of the future and the war. And he certainly didn’t glide through his life; he trod furtively with his attention darting left and right, always concerned at making a false step or saying the wrong thing. Perhaps he should develop a taste for drinking more, like so many of his fellow officers. Or for the hazii weed, like Halahan always seemed to be smoking. Even now he could smell it in the odd twist of the wind.
A flight of skyships was circling over the city, far above the merchant balloons tethered to their towers, higher even than the wheeling birds. Bahn had dreamed the other night that he and his family had been aboard one of those magnificent flying vessels, heading towards the rising sun in search of sanctuary.
‘You know, don’t you, that every one of them has a private ship moored in the western harbour. Fast sloops with their crews on standby, in case the Shield ever falls.’
Bahn nodded absently. He listened to the cuff of the wind against his ears.
‘Still,’ he spoke at last, and his voice sounded fragile, ready to break. ‘The feint could be here, don’t you think? Minos could be their real target.’
Halahan studied him for a time, the humour gone from his eyes.
The man placed a hand on Bahn’s shoulder.
‘Better get your head straight, son,’ Halahan told him softly. ‘They’re coming for us all right.’
CHAPTER NINE
In the Company of Rats
The ship sped along on its south-easterly course with its sails straining fat with wind and its prow clipping through the rise and fall of the swells. Ché stood by the rail with the salty spray hissing past the hull, the vessel thrumming beneath him as it bore them across the Heart of the World.
To others, he looked as though he was merely taking in the sea air on another day on their journey east. For Ché, it was a form of meditation standing like this, his mind focused on the flow of his breathing and the senses of his body. It was a pleasure to be this way, so much so that a slight unconscious smile curled the corners of his mouth.
He didn’t dare do any more than this. Not here, not in the presence of so many of his peers. To squat down now on the main deck in the customary position of a Daoist monk, or a Rōshun for that matter – kneeling with spine erect, thoughtless and still – would be an open challenge to them all. Remarks would be made. Something would be said to him by one of the Monbarri, threats veiled behind skilful questions of double meaning.
His feet rocking to the gentle swaying of the ship, Ché could see the wheelhouse rising high before him in the mid-section of the ship, a legion of signal flags fluttering from the top of it. Behind him, at the stern of the vessel, the quarterdeck rose three storeys tall, where the stately cabins of the Holy Matriarch were located, along with those of her two generals. Sasheen was up there now, on the uppermost deck, taking in the sea air like Ché himself, though she was seated in a deep wicker chair and wrapped in a heavy fur cloak against the bite of the wind, surrounded by white screens to shield her position. Between the screens, Archgeneral Sparus and young Romano could be glimpsed sitting on either side of her, engaged in conversation and attended by slaves. The Matriarch wasn’t looking at them as they spoke. Sasheen was watching the skyship that was passing overhead, one of their birds-of-war guarding the invasion fleet; a scattering of vessels that stretched ahead and behind as far as the eye could see.
He sensed rather than heard the approach of someone behind him.
‘Don’t dwell on it,’ came the quiet voice of a man. ‘It’s always much worse than you can imagine anyway.’
Ché felt a moment’s irritation, and turned his head to see Guan standing there, the young man of the Mortarus sect who had come aboard with his sister as part of Sasheen’s travelling entourage. The priest stood dwarfed by the ship’s great masts and sails that diminished half the sky.
‘And what’s that?’ Ché enquired drily.
‘The invasion. You’ve never been to war, have you?’
Ché simply shook his head.
‘I was there with my sister, the last time we invaded the Free Ports. It wasn’t a pretty sight.’
‘You were in Coros? You hardly look old enough.’
‘No. We hardly were. Our father was the commander of the fifty-fifth