Shokerandit halted suddenly behind a rajabaral.
Another man came on from behind, clutching his collar to his throat. He walked past the tree, glanced back, shuffled his feet, and hurried into a side street. Shokerandit saw with some amusement that it was called Perspicacity Alley.
With uncharacteristic forethought, he had not told his fellow travellers that on the head of the Hero guarding entry to Rivenjk harbour was a heliograph signalling station. Warning of the deserters aboard the New Season could have reached the port long before the brig docked…
He returned to Odo’s house by as devious a route as he could contrive. By then, the worst of the snow shower was over.
‘How fortunate that you arrive in time,’ Odo said, as Shokerandit entered the door. ‘My brother and I and the rest of the family are about to go to church to give thanks for the New Season’s survival. You will come along, please?’
‘Oh… yes, of course. A private ceremony?’
‘Absolutely private. Only the priest and the family.’
Shokerandit looked at Odim, who nodded encouragingly. ‘You are about to embark on another journey, Luterin. We who have known each other such a short while must part. The ceremony seems appropriate, even if you don’t believe in prayer.’
‘I will see if Fashnalgid will come too.’
He hastened up the winding wooden stair to the room Odo had lent them. Toress Lahl was there, lying under her skins on his bed.
‘You’re meant to be working, not lying about,’ he said. ‘You’re not still mourning your husband? Where’s the captain?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Find him, will you? He’ll be drinking somewhere.’
He ran back downstairs. As soon as he was gone, Fashnalgid climbed out from under his bed and laughed. Toress Lahl refused to smile.
‘I want food, not prayer,’ he said, peering cautiously out of the window. ‘And that drink your friend mentioned would be welcome…’
The Odim clan was gathering in the courtyard, where slaves were still meddling inefficiently with long rods, climbing in and out of the biogas inspection pit despite the sleet in the air. The place was filled with excited talk.
Shokerandit appeared. Some of the ladies who had been on the New Season ran up and embraced him, in a manner more reminiscent of Kuj-Juvec than of the rest of Sibornal. Shokerandit no longer contrasted such free behaviour with his own formal upbringing.
‘Oh, this is such a good place, this Rivenjk,’ said one well-wrapped grand-aunt, taking his arm. ‘There are many fine buildings, and much statuary. I shall be happy here, and mean to set up a press to print poetry. Do you think your countrymen like poetry?’
But before Shokerandit could reply, the lady had turned in the other direction to grasp Eedap Mun Odim by the sleeve. ‘You are our little hero, cousin, bringing us safe from oppression. Let me be in the church next to you. Walk there with me and make me proud.’
‘I shall be proud to walk with you, auntie,’ said Odim, smiling kindly at her. And the whole jostling crowd began to move out of the courtyard gate and along the street to the church.
‘And we are proud to have you with us, too, Luterin,’ said Odim, anxious that Shokerandit should not feel left out of the party. He looked round with pleasure at so many Odims gathered together. Although their ranks had been culled by the Fat Death, the bulk of the survivors was a compensation of sorts.
When they filed into the high-roofed church, Odim ranged himself against his brother, elbows touching. He wondered if Odo, like him, had no belief in God the Azoiaxic. He was far too polite to put such a personal question; secrecy was for men, as the saying went. If his brother wished to confess one evening, over a little wine, that was another matter. For now, it was enough that they were together and that the service allowed them to mourn for those who had died, including his wife and children and the beloved Besi Besamitikahl, and to rejoice in the fact that their own lives were spared.
A treble voice, disembodied, sexless, free of lust, traced a thread of theatrical penitence which rose from the well of the church to its interlaced roof beams.
Odim smiled as he sang and felt his soul lifted towards the rafters. Belief would have been good. But even the wish to believe was consolatory.
As the voices of the congregation were raised in song inside, ten beefy soldiers marched down the street outside accompanied by an officer, and halted outside Odirin Nan Odim’s gate. The watchman opened up to them, bowing. The soldiers brushed him aside and marched into the centre of the courtyard, trampling the already trodden carpet of snow.
The officer barked orders to his men. Four men to search the houses set at each point of the compass, remainder to stand where they were and be alert for escapees.
‘Abro Hakmo Astab!’ Fashnalgid shouted, jumping up from his bed. He had been sitting half-dressed, watching both the window and Toress Lahl, to whom he occasionally read lines of poetry from a small book. She was obeying his orders to prepare a meal, and was carrying a flaming brand obtained from a slave downstairs to light their stove.
She flinched at the obscenity of his oath, although she was used to the swearing of soldiers.
‘How I love the sound of a military voice! “No song like yours under spring skies…”’ Fashnalgid said. ‘And the clump of army boots. Yes, there they are. Look at that young fool of a lieutenant, uniform gleaming. All I once was…’
He glared down at the scene in the courtyard, where, in front of the soldiers, slaves still worked, rodding out the biogas drains, glancing mistrustingly at the invaders.
A pair of boots started to clump up the stairs to the attic room.
Fashnalgid snarled, showing white teeth under the wave of his moustache. He rushed for his sword and glared round the room like a cornered beast. Toress Lahl stood petrified, one hand to her mouth, the other holding the flaming brand at arm’s length.
‘Haaa…’ He dashed forward and snatched the brand from her, trailing the smoke across the room as he ran for the window. Pushing it open, he forced his head and shoulders out and hurled the brand with all his strength.
He had not lost his military skills. No grenade could have flown truer. The flame drew a parabola down the darkened air and disappeared into the open trap of the biogas chamber. For a second, silence. Then the whole place exploded. Slabs of the courtyard went flying. A great flame rose in the midst of everything, burning blue at its core.
With a roar of satisfaction, Fashnalgid crossed to the door and flung it wide. A young soldier stood there, hesitating, looking back the way he had come. Without thought, Fashnalgid ran him through. As the man doubled, Fashnalgid kicked out, sending him head first down the stairs.
‘Now we’ve got to run for our lives, woman,’ he said, taking hold of Toress Lahl’s hand.
‘Luterin—’ she said, but she was too frightened to do anything but follow him. They ran downstairs. The courtyard was a scene of panic. The gas still burned. Odims too old, too young, or too voluminous to attend the church service, together with their animals, were running about among the soldiers. The smart lieutenant aimed a bullet or two at the clouds. Slaves were screaming. One of the houses had caught fire.
It was an easy matter to skirt the melee and leave by the gate.
Once they were in the street, Fashnalgid dropped to an easier pace and sheathed his sword, so as to be less conspicuous.
They hurried into the churchyard. He pulled the woman against a buttress, panting. Inside, hymns rose to God the Azoiaxic. In his excitement, he gripped her painfully by the upper arm.