Stands a Shadow - By Col Buchanan Page 0,46

nobility, unable to stomach the continuing losses of their tenanted lands to their new Mannian masters.

Only a single detail betrayed anything of Sasheen’s inner condition. Beside her, on the rail, she had planted the living head of Lucian – the first time she had chosen to display him in such a way in public. The Matriarch held a palm against its scalp to keep it there, so that the leader of the insurrection could look upon his desolated homeland in his own unfathomable silence.

Horns sounded from the foremost ships of the fleet ahead. They were approaching the harbour of Chir at last, one of the greatest marvels of the known world. Soon, as they rounded a rocky headland, Ché gazed open-mouthed at the legendary Oreos as it rose impossibly high before him, that colossal arch which spanned the natural mouth of the harbour inlet of Chir, the clouds of mist rolling beneath it.

The cityport of Chir, once rich from its trade in wool and salted meat with Zanzahar, and the former high seat of the Lagosian civilization, sprawled around a rocky inlet that formed the largest natural harbourage in the Midèrēs. The city had constructed the Oreos across its harbour entrance as the grandest of statements to the world. Cast in iron, it resembled a blade bent into a curve so that its flatness cut the wind in two, gleaming a brilliant painted white beneath a sky that had finally broken to reveal the sun.

He’d never before travelled to Lagos or its port of Chir, though he’d read much about them, and of the feat of art and engineering that he now gazed at. The mists were caused by seawater pumped by the motion of the waves into the body of the arch itself, and out through the countless nozzles arrayed along its underside to create the finest of sprays.

On some days, banded colours could be seen within the hazy span of the Oreos. It was common to see four or five or even six rainbows stretching through the spray or reflecting across the surface of water. The Rainbow Catcher, the people of Lagos often called it, with affection. Or they had done, when they had still lived here.

Ché could see one now, a bow of vibrant colours like a second archway, and beyond it, tinged by its hues, the sprawl of the city around the banks of the harbour, with imperial ships already at anchor there. He shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up to the top of the Oreos. He could make out tiny figures up there, white-robed priests gathered along a railing, taking in the sights of the cityport from its high elevation.

Ché would have studied the scene for longer, but his eyes just then caught movement up on the foredeck. It was Romano’s catamite, Topo, striding over to the general and the woman in his lap to exchange a flurry of heated words.

Topo whirled away and stamped towards the steps.

With a final glance cast at the approaching Oreos, Ché pushed himself from the rail. He tracked the youth as he returned alone to Romano’s cabin, red-faced and shoving past the guards at the door. Ché waited a few moments longer to ensure that no one was joining him, then set about delivering his message.

He entered Romano’s chambers silently via the rear balcony, while everyone overhead, including the guards, stood on the landward side taking in the sights of the harbour.

In the cabin, with the sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom, Ché murdered a bodyguard with the slash of a knife across his throat.

He stepped back from the mess as the man collapsed onto the rug.

‘Hello?’ came a voice from the bathroom beyond.

Ché stood still for some moments while the man gargled blood at his feet. He listened until he heard the gentle splash of water once more from the other side of the door. With a garrotte dangling from one hand, he pushed the bathroom door slightly ajar. Steam escaped around his shaven head.

He looked in to see the man lying in the wooden bathtub, muttering to himself with his eyes squeezed shut. Ché slipped inside, and stopped behind his head as he gripped the garrotte in both fists. He gazed down on Romano’s young lover. There were fresh scars over his pale, lean body; scabbed bruises the size of bite marks.

Ché observed the great bronze pot of a water-heater sitting on the stove at the foot of the tub, and knew

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