‘Just hold onto me and kick as hard as you can. I think there’s a canal to the south of us. It can’t be far.’
She was terrified, he saw. It struck him that he should be frightened too.
She plunged into the water and came up sputtering. ‘South?’ she shouted. ‘How can you tell which way is south?’
‘I’m guessing,’ he told her. ‘Are you ready? Deep breath now. Go!’
The old priest and caretaker Heelas removed the cloth mask from his mouth and nose and inhaled a deep breath of the Tume night air.
Such a stench, he thought sourly. It reminded him of Q’os in the deep summer, when the reeking Baal’s mist would sometimes cover the city, except this was much worse than that.
Still, at least he was away from the inner chamber and Sasheen’s sickly scent of death, and out of the depths of the citadel. Heelas had always loathed being in the vicinity of illness as much as he feared the enclosure of spaces. His worst fear had always been the cool tunnels of the Hypermorum, where they laid the dead to rest. His worst nightmare was of being dead himself, and of being interred there for an eternity.
She’s dying, he thought once more as he crossed the drawbridge of the citadel and stepped onto the central plaza. Sasheen is dying.
He had left the Matriarch in her chamber, alone save for the gruesome presence of Lucian next to the bed. What a couple they made, he had thought as he’d closed the door behind him in relief. It was hard to picture them both as they once had been: two lovers struck by each other’s dazzle. For a time they had been inseparable, she and her dashing general from Lagos. Sasheen had even spoken of having children with him, of building a family retreat in Brule.
His head down, Heelas walked with his hands in his sleeves, ignoring the bows of passing priests, all of them men and women without status.
Heelas stopped by the canal and looked down at the loose rafts of lakeweed and the debris of wood still floating there. He saw a splash, though failed to see the fish that made it, only the soft ghost light in its wake.
The lesser priests would not be bowing their heads to him after she died, he reflected morosely. He would be lucky if Romano merely had him chitted, his nose removed, and cast him out on. Always it went that way when one ruler was supplanted by another. The old inner circle was cleansed to make room for the new. His whole life, everything he had worked towards – gone.
‘My pardon,’ said a voice as someone bumped against him.
Heelas turned in anger and instantly felt something sharp press through his robe and against his stomach. He was much too long in the tooth to wonder if it was anything but a knife.
An Acolyte’s masked face hovered close to his own.
‘Where is she?’ came a deep voice from behind it.
‘Who?’ he asked, playing for time.
‘Sasheen. Where is she?’
Heelas held up his hands. ‘How would I know? I’m only a courier.’
‘ Put your hands down!’ hissed the man. ‘I see how you strut, priest. Now stop lying to me and answer my question, or I will kill you now, here, where you stand.’
Heelas straightened. So it comes to this, he thought. A knife in the belly and my nose filled with the smell of rotting eggs.
‘You think you can frighten me?’ he said. ‘I can see your eyes, far-lander. You intend to kill me anyway. Do it, then,’ and he struck his chest loudly. ‘I’m ready.’
A hand lashed out to grip the front of his robe, pinning him there on the spot. The knife popped through the robe and into the skin of his stomach. It stayed there, a finger’s width inside him, as he felt warm blood trickle down into his pubic hair, his thighs.
Heelas blanched. The pain was nothing, and then it was everything.
Caretaker Heelas had been through his share of personal Purg-ings over the years. He knew how to handle pain by now, and so he did, summoning his will and forcing himself to relax into its waves.
‘If I shout, I can have a dozen men here within a moment.’
‘Then shout.’
Heelas looked about him. Priests and Acolytes came and went across the lantern-lit space. Over by a far wall a firing squad was dispatching some of Tume’s Home Guard survivors. More soldiers milled around one of the nearby warehouses, where they were offloading a munitions cart, carrying away boxes of grenades and other explosives. He could call for them, certainly, but he would only be dead all the sooner.
What does it matter. She’s dying anyway.
‘You can’t reach her,’ he said, coolly. ‘She’s in the Sunken Palace. In the heart of the rock.’
‘Describe it to me.’
He did so, all the while thinking how strange it was, what the mind and body will do to hold onto its life for even a single precious moment longer.
The flesh is strong, he reflected.
Just as he finished, the man struck him three times in and out, as fast as a snake striking. He walked away even as Heelas folded onto his knees, his hands clutching his torn and bloody stomach.
‘Help me,’ Heelas gasped, but no one heard him.
It was too late for help; he toppled sideways to the ground.
With his head resting against the boardwalk, he gasped and looked at the specks of grit scattered across it like rocks in a desert.
An ant was working its way through that landscape. He watched it twitch its antenna towards him for a moment as he lay there dying, and then it continued on its way.
Che thought she was dead when he dragged her body out of the canal and lay her down against the lakeweed. Curl sputtered, though, when he pressed hard against her stomach, then rolled onto her side and coughed.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.
She wiped her mouth, taking a moment to find her voice. ‘I think so.’
Across the canal the street was a roaring inferno. Curl sat shivering as they watched it, and he held her in his arms until she began to settle.
The itch in his neck was more a constant throb now. He looked about him, at the buildings on this side reflecting the light of the fires, the narrow street choked with the debris of looting.
They’re close.
‘You need to go now,’ he said as he helped Curl shakily to her feet, the water running clear of their clothing.
‘What about you?’
‘There’s something I must finish before I can join you.’
Her forehead furrowed, and she glanced along the empty street.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he told her. ‘Just be careful.’ Even as he spoke he felt a sudden twist of guilt at letting her go like this.
‘Here,’ he said as he shoved the pistol into her hand.
‘I’ve never used a gun in my life.’
‘And you won’t have to now. It’s waterlogged. Needs taking apart and oiling again. If you get into any trouble, just point it and use it as a threat. Here, take this too.’ He took the belt of ammunition from his waist, and buckled it around her as she watched him. ‘You’ll look more the part wearing this. Remember, just use it as a threat. Don’t try firing it, understand?’
‘Of course. I’m not an idiot.’
‘Then go,’ he told her softly.
Curl stood there, out of her depth and trembling. He drew a finger down her cheek, and when it reached her chin he tilted her head up so that their eyes met.
She grasped the finger and held it before her. ‘You look after yourself, Che, do you hear me?’
He liked the sound of her speaking his name.
‘I will.’
Their kiss was a brief one, something awkward about it; two strangers parting ways.
