Текст книги "The Abyss Beyond Dreams"

Автор книги: Peter F. Hamilton

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

4

Looking round the Nalani council chamber, Slvasta wasn’t quite sure they’d won such a big victory after all. The chamber had a pretty standard layout, but degraded by age and cheapened by generations of dispirited councillors. Those councillors who did turn up sat in rows at long benches, facing a dais from which the mayor ran the proceedings. The wood panelling on the walls was old and dark, helping to amplify the gloom, while the glass cupola in the middle of the roof was so grimy it barely let any light through. The borough clerk had given Slvasta a copy of the council’s current financial accounts. Which, after one of the most depressing hours of his life reading it, Slvasta was surprised the council could afford to print in the first place.

Bethaneve and Coulan were up in the public gallery, along with over a hundred Democratic Unity supporters and several reporters from gazettes across the city. Slvasta winked up at Bethaneve just as the county clerk called the meeting to order. First order of business was to appoint a new mayor. Out of the seventeen seats, fourteen had been won by Democratic Unity, with Citizens’ Dawn keeping just two, while one had gone to an independent road-improvement campaigner. Bryan-Anthony was nominated to be mayor, and quickly seconded. The vote was unanimous, and Bryan-Anthony walked up to the dais amid a lot of cheering and applause from the public gallery. He was given the robe with its fur-lined collar, and a heavy gold chain of office. Then he was sworn in as a faithful and loyal subject of the Captain, an oath he recited without any trace of irony.

‘Well done,’ Slvasta muttered under his breath. Bryan-Anthony was a good choice as their frontman, though he was impressively passionate about the cause, with a heated radical streak which too often manifested in tirades against authority, especially after a few pints. But tonight he was stone-cold sober – Javier had made sure about that.

There was an official agenda for the meeting, starting with the appointment of new councillors to the borough’s various portfolios. Slvasta himself was given the office responsible for drain and sewer maintenance (which gave him access to a lot of information on the water utilities), and a second portfolio for the maintenance of public trees. Bryan-Anthony even graciously allocated one of the Citizens’ Dawn councillors the office which was responsible for licensing the borough’s cabs.

Then there was a debate on the accounts. Five Democratic Unity councillors spoke condemning the financial state which the last council had left the borough in. ‘We’re effectively bankrupt,’ one stormed.

At which both Citizens’ Dawn councillors stomped out. Cue booing and jeers from Democratic Unity supporters in the public gallery.

It was agreed to form a special task force to review finances and the options available, which would report back to the full council in a week. Slvasta was one of the five members of the task force. It was tough keeping his shell hard enough to contain his dismay.

‘I now open the floor to any new business,’ Bryan-Anthony said.

‘I would like to propose a licence suspension,’ Jerill said.

The crowd in the public gallery finally perked up. Slvasta kept his face and mind composed, while inside he was praying to Giu that Jerill wouldn’t screw up; they’d certainly spent long enough briefing him for this moment.

‘I represent a ward with, like, a great load of . . . um . . . unemployment,’ Jerill continued, glancing round edgily. ‘Them families live under a . . . er . . . hardship unknown and unrecognized in them boroughs stuffed with rich toffs. Nothing is done for them. The sheriffs are bloody harsh when any of us, like, fall behind on our rent. The city doesn’t give a toss for us. Well, I do care, see, for I know what hardship is really like. Er . . . Yeah, I was elected to help the poorest folks, and that is what I will do, no matter what vested interests I have to fight.’

Jerill was given a couple of loud whoops from the public gallery. Slvasta wished they’d given him a shorter speech; the man wasn’t the best orator, and clearly hadn’t rehearsed enough.

‘In light of that, mayor, I would urge this council to support a moratorium on issuing any further mod-keeping licences for newly purchased mods in this borough. If, and only if, full human employment is restored, then we can consider approving any new licences.’

They didn’t get it. Slvasta smirked to himself as he glanced round the blank and puzzled faces in the public gallery. The only one smiling was Bethaneve. But then, she was the one who discovered there was a city-wide law that said you needed a licence to own and keep a mod, with every borough responsible for enforcing it within their boundary.

The law had been introduced by Captain Ephraim two thousand five hundred years ago, when mods were nothing like as common as they were today. It had never been repealed, but as mod usage increased, the licence fee was reduced under political pressure from adaptor stables and business owners and most householders, until eventually the cost of collecting the fees far outweighed the monies it raised. It remained purely as a historical quirk on the statute book, along with other relics like the Brocklage Square horseshoe tax or the Taylor Avenue flower tithe.

As Bethaneve told them, an existing law – especially one as old as this – could never be challenged legally. All the council had to do was carry out its duty and enforce the law. And, as no one had a licence, the next stage was going to be setting the licence fee and forcing people to apply for the mods they already had. The money due would solve the borough’s financial woes at a stroke – providing they could collect it, of course. But there were plenty of unemployed people who would relish the job of licence regulation officer – especially when they were encouraged by the cells and the unions.

The proposal was seconded, and passed.

That was when Slvasta caught sight of him. The same man who’d been sitting on Footscray Avenue. He was standing at the back, not far from Bethaneve. His eyes were narrowed slightly, as if he was just coming to the realization of what had happened.

*

Trevene stood in his usual place, between the two plush chairs in front of the Captain’s desk, waiting while Philious absorbed that latest news. Delivering unwelcome announcements was becoming a habit he didn’t like. He was reacting to events, not controlling them as he should be.

The last few weeks had seen some definite progress. His informants had embedded themselves in both the Wellfield union and Democratic Unity, they’d even been out on the streets canvassing for votes. Two of the newly elected Democratic Unity councillors belonged to him. There was nothing the party said or planned at their meetings that he did not know about within the hour.

But that was one of his biggest problems. Nothing Democratic Unity did was surprising or relevant. They were a political party for poor people, which was rare enough, but apart from having absurd quantities of ambition and deluded goals of rivalling Citizens’ Dawn and becoming a major opposition party, they weren’t planning anything untoward. That left him with what they’d come to call the core: Slvasta, Bethaneve, Javier and Coulan. He’d built comprehensive files on all of them. Had them under constant surveillance. Interviewed people who used to know them before they turned political. Slvasta was the key, of course. A good ex-officer (he’d read the reports from the Cham regiment, and how his diligence was a problem for them) galvanized by his friend Arnice’s death. Which, when Trevene read the Justice Office file, he had to agree with Slvasta, was a phenomenal act of stupidity on officialdom’s part. The others were basically a support group to their leader – and Slvasta was smart enough to keep in the background. Bryan-Anthony, for all his good intentions, was a simple figurehead.

It was the core who planned everything in private, who pulled the strings that controlled Democratic Unity and the ever-expanding unions. They were impressively good at it, too. Slvasta was clearly a natural politician. Trevene had even slipped into a public meeting in a pub to observe the man first hand. By the end there was no doubting Slvasta’s genuine commitment to improving life for the underdog.

It was the methods that were proving a giant headache.

Captain Philious looked up from the file Trevene had delivered. ‘But . . . I never signed an order to license mods.’

‘No sir. That was Captain Ephraim.’

‘Er, which . . . ?’

‘Two thousand years ago. He was Captain for seven years. Not terribly remarkable, by all accounts. Unfortunately, his law hasn’t been removed from the statute books. It’s still valid. Nobody has bothered enforcing it for centuries.’

‘Oh crud!’ Philious dropped the file on his desk and slumped back in his chair. After a moment’s contemplation, a grin of admiration lifted his thin lips. ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Shame, he’d make a superb First Speaker for me.’

‘Slvasta has his own agenda. It’s not one which embraces you or me.’

‘So I’ll just remove the assent from poor old Captain Ephraim’s mod licence. Take the wind out of Slvasta’s sails.’

‘That’s an option, of course, sir.’

‘Ah, here we go. What would your advice be?’

‘They’re a one-borough protest party, unregarded by the rest of Varlan, let alone Bienvenido. Cancelling the mod licence calls their action to prominence. It says you’re worried about Citizens’ Dawn being challenged. The Captaincy mustn’t be seen to be dabbling in grubby politics.’

Philious gave him a curious look. ‘Do nothing? Look out there.’ The Captain’s arm gestured at the big windows overlooking Walton Boulevard. It was night outside, with nebula light effervescing out of a cloudless sky. Their gentle radiance shimmered on the rooftops. Windows glowed yellow. ‘No streetlights. For the first time in thousands of years, Varlan’s lights are going out. And its my Captaincy! This wretched core has done that. But that’s a mild disaster compared to what I’m reading in the Treasury reports. Prices are rising, banks are nervous. That cannot stand. We need the new neuts the guild is arranging to bring in, and we need the mods they’ll produce. Unrestricted, unlicensed mods.’

‘Yes. But this clever little manoeuvre of theirs confirms what I’ve said all along: the core is behind the whole neut situation. Slvasta has a weakness: he is obsessed by Fallers and mods. It consumes him – understandably. That is what ultimately lies behind all this.’

‘Then he should have stayed in the regiment; fought the Fallers head on.’

‘But he didn’t, sir. And we have to deal with him. He and his friends have become public figures. Not so easy to quietly dispose of any more. Questions would be asked. Nobody wants a martyr.’

‘What, then?’

‘They have made their move. It is a public message of defiance to you personally. We have to make a counter-move. Make them understand this is not some easy game. They must be taught there are consequences to challenging the authority of the Captain.’

‘Very well. Send them a message. And Trevene, make it a firm one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

5

‘We did it.’ Bethaneve said. ‘We started it.’

It was half an hour after the end of the council meeting, and the four of them were sitting in the garden at the back of the Bellaview pub on the other side of Tarleton Gardens from their flat. Four beers on the table, and a mild fuzz around them to prevent any eavesdropping. Clouds were beginning to thicken in the twilight sky above.

‘A good beginning,’ Javier agreed. ‘But now our biggest task is to keep the momentum going.’

‘The word is out with every cell,’ Bethaneve said. ‘There’s going to be a lot of dead mods across this city by the end of the week.’

‘The sheriffs are going to be busy,’ Coulan said thoughtfully. ‘They’ll work out there’s an organization of some kind behind it. And, as it all started with the Wellfield, I expect they’ll start poking around.’

‘Maybe not,’ Bethaneve said. ‘Once you’ve struck a spark, some fires flash out of control. If all the unemployed see that dead mods mean jobs for them, we won’t have to keep feeding the cells with orders to kill. It’ll start to happen naturally.’

‘I like it,’ Coulan said. ‘The sheriffs might blame Nalani council for the spark, but the deaths will look spontaneous. They won’t be interested in us.’

‘Someone already is,’ Slvasta said. ‘And it ain’t the sheriffs.’ He told them about the observer he’d spotted.

‘Uracus!’ Coulan exclaimed. ‘He was really standing that close to me in the public gallery?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should have warned me.’

‘Why, what would you have done? Turned and stared? How would that help?’

‘Is he here now?’ Bethaneve asked.

Slvasta took his time and looked round the pub garden. At one time it might indeed have had a view, but now the only thing behind the garden was a high stone wall covered in viricote vines whose large papery white flowers were furling up now the sun had gone. ‘Not him, no,’ Slvasta confirmed, checking all the tables. ‘But if they’re smart they’ll rotate their watchers so we don’t start to recognize them.’

‘You already have,’ Coulan said.

‘I was lucky, or they got careless. It’s not something we can count on.’

‘You’re implying they have a big team on us,’ Bethaneve said in a subdued tone.

‘If they’re watching us already, then we are in trouble,’ Javier said. ‘If they’re watching anyone, it should be Bryan-Anthony. He’s really embracing his role as chief radical. Even I believed he’s in charge, the way he ran that meeting.’

‘About that meeting,’ Bethaneve said. ‘Next time you introduce a proposal, make sure the speech is better rehearsed. It was painful listening to Jerill.’

‘Yes, but it made him sound honest. A natural first-time request, well intentioned and guileless. Nobody wants professional politicians taking over Democratic Unity right now.’

‘I’m not saying professional, just a little more coherent.’

‘We’ll all grow into the role.’

Slvasta ’pathed an order to the barman for another round.

‘We have to be careful,’ Bethaneve said. ‘This is a critical time. We have to get a groundswell of support behind us. So far, all we control is one of the poorest boroughs in Varlan. And the next round of elections isn’t for another eight months.’

‘Is there a time when it won’t be “critical”?’ Javier asked.

Bethaneve raised her glass and gave him an amused glance over the rim. ‘I can’t think of one.’

*

The second Nalani council meeting was much more boisterous than the first. They’d been expecting that. What the gazettes were condemning as the slaughter of the mods had taken on a fervour that left even Slvasta and Bethaneve surprised and not a little concerned. The cells had been told to limit their killing to the mods used by business, but no one else felt that constraint. Household mods were targeted with as much glee as those in commerce. In some of the wealthier boroughs, sheriffs were patrolling all the roads leading into the area, demanding proof of residency before they let pedestrians and cabs through. Citizens were determined to keep undesirables out – a policy which quickly resulted in a few ugly incidents when the sheriffs were overzealous. Pamphlets and ’path gossip feasted on those for days.

Then there was the problem of the bodies. Dead mods were simply thrown out onto the streets. Bussalores emerged from their secluded warrens; people reported packs of the sleek rodents swarming over this bounty of rotting food. They became brave protecting their carrion, snapping at human children. Tatus flies formed huge clouds that clogged the air along alleys and narrow streets. Public health was becoming a serious issue.

Bryan-Anthony’s opening statement was that the borough considered clearing the bodies away to be the highest priority. Twenty new human workers would be taken on to clear the streets.

‘How will you pay for them?’ asked Oriol, one of the Citizens’ Dawn councillors.

‘I propose charging one shilling for each mod-licence,’ Jerill said. ‘That should see a considerable rise in the borough’s income.’

‘Your lot are killing all the mods,’ Oriol shouted back. ‘There won’t be any left to buy a licence for, you cretin! You didn’t work that out before you started this, did you?’

‘Keep it civil, councillor, please,’ Bryan-Anthony said.

‘Five of my mods have been murdered by your supporters. Is that civil? I will be ruined!’

‘Employ a human,’ someone shouted from the gallery.

‘Criminal scum,’ came the answering shout.

Bryan-Anthony started banging his gavel as the shouting and accusations in the gallery grew louder and more heated. ‘Order, please. Order!’

Insults were followed up by mild teekay jabs. They didn’t stay mild for long. A full-scale brawl broke out. The sheriffs were called.

It took twenty minutes, but the public gallery was cleared and the rest of the meeting was conducted without any physical observers. As no closed sessions were permitted in Varlan, the borough clerk allowed any interested party to see and hear through her senses.

‘Did not expect that,’ Slvasta admitted as they walked home.

‘We should have done,’ Bethaneve said. ‘After all, the whole point of getting rid of mods was to hit people where it hurts most: in the wallet. Start taking money away from the privileged, and they can turn just as savage as any animal that gets shoved into Philippa’s arena.’

Her nose wrinkled up as they turned onto Onslo Road. It was a commercial street with plenty of shops and businesses. Dead mods were piled in the gutter, although the corpses were hard to see without ex-sight. None of Onslo Road’s streetlights had been lit; the only illumination came from the nebulas and the occasional upper-floor window. Mod-dwarfs made up most of the capital’s lamplighter teams, and they’d proved an easy target. Gossip ’path claimed that less than twenty per cent of the city’s lamps were currently being lit at night.

They hurried along the pavement. The dark mounds in the gutter shifted about as if they were ripples on some murky lake, emitting slithering sounds as they sloshed against the kerb stones. To begin with, Slvasta thought the bodies weren’t quite dead, then a quick sweep with his ex-sight showed him they were all smothered by dozens of bussalores – big brutes, he perceived in dismay; he’d always assumed rodents that size were an urban myth, but then they’d enjoyed plenty to eat this last week.

His arm tightened round Bethaneve’s shoulder, and they all hurried along.

‘We really will have to do something about this,’ Javier said, clamping his hand over his nose to ward off some of the stench.

‘Another unintended consequence,’ Bethaneve ’pathed as she held her breath. ‘It’s too expensive to pay humans to light the streetlamps and refill them again in the morning. Maybe we should start to put in some exemptions in the licensing ban.’

‘It wouldn’t matter any more,’ Javier said. ‘The streetlight companies couldn’t afford new mods right now. Have you seen what a three-month-old mod-dwarf is going for today? That’s if you can import one. The sheriffs are talking about providing armed guards when stables bring them into the city.’

‘It’s starting to hit the economy, too,’ Coulan said. ‘Food prices are going up.’

‘I could have told you that would happen,’ Slvasta said. ‘All the Wellfield stalls have raised their prices. We had no choice; people cost more to employ.’

‘Wages will have to rise to take that into account,’ Bethaneve said. ‘Which, of course, they won’t. Maybe Nalani should introduce a minimum wage level?’

‘No,’ Slvasta said. ‘We have to be realistic. Even if we could enforce it, every shop owner and business would challenge it in the courts, which would just shut down the borough’s commercial affairs. That would cause even more hardship.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘That will have to come after, when we can enforce it planet-wide.’

‘Good call,’ Slvasta said. Once again he was impressed and disturbed by her devotion to the cause.

*

A squad of sheriffs were waiting in the Wellfield market when Slvasta and Ervin drove their carts back from Plessey station. Five of them were standing round Javier’s stall, strong shells preventing any emotional leakage.

Slvasta saw Javier standing in front of the main display cabinets, in deep conversation with the squad’s sergeant.

‘Get the carts unloaded, please,’ Slvasta told Ervin and the new workers as he pulled up outside the store rooms. ‘I’ll see what’s going on.’

Javier gave him a tight smile as he went over. ‘This is Sergeant Becker. He needs us to identify someone.’

‘Identify?’ Slvasta said.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, please, councillor?’ Becker said. He was in his late sixties, a rotund man with a big walrus moustache. The polite yet firm attitude told Slvasta he was a career sheriff used to dealing with human extremes.

‘I’ll be happy to help the sheriffs,’ Slvasta said.

All that earned him was a quiet grunt. Three of the squad fell in behind them as they walked out of the Wellfield to a couple of cabs waiting outside.

‘Are we under arrest?’ Slvasta asked.

‘No, sir. My men are here for your protection.’

When Slvasta checked with Javier, all the big man could do was shrug.

Doyce Street was barely ten minutes away. Slvasta had a bad feeling as they pulled up outside an old tenement. He remembered Doyce Street, and couldn’t think why. More worrying, his ex-sight caught a glimpse of mod-bird circling high overhead. It wasn’t just the sheriffs involved in this . . . whatever this was.

Two sheriffs stood guard outside one of the tenements. They opened the door to allow Becker through. He tried not to let any censure show through his shell, but the place was bleak. Bare brick walls whose mortar was eroding to fine sand which drifted down the walls to contaminate the floorboards. Odd stains discoloured bricks at random. Long, poorly lit corridors of doors on every floor looked like the image created by two mirrors reflecting each other, they were so monotonous. Identical doors opened into single-room lodgings; communal bathrooms at the end of each corridor were ornamented by leaking pipes and cracked basins. Cool air was heavy with the smell of sewers that drained badly. It was all a stark reminder of the life he was barely avoiding by living with his friends, of how every farthing from his wage was important.

They followed Becker up to the third floor. Slvasta didn’t need any ex-sight to know there was death in the miserable lodgings Becker finally showed them to. An eerie sensation of gloom pervaded the walls, so much so that Slvasta wondered if there was a tortured soul clinging to the building’s structure. The drab cube of a room had paper on the walls, so ancient and damp it was barely more than a grey skin of mould. There were just two pieces of furniture: an iron-framed bed and a recently repaired bussalore-proof wooden chest full of clothes. Tall piles of extremist political pamphlets cluttered the floor, their curling pages yellow and damp.

A body was sprawled on the bed. A lot of blood had seeped out of the multiple knife wounds to soak into the mattress and drip onto the floorboards. Two bright oil lamps had been set up by a coroner’s assistant who was waiting patiently, reading a copy of Hilltop Eye. He rolled the pamphlet up when Becker showed them in.

Slvasta looked at the body then hurriedly looked away, fighting the urge to throw up.

‘Sorry about that,’ Becker said in a detached voice. ‘The bussalores had chewed quite a lot of his face before we arrived. They’re getting bold right now. I guess that’s what eating well does for them.’

‘Crudding Uracus,’ Javier grunted.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, gentlemen, I would like a formal identification, please. You were his colleagues.’

Slvasta clamped his teeth together and made himself look at the body again. The facial features – even with half of the skin missing – were easy enough to place. And the bussalores hadn’t touched his hair. ‘Sweet Giu. It’s Bryan-Anthony.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ Becker asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. And you, sir?’

‘It’s the mayor, yes,’ Javier said.

‘Officially confirmed.’ The coroner’s assistant scrawled something on his clipboard. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

‘What happened?’ Javier said.

‘As far as I can make out, it was a teekay violation in his cranium during sleep,’ the coroner’s assistant said. ‘There’s a small but noticeable tear inside the frontal lobe, with no corresponding external trauma.’

‘But the stab wounds . . .’

‘Done immediately following death. Presumably to make a point. Whoever did this didn’t want us to write it off as a misidentified mod killing.’ He pulled back the blanket. The words UNION WAGE had been sliced into Bryan-Anthony’s chest.

‘Crud,’ Slvasta exclaimed.

‘Did anyone sense his soul?’ Javier asked.

‘No, he’s ascended to Giu,’ the coroner’s assistant said. ‘I couldn’t find his soul when I arrived. If they can resist the song of Giu, then the souls of murder victims tend to linger long enough to tell us who killed them. That’s why my profession has to have a very sensitive ex-sight.’

‘My station commander would like to meet you now,’ Becker said. ‘He wants to talk about giving all of you sheriff bodyguards.’

‘All of us?’ Javier asked. Who’s us?’

‘Democratic Unity councillors.’

‘I see,’ Javier said. ‘Tell him we’ll be happy to meet him later today. I must discuss this with my colleagues first.’

Becker glanced down at the corpse, then back at Javier. ‘As you wish. Do you have any idea who might have done this?’

‘No. but we both know a lot of business people aren’t happy with our party right now. Do you have any leads?’

‘No, sir, none. We only found out about the body a couple of hours ago. The bussalores made enough noise to wake a neighbour; she used her ex-sense and found his body.’

‘Body temperature gives me an approximate time of death around midnight,’ the coroner’s assistant said.

‘I see.’

‘Where were you at midnight, sir?’ Becker asked.

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Murder is as serious as it gets, sir. It would help if we could eliminate you from our inquiries.’

‘I was at home. My partner Coulan will confirm that. As will Slvasta.’

‘Indeed. So you all live at the same address?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s very convenient. Did anyone else witness you going home?’

‘The neighbours, probably.’

‘Of course. I’ll check with them. Routine, you understand.’

‘Yes,’ Slvasta said. ‘I understand very well.’

*

Bethaneve was getting ready for work when Slvasta and Javier arrived back at the Tarleton Gardens flat.

‘Dead?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Bryan-Anthony is dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, great Giu.’ She clung to Slvasta, struggling to keep her grief and fear under control. ‘Who did it?’

‘The sheriffs don’t know.’

‘Ha!’

‘They don’t,’ Javier said. ‘Not the ones who talked to us, anyway. They were just the locals. The Captain’s police wouldn’t include them in anything.’

‘You think they did it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

Slvasta’s ex-sense showed him Coulan hurrying up the stairs. When he burst into the room he was carrying three gazettes.

‘Bryan-Anthony—’ Javier began.

‘I know,’ Coulan waved the gazettes above his head. ‘They’re all leading with the story.’

Slvasta gave Javier a concerned look. ‘That was very quick. When do they print?’

‘Middle of the night, so they can get them on the racks by breakfast.’

Bethaneve had grabbed a gazette from Coulan. ‘This is awful,’ she said. ‘They’re saying it was poetic justice, that the anti-mod league mistook him for a mod-ape. What anti-mod league?’

‘This one says that he was skimming union funds,’ Javier said. ‘And that the union is a gangster organization that murdered him because he wasn’t paying the gang bosses their full cut. Bastards!’ He scrunched up the gazette.

‘The union doesn’t have any funds,’ Slvasta protested.

‘What did you expect?’ Coulan looked round at them. ‘Welcome to the opening salvo. You wanted the Captain’s attention, and you got it.’

‘They killed him!’ Bethaneve said.

‘And we want to overthrow them. Do you think that’s going to happen without blood being spilt? How did you think this would play out, that they’d just hand over the keys to the palace? So far it’s all gone our way. Last night it didn’t. We knew it was dangerous being a frontman in this city; that’s why we pushed Bryan-Anthony out there. And it’s going to happen to the next guy, and probably the one after. This is a war. You know that. So now it’s our turn to strike back. The pamphlets are on our side, so we get them to counter all the crud Trevene’s people are peddling to the gazettes. People aren’t stupid; they’re going to realize there was something wrong about Bryan-Anthony’s death. And next Tuesday we can use that to our advantage.’

Slvasta nodded, though he felt bad. They had known it would be dangerous fronting Democratic Unity. But this . . . It was shocking, being reminded just how high the stakes were, how serious this was. He couldn’t even call it a game. Not any more, not now he had blood on his hands. ‘So are we still doing this?’

‘Fuck, yes,’ Bethaneve snapped.