‘No! No, I don’t want it! Mummy!’
Katrina turned to the southern wall. Bardon, ruler of the South, was nine years old: the youngest Tactician for fifty years. He was a small thing, even for his age, and looked as if a gust of wind could carry him away. He was a beautiful child, his skin a light brown and his wide eyes a striking blue. He sat atop a heap of silk-covered feather pillows, almost drowning in his golden gown, toying with a wooden doll and glancing nervously around the room. A chubby, harassed-looking woman, who Katrina assumed was the child’s mother, stood behind his throne: her efforts to hand him his official papers were not well received.
‘Katrina – come here now. That is enough.’
Two silver chairs sat on the lower level, in the centre of the floor: Katrina must have walked through them without realising. Canning and Brightling were sitting on them, side by side. The Watching Tactician motioned to Katrina to join her before turning to her colleague.
‘Who is chairing the Cabinet, Canning?’
‘Hmm? Oh, Tactician Bardon, I believe. His mother is trying to give him his notes.’
They all glanced up at the southern wall, where Tactician Bardon had finally been persuaded to accept his papers, a sullen expression on his face. Brightling hissed under her breath:
‘The boy! On a day like this!’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ sighed Brightling, ‘there is nothing to be done.’
Bardon suddenly looked at the crowd, head snapping up from the papers like a startled rabbit. He clapped his hands together and the room fell into total silence, bar the slurping of Tactician Grotius’s gums on avian bones.
Bardon glanced at his hands, as if shocked by what he had done, then smiled, lifted the papers, and began to read in a high-pitched, faltering voice:
‘Almost seven weeks ago, the Strategist of the Overland, Kane, who was Selected by the Machinery, was found dead. You will all be aware of this.’
Tactician Rangle made a little noise.
‘We, the Tacticians of the people, were Selected to serve for our lifetimes, or until the death of the Strategist, when all must be cast asunder and made anew. That time has come.’
The boy cast a glance at his mother, who gave him a reassuring smile and stuck two thumbs up.
Bardon turned back to the room. ‘We must begin the process of Selection,’ he said. ‘The Machinery, its messages interpreted and transmitted by the Operator, will bring forth a new Cabinet to replace the old, a new leadership for our people. All, some, or none of us may be Selected again. It matters not: what matters is the glory of the Overland.’
A round of applause erupted from the Tacticians and their assistants. Brightling smiled; Rangle twitched; Canning reached for his wine and Grotius finished his dinner.
Tactician Bardon glanced into the far corners of the room.
‘I now call on the Operator of the Machinery to tell us when the Selection will be, so that we may prepare the people for their examination and our minds for judgement.’
Katrina gripped Brightling’s throne. Is he going to come here? asked the younger part of herself. If he does, you say nothing, and remain calm.
‘There!’
Katrina was not sure who had spoken, but it did not matter; she had seen it too.
A piece of paper was floating in the air from the ceiling above, dipping and reeling like a feather before landing at Tactician Bardon’s feet. Katrina studied the ceiling for any sign of the Operator, but realised it was pointless. It was like trying to catch a sunbeam.
Bardon seemed unsure of himself. He touched the paper, quickly withdrawing his hand as if expecting a shock. When this did not occur, he picked it up.
‘Three weeks’ time for the Tacticians,’ he whispered, ‘and five for the Strategist.’
Silence held for a moment, before the room broke into chaos. Some assistants ran from the hall to spread the word; others chattered excitedly in little groups. Grotius ate his chicken; Rangle read her book; Brightling examined her fingernails; Canning looked to the floor; and Bardon beamed with pride. But all of them, Katrina saw, cast jealous looks in their colleagues’ directions.
She knew what they were thinking; she had lived with a Tactician long enough to read them. Five weeks for the Machinery to absorb the will of the people. Five weeks until the current group of Tacticians would gather once again by the Portal, the very place where the prophet Arandel had announced the coming of the Machinery, to receive the information they dreaded and anticipated in equal measure. Five weeks, and they would all find out. But they already knew one thing: the favourite for the role of Strategist, given their talents and experience, had to be one of them.
Had it not?
Rangle remained in her apartments after the gathering of the Cabinet, and did not leave for days.
Kane’s death had affected her in ways she could never have anticipated. She had not liked the man. There was a cruel streak to him. It was nothing severe, just a low-level meanness. She had known him longer than anyone on the Plateau, and she had seen it on many occasions. When she was first Selected, he had spoken with her, and quickly discovered her ambition to study at the College. He said it would be possible, that he would arrange everything. But when she arrived at the Great Hall, her name was not on the register. They all knew who she was, the students and the Scholars; they knew how she had been humiliated. They would never mock a Tactician of the Overland, not to her face. But she saw it; their eyes smiled at her.
She knew he was old. She wondered at his longevity, if truth were told. That cough of his. Those wasted limbs. But still he continued, pestering females, bringing whores to the Cabinet. She had known he would die before long. She could feel death stalking them both, while Brightling and the others looked to the future and schemed.
But something was wrong, in this death.
‘How could he fall from the balcony?’ Darrah had asked. ‘He must have sat there a hundred thousand times. How could he contrive to fall?’
She had not responded. She could not. She didn’t believe it either. But she had to. Brightling said he had fallen, so he had fallen.
Someone knocked at the study door.
‘Come in, Darrah.’
The younger woman held a bowl of soup in her hands. By the side was a torn chunk of black bread.
‘You should eat.’
Rangle nodded and waved to the table, where Darrah set down the food.
‘Are you coming to bed tonight?’ Darrah glanced at the corner of the study, where Rangle kept a single bed. The Tactician stayed here sometimes, when she felt the need for solitude. Darrah did not understand, and did not like it.
‘I don’t know.’
Darrah nodded. Her eyes burned. ‘The others have arrived.’
Rangle smiled. ‘Good. Tell them I will be there very soon. And get them soup, if they want it.’
Darrah nodded, almost imperceptibly, and stormed out of the room. That girl would be better off without me. I should end it.
But I won’t.
There was one thing in the world that prevented Annara Rangle from following Kane off the balcony of Memory Hall. It was not Darrah, and it certainly wasn’t her exalted station. It was her study group.
She started it