Quicksilver Zenith

The interior consisted of a central corridor with doors off to either side. The room he wanted was at the far end. Just before he reached it, the door flew open.

An elderly man stumbled out. His robes marked him as a physician, and he was in a state of agitation. No sooner had he cleared the door than a china jug flew out, barely missing him, and shattered against the opposite wall. He pushed past, ashen faced, and fled.

The young man took a breath, knocked, and stuck his head into the room.

‘I said stay out! Oh, it’s you, Meakin.’

Devlor Bastorran, heir apparent to the clans leadership, lay in an oversized bed. One of his legs was plastered from thigh to ankle and suspended by a pulley. He was coverd in scars and abrasions and his closely trimmed black hair had a small shaven patch, revealing a laceration that was still healing.

He put down the porcelain bowl he was about to throw. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man. Come in!’

Lahon Meakin entered. ‘If this isn’t a convenient time, sir …’

‘Time’s one thing I have plenty of at the moment.’ He nodded at a chair. ‘Sit.’

The aide shut the door and did as he was told, placing the folder on his lap.

Bastorran turned to look at him, and winced through clenched teeth. ‘Damn leg!’

‘Can I summon assistance, sir?’

‘Absolutely not. If that last healer’s anything to go by, I’m better off without their ministrations.’

‘Sir.’

‘Now report.’

Meakin started to leaf through the contents of his folder.

‘And keep it brief, will you?’ Bastorran added. ‘Just the basics.’

‘Yes, sir. I have a summation here.’ He fished out a sheet of parchment and cleared his throat. ‘Let’s see. Accounts for today are still coming in, of course, but we have most of Valdarr’s figures for the last twenty-four hours. There were fourteen instances of public disorder serious enough to warrant our attention. Five cases of arson directed at government or imperial property. An attempt was made to steal a consignment of arms in transit, which proved unsuccessful, though there were three fatalities. Regrettably, two paladins lost their lives in other incidents. As did eleven members of the watch and a licensed sorcerer assigned to one of their units.’

‘Detentions?’

Meakin consulted another document. ‘Er, seven hundred and twenty-two, sir.’

‘That’s up again.’

‘Yes, sir. And thirty-one of those resulted in summary execution, as allowed for by the new emergency regulations.’

‘Excellent. Things are certainly looking up now we’ve been allowed to take the kid gloves off.’

‘The Clan High Chief must be very pleased, sir.’

‘My uncle?’ Bastorran’s face clouded.

‘As he’s campaigned for so long for tougher measures against the insurgents, sir,’ Meakin hurriedly added.

‘Ah. Yes, Uncle Ivak’s a pig in shit at the moment.’

If Meakin thought that was disrespectful, he knew better than to say so. ‘Do you want the details, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Of the arrests. I can break them down into –’

‘Details weary me. You should know that by now. The only important thing is that we’re consigning more of these criminals to prison or to the block. But that isn’t the reason I wanted you here.’

‘Sir?’

‘I want you to meet someone. I’m doing this because you might have to liaise with this person if I can’t. But you have no need to know what task they’re performing for the clans. Nor do you have to know more than necessary about this visitor.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Understand this, too.’ He spoke emphatically, his gaze unblinking. ‘Everything to do with this person is to be regarded as secret. Any breach of security will have grave consequences. You’re comparatively new to my service, so let me underline the importance of the oath you took to the clans, and your personal oath to me. Break it and you know what the consequences will be.’

‘Yes, General.’

In a slightly softer tone, Bastorran went on, ‘You’ve made good progress in the paladins, Meakin. I might say remarkable progress given that you weren’t clan-born. That’s rare. And not everybody approves of your rise. So see this as a test of your loyalty. Serve me well and you’ll not regret it.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘There’s just one thing I should tell you about our visitor. She’s a symbiote.’

Meakin found it difficult to hide his surprise. ‘A meld?’

‘I believe that’s the common term for a very uncommon … relationship. But it might be better not to use it in front of her.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘I expect you to extend the same courtesy to her as you would anyone else acting on our behalf.’

‘I’ve never seen a symbiote before, sir. Not insofar as I’d know it, anyway.’

‘Very few people have. There can’t be too many around, after all. It’s not a pact many would willingly enter into.’ There was the sound of movement in the corridor. ‘I think you’re about to have your first encounter, Meakin.’

Somebody rapped loudly on the door.

‘Come!’

Their guest entered, accompanied by a guard whom Bastorran curtly dismissed.

The person standing before them was an arresting sight. Her appearance was androgynous. She had straw-blonde hair cropped so short it could have been shaven. Her skin was white like marble, and she had thin, bloodless lips. Meakin found her eyes frankly disturbing. They were inordinately large, and their irises were blacker than any he’d ever seen on a human, stressed the more by unusually milky surrounds. She was trimly built, yet her frame implied a well-disciplined strength.

There was something slightly odd about the geometry of her face, as though every line was one percent out of true. She was neither ugly nor beautiful. What she possessed was a severe elegance; like a glacier made flesh. The overall effect was alarming, and somehow mesmeric.

She was completely at ease, and returned their stares with a brittle gaze of her own.