‘But I have heard them talk in the Perch of how you keep a vigil in the shrine every day, meditating deeply.’
‘ Pah. They call it what they wish to call it. In the shrine I merely sit and watch the world turning.’
Ash saw the irony in that. In the native tongue of Honshu, the meditative act of chachen meant simply to sit in stillness.
He watched the man and pondered.
‘I was coming to see you later,’ Meer admitted. ‘I’ve been talking with some friends in the city. Concerning your situation.’
‘ You have been doing what?’
‘I can get you to Cheem, if you want it.’
‘Oh? And I suppose we are flying, like a leaf on the wind?’
Meer showed him one of his quick, boyish smiles. ‘I have a friend who owns a boat.’
Ash’s expression clearly said it all.
‘It’s true,’ Meer chirped.
‘And tell me. Why would you go to all that trouble, simply for an old farlander like me?’
‘Because we’d want to come along with you. To Sato.’
Ash’s hand reached for his sword, though it grasped at nothing. He had left his weapon back in his room.
‘Who are you?’ he asked coolly. ‘How do you know of Sato?’
The man shrugged and held out his hands in a gesture of openness. ‘I am who I say I am. And a little more. All you need to know, in this moment here and now, is that I’m a friend to you, Ash. And that I have certain other friends. People who would dearly wish to have words with the Roshun order.’
‘There is no more Roshun order.’
‘Why not? Because the Imperials attacked it? Yes, we have already spoken to several of your agents in the Free Ports. They all said the same as you. Still, there might be survivors left in Cheem. If there are, we would like to make them an offer.’
Ash was on his feet now, though he could not recall standing.
‘You are with the Few?’
A modest twitch of the head.
‘Trust me – we only wish to talk with your people. And in return, I may just be willing to help you.’
‘Help me? With what?’
Meer stepped forward to set a hand on his shoulder. He looked Ash straight in the eye.
‘With your loss, my friend.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Bunker
Deep beneath the Temple of Whispers, old Kira, mother of Sasheen, stepped from an elevator into an underground tunnel lit by gaslights, and saw that all but one of the carriages had already departed.
She boarded the remaining one, the carriage sitting there with its wheels on the rails and the driver diligently avoiding her eye, the team of zels sniffing and snorting in impatience. With a hard tug on the cord she rang the bell, and the driver, a slave with a complexion made pasty white from lack of sunlight, lashed his whip across the backs of the zels, and they were away.
Deep within her own her own heart, a fierce fire was burning. With the bland concrete walls flowing past her, and the harshness of the lights interspersed with identical lengths of gloom, she stoked it with memories of her daughter, and her grandson too, young Kirkus, both of them gone now.
It had been Kira, in her capacity as a handler within the Section, who had given the order to the Diplomat Che concerning what was to be done in the event that Sasheen was captured, or ran from battle. An order that had needed to be given, as it always had been when a Matriarch or Patriarch had taken to the field; an order she had been commanded to pass on herself.
And now it had come to pass. Her daughter lay dead, poisoned by a Diplomat’s bullet.
Oh, Sasheen, she thought, and couldn’t help the grip of loss that seized her thin frame.
Her direct bloodline would end with her own passing. Others within the family of Dubois, her half-sister Velma and her get, would take the helm of the family’s falling fortunes.
Her thoughts turned to the Diplomat still at large in Khos, the one who had clearly shot her daughter through the neck. Che, the young man with his Roshun ways. A deserter, if the vague report from the twins was in any way accurate.
Kira wondered how utterly she could destroy him.
It felt like hours, rocking from side to side as the carriage rolled along the endless track of rails, always downwards towards a never-changing vanishing point. Time to linger on things, to allow her emotions to slowly ebb into numbness and her mind into random thoughts.
She was jolted as the carriage came to a halt, and saw that they had arrived at their destination. The air was stale here, so deep beneath the catacombs of the Hypermorum.
Kira stepped out and walked to the heavy iron door in the wall. Even as she approached, a priest stepped out from a cubicle to open it. He bowed low as she stepped through the raised threshold into the small chamber within, which was cylindrical, its sides glassy smooth, so that she felt as if she was standing in a bottle. Another round iron door plugged the end of it.
Darkness, as the light slowly faded to nothing. A hiss as a fine spray covered her, smelling of pine trees and the sea.
‘Your pass, please,’ came a voice from all around her.
‘Eight-six-oh-four-nine-nine-one.’
The inner door cracked opened. Kira stepped through into the light beyond.
The bunker was a tomb for all those who had been buried there alive; the iron doors were there to keep them in as much as others out.
The priests and slaves who lived down here would never see the sky again. Some had volunteered for this half existence, but for most there had been little choice in it. The dry, filtered air that fluttered through its rooms held an atmosphere of hopes abandoned and desires forever repressed. Quiet chatter came from the pools and salons and cages of the harem. Silence from the libraries and map rooms. Singing, even, from a boy standing naked on a pedestal in a marbled hallway, his words a celebration of the jealousy of lovers.
Kira stood beneath the strips of gaslights that made it as bright as day in there, surrounded by friezes on the leather-faced walls of forest hunting scenes. It smelled of dampness in the waiting chamber, and of decay, even with the fresh scents on her clothing and skin.
Four others stood in various postures around the room. Octas Lefall was there, famous uncle of Romano, leaning on the mantelpiece of a decorative hearth while he stared down his long nose at her, looking as though he was pleased with the news of the Matriarch’s death. The rest were over by the bar, conversing quietly in whispers.
Kira returned the stare of Octas with one just as icy. She would afford him no small victories today by an outward betrayal of her emotions.
They all fell quiet as a set of double doors clattered opened. Quickly, they gathered in a line and fell to their knees, their heads bowed low.
The high-backed chair creaked as it was wheeled through by a burly male priest. The man sitting in it had his eyes closed behind a pair of gilded spectacles. He was naked beneath his half-open silk robe, and his ancient withered skin was covered with the blotches of liver spots and the odd wiry white hair. His bald head rocked slightly as the chair stopped before them. His bearer retreated from the room and closed the door.
Nihilis snapped open his eyes.
Through the thick spectacles, the watery orbs were oversized and spiteful.
‘Kira,’ he snapped, and his voice sounded as worn and scratchy as his one-hundred-and-thirty-one years
