dryly, an imperious tone in her voice that suggested she was not about to be ordered anywhere.
Bakkara rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Very well: I am here to request your presence at an audience with Xejen tu Imotu, leader of the Ais Maraxa, mastermind of the Zila revolt and maniacal foaming zealot. Is that better?’
Mishani could not help but laugh at the bathos. ‘It will do,’ she said.
‘And how are you feeling?’ he asked Chien.
‘Well enough,’ Chien replied rudely. ‘Are you going to let us out of here now?’
‘That’s up to Xejen,’ Bakkara said, scratching the back of his neck. ‘Though I can’t see your hurry. If we let you out of here, you’ll still be stuck in Zila. Nobody’s getting past that wall, one way or another, for a very long time yet.’
Chien cursed softly and looked away, breaking off the conversation.
‘Are you coming?’ Bakkara asked Mishani.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I have been waiting to talk to Xejen for quite some time now.’
‘He’s been very busy,’ Bakkara said. ‘You may have noticed a little disturbance outside Zila that’s causing us all some concern.’
They left Chien to his rest; he bade them a sullen farewell as they departed.
Bakkara took Mishani along a route that they had not walked before, but the surroundings were little different from any other part of the keep. It was dour and utilitarian, with narrow corridors of dark stone and little ornamentation or consideration for the natural flow of the elements.
Bakkara told her that it was built to the original plans, drawn up over a thousand years ago, which explained its miserable lack of soul. It was a military building constructed in a time when the recently-settled Saramyr folk were still using Quraal architectural ideas, where the weather was harsher and where ruthless practicality was far more important than the frivolity of aesthetics. As Saramyr evolved its own identity, the people began to explore the freedom of religion and thought and art that had been suppressed in Quraal by the rise of the Theocracy, and which had led them to choose exile. The blazing summers and warm winters made the stuffy and close Quraal dwellings uncomfortable to live in, and so they invented for themselves new types of housing, ones that accommodated their environment rather than shutting it out. Many old settlements still bore traces of the Quraal influence in some parts, but most remnants of that era had been torn down as they crumbled and replaced with more modern buildings. Saramyr folk had little love for ruins.
Xejen tu Imotu, leader of the Ais Maraxa, was pacing his chamber when they arrived. He was a bland-looking man of thirty-three harvests, thin and full of nervous energy. A mop of black hair topped his head, and he had sharp cheekbones and a long jawline that made his face seem narrower than it was. He was dressed in simple black clothes that hugged his wiry figure, and he scampered across the room to meet them as Bakkara knocked and entered.
‘Mistress Mishani tu Koli,’ he said, his speech rapid. ‘An honour to have you here.’
‘With such a gracious invitation, how could I refuse?’ she said, glancing at Bakkara.
Xejen did not seem to quite know how to take that. ‘I hope your confinement has not been too terrible. Please forgive me; I would have seen you earlier, but the task of organising Zila into a force capable of defending itself is taking up all of my time.’
He resumed his pacing around the room, picking up things and putting them back down, adjusting bits of paper on his desk that did not need adjusting. This room was as spartan as the rest in the keep: a few mats, a table, a desk and a small settee. Glowing lanterns depended from ceiling hooks, and outside the single window the twilight was deepening to darkness. If his headquarters were anything to go by, then Xejen could not be accused of the same abuse of power that the erstwhile Governor had.
Mishani decided to be blunt. ‘Why was I brought here?’ she asked.
‘To my chambers?’
‘To Zila.’
‘Ah!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Part charity, part misunderstanding. Bakkara, why don’t you explain?’
Mishani turned to the soldier with a patient expression, as if to say: Yes, why don’t you? It had been one of the few things he had refused to talk about; he had been waiting for Xejen’s permission, it seemed.
‘Well, first there was the matter of your friend Chien,’ he said, scratching his stubbled jaw. ‘Even if