reflecting off the two great prongs of the Cowhorn Tower, she felt a pang of love for the city. Kray was her home. The Cemetery nearby had been her nursery, for a short time. She was a free woman of the city now, an independent. It was up to her to make meaning from her life and from what little future remained.
~
The Nonagon Room became quiet, save for the tapping of fingers on leather note pads.
The combination of high, domed ceiling, walls as thick as a grain barn’s and floor tiled with maroon-veined marble hexagons meant that sounds echoed, acquiring resonance. This was a chamber of authority. The majority of its central area was taken up by a circular table, topped with sumptuous crimson leather, gold-edged and set with a jumble of papers, small hand pyuters and goblets of mead. Around this huge surface sat eight people. One more sat upon the table.
Each chair was individual, though each consisted of an ebony frame, felt-backed, carved with flowers and scimitars. It was in colour and design that they varied. One was grey and green, another white, another maroon; one was huge, one moderate, one boasted sidearms like the wings of a bat.
An impasse had brought the silence. The nine glanced at one another.
The Portreeve shifted in her chair. ‘We must make a decision.’ She scratched her scalp, took a sip of mead, then continued, ‘I would not have independents working in defender groups. It is a matter of principle. Independents reject the bounty of the Citadel. Let the fools suffer. If the families they come from were even a little less respected in the city, I would convert them all to revellers by abolishing the class entirely.’
Ammyvryn sat up straight. ‘We could put off the decision until next week. Why don’t we all consider the problem for a few days, then discuss and vote next time?’
‘Why should we put it off?’ the Portreeve countered. ‘I’m becoming irritated with things not getting done. We have months in which to act, Ammyvryn, and you counsel waiting?’
General agreement, voiced in whispers and nods, followed this remark. The Portreeve, her dark eyes narrowing, her thin mouth pursed, sighed, then picked up the metal dolphin at her side and shook it like a bell. It tinkled.
‘We shall keep defender groups pure,’ she concluded gruffly. ‘Now, item twelve. Felis priestesses giving trouble. Uqeq?’
Uqeq, a short woman of middle age, somewhat wrinkled and wearing too much make-up, cleared her throat then read from the pyuter screen in her hand. Her voice was clipped and taut, almost spiky in tone. ‘Felis temple report. Three priestesses there have been preaching to Krayans in the streets of the Old Quarter, in a manner that could constitute an incitement to riot. They are being monitored by agents disguised as new acolytes. Once the truth of the possibility that they are using cats as spies within the Citadel has been validated, they will be sent under Gugul Street, having first been interrogated. If they are not using cats as spies, they will be immediately destroyed. Further report to come.’
The Portreeve nodded. ‘Better make that report soon. What’s been the public response to these feline speeches?’
Now she could not read, Uqeq became less coherent, stuttering as though she was repressing a number of psychological tics. ‘Um, they listen. They listen. There’s definitely more agitation this month, Port-tr-tr-treeve. Soon there’ll be riots.’
‘Riots?’
‘As the green wave comes south. There’ll be refugees. Lots of them, now that Highgate is breached. Huge social unrest. Riots.’
The Portreeve nodded. ‘Anything else on the cat-lovers?’
‘No.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Katoh-lin, fingernails drumming on the table. ‘We are going to leave it, mmm, mmm, at that? ’
The Portreeve frowned. ‘You find my decision controversial?’
Katoh-lin blinked and glanced at the seven other faces, all turned to her. She said, ‘Uqeq making some bland report
~
The Nonagon Room became quiet, save for the tapping of fingers on leather note pads.
The combination of high, domed ceiling, walls as thick as a grain barn’s and floor tiled with maroon-veined marble hexagons meant that sounds echoed, acquiring resonance. This was a chamber of authority. The majority of its central area was taken up by a circular table, topped with sumptuous crimson leather, gold-edged and set with a jumble of papers, small hand pyuters and goblets of mead. Around this huge surface sat eight people. One more sat upon the table.
Each chair was individual, though each consisted of an ebony frame, felt-backed, carved with flowers and scimitars. It was in colour and design that they varied. One was grey and green, another white, another maroon; one was huge, one moderate, one boasted sidearms like the wings of a bat.
An impasse had brought the silence. The nine glanced at one another.
The Portreeve shifted in her chair. ‘We must make a decision.’ She scratched her scalp, took a sip of mead, then continued, ‘I would not have independents working in defender groups. It is a matter of principle. Independents reject the bounty of the Citadel. Let the fools suffer. If the families they come from were even a little less respected in the city, I would convert them all to revellers by abolishing the class entirely.’
Ammyvryn sat up straight. ‘We could put off the decision until next week. Why don’t we all consider the problem for a few days, then discuss and vote next time?’
‘Why should we put it off?’ the Portreeve countered. ‘I’m becoming irritated with things not getting done. We have months in which to act, Ammyvryn, and you counsel waiting?’
General agreement, voiced in whispers and nods, followed this remark. The Portreeve, her dark eyes narrowing, her thin mouth pursed, sighed, then picked up the metal dolphin at her side and shook it like a bell. It tinkled.
‘We shall keep defender groups pure,’ she concluded gruffly. ‘Now, item twelve. Felis priestesses giving trouble. Uqeq?’
Uqeq, a short woman of middle age, somewhat wrinkled and wearing too much make-up, cleared her throat then read from the pyuter screen in her hand. Her voice was clipped and taut, almost spiky in tone. ‘Felis temple report. Three priestesses there have been preaching to Krayans in the streets of the Old Quarter, in a manner that could constitute an incitement to riot. They are being monitored by agents disguised as new acolytes. Once the truth of the possibility that they are using cats as spies within the Citadel has been validated, they will be sent under Gugul Street, having first been interrogated. If they are not using cats as spies, they will be immediately destroyed. Further report to come.’
The Portreeve nodded. ‘Better make that report soon. What’s been the public response to these feline speeches?’
Now she could not read, Uqeq became less coherent, stuttering as though she was repressing a number of psychological tics. ‘Um, they listen. They listen. There’s definitely more agitation this month, Port-tr-tr-treeve. Soon there’ll be riots.’
‘Riots?’
‘As the green wave comes south. There’ll be refugees. Lots of them, now that Highgate is breached. Huge social unrest. Riots.’
The Portreeve nodded. ‘Anything else on the cat-lovers?’
‘No.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Katoh-lin, fingernails drumming on the table. ‘We are going to leave it, mmm, mmm, at that? ’
The Portreeve frowned. ‘You find my decision controversial?’
Katoh-lin blinked and glanced at the seven other faces, all turned to her. She said, ‘Uqeq making some bland report
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