curiosity only intensified.
Whiskers took a drink of wine, then deployed three of her pebbles, using them to flank one of his own, picking it up with her calloused fingers to place it next to her other captured stones.
‘I leave in the morning,’ he said, watching her eyes closely as he did so. ‘With the fleet. We go to wage war on the non-believers.’ Nothing. No change in her expression.
Che carelessly drove his black stones against her gathered whites, now huddling for protection in one quadrant of the board. He allowed himself a few mistakes until his offensive stalled and she rallied with her own. She didn’t take long with her moves, as though she was hardly taking the game seriously herself. She seemed more interested in the wine.
He refilled her glass, and waited until she’d nearly finished that helping too. When next he caught her eye, he declared: ‘I’ve been told by my handler to kill the Holy Matriarch.’ And the words sounded loud in the dim quietness of the apartment.
Her eyes danced wildly, watching him. Che could feel the sudden charge in the air between them.
‘If she runs from battle, that is. Or looks as though she might be captured. It seems they will not allow that. She must win or fall. Nothing else.’
He placed a pebble down, picked up another, placed it next to the first. A third snuggled in behind them. ‘Now, I mostly wonder who my handlers are. I wonder who I am really working for after all this time, if they can order the death of a Matriarch.’
Whisker’s face thrust towards him. ‘Hush now!’ she said with an uneven voice, the tones slightly off. Her hands gripped either side of the table.
