Chapter XXXI

“That would be the smart move. On that note, we might want to head off to Anaszar’s or get stuck at the doors.” Lensar cracked the last bone in his bowl and sucked it dry.

The two left soon after, making their way in near darkness to the road connecting the harbour with the Grand Parnatar. In contrast to most others, this one was dimly lit along its full length by small fires kept alive with offerings of palm cuttings thrown on by the priests of the various temples and smaller houses of worship lining that road. The crowds had lessened, calls to prayers were still made and there was chanting too, even though the sun had long since set. Beyond that, Anaszar’s men no longer walked the streets advertising the evening’s fights and lyrical flutes still played, though less frequently, in many of the locales of lesser repute.  

“They won’t. But me they know. I’ll scout the crowd for our allies’ signal. They’ll infer your identity.”

“You seem more at ease,” Siddir said.

“I am. No one’s following us.” Feeling he might have taunted a god, Lensar looked around, just to be certain.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Fine,” Lensar said. “Turn left.” He took a sharp turn left and disappeared down some alley from where eyes of ember stared at him. Siddir followed him down it and soon heard a voice from behind. “Too far,” Lensar said. “Back here.”

Siddir rejoined him, and the two waited a while before reappearing from the alley again. “No one’s following us,” Lensar said again, this time firmer in his belief he had taunted none.

They arrived not long before the start of the first fight of the evening. Bets could still be made and Lensar was keen to get his in without ever even having seen the pair of men about to have it out against each other. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and piss. The crowd’s roar drowned out all conversation. Four small fires lit up the sandy ring within which the evening’s entertainment would take place. The two pushed their way through to the front until they had a clear view of the holes in the wall the fighters would come through.

And there they were. All oiled up, two men, already battered and bruised from a fight the night before, held their arms high in the air in honour of their master, Anaszar. He, too, appeared now. Holding a belching torch, he swung around in the air. It spat little flames into the box and sounded like reeds getting snapped. When Anaszar lowered the torch, the crowd erupted in wild cheers. The master tempered them with his hands and closed eyes.

“A fine welcome to you all,” Anaszar said when it had gone silent. Siddir’s eyes sharpened, wary of the crowd’s fervour. “Nine fights and nineteen men I provide you with. Good ones too. Some you might know; others might seem foreign and exotic. All of them dangerous. Untamed. One of you will step into the box as well.” Only now did he open his eyes. “Maybe you,” Anaszar said, pointing at one built like a bear. “Or you. You seem keen. Doesn’t he?” Anaszar said of a man who looked the part of a veteran of many campaigns. The crowd cheered. “Should he?” Anaszar asked with a raised eyebrow. The crowd laughed. “Will he, if given the chance?”

“He would,” the veteran said. Closed hands beat their chests in approval. If he won, he’d take most of the pot staked against him.

Anaszar drank from a gilded cup handed to him and observed his patrons one last time. “Wager well,” he said and sat down on his wooden throne. The two men who came out had hands wrapped in whitest linen and a flute played a tune to which the men stretched and showed off their physique. When the music stopped, the crowd broke their silence with an eruption of cheers and vulgarities.

“Usually an easy bet,” Lensar said over the noise. “You go home with a win, a small one, but a win. But that man who beats Anaszar’s nineteenth, he takes with him a fine, fine price.”

“And you’d want me to fight?”

“Nah,” Lensar said, having a good look about the place without making eye contact with those present. “Wouldn’t do, would it?” he shouted before fists, feet, knees and elbows landed where they could. The eyes, throat, liver, everything was fair game. “A yard of cloth to protect the bag. That’s it.” It was a vicious display and white linen turned red soon enough.

“Who’s our man?” Siddir asked.

“What?”

Siddir pointed to the sand pit. Lensar understood his meaning and pointed to the one with the red clay on his face and through his hair.

This way it went until all nine matches had concluded. All there was left was the nineteenth man, and one from the audience who still had the stomach for another round after all the gore from the previous fights.

“Usually some drunk reed cutter,” Lensar said. Not quite that time. It was the veteran who Anaszar picked to take on the last fighter of the night. “I’ll be right back.”

Lensar went off to place a bet. He judged the coin flow and staked it all on the veteran, trusting Anaszar’s beast to fall.

At the same time, hidden from Lensar’s otherwise watchful eye, someone came up behind Master Siddir. The Master felt it.

“Don’t,” a voice said. To add persuasion to the word, a sharp object pressed against Master Siddir’s back, just to the side of his spine. “In five days, when you’ve concluded your business with the Qanbat, you will visit the Menmar Obean. Remember the name.” Just then, the object pushed a little harder, as if to stress the point.

Lensar came back, contented with his bet. “I shouldn’t have, but I did. He better win,” he said of the man from the crowd. Siddir stared at him, still feeling something pressed hard up against him. “What?” Siddir’s eyes beckoned Lensar to look past his shoulder. “What?” he asked again.

Siddir moved with a Master’s fluid grace. His own cloth cut his neck, but he now held the hand holding what turned out to be nothing more than a bronze pin, and the hand belonged to a child. The unseen speaker must have passed the pin to a boy, who now shouted that a Master was present. Master Siddir let go of the child, hoping it was just him who’d seen him move his way, but others had seen it too.

“Out of here. Now,” Lensar, being one of those, said. Pushing his way through the crowd, he worked his way towards the rammed earthen walls of Anaszar’s establishment. It was darkest there and only a short distance from the nearest exit. Next, the two applied some mild violence before getting themselves into one of those dark alleyways after a few turns left and right.

“What was that?” Lensar demanded to know when he’d caught his breath.

“Menmar Obean,” Master Siddir said with much greater ease. “Someone spoke those words into my ear back there. Held something sharp against me, before handing it to that child. Told me to head there after my meeting with the Qanbat had concluded. What is it?”

“You really haven’t been here in a long time, have you?” Lensar said, much less certain they hadn’t been followed this time. “It’s a House of Steam, the largest in Quan. Someone does not want to be seen with you.”

The two made their way back to their lodgings and shared a water pipe on its roof terrace surrounded by a sea of earthen domes. Some domes, whitewashed, gleamed under the moon; others, bare earth, faded into the darkening night as fires and lamps dimmed. The river ran with streaks of silver and even now, great sails still navigated her. They reminded Siddir of the sharks who hunted around his island. They spoke of the days to come, and all that might head their way, and discussed how to act on each of those eventualities they could think of. Politics were discussed as well. Lensar knew more than his appearance and manner of speech would let one to believe. Quan was a snake pit on par with Zara’or if only half of all he said was to be believed.

When a Custodian of Sands, carrying his blue lantern from street to street, called out that it was the hour of Khonsu, these two departed for their beds.

○

Light streamed through large oculi, illuminating the marble floor where Master Osmenon paced. Above him, the mosaic faces of Arch Masters past looked down on him with judgement from a dome as old as the first of them. Osmenon’s commanding voice echoed through the hall, filling every corner.

 “The situation in Riza Sha has escalated,” he said to the other members of the Qanbat currently present. Of the over two hundred marble seats, only a few handfuls were cold to the touch.

“There are no reports that suggest this,” said Master Akhna’sura.

“Because none have been issued since the last one we received,” Master Osmenon replied. “That is why, Akhna’sura.”

“Riza Sha is a long way away. I can think of a dozen ways communications might have been disrupted. A storm, dull sails, illness. Or, and this is more to the core of it; there was simply nothing to report,” Minister Akhna’sura said, resisting the urge to pull at his ruff.

“You have read the relevant report we received from them, have you not?” Osmenon asked all those present. He appeared to point at every single one of them, so none could avoid answering him. They all had. “Then I don’t understand the utter lack of urgency on your part. A ship should be sent. Tomorrow, if not today. And another.”

“We have read the same reports as you. And others too. Some written long before you wore those blue robes.” Master Qarmarc said. “This is not the first time His ways have come to the fore, and they won’t be the last. This shall pass, as it always has.”

“You certainly have worn those robes a long time, Qarmarc,” Osmenon said. He meant the words as an insult and thus they were received.

“Your tongue gets the better of you,” Qarmarc said with a smile. He still had a hard time taking this ‘upstart’ seriously, and that smile showed it.

Osmenon saw it for what it was. It pleased him, and he would not risk the advantage by smiling. “‘Upon entering the village, we found no sign of its inhabitants nor were our priests anywhere to be found’,” Osmenon said.

“The Master in charge also reported they received word from friendly tribes that raiding parties had stepped up their incursions around that time,” Qarmarc said. “These barbarian lands are not fully under our control yet.”

“These barbarians of yours, they have use for dead priests? Or are you suggesting they surrendered?”

“You know I’m not,” Qarmarc said. His eyes and mouth showed nothing but disdain for the suggestion.

“Then what of the priests? What of the child possessed? And who gave them the order not to kill it?” Osmenon said. “That order must have come from one under your command, Breator.”

“There’s that tongue again,” Breator said. “How untouchable you must think yourself, feeling the Arch Master’s light hand on your shoulder.”

“Shoulders held up by a spine. What of the order?”

“The child passed the Unguising several times over. Leaving it alive would have required no order,” another, aligned with Akhna’sura, said. He spoke out of turn.

“It dreamt. It dreamt and that one barks,” Osmenon said, pointing to the misfortunate Master to have answered him. “To the owner: keep it on a shorter leash.” The ensuing laughter only gave way when Master Breator, Keeper of the Ink, said what Osmenon already knew.

“From around that time, there is a lacuna in all orders sent out stretching five days. It must have been amongst those,” Breator said.

“And the administrator on duty, what is his recollection of the matter?”

“Lacking,” Breator said. “As in, he cannot be found.” Osmenon already knew this too.

“This child, this thing, it dreamt. We know this. Can we agree on this?” Osmenon demanded to know. Some nodded begrudgingly, others wholeheartedly. The scene marked the distinct divide within the Qanbat. “Progress. We also know the priests didn’t kill it. Otherwise, they couldn’t have told us of the dreams. They tested the child and found it to be like any other. Then it dreamt, and they tested it again. They report this back to us. Then no reports. There are some gaps there, but the chronology of events is sound, not?” Osmenon managed to contain his frustration.

Some of those reed cutters before him had a hand in all of it, and the Arch Master’s hand on his shoulder was much heavier than he let on to those seated before him. Answers had to be found, and soon. They had let the child dream, and from what Osmenon had learnt from another report, one he’d intercepted and kept hidden from those before him, it had a nightmare too. The priests recounted the night it occurred and noted that elements or the whole of it must have somehow made their way into the world. At first, only a few of the villagers, mostly children, saw ‘it’. What it was they had seen, none of them could describe, but the fear it instilled into them was palpable, even to the priests. A few days later, some of the adult villagers saw ‘it’ too, and they could describe it as well. Most of the descriptions were more unlike than alike, but all shared three common elements. Whatever it was, they all heard it speak a single phrase, and just the one. ‘Help them.’ Over and over. Many believed it to be a woman’s voice, and they all became cold as winter when it appeared in its shrouded way. The villagers said they had seen it enter the house where the priests held the child, but they themselves had seen nothing, nor had they heard the words being spoken, over and over, as it did. After that, some said it fled into a nearby wood, while others stated with utmost certainty that it had made itself one with the night. Others, yet, said it lowered itself into the ground, or worse still, made itself one with the lake where the villagers performed most of their worshipping. Whatever it was, Osmenon suspected it had come back to take them all.

“Paretor,” it boomed, “I am putting you in charge of Breator’s office. You have one month to find those missing documents. I will assign others to search for them as well,” Osmenon said. He required eyes to encourage results. Breator wanted to protest, but a light hand resting on his shoulder told him not to. Osmenon couldn’t see it, but knew it was there, and that it was Akhna’sura’s. “Qarmarc. You sail for Riza Sha.” He too wanted to protest, but before he could, Osmenon handed him the order bearing the Arch Master’s seal. “Get to the bottom of this. I am certain we all wish you a safe journey.” The pirates in those waters weren’t the issue. It was the Neasori ships that still patrolled sections of the Straits of Kurusa that would have Qarmarc troubled, and rightly so.

As far as Akhna’sura was concerned, First Minister Osmenon hadn’t worked out how to cut his strings yet, but his knife was more than willing.

○

“I will leave you here, then,” Lensar said. None below the rank of Master were permitted entrance to the Qanbat. He stood a few steps lower than Siddir, now in his full Master’s robes, and felt the rising sun on his neck. Those steps were the closest he would ever come to true power. It humbled him, made him feel less of a man.

Siddir took the remaining steps and lifted the heavy door knocker adorning the studded entrance with two hands. The metal it was made of shaped a stylised lion’s head and was there only to make the one seeking entry feel the way Lensar did. It, however, had little effect on Siddir. Though overwhelmed as he was, it wasn’t a door, let alone a door knocker, that made him understand the gravity of his situation.

A door opened. A head appeared.

“I am to come before the council.”

“Your and your teacher’s name?” were the words that accompanied a dismissive glance.

“Siddir. Eregos.” He expected the man standing in the smaller door to leave it open for him, but it closed and soon after appeared to be locked as well when he heard metal rods slide across. Siddir looked back at Lensar, who could only shrug his shoulders.

“I’ll be there,” Lensar said, pointing to a prominent three-storey building perhaps a hundred yards from where they were. From there, he’d easily see Siddir come out of that grand structure again. At that point, the two enormous doors opened. It was a rare enough occasion that it made Lensar halt, hoping to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond those imposing doors.

Masters pulled, then pushed those doors open and waited for Siddir to come through. Inside, all was dark but for the base of the many marbled columns upholding the ceiling and roof far above. Masters clad in grey stood among the lighted candles flickering around that fluted stone, and at the end of the long hallway, a great disk of bronze appeared mounted to the wall, on it the three black moons of the Teru de Fa. Siddir received one of the candles and instructed to make his way to the disk. The doors closed and the Masters lining all those columns became invisible to the eye.

When Siddir reached the end of the hallway, little remained of his candle. Wax had spilled into the cup of his hand, but it burnt still. To his far left, a thin slither of light guided him to another set of doors. When he reached these, he held the candle against it and startled himself when he saw his own reflection in bronze plates staring back at him. For a moment, he took in the details of his face, but then remembered what one of the Masters at the main door had told him. Knock thrice, he did, after he’d pinched his wick. Doors opened again and in doing so, flooded Siddir’s face with the light of oculi far above. So bright it was that Siddir held his arm across his brow and would only come through when his eyes had adjusted. Before him sat the same men First Minister Osmenon had addressed earlier, except for Master Qarmarc, who was already on his way to the harbour where a fully provisioned ship and crew awaited him.

“Master Eregos’s greatest student. An honour,” Osmenon said. There was something in his way that made Siddir believe he meant it. Others appeared less impressed. One knot. They’d take him for just another upstart, just like they did Osmenon. Siddir bowed deep. “Come now,” Osmenon said. “Join us.”

Siddir walked through the doors and watched the Masters who had opened them for him close them again before taking their seats near the back row of concentric semi-circles. When they had taken their seats, he spoke. “The honour is all mine,” he said and bowed again, this time before the assembly.

“One knot? And he is his greatest?” a Master seated towards the centre of the assembly asked.

“We all remember who taught you, Nachmar,” Master Dahnoto said in jest. He was met with great laugher, from Master Nachmar too. Both Siddir and Osmenon played close attention to those whose laughing lips appeared insincere.

“Yes, one knot,” Osmenon said when the noise died down. “And the only knot Eregos ever awarded to any of his students. No small feat. Plenty here who trained under that one.”

“Do not mock us,” one of those said. Siddir noted the face.

“I merely shine light on the accomplishment,” Osmenon said. “And that is why he is here.”

“Do you know why you are here?” Minister Akhna’sura asked.

“I would not presume to know,” Siddir said.

“You’ve had plenty of time to do all sorts of presuming,” another one, aligned with Akhna’sura said. “Out with it.”

Siddir felt pressed to speak the truth, but as a little of it as possible. “To train more men up.”

“And why?” Akhna’sura asked. “Show us why you got that knot of yours.”

“Because of our losses at H’Arzoth.”

“We won, didn’t we?” Akhna’sura said.

“We did not,” Osmenon replied. He’d rather Siddir didn’t answer the question. He’d take the whipping instead.

“We lost? Our First Minister is of the opinion ghosts marched thousands of Neasori through our gates? Lying ghosts?” A rumble ran through the assembly.

“Akhna’sura forgets why we are here today. It was his faction that pressed the battle which saw the death of so many of our finest. And now we hold a city of questionable strategic value. He also forgets that many of his ‘ghosts’ were trained by Eregos. More of his students survived than of any other Master.”

“We broke them,” Akhna’sura said with gritted teeth.

“Keeping H’Arzoth supplied is a military campaign in and of itself.” Akhna’sura had openly challenged the First Minister, but then it dawned on Siddir that Osmenon had let things escalate so that he might gain some valuable knowledge. “Either way, we want you to train up more priests to the rank of Master.”

“If he’s suited,” Akhna’sura said.

“What would make him suited? Pray tell. Lay bare your conditions,” Osmenon said.

“We all know it,” Akhna’sura said.

“Then you wouldn’t be giving much away by just stating it plain then, would you?” It was clear those two could drink each other’s blood, there and then, if need be. “Out with it.” Now it was Akhna’sura’s turn to say something that might cause a rumble. He stayed quiet and Osmenon gave him the time to look at all his allies among that net full of eels.

“What was he taught?” Akhna’sura wanted to know.

“Be specific,” Osmenon demanded.

“We’re all thinking it,” Akhna’sura said. It was the ‘telling it’ part that could get him into trouble. Master Eregos had been definitively cleared of all charges laid against him by the previous Arch Master himself. To even suggest he might have been wrong in doing so came with a certain amount of political risk. Akhna’sura was not willing to find out what that amount was. “Where lies his allegiance?”

“Always the Teru de Fa,” Siddir said, even though the question wasn’t directed at him.

Osmenon hid a smile. “Challenge him,” he said. “If you want to know what he is made of, then challenge him.”

“You expect me to fight him?” Akhna’sura said.

“Pick any fighter you like. How many can he pick?” Osmenon asked Siddir. He knew for a fact he’d fought four priests once, all of whom becoming Masters soon after.

“Two of his best,” Siddir proposed.

“Modest,” Osmenon said, attempting to lure Akhna’sura out. He knew his opponents well and Akhna’sura was aware of it. It was Osmenon who had Minister Ellemeras, one of Akhna’sura’s closest allies dispatched to Nadan.

Two Masters stood opposite Siddir along the edge of a garden courtyard lined on one side by the oldest wall in the city. Where guards normally patrolled, members of the Qanbat now stood looking down on the three men preparing themselves for combat. Other members of the assembly stood on an arched wooden balcony running along two sides of the square planted with herbs and climbing flowers. In the shade of the gate that opened up to all that fragrance, stood Osmenon, Akhna’sura and other Ministers of the Teru de Fa, all in their black robes and ruffs of finest pleated cotton covering their pale necks. Siddir took his sandals off and loosened the rope from his waist before removing his robe. The wounds he’d received during his many years of training were still clearly visible. He folded his red cloth and handed them and his rope to a priest attendant. Refreshing water was offered and accepted. The three drank and did not wait for the sun to shine overhead. Siddir’s opponents were the first to rise. He watched them walk up to the centre of the yard and looked up at the high-ranked spectators before giving Osmenon the shortest of glances.

Break them, Osmenon thought.

Akhna’sura had something similar in mind for Siddir, but he didn’t want him dead. An itch had told him something lurked in the shadows that had made Osmenon summon Siddir to the capital, somewhere in one of those dark recesses of his mind that made him so beloved with the Arch Master. The two Masters standing opposite Siddir were among the best he had. Both had fought at the Battle of H’Arzoth with distinction, both had risen in rank upon their return to Quan.

“Asan ar fa’wer,” Siddir said and bowed, as he was of lower rank to the two.

“Asan ar fa’wer,” came the reply from these who spent no further time on courtesies.

One turned left, the other right, to have it over with before the Hour of Reh. Siddir remained motionless, as he watched the two come nearer in his periphery. Beyond his sight was a hand signal the one to his left made. The other made a sign back and walked behind Siddir now. Eregos’s protégé turned to keep both men in his periphery. His sweat dripped from his fingertips onto the stone floor, ran down his legs and around his feet. His scars became redder.

The one with three knots came for his legs, while the one with four, swifter still, aimed to knock Siddir’s head off of his shoulders. Siddir jumped, rotated his body, and deflected fists with swift arms. On his way down, he targeted a knee. Both Masters retreated. Siddir landed, eyes sharp, keeping both in view. He did some probing of his own now, feigning an attack on the highest ranked among them with a high kick, and another. Next, he redirected all his efforts on the other, who had come up behind him. First fists, then one elbow followed by another, until he could feel the other’s breath, then a headbutt. He put a nose out of place, but it got put back again without delay. The man gave him a nod, as blood poured down his lips.

Osmenon locked his eyes on Akhna’sura until he would acknowledge them.

No more playing. The one with four came for Siddir again, moving in that way only the greatest among them could. His hands and arms seemed neither here nor there and his feet too, were much swifter than the eye. Siddir met him in kind. The two exchanged blows, while the third kept his distance. If his superior could land the winning strike, then he should be afforded the chance to do so. Back and forth it went, neither receiving nor dealing out that last blow or kick, until Siddir gave a little more and pierced a man’s defences. The first strike landed a fist on his opponent’s chin. To reduce its impact, he moved with the blow and was about to strike Siddir in the liver with a kick that would have struck it in half had Siddir not anticipated it. Following through on his fist, he turned and prepared a vicious elbow for his opponent’s outstretched knee. He hit him right above it, ducked to evade another fist coming his way now and jumped to where he could see both men again.

Osmenon locked his eyes on Akhna’sura again until he would acknowledge them.

Akhna’sura’s best man, wanting to create some distance between him and Siddir, limped away, but soon again stood tall. Walking on either side of Siddir again, the two would no longer hold back on their numerical advantage. This time, they would press it, and hard. The one with blood running down his chest still, lead the charge. So fierce was he, that Siddir saw no other way than to confront him head on, knowing that the other would come for him next without delay. So, it was. Both came at him hard, forcing Siddir to duck and weave, block and jump away with a few blows having landed with force and precision. Siddir felt the sharp pain in his ribs and knew he’d broken at least one of them. He bled from his mouth and the corner of his eye too. He put his fingers in his cheek and removed the molar that had come loose.

Akhna’sura locked his eyes on Osmenon now until he would acknowledge them. The Hour of Reh approached.

Sweat mixed with blood ran down the chest of two of the men, while the third still looked to be in pain from the elbow his knee took. Siddir would go for him first. How he did it struck all observing him with awe. Coming in low, he went for a swipe of his opponent’s legs but never meant it. Having already placed his hands on the stones wet with sweat and blood, he pushed himself away, so that he came up behind the strongest of the two. This one was fast to act, but Siddir was faster. Without ever having seen his fists leave his sides, Masters and Ministers saw one of Akhna’sura’s best collapse in agonising pain. Clasping one of his kidneys, he got onto a knee again and then his feet and tried as best he could to fight off the remainder of Siddir’s devastating charge, until one of Siddir’s shins struck him in the head so hard that it bounced off the stone it landed on. Many on the wall feared Siddir had killed his man, as he lay there lifeless from their vantage point, while all those on the balcony and in the shade only had eye for the footprints Siddir had left behind in the pavement from every time he’d pushed off, each of them with cracks radiating outward.

Neither Osmenon nor Akhna’sura could take their eyes off this student of Master Eregos.

Siddir mustered the last of his reserves and focussed them on the other now, fearing that, if he lost, his mission would be over. This one had the advantage of having seen his best moves, although ‘seen’ was not the best way to describe the experience. Striking a defensive pose, like that of a praying mantis, he waited for Siddir to approach him. Having seen Siddir get struck in the ribs, he would direct his attack on them. Siddir, anticipating he would, left that side wide open. He had a few more tricks left in him before he too would have to bow out or get beaten to the ground. When he deemed Siddir close enough, the Master came out with all he had. Thrice he hit his mark, reaching Siddir’s stomach, his head, and the liver, but Siddir had more. He came back with an elbow that cut the Master’s face down to the skull, a knee that hit him square on the chin next and, when this Master appeared to have somehow survived it all, a punch right where his heart sat had him collapse to the ground clasping his chest in agony. No celebration on Siddir’s part, although it had seemed he had fought for dear life. All Siddir did next was to look up at those on the wall and balconies again and at rivals standing beside each other in the shade.

Enemies they might be and many of their differences of opinion were insurmountable, but Akhna’sura recognised Osmenon was right in at least one aspect. Master Siddir and his ways were indeed the way forward.

“You will have my answer soon,” Akhna’sura said, as his best lay on the stones of that fragrant courtyard, nursing their many wounds. Siddir, ordered by Osmenon to come with him, was about to bow to them, but recognising he was their superior by far, the two lowered their heads in submission before he could.

The sun stood overhead when Siddir, wincing as pain stabbed a cracked rib and blood trickled from a swollen eye, stepped through the dormant door. By the time he’d reached the last of the lowest steps, Lensar was there too. “You look like shit,” he said of Siddir’s face. From the way Siddir came down the steps, he could tell most of the damage sustained lay hidden behind his red robes. Siddir said nothing. “We should get you back and looked after. Are you in any state to make it to Menmar Obean?”

“I might not be,” Siddir said and swallowed some more of the blood in his mouth.

Lensar ordered a sedan chair for the Master and told him he would meet him at their lodgings to help him up the stairs.

Siddir told Lensar what had occurred in the courtyard and about the many exchanges of words between the First Minister Osmenon and the many Ministers and Masters.

“One of them will know about Menmar Obean,” Lensar said to himself. “He will relay what happened. They will understand why you didn’t come and reach out to us again.”

“I believe so,” Siddir said. He lay on his pillowed bed eating grapes with only one side of his mouth.

“And someone will have seen us outside the Qanbat and have had us followed to this place,” Lensar said, holding on to firmer food. “They’ll know where to find us. No one spoke with you there?”

“Not about Menmar Obean.”

“We could always go to Anaszar’s Box again in a few days. If you feel up to it and deem it wise,” Lensar said, realising he might have stepped out of line once more.

“We will,” Siddir said.

○

As Siddir took one careful step after another down the wide and often trod stairs leading up to the Qanbat, First Minister Osmenon made his way to the Grand Parnatar via a passage within the old wall whose shade Siddir had fought in. On his way, he watched this pupil of Master Eregos through a spyhole until he got into his sedan.

“Where do we stand, Osmenon?” Arch Master Daromdyes the Fourth asked, facing away from the First Minister. By his gait did he recognise him.

“Qarmarc’s been dispatched,” Osmenon said to the bald ascetic man sitting on a cool floor in near darkness.

“For how long?” Daromdyes asked with one eye on his right hand.

“Indefinitely. His ship will never see the other side of the Straits of Kurusa.”

“And the young Master?”

“Accomplished. He veritably destroyed Akhna’sura’s men. Two of them at once. Purportedly his best, although he attempted to walk back the statement afterwards.”

“And Siddir? He came out unscathed?”

“Not that, but he required no help walking. The same could not be said for the other two.”

“He’s looked after?” Daromdyes asked, dipping his sourdough into a paste of chickpeas, sesame seed and garlic.

“He has a line of credit and a man by the name of Lensar sees to his day-to-day needs. Yes.”

“What is the extent of his knowledge?”

“He’s in that fine place,” Osmenon said. He meant Lensar knew enough to be of use, and little enough to not endanger their plans.

“And nothing new on Akhna’sura?”

“He tells the new whore he keeps in his sheets as little as the last one. Killing her too would raise suspicion.”

“A pity he sees to his lady well enough.”

“More than well enough, unfortunately. Her spending is outrageous, even for a woman of her status. That’s how he bought her tongue’s loyalty.”

“Loyalty can’t be bought. It can only be given or taken. Try again. When will you have your answer?”

“Soon.”

“Soon?” The Arch Master laughed.

 “Siddir is guaranteed the position. He simply means to give us time to make our next move.”

“Let us not disappoint him them. Have word sent to Siddir the moment there is alignment again.”

Osmenon bowed and left again.