Col Buchanan - Stands a Shadow

‘I don’t understand,’ said Curl, twisting her head from side to side.

Che clambered out of the hole and scrambled on all fours up the slope of the roof. He coughed and covered his mouth as he looked south, his eyes reflecting flames.

‘Water,’ he called down to Curl. ‘We have to reach the nearest water!’

It wasn’t far, he saw. He could see it through the smoke as they rounded the corner.

‘This way,’ Che said from behind the cloth that wrapped his face, and took off towards the walls of the spa, his eyes scanning to left and right. He knew without looking that she was following behind.

They ran through a plaza of long tables and benches, with a lattice of wooden poles over their heads from which hung paper lanterns, each one slightly aglow from the burning structures behind them. Their boots pounded loud against the planking. Ahead, the structure of the public spa stood low against its fiery backdrop, its walls round, steam pouring from its open top as though it too was on fire. Che spotted movement in the street beyond it, between the sheets of flames that were dying buildings.

‘Hey!’ Curl swore as he grabbed her and forced her down behind one of the tables.

He released her so he could look over the table. Nothing now. No sign of the figure he had just seen. Che glanced around and took in the plumes of smoke and flying sparks getting closer, and tried not to let them spook him.

‘Come on,’ he said, and he was up and jogging again, pistol in his hand now.

From their left came a blast of noise. One of the lanterns disappeared before his eyes.

Che swore and ran onwards while trying to spot the source of it. Another blast sounded, and a table flew into the air just as they were passing. He veered to the right and cleared the plaza, bursting through a sheet of cloth hanging in his way. The rear of the spa loomed right in front of them; before it, squat huts belching steam.

‘I think someone’s shooting at us!’ Curl exclaimed as he guided her through he door of one of the huts, into its clammy darkness. He slammed the flimsy door shut behind them, and a fist-sized hole appeared in the wall at the level of their heads.

Che was on the ground in an instant. ‘Get your head down!’ he hollered, pulling Curl to the floor. In the next moment the hut erupted with the violence of a storm. Chips of wood spat across the darkened space as portions of the walls imploded.

‘ Do something!’ she screamed at him from her foetal position on the floor.

‘I’m doing it!’ he yelled back from beneath the cover of his own arms.

He felt shards of flying wood stabbing into his flesh. His body had taken over, trying to preserve itself at the expense of its arms and legs.

The violence diminished for a moment. Voices shouted outside.

Che slithered across to one of the holes in the wall and peered outside. A dozen figures were approaching the hut. They were clad in heavy fire-suits, their heads fully covered and their eyes shielded by glass, bending awkwardly to reload heavy weapons that by the size of them could only be hand cannons.

Che wiped his face clear of sweat. He sniffed the steamy air, foul with sulphur, scented a trace of something else within it, something familiar. He glanced behind him. In the gloom of the hut he could see a basket of laundry at the back of it. His eyes searched the floor in between.

They started to fire again, whoever they were. Curl screamed as Che slid across to a handle on the floor and heaved open a trapdoor, revealing a square hole in the lakeweed below, a wooden board slanting into it, ribbed for scrubbing clothes. He felt a sting of pain in his ear, another in his back. She shrieked louder.

‘Curl!’ he shouted.

‘What?’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘What?’

‘We’re leaving!’

She stared down into the black bubbling water of the lake and cast him a round-eyed glare. ‘Are you crazy?’

Che was already struggling out of his backpack. He slid into the water, warm like a bath.

‘Just hold onto me and kick as hard as you can. I think there’s a canal to the south of us. It can’t be far.’

She was terrified, he saw. It struck him that he should be frightened too.

She plunged into the water and came up sputtering. ‘South?’ she shouted. ‘How can you tell which way is south?’

‘I’m guessing,’ he told her. ‘Are you ready? Deep breath now. Go!’

The old priest and caretaker Heelas removed the cloth mask from his mouth and nose and inhaled a deep breath of the Tume night air.

Such a stench, he thought sourly. It reminded him of Q’os in the deep summer, when the reeking Baal’s mist would sometimes cover the city, except this was much worse than that.

Still, at least he was away from the inner chamber and Sasheen’s sickly scent of death, and out of the depths of the citadel. Heelas had always loathed being in the vicinity of illness as much as he feared the enclosure of spaces. His worst fear had always been the cool tunnels of the Hypermorum, where they laid the dead to rest. His worst nightmare was of being dead himself, and of being interred there for an eternity.

She’s dying, he thought once more as he crossed the drawbridge of the citadel and stepped onto the central plaza. Sasheen is dying.

He had left the Matriarch in her chamber, alone save for the gruesome presence of Lucian next to the bed. What a couple they made, he had thought as he’d closed the door behind him in relief. It was hard to picture them both as they once had been: two lovers struck by each other’s dazzle. For a time they had been inseparable, she and her dashing general from Lagos. Sasheen had even spoken of having children with him, of building a family retreat in Brule.

His head down, Heelas walked with his hands in his sleeves, ignoring the bows of passing priests, all of them men and women without status.

Heelas stopped by the canal and looked down at the loose rafts of lakeweed and the debris of wood still floating there. He saw a splash, though failed to see the fish that made it, only the soft ghost light in its wake.

The lesser priests would not be bowing their heads to him after she died, he reflected morosely. He would be lucky if Romano merely had him chitted, his nose removed, and cast him out on. Always it went that way when one ruler was supplanted by another. The old inner circle was cleansed to make room for the new. His whole life, everything he had worked towards – gone.

‘My pardon,’ said a voice as someone bumped against him.

Heelas turned in anger and instantly felt something sharp press through his robe and against his stomach. He was much too long in the tooth to wonder if it was anything but a knife.

An Acolyte’s masked face hovered close to his own.

‘Where is she?’ came a deep voice from behind it.

‘Who?’ he asked, playing for time.

‘Sasheen. Where is she?’

Heelas held up his hands. ‘How would I know? I’m only a courier.’

‘ Put your hands down!’ hissed the man. ‘I see how you strut, priest. Now stop lying to me and answer my question, or I will kill you now, here, where you stand.’

Heelas straightened. So it comes to this, he thought. A knife in the belly and my nose filled with the smell of rotting eggs.

‘You think you can frighten me?’ he said. ‘I can see your eyes, far-lander. You intend to kill me anyway. Do it, then,’ and he struck his chest loudly. ‘I’m ready.’

A hand lashed out to grip the front of his robe, pinning him there on the spot. The knife popped through the robe and into the skin of his stomach. It stayed there, a finger’s width inside him, as he felt warm blood trickle down into his pubic hair, his thighs.

Heelas blanched. The pain was nothing, and then it was everything.