for their support of the rebels, even against the protests of many within the order itself, horrified by the loss of so much potential revenue in slaves.
In doing so, the Matriarch had stamped her authority on the pages of history. She would never be forgotten for this act of genocide.
Yet now, facing Lagos for the first time, Sasheen offered nothing but stiff-necked formality as she stood by the rail, while around her, the gathered priests of her entourage seemed more proud than anything else at having reacquired this most prized of possessions.
Back in Q’os, the news-sheets were filled with stories of the island’s pacification, and how the land was now open to immigrants from across the Empire. They played down the true extent of the slaughter wrought upon the Lagosians, and blamed them when they did mention the burnings and the clearances by pointing out how the rebellion had first begun: as a protest by the surviving Lagosian nobility, unable to stomach the continuing losses of their tenanted lands to their new Mannian masters.
Only a single detail betrayed anything of Sasheen’s inner condition. Beside her, on the rail, she had planted the living head of Lucian – the first time she had chosen to display him in such a way in public. The Matriarch held a palm against its scalp to keep it there, so that the leader of the insurrection could look upon his desolated homeland in his own unfathomable silence.
Horns sounded from the foremost ships of the fleet ahead. They were approaching the harbour of Chir at last, one of the greatest marvels of the known world. Soon, as they rounded a rocky headland, Che gazed open-mouthed at the legendary Oreos as it rose impossibly high before him, that colossal arch which spanned the natural mouth of the harbour inlet of Chir, the clouds of mist rolling beneath it.
The cityport of Chir, once rich from its trade in wool and salted meat with Zanzahar, and the former high seat of the Lagosian civilization, sprawled around a rocky inlet that formed the largest natural harbourage in the Mideres. The city had constructed the Oreos across its harbour entrance as the grandest of statements to the world. Cast in iron, it resembled a blade bent into a curve so that its flatness cut the wind in two, gleaming a brilliant painted white beneath a sky that had finally broken to reveal the sun.
He’d never before travelled to Lagos or its port of Chir, though he’d read much about them, and of the feat of art and engineering that he now gazed at. The mists were caused by seawater pumped by the motion of the waves into the body of the arch itself, and out through the countless nozzles arrayed along its underside to create the finest of sprays.
On some days, banded colours could be seen within the hazy span of the Oreos. It was common to see four or five or even six rainbows stretching through the spray or reflecting across the surface of water. The Rainbow Catcher, the people of Lagos often called it, with affection. Or they had done, when they had still lived here.
Che could see one now, a bow of vibrant colours like a second archway, and beyond it, tinged by its hues, the sprawl of the city around the banks of the harbour, with imperial ships already at anchor there. He shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up to the top of the Oreos. He could make out tiny figures up there, white-robed priests gathered along a railing, taking in the sights of the cityport from its high elevation.
Che would have studied the scene for longer, but his eyes just then caught movement up on the foredeck. It was Romano’s catamite, Topo, striding over to the general and the woman in his lap to exchange a flurry of heated words.
Topo whirled away and stamped towards the steps.
With a final glance cast at the approaching Oreos, Che pushed himself from the rail. He tracked the youth as he returned alone to Romano’s cabin, red-faced and shoving past the guards at the door. Che waited a few moments longer to ensure that no one was joining him, then set about delivering his message.
He entered Romano’s chambers silently via the rear balcony, while everyone overhead, including the guards, stood on the landward side taking in the sights of the harbour.
In the cabin, with the sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom, Che murdered a bodyguard with the slash of a knife across his throat.
He stepped back from the mess as the man collapsed onto the rug.
‘Hello?’ came a voice from the bathroom beyond.
Che stood still for some moments while the man gargled blood at his feet. He listened until he heard the gentle splash of water once more from the other side of the door. With a garrotte dangling from one hand, he pushed the bathroom door slightly ajar. Steam escaped around his shaven head.
He looked in to see the man lying in the wooden bathtub, muttering to himself with his eyes squeezed shut. Che slipped inside, and stopped behind his head as he gripped the garrotte in both fists. He gazed down on Romano’s young lover. There were fresh scars over his pale, lean body; scabbed bruises the size of bite marks.
Che observed the great bronze pot of a water-heater sitting on the stove at the foot of the tub, and knew what he must do.
The young man jerked, and snapped his eyes open as Che looped the garrotte around his neck and pulled hard on the cork handles.
Brown eyes, Che noted, near popping out of their sockets; and there, within the glassy pupils, a shadow, Che himself looming large. The youth snorted and wheezed for air, his face bulging. His hands scrabbled at the garrotte around his throat. His legs flailed in the water spilling in waves over the side to splash around Che’s sandalled feet. The Diplomat maintained his steady pressure. He thought of nothing as he performed the act, though he felt, strangely, a rising sense of anger.
At last, Topo stopped floundering and lay limp in the settling water. Che maintained pressure for a few moments more, then released the garrotte with a gasp.
Panting, he kicked open the door of the stove beneath the heater and tossed in a log from the wooden bin that sat next to it, then after that as many more as would fit. Then he unlatched the lid of the pot to expose the warming water within. Quickly, he hauled the body out of the bath, with his hands slipping on its slick skin. Che was strong enough for all his modest height; still, it was an effort to lift the dead weight of Topo into the great pot, to make it fit as the displaced water rose up around it, so he could replace and refas-ten the lid.
By the time he was finished the flames of the stove were starting to roar. He imagined the smoke tumbling out of the chimney far above his head; hoped it wouldn’t draw Romano’s early return. He stepped from the bathroom and listened for the sounds of footfalls.
Behind him, the bronze water-heater made a sudden popping sound. Che stopped.
Another thump sounded from within it.
He’s still alive in there.
Che hesitated, at once caught in a moment of self-doubt. He glanced back through the doorway, struggling with an impulse to rush inside and unlatch the lid and haul the lad out from there.
He fought it down. He’d spent too long at this already.
Che strode across the main cabin while a faint scream pursued him to the open window. It shook him to hear it; his hands trembled as he clambered out onto the balcony, cursing himself for his own carelessness.
From the bathroom, the scream grew in pitch until it was consumed by the piercing shriek of steam that suddenly blasted through a whistle.
In the early evening chaos of the Chir harbour, Che waited in line before the thronged gantry, impatient to be off the ship so that he could sample some of the attractions of the ancient cityport.
On the other side of the gantry, the dockside was awash with slaves manhandling fresh supplies onto the waiting ships, and a host of newly arrived immigrants from elsewhere in the empire, drawn to the island’s sudden land rush now that it was conveniently deserted. Through them all, in stamping columns, the grim, orderly troops of the Sixth Army marched aboard the transports in preparation for the dawn departure, when the newly combined army and fleet of the Expeditionary Force would set sail for Khos.
He was first aware of trouble when he heard the distinct sound of shouting up towards the quarterdeck. He turned instinctively towards Sasheen’s quarters, saw that the Matriarch’s door was lying open, her honour guard nowhere to be seen.
Che swore under his breath, then bounded for the steps and the open doorway. He passed the two twins, Guan and Swan, standing at the top of the stairway with their expressions wholly neutral.
Inside, the guards were struggling with a group of priests who were trying desperately to protect General Romano. The man raved beyond reason, his spit flying towards the Holy Matriarch, who sat in a chair flanked by her
