Balanced in an Angel's Eye Excerpt

Balanced in an Angel’s Eye. Shaune Lafferty Webb First published in Australia in 2012 by Winterbourne Publishing www.winterbournepublishing.com.au Copyright © Shaune Lafferty Webb 2012 The right of Shaune Lafferty Webb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000. All rights reserved under international copyright conventions.

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A Cataloguing-in-Publication record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

ISBN 978-0-9871548-7-3 (print) ISBN 978-0-9871548-8-0 (digital) This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Balanced in an Angel’s Eye

Shaune Lafferty Webb

1

I

sda eased herself off the bed, resigned that she’d have to leave the house with the mystery of Hael’s whereabouts unresolved. The roads would be too heavily trafficked if she dawdled much longer. Through years of experience, she’d learned the best hours of the day to be out and about with the least chance of being observed.

For today, all she could do was hope that her daughter had the good sense to stay out of Charoum’s way.

Although Isda wouldn’t have thought it even possible, with the progress of years and war, Anauel’s seneschal had grown increasingly more crotchety. Isda didn’t envy him his responsibilities — even at the best of times, the running of any household was not an easy task, and Anauel was a hard and unforgiving master who gave no quarter. He’d lived a certain type of life, with certain types of luxuries, and accepted no excuses when those luxuries weren’t forthcoming. But Charoum wasn’t one to suffer the brunt of Anauel’s ire in silence; though he’d be the one to bear initial censure, he was quick to ensure that every thrall in the household inevitably shared fault.

Isda gathered her second-skin about her shoulders in readiness, then collected the carry bag from the nail on the wall over her bed. The battered and worn bag wouldn’t see out too many more years. Inside it was a set of fresh clothes, newly stolen from the thrall laundry, and some of the choicest morsels from her own breakfast this morning and all of Hael’s. If matters progressed the same way much longer, they’d both fade away to nothing, she from self-sacrifice and Hael from disinterest.

Her thoughts settled down into reproach. If only she hadn’t failed to secure Hael a position in the Chief Gardener’s house, there’d be one less thing for her to worry about. She’d never heard anything but encouraging reports about Baglis, Cathetel’s seneschal.

Isda paused, anticipating the standard complaint from the aged hinges when she cracked the door open to peek through the narrow slit into the corridor. Empty.

Just as experience told her it should be. In other compounds, the councillors and their immediate families occupied the upper floors of the four-storey houses, but in Anauel’s unconventional house, the thralls were quartered on two of those floors and to reach the service entrance at the back of the house, Isda was obliged to descend the servant’s staircase to the ground floor. At this time of day, she was unlikely to meet anyone on those stairs. Anauel’s household numbered seventeen

thralls in all, excluding Charoum: four would be about their duties on the lower two floors; four half way to the markets by now; two on their way to the Council Chamber to attend their master; two tending to Anauel’s private gardens, and three resting from their morning labours in the kitchen. The three kitchen thralls posed the greatest threat to Isda; any one of them could wake and stumble into the communal corridor to discover her there. And of course she had to be vigilant for Charoum, who for some years now hadn’t been called upon to accompany their master to the Chamber and so could be anywhere about the house.

Reassured to hear the bass sound of Galgaliel’s snores still coming from the room next door, Isda stepped into the corridor and trod cautiously past her sleeping colleagues. Old Galgaliel might sleep soundly, but a gentle brushing of the wind in the trees had been known to wake him. At the top of the stairs, she hesitated, bothered still by Hael’s disappearance, but finally set off down the winding staircase. She gripped the rail as she hurried. A fall on the ancient treads of the staircase would bring Charoum running, full of concern and despair — not for the poor unfortunate who might have broken an arm or leg — clumsiness did not elicit compassion in Charoum’s household — but for any damage that might have been inflicted on the dilapidated staircase and, as a consequence, the time and effort it would take to patch it.

Isda reached the bottom of the twisting stairs without incident. At least this morning she wouldn’t be obliged to steal from the kitchen — just as well — her fruitless search for Hael had left her terribly late and these days there was so little left behind to scavenge that sometimes the onerous task bit savagely into her time.

She hurried to the service entrance, careful not to glance in the direction of the locked door that she knew opened onto a narrow landing at the top of the basement stairs; Isda didn’t like the basement. At the service entrance, she stopped again, listening for sounds of thralls gardening nearby. Save for the small patch dedicated to a subsistence stand of vegetables, at Charoum’s direction and likely Anauel’s insistence, all work in the back yard had been discontinued in favour of maintaining the opulent front gardens.

Drawing a ring of keys from her pocket, Isda unlocked the door to the service entrance. Once in the back yard, she relocked the door, as habit and good sense demanded. It wouldn’t do for Charoum to stumble upon an unlocked door. But when she turned around, Isda quickly discovered her effort had been entirely in vain. In the middle of the dusty vegetable patch stood Charoum, water bucket dangling from the crook of his damaged arm, looking in her direction.

Her legs nearly gave way beneath her. Although Isda had always suspected that Charoum was at the heart of the small offerings dutiful thralls received, it was Charoum, too, who meted out the punishments. Of course, Charoum hadn’t always had just one hand, but Isda could barely remember a time when he didn’t and for a thrall with one hand, he was remarkably effective at all his tasks. Once she’d watched, too dumb stricken at the sight to do the wise thing and hurry on, while Charoum had whipped a young thrall. With each lash, Isda had seen the child’s pain reflected in the wounded expression on Charoum’s face, but when he’d glanced up and discovered her standing there, the expression of his face had instantly hardened. For 5

a moment, Isda had even feared that she was next for the lash, simply for having witnessed the incident. Instead Charoum had only set off after her, half-heartedly whipping at the ground well behind her retreating feet. He played tough but Anauel’s seneschal was reputed to have a soft spot for children, something Isda had been counting on when she’d first considered mothering a child without seeking the prior consent of her master. And in the early years, though he always feigned reluctance, it had invariably been Charoum who looked in on her sleeping infant whenever Isda was about her duties.

Charoum lowered the bucket to the ground.

Only once before had the seneschal intercepted her when she was about to set out for the Fourth Ring. On that occasion, she’d managed to convince him that the kitchen thralls had neglected to thoroughly check the larder and that the cook had directed her to catch them before they reached the markets. Although he’d let her go, nothing could have saved her from the whip had he decided to confirm her story while she’d been gone.

When the seneschal’s attention fell on the carry bag in her arms, Isda began to tremble, setting the keys jangling on the ring in her hand.

‘Am I to presume that a thrall has been remiss in the kitchen again?’

Isda tried to nod, but shaking so, doubted the gesture was particularly noticeable.

‘Run along, then,’ Charoum said and, after stooping to reclaim the bucket with his only hand, promptly turned his back to her.

As she hurried around the garden, Isda was careful not to glance Charoum’s way, but on hearing the sudden bang of the service door, she stopped and turned around. The seneschal was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, Isda freed a held breath; Charoum could only have returned to the house. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Or had it just been luck, after all? Sometimes she wondered if the seneschal didn’t know more than he let on.

Once in the back yard, thralls were expected to round the house and leave by the compound’s front entrance. But that wasn’t where Isda was heading. Every thrall had a key to the service door, but nineteen years ago, she had been given four additional and special keys. The largest and most ancient-looking of those keys opened a small and forgotten gate set in the wall at the rear of Anauel’s vast compound.

Reaching the wall, Isda was obliged to stop and listen once again for the sound of activity in the alley beyond. It seemed silent, but having just been surprised by Charoum, she was especially cautious. Selecting the right key that would unlock the small gate had become automatic and Isda could identify by feel alone which of the keys she needed. Satisfied that she’d encounter no one outside in the alley, she slipped the key into the lock. The gate opened with its characteristic little squeal.

For many years now, she’d been aware that the gate needed mending; there was no one she could ask.

Locking the gate again behind her, she struck off noiselessly down the narrow alley. Her transit of the alley was ironically another dangerous segment of her journey. A thrall on legitimate business from Anauel’s household had no cause to be skulking along in the back street behind his compound. If caught, she knew her lie 6

to Charoum would be exposed and Anauel would deny all knowledge of her real mission. It was always a relief to come out of the dark, confining space into the light. Before stepping into the broader street, Isda took a moment to reposition the battered bag she carried. The elite had their bearing and fine clothes to distinguish them, the Guardians, the insignias on their uniforms. All a thrall had were the tools of their particular trades; Isda’s guise was that of a common house thrall. The old bag served as her badge.

The streets were particularly quiet today; it was often quiet on days when the Chamber was in session. The absence of their masters lent thralls the rare opportunity to tend to their own more pedestrian affairs. Isda nodded politely to those few thralls that she passed. Most she recognised, some she didn’t, but all passed her by with only the appropriate degree of notice. In the daylight hours, thralls didn’t stop in the middle of the street to chatter and waste their masters’ time. Isda settled in for the long walk. Usually she passed the time in peaceful reflection; today her reflections weren’t peaceful at all. Her mind kept worrying on Hael. Her daughter’s independent nature, which had drawn Charoum’s attention too often lately, was sure to see her disciplined — or worse — dispelled from Anauel’s household altogether. Masterless thralls were rare — and reviled; if Hael didn’t watch herself, that’s exactly where she’d end up. When a touch on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts, Isda jumped at the extraordinary intrusion.

‘Are you going far? Perhaps we can walk together.’

Isda turned and, recognising her inquisitor, inwardly grimaced. Zuriel — of all thralls she could encounter on the street this morning! At least the diminutive thrall was as ingenuous and sweet as her round and pudgy face and body promised she might be. The thrall posed Isda no threat, other than a delay to her mission. At any other time, Isda might be delighted to share an otherwise lonely journey with such a jolly little companion.

‘Good morning, Zuriel,’ Isda replied, feigning pleasure. ‘I’m walking some distance this morning, but of course you’re welcome to join me partway.’

Zuriel smiled her delight. ‘Oh and it will be partway. My master knows better than to send me on long walks.’ She nudged Isda playfully in the side. ‘He’d be short one thrall by the end of the day and have the expense of my funeral as well.’

Isda forced a chuckle for the benefit of her companion, but her mind was on another matter. Gavreel — in all of her machinations, she hadn’t given any thought at all to that hulking yet kind-hearted councillor.

‘Zuriel,’ she said, attempting to sound casual. ‘Do you think your master might have a place in his house for another thrall?’

The round little thrall stopped walking, bringing Isda to a halt bedside her.

Isda glanced down at her walking companion, puzzled. At first, she wondered if the familiar throb of marching she’d just then noticed for herself might have prompted Zuriel to stop. But if she’d slapped her hard in the face, the fat, little thrall couldn’t have looked more startled. Quickly, she understood.

‘For Hael — my daughter,’ she said.

‘Oh!’ Zuriel’s face crinkled into a broad grin. ‘I thought you meant … well, never mind what I thought.’

7

Isda smiled; obviously Zuriel had assumed she was talking about herself. Placement in Gavreel’s house came without much esteem and there’d be little, if any, chance of advancement. Gavreel’s influence in the Council rated barely a speck above none at all. He had no one’s ear, but rumour was he had Cathetel’s heart. The Chief Gardener, it was said, bore a genuine affection for him. Anauel, on the other hand, had no time for Gavreel whatsoever. A councillor lacking in influence was a councillor lacking in interest for Anauel — and a waste of space on the benches.

Still, even though she wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect, as a servant in Gavreel’s household, Hael would be safe and well occupied. There would be little free time for wandering or getting into trouble and, for the moment, that was the best she could do for her daughter.

Finally Zuriel replied; evidently she’d been seriously considering the notion. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said before starting up the road again. ‘I could ask Mihr for you, if you’d like. But …’ she appended a shrug, ‘with things the way they are …’

Isda nodded her understanding. ‘I’d be very grateful if you would make enquiries of Gavreel’s seneschal. Hael is a good worker; she just doesn’t have enough to keep her occupied.’

‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ Zuriel said in a whisper. ‘If matters don’t change and swiftly, these young ones will have no chance at all. With this war, hardly anyone is prepared to take on an inexperienced thrall and that means the older ones like us have more to do than we can possibly handle.’

‘Yes,’ Isda agreed. ‘I fear we’re breeding a generation of idlers.’

Zuriel’s pace slowed as she glanced quickly to the right and left. ‘If you want my opinion,’ she took up in the same muted tones as before, ‘the Guild’s had too much say already.’

Isda couldn’t believe her ears. She’d have expected such comments from one of Cathetel’s thralls. But Gavreel’s?

‘Have you heard the latest?’

Isda shook her head. Coming from Zuriel, normally the ‘latest’ could be anything from the rising cost of Karva melons to the newest of those strange little jokes that Gavreel was wont to compose and share amongst his appreciative servants.

After her last observation, Isda was no longer sure.

‘Something big is set to happen in the Chamber this morning. My master was in a very agitated mood all during breakfast.’

Isda turned to the jolly little thrall in surprise.

Zuriel’s expression had grown even more serious. Isda had never seen such an unsettling look on her face before.

‘What about?’

‘He didn’t say.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t think he knew very much. Sometimes I wonder if this war will ever end, Isda,’ she said with a final tut. ‘And if it does, what there’ll be left behind after it’s over.’

Isda was at the point of raising her hand, intending to place it on the little thrall’s shoulder in a gesture of compassion. But as suddenly as Zuriel’s demeanour had darkened, the veil lifted.

8

‘Watch out,’ she said and, making a grab for Isda’s sleeve, dragged her out of the street.

Isda was at a loss to explain the urgency until a line of Guardians brusquely rounded the corner. More came behind … a large troop, Isda estimated.

‘That’s the second I’ve seen this morning,’ Zuriel said, raising her voice to be heard over the monotonous tattoo. ‘What a racket.’ When the last of the Guardians had passed she turned to Isda and beamed a familiar smile. ‘I’m turning down there.’

She pointed past the corner. ‘I guess you’re going further.’

‘Yes.’ Completing her aborted gesture, Isda placed a hand to Zuriel’s soft, broad shoulder. ‘I have a little way left to go still.’

Zuriel nodded and didn’t ask where; it simply wasn’t polite. ‘I hope we see each other again soon,’ she said instead, then shrugged. ‘Most thralls won’t stop and talk.’

Isda returned a smile. Like everyone else, she’d always believed Gavreel’s thralls to be as carefree and naive as their appearance and behaviour suggested. In so few and simple words, Zuriel had just told her how wrong she had always been. She stood and watched the departing figure of the fat little thrall a while longer, happy in the thought that securing Hael a position in Gavreel’s house might not be so demeaning after all.

Her heart was lighter when she started on her way again. The walk to the Fourth Ring seemed shorter than usual and, despite her late start and the recent forced delay, she realised that she’d arrived with plenty of time to complete her task and still return before the kitchen staff woke from their morning rest.

At the entrance to the Fourth Ring, Isda was stopped by two unfamiliar Guardians approaching her from either side of the massive stone gate. There was so much flux in The City these days, Isda never knew who’d be on duty anymore. She fumbled as she tried to locate the chain about her neck, frantic for a moment when she feared she’d lost it, but the chain had only become entangled in her second-skin.

Freeing it, Isda held up the chain to the nearest Guardian, who took the small dangling disc of metal into her hand and, satisfied, stepped aside to allow Isda to proceed. Numbering among Anauel’s servants granted Isda entrance to almost every ring inside The City; she wondered if the name of Gavreel would have afforded Zuriel equal liberty, but doubted it. And that was another point in favour of gaining Hael a position with Gavreel; her wandering ways would be admirably curbed.

The Fourth Ring was growing increasingly more deserted, something Isda was coming to expect. Most Guardians were now either deployed in the Interjacence, the desolate stretch of land between the warring cities, or stationed in ‘temporary’ billets outside the Thirteenth Ring; the word ‘temporary’ was taking on a new definition in her city. Those billets had existed for a good many years now, yet still continued to grow steadily in number.

Isda hurried on; she didn’t like to spend overlong on the streets inside the Fourth Ring and felt especially uncomfortable walking down the street where she had first met Tabbris, always rushing past the corner where they used to stand and talk. How young she had been then — and how naive. But she’d missed the bright company of the child she used to care for in Satarel’s house and Tabbris had been sweet to her and kind. At the time, satisfying her longing for a child of her own hadn’t seemed 9

such a daring thing to do. Sometimes it seemed just yesterday, but in reality Tabbris was probably long dead now. She’d heard nothing from or about him since his Company had left for the Interjacence all those years ago, unaware that she was pregnant with his child. And unfortunately Hael was every bit her father’s daughter.

There was too much audacity in her, a trait Isda had struggled unsuccessfully to repress these last nineteen years. It was no wonder the Guardians’ children were raised in a central nursery — there’d be no controlling them otherwise. But while boldness might be a desirable quality in a Guardian, in a thrall, it was regarded with shock but moreover with revulsion. If Tabbris had lived, things could have been very much worse — for herself — and for Hael. Husbandless, at least Isda had been able to secure the illusion of acceptance for her daughter and spare her the antipathy mixed caste children often faced.

Although her mission took her deep inside the core of the ring, the Guardians she encountered never stopped to challenge her. Once past the gates, the right of passage inside, even for the rare thrall who visited there, was universally acknowledged. Isda wound her way through the familiar back streets and alleys toward her destination. In the dark little cul-de-sac, she made for the farthest door. The third key from her ring, her second special key, was in readiness in her hand long before she reached it. Isda never tarried outside. She slipped the key into the lock and it turned with the tiniest of clicks. When she pushed through the door, the same old smell of dust, disuse, and mould assaulted her. Closing the door, she found the steep and narrow staircase in the dark; the treads were worn and rounded by age but she knew each subtle imperfection by heart. At the top of the stairs, she turned immediately right, then some distance on, left to follow a shorter connecting corridor that ended abruptly at her goal. Isda hesitated outside the door, the fourth key held dangling on the ring by her side, a habit she’d developed many years ago. It pained her to step inside.

Beyond that door lay a second door, one that could be opened by the fifth and last of her keys. It was a key Isda rarely used, one that she was careful to ensure Hael never knew existed. Bad enough that, all those years ago, her daughter had taken to stationing herself outside that door, chattering to the unseen inhabitant of that room, while Isda performed her duties as hastily as she possibly could. Fortunately, all little Hael ever managed to earn for herself in return was silence. It was many years before Isda began to suspect that, although the lad never failed to stay resolutely mute, he’d been listening. It puzzled her why Hael had never thought to peek through the slot where the lad had quickly learned to exchange soiled and empty dishes for filled ones and used and outgrown clothes for new. That her daughter’s usual inquisitiveness had never gotten the better of her there was a rare stroke of fortune, making it obvious that she should never have risked taking Hael along in the first place. But she’d been a young thrall herself then, with no one she could entrust with the care of her own child while she carried out Anauel’s individual instructions. Now that Hael was grown and could take care of herself, Isda didn’t encourage her involvement in the twice daily mission.

10

Unlatching the bolt that secured the narrow cover over the slot, Isda found the empty dishes that had been neatly stacked on the little shelf, ready for her to collect.

Today she’d brought her charge a change of clothes as well, so she stuffed that bundle through the dark opening first, heard it touch the floor on the other side with a muffled little thud. From the inhabitant, she expected and heard nothing. There were days when she wondered idly about how her charge had matured, what he might look like now and how tall he might have grown. Today wasn’t one of those days. She slipped this morning’s breakfast onto the shelf beyond the slot. She’d never known the lad to take anything from her hands; even on those occasions when she’d been obliged to go inside that room and physically tend to him. Those occasions were rare — four in all and none in the last seven years. As long as the dirty dishes were waiting there for her each morning and night, it meant her charge was alive and well and there was no cause to step beyond the locked door.

The new clothes and food delivered, Isda raised the cover once more and slipped the latching bolt back into place. She gathered the old, worn bag, its contents now last night’s used dishes, and set off again for home.

Hael tacked herself onto the nearest clutch of thralls, hoping to look inconspicuous.

With the hood of her second-skin drawn tightly up around her face, she trusted no one would notice that the thrall behind the camouflage was too young to have any business inside the Chamber. The ploy had worked once before, although after having passed an entire morning hiding in the back benches of the balcony, sandwiched between two weighty thralls, she wasn’t sure why she had bothered. The session had been an exceedingly dull affair, full of reports and projections about grain production. With the Grain Master, Paschar, the current Speaker, she supposed she should have expected little else. This morning’s session, however, promised to be something altogether different, if the intelligence she had gained from her eavesdropping lived up to its promises.

The kitchen had been buzzing with more than the usual complaints about Charoum’s disposition and that usually meant something significant was afoot; these days significant was synonymous with news of the war and for Charoum to be so ill-tempered, it could only mean that their master had received a gloomy report.

For once, Hael intended to discover what that report might be before its ramifications filtered down to the thralls, the lowest echelon in The City. She’d grown angered and frustrated with being taken unawares and being forced to watch in silence as every other thrall she knew responded with the same characteristic indifference.

An orderly style of shuffling began at the head of the waiting thralls; thralls with seniority seated themselves first, snaring the best spots in the gallery. Hael had intentionally latched onto a group of junior attendants, where there was less chance of being noticed. Her height wasn’t as easily disguised as the youthfulness of her face. She stood a good head taller than every thrall in the assembly, but it was impolite to openly notice such things and so far her fellow thralls were living up to their cultured traditions. When the thralls ahead of her began to enter through the doors, Hael trailed in behind. Having sneaked into the gallery once before, she 11

knew now where the narrow little stairs that led to the gallery were located; she navigated the route with her head bent low and her attention directed toward the floor, the quintessential deferential junior thrall.

In hindsight, it would have been prudent to have paid more attention at the top of the narrow stairwell; if she had, she might have noticed the stalled gathering of thralls directly in her path and might not have bumped directly into the back of the nearest. The thrall turned around, surprised by the sudden intrusion. Hael recognised his face immediately: Baglis. Her heart just about stopped right then.

Cathetel’s seneschal was the most senior of all the thralls and although he wasn’t likely to recognise so minor an entity as she, he could doubtless spot an imposter when he saw one. But his mind seemed to be elsewhere; he simply waved her on uninterestedly. She spied a spot in the last row of benches and walked, knees shaking, feigning confidence, toward the empty seat. When another thrall manoeuvred his way into the seat beside her, she drew the hood of her second-skin a little snugger about her head.

The occupants of the upper gallery were expected to be seated and silent long before the business of the Chamber began. Thralls took no part in the proceedings; their sole purpose was to attend to the needs of their masters and generally that amounted to the running of messages here and there within The City. As she sat waiting though, Hael sensed that something was amiss this morning and, when she chanced a look from behind the deep shadow of her hood, was surprised to discover that there was already some sort of activity on the floor below. A number of councillors were milling about in the centre of the Chamber; in amongst the gathering, she immediately recognised the tall, lean form of Cathetel, the flowing red mane of Forcas, and the familiar figure of her own master, Anauel. Even in a crowd, his distinctive posture gave him away; her master had eyes that seemed to survey every corner of a room all at once, a feat that didn’t appear to require even the slightest movement of his head.

Hael’s attention was drawn to the front row of benches in the gallery, where Baglis, having quit the company of the thralls at the top of the stairs, was taking his usual seat. When she looked down into the Chamber again, she discovered that Paschar, the Speaker, had entered. He was standing on the podium, one hand resting on the back of the Speaker’s chair, the other raised in an attempt to attract the notice of his fellow councillors. It was Cathetel who finally responded, breaking away from Forcas and three others councillors unknown to Hael, to make for her seat at the forefront of the benches directly below Hael’s section of the gallery. From her position, Hael could just make out the back of the councillor’s head. The rows behind Cathetel were obscured from her completely. Anauel was on the move now, too. Like Cathetel, his status had earned him a place in the front row of benches, only on the opposite side of the Chamber, directly across from the Chief Gardener.

One after another, the remaining councillors began assuming their assigned positions, rather noisily Hael thought, while Paschar drew out his own chair to sit down.

These esteemed members of the upper caste of her society seemed an unruly lot, who could have learned much from the decorum and civility of their subservient thralls. Paschar didn’t appear to share Hael’s view, because his expression betrayed 12

not even the slightest degree of impatience as he waited for the room to fall quiet.

Had Hael been in that chair, she’d have been jumping up and down, demanding her right of respect. As the number of her years steadily mounted, so too did Hael’s appreciation of just how wide the gap between the castes in her society truly was.

‘Councillors! Councillors!’

The call was Paschar’s. Hael could barely hear it above the persistent noise in the Chamber. The last time she’d secreted herself among the ranks of thralls in the gallery, the conduct of those in the Chamber hadn’t been nearly this disorderly.

It appeared as though Charoum’s ill-temper this morning had indeed portended something of serious consequence.

Hael’s attention shifted to Anauel. She could have sworn he was smiling. Anyone who knew Anauel even remotely well knew that his smile was not something to be cultivated. Hapless recipients quickly discovered no shred of warmth or charity behind the disquieting gesture. Quite casually, he crossed one leg over the other and glanced directly across the Chamber at Cathetel. The Chief Gardener’s response was hidden from her, so Hael just kept a watch on her master as his gaze coasted over the top of Cathetel’s head toward the gallery. For a moment, she feared she’d been spotted, but realised quickly that his focus had actually settled elsewhere, to her left and slightly lower among the benches. Hael leaned forward and tried to determine exactly who her master was looking at among the backs of myriad heads.

Baglis. A halo of pure white hair made him difficult to miss. Her attention returned to Paschar, who was now on his feet, evidently judging the din in the Chamber to have subsided to an acceptable level.

‘Order please, Councillors! Order!’

A few trailing voices from the benches fought to drown him out.

‘Our session here this morning will be brief as, after the vote, many of you may have more pressing matters to attend to.’

The Speaker fell silent and began to take in the assembly; he even spared a brief and obvious scan for those seated in the gallery. The unusual occurrence brought a complete hush to the Chamber.

The Speaker took up his address.

‘Shortly, a motion will be put before the Chamber. I urge each of you to vote according to your conscience.’

Hael thought that a strange thing for the Speaker to have advised; how else, she wondered, might a councillor’s vote be decided?

‘For many years now, the Guild has been able to rely upon constant support from the Guardians encamped outside the perimeter of our walls. All gates in the Thirteenth Ring have remained open and unrestricted passage preserved to and from The City. As a consequence, up until today, the sacrifices our citizens have been asked to make have been small.’

In the seats in front of Hael, one or two thrall heads twitched. She wouldn’t have used the word ‘small’ to describe the impact of war on her city and evidently the fellows occupying those seats didn’t either. Perhaps thralls like Charoum and her mother had done too good a job sheltering the upper castes. Perhaps if Paschar had to fight for scraps at the market to fill his own larder or ruin his eyes working late 13

into the night without light solely for the comfort of his betters, he might have a different opinion. Hael straightened in her seat, curious and a little anxious over where the Speaker’s words might be leading.

Down on the Chamber floor, Paschar was starting to look increasingly more uncomfortable. It appeared he might even be ill. He’d seated himself again and placed his arms on the table in front of him, seeming to require its support to keep himself upright in the chair.

‘I have been advised that the Guardians are no longer in a position to maintain the current level of support. The situation in the Interjacence is worsening and, within the week, four more divisions of our Guardians will be deployed there, leaving The City more vulnerable to incursion than ever before. The motion has been brought before me and your vote sought on the proposition to close every gate in the Thirteenth Ring, effective tomorrow morning.’

The roof of the Guild Hall might just have fallen in. Every councillor leapt immediately to their feet, while discordant shouts rang out from all directions inside the Chamber. Even some of the thralls in the gallery had jumped out of their seats. No one but Hael seemed to notice. Certainly no one was of a mind to re-establish order, either on the floor below or up there in the gallery.

‘This is an outrage!’ A shout from the benches somewhere beneath Hael.

‘Whose proposition is this? Raziel’s?’ A call from the opposite side of the Chamber now.

‘Yes, where is Raziel?’

Hael thought she recognised the voice, but wasn’t certain. It could have been Cathetel.

‘The Guild runs the Chamber, not the Guardians. Have the councillor who put this proposition to us step forward.’

Even with her hands cupping her ears, the noise was deafening. Down on the floor, Paschar sat passively waiting; he seemed to have expected the uproar. When his attention slipped to the benches on his right, Hael looked in that direction and spotted the unmistakeable red head of Forcas. She was on her feet, the core in a knot of councillors, Cathetel among them.

‘This matter goes beyond the purview of the Guild alone,’ she called over the heads of the councillors who had swarmed about her and the din that persisted still in the Chamber below. ‘If this is not Raziel’s proposition, then we uphold the right of the king to be heard in this assembly.’

Instead of quelling the commotion, Forcas’s appeal had the opposite effect.

Paschar returned to his feet. ‘I believe that Forcas is correct,’ he said, raising his hands in an attempt to bring the Chamber under control. ‘In matters as grave as this, a king does have the right of comment.’ His head bowed briefly, the instructing nod he directed toward his attendant in the gallery scarcely noticeable.

In the front row of the gallery, someone began to move. Hael didn’t know any of Paschar’s thralls and was only guessing that the thrall who was making his way toward the end of the bench belonged to the Speaker. He’d be on his way to the Second Ring, carrying the message of Forcas’s petition to the king.

14

Suddenly Hael was sorry that she’d come to the Chamber this morning. She’d stuck her nose into matters that were none of her business. Better if she’d become aware of this latest blow through the usual slow channels. Rankless thralls like her weren’t schooled to absorb sudden change. With so few words, kindly Paschar had just set gears in motion that could only rent the fragile fabric of her world.

Hael slipped out of her seat, taking advantage of the turmoil to leave the gallery unobserved. There’d be no danger of running into Paschar’s thrall; he’d be well on his way to the king. Once on the street, Hael threw back the hood of her secondskin. She needed to breath the fresh air, drink in the silence and the illusion of calm.

Her ears were still ringing from the noise inside the Chamber, making it impossible to think clearly. The gates to the Thirteenth Ring closed! If such a dire move had ever been made before, Hael wasn’t aware of it. How could the fiefdoms survive?

How could The City survive without the food the fiefdoms provided? The consequences to them all, fief and city dweller alike, were unthinkable.

Had matters truly degenerated so badly? Worse — had her silence over the years played its own small part in the steady decline? She’d chewed over that question for a long time now. Despite the danger to her mother and herself, it was obvious now that she should have gone to Satarel ages ago and shared her suspicions about the identity of the young outbreed imprisoned deep inside the Fourth Ring. It seemed the time might just have come to do it.

Her master would be horrified if he ever discovered the strange little friendship she and the Architect shared — and the extent of time they’d been sharing it.

Her mother, on the other hand, would simply faint if she ever found out. With the exception of those in the small, select band in his household, thralls did not see, speak to, or have any contact whatsoever with the occupant of the Inner Ring. Courier thralls stopped at the maze that circled the tower at the core of the ring, where their communiqués were passed to Satarel’s seneschal and thence on to Satarel himself. As far as Hael knew, she was the only thrall outside the inner circle to have even seen the Architect’s face. And it should never have happened for her either — and wouldn’t have, if she’d been born something other than a thrall with far too much curiosity for her own good.

Like all thralls, she always memorised the location of any new breach she found in the city’s inner walls. The thralls’ ability to navigate efficiently within the city’s maze of streets and quadrants had spawned something of a mystique about their kind. Her fellows had no idea that Hael was more than a match for the best of them.

She’d never divulged the location of one particular breach to anyone, not even to her mother. At the time, she’d feared punishment for venturing so far from home. Now she feared punishment for the knowledge itself. A child of five couldn’t appreciate the inviolability of the Inner Ring. At nineteen, she acknowledged she should have honoured it. Yet, in all those years between, Satarel had never challenged her. In fact, even when he had adequate cause not to be, the old Architect had always been kind to her. Sometimes she suspected that he actually welcomed her visits. She doubted he’d be so welcoming this time when he discovered what she’d been keeping from him.

15

During the short walk back to Anauel’s compound, Hael mulled over her best course of action and toyed with the words she could then use to explain herself to Satarel. There were few thralls on the street to interrupt her thoughts. Young thralls were expected to be respectful; it was rare for them to receive much of an acknowledgement in return, but a thrall who didn’t at least wish a passing senior thrall good day would never hear the end of it.

Once home, Hael tried to stay useful, but it seemed that no matter where she went or what services she offered, she managed to get under someone’s feet. Even her mother, initially gratified to see her making good use of her time, had become obviously exasperated with her by day’s end.

All afternoon, Hael had kept alert for gossip, anxious but not expecting to hear news of what had finally transpired in the Chamber. Her expectations were met.

Only she, along with the two discretely mute thralls who had attended their master in the Chamber and possibly Charoum, who had remained invisible during most of the day, seemed aware that something as extreme as the closure of the city gates was imminent.

By meal time, Hael had managed to earn a reprimand from virtually every member of Anauel’s household. In some respects, perhaps she’d done herself a favour; that night every thrall she encountered down every corridor and in every room made a swift and passionate effort to get away from her, fearing she’d offer more unwanted assistance. There was no chance someone would come looking for her tonight. That left only her mother to worry about. Isda was not a sound sleeper, but long ago Hael had learned to recognise the sounds of a deep enough sleep coming from the other side of the room. She didn’t usually sneak out at night, but it wasn’t entirely unknown and, so far, she’d never been discovered. Tonight’s escape, though, was the only important escape Hael had ever attempted to make; tonight’s escape had to succeed.

Normally, she made good her exit as soon as she suspected her mother was sufficiently asleep. Tonight she delayed just a few minutes longer. Finally, she slipped out of bed. Her clothes had been left in readiness on the chair, which was largely obscured from sight by Hael’s bed. She didn’t dress then and there but, gathering the clothes, carried them with her into the dark corridor. The door closed soundlessly; in a solitary moment that afternoon, Hael had seen to a squeaking hinge.

More importantly, after her mother had returned from her evening task, Hael had also stolen the set of keys that she’d returned to their customary place above her bed.

Hael had left her own more meagre set of keys in their stead, turning them so that, at a glance, her mother wouldn’t notice exactly how many keys were hanging there.

In the corridor, Hael dressed blindly, keeping only her boots in hand, then made for the service stairs. She stepped lightly, carefully, and held her breath until she reached the base. Caught now, she wouldn’t get in too much trouble, except from her mother of course. Once outside, it would be a different matter.

She found the right key by feel alone; the stairwell was in utter darkness. Once in the lock, the key turned smoothly. After years of repeated use, the fit was neat. Hael locked the door behind her. Now she was committed. Her passage to the Fourth Ring should be relatively uneventful. She had her identification medallion bearing 16

Anauel’s name about her neck as well as the hood of her second-skin and the dark night to conceal her youth. Beyond the Fourth Ring, she’d take to her secret route, through the breaches and breaks in the ring walls. If she were going to be alone, she’d have felt confident about reaching the Inner Ring unnoticed, but having someone with her was sure to make evasion far more difficult.

The narrow alley behind the compound was silent and empty, but at the intersection, Hael discovered the arterial street busier than usual for such a late hour. A thrall hurried past her, but didn’t spare Hael a glance. Straightening her shoulders, Hael struck out boldly into the night. Just a suggestion of hesitancy in her gait could draw the wrong sort of attention. Once on the street, she encountered more of the same hasty enterprise. It was the closing of the gates, she decided. There must be couriers about from nearly every councillor in the Guild. The abnormal level of activity on the street aided her mission. She could be just any common thrall discharging an urgent assignment from her master.

Hael took her cue from her fellows and refrained from offering the usual nod of greeting to those she passed. At the Twelfth Gate she was met by two Guardians.

The guard standing closest to Hael raised his hand and shone a strange kind of light onto the medallion she held up confidently under his nose. Wordlessly, he waved her on. Behind her, she could hear another thrall close on her heels; the sound of their footsteps broke off halfway down the street, the thrall heading in a different direction. Hael hurried on.

The same procedure was repeated at every gate she passed. Sometimes there were other thralls in front of her, sometimes one or two behind, sometimes she was alone, but always she was passed through unchallenged. The Fourth Gate would be the test. The Fourth Ring was the Guardians’ Ring, but even at that gate she’d never ever encountered more than the usual two Guardians before.

With her medallion held high, she marched right up to the gate. A thrall might have heard the sound of her heart thumping away in her chest. It was fortunate Guardians couldn’t boast equally acute hearing. Two! There were still only two Guardians on duty.

In the darkness, she couldn’t make out much of the Guardian who approached her nor of the expression on the face of the one who had stayed behind. She struggled to hide the shaking of her hand and hold the medallion steady under the light of the Guardian’s torch. For an instant the light flashed upward, blinding her.

Instinctively Hael raised her free hand to shade her eyes. The sudden movement prompted the Guardian to jump back a pace and the medallion to slip from his grasp. Hael feared the worst and was shocked when, although with obvious annoyance, the Guardian again waved her on.

She hurried through the gate and past the remaining Guardian. Though she’d never come this way at night before, the streets inside the Fourth Ring were so familiar she could navigate them blind. And it seemed that was what she’d be required to do. Whether by design or accident, almost every light in the ring was out. It made it easier to disappear inside the darkness, but heightened her nerv17

ousness about the whereabouts of all those Guardians displaced from their billets outside the Thirteenth Ring. With the closing of the gates, many of them must have been returned to their compound.

On reaching the top of the cul-de-sac, she stopped to listen, but heard nothing other than the sound of her own quick, shallow breaths. The confined cul-de-sac was even darker than the quiet streets and alleys she’d just left behind and the only way to find the door she sought was to run her hand along the cold, rough wall and count the number of entrances until she knew she’d come to the last. Withdrawing the stolen ring of keys from the pocket of her second-skin, she dropped it. Stupid!

Stupid! The ring made a blood-chilling clang when it hit the hard pavement. At first her frantic scramble on the ground failed to find it, then her left hand chanced on the ring some distance out into the alley where it had rolled.

As she slipped the key into the lock, Hael covered her mouth with her free hand, anticipating the immediate assault of stale smells that always made her cough; she’d tempted discovery enough tonight and now she could hear footsteps at the top of the alley. Guardians! She panicked when the key didn’t fit and almost dropped the ring again; quickly twisting that key to one side, she tried the next and then the next again. On the fourth try, she found the right key. Mouth covered once more, she turned the lock, slipped inside and closed the door silently behind her. Snatching a welcome breath, she leaned heavily against the door to listen but couldn’t hear those footsteps anymore. She pushed away from the door and, using her foot, felt for and found the first tread at the bottom of the tight staircase. Keeping her hand to her mouth, she began the careful ascent of the stairs, turning right when she reached the top. At the end of the corridor, she turned left. The smell was not as bad now, so Hael dropped her hand; her mother’s attempts to at least keep the corridor clean had dispensed with some of the stench. Outside the door, Hael fumbled once again for the right key. Once inside, she made directly for the second, inner door, knowing she had to act swiftly or risk losing resolve.

Despite the empathy she felt for the thing behind that door, it was an outbreed; she’d always known that it was, although her mother had never actually said so.

And everyone knew that outbreeds were such ugly creatures that the look of them alone was enough to make even the heartiest thrall retch. Laying her eyes on an outbreed was something she’d never done or ever had the desire to do before. But if her suspicions were correct, this was an outbreed of some importance and if she could return him, perhaps Baradiel might end the conflict and the gates to her city might never need to be closed.

By feel alone, she found the narrow slot midway up the door. Releasing the bolt, she quickly dropped the panel and, with a jaw clenched tightly to avert a sudden cry when she spied the vile thing, bent to peek through the opening. Nothing. She could see nothing inside but the darkness. Puzzled, Hael used the last of the stolen keys to open the door. The thing had to be inside somewhere, hiding probably and doubtless afraid. Hael would have been afraid. She’d never known her mother to visit here so late at night and the outbreed would think it equally strange.

18

She took the time to close the door, fearful the outbreed would bolt before she could explain. In front of her, shapes began to slowly take form. The outline of a bed.

A table. A misshapen pile of something in the far corner. She scanned the other side of the room. Still nothing. There was no one here. Suddenly she heard an odd little shuffle and her focus jumped back to the untidy pile filling the corner.

‘Outbreed?’ she whispered. ‘Are you there, outbreed?’

The pile began to change shape, growing bigger, taller. Hael’s hand flew involuntarily to her mouth. Its height, fully found, was that of a lord’s. She was right! Hael swallowed hard and, holding out a trembling hand, stepped forward into the room.

‘I won’t hurt you, Lord,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I’m just a thrall — here to help you get home.’

19

2

T

he earth in the Pila forest was hard and resisting, not at all like the soft humus of the gardens in Raziel’s compound. Four of them worked at digging the hole, Micah’s efforts alone a match for all three of his aging companions. When it was done, Cathetel stood silently in the wan moonlight beside Raziel, watching, while Baglis and Micah, two colourless shapes, committed old Satarel’s body to the ground.

The moment Baglis had woken her with the news that Micah, Satarel’s son, required his assistance, she’d known something had gone grievously wrong. The hour was late. And the Architect’s son, not a thrall, had delivered the king’s message. Of course Baglis had sought her permission before leaving — that’s what good seneschals did. She’d rushed downstairs with Baglis to find Micah looking pale and troubled and wearing a rut in her reception room floor.

‘Raziel has need of Baglis.’ That’s all he’d said.

She hadn’t been invited, but Micah didn’t object when she insisted on accompanying them. The old Architect’s son was sharp. Supposedly only her thralls knew of her allegiance to Raziel.

Standing there now beside the hurried grave, Cathetel began to realise how badly Raziel’s control of The City was fraying. What other explanation was there for the unprecedented move of concealing the Architect’s death, especially from the councillors of the Guild?

Glancing at Micah, she saw the obvious signs of a troubled mind. He rarely looked up and never spoke a word. She put it down to grief, a difficult matter for the young. But a life began, it passed, it ended; and a long life passed well was more appropriately cause for thanks.

As Raziel patted the last of the hard earth into place, Baglis stepped up to her side.

‘It will be light soon, my Lady. We should go while there’s still some darkness.’

‘A fine thing,’ Raziel barked, flinging his shovel aside.

The clang as Raziel’s shovel hit the ground made Cathetel jump.

‘It’s a fine thing,’ he said again and looked briefly at Micah standing beside him, ‘when a Lord can’t walk the streets of The City in daylight for fear of being recognised.’

Cathetel found it easy to forgive the king’s outburst. His grand experimental peace lay in tatters and now one of his few certain allies was dead.

Micah, saying nothing, bent to gather the shovels.

His poise didn’t escape Cathetel’s notice.

‘But your seneschal is right,’ Raziel said, mellowing. ‘You have the farthest to go, Cathetel. You and Baglis should leave now.’

Cathetel turned to Micah. ‘What about Charmeine?’ she asked, referring to Satarel’s own seneschal. ‘Won’t she ask about your father?’

‘We’ve discussed that,’ Raziel answered before Micah had the chance to speak.

‘Micah has agreed to tell her that Satarel was called unexpectedly to his duties during the night and that he’s likely to be gone for some time.’

In essence, it was the truth but she thought Raziel’s turn of phrase strange all the same. Micah has agreed.

Cathetel studied their youthful companion, seeking but not detecting any reaction. Quickly, she reached out to touch Raziel’s shoulder, a gesture of farewell, then, with Baglis beside her, started out for the Thirteenth Ring and home.

She felt tired, more tired than she’d ever felt before in her life, but instead of returning to her bed, sought comfort within the deep cushions of her favourite chair in front of the fire to wait out what was left of the night. And when the day broke warm and sunny without a hint of the predicted rain, Cathetel found in that enough impetus to risk a rare venture outside the city walls. While ostensibly the gates were closed, as they’d remained over the last five years, a little thing like a closed gate was unlikely to stop her. The guards let her pass largely unchallenged … courtesy of her position no doubt. Still, she didn’t dare venture far beyond the walls and Baglis accompanied her. Though his slowing step and shock of white hair suggested otherwise, his eyes and ears were still sharp. She wouldn’t need further protection and didn’t have the patience to put up with any, especially not today.

There was only one individual she feared in The City and he wouldn’t act against her in broad daylight in full view of a field full of farmers.

Baglis borrowed a chair from one of the nearby farms and stationed it precisely in the middle of Cathetel’s favourite field of wildflowers. It had been a long time since she’d snatched a nap in the soft morning breeze. At her age, she felt it should have been her only occupation and it might have been, too, but infernal war precluded those pleasures.

Sitting there in the seclusion and silence of the field, Cathetel found it difficult to believe so much had changed during her lifetime. An entire generation had passed and another been born since her city had experienced its last moments of peace. All those years ago, when Baradiel had unexpectedly broken his pledge, his true intent had gone unrecognised. The first encounters between his army and Raziel’s had been artless, conventional — and life within The City had gone on with a mechanical acceptance of uncertainty. When the supply chain for one commodity was cut, they simply learned to adapt another to meet the same need. Slowly, through time, the definition of luxury began to change; even Cathetel had accepted the inevitable blandness of her meal plate as an inconsequential sacrifice. Perhaps they’d have been more alert if the compromises forced upon them after the closing of the city 21

gates had been even more severe, but the opposing armies had consistently managed to hold each other at bay and, in accordance with civilised tradition, violence had never spilled outside the Interjacence. Even after hostilities began to escalate and the early primitive clashes matured into unreserved warfare, realisation of Baradiel’s unthinkable objective to dominate The Plenum had been too slow in coming. They’d all simply become too complacent, naively believing themselves finished with anarchists a long time ago, and not for one moment had Raziel or any of her fellow councillors suspected that the stability of the The Plenum itself might be in serious jeopardy. They were suspecting it now though and their once serene city was beginning to degenerate into a breeding ground for rampant panic and rumour.

Recently there’d even been unsubstantiated reports that Baradiel was pushing toward the rim of the Interjacence in preparation for a full assault upon The City.

In public, Raziel ridiculed the reports. In private, her old friend was evasive. Sometimes at night, when the air was clear and the rest of the city had fallen asleep, she would stand on her balcony imagining that she could hear the sound of Baradiel’s army marching out of the Interjacence. Perhaps it wasn’t just imagination. Twice lately she’d wandered onto her balcony to discover Baglis already there, standing expectantly at the rails, attentive to the night air. When she questioned him, he denied hearing anything, claiming that recurrent insomnia had kept him from his bed. His evasion was as predictable as Raziel’s — neither wished to alarm her unduly. Neither fully appreciated that she was already sufficiently alarmed and not just by the purported activity of the enemy king from across the Interjacence.

‘This is a surprise. You haven’t come out here for some time.’

She opened her eyes slowly to seek out her seneschal, standing a little way off to her left. He nodded toward something in the field behind her. Swivelling her head to look over her shoulder, she found Anauel. She thought she’d recognised that voice.

‘Well, you have made it rather difficult,’ she said, angling a glance at the intruder as he drew up to her chair.

Anauel simply shrugged. He hadn’t changed a bit over the years and looked as young and fresh as ever, even though he’d be nudging toward middle age now, years that were only a fading memory for her. His hair was still as yellow and full as it had been the first day he’d strutted into the Council Chamber, his father not even gone one week before he’d made his presence, and his predilections, known.

‘The gates are supposed to be closed, Cathetel, but it appears you managed anyway.’

Cathetel flipped out her hand. ‘In spite of those imbecile guards of yours who insist that I remain inside.’

‘For your protection, Councillor. And I’d remind you that they’re not my guards and it was not my decision to close the gates. There was a vote, if you haven’t grown too senile to recall.’

‘Really?’ She glanced at him once more. ‘Just open the gates, Anauel! Baradiel’s never come close to The City.’

‘Yet.’ 22

‘Yet! Yet! You and that wretched General Appoloin have been saying that for the last five years.’

‘And for the last five years, you’ve been slipping through these gates whenever you choose.’

‘As far as I’m aware, a permit isn’t required. That’s a source of revenue you’ve neglected to consider. What is the going rate for a food coupon these days? Whatever it is, I’m sure you could do better with permits to be out on the streets.’ She flicked at a crumpled leaf that had landed on her lap. ‘I take care of my workers, Anauel.’

‘Is that what you call sitting in a chair asleep?’

When Cathetel ignored the insult, the younger councillor fired a quick glance past her toward Baglis. ‘Under the watch of that same unorthodox servant, I see.’

Apparently Anauel still hadn’t come to terms with her choice of seneschal, a revelation that gave Cathetel immense satisfaction. Thralls were supposed to be unremarkable and servile. Baglis was simply too tall and self-possessed for Anauel’s comfort.

‘It’s hard to improve on perfection.’

‘Perfection in a male! You’re slipping.’

‘Ah, so I stand corrected. Perhaps perfection can be improved upon.’

Anauel slanted a smile down at her chair. The gesture gave her little comfort.

‘I’m pleased to discover that my esteemed colleague hasn’t mellowed over the years. We’ve missed you in the Chamber.’

‘I prefer to conduct my business with the Guild under more neutral circumstances,’ she said.

Anauel had positioned himself so that to address him, she was forced to gaze directly into the sun. Her eyes were beginning to water and a mild throbbing had started up in her temples, though it was more likely that her company, not the glare, was responsible for the latter.

‘If you were at all considerate, you wouldn’t be standing there,’ she said, ‘but I suppose that explains why you are.’

‘I am sorry.’ Anauel stepped in front of her. He’d made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm. ‘Better?’

‘Short of having you absent altogether? Yes. So, tell me, what’s the news from the Chamber? All bad, I assume.’

Anauel was still wearing his smirk. ‘You know very well everything that goes on in the Chamber. Perhaps I should have said that you’re missed in body only. Unfortunately the same can’t be said for your influence.’

‘One does what one can.’ Her attention returned to her lap. Another leaf had drifted in to land on her skirt.

‘True but must you do it so well?’

‘Praise? Did I hear you correctly?’

Anauel paused. ‘Irritation,’ he said finally. ‘But on the other hand, challenge is healthy. It keeps one sharp.’

‘And occupied,’ she added.

23

‘Some of us anyway.’ He dipped his chin toward his chest. ‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’ ‘Consideration at last.’ She sighed and closed her eyes again.

‘Not at all. If you could keep your eyes open, you’d see that it’s going to rain.’

Cathetel didn’t bother to answer — or open her eyes. She’d seen the rain clouds building on the horizon behind Anauel. There were still a few minutes. Baglis would let her know when it was time to go.

She eased one eye open to assure herself that Anauel had gone. Good! He didn’t need to know all her plans.

A clearing wind had blown the morning showers west, leaving the city damp but cleansed and the afternoon sky vibrant pink. From the open window of the Guild Hall, Cathetel watched the hectic comings and goings in the compound below.

Anauel was still in fine form. The crafty devil was at his best when things were worst.

He was hatching something big this time and, as usual, she’d been kept in complete ignorance. She was fortunate to have reliable thralls to keep her informed, but even they couldn’t be everywhere at once. There was a lot Anauel managed to slip past her. The timing of this latest move suggested things were coming to a head. He had to know about Satarel’s death. He shouldn’t have known, but Cathetel had excellent spies and it appeared that Anauel did, too.

Looking back now, Cathetel was having the odd second thought about the wisdom of what they had done last night and it was obvious that Micah had been ambivalent from the start. He was his father’s heir and fully grown now and a morning spent in reflection had changed her mind about his behaviour at the graveside.

He’d obviously only acceded to Raziel’s demands out of a sense of duty to the king.

The loyalty hadn’t been returned; by hiding the death of the Architect, Raziel had made his lack of faith in Micah apparent. She didn’t share Raziel’s opinion of Satarel’s son. Perhaps Micah hadn’t shown the early indications they’d expected, but he hadn’t been tried yet either. It seemed that time was fast approaching.

Below her in the compound, Anauel was primping and preening and mustering his puppet Guardian force into action. It galled her to have to accept that her hands were tied at the moment and that perhaps they’d remain tied for some time to come, but there were always options. She hadn’t achieved old age without learning a trick or two along the way.

Leaving through the rear apartments, Cathetel returned to her compound by the quiet back streets and alleys to find Raziel already waiting for her on the balcony of her private quarters.

‘There’s a storm brewing,’ she said, drawing her guest’s attention from the darkness that was creeping toward them over the city.

The king moved from the railing to greet her. ‘But the rain has passed.’

‘I meant …’ she said, taking the short step up to the terrace.

‘I know what you meant.’

Cathetel nodded. She’d always known Raziel wasn’t made of sovereign material, but he wasn’t stupid and with her his only ally in the Guild, for the moment his hands, too, were tied. Behind her old friend, she noticed a vase of yellow flowers 24

sitting on the table in the far corner of the balcony; Baglis must have cut and placed them there. The Rhadias had bloomed well this year, but soon even her own garden could become compromised by the ravages of an escalating war and there’d be no more Rhadias for Baglis to cut and arrange for her pleasure. A small loss in the scope of things really, but a loss that reflected much more.

‘Whatever happened to that Fluted Rhadia I gave you years ago?’ she asked, glancing back toward her guest.

Raziel looked across at her and smiled. ‘Strange you should ask me that now. Its first flower opened just last week.’

‘Crimson?’ she enquired expectantly.

‘Umm — not exactly,’ the king replied after a brief hesitation that had already roused Cathetel’s suspicion.

She sighed and, raising her arm, directed her guest inside toward the fire.

‘Anauel promised it would work.’

‘I thought that was your stock,’ Raziel said, trailing behind her.

Cathetel took a seat by the glowing hearth, grateful that her seneschal wasn’t one to neglect even the smallest of her comforts. ‘My stock, but it was his root stimulant I used on the graft. I should have known it would be no good. Anauel can’t leave well enough alone.’

‘But that’s more or less his job, isn’t it?’ Claiming the opposite seat, Raziel leaned heavily toward the warmth of the fire. ‘To not leave well enough alone?’

‘And if he stuck to enhancing production yields and improving the crop strains, instead of planting his own brand of seed inside the Guild, he might be better at that job.’

‘I see what you mean. Planting seeds is more your line of work.’

For a moment, Cathetel thought Raziel was mocking her, until she noticed the familiar mischievous smile.

‘Yes, well, my first priority has always been the fiefdoms and, in these trying times, with the farmers so fearful, keeping the flow of produce into The City is a full-time job. I’ve little time on my hands for much else. More’s the pity. But that Anauel! I should never have trusted him.’

‘You don’t trust any male — with the exception of Baglis perhaps.’

‘Good seneschals are hard to come by,’ Cathetel told him with a wave of her hand.

‘But Anauel has no regard for any caste but his own. And even then, he shows no respect to many of his peers. He’d have no time for the Guardians if they weren’t such convenient tools. As for the rest — well, they might just as well not exist. I’ve been too slow to realise it. The day he replaced his father as Chief Agronomer, I should have known he’d be trouble.’

‘You sell yourself too short, my old friend.’ The king’s smile was gone. ‘You realised enough then to doubt Baradiel would keep our truce, whereas I foolishly went on believing he was eager for peace.’

‘Ancient history,’ she replied. ‘It’s done.’

25

‘I never asked for the responsibility of this city, Cathetel, but like it or not, it is mine and now — with Satarel gone and an untried Micah in his place — I have to face the fact that matters might only grow worse, instead of realising my hope to end this constant game.’

Cathetel stiffened.

No one but an amateur would surrender themselves to doubt over the logic and beauty of The Plenum or be impudent enough to believe they could, or even should, control it. Her king was no amateur, but even as a youth, Raziel had suffered the afflictions of the pacifists and dreamers. Like all her kind, Cathetel had accepted long ago that only preservation of The Plenum really mattered and that, in the weaving of its fabric, the warp and weft might on occasion be imperfect. But as long as The Plenum persisted and the Architects continued to balance gain against loss overall, an individual gnarl here and there was a small price to pay. Though she didn’t doubt that her king harboured no desire to actually control The Plenum, he questioned it and the last one who’d surrendered to that particular shortcoming had not only paid the ultimate price himself but brought down repercussions for both the guilty and innocent alike, splintering the fabric of their world into its two equal and separate halves. And banishment into the chaos outside The Plenum was not something Cathetel wished her friend to chance. Besides, as king, Raziel had a duty to protect his city. Just as Baradiel did to protect his. The arrangement was effective, if occasionally demoralising. What Raziel built, Baradiel was obliged to tear down; anything Raziel seeded, Baradiel was destined to blight. The very nature of their punishment had made hostility between the two cities as inevitable as the sunrise.

And although sometimes even Cathetel was forced to admit that it all seemed so very pointless, it was after all a simple fact that no one, least of all a king, should dare to question.

Finally she replied. ‘I, too, have grown tired of this constant to-ing and froing. But I’d watch what I was saying and thinking if I were you. Even an Architect shouldn’t be so audacious as to question the working of The Plenum, let alone liken it to a game. Baradiel will do as he must, but it’s Anauel you should stay alert for.

Cohesion in the Chamber disintegrates more and more each day and it’s Anauel who’s at the heart of it. He’s intentionally attempting to stretch the Guild’s resources and playing on our old rivalries. Look how easily he manoeuvred the outer gates into being closed just to shift power to that toady of a general who’s still trailing after him like a pet even after all these years.’

Raziel shrugged. ‘The Fourth Ring is too far away from the city gates. Perhaps the Guardians should never have been stationed there anyway.’

Cathetel grunted. ‘Well, it worked well enough in the past. Even without the Guardians, the Guild could still have provided the same level of protection it always has. But on the pretext of securing The City, Anauel left everyone outside the Thirteenth Ring vulnerable and the Guardians, not the Guild, their only avenue for support.’ She shook her head. ‘I doubt Baradiel would have allowed the conventions of his city to be upended in the same way.’

26

‘I wouldn’t know and, frankly, I don’t want to know. Besides, it’s for the Guild to determine when, or if, the gates should be opened. But I personally won’t be sanctioning absolute turn-over of the fiefdoms to the Guardians, if that’s your concern.

The fiefdoms are strictly the Guild’s concern, not mine. Though I would oppose such an action, of course, as always any change that happens will come from inside the Guild.’

‘Exactly what Anauel is counting on. Ah,’ Cathetel said, brightening when she spied her seneschal who’d taken the customary two steps inside the door to announce his presence. ‘Here’s Baglis.’

The old boy hadn’t made a sound.

‘Come,’ she beckoned to Raziel as she rose from her chair. ‘The day began badly and my thoughtless badgering can’t have lifted your spirits. It’s time to talk of more pleasant matters for a while and share a toast to Satarel over dinner. But I’m afraid there’ll be no Camaellos again this evening,’ she warned, referring to the luscious six-sided fruits named in honour of their grower, who happened to be none other than her seneschal’s mother.

Even at the best of times, Camaellos were a rarity; their seeds were almost impossible to harvest, the vines as difficult to cultivate, and insidious disease could wipe out an entire crop overnight. Twenty years of frustration, dedication, and experimentation had gone into the fruiting of Camael’s labour. Perhaps it was a fitting testament to the skill of her seneschal’s mother that it had required more than twenty years of war to spoil it.

In the late afternoon, Hael ambled back to her home in the Tenth Ring. She barely had enough work to fill the day, so dawdling through the execution of it seemed justified. Her wages were stuffed into one of the many pockets of her second-skin.

Two miserable food coupons weren’t much to bring home, but it was better than nothing at all and, by rights, over-payment for the simple task she’d been assigned.

Hael worked as a courier for the Maintainers. These days more was falling down than going up, so she often had no work at all. Today she’d been lucky. Her mother would be pleased. Her mother would be better pleased to have work of her own to do, but no one would hire her any more. She was apt to lose her way two streets from home or, worse, forget why she was two streets from home at all. It was Hael’s fault. She knew it, even if her mother didn’t. Isda had never been the same since she’d let the young lord go. Anauel had seen to that. But in all the time since, not once had Isda even suspected that it was Hael who’d been responsible for the lord’s disappearance.

They lived in the Tenth Ring now, the age-old and age-weary refuge of unowned thralls. There were just the two of them, surviving hand to mouth in a small house Hael’s wages couldn’t pay for. Visitors never came and that was why, when Hael arrived home, the sound of voices inside surprised her. She opened the door to find two of their neighbours seated at the small kitchen table with her mother. By habit and necessity, Isda kept the light from their lamp dim, but it was enough for Hael to see that her mother’s two guests had been crying.

‘Come. Come,’ her mother said as Hael closed the door.

27

At least her hearing was still sharp. Hael had barely made a sound.

‘Such a terrible thing has happened.’

Hael walked over and, pulling out the remaining chair, seated herself across the table from Iofiel and Liwet. Liwet was Iofiel’s daughter, a ragged little thing, who, although approaching Hael’s own age, seemed to have become stunted somewhere along the way.

‘What’s happened?’ Hael asked, mildly curious.

Isda had a habit of exaggeration. Iofiel, on the other hand, was a rather more pragmatic thrall. She’d learned to be; like Isda, she was all alone in the world with a daughter to provide for. Unlike Isda, every year of her life since birth had been passed inside the Tenth Ring. Tenth Ring thralls were simply bred tough.

‘Oh, Hael,’ Iofiel moaned.

At last Hael’s attention was captured.

‘Iofiel,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong?’

Liwet sniffed.

Iofiel’s red eyes went round. ‘This afternoon, Liwet and I … we went into the Ninth Ring.’

Hael’s heart sank. She’d have credited Iofiel with more intelligence than that.

‘Why?’ She was tempted to bang her fist on the table. ‘You know what it’s like in there. Were you so desperate for coupons?’

Iofiel was quick to answer. ‘No, we had coupons, but you can get more in the Ninth Ring, Hael. Food you just can’t get outside.’

‘At a cost,’ Hael scoffed. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t come back with what you went for.’

Iofiel shook her head and, once started, didn’t seem able to stop. The shake turned to a tremor. ‘We’ve never gone there for food before, Hael. I swear we haven’t.

We didn’t know what to do. Who to trust. We wandered around for such a long time, too scared to even approach anyone at all. Finally a young thrall came up to us and smiled. He said he could get us everything we wanted and at a good price, too. He was so friendly, Hael. So understanding.’ A lone tear trickled down Iofiel’s flushed cheek.

‘He said we’d have to follow him to his house and that his mother would take care of us. It was stupid, I know, but I did it. I dragged Liwet with me through those awful streets. I followed that awful young thrall to a building in some awful alley deep inside the Ninth Ring. And I gave him all our coupons. He told us that he lived on the top floor of the building and that we should wait there in the alley for his mother to come down with our food. I even smiled at him before he disappeared inside the door. So we waited, just like he said to do, until I realised that we’d been waiting too long. Hael, it wasn’t a building at all. When I walked up to the door and opened it, there was nothing behind it but wreckage. All that was left of that building was its facade. There never was any mother or any food …’ Iofiel’s hand brushed at another tear, ‘… just an old thrall and her foolishness.’

Hael placed her hand over Iofiel’s. ‘It’s done,’ she said, ‘and nothing can fix it now.’

‘We can.’

Puzzled, Hael turned to her mother.

28

‘We can share what we have, Hael.’

‘What?’ Hael jumped to her feet. ‘Mother, we barely have enough for ourselves.

How could you even suggest it?’

Isda gripped her arm before she could get away.

‘In times like these, we have to stick together. What if it were the other way around? Wouldn’t you hope our neighbours would help us?’

Hael wrenched her arm free. ‘It isn’t the other way around, Mother. I don’t see why we should be forced to suffer any more than we already do just because Iofiel is stupid and greedy enough to go into the Ninth Ring for food.’

As she started to move away, Hael heard a muffled sob.

‘Hael!’

Isda’s call stopped her dead in her tracks. She turned around to look at her mother. That veil of ambiguity she’d lately become so accustomed to seeing seemed to have lifted. Isda looked composed and rational.

‘What do you propose they give us in return?’ Hael asked.

‘Nothing,’ Isda replied.

Hael’s attention shifted to the two other women at the table. Iofiel was sitting bolt upright in her chair, eyes downcast, the quiet embodiment of thrall decorum.

Beside her, Liwet was still openly sobbing. A wad of discarded old rags hanging over the back of the chair would have conveyed more dignity.

Hael drove a hand into the pocket of her second-skin.

‘Here,’ she said, holding out the retrieved coupons.

When no one moved to take them, Hael reached forward, grabbed Liwet’s hand and slapped the coupons in the centre of her palm.

‘Now we all have one coupon each,’ she said. Her attention shifted to Iofiel. ‘But if I find out that these coupons have made their way to the Ninth Ring, I swear I’ll recover our share with your hide.’

Iofiel leaned around in front of her daughter and clenched Hael’s hand as she made to move it away.

‘They won’t. Oh, I promise you they won’t, Hael. You won’t regret this.’ Another tear trickled down Iofiel’s face, this one a tear of joy.

Hael drew her hand free. ‘I already do.’

She didn’t even glance at Isda as she walked across the room, heading straight for her tiny bedroom. Once there, with the door closed, she dropped onto the edge of the bed. Solitude provided no relief from the ugliness of what had just transpired.

She didn’t blame her mother. She didn’t blame Iofiel either — not really.

She blamed herself and really didn’t need a scene like that to make it all so abundantly clear. She’d been foolish: naive, arrogant, and foolish. Now everyone was paying the price and she couldn’t repress the guilt any longer. The problem was finding someone to trust, someone who wouldn’t choose to punish her. As usual, only Satarel surfaced. But she had to get to him first — and make sure that she wasn’t followed. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be. The level of confusion within The City had peaked, and no one felt confident enough now to distinguish friend from foe. Even though everyone believed an outbreed could never be mistaken for their kind, the ambiguity had still managed to create an epidemic of paranoia.

29

And so she waited. Even after she was certain that their neighbours had long gone and Isda had retired to her own small room, she waited. It was raining heavily again when she finally set off and that was both a blessing and a curse. Almost no one had ventured into the streets, but within minutes of leaving her home, her hair and clothing had become saturated. Threads of cold water constantly streamed down her forehead into her eyes and her waist-length hair had become a weighty mass of knots. Such a dishevelled appearance could draw attention. There was nothing legendary about her progress this night. She walked for over an hour before reaching the breach in the northwest wall of the Third Ring.

She’d passed through the Fourth Ring unnoticed; it was an eerie and empty place with most Guardians deployed in the Interjacence now. Given the late hour, even the nursery was dark and quiet. The Third and Second Rings would be her real challenge. It wasn’t uncommon for some insomniac Archivist to be wandering about in the gardens of the Third Ring at odd hours of the night. And Raziel’s compound would be an even greater challenge. Despite the Guardians’ depleted numbers, the recent escalation in hostility surely would have sparked an increased security presence inside the Second Ring.

Hael pressed herself tightly up against the foliage sheathing the northwest wall and listened. Everything was quiet on the other side. The rain seemed to have kept even the most sleep-deprived Archivist inside. She dropped to the ground, ducked carefully beneath the thorny tendrils of Sicklevine that skirted the foot of the wall, and wriggled through the small breach into the Third Ring’s northwest garden. This breach was the narrowest she’d ever negotiated and invariably she scraped a knee or a shoulder on the sharp stone lining the ragged hole. Although she’d been tempted many times to widen that breach a little, chip away just a few centimetres more, she never had. Like all thralls, she never created or tampered with any breach she found, she simply took advantage of it. It was a pity that the breach afforded her access to the more widely used northwest garden and not the seldom frequented southeast, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and she hadn’t been caught yet.

Just as she’d hoped, she emerged into darkness and silence. It was best to avoid the path, so she cut through the gardens instead. The gardens were badly neglected for the most part, making them strange and disturbing places to walk, even in daylight. And there was always a peculiar scent in the air, a brew mixed from the sweetness of the stalwart flowers and the mustiness of old paper wafting down from the Archivists’ workrooms. The route through the rampant bushes gave her only slightly better cover, but slightly was an improvement on none at all. The tricky and unpleasant part in crossing this ring was always the trek through the sewage access tunnels in the basement of the doughnut-shaped complex that formed the wall to the Second Ring. The Accountant and his Archivists lived on the second and worked on the first storey of that dreary, featureless structure. She was grateful that it wasn’t the other way around. The odds were astronomical that even a thrall could fabricate a reasonable excuse for scurrying around in the access tunnel beneath someone’s bedroom.

30

There were myriad tunnels she could have chosen from but, through experience, she’d found the northernmost the least aromatic. She’d have to sacrifice time and a little of her camouflage to cut diagonally across the gardens, but no matter which tunnel she chose, she’d still have to lift the heavy grate to gain ingress and lifting that grate always posed the greatest chance of detection. She was just as likely to get caught struggling with any of the grates and the extra time and risk she took to traverse the garden diagonally was a small price to pay for the benefit of her nose.

Hael dropped to her haunches and flipped the heavy veil of drenched hair over her shoulders. Reaching inside her calf-high boots, she withdrew the length of flat metal she’d brought to lift the broken section of paving stone around the grate. Next, she wedged the blade under the grate itself, applied the pressure carefully so she could control the weighty grille as it slid sideways over the pavers. The screech of metal over stone was piercing to her ears, but she was kneeling directly over it. If someone, two storeys up, heard the noise, she hoped it would be dismissed as just another sound in the night-time symphony of a busy city at war.

She shoved the length of metal back into her boot and lowered her legs into the dark rectangular hole. The grate would have to stay displaced until she returned. It was only a short drop to the floor of the access tunnel, shallow enough that, with some effort, she could pull herself back out, but still too deep to reach up and replace the grate. Her feet hit the ground with the smallest of splashes. She was in total darkness now and would have to navigate the rest of the tunnel blind. As she sloshed through the ankle-deep stream, she counted her steps, taking only as many shallow, brief breaths as necessary. She hadn’t expected the recent rains to have channelled so much water into the tunnels. The constant flow had intensified the smell of the cramped space. It seemed to have played some havoc with the integrity of the floor as well. Every so often, she stumbled over a lifted section of flooring.

Once she was brought to a knee in the muck. Her clothes would surely reek now.

By her reckoning, she’d reached the end of her count. Above her head should be one of the grates within the grounds of the Second Ring. Silently, she thanked providence for her stature and spared a little gratitude for the king as well. Even though he didn’t know it, Raziel had commissioned the sunken garden in a location very convenient to her needs. Being shorter, most of her fellow thralls would probably have found it impossible to shift the heavy grate. Even for Hael, it was still a considerable stretch but she managed to budge the obstacle easily enough in the dark. The grate slid soundlessly over soft grass. If the crush of dense and towering vegetation here couldn’t mask the sound of her incursion, then there wasn’t sufficient cover in the whole of The City.

Hael could map the location of every structure in Raziel’s compound inside her head. Usually it was easier to weave a secure passage through the haphazardly arrayed outlier buildings here than it was to cross unnoticed through the open expanse of gardens in the Archivists’ compound. But she had to be watchful for the Guardians now. Like everyone else, she’d heard the rumours that Raziel, fearful Baradiel had informants inside The City, had taken the extreme step of increasing surveillance within the Second Ring. No one knew what additional precautions, if 31

any, had been mounted inside the Inner Ring. It was rare for gossip and conjecture to escape those walls at the best of times and Hael, having not ventured inside that ring herself for some months, couldn’t even guess.

She hoisted herself out of the tunnel into the garden. It wouldn’t do for a guard to discover an open access. Crouching low to the ground, she slipped the grate back into place and then listened. The rumours had been right. Beneath the constant drum of rain on the sodden ground, she heard subtle movement, the brush of cloth against the sagging leaves of wet bushes, and an undercurrent of words, softly spoken. It was doubtful that she could outfox a Guardian, convince him that she was on some routine thrall mission, especially at this hour of the night. Who used a lower class thrall to conduct business with anyone in Raziel’s compound?

‘We’ve doubled the complement on the entire perimeter, but, with this rain, I doubt …’

The rest of the Underguardian’s words were lost to Raziel and he wasn’t interested enough to enquire what his companion in the beating rain had said. He’d been opposed to this extreme measure from the start, but Anauel had insisted. And of course, among all the councillors in the Guild, only Cathetel had openly spoken against it, leaving him little choice. He could kowtow to the Guild or stand up against it and reject Anauel’s counsel, gamble that The City would not fall. But what if he were wrong? It was too much of a gamble, so he’d submitted and sanctioned Anauel’s plan. Silently and plagued by misgivings, he’d watched from his balcony as a full Company of Guardians descended on his compound. By his action, he’d probably achieved nothing more than a witless amble into the hands of the Guild.

In his heart, he still doubted Anauel’s motives and feared that, in the end, no benefit would come from this incursion of Guardians deeper into the city. No one knew this compound better than he did. No one could protect it better and the fact that his companion had overlooked the figure crouched in the garden, only a few paces to his right, just proved it.

Perhaps he still should have alerted the guard to the young thrall’s presence anyway, despite the fact that he’d recognised her. She’d been sneaking in and out of his compound for years — the lad Micah’s little playmate. She wasn’t quite so little anymore, but he suspected that the description might still apply, though perhaps with an added dimension. He’d been young once himself and hadn’t grown so old or preoccupied with war that he’d forgotten everything about it. He’d had his own brief flings with thralls. They were unlike the erudite females of his own caste and, being servants and couriers, were more often seen and, to be blunt about it, more often available.

There was nothing to be gained from handing the young thrall over to the guard and nothing to be lost if he didn’t. It didn’t mean he’d let her get away unchallenged.

It wasn’t prudent to allow anyone, even a love-struck thrall, indiscriminate access to the compound, especially not in these uncertain times. Eventually she’d be caught, assuming of course that Micah was still of a mind to encourage her. Over the years, he’d grown almost fond of the youngster, though of course he’d never spoken to her, and she’d probably never realised she was being observed.

32

*** Hael had waited patiently, listening to the Guardians’ conversation. The content didn’t concern her, but if she could still hear their voices, even faintly, then it wasn’t safe to come out. For a few minutes now, she’d heard nothing but the incessant rhythm of the rain. At least the lengthy wait in the downpour had washed the stink of sewer from her clothes, but her hair was a plastered mass shrouding her head and shoulders, sticking to her clothes, tangling about her arms — and her eyes stung from the constant wash of water that blurred her vision.

She crawled from her hiding place and glanced around. It seemed that the Guardians had gone, leaving nothing but open ground between her and her last obstacle, the wall of the Inner Ring. After only five or six furtive steps, she realised how flawed her judgment had been when a figure materialised in the darkness directly in front of her. She was caught.

The guard gripped her arm, firmly though not especially forcefully, just above the elbow.

‘It’s late to be out, even on thrall business, isn’t it?’

Briefly, Hael weighed the mettle of this Guardian and the likelihood that any truth she could tell, let alone one tilted slightly in her favour, might appease him enough to let her continue. Even if she were so lucky to have the Guardian only turn her away, it wasn’t enough just to steal home now with her mission unaccomplished, only to wait for another opportunity that might never come.

She did her best to sound authoritative and impatient, using the name of the Chief Gardener intentionally. ‘I’m carrying a message from Cathetel and demand transit.’

It remained to be seen whether the telling of such a lie was a foolish decision.

She wasn’t wearing the medallion of Cathetel’s household to back up her claim; in fact, she had no medallion at all. No one owned her now. And she’d never even met Cathetel. How many thralls had? But then, how many Guardians had either?

If Cathetel possessed some urgent need to dispatch a thrall, few would be likely to question it. But if this guard did, she had nothing, other than her distinguishing appearance, to support the lie. If Cathetel had enlisted the services of a thrall, she was just the stamp of thrall the Chief Gardener would have chosen — obviously strong, obviously young, and obviously female. It was well-known that Cathetel bore a deep-founded suspicion of males.

Her use of the formidable gardener’s name appeared to have had the desired effect. Behind the mask the streaming rain was making of the Guardian’s face, Hael thought she could detect clear discomfort. He didn’t even look for a medallion and his grip on her arm relaxed a little.

‘Cathetel?’ The guard’s head inclined to the left.

Only Baradiel might be bold enough to enlist the name of the Chief Gardener in any subterfuge, but obviously she wasn’t one of those repulsive creatures from across the Interjacence. That her mission wasn’t exactly as she had stated was another matter. But had she been convincing enough to fool the Guardian?

33

When she shrugged off the guard’s light grasp, he didn’t move to reclaim her. The small victory boosted her confidence. She stretched as tall as she could, although the top of her head still fell far short of the Guardian’s shoulder.

‘The Councillor will be very angry if I’m forced to report back that some lowranking oaf interrupted my mission.’ She thrust her chin upward, a gesture intended to underscore her displeasure. ‘It would be wise of you to let me pass immediately.’

She stepped around the Guardian, but her act of bravado did nothing to stem the shaking of her knees or the pounding of her heart.

Despite his misgivings, Raziel almost laughed. She was an audacious one. Micah must have his hands full with her.

‘Young thrall.’ He turned to catch up with his trespasser. ‘It would be equally wise to have me accompany you on your mission. This compound is under heavy surveillance and by Raziel’s instruction, I’m obliged to either turn you away or act as your escort.’

He had, of course, given no such instructions. Neither would the Guardians simply turn an intruder away or escort them anywhere. Anyone caught trespassing in the compound was more likely to face imprisonment — or worse — with little or anything he could do about it. The child was fortunate that he’d been the one to see her there in the bushes.

‘Accompany me, then.’ The thrall’s voice was raised to combat the rain as she called back to him over her shoulder. ‘But only as far as the gates to the Inner Ring.

There’ll be no need to accompany me further. I know my way.’

Audacious she well may be, but naive as well. Did she truly believe it would be so simple to order the Guardians about? She’d come ill-prepared for her rendezvous and his old Architect’s son was just as foolish. He’d always suspected that the son might not measure up to the father and this latest folly only provided further evidence. How had they managed to conceal their indiscretion from Satarel for so many years? Still, she was only a thrall and her dalliance with Micah only a minor matter in the grander scheme of things. He’d see her though this time and leave it to Micah to resolve. Surely Satarel’s son must realise that the time for such selfish diversions had passed. It was something of a pity though; he suspected he’d miss the thrall’s regular transits through his garden.

Hael counted at least ten more Guardians in their rain-soaked journey across the compound. Most had been too far away to notice the unusual couple, while those who were closer made a brief move to intercept them before abruptly turning away, leaving her and her escort to continue unimpeded. It seemed that her companion was not the common Underguardian she’d assumed him to be, but someone more senior. Cloaked as he was in the uniform neck-to-knee rain habit, there was no insignia showing to indicate who he might be. She began to wonder whether her impudence would elicit an even greater punishment than she’d first feared. But, just as she’d demanded, the Guardian left her by the gates. It had been too easy. Something was wrong. He’d even smiled as he cautioned her to have one of Satarel’s staff escort her back out and, she could have sworn it true, bowed slightly before he 34

turned and ambled away. Surely she was facing direr consequences than she understood and doubtless they’d come crashing down on her before long. She just had to make it to Satarel before that happened.

Being the core of The City, the Inner Ring didn’t need or boast any central security structure, relying solely upon the wall between it and Raziel’s compound for protection. At least, it used to. She’d soon discover if the indignities that the rest of The City had suffered in the name of defence had insinuated themselves here as well.

The heavy rain obscured her vision of the compound’s single complex, the immense inverted T. The broad base of the T housed the vast conservatory and an outer labyrinth of interconnecting corridors and chambers. Once, without Satarel to guide her, she’d become lost inside that labyrinth and, for hours, had sat crying in some dark corridor before the Architect happened to pass by. She’d done her best to conceal her tears, but she suspected she wasn’t fooling kindly old Satarel. He didn’t attempt to console her, simply took her hand and showed her, not just the way out, but the secret passageway to his private quarters as well. Even so, she’d never ventured into that part of the labyrinth alone again.

The access to Satarel’s private quarters lay on the western side of the complex, but the gates where the Guardian had left her seemed to be at the eastern side. The territory wasn’t as familiar and the wall of rain made it even more difficult for her to gather her bearings. She plunged into the ankle-deep run-off sheeting the eastern path and struck off to her right, heading for what she hoped was the northeast quadrant. Again she chose to avoid the more direct route along the path, preferring to circle back toward the north, transiting the gardens in both the northeast and northwest quadrants to emerge at the western path some distance from the central complex.

The Guardians seemed to be absent here. Knowing Satarel, she’d gambled that might be the case. But she hadn’t gambled on being deposited in an unfamiliar part of the compound and the gardens on the northeast side hosted an enormously tall and broad forest. She was submerged in almost total darkness under the canopy of mammoth Pila trees that thralls called the Pillars of Heaven. Time and time again, rough bark scraped her skin as she stumbled over an uneven terrain of fallen limbs and tentacles of the trees’ massive buttress roots. Short of providing her protection from the relentless rain, the dense cover concentrated the even downpour into erratic bursts. She was breathing rain, blinking it, swallowing it. Her clothes were fused to her skin by it, her boots filled with it. She cursed her own stupidity — only a fool would have chosen a night like this one.

Abruptly, the Pilas gave way to the openness of the northwest quadrant. Hael was relieved to step into a feeble sheen of light that struggled over the roof of the lower floor from the upper windows of the tower. The rain was coming at her obliquely and the glow from the central complex turned each raindrop into a pearl the instant before it burst against her face. It wasn’t far now to Satarel’s secret entrance and she hoped that there’d literally be light at the end of that tunnel. Of one thing she was sure — if she did find Satarel, she’d find him alone among the disarray of books and manuscripts in his quarters. He never had company. He rarely ever talked about his son and had never once mentioned his dead wife’s name in her presence. Everyone 35

knew that Cassiel had been an outbreed, and Hael suspected that relief, not grief, lay at the core of his silence. Only something terribly important must have induced him to select an outbreed for a wife in the first place.

She found herself alone on the western path. At the end of the path lay the maze that surrounded the Inner Ring. It wasn’t any ordinary maze that, once learned, could be mentally plotted and navigated again, but was more of a fluid thing that changed on some erratic schedule, each reconfiguration being a random perversion of the last. Satarel’s secret passageway was never changed, simply because he’d grown irritated by having to learn and relearn his own route home. As far as Hael knew, no one else was aware of this minor aberration. Those who worked on the maze were supposedly rotated in equally erratic rosters so that no one ever grew familiar enough with the entire formation to discover that one passageway always remained the same.

As a child, Hael hadn’t thought to question the confidence Satarel had placed in her. Now an adult, she was beginning to look for that elusive explanation. The Architect had entrusted her with an enormous responsibility and, though she hadn’t betrayed it yet, the times were ripe for her loyalty to be tested. Hael wasn’t certain she could measure up. She’d already committed one unwitting act of betrayal. What were the odds against her blundering headlong into another?

It was only a small comfort to be free of the pounding rain. Now she had to contend with the deafening roar of the deluge on the transparent roof of the maze.

Light from the tower filtered through the roof and made the labyrinth brighter than the Pila forest outside. But despite her familiarity with the space, she kept making wrong turns and constantly had to stop and regain her bearings. The roar overhead was sapping at her concentration. Eventually, she came out of the maze exactly where she should have, within the immense western hall of the conservatory. Emerging into such a vast space after the tight confines of the maze momentarily disoriented her. She’d begun to shiver, too.

Hael pulled herself together. It was too late now to back out. She headed for the circular atrium, where four sets of concealed stairs, offset slightly from each cardinal point, spiralled toward the mezzanine. From the mezzanine, she could gain access to the central tower and Satarel’s private quarters on the second floor.

Someone had been stripping the plants from the conservatory again. Hael had never discovered any reason for the periodic conversions; they just happened, much like the overhaul of the maze, the outcome of some arbitrary timetable. Only the Sicklevine was never touched. Its tendrils still brushed the floor and twisted about the trunks of the Pila trees that supported the enormous mezzanine and obscured the stairs. Entering that space under the mezzanine was like walking into the Pila forest all over again. The giant trees appeared to have been indiscriminately placed.

Sometimes they were crammed tightly against one another, sometimes widely spaced to create broad, open rifts across the atrium. At four special places within the tight clusters, the spiral stairs were concealed.

Keen to avoid a prick from the vicious thorns, Hael cautiously pushed the dangling mass of Sicklevine aside. Turning side-on, she squeezed between the two nearest Pila trunks. Before her, tightly wedged into the inner space, the western-most 36

staircase spiralled up to the mezzanine and another narrower, disused-looking set wound down below. It was a dark place and she relied on memory alone to negotiate the steps, winding her way up to emerge in the stronger light of the mezzanine.

Satarel’s quarters lay off to her right through another maze of passages that, fortunately, were perpetually bathed in subdued yellow light. Another of the old Architect’s directives. He did abhor uncertainty.

Hael never bothered to knock at Satarel’s door. She pushed the door ajar and stepped through into the familiar, cluttered room, expecting to find the Architect in his usual place, poring over some enigmatic document at his untidy desk. She realised her mistake immediately. Though there was indeed a lord bent in solemn concentration at the desk, it was not Satarel. In fact, the lord seemed barely older than she was. His shoulder-length hair was still dark and glossy, his spine still comfortably arched.

His hearing, too, seemed just as vital. He turned, almost immediately, as she entered the room, the expression on his face a curious mixture of surprise and discomfort. The first she could understand. The second she didn’t expect, although when she thought about it, perhaps his concern was warranted. These were Satarel’s quarters, after all. So who was this stranger?

37

3

H

ael strode forward into the room.

‘Who are you?’ She attempted to appear confident, but doubted that she had. If she was trembling as much on the outside as the inside, the young lord couldn’t fail to notice.

As the lord rose to his feet, his hand knocked a pile of papers to the floor. He glanced toward the door for an instant, before turning toward her again to begin a critical study from the top of her head, past her cascade of drenched hair, to the puddle of water she was leaving on the floor.

‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ he asked, looking up.

He was right, of course. The lapse had escaped her attention. She’d been concentrating so hard on the appropriateness of her own behaviour, she hadn’t spared a thought for the inappropriateness of his.

‘Yes, you should.’ She took another step into the room. ‘Why didn’t you?’

The lord’s attention shifted briefly to the empty place on her chest where her household medallion should be hanging, before he stooped to retrieve the fallen papers and return them to the desk. ‘Tell me who you are first, then I’ll decide if you merit an answer.’

He was quite arrogant, something else that had initially escaped her attention.

Normally she’d have perceived something so evident from the smallest of clues: the self-possessed stance he’d taken when he rose; the coolness in his eyes when he’d looked at her. What she’d interpreted at first to be discomfort at being discovered was apparently nothing other than a display of patrician annoyance at her intrusion.

She weighed her options. She’d lied before and apparently gotten away with it. It would be foolish to fabricate another lie when the original seemed to have netted her a measure of success.

‘I’ve been sent from Cathetel,’ she said, ‘with a message for the Architect. I insist on being taken to Satarel immediately.’

Her demand seemed to surprise the lord. He scanned her face for a full minute, while Hael stood there, readying herself for a challenge. It never came. Instead the lord shrugged.

‘He’s gone.’ With the heel of his shoe, he swivelled the chair around to sit down.

His gaze never left her though and she was beginning to suspect that it wouldn’t be so easy to fool this young aristocrat. Whoever he was, he seemed confident of his right to be there.

She stepped closer to the desk. ‘It’s imperative that the Architect receive this message. The Councillor will be angry if I report back that my mission was interrupted by a mere child.’ The same empty threat was all she had.

‘Satarel is not available,’ he said simply. ‘You’d better deliver your message to me.’

‘You? Who are you?’

The lord sighed and rose to his feet again. ‘I’m Micah, Satarel’s son, and if you give your message to me, I’ll —’ Hael interrupted him. ‘What proof do I have that you’re who you say you are?’

‘Again, shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

She couldn’t argue his logic and instead reconsidered her options. The young lord didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to Satarel, but that meant nothing. For as long as she could remember, Satarel had been old, bent at the shoulders, his hair thinning and grizzled, his face a lattice of furrows and folds. And Cassiel, his wife, had been an outbreed. Who knew how that could pollute genetics? This lord could be who he said he was. She’d never met Satarel’s son, but the old Architect’s infrequent reference to him had intrigued her so much that she’d remembered his name.

But Satarel’s son or not, she couldn’t risk trusting him.

‘Perhaps I should try again tomorrow then.’ She took a tentative step backward.

‘I’ll say nothing to Councillor Cathetel this time, but be assured, if you impede me again …’

The lord was in front of her before she could complete her warning.

‘You’re lying,’ he said calmly. ‘You haven’t come from Cathetel at all. Or from anyone else for that matter. You don’t even have a medallion. Besides, I already know who you are. You’re Hael, my father’s pet thrall.’

Pet thrall! What was that supposed to mean? Still, it was useless to refute her identity. Apparently he’d recognised her right away.

‘I’ve seen you many times,’ Micah continued. ‘So it’s no use denying it.’

She’d decided that already, hadn’t she?

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m Hael and I know your father. I don’t know what you’re implying by pet thrall though. If you’re suggesting —’ ‘I’m not suggesting anything, merely stating the obvious,’ he said in that same supercilious manner that was starting to burrow under her skin.

‘Just a minute.’ She made a grab for the lord’s arm as he started to move away.

When he spun around to face her again, he looked surprised.

‘If you’ve seen me, as you say, then you know I’ve been visiting your father since I was five years old. He’s been like — a grandfather to me.’ The Architect — quasigrandfather to a thrall? Even she found it hard to swallow.

‘If you say so,’ Micah said. His focus shifted to her hand still clenched tightly about his upper arm.

Hael loosened her hold, expecting him to walk off to summon the guards. If she were a lord, that’s exactly what she would have done. He didn’t.

39

‘I came here tonight to ask for his help in a certain matter,’ she continued, relieved but confused by such a surprising reprieve. She’d be wise to take advantage of it. ‘If he isn’t here, then I’d be grateful if you’d let me leave.’

Micah raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I stopping you?’

‘But …’ She floundered a moment. ‘What are you going to do … about me having come here?’

The young lord smiled. ‘If you mean am I going to inform the Guardians, hardly.’

He stepped away from her, returned to Satarel’s desk and sat down. ‘I don’t see anything to be gained by destroying my father’s reputation now.’

Hael lunged a step closer, infuriated by the insidiousness of this young aristocrat’s mind. ‘I’ve told you —’ ‘I know, I know.’ He waved his hand at her, before turning back to the papers on the desk. ‘My father was like a grandfather to you!’

Oh, if she were only something other than a thrall! The smart thing to do would be to turn and walk out the door — as he was giving her the chance to do. But she didn’t always do the smart thing — there was evidence enough of that. Besides, why was he letting her go? To save his father’s reputation as he said? He could have done that and still had her thrown into custody.

Hael tried to ignore her instinctive aversion to the arrogant lord and weigh his actions rationally. She reviewed the night’s series of anomalies in her head. One: despite the feebleness of her argument, the Guardian had allowed her to pass freely into Satarel’s compound. Two: where was Satarel? Three: what was Micah doing in Satarel’s quarters? Four: she’d never seen Micah before, so why was she seeing him now? And five, the most enigmatic of all: why was he letting her go?

The Guardian’s behaviour still mystified her but, putting that aside, she arrived at two plausible explanations for the rest. Either the young lord sitting, back turned toward her, in the chair wasn’t Micah, Satarel’s son, or …

Tentatively, she moved closer to the desk. The lord ignored her approach, although she doubted he was unaware of it. Something he had said, only a small thing really — one word — could explain everything but the Guardian’s actions.

She focussed her attention on the top of his head. ‘Satarel’s dead, isn’t he?’

Finally his forest green eyes turned on her. With a sigh and quick gesture of his hand, he indicated the chair beside his desk.

It seemed like an invitation to sit, a strange invitation she might have expected from Satarel, but from no one else in his caste. Still, she was inclined to accept the offer, despite her sodden attire and the likelihood that she’d damage the fine upholstery. Before she’d been apprehensive; now she was just plain tired, confused, and cold.

She was also scared. This was Satarel’s son and, if Satarel truly was dead, the new Architect. She’d challenged him, threatened him, lied to him. There wasn’t much worse she could have done. Yet here he was — offering her a chair. She took the proffered seat.

‘What makes you think my father is dead?’ He gathered the papers before him into a neat pile, scooted them to the farthest edge of the desk, before giving her his full attention.

40

She’d been watching his hands as he tidied the papers. She’d never seen such elegant hands.

‘You said “now”.’ She looked up to find him staring at her. ‘“I don’t see anything to be gained by destroying my father’s reputation now”.’

‘Word for word.’

Hael shrugged while Micah just kept staring.

‘Perhaps if you tell me about this certain matter, I might be able to help.’

She couldn’t do a more foolish thing. Micah had been careful neither to confirm nor deny that Satarel was dead, but if he were, then no one could help her now. She’d been relying on her friendship with the old Architect, depending on his compassion not to punish her. She knew nothing about Micah, beyond first impressions, and they’d been ambiguous.

‘Are you going to tell me or not? I don’t have all night.’

A trace of impatience — that, at least, she recognised as conduct in keeping with his position.

‘I think not.’ She rose from her chair and made for the door.

‘I could have called the Guardians,’ he called after her.

Hael halted at the door and turned around. ‘And ruin your father’s reputation?’

‘My father’s name need never come up. I could say you broke into my quarters, threatened me.’ He got to his feet. ‘Who would the Guardians believe?’

‘Why would a thrall threaten you?’

‘Why would the Guardians care? If I said you did — you did.’ He began advancing on her. ‘Besides you don’t look all that much like a thrall. You’re too tall, for one thing.’ He studied her again from head to foot. ‘And thralls don’t usually conduct legitimate business in the dead of night.’

She was finished. She could speak and be imprisoned for what she’d done or she could refuse to speak and be imprisoned for what she hadn’t.

She was finished.

‘Supposition,’ Micah said.

Hael hadn’t convinced him, but his rejoinders were no longer unique. It was the second time he’d resorted to that particular response.

She was sitting more comfortably now in another room of the Architect’s quarters, wrapped in a shawl he had brought her — Cassiel’s, she suspected. Another time, she’d have been loath to wear anything that had once belonged to an outbreed, but now she was too cold and miserable to care.

The room where Micah had brought her was at odds with the rest of the complex. Its lines were finer and a quick glance at her surroundings told her that its walls had even been painted. Once, the colour must have been some subtle shade of yellow but now, in places where the rays of the sun touched it, the yellow had faded a soft white. The inner wall was almost all fireplace. The space in front of the enormous hearth was dominated by an intricately woven floor rug and two bulky, deeply-cushioned chairs. Micah was now occupying one of those chairs. Leaning in closer to the fire from the other, Hael glanced away from the dancing embers toward the new Architect.

41

‘Supposition,’ Micah said again.

‘But he even told me his name, Lord Micah.’

‘So you said. But only once — when your mother was cleaning in the hallway.

But he never said anything to you ever again, did he?’

‘No. But I have a very good memory.’

The Lord shrugged. ‘Even so, what’s really in a name? I’m not aware of any rumours about Baradiel losing a son or about Raziel holding anyone captive. Anyway, that isn’t Raziel’s style.’

‘I never said it was the king.’

‘Who then?’ Micah asked mechanically.

‘My master. Councillor Anauel.’

Finally she seemed to have gained the young Architect’s undivided attention.

‘I thought … aren’t you a Tenth Ring thrall?’

‘Yes,’ Hael said, bowing her head to conceal her shame, ‘but I wasn’t always.’ She looked up timidly. ‘He was someone important, my Lord. I’m sure of it. And I’ll grant you it was dark, but I can still recognise an outbreed when I see one.’

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The new Architect was half outbreed himself. Doubtless she’d just insulted him — again.

‘I know I should have waited until Satarel returned and told him what had happened. It was stupid of me to expect the lord to wait for me at the stairs like that. But when I couldn’t find Satarel and the lord wasn’t there when I came back, I guessed he must have run down the lower set of stairs. I’d never been down those stairs. I thought they led to a basement or something where someone would find him … but, when no one ever did …’

‘You suspected he’d gone somewhere else?’ Micah suggested.

Hael nodded. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ ‘Five years is a long time to wait,’ he said by way of reply. ‘Why didn’t you come forward with this information before now?’

Hael hesitated. He hadn’t answered her question and she couldn’t answer his — even to her own satisfaction. ‘I was scared.’ The excuse sounded lame. ‘And the longer I waited to tell, the harder it became.’

Micah said nothing for a moment, unimpressed it seemed by her pitiful defence.

‘So why now?’ he asked finally.

‘This war.’ She moved to the edge of her chair, closer to the fire. ‘It’s gone too far.’

Across from her, Micah was frowning. ‘Do you have some unique insight into what is, and is not, an acceptable threshold to war?’

Hael shook her head in denial and apology. Apparently she’d violated the bounds of her station again. War was not thrall business. It obviously wasn’t for her to evaluate when, or even if, the subtle balance was in jeopardy.

Without warning, Micah jumped to his feet, startling her.

‘Nevertheless, you are correct. The war has gone too far.’

His tone was passionate, impatient, and left her feeling anxious. She’d only experienced fear once in Satarel’s presence and that was on the day he’d first found her, a child who by chance had happened upon a breach in the security of his compound 42

and in innocence had answered the call of curiosity. But Satarel had turned out to be a placid, deliberating soul. He didn’t rush to judgment, he didn’t jump to action, and he didn’t ever vacillate. It seemed the same couldn’t be said for his son.

As swiftly as the fire had sparked, it died. Micah’s green eyes turned cool again, but the transformation did little to settle her. It was a mistake to have come here and an even greater mistake to have stayed once she’d suspected that Satarel was dead.

This young Architect wouldn’t help her — even if he wanted to. The old Architect was dead and they were at the mercy of an inexperienced youth.

‘So what did you expect my father to do?’

Micah, the unflappable aristocrat again, had reclaimed his chair.

‘Get him back.’

Her answer was restrained. Satarel might have done it. Micah probably couldn’t.

It had all been for nothing — the trek through the driving rain, the risks she’d taken to get here, the lies she’d told the Guardian, and the ultimate folly — placing her hopes on Satarel’s unproven and unpredictable heir.

Her sudden loss of enthusiasm seemed to have escaped the young Architect’s attention.

‘Let’s suppose for the moment that you are right,’ he said, ‘and that the child being held in that room was Baradiel’s. Did you think that by returning him, Baradiel would just stop the war?’

‘I don’t know — maybe.’

Micah smiled at her. ‘I wouldn’t have expected naiveté in a thrall.’

Hael couldn’t understand this young lord at all. Apart from Anauel, Satarel was the only real non-thrall benchmark she had. Even thralls whispered about her master’s disagreeable temperament, so she’d assumed, hoped perhaps, that every other non-thrall would be just like Satarel. He’d treated her kindly, but there had never been any presumption of equality. In some ways, she supposed, Micah had been right — she had been Satarel’s pet. If she had found Satarel, she had no doubt that he’d have listened to her story and perhaps even believed her. And after that? If he’d chosen not to punish her, he’d simply have sent her home with a caution not to discuss the matter with anyone. He wouldn’t have invited her into his sanctuary to discuss it.

Micah leaned forward, looking serious. ‘Don’t they teach thralls anything?’

She shrugged and lowered her eyes, disinclined to confess her ignorance. She had no idea what the Architect was getting at.

Micah shook his head. ‘Obviously not, if you think the loss of one small child is at the root of Baradiel’s aggression.’

‘I’m a thrall. Thralls cook, they clean, they run your errands,’ she said miserably.

‘So I only know what I know. The child they kept locked in that room all those years was Baradiel’s son.’ At the sound of Micah’s faint sigh, she looked up. ‘He had to be.’

A small crease flawed Micah’s brow. ‘Elijah isn’t an uncommon name. Even if he was Baradiel’s son and all Baradiel ever wanted was to get him back, where do you suggest I start looking for this child — adult now, I suppose?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Hael considered the floor at her feet again. ‘I thought …’ She thought what? That Satarel would just know?

43

‘It’s more complicated than you suspect,’ Micah said, seeming to read her thoughts.

‘But you do believe me?’ She hadn’t meant to sound so desperate.

‘That the child was Baradiel’s son?’ Micah asked. ‘Perhaps. That you believe he was? Without doubt. And I don’t doubt, either, that you did exactly what you’ve said.

Only a fool would bring a story like that to the Architect if it weren’t true.’ Micah rose to his feet, crossed toward her chair, and thrust down his hand. ‘And you’re no fool.’

Hael glanced uncertainly at the proffered hand.

‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ he said as she rose to her feet unassisted. ‘I’ll consider what you’ve said, if you show me how you’ve managed to get in here undetected for all these years.’

It was her turn to smile. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m not a fool and that’s no bargain. I’ve already told you everything I know about Elijah. You’ll act on it or not, regardless of whether I show you the route or not.’

Micah returned the smile. ‘Then how do you intend to get out of here this time?

There are Guardians everywhere. In fact, I’m surprised that your route’s still secure.’

He was right. How was she going to get out? The Guardian had even warned her to enlist an escort, although he wouldn’t have suspected it might be the Architect himself. In protecting the route, she was only safeguarding an obsolete resource.

With Satarel dead, and she was certain now that he was, she’d have no reason to visit the Inner Ring again. There was nothing left for her here. Besides, she only had to show Micah the route out of the Inner Ring and perhaps Raziel’s compound. She had no doubt that once he saw the sewers, the young aristocrat would reconsider.

Making the bargain might actually play in her favour, not his.

‘It’s this way,’ Hael called over her shoulder to the figure trailing her in the darkness.

It was fortunate for him that the rain had stopped, unfortunate for her. A heavy downpour might have dampened his enthusiasm earlier. As it was, the thinning clouds had made way for insipid moonlight, making it easier for her to find her way back through the Pila forest.

She was retracing the route toward the eastern path. Though the western route was the one she really knew and used, the Guardian had left her at the Eastern Gate and that was the way she’d return. After all, he could be watching for her. Best to have it appear as though she’d taken his advice and sought an escort out of the Inner Ring, further supporting the tale she’d already told him.

But there was no one at the gate. They passed through into Raziel’s quarters apparently unobserved. She struck away from the path with Micah still doggedly on her heels. It seemed that she stood no chance of shaking him until they reached the sewers. As best she could remember, she followed the route the Guardian had taken. Three times they were challenged before they reached the sunken garden and the access route to the Third Ring. And three times, the guards who confronted them quickly broke off their challenge and stepped aside, allowing the two to pass freely. None of the guards was the one she’d encountered before, but it didn’t seem to matter. Having Micah in tow obviously had its advantages.

44

He was still on her heels as she entered the sunken garden. The only light was from an anaemic moon, but it was enough for her to see that the grate was just as she’d left it, securely in place. She glanced around, relieved to find that no Guardians were about, and dropped to the ground to slide the grate aside.

‘We go down here,’ she whispered, looking up at Micah.

He’d barely spoken since they’d left his compound and then only to acknowledge the three Guardians who’d intercepted them. He had nothing to say now either, apparently content to wait silently for her to drop through the opening before coming down into the darkness after her. She’d obviously misjudged him again. He wasn’t the least deterred by the stench wafting into the tunnel from the sewers and sloshed alongside her, ankle-deep in the unknown muck. He even proved useful when it came to exiting the tunnel under the cloister of the Third Ring. Being taller, it was easy for him and she wasn’t loath to grasp his hand this time so he could heave her out of the tunnel.

He rose to his feet beside her. ‘So that’s how it’s done.’

‘Shhh.’ She flipped a hand toward the complex behind them. ‘This is the Archivists’ compound,’ she told him in a whisper. ‘We’re right under their noses.’

‘Sorry. Where to now?’

She didn’t answer, but shot him a warning glance as she stooped to replace the grate. Rising, she pointed toward the northwest gardens and motioned for him to follow. As before, she cut through the gardens to reach the breach in the wall.

Micah crouched beside her, watching, as she carefully drew the Sicklevine aside to expose the ragged breach.

‘See there,’ she said faintly. ‘We go through there to the Fourth Ring.’

‘And once inside the Fourth Ring?’

She shrugged. ‘If you’re game, you take the streets. If you’re not, you take the alleys.’

He reached out to take the swatch of vine from her hands. ‘And which are you?’

‘Depends.’

Hael dropped to her stomach on the ground, wriggled head-first through the breach, and scrambled to her knees on the other side. Cautiously she grasped a handful of Sicklevine tendrils, intending to push them aside so Micah could follow.

When she glanced through the ragged hole, he was barely visible on the other side, looking back at her through the breach.

She whispered impatiently into the yawning hole. ‘Well, are you coming?’

‘I can’t fit through there,’ he answered. ‘Besides, I’ve learned what I needed to.’

Hael heard a slight rustling. Then she could see no more of Micah through the breach, only the pitch black nothingness of the hole. He must have let go of the Sicklevine.

‘What about our bargain?’ She raised her voice just enough to be heard on the other side of the wall. ‘I kept my part.’ She called again, louder now. ‘Lord Micah?’

No answer. *** 45

It was still early morning, but that was the time Raziel always chose to stroll in his gardens. It was easier to think then — when the air was fresh and the dust blown in from the Interjacence had been permitted to settle overnight. But even last night’s downpour had failed to clean the air enough to clear his head this morning. There must be moments, he supposed, when all kings, even those more disposed than he to assume their onerous obligations, felt overwhelmed.

His attention wandered toward a sky that would soon turn that hideous muddy pink, signalling it was time for him to return to his study. Raziel disliked pink, but pink was the colour of his sky and seeing it never failed to offend him. If he’d been born with the capacity for jealousy, he believed he might just envy Baradiel’s pale green sky to the west. Instead he simply wondered if Baradiel felt the same way.

It was rare to find himself so completely alone, so Raziel took advantage of the opportunity to sigh out loud. He’d grown accustomed to having the Guardians foul the beauty of his sanctuary; he’d grown accustomed to it, but he didn’t appreciate it.

Guardians were stationed all over his grounds, popping up when he least expected it like grotesque garden ornaments. But this morning he hadn’t encountered a single one, an oddity he was thankful for but found curious nonetheless. Evidently General Appoloin had assigned them to other duties today. It was a respite Raziel suspected couldn’t last. They’d be back again, probably before the day was even out, swarming among his trees and shrubs like a plague.

He sauntered down into the sunken garden and immediately tripped. Looking down, he found the grate to the underground tunnels slightly misaligned and kicked it back into place. So that’s where the little thrall had come from! He hoped that, last night, Micah had finally set her straight. It really wasn’t the time for selfish trysts.

Construction within the sunken garden had never been finished; the gazebo he’d envisaged never built. Somewhere in his compound, his fastidiously drafted plans would be lying buried beneath layers of more pressing documents. Some day perhaps, when peace was restored, he could return to them again. For now, all he could draw on for satisfaction were the plantings themselves, but these days not one of them was receiving the attention it required. He left the sunken garden disappointed.

This morning’s agenda was heavy; there was a meeting with General Appoloin and, unusually, another with Councillor Anauel immediately afterward. He didn’t relish the prospect of hearing the general’s latest report, which usually included a tally of the lost and missing, and whatever business the councillor had with him wasn’t likely to improve his mood. The Guild appeared to be renting at the seams, leaving Cathetel without influence enough to mend the damage.

He found the general already waiting for him when he entered his study. The big Guardian appeared unusually agitated this morning; he was pacing about the room but stopped and turned when Raziel stepped through the door.

‘Good morning, General,’ he said, ignoring his companion’s uncharacteristic demeanour as he made for his usual place, the chair behind his generously proportioned desk. ‘Please take a seat.’

46

The general seemed disinclined. Instead he walked to the window, forcing Raziel to swivel around in order to face him.

‘I’m guessing the news isn’t good.’

‘Not particularly,’ the general replied.

He was looking out the window, an obvious display of disrespect that Raziel chose to ignore as well. The general rarely troubled to conceal his opinions; it was a failing Raziel himself had been assiduously schooled to avoid.

‘Is the second division holding position?’

‘At last report, Excellency.’

‘And the first?’

‘Waiting on your word.’

‘Have them wait a little longer.’

The general’s focus remained angled out the window, but Raziel had still glimpsed enough of the brute’s face to notice that it had soured.

‘I see we maintain our difference of opinion.’

General Appoloin swung around. ‘It’s foolish to stall the inevitable. Sooner or later, the first division must move on Baradiel. Delaying it serves no purpose.’

‘Delaying it could save hundreds of lives, General.’

‘Only if Baradiel surrenders.’

‘Or agrees to a treaty.’

‘A treaty with Baradiel!’ The general’s face flushed red. ‘Here,’ he said and, stepping away from the window, flung a pile of papers onto the top of Raziel’s desk. The loose sheets scattered, a few slipping to the floor.

Raziel knew what the papers would contain — the latest casualty lists. He didn’t have the stomach to peruse them, so left the papers lying where they’d fallen.

‘I’ve given you my best advice, Excellency, and you persistently choose to ignore it. What happens next is on your head.’ The general strode to the door, slamming it as he left, leaving rattling walls behind him and a slightly puzzled Raziel.

When was it, he wondered, when ensuing events weren’t on his head? He rose from his chair and stooped to gather the fallen papers, turning them face down on his desk.

His meeting with Appoloin had been cut unexpectedly short; Anauel wasn’t due for some time. By rights, he should have the general called back to be held accountable for insubordination. He didn’t have the stomach for that either. Besides, he’d lost control of the Guardians; it was hard to know who among them could still be trusted. His old Architect could still have been trusted. Another time, he would have had Satarel sit in on these meetings with his advisors in spite, or perhaps in light, of their protests. But old Satarel was gone, leaving young Micah. Raziel had seen little of Micah over the years until Satarel gradually began to include him in their meetings. It had always bothered Raziel that the kingly matters of The City’s governance peeked Micah’s interest more than issues that concerned the totality of The Plenum, Satarel’s domain. And then there was that business with the young thrall! Clearly Micah’s focus tended to wander — something his own used to do — making the Architect an unknown commodity and Raziel running short of allies.

Was Cathetel really the last of them? Perhaps there were one or two others inside 47

the Guild, others who were too cowed by Anauel’s perceived power to speak up.

When the crunch came, as it inevitably must, would they muster the courage to stand by their king?

Raziel turned to look out the window, his attention drawn to the darkening sky.

Storm clouds were brewing overhead, further dirtying that ghastly pink sky. Still, looking at the ugly and roiling clouds provided a convenient, if not pleasurable, diversion. Nothing on his desk was more appealing. When a knock sounded, he turned around, having already noticed his visitor reflected in the glass of his study window. Anauel had opened the door without waiting on an invitation.

The Chief Agronomer entered, also without invitation, flanked by two uniformed Guardians. Lately the councillor was never seen anywhere without two, sometimes three of his personal guards; in troubled times such as these, evidently he felt his position illustrious enough to warrant additional security — even within the safe confines of The City.

‘You’re early,’ Raziel said, mildly surprised. Anauel was habitually punctual.

‘I’ve just spoken with General Appoloin,’ Anauel replied without explanation or apology for his early arrival. ‘He tells me that you are still refusing to deploy the first division.’

Raziel shrugged. ‘Last I was informed, you were the Chief Agronomer. Unless you intend to cultivate divisions of soldiers from the ground up, what business is that of yours?’

‘None, of course, Excellency,’ Anauel said with a smile, ‘although I happen to agree with you. The general is a bred warrior, but there are other ways than might to win a war, as I just informed him — out there …’ he waved his hand at the door behind him.

‘How shrewd of the general to discuss strategy with whomever he meets in the corridors.’

Anauel’s smile remained steady. ‘They are your corridors, Excellency.’

‘Indeed they are,’ replied Raziel, making for his chair.

‘Ah, before you become too comfortable,’ Anauel said, striking out across the floor with a sheath of rolled up papers wedged under his arm. ‘Perhaps you’d like to look at my latest plans to combat some of the present shortages. It’d be easier from this side of the desk, I think.’

Raziel aborted his attempt to sit and rounded his desk while Anauel painstakingly unrolled sheet after sheet of paper, eventually covering his desk completely.

‘I believe with some judicious reallocation of the fields, we can make significant improvements to the current yield. Here, for example,’ he said, his finger stabbing at a spot on the top-most map, indicating a plot of farm land that Raziel knew, with absolute certainty, fell under Cathetel’s governance.

Raziel looked up, intending to enquire if his Chief Gardener had been informed of these proposals, when his attention was caught by the passing of a shadow on the glass of his study window. Vaguely, he was aware of a sharp burst of pain when his head made contact with the clutter of maps on his desk. But that was all.

48

4

E

lijah woke with a start, drenched in sweat. He’d dreamed that old dream again — at least, one of its many variations. But it didn’t seem to matter which path his subconscious took through the labyrinth, the dreams always began and ended the same way. Tonight’s dream was as detailed as any he’d had in the last five years, which happened to be the extent of his memory.

In every one of the dreams, he was a very small boy, running erratically, trying to hide. Elijah! Elijah! he’d hear — an angry someone calling his name — Come back! But he just kept running — on and on through thunderous and disorienting noise that boomed all around him in air that was charged with choking dust. He’d known he wasn’t supposed to be there, known he’d disobeyed authority to be there, but no dream had ever told him whose authority. Invariably he’d find himself being lifted and, in the same instant, a shroud would come down about his head, shielding his eyes. Then someone would start to carry him. He never felt afraid, believing that sooner or later, in one of those dreams, he’d find himself returned to a place of safety and love. So far, it hadn’t happened that way. Instead the darkness always drew in tighter and tighter about his head until he became enveloped in a bubble of silence. Ever so slowly the bubble changed, taking on the appearance of walls: thick, impenetrable walls capped by a ceiling of stone. By degree after frightening degree, the ceiling crept lower; the walls edged closer until he didn’t seem to be a boy anymore but a man.

There was never anything with him inside the bubble other than a woman’s hand and occasionally a sliver of light. In some manifestations of the dream, he’d hear footsteps through the wall of the bubble, in others, the muffled brush of someone’s clothing or the crash of something dropping. There was only one element that always stayed constant inside the bubble — a voice — speaking to him in the darkness. It was a young, sweet, soothing sound.

Escape from the bubble occurred abruptly, without knowledge or understanding of how it had happened. He’d find himself running again, hiding again, his own hand enveloped within the hand of some faceless other, his head filling with the whispers of the young, sweet voice as it urged him on. The voice had always been his ally, had consoled him with gentle words that had fed his soul, even though he

could never remember a single one. As he followed blindly through the labyrinth, never once would he stop to question it until he’d find himself tumbling, insular and empty, into the familiar abyss.

The dream always left him there, lost and alone in that void. He’d wake in the tight, dark confines of his small room inside the rectory, only certain of his place in space and time when the rhythmic rattle of a train sounded in the distance.

It had been a long time since Elijah had bothered trying to return to sleep after one of those dream voyages. Instead he’d rise, climb the stairs from his basement room, and walk into the night to the church. Tonight the moon was full and a long shadow trailed him across the small, well-tended yard.

Elijah always entered by the church’s back door. Negotiating the cramped corridors and tight corners at the back of the church gave him time to adjust to its open spaces. He didn’t bother with the lights. The moonlight piercing through the tall rectangles of stained glass was more than adequate for him to see by. Perhaps he could see in the dark, as Father Rafe often joked.

He made his way to the last row of pews and settled into the seat. It was his chosen place, even on Sundays, although the dwindling number of church-goers left an ample number of vacant seats closer to the altar. He could still hear every word of Father Rafe’s sermons from the last pew and anyone feeling fidgety or distracted was never bold enough to actually look over their shoulder.

Elijah’s appearance usually elicited attention. When he compared himself to others, even he could see that he was a physiological contradiction. His strange physique was a peculiarity that intrigued the children and the old women of the parish, but appeared to make most of the men nervous. His skin and hair were abnormally pale and, at first glance, his face suggested no immediately identifiable gender. He was also exceptionally tall and had disproportionately broad shoulders and elongated legs. Most of the parishioners knew his name, but rarely used it. Whenever he overheard someone in the congregation mention a bulb that had gone out, a newly broken window, or rubbish littering the tidy gardens, the response they received from the listening parishioner was always the same — ‘Better tell the Fallen Angel’.

Elijah didn’t like being referred to that way. He had a name. It was the one certain thing he could remember about himself.

If Father Rafe knew about his nocturnal vigils in the church, the priest never let on. It was probably the least eccentric of Elijah’s many unconventional habits and likely his mentor had simply come to accept it. Acceptance, after all, was the prerequisite of Father Rafe’s calling.

Elijah couldn’t remember a time when Father Rafe hadn’t been there, but then, he had no real memories beyond the last five years. His very first recollection was that of waking up in the hospital to find the priest standing over his bed. He didn’t know how he’d come to be there and, in the years since, hadn’t discovered. It was another answer he no longer tried to pursue. In that first year, whenever he’d tried to recall a place, a moment from his past, the headaches would come, sometimes unconsciousness, but never a scrap of remembrance. Father Rafe said that he’d been found lying unconscious in an alley and an ambulance had come and picked him off the street. He had no reason to doubt the priest’s word. Later he discovered that 50

it wasn’t unusual for the police to call in Father Rafe whenever a youth was found in troubled circumstances. It seemed that despite, or perhaps because of, his own youth, the priest had a reputation, even then, for doing God’s work with the young and disenfranchised.

At first, Father Rafe had worked with him, patiently tried to coax out reluctant memories, taken him to doctor after doctor. Nothing and no one had ever helped.

And now Elijah didn’t want them to. If he knew what had brought him onto the street that night, would it change things? Would it make any difference at all?

Besides, he wasn’t unhappy, not knowing. He had his work in the church and the library. One fed his passion for solitude, the other his passion for order. Elijah had a gift for structure. It hadn’t been easy to cajole the library’s administrators into hiring him, but Father Rafe had recognised his unique genius and wouldn’t see it wasted. Elijah was grateful for that. Without his work in the library, without the test of restoring sequence and assembly to satisfy his mind, he’d be as lost in the real world as he was in those dreamscapes. It was only unfortunate that his afternoons in the library brought him into contact with people. He’d have been happier if it didn’t, but he was cunning with his work practices and usually managed to find seclusion among the shelves. Mornings were always reserved for his duties at the church. Elijah worked hard for Father Rafe, partially out of gratitude, mostly because he wasn’t prepared to risk losing the only home he could remember.

Recently things hadn’t been going well in Father Rafe’s parish. Every penny the priest secured was channelled straight back into the community with nothing saved for maintenance of the modest rectory or the deteriorating church. Elijah did his best, but there was only so much he could do to camouflage the dryrot in the sills beneath the old stained glass windows and patch the procession of leaks in the roof.

Just yesterday he’d noticed a series of cracks breeding in the foundation walls. One after another, every doorjamb would soon move out of square and realigning the heavy oak doors would prove impossible. Father Rafe desperately needed money.

Elijah didn’t need uncommon sight to see that.

It was almost dawn when he rose from the pew. His thoughts were exhausted.

He left the church the same way he’d come, by the rear door, and made his way back to the rectory. Father Rafe would want breakfast soon. Although the priest didn’t actually expect Elijah to prepare breakfast every morning, it was a task Elijah had chosen to take on.

The rectory’s back door opened onto a narrow corridor that led straight as an arrow to the front door. All of the rooms on the lower floor of the rectory branched off from the corridor, even the kitchen. Father Rafe had plans, ones they both knew could never be realised, to knock down one of the inner walls and open up the small space. A scarcity of labour wasn’t the problem. The two of them could have undertaken the manual aspects of the work with little effort. The cost of materials had been the deterrent and so the kitchen remained as it had been for almost a century, a small space connected to an only slightly larger space that served as the dining room. They ate all of their meals in the dining room — the evening meal, lunch when Father Rafe was at home, and breakfast. Though smallish, it wasn’t an unpleasant room. In summer, a room-length bay of windows allowed the early 51

morning sun to shine in and a modest fireplace in one corner ensured that, during winter, it would be the warmest room in the rectory. Regardless of the season, Father Rafe usually ambled into the kitchen just before five thirty, in time to help him prepare breakfast.

This morning he found the priest already up and moving about at the sink. Elijah took over the preparations, leaving Father Rafe to make his morning coffee.

There was a trick to making good coffee, the priest had told him once, but whatever the trick was, Elijah never seemed to have mastered it.

Today was Sunday, so the priest would have the pages of today’s sermon lying on the dining room table, ready for one last perusal over breakfast. It made for a quiet mealtime, but Elijah didn’t mind that at all. It fascinated him to watch the priest silently read. Elijah left Father Rafe at the table to make the usual minor adjustments to his sermon and walked back to the church. There was always some little thing that needed doing before service began. This morning, he busied himself with the task of straightening up the hymnals. When the service started, Elijah didn’t want any distractions; having the hymnals ready at hand ensured that Father’s congregation wouldn’t be rustling around in their seats, trying to find them.

Fifteen minutes before eight o’clock, Elijah settled into his usual seat, as he had done every Sunday and Wednesday morning of the past five years. Occasionally one or two others kept him early company, but normally the seats began filling after he was already seated. Father Rafe never commenced his service one minute before eight and never one minute after. Any parishioner not in their seat by eight was tolerated by the man at the altar but never excused. As compassionate as the priest was, he had definite expectations. Punctuality and courtesy were apparently two of them. At eight o’clock precisely, Father Rafe took up his place at the altar.

Every so often during the service, Elijah’s attention strayed to his right to look at one particular woman. He could recall only a few rare Sundays when the pretty woman hadn’t attended the service. He never saw her on Wednesdays though; evidently the pretty woman had other things to do. The woman’s name was Chris, something Elijah had learned by accident years ago, and she was the only member of Father Rafe’s congregation to arrive and leave in a fancy car. As far as Elijah was concerned, there were only two types of car: plain and fancy. Everyone else in Father Rafe’s parish drove the plain ones. Usually he only saw the fancy ones on television or lined up sentry-like at the front of dealerships.

Most Sundays after the service was concluded, Chris would stop at his pew and speak to him for a minute or two while Father Rafe chatted with his parishioners at the door to the church. His one-word responses never put her off. Once Father Rafe was free, she’d say goodbye to Elijah, sometimes gently patting his arm, and walk down the aisle to talk with the priest; sometimes she’d accompany the priest into the rectory and they’d sit in the sunny dining room, drinking coffee. Father Rafe had known Chris for a very long time; at least, that’s what he’d told Elijah.

If he’d never been told that, Elijah probably wouldn’t have done what he did last Wednesday afternoon. He’d been surprised to see the woman browsing the shelves in the children’s section of the library and even more surprised to see her in the company of a pale-skinned young boy. She always came alone to services. The 52

woman had smiled when she saw him, introduced the boy as her nephew, and then casually enquired about Father Rafe. Elijah didn’t really know why he’d done it, or where he’d found the courage to say so much, but he’d told the pretty woman the truth. This morning he was anxious to discover if the pretty woman intended to act on what she’d been told or to tell Father Rafe who’d told her.

When the service was concluded and Father Rafe was standing at his customary station by the church door, the pretty woman gathered her handbag and manoeuvred her way into the aisle. But instead of stopping at Elijah’s pew, this morning she just nodded a cheery greeting to him as she passed and headed straight down the aisle. Elijah turned around in his pew. Such a departure from the norm didn’t seem to have registered with the priest; he was keeping up the conversation with Mrs Callahan. The old lady was telling the priest all about her garden again. In Elijah’s experience, it was the only topic Mrs Callahan had. She seemed expert enough though and eavesdropping now and then had netted him a few useful tips. Elijah made a habit of not listening in on the priest’s conversations, but since gardening was the only thing Mrs Callahan ever talked about, in her case he viewed it as an acceptable exception. This morning, though, he was going to broaden that exception and eavesdrop on the pretty woman as well.

Stepping out into the aisle, he set about checking the church pews as usual; occasionally one of Father Rafe’s parishioners left behind something that Elijah would gather up and give to Father Rafe for an eventual return to its rightful owner.

This morning’s survey would be brief; he couldn’t afford to let Father and his friend, Chris, get so far away from him that he couldn’t overhear what they were saying.

‘You need to inject a little more fire and brimstone into your sermons, Rafe. Half the front row was asleep.’

Elijah’s head jerked up when he heard the casually-delivered criticism. Instead of the scowl he was expecting, he saw a smile on Father Rafe’s face. By the time the priest responded, the two of them were on their way out the door and Elijah actually missed his reply. He needed to get closer, so abandoned his search of the front two pews; later he’d come back and finish.

Father and his friend were standing in sunshine on the church lawn when Elijah came to the door. Neither looked back to notice him standing there.

‘Claire needs to see a doctor herself,’ the woman was saying, ‘but neither John nor I have had much luck convincing her. In the long run, it’s her decision, I suppose, but — poor John — she’s my sister and I know she’s been through a lot, but my sympathies are with him, I’m afraid.’

‘No offense intended but Claire always was difficult.’

The pretty woman smiled up at him. ‘You’re only saying that because she almost always beat you at checkers.’

‘Not true,’ Father Rafe said.

‘Because you don’t see her at church then?’ She gave the priest a playful shove.

‘Don’t fret, she’s still among the saved, Rafe, just not especially demonstrative about it.’

‘That’s a comfort.’

The woman’s smile faltered. Elijah would have said she looked puzzled.

53

‘You know,’ she said, ‘for a priest, you’re a little on the profane side sometimes.’

‘I got in with a bad crowd when I was a kid.’

‘I’ll give that the response it deserves and ask how your mother is instead?’

Even from where he was standing, Elijah could hear the priest’s sigh. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were still angling to see her.’

‘I am,’ the pretty woman replied easily.

‘And I’ve told you repeatedly that she doesn’t see people anymore.’

‘It can’t hurt to try, Rafe. Maybe one day …’

Father Rafe shook his head. ‘Are you staying for coffee this morning?’

‘Can’t. I’m babysitting for John and Claire.’ One shoulder lifted. ‘I try to give them a break now and again.’

‘Forget it, Chris. It’s not going to work. Even if I were in favour of it, there’s no way she’d agree to see you.’

‘Not even to say hello?’

‘She doesn’t talk much anymore either.’

‘Does she still have all those cats?’

‘Now those, she does still talk to,’ he said and, putting a hand to the pretty woman’s elbow, began escorting her to the kerb.

Elijah had never met Father Rafe’s mother and the priest hardly ever spoke about her. But two, sometimes three times a week he’d be away for a few hours visiting with her. Elijah didn’t know where she lived. He did know what the woman looked like though, or what she had looked like. Father Rafe kept an old photograph of her on his study desk.

‘Don’t you take offense, but I hated it when Dad used to take me to those sessions with your mother.’

‘I often wondered about that,’ Rafe said. ‘He usually brought you, rarely Claire.’

The woman’s shoulder lifted again. ‘I don’t think my mother ever really approved of what he was doing. He needed someone along for moral support and, more often than not, I was the lucky one.’

Elijah was growing disappointed with the trend of the conversation. It seemed Father Rafe’s friend had no intention of acting on what he’d told her.

‘Why the youngest?’ the priest asked pretty Chris.

‘Oh come on, Rafe,’ she answered, beaming a smile. ‘Claire was always Daddy’s favourite.’ She touched a hand to the priest’s forearm. ‘I didn’t mind, not really. In some ways, it made me stronger. But Claire? He shielded her from things like that.’

‘By “things”, you mean my mother?’

‘I didn’t actually mean it that way, but … now that you’ve said it. Your house was a little creepy. And it always smelled of cat.’

The priest returned the woman’s smile. ‘Still does. Only now she’s got musty old newspapers stacked up all over the place as well. I can’t tell which smells worse.’

Chris raised both her hands. ‘Ugh — don’t tell me anymore! Can’t you just sneak in there one day and throw it all out?’

‘This is my mother we’re talking about, Chris.’

‘Point taken.’

54

When they stopped by the fancy car, the woman opened her handbag. Withdrawing a large envelope, she passed it to Father Rafe.

‘I think you could use this,’ she said and started to walk into the street.

But when Father Rafe looked into the envelope, he grabbed hold of her arm and stopped her.

‘I can’t take this,’ he told her.

From where Elijah was standing, it looked like he was trying to return the envelope.

‘Why? Besides, I’m not giving it to you. I’m giving it to the church. I’d prefer not to be sitting in there one Sunday and have a whole heap of rotten timbers come down on top of me — or someone else.’ She tilted up her head and, it seemed to Elijah, looked past him toward the roof of the church. ‘You should have told me about the roof, Rafe.’

‘I’d like to know who did.’

Elijah took a guilty step backward, thinking the pretty woman would tell.

‘I bet you would,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘But you don’t have to hear confessions to know how to keep a secret. Anyway it’s not all my money. John kicked in half of it.’

‘Why?’ ‘You’ll have to ask him that.’

‘I would. If I ever get to see him again.’

The pretty woman smiled. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Claire.’ She pressed the envelope back into his hands. ‘Look at it this way, Rafe, if it weren’t for your mother, I wouldn’t have any money to give away and even if you don’t believe it, I do, so shut up, take the money,’ she flipped a hand out toward the church and, turning, stepped back into the street, ‘and fix the bloody roof.’

She was on the driver’s side of the car before Father Rafe found his voice.

‘I won’t forget this, Chris,’ Elijah heard him say.

‘Yeah well, maybe you can put our names on a stained glass window sometime.’

Her head cocked to one side and she called over the top of the fancy car. ‘You know, you should have just married me when you had the chance, Father Rafe. Then you wouldn’t have so many stupid things to worry about.’

John sat watching his young son from the comfort of the leather armchair in his living room. Every now and then he lost sight of the boy when he passed outside the frame of the large picture window and he would be obliged to shift the chair once again. Claire would not have approved. Perhaps he didn’t always know what was best for the boy, but he never saw eye to eye with his wife on how much freedom Robert should be given. Better to let him scrape a knee, bump his head, and distress his fragile body once in a while than see out the rest of his aborted life trapped inside a cocoon.

Last Tuesday had been his boy’s ninth birthday. It was the second of those birthdays Robert was never supposed to have had, something that was nothing short of a miracle if he were to believe every doctor that had prodded, poked, and otherwise probed his son. Claire had orchestrated another of those obligatory birthday 55

parties John had come to loathe, dreading the moment when another borrowed year would be stripped from his son’s slender calendar. Once Claire had tried to do the usual thing and had filled the house with the havoc that went hand-in-hand with the gathering of twenty rambunctious pre-schoolers. The day had ended in an emergency rush to the hospital and a five-hour vigil by Robert’s bed. It wasn’t how either of them had pictured their son’s fourth birthday. She’d never invited a single child to his parties again and last Tuesday’s celebration had been another dismal, adult-dominated affair.

To compensate, this morning John had allowed the boy to play outside in the garden, a rare liberty that Claire would never even contemplate. The boy’s play didn’t amount to much more than a staggering sort of wander in surreal silence.

Robert rarely spoke anymore, whether by choice or the deterioration of his condition the doctors had been unable to determine. Whenever John had offered his son a bit of liberty in the past, Claire would invariably discover his indiscretion and he’d fall foul of the forty minute phone call to Chris that dispassionately expounded on his lack of common sense and feeling. Claire never thought to mention that on those rare occasions when he did allow Robert some freedom, John never took his eyes off the boy, not even for a second.

It wasn’t particularly common for him to be alone with Robert. Usually, he chose not to be and Claire seldom allowed it anyway. Half an hour ago, she’d left to spend the morning with one of the few friends she hadn’t managed to drive off yet; if Chris weren’t expected within the hour, he doubted Claire would have dared to go.

It was during times left alone in the house with Robert when he found himself wondering if perhaps Claire wasn’t right about him after all; maybe she had good cause to question his attitude, and as a consequence his competence where Robert was concerned. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his son; he did, perhaps too much, but he couldn’t help resent him as well. Despite the success he had made of his fatherin-law’s company, in James Carpenter’s eyes, John’s inability to produce a viable heir was just another in the long list of his son-in-law’s shortcomings. James saw the child as a poor specimen, the ruin of his dynasty.

A glance at the clock confirmed that Chris was due any minute, and whether Claire was right about him or not, as soon as she arrived, he’d still leave immediately for work. These days Claire didn’t care how much time he spent away from home.

Of course it hadn’t always been that way, but now his wife didn’t seem to care much about anything anymore — except Robert. His slick downtown office had become a place of refuge — from Robert, from Claire, from himself.

He looked back toward the picture widow, expecting to see Robert playing in the yard he’d spent a small fortune child-proofing. But when there was no sign of the boy, he immediately bolted from the chair to the door. It seemed that every time he took the risk, he invited the reality of his son’s circumstances to come crashing down; today was no different. Finding Robert facedown on the grass, completely unresponsive, he fell instinctively into the standard routine. A quick check revealed no bumps on his head, no bruises, but a laboured though steady breathing. Gathering Robert up in his arms, he rushed back into the house to grab his car keys and scribble a hasty note for Claire’s sister.

56

Leaving the note wedged into the front door jamb, he bundled Robert into the back seat of his car. The drive to the hospital was agonisingly slow; it always was.

Long ago, he’d learned not to panic, just to keep one eye on the road ahead and the other on the rear view mirror, tilted down so he could observe any changed response from his son in the back seat of the car. He pulled up right at the doors to Emergency, grabbed Robert and, leaving the back door of his car flung open, dashed directly to reception. Perhaps the receiving nurse was one he was already acquainted with; it didn’t matter. He blurted out the only information they really needed, Robert’s name; his son had been amassing a vast medical file since the day he’d been born there. He waited only long enough to see Robert whisked away through the Emergency doors before heading back to move his car. The adrenaline that had gotten him to the hospital was spent. He took his time finding a parking space in the crowded car park and in walking the circuitous route to the hospital’s main entrance. The doors were sliding closed, but shot wide open again just as he reached them. He was on autopilot already as he stopped briefly in Emergency again to complete the all too familiar paperwork, bypassed the directory and headed straight for the bank of elevators. It was pointless to wait in Emergency. The children’s ward was his son’s second home and inevitably that’s where he’d end up.

Numb now, he waited by the passive elevator doors. With Robert safely in the hands of the experts, time had come to surrender to his trademark brand of guilt and blame himself, not that he hadn’t been there for his son, but that he had been, when perhaps the care of his son would have been better left to someone more responsible. Had his poor judgment brought about his son’s latest incident? Maybe.

If Claire had been aware of what had happened, he’d have been informed categorically that it had.

Maybe Claire had the right idea all those years ago when she’d threatened to remedy their problems permanently. It didn’t seem like such an extreme measure at the time. Robert had been going through a particularly bad stretch and Claire herself had sunk so low beneath the waters of depression, it seemed unlikely she’d ever surface or that he’d ever care if she did. He’d started going down right along beside her. But against the odds, Robert began turning the corner and Claire’s head gradually broke above the waves. The gun, though, had stayed in Claire’s dresser drawer for some months until Chris had finally taken it away. Claire had been a different woman then and he couldn’t imagine her proposing anything remotely like that solution now. She’d moved on past the carefree young woman he’d married, through the protracted phase of hysterical desperation, to become lodged, permanently it seemed, in an attitude of single-minded obsession. She’d wrapped Robert in cotton wool and, as long as she had complete control, as long as Robert remained relatively unharmed within that cocoon, she seemed resigned to let it continue.

The elevator finally arrived and as he squeezed through the doors, his fingers mechanically found the 9 button. On the way up, he thought about calling Claire, but before he’d reached the ninth floor, had decided against it. He just couldn’t watch it again, that familiar slide down into irrationality with nothing he could say 57

or do capable of dragging his wife back up. He just didn’t need it — not today, not ever again. What he needed was another miracle, something to mend his boy completely and bring Claire back to the woman she used to be. It wasn’t going to happen.

Life hadn’t turned out the way he’d envisaged — not for any of them. He’d lost Claire the day Robert was born. And one day, probably not too far off, he would lose Robert too. He knew he could go on. He’d been preparing himself for that day ever since Robert was born. But what would become of Claire? The child had become her sole purpose.

Arriving at the children’s ward, he gravitated toward his usual chair in the waiting lounge. Through experience, he knew it was the best place to keep an eye out for the arrival of newly admitted patients. According to the clock on the wall overhead, he’d left the house forty, perhaps fifty, minutes ago. Chris would have found his note by now and was quite likely on her way to the hospital; he hoped she hadn’t called Claire.

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About the Author Shaune Lafferty Webb was born in Brisbane, Australia. Her father was an amateur astronomer and her eldest brother an avid science fiction reader, so perhaps it was inevitable that she developed an early enthusiasm for writing speculative fiction.

After obtaining a degree in geology from the University of Queensland, Shaune subsequently worked in geochemical laboratories, exploration companies, and, while living in the United States, at a multinational scientific institute involved in exploration beneath the ocean floors. A decade after returning to Australia, armed with a life-long addiction to SF and a broad scope of real-world research and editing experience, Shaune returned to her original passion, the writing of speculative fiction. Her short stories have appeared in AntipodeanSF, The Nautilus Engine, and Blue Crow Magazine.

Shaune lives in Brisbane with her research scientist husband and a slightly eccentric border collie. *** You’ve reached the end of this excerpt. We hoped you enjoyed it.

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