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history: UK hardback, Victor Gollancz, 1991; UK paperback, Corgi, 1992; US trade paperback, Cosmos, March 2001 (ISBN: 1587153319)
More information about Expatria.
The voice seemed to come from nowhere. 'People! Welcome to the Newest Delhi open-air market.' A pause, then: 'Idi Mondata wants you to know about his sea-fish: he has mawfish, doggies, mirrorbait and, yes, the finest blue bass you could ever taste. Idi tells me it came in only...'
From his concealed position, Mathias Hanrahan didn't notice the effect of his disembodied words on the people who filled the market-place.
He didn't sense the wave of awe that swept over the throng, shopper and trader alike.
He didn't sense the panic.
After telling the good people about Idi Mondata's fresh seafish, Mathias moved on to Mica Akhra's newly crafted implements--the finest tools this side of Orlyons, Mica had called them.
As he spoke into the microphone, Mathias marvelled at how his own voice was being transformed into tiny electrical impulses to be multiplied and converted back to sound by the loudspeakers. Now he knew why the book had called them loudspeakers.
Mathias and Mica had constructed the public address system in secret, relying on components and a manual they had found in an abandoned storeroom in the Primal Manse.
They had placed the two loudspeakers high up on one of the balustrades that were set against West Wall. Concealed cables led back to a heavy-duty cell and the amplifier unit which they had positioned under the back awning of Mica's stall.
When they had finished, Mathias had wanted to search out Greta Beckett and tell her of his plan--explain to her about the little packets of energy that would carry his words--but he had held back. Greta was going through a Conventist phase and she disliked his fondness for the ancient ideas and technologies.
The previous week, Mathias had come across a music box in his rummagings through the closed-off rooms of the Manse. He'd taken it out to Gorra Point, concealed in his cloak; Greta had arrived a short time later and they had stood watching the great brown cutters skimming the sunset-reddened waves. Leading Greta beyond the hearing of their chaperone, Mathias had given his fiancée the box. She had taken it curiously, studying its design, too intricate for a native product. She had tipped it to one side and instantly a coloured ball of light had sprung dancing from the box and strange music had started, halfway through its tune.
When he had found the box, Mathias had thought it beautiful.
Greta had thrown it away and it had broken on the rocks. She had shuddered and tugged her sun-white hair away from her face. 'Thank you, Matti,' she had said sadly. 'But it's not of this world. It's not ours to give or receive.'
And so Mathias had not involved Greta in his plans to modernise the market-place in the city of Newest Delhi. The Convent had clouded her judgement in recent weeks so that now it appeared that her every action had to be considered in terms of the sorority and the lessons of Mary/Deus.
Only Mica Akhra and Idi Mondata had known of Mathias's plans today and neither of them had believed the technology could be made to work. 'Voices in the wires?' Idi had said. 'More like voices in your head. Go see Doctor O'Grade, Matt, you're going crazy!'
Even Mica had not really believed in the public address system. Mica used the old technology every day: a terran microfurnace could cast tools of a higher calibre than any other method, well worth the price the Manse charged for power, as she always said. You can never overestimate the wonders of the old ways, she always said. But she had not believed the wires would carry Mathias's words. That was just too much.
'Vera Lugubé's greens are freshly picked every morning, grown along the banks of the purest mountain streams...'
Now Mathias was moving on to cover the stall-holders who did not know of his scheme. By next market-day they would be queuing up for his services and the city of Newest Delhi would be one more step into the future.
As Mathias talked--Chet Alpha's walk-in peep-show had a new star and the price was just the same--he marvelled at how clearly his words rose above the clamour of the market-place. His voice sounded so clear, so powerful.
Mica Akhra lifted a flap at the back of her stall and hissed at him. 'I think you'd better look,' she said. Her mid-brown face had turned as pale as Mathias's.
Mathias stopped talking into his microphone and instantly he realised why his voice had carried so clearly. Apart from the occasional cries of caged animals the market-place was quiet. Mathias had never heard such a silence.
With a hollow feeling in his stomach, he stood and raised the flap at the back of Mica's stall.
It all seemed unreal.
He stepped through and stood beside Mica. The market was packed with people, as was always the case. Children, mothers, traders, geriatrics, fathers who normally stood tall and proud, heads above the mass of ordinary folk. All stood pale and open-mouthed. All looked up at the sky, trying to see where the Voice had come from. Clusters of Masons stood plucking uneasily at their neckties, waving Hiram handshakes at acquaintances in the crowd. Even the wailing momma who fronted the Jesus-Buddha stall--'penny a prayer, a quarter for minor forgiveness'--had halted her Cry of the Hellbound.
A crackle of static came from the speakers and echoed around the gathering. A child's scream broke loose to be muffled by someone's hand.
'Why are they scared?' whispered Mathias. 'Why have they stopped trading?' Mica didn't answer and Mathias wondered if the success of the system had affected her too. He had expected some sort of reaction--none of these people had ever heard an amplified voice--but nothing like this. He could see the look on the wailing momma's face: it was a blend of fear and something like rapture, as if her Jesus-Buddha had spoken to her through one of the wooden statuettes she sold from her stall. The others, too, showed fear tinged with awe: a voice they didn't understand, a voice they didn't want to understand.
'They're crazy,' he muttered. 'Crazy.'
He turned his back on Mica and returned to the rear of her stall. He picked up the microphone and heard a moan from the crowd as another crackle came from the loudspeakers.
Holding up the flap so he could see, he spoke into his public address system.
'This is Mathias Hanrahan, heir to the Primacy of Newest Delhi. I am speaking to you over a voice-multiplication system. Its outlets are set in West Wall. If the system proves useful it will become a familiar feature of the market-place.'
The crowd was stirring. Ripples of movement ran through the throng, colour returned to faces, noises resumed their babble.
'Listen to the voice and you will find the best bargains, the finest fresh foods, the crispest cloths and linens! Yes, we will have the finest market-place on all Expatria!'
But Mathias had misread the crowd's reaction. The ripples of movement turned into waves that broke against the stalls, the colouring of the faces was fuelled by the adrenalin of rage, the sounds rose to drown out the words carried by Mathias Hanrahan's miraculous public address system.
Bodies pressed against the frontage of Mica Akhra's Finest Metal Implements stall, breaking one of the uprights away so that the striped canvas roof fell in on Mica and Mathias. Struggling free of the stall, Mathias saw that they had not turned against him, the perpetrator of the Voice. It was more complex than that. He stared at the frenzied faces. The crowd was a mindless animal, moving under its own momentum, surging around the market-place and bringing down everything in its path. The beast had been awoken.
The first stall to go under was the wailing momma's. She rode free with the flow, clutching an armful of Jesus-Buddha statuettes to her chest; but then, as part of the crowd, she was taken over, absorbed, and she began to throw the carved figures with the rest. Stones, too, were flying, along with greens from Vera Lugubé's stall and chunks of fish from Idi Mondata's.
Mica Akhra clutched Mathias's arm. 'Come on,' she said. 'This is not the place to be.' At times the small age difference between Mathias and Mica did not matter, at others it gave her a seniority that he instantly accepted and obeyed. Now, he followed her without thinking into the fringes of the rampaging crowd.
Instantly there were hands pulling at him, bodies pushing, jostling, a current that was pulling him in a direction he didn't want to take. He fought the flow, shrugged free of the hands and tried to follow Mica.
Something wet and heavy hit him across the shoulders, a huge steak of blue bass. Stunned, he looked around but he had lost track of Mica. His head fuzzy, he let the crowd take him, pulling him through the shapes it drew in what had once been the market-place of Newest Delhi.
Rough stone against his face, the taste of it in his mouth. Mathias clung to the wall, realised where he was. He edged along the obstacle, fearful of being crushed by the crowd-creature but fearful, also, of losing contact with the solidity of West Wall.
A hand curled around his face and pulled his head back. He bit hard on an index finger and the hand disappeared. Tasting blood in his mouth, he struggled along the face of the wall and finally he reached the opening that he knew must be there. Without the wall to support him, the weight of the crowd pushed Mathias through the gap and he clambered up the steep steps and away from the madness that he had somehow inspired.
At the top of the steps, Mathias paused for breath. The city's ramparts were wide here, the sea thundering on one side, the crowd on the other. Hands seized him roughly.
'When will you ever learn?' said a tired voice that he instantly recognised. Lucilla Ngota, consort of March Hanrahan, his father; the woman who had sworn to shape Mathias into something that might just be worthy of inheriting March's Primacy when the time came.
The hands--those of a guard--released him and he turned.
'But...' The words were suddenly difficult for Mathias to find. 'They shouldn't have...'
Lucilla was looking at him with an expression that told him exactly what she thought. He would never make it, he would never be a worthy heir.
Rifle shots rang out from around West Wall, fired into the air. Mathias looked at Lucilla and at the mix of Primal Guards and militia troopers that surrounded them on the ramparts. More shots rang out. His shoulders slumped. Why did nobody understand?
'Come along,' said Lucilla. 'The militia can handle the rest. I think March might want to discuss this with you.'
* * *
The Primal Manse formed a rough crescent of interconnected buildings close to the market-place and the stone curtain of West Wall. The original prefabricated colony M-frames had been overbuilt with masonry and extended over the years with an array of mismatched blocks and wings, leaving the Primal gardens to the north, and a square known as the Playa Cruzo to the east. Lucilla left Mathias in his room in the private western wing of the Manse, the oldest part of the complex.
He sat on his bed, staring at the shelves of ancient documents, most of which he could not even read. He opened his windows so he could hear the distant swell of the sea. Whenever he was in torment he turned to the sea; its fathomless age helped him to see things in perspective, helped him to shrug things off.
After a time, there was a knock at the door.
He was in another world but eventually the persistent tap-tap-tap broke through and he strode over and opened the door himself. A servant, masked for the customary anonymity of the serving classes, said, 'Sir, the Prime of Newest Delhi awaits your company in the Court of Sighs.'
The Court of Sighs was a high-roofed hall, its sides lined with pillars. March Hanrahan sat casually towards one end, just one of the two dozen or so present, yet clearly marked as different by the people around him. His face was lined and greyed, years ahead of time; his hair was white already. Again, Mathias wondered at the pressures of the Primacy.
The Prime was talking to Edward Olfarssen-Hanrahan, Mathias's half-brother by one of March's early mistresses. March often said publicly that he regretted bedding Natalia Olfarssen. She was a tough negotiator. She had carried his son, only three months younger than Mathias, and insisted that he be recognised as the Prime's second child. Natalia Olfarssen had friends in irksome places and there had been only one way to placate her: grudgingly, Edward had been brought up as a member of the Primal household. Although the clan was large, its growth had been by affiliation and takeover; Mathias and Edward were the only members of their generation to bear the family name.
March Hanrahan ignored Mathias as he approached but all the others in the court paused in their conversations and watched. Mathias felt good. He knew he was about to be publicly humiliated but that mattered little in the run of things.
The Prime said something sharply and Edward backed away, his face pale. Mathias stopped before his father and said, 'You requested my presence, March.'
The Prime stared at his son, as if he was trying to see through him. 'I have warned you before,' he said, spacing his words. 'You are irresponsible. Immature. You have no sense of your own position.'
Mathias looked around. They were all lapping it up. They couldn't wait to slither away and spread word of the hopelessly irresponsible heir. He smiled at them and then stopped, aware that March might get the wrong impression.
His father continued. 'We have yet to discover the monetary cost of your little escapade. Stalls were wrecked, their produce destroyed. People were hurt, fourteen are still under doctor's supervision. Someone could have been killed today. And all because you wanted to be louder than anyone else.' The Prime shook his head. 'I sometimes have trouble identifying myself in you, son. You make things difficult for no good reason.'
Mathias spoke into the silence. 'Sir. I see now that I handled it badly. I should have guessed what might happen. But it was the people who did this, not me. They reacted out of ignorance and injured themselves in consequence. Confronted with something they didn't understand, they panicked. Next time, things will be different.'
'Next time? Have you heard nothing I have said?' March Hanrahan gripped the sides of his seat and then slumped back. 'These toys you experiment with, they are a part of the old ways. There is no place for this science, this technology.
'Our ancestors from the Ark ships, they had these technologies, yet they were scared to land on Expatria's surface. They had been confined for too long. When they landed they rapidly changed their ways. They saw that there was no room for the old ideas: they didn't work. Today you provided yet another example of why these ideas do not work, yet still you persist!'
Mathias's light mood was gone. 'Your reasoning is false,' he said. 'You make connections where there are none, you link effects with the wrong causes. Can't you see, old man?'
'I can see,' said the Prime, his voice low and unnaturally steady, 'it is time that you faced up to your position as heir to the Primacy of Newest Delhi. You must amend your ways. You must learn responsibility. I will have no more of this stupidity.' He paused. 'This is the last time I warn you, Mathias Hanrahan: face up to your responsibilities. If not, well ... there are always others in line.' He shrugged and it was clear that he had finished.
Edward coughed and, when Mathias glanced in his direction, smiled and looked towards the Prime. Mathias concentrated on his breathing and managed to remain silent.
The Prime turned to a representative from one of the inland valleys and spoke quietly.
Clearly dismissed, Mathias walked from the Court of Sighs and wandered away from the Manse, heading for the comfort of the sea.
* * *
'When the sun bleeds the horizon,' Greta had said. 'At the Pinnacles on Gorra Point.'
Leaning against one of the standing rocks, Mathias looked out at the red smear that marked where sea merged with sky and he remembered Greta's words. Cutters skimmed low across the waves of Liffey Bay, heading for their night-time roosts on the cliffs. Mathias envied them their freedom.
His mood had eased upon reaching the shore and he had laughed at the absurdity of it all. Nothing could get him down for long. He had passed the time until sunset locating gin-shells in the sands, and trying to see how heavy a stone had to be before it would trigger the bivalve shell into snapping shut.
When the sky had started to colour he had headed for the group of rocks they called the Pinnacles. They stood the width of Mathias's shoulders and at least three times his height. Once, when he was younger, he had tried to climb one but he had not succeeded, the surface had been too sheer and he could find no grip. March had chastised him for that, told him it was too dangerous an activity for the heir to the Primacy. Mathias had only wanted to find out how far he could see from the top.
Now he waited, leaning against one of the smaller Pinnacles, listening for sounds of Greta or her chaperone.
As the last colours were fleeing the night sky, Mathias heard the sound of footfalls and then he saw the glow of two lanterns. 'Greta,' he called, and stepped clear of his rock. Even in the dim light, she looked as fresh and alive as ever.
'Matti,' she said, and her chaperone melted discreetly into the shadows, the glow of her lantern reminding the young couple that they were never quite alone. 'When will you learn?' said Greta.
Mathias cursed to himself. He had hoped she had not heard, that he could tell it to her in his own way. 'It was the stupid, ignorant people,' he muttered, scared to meet her eyes. A hawk-moth was hovering inside a nearby gin-shell, gathering sweet exudations from the shell's interior without triggering the creature's deadly trap. 'I was doing it for them, but they didn't see, they just panicked. What could I do?' He knew it was no good trying to justify himself to her, she was as much against the old ways as his father.
'I was at a Gathering,' she said. 'We were praying to Mary/ Deus, repeating the triunes. I could feel the sorority all around me: I felt like a real part of it for the very first time. It was beautiful.
'Then one of the Little Sisters told me about what you had done and it made me want to cry, Matti. Do you know what you're doing?'
Mathias hated talk of the Convent, the strange animation it gave to Greta's talk. The Convent had found a gap in Greta's life and Mathias felt excluded. Why couldn't she turn to him instead? Why did she need this substitute for the more conventional teachings of Jesus-Buddhism, if she needed such superstition at all? 'But if people can only...'
'No, Matti. Those ways are no good to us now.' She removed the hand he had placed on her arm--he was so rarely able to touch her, he had held her in his arms on only two occasions, each ended by the discreet cough of their chaperone--and gave him a stern look. 'Matti, there is much that is good about you, but there is much that must change. Your father is right, you have to grow into your responsibilities.' She backed away and kissed the air in parting, then left with her chaperone.
Mathias felt terrible. He could easily cope with his argument with March, but not Greta too! Since her father had pledged her troth to Mathias, nearly four years before, their relationship had grown, it had given Mathias something to depend on.
And now she was angry with him.
He had to change, that was what she had said. He had to grow into his responsibilities.
He wandered down to stand by the sea and, skimming stones into the night, he knew that he would do anything Greta demanded of him. He would mend his ways and become a Prime to make the clan proud.
And then he would be able to think about the changes he would make.
'Make me a Prime March can be proud of,' said Mathias. 'I want to learn.'
Sala Pedralis sat across from him on a balcony that overlooked the inner Manse gardens. Her features were grey and craggy but somehow, beneath it all, she had retained an element of youth. Once, for a brief few months, she had been the Prime's partner; later, she had been elected on to the board of the Hanrahan clan to serve as one of his main advisers. In this capacity she had been responsible for Mathias's education. She had found him ancient books, shown him the wonders of discovery, fed his hunger for knowledge and understanding.
She laughed lightly. 'So the old goat has finally made some sort of an impression on you?' She laughed again.
'Sala, he's my father. I don't want to keep fighting him.'
'Or Greta Beckett, hmm?'
Mathias blushed and looked out over the rich greenery of the gardens. The scene was bursting with life: flycatchers darted after fluffy grey moths, froglets clung motionless to the lichen-coated tree trunks, grana seeds parachuted themselves towards the few open spaces that were not paved.
'Mathias, I've been tutoring you for the last five or six years. You know what I mean when I say someone is decent or moral. You know I believe in progress but that I also believe advances should be gradual and considered. What more do you want me to tell you, hmm? I can't just snap my fingers and turn you into the right stuff. I can't still your temper or make you less of an impetuous young fool. There's no secret rule of thumb that all good Primes know and others can only guess at.'
Mathias felt a surge of anger at her words but he controlled it. He would have to do it all himself then, if even Sala refused to help. After a few minutes of small talk, he rose and left her on the balcony. It was all a question of will-power, strength of mind.
He closed the door and turned and Edward was standing before him in the corridor with that familiar half-smile on his face. 'Please, Miz Sala,' he said, 'make me a Prime to be proud of!'
Mathias grabbed him by the jacket and pushed him up against the wall. Edward was small and weak and he didn't try to struggle. 'At least I am going to be Prime,' hissed Mathias. 'At least I am not destined to stay forever in someone else's shadow, crawling behind them with my nose up their--'
'So you have changed your ways, have you?' It was the voice of Lucilla Ngota. Her timing was perfect. Mathias guessed that she had been keeping a close watch on him, waiting for the very first sign of deviation.
Slowly, he released his grip on his half-brother. Ignoring Lucilla's comment, he glared at Edward and said, 'I do not like people listening to my private conversations.' Then he turned to Lucilla. 'I do not like being spied upon as a rule.'
He turned and marched away, his shoulders braced, his breathing steady. At last he was learning some kind of control over his actions. He grinned. He would cope on his own, he didn't need Sala's help--primacy was in his blood.
* * *
Mathias was determined that his new attitude would endure. He found that he felt better about himself now, calmer, more purposeful. The self-discipline was paying off. He had realised that he needed this sort of goal in his life, something to aim at, something to focus his energies upon.
The only thing he resented was the loss of his books and journals. Returning after his encounter with Edward and Lucilla, he had instructed his servants to remove all of the ancient artefacts from his rooms. It had been painful, but he had seen it as necessary. He found life difficult without the books, the strange and wonderful world they painted, but it had been a sign that he meant business and at last Greta seemed pleased with him.
Earlier today, she had even suggested he could be her concessionary male at one of her Gatherings.
He had started at that suggestion, but when he studied Greta's face it was clear that her suggestion was innocent. She could never hide anything from Mathias. He had refused, as she must have expected, but now, waiting in the darkness outside the deus house, he began to wonder if he should have accepted her offer.
'Here they comin', ya' highness,' said Idi Mondata, pointing to the blocky building's entrance and pulling a face that might have been a manic grin.
Mathias pushed his friend into the alley and for a moment it felt like they were still children, slipping out without their parents' knowledge, high on the adrenalin of disobedience.
But they were older now, and Mathias's mood was more subdued. The adrenalin was no longer there.
'You coming inside then?'
Mathias could see the whites of Idi's eyes in the darkness. 'Sure,' he answered. He pulled his cloak around himself, the coarse material feeling unfamiliar, the camouflage of the street. 'Come on.'
That morning, Mathias had been gutting fish with Idi. 'I sometimes wonder what goes on in there,' he had said, 'in their Gatherings.'
'Brainwashing,' Idi had said. 'Brainwashing 'n' witchcraft. That's what Rabi always used to say.' Then his eyes had narrowed and he had continued. 'You want to see for yourself, Matt? I know some Dee Krishnas who could get us in if you want. They've been watching them for years--don't trust 'em. You want?'
And so they stood in the shadows as the drizzle began and the first of the Daughters and Little Sisters of the Convent made their way along the Street of the Holy Fountain, their route lit dismally by hanging torches, dampened by the night. They entered the deus house in threes, all bowing their heads, passing through the doorway without pause, carefully stepping on the white entrance stone and simultaneously crossing themselves with geometrical precision.
There was a sound nearby in the shadows and Idi put a hand on Mathias's arm. A short man had joined them.
As his eyes adjusted to the level of the light, Mathias saw that the man was bald, his head and face covered with tattoos--hearts and flowers and eye-centred swastikas--making it impossible to judge his age. The Death Krishna blinked slowly and Mathias saw that caricatured eyes had been tattooed onto his eyelids.
'This is Joseph,' said Idi. 'He's our guide.' The man, Joseph, nodded briefly and then retreated and gestured for them to follow.
* * *
The balcony ran the length of the auditorium below. Sounds of the Gathering were louder here, voices chanting, the words indistinct, a chaos of uncoordinated chants.
They had entered the deus house's basement through a trapdoor, and then they had followed Joseph up a series of spiralling staircases. The place smelt of incense and damp and there were posters still hanging from the walls from when this had been the city's only theatre.
As the three fanned out along the balcony, Mathias looked at the Gathering below. The smell was stronger up here and the first thing that struck Mathias was the banked mass of purple candles burning on a raised platform at one end of the auditorium. Behind the candles was a huge crucifix, easily ten metres high; nailed to the cross was the contorted figure of a woman carved from dove-grey jelebab wood, her face tipped to the heavens, her features settled into a peaceful smile. Mathias stared, transfixed, into the wide-awake eyes of the carved Mary/Deus, almost on a level with his own.
Below, the Little Sisters and Daughters of the Convent stepped forward, three by three, and prostrated themselves, moaning, before the giant crucifix. Behind them the congregation buzzed in excitement; even the Conventist Guards dotted around the wall seemed to be overcome with the experience. Mathias shook his head, glad that Greta had already been to her Gathering for this week.
He glanced to his right, first at Idi, picking his nails and staring at the giant crucifix, and then at the small Death Krishna, looking down patiently over the Gathering. He wondered what it was that drew the Krishnas to the Convent, and then he began to wonder just how much he had been sheltered from, brought up in the Manse, what dark currents lay hidden from him beneath the familiar surface of Newest Delhi.
And then he looked down and saw that Greta Beckett was lying face down before the crucifix, moaning like her sisters on either side.
That sun-white hair was unmistakable.
'Fountain of life, the greater part.' The congregation started to sing. It was a hymn Mathias recognised from the past, from neighbourhood pageants put on for the Prime, although the words had been altered. 'Wet my brow, Sorority.'
He couldn't take his eyes from Greta's prostrate form, the slight, ecstatic movements of her legs, her hips, the arching of her back as she took up the hymn. 'Springing up within the heart'--he was sure he could hear Greta's voice, carrying clear above the rest of the congregation--'Mary/Deus, Eternity.'
He jerked away, shaking his head in a vague effort to clear his mind of the image from below. He felt dirty, he hadn't come to spy on his fiancée. He would never have been here if he had thought there was the slightest chance that...
He'd only wanted to see for himself.
He looked across at Idi and Joseph, still studying the Gathering intently. He couldn't take any more. He peered through a curtained archway that led off the balcony. The corridor was empty so he stepped out, feeling an instant release from the tension Greta had stirred in him.
He walked slowly to the first junction, reconnaissance diverting his thoughts from what Idi would think when he saw that he had been unable to stay.
The way was clear and he turned back to join Idi.
It was then that he heard the voices and he paused. He knew he should return to Idi and the Krishna but instead he took a step, then another, down the right-hand fork in the passageway. At the next junction he determined that the voices were being carried up a nearby stairwell. He stopped at the railing, keeping out of the light seeping up from below, breathing slowly so as not to choke on the candle smoke being carried up by the draught.
'...if he will not protect the sorority's name, then we will simply have to make him do so,' said one of the voices.
'We have always had ways,' said another. 'A good woman can control a hundred men, particularly a Valley man.' The two women laughed.
The Convent had recently made representations to the Prime about what they described as their persecution in some of the southern valleys--that must be what the women were talking about. March had not been forthcoming in his response. Mathias was about to return to the balcony when he heard the second woman add, 'The world should remember the strength of the deus.'
He shook his head. Once, the Convent had carried great influence with the Primacies of the day; there had always been a matre or a Little Sister on hand to advise and, eventually, to manipulate. The Convent had grown rich and strong before it had been reduced to its current status. But that had been three, maybe four, generations ago. Now, the Prime's view of them fluctuated between amusement and irritation.
Mathias straightened as he heard a noise from the corridor. Idi and Joseph must be stirring--they would want to be clear before the Gathering broke up.
He turned and then he knew that he had been trapped. Two Conventist Guards blocked his way, a Little Sister standing nervously behind them. The Guards were big and they were wrapped in leggings and jackets of thick black cord. Their hands hung easily by the long knives strapped to their thighs.
The Little Sister stepped forward and called down the stairwell and Mathias knew that this would be his only chance to break free and save face: they were yet to recognise him in his ordinary street clothes.
He raised his hands, said, 'Listen,' and then darted at the gap between the two guards.
But they were ready for him, as he had expected. They caught him easily and held him firm as three more Conventists appeared at the top of the stairs.
Two of the new arrivals were Little Sisters but the third, a thin woman with a large crucifix hanging across her chest, was a priestess, a matre. She looked at Mathias and her recognition of him was betrayed by a brief twitch of her eyebrows. 'They say your diplomacy is non-existent,' she said to him, signalling to the guards to release him. 'But I had not believed it could be so.'
Mathias's skin was burning, adrenalin coursing through his veins. 'I just wanted to see for myself,' he said. He was not going to apologise to a matre.
'And what did you see?' The matre folded her hands across her crucifix and waited.
'An old theatre that could be put to better use.' She had no right to question him, she knew who he was.
'And nobody knows that you are here.'
Suddenly, in the ensuing silence, he realised how vulnerable he was. The matre's statement was not a threat, but it was an observation that cut right through Mathias's defences.
The matre whispered sharply to one of her companions, who then hurried back down the stairwell. After a few minutes of taut silence, Mathias heard footsteps returning up the stairs and then he saw that it was Greta, accompanied by the Little Sister.
He wouldn't meet her eyes. He didn't dare. He knew she had inherited a sharp temper from her father but she had never had reason to vent it on him.
He had never seen her body so tense, the knuckles of her fists so white by her sides. 'Matti,' she said quietly. 'We have to go.'
They walked in stiff silence back to the Manse, chaperoned by a Little Sister. Every step was painful, every silent breath more punishment than her temper could ever have been. He felt like he was drowning in shame, like he was being smothered.
At the entrance he finally looked up at Greta. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to...'
'I'm sorry too, Matti.' She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and kissed the air in parting. Mathias watched her figure retreating across the Playa Cruzo, shadowed by her chaperone, and wondered if things would ever be the same again.
As Dum drew closer to the slightly larger Dee a new excitement grew. When the two moons at last appeared to touch, clan heads in the city of Newest Delhi initiated the biannual festival of Dumandee.
For the past week, it had seemed that nobody would speak to Mathias. Sala was busy arranging the festivities and Idi was still angry over Mathias's wandering off on his own in the deus house; on the few formal occasions when he had been with Greta they had barely exchanged a word. As Dumandee grew closer it became clear that the Kissing Moons would exert little influence on Greta Beckett.
Mathias had never believed in the superstition, anyway. In reality, the moons' orbits were tens of thousands of kilometres apart and Dum was actually quite markedly smaller than Dee, despite the common perception. The Kiss was an illusion.
The festival of Dumandee always culminated in the grand Primal Ball, on the night when the moons became, briefly, one. Mathias didn't want to go. Instead he sat in his room, trying to filter out the sounds of the revellers arriving at August Hall in the east wing of the Primal Manse, knowing that he should be there, cursing his indecision.
Eventually, his self-discipline won. He rose from his bed and dressed himself with the aid of a masked servant. His leggings were new, his padded jacket old but refurbished with pure golden threads and white sand-pearls from the island of Clermont.
He dismissed the servant and stood for a moment on his balcony, looking up at the single white disc formed by Dum and Dee. 'Exert your influence,' he said to the moons. 'Just this once.' Then he turned back into his room and headed for August Hall.
Already, the music was playing and the Hall was packed with finely dressed clan officials and sheet dancers, costumed servants and a host of representatives from the affiliated valleys. The octet were playing something percussive and new that Mathias didn't like, although it fitted his mood without a seam. The atmosphere was seductive though, free and energetic, smells of heavily spiced food and drinks almost overpowering in their intensity.
Mathias breathed deeply as he strolled around the edge of the dance floor. Edward was there, of course, and then Mathias spotted Greta standing nearby. Her gown was fine and loose, her hair woven high and away from her face. She was laughing and looking all around. Mathias wondered how long her high spirits would last.
Edward had an arm around a solemn, black-maned girl--that kind of intimacy was more accepted on an occasion such as this--but he was looking longingly at Greta. She had always been one of the obstacles between Mathias and his half-brother, another spur to Edward's envy.
Mathias stepped into Edward's line of vision and then moved towards Greta, hoping that things would be all right.
She saw him, she smiled, she held her hands towards him. It was as if there had never been a rift. She kissed the air in greeting and held out a glass for him. He took it and drank, noticing nothing but Greta. 'I'm late,' he said, but she shrugged. Tonight was no night for apology, tonight was the night of Dumandee, tonight was the night of the ball.
The music began to swell and fall away, swell and fall away, and, feeling supremely confident, Mathias gathered Greta into his arms and guided her on to the dance floor. Her body was small and brittle against his own. She smelt of fresh honeysuckle. Mathias had never held her so close for so long, their chaperone had always coughed discreetly and then not so discreetly. In the crowd of dancers they had more privacy than they had ever had alone.
The music changed and still they danced, moving faster, closer. Over Greta's golden head, Mathias saw Edward slipping away with the long-faced girl.
They danced faster, closer, pressing urgently together. Mathias bent to whisper in Greta's tiny ear. 'Greta, shall we--' But she was whispering in his, and her words stopped him in mid-sentence.
'The Prime spoke to me today,' she said. 'He asked how my father would react if Edward became heir to--'
'He what?' People nearby stopped dancing to look.
'He didn't mean... It was only if you...' Greta looked around at the staring faces and then dropped her head and tried to move back into Mathias's arms. 'Matti, not here. I'm sorry.'
But she had said too much already. Mathias barged his way across the dance floor. His father was standing with Lucilla Ngota, just inside the balcony that overlooked the Playa Cruzo.
Mathias grabbed the Prime's shoulder and pulled him round. 'What do you mean...? Then he remembered who he was mishandling and stopped, stunned by the force of his rage.
The Prime had gone pale, but his control was total. Mathias stepped back, then turned and ran through the shocked gathering. As he ran out of the hail the music faltered back into the silence and then a few voices came back too. In the corridor he saw Edward grinning cruelly, his companion nowhere in sight. Then he saw no more, everything a blur as he ran along the empty corridors and out into the night.
* * *
The streets of Newest Delhi were alive with partying crowds and a strange, new tension was caught up in the air.
March was trying, clumsily, to get at him through Greta--that much was obvious once Mathias was alone and more calm, walking through the darkened back streets. He was using the threat of naming Edward his heir to try to force Mathias to conform. But, instead, it had brought the old impetuosity back to the surface.
He stopped thinking and tried to become a part of the darkness. It was a game he had played as a child: ignore the thoughts that keep jumping into your head and try to melt into the night, or the sea, or the cliffs, try to feel yourself a part of the world.
It worked for a time: his mind forgot itself as his body grew calm and tranquil.
He was feeling sedate when partying noises broke through his barriers and reminded him of himself. He was on the Lincolnstrasse, in the poorer part of the city, where serfs lived alongside lowly engineers. The buildings here were low and in need of repair, the streets uneven and unpaved. Bonfire smoke clung to the air.
There was a sudden shout in the street ahead and, with a chilling clarity, Mathias realised that the sounds were not those of an ordinary Dumandee party. A sudden scream confirmed his intuition.
He stopped in the shadows, peered ahead.
Figures moved quickly at the next junction, throwing things on to a huge fire--no ordinary street bonfire--and yelling hoarsely at each other. The smell of smoke was now bitter on the night air as Mathias crouched behind a trader's stall, upturned in the disturbance. A nearby shop had been broken into, its double wooden doors smashed through, its contents looted and vandalised. For the second time he was aware of how little he knew of the real workings of the city.
He let himself give in to an almighty shudder and then he looked all around.
His head was clear now and he looked back along the street. He had to get clear. Quickly, he retraced his steps, cautiously at first and then more boldly, heading for the shore. He needed somewhere to think.
* * *
The waves barely made a sound as they half-heartedly crept a metre or so up the beach and then sagged back. He thought of the disturbances on the Lincolnstrasse, but that was too fresh, too confusing. Instead, he tossed pebbles into the water and thought of Greta, of holding her as close as he had at the ball. That had felt better than he had ever dreamed it would. It was less than a year--fourteen months, he counted--until their wedding. Things would be calmer then. He would have had time to settle into his role, if March ever forgave him for his behaviour this evening.
He moved up the beach and followed the cliff path out along Gorra Point, towards the Pinnacles. Small creatures scuttled in the darkness. Burrowers. He had listed them all when he was younger. The native furworms and gnaws and footies, the terran voles and gophers and jerboas. Each to its own niche, his list had grown long and complex in its details of breeding and possible evolutionary connection. But the list had gone out with his books, locked in some dark cupboard or maybe even dumped in a bio-converter in one of the valley farms.
The Pinnacles loomed against the night sky, brightened by the stars and the almost-set moons. He sat with his back against the rocks.
He stayed like that for a long time, staring out to sea, spotting the occasional night-sighted cutterette and, after a time, the skipping forms of a school of terran porpoises. He smiled, then, and rose and headed back along the cliff path towards Newest Delhi.
He followed the deserted ramparts of West Wall around to near the Manse, cautious in case the disturbances had spread. Up on the Wall he could still hear the sounds of the Dumandee Ball, quiet but persistent.
To get to his suite he would have to pass through the corridors by August Hall. Despite--or maybe because of--his calmness of spirit, he did not want to face that; he wanted to preserve his inner peace.
When he was younger he had often left the Manse without permission. March would never have let him out to play with the common folk, not with Mica Akhra, daughter of a lowly engineer, not even with Idi and Rabindranath Mondata, sons of the finest fish merchant in all Newest Delhi. When March grew wise to his son and posted servants to watch over the doors of his suite, Mathias had simply refined his route. It was a number of years now since he had climbed the pillars outside his balcony and he doubted if he could still manage. But there was only one way to satisfy his curiosity and, all of a sudden, he was filled with the adventurous spirit of a child.
The handholds he remembered were too close together for an adult, but there were others in the ancient masonry that were just as good. The two-storey climb made him breathe harder than he had expected, the life of an heir had been too soft on him. His hand caught the top of the balcony wall and he pulled himself up until his other hand joined it. With a heave his elbows were there and his feet found purchase on the outside of the balcony.
Then he looked up and saw the people in his room. 'What--?'
Vice-like hands seized his arms and pulled him over the balcony wall. He hit the floor hard. Winded, he struggled to turn, but the hands were still gripping him, holding him down.
Pulled to his feet, he looked into the face of an officer of the Primal Guard. The man's name was Agrozo; Mathias had never spoken to him before.
'Sneaking in, eh?' said Agrozo. 'Didn't fancy the stairs, eh? Eh?' He prodded Mathias in the ribs.
'You can't treat me like this,' said Mathias, straightening in the grip of two more guards.
'Orders says we can.'
'Orders?' Pernicious thoughts about his father were creeping into Mathias's mind. All he had done was argue, he had committed no crime! 'The Prime would not order you to treat his son in this manner,' he said, trying to sound in control, trying to sound like March. 'Let me speak with him.'
Agrozo exchanged glances with another of the guards. 'You can save that for the Court, sir. Now you can come with us.'
'Court? What are you saying? Just let me speak with the Prime, OK?'
Agrozo set his face and turned from Mathias. 'The Prime is dead, sir. Murdered. My orders are to arrest you, that's all.' The man shrugged. 'Now will you just come along? Or the boys'll have to help you.'
Mathias went. He didn't know what else to do. The Prime dead? Dead?
The Manse corridors were empty as Agrozo led Mathias and his guards to the Administry wing. On one level, Mathias had already accepted what had happened: March was no longer alive.
But he tried to distance himself from that thought.
How could he mourn when he was being marched like this through the Manse, surrounded by soldiers of the Primal Guard? He felt physically broken, like when the market-place crowd had threatened to crush him. Twelve years earlier, when his mother had been killed in the Abidjan Uprising, Mathias had felt like this; only now it was worse. The closest family he had left was Edward. True, there were Sala and, especially, Greta, but they were not family. Walking through the corridors, he could only think of this loss; he had no time for thoughts of his own future or what was happening to him at that moment.
The fact of his arrest finally hit him when Agrozo hammered at the door of the Prime's office and called, 'Prisoner Mathias arrested and awaits interview.'
The door opened and Agrozo was ushered in. After a minute or two the door opened again and Mathias was ordered to enter.
This had been March's favourite room. Here he had a broad desk and a view over the Manse gardens; on fine days he would open the windows for the scents of the Expatrian herbs. The room was cluttered with mementoes and signs of regular use; the single bookshelf was heavy with hand-bound volumes of Expatrian history, some written by Sala Pedralis, one volume even penned by the Prime himself, back when he had only been heir to his vagabond father.
But now the room had lost its easy atmosphere. Four guards stood by the door, a scribe sat poised to document the proceedings, and the Prime's oak desk had been cleared. Seated behind the desk was Lars Anderson, Captain of the Prime's Guard. At his left shoulder stood Lucilla Ngota, staring at the wall and carefully avoiding Mathias's gaze. Mathias could not tell if she would be his ally or not, events were still confusing him.
He looked at Anderson and stepped forward. 'Tell me, Captain. Is it true? What happened?'
Anderson's face told him nothing. The captain had taught Mathias to shoot, shown him the basics of shore-casting for mawfish; they had spent many hours, just the two of them, the world left far behind. And now they were on opposite sides of the dead Prime's desk.
'The Prime is dead,' said Anderson. 'Please, answer my questions. This has to be done. Where did you go after you assaulted the Prime tonight?'
'Then, Captain, am I not now the Prime of Newest Delhi? I demand that you tell me exactly what happened tonight. My father has been murdered and you sit there wasting my time with trivia!'
Anderson did not seem affected by Mathias's outburst. 'Very commendable, sir. I hope you are telling the truth. I hope that in time, too, you will see the necessity of this interview. Yes, you are technically the new Prime. But in the present contingencies I am still an officer of the old Prime and you, sir, are technically under arrest. Forgive me, but we must proceed. Where did you go tonight?'
'Lucilla?' But she was still staring at the wall. He wondered at what there had been between her and his father--she had been repeatedly unfaithful to him, with the women and men of the Court, but she had remained longer than any of her predecessors. 'Lucilla, you know this is wrong.' Then, she finally looked at him and he wished he had kept quiet. There was venom in her eyes, she was directing the naked flame of her hatred directly at his heart. He looked back at Anderson, shaken.
'I learnt of my father's death when I found Agrozo in my suite. After... after leaving the Dumandee I wandered in the streets then walked out along Gorra Point to a place we call the Pinnacles--tall needles of rock. I sat for a time, regretting my earlier behaviour, swearing to mend my ways. Then I returned to this.'
'You neglect your somewhat unconventional means of entering your suite,' said Anderson. 'Why did you sneak in? Why did you want people to think you were already in your room when the alarm was raised?'
'You are making false assumptions, Captain Anderson.' Mathias was learning that his self-control was far greater in real adversity than was normally the case. 'I did not know an alarm would be raised, as I had no idea what had happened. My method of return is one developed over years of avoiding parental restrictions. I chose to "sneak in" tonight because I wished to avoid meeting anyone who may have witnessed my earlier behaviour. Captain Anderson, I was ashamed. Now, this has gone on too long, you must have more important things to do.' No matter how hard he tried, he could not adopt the same tone of authority his father had used to such good effect; Anderson merely ignored him.
'What did you think when you learnt of the means of death?'
'Nobody has told me any details,' said Mathias. 'Presumably So you could try such amateurish methods of interrogation.'
Anderson ignored the slight. 'Why did--' He was interrupted by a knock on the door. 'Yes?'
Agrozo walked in and put something on the desk. After a muttered explanation in Anderson's ear he retreated to stand by the bookshelf.
Anderson looked at Mathias, something new in his eyes. 'Tell me, Mathias,' he said. 'Why should you have a stolen servant's mask in your possession?'
'I don't know what--'
'This one,' continued the captain, holding one out before him, the item that Agrozo had brought in. 'It was found on your balcony. A crude form of anonymity, but one that might work. Why were you carrying it? And why did you drop it when you saw my men?'
Before Mathias could answer there was a roar of rage from behind the desk and Lucilla Ngota had stepped around it and thrown herself at him. The impact knocked him to the ground, and he fought her frantically until two guards dragged them apart.
Disbelievingly, he stared at Lucilla. He had never seen a person so enraged. She would have killed him if she had not been stopped.
'Worthless,' she hissed, still struggling with the guards. 'You'll pay.' Mathias did not like to look at her as she struggled to get to him.
'Enough!' snapped Anderson. 'This takes us nowhere.' He gestured at a guard and Mathias was led out of his father's office. The last words he heard Anderson say were, 'There will be a trial. You must let justice do its...' Then the words grew too faint to hear and Mathias dumbly followed his guard through the long Manse corridors.
* * *
Dawn was breaking by the time the guard locked the door from the outside. Mathias looked around at the room that was to be his prison. It was an ordinary guest-room, in the south wing of the Manse. He was still shaken by Lucilla's reaction, but he knew that all he could do was wait until events proved his innocence.
At first he had been willing to accept that his arrest was inevitable, after the murder of the Prime. He had publicly assaulted March, only hours--minutes?--before his death. And Mathias was the person with most to gain from the situation: the inheritance of the Primacy of Newest Delhi, and with it the effective rule of almost half the population of Expatria. It was natural that suspicion should fall on his shoulders.
But the mask cast everything in a different light. Someone was trying to set him up, presumably the same person who had killed the Prime. He remembered the disturbance in the streets that night: the guard had told him it was Black-Handers, out for whatever they could grab while the revellers were distracted by Dumandee. The militia had easily kept control. He thought again of the dark currents flowing through the city he had thought he understood, the cults, the clans, the disenchanted. What did they think they would gain by all this? And then he stopped himself. Speculation would do him no good. Where had his self-discipline gone?
There was a knock at the door and he glanced up to see it open and someone step through.
'Idi!' They rushed together and embraced. 'Idi, how did you get in? Tell me what's happening!'
Idi's face looked serious and hollow, as if he had not slept that night. 'Your sentries don't like what they're doing here,' he said. 'There's a lot of people like that. Word gets around, you know? How much they tell you? Nothing? I figured. Listen, word is your pa was strangled with a power cable. Like a PA cable, they say. They say he left the party after an argument with you--yeah, I know you didn't to it, least I did when I just saw your face. After this bust-up he left, then Edward found him dead and you're chin-deep in shit creek. It stinks.' Idi smiled for the first time, but it was obviously an effort.
'You say Edward found him?'
'It's not what I say, it's what they say. It's what the militia and the guards say when they're letting off steam, it's what servants say who don't like the idea of being under Eddy.' He smiled again. 'It's the word, Matt, the word. They say he was broken up about it, say he was crying when he called the guards. They kept it quiet at first, until they figured they knew what had happened.
'Word also says that Eddy's ma has crawled out of the woodwork, now she's heard what's happening. She's trying to put pressure on for Eddy to be adopted above you as the new Prime. She doesn't care what comes of this, just says it's another proof that you're not the right stuff like her Eddy is.' Idi sighed. 'What have they got on you that'll stick?'
'Nothing solid,' said Mathias. 'Not that they've told me. Except for a mask somebody planted in my room; Anderson says I used it for cover. Someone put it there, Idi. Someone wants me out of the way.'
'Good reasoning, Matt. Except it's not just you: they wanted the Prime out of the way, too.'
Someone coughed outside the guest-room door and Idi stepped towards it. 'That's my signal. Time to go. Listen, Matt, try not to worry.' He shrugged. 'Yeah, I know. But you've got friends out here. We're not going to let you go down with this.'
Idi opened the door and Mathias hurried over to stop him. 'Listen, Idi,' he said. 'Will you get word to Greta for me? She has to know what's happening. I have to see her!'
'Hey, there's no have tos from where you're sitting, Matt. Yeah, OK. I'll try, I'll do something.' He gave a final grin. 'We'll get you out, Matt. They can't do this.'
* * *
Mathias tried to occupy his mind as he sat imprisoned in the guest-room. He counted the animals that flew past the window, setting terran birds against the native bat-types. The Expatrians were well ahead when he stopped counting. He tried to listen for the sea, but the day was calm and the sea quiet. He even tried to recall his list of cliff-top burrowers but it was no good. Always his mind came back to his lost father. He wished things had been easier between them; the feelings had always been there but it took death to make Mathias see that.
They brought him food--a plate of corn hash--towards the middle of the day. He didn't eat it. He just sat there, working his depression more deeply into his soul, wondering what his half-brother was doing in his place.
Later he sat watching the sun, too low and red to hurt his eyes. The day had been a long one and now it was ebbing away into the nothing of another brief night. At first the sky changed slowly, the sun burning a deeper hue, its colours seeping into the scattering of clouds. Then the change accelerated, the colours spreading, deepening, flowing through cloud and the darkening sky, ever-changing, drawing Mathias up and away.
A knock at the door brought him back down to the reality he had been trying to forget. He had been expecting them all day, another interview, maybe some more planted evidence that would prove his 'guilt' beyond all reasonable doubt.
The door opened and Greta was standing there.
He wanted to rush to her, to take her in his arms as he had at the Dumandee Ball, but instead he held back, feeling suddenly unsure of himself.
The door opened wider and Greta stepped aside to allow the chaperone to follow her into the room. Of course, she would not come to see him alone. Even in this situation--especially in this situation--they had to be watched.
Chaperone leaning on the closed door, Greta moved into the room and sat upright on the edge of the wide bed. Mathias wanted to go to her, but he couldn't move, he couldn't even speak.
'I'm glad they still treat you well, Matti.' She gestured around at the guest-room. 'Your cell is rather splendid.'
Greta's lightness of spirit was one of her most endearing qualities, but it was also one of her most infuriating. If ever an argument had gone against her and Mathias had felt close to winning a point, she would joke and the matter would be closed and Mathias would feel angry and elated at the same time. He felt both those feelings now and he didn't know which was proper.
'You made me very proud, last night,' he said. 'To be dancing with you at the Dumandee Ball. I wanted to show you off to the whole world.' He shrugged and turned away. He was no good at compliments, no matter how truthful they were. 'It wasn't me. You have to believe me: I could never have done anything like that.'
Greta was staring at her hands. 'Everybody saw the two of you arguing,' she said. 'And they say you climbed into your room to avoid detection.'
'You believe them, then?'
'At the Gatherings we are told that belief is total commitment. I do not believe that you... killed the Prime. I simply...'
Mathias stood by the window and watched a gull dipping over the roof-tops. 'How can I earn your total commitment?' he asked. 'What must I do?'
'I don't know, Matti. I'm sorry but I... Things have changed rapidly, since Dumandee. It appears that Edward will be named at least Prime-Designate, until things become more settled. He is working very hard to keep the clan functioning. He has made many friends by his efforts. Faces are changing too rapidly for me to follow. Captain Anderson has risen with Edward; they complement one another. Sala Pedralis is helping smooth the transitional period, too. I don't think she likes Edward, but she is winning back the dissidents and gaining the clan time. Lucilla Ngota has been disgraced. She won't tell me what happened but she has been suspended from all duties and her staff have been redeployed to cope with the crisis. I have tried to comfort her--the Prime's death has hurt her deeply. Matti, what will they do to you?'
Mathias did not like the news. Sala deserting him--going with the flow, as she liked to say--Edward's rapid rise and, worst of all, Greta's doubts and the fact that she chose to comfort Lucilla and not him. 'Just believe in me. Even if only a little. When I'm out of this mess everything else will fall into place. Remember our plans: I will be free again.'
'There have been other changes, too, Matti.' Something in Greta's face made Mathias feel terribly small and vulnerable. 'When father pledged my troth in your name, he did so to bind our two families more closely together. You were going to be Prime one day. He has told me of his own doubts and fears and now he has changed his pledge.
'Matti, I'm so sorry.' She buried her face in her hands as if she wanted to stop the words coming out. 'He has pledged me in the name of Edward Olfarssen-Hanrahan. He signed settlement with Edward's mother this morning. Matti, I'm sorry.'
Mathias was not as surprised as he should have been. In his gut he had known something like this must happen, compounding his loss. He knelt before Greta and took her hand, releasing it in response to their chaperone's soft cough. 'Greta,' he said. 'If I could leave, would you join me?'
'Matti, don't,' she snapped. Then, more softly, she continued, 'My father... he has so much to lose. Matti, you are talking ahead of yourself. You must face the Court: innocence wins through. And guilt...'
She didn't need to finish. Finally Mathias saw that he had lost everything. He should have seen it sooner and saved Greta from having to go through such an ordeal. He rocked back on his heels, then stood. He walked to the window and watched another gull sliding through the darkening sky.
Behind him, he heard Greta rising to her feet, stepping away from the bed. 'Matti,' she said. 'You're very sweet.' He wanted to jump from the window, but it was locked and he doubted he had the strength left in him to break it. 'Matti, I have to go now. I told Edward to meet me at sunset, we have details to discuss. Matti,'--he turned to face her--'goodbye.'
* * *
Edward. Smiling, laughing, pawing at Greta's breasts. Pulling heavy-duty cables tight around her delicate neck. Pulling them tighter, making her face turn blue and her eyes bug out but she was enjoying it, Mathias knew she was enjoying it and that this was what she had wanted all along. He wanted to get to them, to pull them apart, to carry Greta away from his half-brother, convince her that she wanted only him. He struggled to move, but hands gripped his arms, pulled at him, shook him as he watched his love slipping away, strangled by those ancient black leads. Still the hands gripped him, shook him and a voice came across the grey wastes: 'Mathias. Please. We have little time.'
He woke and rolled on to his back. He opened his eyes and there was a faint light in the room and the face of Sala Pedralis floating close to his own. 'Sala. What is it?'
He shrugged off the last vestiges of sleep and realised that he had suddenly left everything behind. His grief, his anger, it was all gone. From now onwards he had to look out for himself.
'Come on, Mathias. We have little time.'
He remembered Greta's summary of events beyond the guest-room walls and said, 'So it's your turn to question me now, is it? I have no more to tell.'
Sala looked hurt and he added, 'I was told you had changed your allegiance. I was told you were helping Edward secure his throne.'
'I am securing Newest Delhi, not Olfarssen. Violent currents have been flowing since the loss of the Prime. Sects and clans fight openly in the streets. If they are not controlled then everything will be chaos. I can only do what I can. But that does not mean I like it. Come on. I have transport arranged.' She opened the door. 'Or will you stay here and let Olfarssen take it all?'
Mathias followed her out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Two guards stood in the corridor, both staring studiously at the wall. Their gazes barely flickered as Mathias passed by.
As they walked quickly through the corridors and across the Manse gardens, Mathias kept expecting to hear voices raised in pursuit, but the night remained still. The guards at the main gate stared right through Mathias, choosing not to see him, and then he was out in the Playa Cruzo, believing at last in what was happening.
'Come on,' said Sala. 'You're not clear yet.'
The streets they followed were empty and it was not long before Mathias realised they were heading for the docks. It made sense: a boat would not have to pass through the unsettled back country where the clans would be at their strongest and Mathias might be recognised by citizens mourning the loss of their Prime.
As they climbed the steps inside West Wall, Mathias thought of his grandfather. He had never heard much of the story, except that the disgraced Prime had fled Newest Delhi under cover of the night, much as Mathias was doing now. There had been some sort of scandal and his grandfather had fled in an old shuttle, restored in secret in case it should ever be needed. But the scandal had been so great, or the escape so hasty, that the shuttle had been struck down from the skies, ending, finally, the influence of the old ways. Tonight Mathias was fleeing, but there the resemblance ended; he did not expect to be struck down in the sea, he just wanted to be free from all that had happened. March had done well to retain control under the circumstances of his father's demise; he had managed to keep tight rein on the excesses of the transition. Any excesses March had inherited from his father had long been suppressed. As Mathias's feet crunched along the upper reaches of the beach, he felt a sudden affinity with the grandfather he had never met.
Sala stopped ahead of him on the jetty, the dark shape of a barge just visible over her shoulder. She stepped towards Mathias and embraced him. 'I'll pray for you,' she said. 'Maybe someone will hear.'
'Edward will pay for this,' said Mathias. It was a wish more than a threat.
'Edward? You think he killed the Prime? Maybe, but I don't think he would have it in him, he's just capitalising on it. My guess is that one of the clans is responsible. They will make their move on Newest Delhi soon enough and then we will know.'
She released him and nodded at the barge. 'Idi Mondata arranged the boat through his Krishna friends. It will take you to Orlyons, out of Edward's reach. Mathias, you are like a son to me, or a brother... I don't know. I'll clear your name, somehow. I'll find out who killed your father and then you will be free to do what you wish. Mathias, look after yourself. Don't be bitter.'
Mathias turned away, confused again. Things should not be like this. A hand reached out to help him on to the boat but he shrugged it off and stepped aboard, clambering over a pile of rope and feeling in his bones the rhythmic beat of the vessel's meth manoeuvring engines. He turned to wave but Sala had vanished. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
As the engines quickened Mathias settled down in the aft cargo hold and tried to get comfortable. He released a long-held breath and slowly the barge edged away from the dock, away from Newest Delhi and into the darkness of night.
...EXTRACT ENDS
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history: UK hardback, Victor Gollancz, 1991; UK paperback, Corgi, 1992; US trade paperback, Cosmos, March 2001 (ISBN: 1587153319)
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