The next day, Celyse came to visit. Orhan was surprised she was still leaving the house. But they were all taking risks now, abandoning caution, giving themselves up to the certainty of the plague. And life must go on, or something similar. The plague will not defeat us! We will survive! We are the richest empire the world had ever known! Keep our spirits up! and all that.

“Hello, Orhan.” Her face looked thinner, her hair greyer. Her eyes were red with tears.

“Celyse.”

“Ameretha Ventuel died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Celyse sat down. “I should tell Bil.”

“Bil won’t see anyone. Even me.”

“No?” A harsh little laugh. “Wise woman.”

“You’re hoping her son dies, I suppose?”

Celyse’s face went rigid. “God’s knives, Orhan! That’s vile.” She stood up, started back towards the door. “I can see why Darath threw you out.”

“Celyse … Wait. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Orhan grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You are becoming hateful, Orhan. That’s what’s happening to you. The things you say … You’re becoming what you did. Or are you just bitter you failed at everything? You even failed at punishing March, since he hasn’t had to live to see today.”

“Shut up,” he said suddenly. “Stop it.”

Celyse pulled her hand away. “I was worried about you. God’s knives, why do I bother? I thought you might want to talk about it. Need to talk. I was obviously wrong.”

Need to talk?

“Celyse? What?”

She was through the door when she turned back at looked at him. “Orhan … I’m sorry, though. Truly. I’m sorry. If you need me … need to talk … Once you’ve stopped being so vile.”

Need to talk? Sick panic. Terror. “What? Wait! What’s happened? What’s wrong? Wait!”

Sick panic. Knew, in his belly. Almost screamed it. “Tell me!”

Her eyes narrowed. Shadow on her face. “You don’t know.”

“Know what? What don’t I know?”

No, he thought. No no no no no no no no no.

Celyse sucked in a breath. “I wish your spies weren’t quite so hopeless, Orhan. Leada is sick. She fell sick this morning.”

Reeled like someone had stabbed him. Like mage fire going off in his ears and eyes. Knife blades in his stomach. His hands twisting Tam’s wound.

“At the House of Flowers, yes.”

Why didn’t Darath send to tell him? Why didn’t—

Celyse said perfectly calmly, clearly, tonelessly, “Darath has ordered the gates of the house sealed.”

“But … But I …”

She sighed. “Would have been sealed in too, if Darath hadn’t thrown you out.”

Dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Screams welling up upside him. But … It can’t … But …

Celyse walked over to him. Awkwardly put her arms around him.

Fell into her arms and screamed in grief louder than Bil’s child.

A boy brought date cakes, salted melon, iced lemon wine. Poured with a pretty curve of his arm. Warm wind blew in from the gardens, perfumed with honeysuckle and jasmine, ruffling the bells of Celyse’s headdress, the silver draperies hung on the wall. The sunlight had a heavy, yellow quality to it: Orhan had hoped and wondered that it might rain. God lives in His house of waters … Cool rainfall to quench the city’s fevers, wash them a bit cleaner, freer from disease. Drown the cursed flies.

He drank. Sharp in his dry empty mouth. His hand shook on the cup. We always know we are all dying. But … But … Those we love … they can’t die. They won’t ever die.

“He may recover,” said Celyse.

“He may.”

But … But …

“Nistryle Caltren’s youngest son recovered.” She laughed in pain. “An orphan. Five years old. But he recovered. Do you know what I saw yesterday in the Court of the Fountain, Orhan? A woman was standing holding a basket. In the basket was a cat. She shouted that Great Tanis has abandoned the city. That Great Tanis the Lord of Living and Dying is an empty lie. ‘There is no such thing as living!’ she shouted. ‘Hail King Death!’ Then she killed the cat.”

“The Chatheans sacrifice cats to ward off deeping fever. They drink the blood as a cure.”

Silence.

“What happened to her?” Orhan asked.

“Who?”

“The blasphemer. The woman who killed the cat.”

“What do you think happened to her? She was mobbed. Everyone in the square turned on her. The guards at the fountain had to intervene.”

“She survived?”

“The guards dragged her off somewhere. Still shouting that life is a lie.” She laughed in pain again. “I don’t know what happened to the dead cat.”

“People drank its blood, I expect.”

“I was trying to make a joke there, Orhan.”

“People are selling cats for ten dhol a body. Fifteen, if it’s still alive.”

Bit her lip. “That’s disgusting. And blasphemous.”

“It doesn’t work, anyway.” Pain. Such pain in his heart. I’d kill a hundred cats for Darath, otherwise, if I thought it even possible it might. “But that’s probably why they mobbed her. Not because she was blaspheming. To get hold of the cat.”

Celyse left. Cakes and melon uneaten, wine undrunk. Loss of appetite an early sign of fever … But we mustn’t all become paranoid about our health.

Orhan went to the Great Temple.

Not quite true. He went first to the House of Flowers. The gates loomed over him, sealed shut. He went right up close, pressed his hands on the carved onyx. Even in the midday heat, the stone felt unnaturally cold.

The last time. The last time he had gone through the gates.

“Darath,” he whispered, running his hands over the stone. “Darath. Let me in. Please.”

No response.

We could have been somewhere in the desert together. Heading to Alborn to lead new lives. There is nothing left for me.

No, he thought suddenly. That’s not quite true.

If my son dies, he thought, I will kill myself.

So he went on to the Great Temple. Through the Court of the Fountain, where a man stood and shouted “We’re dying! We’re dying! God has abandoned us and we’ll all die!” Through the Court of Petals, where a woman danced in silence for the dead. Through the Court of the Broken Knife, where the faceless statue with its knife and its burden stood and looked over at the horizon, and it seemed to Orhan that the statue had almost a visible face. A diseased, rotten, time-eaten figure, eyes fixed on nothing. The city embodied. The very image of Orhan Lord Emmereth Lord of the Rising Sun, ex-lover of Lord Vorley, ex-Nithque of the Eternal Golden City of Sorlost. A man sat beneath the statue, weeping. There was always someone weeping, in the Court of the Broken Knife.

Yet, as he approached the Temple, Orhan felt somehow a warmth and a peace. In the Grey Square the wind was blowing stronger; a few children, untroubled by fear of sickness, flew their little coloured silk kites. His heart lifted, watching the colours float. Little jewels against the golden blue evening sky. Little bright fragments of hope. He’s not yet dying. He may recover. Some do. He’ll recover and we’ll stand here together in gratitude and watch the kites. In the Temple itself the throng was crushing. Flushed, feverish faces, desperate red eyed supplicants, the priestesses slipping between them with shadowed eyes beneath their masks. It was noted that none of them had died. The lapis and silver masks looked the more beautiful, against the hot frowning faces kneeling around them. But despite the crush and the heat of the candles the Great Chamber was calming to the mind. People stared and murmured at Lord Emmereth. Hissed. Made signs with their hands. The city’s saviour, some of them still thought him. If Amrath really had visited the palace, some still believed Orhan had been the one who had fought him off. At least, he thought wearily, he could not be blamed for the plague.

They knew, he saw, that the House of Flowers was closed up with sickness. They pitied him, even those who thought him a murderer who had sold the city to a demon for a bag of gold. All and everything is washed away, all sin, all evil, in the face of such death.

So many candles were lit the chamber shone without shadows. Light brighter and clearer than the light of the sun. The air so scented with spices it was almost solid before him. Tasted sensual in his mouth. He knelt, felt the eyes staring at him. Whispers. Hisses. Pity. Prayers and songs. It felt like someone running cool long fingers across his face and down his skin.

“Great Tanis. Lord of Living and Dying. He Who Rules All Things. Oh Great Lord Tanis, I come before You, to ask Your blessing of my life. Grant that I will live and die, as all things must live and die. Grant that I will know sorrow, and pain, and happiness, and love. Grant that I will endure Your blessing and Your curse. Grant that I will be grateful for the gifts You give me, that I yet live and one day will die. Let Darath live. Great Tanis, Great Lord, let Darath live.” Closed his eyes, saw the golden light of the candles through them, the holy shining presence of the God. “Dear Lord, Great Tanis who rules all things, from the fear of life and the fear of death, release us. We live. We die. For these things, we are grateful.” Warm and soft. Soothing on his heart. He felt, almost, some kind of joy.

The child High Priestess knelt before the altar, pulling at her hair with chewed hands. Thin white wrists. Orhan thought of the child whore he’d seen yesterday. Noted that none of the priestesses had died, and it would be a kindness if this child did.

A figure came to kneel beside him. Orhan ignored it, staring into the candle flames, thinking of Darath and Bil’s baby and the God. We could have been running away, in the desert together. Or dying together in each other’s arms.

I could run away with Bil and my son, he thought. Take them out into the desert. Try to let the baby survive. Fuck the city, as Darath so musically put it. The city, for a single child. Go incognito, a bag of diamonds and no name. Live in Alborn. Be spared all this. Darath was right. We can just leave.

A surge of terror suddenly running through him. The candles seemed to dim. Dark, cold wind in the Temple, making the light flicker, writhing sudden shadows, and there in the flames a young man’s face, beautiful, blood covered, eyes like knife blades. Red blood waves rising. Red blood boiling, crested with dark smoke. The eyes staring into him, filthy, oozing. Running pus like rotted wounds. Falling flashing shining shower of coloured glass.

Orhan thought in sudden panic: I saw him. I saw Amrath. He’s riding across the world bringing ruin and blood. Nowhere will be safe from him. Every village and every man and woman and child will die under his sword. The world’s burning. There’s no escape. Nowhere to run to. We’ll all die in pain.

Darath’s dead. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.

Orhan shook himself. Closed his eyes. Candle flames, voices praying, bronze walls gleaming, priestesses in lapis and silver masks. Soothing. Soft on his skin.

Night comes. We survive. A little while longer to live is still a little while longer to live.

The light in the Temple blazed golden. Light. There’s always light. The child priestess rocked and stared at the High Altar. At least, thought Orhan, she’s alive. He moved to get up, go back to the House of the East, tell Bil to get some things together, run away out of the Maskers’ Gate into the barren desert tracts of sand. My son, he thought. I can still save my son.

The figure kneeling next to him moved also. Gestured to catch Orhan’s eye.

Secretary Gallus. Grey in his gold hair.

“My Lord Emmereth,” Gallus said softly. “Would you believe me if I said I was surprised to meet you here? I need to speak with you.” He gestured towards the entranceway. “Please.”

The dark of the passage rose up suffocating Orhan. He almost choked as he followed Gallus out. Death and horror. Amrath’s pale filthy staring eyes. This is death, this darkness, crushing, the weight of dying, the blind empty gnawing hunger of the void. This is what Darath will suffer. What he will become.

Darath’s dead, he thought. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.

The sunlight of the Grey Square poured over him as he stumbled out through the great doors in Gallus’s shadow. I was going to leave, he thought. Save the child. The light was sickly yellow, clouds building in piles like walls in the far west through the gaps in the city’s domes. The ghosts of the foreign plague dead, who still believed that they had souls. It’s going to rain, thought Orhan, looking at the clouds. Wash the city a bit cleaner. Drown the flies. The smell of the city’s stones, after heavy rainfall … Water, running warm and heavy on the face … A few final moments of something good.

Voices shouted in the square: “Every day! Every day!” “I have a son for the God’s hunger! He longs for it!” “Every day! Every day!” People milling around, looking up at the Temple. Waiting for some miracle to appear.

No sign of the kite fliers. Gone and flown. Sickened, perhaps, in the brief while he had been inside.

“What is it, Gallus?” he asked wearily.

Gallus glanced at the people shouting. “Not here.”

“Half of the city just watched us walk out of the Temple together.” Memory: walking with Darath, talking about treason and murder, Darath claiming they were less likely to be overheard. Darath’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead. “I’m told it’s safer, walking and talking. Less easy to be eavesdropped on. We’ll all be dead soon anyway. What does it matter, at the end of everything, who’s seen talking to whom about what? Who’s left to care?”

Still, Gallus hesitated.

“What it is, Gallus? What do you want?” You sold me out to Cam Tardein, Orhan thought. The man I have become should kill you.

Gallus coughed nervously. “My Lord Emmereth … My Lord … It has been several months now, since you were dismissed as Nithque. In that time … In that time, things have not gone so well.”

“Possibly.” Dancing the dance again. Farting at each other. Round and round.

Darath’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.

“The city is dying, My Lord,” said Gallus in a rush. Orhan thought: really? Is it? I never knew. Who knew? Gallus’s voice dropped. “The Emperor took sick this morning. Only a mild illness, he says it is nothing more than a cold. Shortly before I left, he was reported to be feeling a little better. That … that was when I knew I must speak to you, My Lord.”

The Emperor, dying.

He could die as easily as any man. Had died in many strange and spectacular and pointless ways. Not a great reign, this one. Better luck next time, perhaps. Should have been dead months past, dead and buried with a mewling baby on the throne. But …

The Emperor. Dying. Further chaos. Nothing left to centre them.

“My Lord, the new Nithque … You will have heard, My Lord, that he ordered the gates sealed?”

Orhan looked at the people milling uselessly in the square behind them. Shouts of “Every night! Every night!” A distant voice weeping. The background hum of screams. “No. No, I hadn’t heard. When was this?”

“Last night, My Lord. He ordered that they not be reopened this morning.”

“But the gates are open.” The uproar if they had remained closed would have been audible throughout the city, blocking out even the screams. Someone surely would have had the courage to tell him that.

“The guards refused to obey the order, My Lord.”

“Then have them removed from their station, and have the gates closed.”

“Who would remove them?” said Gallus. “Half the city guard are dead or dying or have already abandoned their post. Perhaps not half, I may exaggerate. A third, perhaps.”

“What did Cam—did the Nithque do, then?”

Gallus tried to look anywhere but at Orhan. “What can he do, My Lord? His daughter is dying. His son took sick three days ago. Do you think now he even cares?”

Orhan sighed. “He is Nithque. That should be above all.” His family, for the city. The city, for the world.

Darath’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.

“He—”

“The gates need to be sealed, Gallus. You know that.”

Gallus nodded wearily. “Perhaps, My Lord. If we have the men left.”

“The gates must be closed before the Emperor dies. Half the city will flee, otherwise.”

Gallus nodded wearily. “Yes, My Lord.”

Orhan looked at him. “You know all this. What is it you really want from me, Gallus?”

A long silence. They went through the square onto the Street of Flowers. Two women fought over the headless body of a cat. Orhan turned sharply away from the walk down to Darath’s house, making instead for the Street of the Butchered Horse.

Gallus said quietly, “Lord Tardein is in contact with the Immish, My Lord.”

“Lord Tardein—?”

Ah, God’s knives.

Here it comes.

Gallus had worked well for him, when he was Nithque. Only betrayed his trust when it was clear he was already down. So here now was the price.

“He dictates letters to members of the Immish Great Council for me to write. I write them. Give them to him to seal. A reply comes. I am forbidden to open it. He tells me it must be opened only by the Nithque’s own hands. Later he shows me the letter. It is a bland reply to the letter I sent. I write a lot of pointless letters. I read a lot of pointless replies. But there are other letters, folded up beneath.”

“You … You know this? You can prove this?”

Gallus reached into his coat. A small packet of silver paper, stamped and sealed in white. Orhan caught only a glimpse before it was tucked back away.

“A letter came yesterday morning. The palace is in chaos. The Emperor is sick. Two Secretaries are sick. Servants are dying every day. My Lord the Nithque is waiting to hear if his children are dead.” Sighed. “As you say, no one will be left soon to care. I do not know what if anything it contains. Do you want to open it, My Lord?”

No. No. God’s knives, no. I was going to abandon all this. I tried to change things. I failed. I was going to run away with Bil and my son and try to make some attempt at giving them a life.

Orhan held out his hand slowly. Like it almost wasn’t his own hand. “Give it to me, then.”

The seal of the Immish Great Council, a circle of interlocking circles around a broken tower. Fine sundried clay painted white, smudging off on his fingers, a small thing the size of a piece of candied fruit. Orhan flexed the letter. Broke the seal. Like stabbing someone, he thought. Something else from which there is no going back.

Unfolded the letter. A single sheet of fine silver leaf paper, inked in large letters in the awkward Pernish script in shiny black. Another, smaller letter nestled inside it. Like a present in a box. Plain rough coarse greyish paper. Plain porcelain seal with no stamp.

Gallus said with a kind of satisfaction, “You see, My Lord?”

“It could still be nothing.” Orhan’s hands trembled as he broke the seal.

A single word: “Yes.”

A single bronze dhol fell to the dust at his feet. He bent and retrieved it. The image of the city embossed on it had been scored through.

Running feet on the flagstones behind him. Voices shouting. Orhan and Gallus swung round. A group of men, running, carrying torches. Carrying drawn swords.

“The Emperor is dying!”

“The God has abandoned us!”

“The blasphemers in the Temple! The High Priestess betraying us to the demon!”

“Every night! Every night!”

Shouts coming from several directions. A woman ran past clutching a baby. A group of children holding sticks and stones.

“The Emperor is dead!”

“The God has abandoned us!”

“We are impious! We deserve the God’s anger!”

“Every night! Every night!”

A man staggering sick with fever. Vomiting his innards up in the street and staggering on. Another group of men with torches and swords.

“Every night! Every night!”

Orhan and Gallus began to run with them, Orhan’s guards jogging behind. Horror mounting in Orhan. The letter crumpled half forgotten in his hand. Back down the Street of Flowers. More people running. And more, and more. Into the Grey Square. A single child had returned to fly her kite. Staring in confusion, open mouthed, at the crowds building suddenly around her. Men and women and children, the sick, the dying, armed men, men with torches, children holding stones. A few soldiers in gold armour in a group, uncertain, mouths open in confusion like the child’s. A group of street girls swaying on bound legs, bells tinkling, also uncertain, making lewd comments to the crowd.

“The Emperor’s dead!”

“The God has abandoned us! Great Tanis is angry!”

“The High Priestess betrayed us to the demon! The plague is our punishment for her crime!”

“Every night! Every night!”

“I have a child for the God’s hunger! Every night! Every night!”

The woman raised her baby. It shrieked its odd heart-breaking grating shrieking noise. “Every night! Every night!”

The crowd rushed towards the Temple. Up the steps, flowing like flood water, pushing and shoving each other, swarming crowding around the entranceway, fighting their way in in a rush. Still clutching torches and swords. The woman led them, the screaming baby still raised in her arms.

Orhan stared in sick wonder. There was light flickering out of the dark entranceway where light had never been. People fighting and trampling each other to get inside. Stared in sick wonder as a woman fell and was stamped on. People still running into the square, drawn by the shouting, the soldiers drew their swords hesitantly, looking at each other, the whores muttered to each other, shouted to the soldiers and the crowds.

Shouting from inside the Temple. The long rays of the evening sun through the gathering clouds on the black stone. And then suddenly Orhan understood. He bent forward and almost vomited. Gallus muttered something, fled back towards the palace. The soldiers moved slowly towards the despoiled entranceway. Those around the Temple began to shout at them. The whores jeered them. Someone threw a stone.

The sun sinking. The twilight bell tolled. From deep inside the Temple came a wild ecstatic hundred-voiced shriek.

Voices in the square screaming again: “The God is angry with us!” “The Emperor is dying!” “The Emperor is dead!” “The God has abandoned us!” “Every night! Every night!” One of the whores untangled her bindings, went to join the crowds ebbing around the Temple steps. Men whistled at her, made catcalls. The soldiers looked at each other dizzily. “Every night! Every night!” The woman who had been holding the baby came out of the Temple. Stood on the top of the steps. Her hands were bloody. She raised her hands. The crowd around the Temple cheered. “Every night! Every night! Every night!” A stone flew from the crowd, hit one of the soldiers on the arm. The crowd cheered. Another stone fell short at the soldiers’ feet. Another stone struck a gold helmet. Another stone. The whores began jeering. His guardsmen pulled tight around Orhan in a thicket. “The Emperor’s dead! The God has abandoned us!” “Every night! Every night!” The woman waved her bloody hands: “We must reclaim the Temple! Win back the love of the God!” “The God has abandoned us!” “The Emperor is dying!” “Every night! Every night!” More stones, rattling on gold armour. The guards staring at each other, waving their swords. The woman screaming: “The God must be placated!” The soldiers charged the crowd. Orhan saw blood spurting. Voices howling in fear and outrage. More people running into the square shouting. Stones flying. Then swords.

“The God has abandoned us!”

“Every night! Every night!”

Orhan stood in the dust trying to keep himself from vomiting. Tears running down his face.

Is this now what we’ve come to? Flies flies flies eating the ruin of the world.

The clouds opened, heavy warm rain, washing the dust up in swirling patterns.

“Every night! Every night!”

“The God has abandoned us!”

“Every night!”

Bodies falling. The soldiers cutting their own people down.

Orhan bent and wept in the wet dust.