11

Hangman's Square

Stars were falling in the dawn sky, over the Grand Port of Afor. Dazhyen stood there, impatient and anxious, in his brand-new uniform, gazing up at the first streaks of sunlight. It had been a long time since he’d worn a uniform and it was the first time that he’d been proud to wear one. The day before, Cermak had officially made him a Training Cadet in the Lifeguards. This was only a formality, he was told, and he would not receive any rank after that, but he was given a uniform – the fabulous yellow and red coat of the Lifeguards, minus their ceremonial cuirass. This, he guessed, was little more than a kind gesture on Cermak’s part, who had long since realised Dazhyen’s yearning to belong.

It was a good thing that Dazhyen would not be promoted, for his heart had never left the creaking decks of the Heiress to the Dandelion. And it was for the Heiress that he waited with a burgeoning impatience. She was supposed to have arrived that night, the night that Dazhyen had spent pacing pier after pier, and walking along the breakwater, mistaken constantly for a soldier on patrol. Earlier, when he’d had the energy spare to think, he’d wondered how Mert knew that Dazhyen might need the help, and assumed that Raidas had, in his manner of unwitnessed care, informed Rakehead of what was to be asked of Dazhyen. He now sat, bone tired and scarcely able to keep his eyes open more than a hair, with his back resting against a pile of crates. The night had been one of dual disappointment for Dazhyen – neither did the Heiress arrive on time, nor did he see his miruq friend Jerry. At least Jerry’s absence was explicable – he was almost certainly on a voyage, for Dazhyen had not seen Jerry for the entirety of his time back in Afor. But what of the Heiress?

Dazhyen yawned so widely and so loudly, he woke himself up from a sleep he didn’t know he’d dropped into, and it was lucky he did. For, off in the distance, lit up by the brilliant orange light of the early morning sun and identified by the dual standards she flew, he saw the Heiress. The standard that caught his eye first, was Captain Rakehead’s personal standard – a golden horn on a field of blue – which flew proudly underneath the standard of Afor.

Suddenly, the sleep vanished from Dazhyen’s eyes, chased away by an escalating elation such that he’d never felt before. Soon, within just a matter of an hour or two, he would be in the company of the men that had fast become a family to him.

The hour passed by quickly, as Dazhyen – half-awake though he was – joined the longshoremen in preparing the pier for her arrival. When she did finally heave into shouting distance, he identified, immediately, Mert who was stood on the bow and was barking orders at the seamen. Dazhyen resisted the urge to shout hello, for he doubted he would be heard, and he wanted his presence to be something of a surprise, and so he waited.

He should have guessed, however, that his arrival to greet the Heiress was not only not a surprise to her crew, but that Mert and Harishki had prepared for it. This he found out when boarded her, beaming with a mix of joy and sly intent, and attempted to sneak up on Mert, who was busy with inspecting the knots. Before Dazhyen had the opportunity to leap onto Mert’s back in a surprise bear hug, his friend said without so much as turning around, “Alright, Daisy?”. Dazhyen, who had collected himself into a ready position to leap onto his friend, felt his shoulders drop in disappointment.

“How’d you know!” he protested, but a wide smile never left his lips.

“Had a feeling,” said Mert, who turned around to face his friend with a grin. At first, Dazhyen thought this grin was simply because Mert was happy to see him, but he should have known better for, at that instant, he felt something cold and hard pressing against the small of his back, and heard a whisper in his ear.

“Your money, or your life, Daisy!” Harishki said with mock-threatening, “Choose wisely!”

“Does the Captain know you’ve pulled a pistol on a seaman?” Dazhyen responded with equal mock-seriousness, while Mert’s tensed face betrayed the losing battle he was fighting with a bout of laughter.

“The Captain?” said Harishki, lips inches away from his ear. “We mutinied 4 days ago!” he proclaimed, and Mert then lost his battle and broke out in laughter. Behind them, however, they heard someone clearing their throat.

“That’ll be enough, men,” said Mr. Frost, and Dazhyen could feel the life drain out of Harishki. Mutiny was, Dazhyen knew, something one must never even joke about. Mr. Frost glided past them, and simply said, “some lines must never be crossed, boys,” as he walked down the gangplank.

When he was sufficiently out of earshot, Mert resumed his hysterical laughter. “Told you that was a bad idea, Seaman 3rd Class!” his attempt to pull rank was undermined by the fact that every word was followed by stifled laughter.

“Come on,” said a rattled Harishki, who walked past Dazhyen, allowing him to see that he wasn’t, in fact, holding a pistol, but an empty bottle of rum, which he then tossed into the sea. “I need to walk on land,” he spoke with finality as he strode down the gangplank and was lost in the sea of longshoremen and crew that were now working to unload the Heiress.

Dazhyen and Mert were sat, that evening, aboard the Heiress in her mess. This was largely because Dazhyen missed eating there, not out of any desire to taste the mess’s food which, at the best of times, tasted like what Dazhyen imagined the colour beige would.

“I don’t want to kill him, Mert,” Dazhyen finally said, as he swallowed the last bite of his food.

“Well, you don’t have to. Flash your pistol, rattle your sabre,” Mert took a swig of his beer and bit into his sandwich before continuing, “and he’ll learn.”

Dazhyen wanted so badly to believe that, but he knew Bor. He had been a staunch believer in the Maran philosophies of purity through pain, and hated those he saw as heretics. Bor was about a year or two older than Dazhyen, and much bigger, and had enjoyed immensely the singular privilege this afforded him. The privilege to punish, as he saw fit, those junior to him. Dazhyen wasn’t a favourite target of his as that honour was awarded to some other boys, but he never showed Dazhyen any mercy. None of that was enough, however, for Dmitur who often ordered Bor to be whipped without real reason. Dazhyen flinched and the scars on his back flared as he remembered the room underneath the temple where the whippings were carried out.

Calling it a basement would be charitable. It was intended, Dazhyen supposed but could never confirm, to be completed into an altar of pain and purity, dedicated to the Pravi Agnih. He was given to understand that such chambers of purity, where purity was whipped and beaten into those foolish enough to mistake or question, were common in Temples across the world. Alt-madha, was it called in those places. But, in the Afor Temple, the Alt-madha was little more than a dark, damp hole with walls of black mud, dotted by mushrooms. This hole was divided into two sections – one where the boys would be whipped, and the other where the same punishment was meted out to the girls. This segregation was deemed necessary as the poor bastard being whipped had to strip.

Dazhyen stopped his memories in their tracks, opting not to relive those humiliations. The more he’d learned about the way Eliza or Maryam, or even Mert and Harishki, had lived their lives the more he’d come to hate people like Dmitur, and his parents. But with that hatred, came an empathy – an understanding for people like Bor Adamik, who were victims of circumstance and of the misfortune of their birth. Perhaps if Bor hadn’t been whipped every week, he wouldn’t have tormented the younger boys. Perhaps if he’d been shown some modicum of love or appreciation or compassion, he would have been kinder in his treatment of those beneath him.

But he became… what he became. He had no choice but to become a monster, Dazhyen concluded, because barbarism was all he knew. All he was taught. Dazhyen didn’t want to kill Bor Adamik – his entire body protested against the idea. But he accepted, in his rational mind, that it could become necessary.

“But in the end, Daisy,” Mert said after releasing a belch that stunk of beer, “all bullies get what’s coming to ‘em. I hope this kid doesn’t have to die, but if someone’s going to kill him… might as well be you. Sounds like he hated you,” Mert’s voice reeked of genuine sympathy and Dazhyen did all he could to not read it as pity, and instead smiled faintly in response. How could he tell Mert that he was the subject of Bor’s more lenient treatments?

“He had no choice, Mert. He was treated worse than I was, almost. He became a monster because that’s all he knew,” Mert’s face morphed into one of shock at what Dazhyen said.

“How can you defend him, Daisy?”

“I’m not defending him, Mert. I’m just saying… I understand him. I… could’ve been him,” Dazhyen almost couldn’t bring him to say those final words. He couldn’t believe that about himself, he didn’t want to, but it was true.

Mert shook his head. “You went through the same shite, Daisy. And you realised something none of those pricks did – you had a choice. And you made the right choice. Every time. Or they’d’ve executed you in that hole alongside your master, Daisy.”

“I feel like maybe they did execute a part of me that day,” Dazhyen wasn’t certain what he meant when he said this, but he believed it. Something… died that day, in him.

“Ah don’t be a pedantic wanker, Daisy. You know what I mean. All of you had a choice, and you were the only one with backbone enough to make the right one. D’you understand?”

Dazhyen nodded, but in his heart, he disagreed. Dazhyen had, in his own understanding, nothing of a choice. He suffered the same indignities and the same punishments, and went through the same education and the same classes with the same teachers. His parents and Bor’s parents thought alike and held the same position, Basantha, in the Temple. But Bor cared – cared about what his parents wanted, what Dmitur thought, what others said – and Dazhyen didn’t.

Bor needed Dmitur and his parents to approve, so he did everything he could to get them to, yet they never did. Dazhyen learnt, early on, that no one would ever approve of him so he did what he his dying conscience told him to – he said no when Dmitur ordered him to kill Eliza.

It was the only time that he remembered disobeying his master.

“I won’t choose to kill him, Mert,” Dazhyen said finally, after a few moments’ silence. “I won’t.”

“And no one’s asking you to. All I’m saying, Daisy, is if you need to – it’s fine. No one will judge you for it, no one will find you wanting.”

Dazhyen smiled as they got up, but he knew someone would judge. It would be the Dazhyen that was 16 years old, that said no to killing Eliza. That Dazhyen would see Bor as an innocent victim, no different to the orphan princess. The Dazhyen of 21, however, who walked down the gangway with a sabre in its sheath and a pistol on his belt… he knew that actions had consequences.

He knew, also, that sometimes those consequences were death.

The night seemed thicker and colder than usual, as Eliza perched herself with cat-like delicacy on a rooftop. It was the heart of summer and still, she felt a chill in her bones. Around her, the city was an expanse but her attention was drawn to a solitary alley that ran parallel to the main road to the Grand-Port. The roof top she had chosen was a favourite of hers; easy to access and gave a clear view of the entire city, unobstructed by anything save the spires of the Cathedral. Below her, however, Dazhyen and Mert stepped out of that dark alley, both wearing long cloaks of black cotton.

She watched them walk away, making their way to the older parts of the city – to Hangman’s Square where the old kings and tsars used to hang undesirables and criminals. It had become the centre of poverty in modern Afor, with the neighbourhoods around it being ramshackle at best. Beyond Hangman’s Square, and the slums that surrounded it, there rose the chimneys of factories, for the slums housed their workers.

She deftly climbed down to the street and set off after Dazhyen, a dagger dangling from her hip, and her face concealed under a hood. She knew Dazhyen would not need her help, but she wanted to be there for the thought of Dazhyen’s first confrontation, she found, had filled her with worry.

Ahead of her, the street opened up into a large square, surrounded by motley and shambling houses built of brick, mud, and stone. At the centre of the square, was a gallows.

Dazhyen stopped to stare up at the massive wrought iron reproduction of a gallows. In the cloudy, new moon night, it seemed infinitely black and foreboding. On the gallows was a singular plaque, on which – in gold – were engraved just two words: Never Again.

“Is that him?” Mert tugged Dazhyen away from his study of the instrument of execution, and pointed at a man who sat with his back against a wall, an empty bottle lying beside an outstretched hand, and wearing the tattered habit of an Azdavyery acolyte. The same habit, the uniform, that Dazhyen had worn not long ago. Bor was once, Dazhyen remembered, a handsome young man but the unconscious drunkard who lay before him was bedraggled. His hair was long and unkempt and he had a thick beard.

“Yes, that’s him,” Dazhyen almost whispered as he observed this spectre from his past. “Come on, then,” Mert started forward with heavy, loud steps. “Let’s get this over with.” Dazhyen started off behind him and overtook his friend, coming to a stop just a foot or two away from Bor Adamik. Deciding to at least attempt to preserve some dignity for the man, Dazhyen knelt down and placed a hand on Bor’s shoulder, shaking him out of his drunken stupor. His breath was heavy with the stench of navy strength rum.

“Bor?” he tried to hide his trepidation with an overtone of concern. “Bor, come on. Wake up,” he shook the drunk harder, but this succeeded only in getting Bor to grumble indecipherably under his breath.

“Leave me alone,” his words were bitter when finally Dazhyen understood them.

At this point, Mert thought to end this idiocy and kicked Bor’s legs. To this, Bor responded nearly immediately; his eyes shot open revealing themselves to be bloodshot, and he let out a scream of drunken rage. With an alarming strength, he pushed Dazhyen aside – whom he did not yet recognise – as he rose, unsteadily, to his feet to confront Mert. They were both of equal stature, which meant Bor was about an inch taller than Dazhyen and seemed to have the strength of a sailor.

“Bor!” Dazhyen called out and the drunk immediately whirled around, unsteady on his feet and almost falling over. Even on that dark night and even though Dazhyen’s face was lit by the pale firelight of weak streetlamps, Bor recognised him and his broken face twisted, instantly, into a snarl.

“I’ve been waiting for you, you heretic! You TRAITOR!” the final word echoed through the streets, and many other homeless and destitute turned to look at them. Behind Dazhyen, whose heart now beat as fast as it ever had and whose muscles tensed in anticipation, there was a shuffling noise in an alleyway. Ahead of him and around them, a few figures had begun to approach the altercation.

“Do you know what they did?” a muscled arm pointed towards the Palace, which could be seen from any point in the city. “After you betrayed us? You… you…” Bor struggled to find a word offensive enough. “They arrested everybody!” and with that exclamation, Bor launched a punch aimed at Dazhyen’s stomach. Instantly, and without thinking, Dazhyen dodged the drunken swing and threw a hook of his own, which caught Bor square in the right jaw, causing him to stumble and almost double over as the wind was knocked out of him.

“I don’t want to do this, Bor,” Dazhyen was almost pleading, suddenly aware of the pistol and the sword on his belt. Around him, he noticed four distinct figures approaching. “I just came to talk!” his statement turned to exclamation as he ducked another punch from a Bor that had now regained his footing.

“There is nothing, nothing, NOTHING I want to talk to you about. Because of you,” another drunken and easily avoided punch, “my parents are in jail! They wait for the fucking hangman! Your parents! EVERYBODY!”. The anger seemed to be fighting with the alcohol for control over Bor, for this time the punches were coordinated – one jab to the face, followed by a hook to his belly. But Dazhyen ducked the former and dodged the latter. In that moment, Dazhyen realised just how hard and how well Cermak had been training him. He also realised just how good of a boxer Cermak was – certainly as compared to a drunken bruiser.

“I’m going to KILL YOU!” Bor shouted in frustration but did not attack, instead stood still for a moment, catching his breath. “You ruined everything, you rat!” he spat his words with venom and came swinging again, but tripped over himself and fell.

“By Luminil, I pity you,” Mert chimed in as Bor struggled to get up.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” said a muddy Bor, “pity me. I am what he CAUSED ME TO BECOME!” and with a yell he was back on his feet, eyes fixed on Dazhyen. Behind him, the four figures had come closer but still remained far enough away that they weren’t a threat. “I don’t care if you don’t believe in Azda-Mara, I don’t know that Dmitur believed in the Faith. But did you not spare a second’s thought to the people who raised you?”

Dazhyen made no response but instead observed Bor, and readied himself for another round.

“What the fuck will Dmitur say when he returns from hiding? He will kill you, you weasel!”

Bor didn’t know. Of course, he didn’t – how could he?

“Bor, Dmitur’s dead. They killed him.”

There was silence for a second, and a second more, and the crowing of ravens was all that could be heard on that cold summer’s night. Dazhyen felt that maybe, just maybe, this changed things for Bor, but then he saw Bor’s right hand disappear under his habit. Dazhyen’s own right hand tightened around the hilt of his sabre.

When Bor finally lunged, dagger in hand, yelling incoherently, Dazhyen parried with nearly no effort. “Please,” Dazhyen fought back tears as he took up a duelling stance. Behind him, the four figures had now approached and stepped into the firelight, daggers drawn. Each, he saw, wearing some insignia of Mara.

Each of the men he recognised. Two were younger than him, two older. All used to be acolytes. From all of them, he could feel hatred and for all of them, he felt pity.

“Please don’t make me do this, Bor,” Dazhyen’s other hand tightened around his pistol, which still was on his belt. He only had one shot and no time to reload.

“Either you die, or I die. That’s the only way this ends.” Bor attacked.

12

The Fight in Hangman's Square

Dazhyen parried Bor’s repeated thrusts with ease, for there was no art or skill or thought behind them. Bor was strong, built like an ox, but that’s all he was and his actions were muddled by his unbridled anger and the drink that sloshed inside him. Beside Dazhyen, Mert too had drawn his sabre and was now fending off probing jabs by the other acolytes, keeping them far away from Dazhyen and in a semi-circle around them. On Dazhyen’s other side, behind Bor, was the outside wall of a stone house. This scene of violence was only dimly lit by the fires of street lamps.

“Bor, please,” Dazhyen’s pleading tone had now been replaced with certainty, as he parried and sidestepped more clumsy attempts to stab him. “If you don’t stop this, you will die!” Dazhyen sidestepped as Bor lunged and, instinctively, used his free hand to grab Bor’s out-stretched stabbing arm, and pushed it away, causing Bor to fall flat on his face as Dazhyen now stepped behind him.

While Bor struggled to get to his feet, Dazhyen realised that one swift motion was all it would take for his sabre to pierce Bor’s heart. But Dazhyen, still unwilling to kill Bor, was not going to stab him in the back.

While Bor struggled, Mert swiftly disarmed one of the other acolytes who lunged with even less skill than Bor. Dazhyen realised he knew the boy, who was no older than 16. His name was Drafid, and his family was Uttaric. He had liked poetry, Dazhyen remembered, until he was beaten at the age of 9 for reading a poem written by a Monk of Banc. “Leave,” Mert warned and that was all the instruction that Drafid needed, who turned tail and ran. This drew a curse from Bor, who had now gotten to his feet.

“Coward!” his dagger was held tight in his hand, back to Dazhyen.

“You can still surrender, Bor. You’ve not done anything irreversible,” Dazhyen offered and Bor scoffed.

“I died the day they came for my mother,” he muttered softly. “And I swear! I swear it! I will make you hurt like I do!” With that, he lunged forward and drove his dagger into Mert’s back, which turned to Bor.

“NO!” Dazhyen acted automatically. Mert cried out in pain as Bor’s dagger dug into his shoulder, but before he could stab him again, Dazhyen’s own sabre had found its mark. Dazhyen released his grip and Bor stumbled, a sabre sticking out of his back. He fell, grasping at the ground, gasping for breath. Within seconds, he was dead.

In that moment, however, Dazhyen didn’t have time to labour over Bor’s death. Mert had collapsed in the dirt from the shock of the attack, and clutched his shoulder which was now red with blood. The remaining three acolytes had not, however, been dissuaded, and they all attacked.

Dazhyen, without thinking and fuelled by rage – rage at Bor for maybe killing Mert, rage at himself for stabbing Bor in the back, and rage at the world for no reason in particular – drew his pistol and shot one of them. The others’ attacks he sidestepped, giving him the time to draw his sword out of Bor’s back.

Then, the next slash he blocked by using his pistol to deflect the dull dagger, following which he immediately counter-stabbed his attacker who fell, writhing in pain. The last remaining man had turned white in fear. He dropped his dagger and ran.

Dazhyen stood there, panting, jaw clenched. Behind him was Bor, ahead of him was the man he shot and beside him, near where Mert had fallen, was the man… no… the boy that Dazhyen had stabbed. His name was Foril, and he was just 3 years younger than Dazhyen. He’d been dropped off at the Temple as an orphan, and had known no kindness in his life. Dazhyen’s breaths slowed, his heartbeat returned to normal, and his legs and arms began to shake as the adrenaline dropped. Slowly, for he couldn’t think, he began to realise what he had done.

They were all dead. He alone survived.

A shifting shape in the darkness, on the other side of the square caught his eye, and he lifted his sabre, ready to be pounced on by another foe. Lit by the firelight was Eliza’s face.

13

The Loss of a Dear Friend

“I’m sorry, Daisy,” Mr. Frost, hands covered in blood from trying to bandage Mert’s wound, said gently. “He lost too much blood. He was dead by the time you brought him to the ship.” The world was pulled out from underneath Dazhyen, who buckled.

“You did good to bring him here, Daisy,” Mr. Frost knelt beside the doubled over Dazhyen. “You did good. You did everything you could.” Mr. Frost pulled Dazhyen into a hug.

On his back, he felt another hand. It was Eliza. She’d ran with him, all the way to the ship, helping him carry Mert... no, helping him carry Mert’s corpse.

Dr. Polt, the ship’s surgeon, now spoke. “I’m sorry, boy. I hope it helps you to know, that you did nothing wrong.” It did not help. Dazhyen, instead, was stung by a realisation, a realisation that drove him nearly to tears.

“He didn’t even…”, here the first tears appeared which instantly turned into an endless stream, “he didn’t even have any last words!” Dazhyen now began to sob.

Beside him, Eliza also knelt now and Mr. Frost let go of Dazhyen. Eliza’s arms now wrapped around him. If he could have seen through his tears, he would’ve seen them in Eliza’s eyes too. Had he known her mind, he would have known she wept not for Mert, but for Dazhyen. But he did not look up, and accepted the hug without thought, weeping – without realising it – into the fabric of Eliza’s shirt.

There was so much blood on his hands. Bor and the other two acolytes, Golkin and Foril, he had killed. But Mert… he’d killed him too. Through inaction. Through hesitation. His sobs turned now into guttural wails, as Eliza rubbed his back in comfort.

He did not hear or see this, but Eliza had dismissed Mr. Frost and Dr. Polt from the room, which now stood occupied only by her, and Dazhyen. And Mert’s bloodied corpse.

“You’re not alone,” Eliza’s voice was shaky. “You will never be alone,” she held him tight.

Maryam stood frozen outside the door to the Lifeguard’s barracks. Dazhyen was there, somewhere inside, with Eliza. When she woke that day, she’d expected another tiring and annoying training session with Raidas. Nothing had prepared her for the news she received. She’d not paid much attention to Dazhyen’s training, as her time and attention was swallowed up by her own, and had no real idea of what he was capable of. In fact, she might not even have believed it, had Eliza not been eyewitness to the grisly thing.

Had that been all, Maryam might have congratulated Dazhyen. But that hadn’t been all. What could she say? What condolence could she offer? Her own brother had been killed in the Siege of Samudabad some years back, so she knew the pain – but that was different. Wasn’t it?

“Ma’am?” the gate guard’s concern snapped her back to reality. “May we help?” the Lifeguard on duty asked, perfectly polite.

“Yes, sorry,” she turned to face the tall soldier in his pristine uniform, “I’m looking for Dazhyen. I believe he was with the Princess,” she clarified. “Certainly, ma’am. I will arrange an escort for you – he will take you through the barracks.”

Her escort, another soldier, had the additional effect of giving Maryam an anchor in reality. As he guided her through the maze-like barracks, he spoke nearly endlessly, preventing Maryam from slipping into an endless spiral of anxiety and uncertainty. “-and when they surrendered, the cannon was among the trophies of war-”, her escort was in the middle of a long exposition on some battle or the other, pointing at a ‘spiked’ cannon (whatever that meant) they’d walked past, when a door behind her slammed shut. When she turned around to see who’d made the noise, she saw Raidas walking with purpose, a senior officer walking alongside him. He’d not seen, or not acknowledged, his student and so she thought better than to call after him.

“That’s the Colonel, Ma’am. Colonel Petro Polyakov, Ma’am. I believe he’s going with Sir Raidas to sort out the situation in Hangman’s Square. It appears that some of the Temple goers and faithful of Mara are holding a public mourning for the men Trainee Gerisov killed,” her escort explained – all with perfect politeness. “Here we are, Ma’am,” he stood outside a door. From inside, Maryam could hear Eliza and Dazhyen talking.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she smiled at her officer escort, who now stood aside. She wasn’t certain he was a Lieutenant, or even an officer, and if she was wrong he did not correct her.

With barely hidden trepidation, she knocked on the door and heard Eliza’s “come in.” She did so, and saw Dazhyen sitting on a cot, Eliza sitting across from him on a chair, and both with bleary eyes. But that was not what drew her attention. Eliza’s shirt sleeves were stained with blood, and her face was filthy. Dazhyen, however, was coated in a brown sludge that was equal parts blood and mud. The front of his shirt was covered in the stuff, and his sleeves – especially near his hands – were bright red.

It was in this moment that she, for the first time in her life, was thankful for the many long years of training she’d received in handling social situations. Dazhyen, she surmised, was in no mood to hear if what he did was right or wrong – he’d killed 3 people outright and she would have bet her considerable inheritance on her assumption that he blamed himself squarely for Mert’s death.

“I heard what happened, Dazhyen,” she said, approaching her new, odd friend with tenderness. She knelt down beside him, and reached out a hand in warm friendship – a hand that Dazhyen accepted. “I’m sorry. I’ve lost a brother too,” Dazhyen’s eyes twitched and Maryam second guessed herself but what was said was said, “I know how it feels.”

“He was my brother,” Dazhyen spoke with a raspy, dry voice. “And…” Maryam got the sensation that whatever he wanted to say was too difficult, so he didn’t. After a second’s silence, he met her gaze. His eyes were blood red. How long had he been awake?

“Thank you, Maryam. For thinking of him as my brother. He was,” he smiled feebly. “But now he’s become another victim,” he mumbled. “Because I failed him.” He nearly broke into ears, and his lips quivered, but no tears were forthcoming. Perhaps, Maryam guessed, because there were no tears left to cry.

No one said anything, but Eliza walked over and sat beside Dazhyen, putting an arm across his shoulders. “Thank you both,” his feeble smile was reinforced, she noticed. “For being there. For reminding me that I’m not alone.”

“But I shall carry his blood on my soul until the day I die. All I can do now is make sure the system that killed him, that killed Golkin, that killed Foril, and Bor… the system that killed me,” Maryam squeezed Dazhyen’s hand as he choked up and she noticed that Eliza tightened her grip on his shoulders as well. “All I can do is make sure that that system can do no more harm. I will not fail you both, or Cermak, or Gunada, or Raidas, or Afor, or anyone, the way I failed him today… yesterday.”

“I know you won’t fail us, Daisy,” Eliza was soft as she spoke. “And I’m not convinced you failed Mert, either. But one thing is for certain,” she now locked eyes with Maryam and turned back to Dazhyen, “from now on, the three of us will always be there for each other. Always.”

“I agree,” Maryam said without missing a beat. “But first, Dazhyen, you need to sleep. How long have you been awake?”

“I don’t know…” he confessed. “A long time.”

Beside him, Eliza closed her eyes and within moments, Dazhyen was yawning. “You should probably sleep then, Daisy,” Maryam smiled.

“Yes, perhaps I should,” he yawned again.

“But first, maybe you’d like to change?” Maryam offered, and a barely awake Dazyen nodded. However, all he did was remove his shirt and cast it onto the floor. Maryam had, in that moment, a vision of her prim and proper father and what his reaction would have been to finding out his daughter and heir was in the room of a half-naked, common, and bloodied soldier. Perhaps she’ll tell him, just for the joy of it.

Eliza got up, allowing Dazhyen to lie down and as soon as his head touched the pillow, he was out.

“Your handiwork?” Maryam whispered as she and Eliza crept towards the door.

“Yes,” Eliza smiled. “Raidas taught me that a long time ago. It’s basically useless in most situation one finds oneself in, but I’ve found use for it to get out of meetings and,” she looked back at Dazhyen who had begun to snore, “now I’ve found another use.”

“Well I’ll start with the good news,” Gunada said directly. Eliza was back in his study, and this time they were alone. “Nothing Dazhyen did was illegal, much less immoral,” the last addition was an afterthought. “So, we need not worry on that count,” Eliza breathed a sigh of relief, and waited for the bad news.

“There’s also this – no one saw or recognised either Dazhyen or you in Hangman’s Square. It was a good idea for him to wear an ordinary shirt, and for you to hide under a cloak and hood,” Gunada continued.

“But then there’s the matter of the public mourning,” Eliza pre-empted Gunada’s next assertion.

“Quite. Atashga Teodor Golshoy, Dmitur’s replacement, has called them murders and called on us to investigate. So that also plays into our hand – the fact that neither of you were recognised. But it means we will need to be careful.”

“Because of public scrutiny?”

“No, because it won’t take much to convince Golshoy to become another Dmitur – though he’s not half as competent as the man he’s replaced. So, any violence must be kept hidden. No one, not you, not Dazhyen, not Cermak, not even Maryam, can leave a body behind.”

Eliza nodded, she knew what this meant but Gunada clarified anyway. “If you kill someone, it must be silent, it must be as private as can be, and you must hide the body.” Eliza nodded again.

“Good. Because yesterday has complicated your task somewhat. When the ship from Priestfall docks, you must track and kill the assassins before they meet with Golshoy. We must assume they’ll do this immediately – which means you’ll have to identify them and kill them within the first day of their arrival.”

Eliza was silent. How could she possibly do that?

“I will help,” Gunada said. “I’ll take two. You and Dazhyen, and maybe even Maryam, will take the rest.”

“Maryam!?”

Gunada nodded. “It appears Raidas has decided to change his approach – he is going to make Maryam a fighter. Quite a sight that’ll be! Firestorms and ice shards… She can become quite powerful, you know.”

Eliza nodded again. She’d had the time to bathe, but yesterday night had drained her. Seeing Dazhyen break… had broken her. She knew what it meant to kill, but her first kill had been faceless brutes, not people she’d grown up with. She knew what it meant to lose someone, her mother had passed when she was young, but that wasn’t the same as Mert’s bloody death.

“I know it’s been difficult for Dazhyen, and,” he looked at Eliza with intent, “for you. But it’s only going to get worse, Eliza. The three of you must steel your hearts, for worse – much, much worse – is yet to come.”

Eliza felt again that what Gunada was hiding, for he certainly was not speaking the whole truth, was a fate that was dark and terrible. She knew that he knew how this was all going to play out. She knew that he was deliberately being mum about it. She should have asked him for the truth. But he wouldn’t reveal it – this also she knew. He was a man who played his cards close to his chest, if he played them at all. So, instead, she yawned, and excused herself.