The White City

Later in the night he was awakened by the arrival of Hepteidon. The young priest no longer wore the yellow gown of the Astronomy Priesthood: a sleeveless leather jerkin covered his body, revealing muscular limbs as yet pale for the want of sun.

  He was a different man now, more livid, restrained through physical control, not through piety. He treated Lamla as a complete stranger.

  ‘Ma-Tin is dead,’ he said factually. ‘He fell from the top of the Khumsung. Perhaps it was an accident.’

  Lamla nodded. Ma-Tin had not been wise. But then he had never been a wise man.

  Hepteidon swung about to look at Kandrigi lying on the couch in the corner of the chamber. His tunic creaked, being new.

  ‘What is Kandrigi’s condition?’ he asked, showing more warmth at the mention of the name.

  Before Lamla could reply, before he actually knew what he would say, Hepteidon walked across to the couch. He bent over the shrivelled figure and touched an arm. He straightened then and called:

  ‘Come here, Lamla.’

  Lamla hastened over.

  ‘Touch him.'

  Lamla grasped Kandrigi’s hand and tried to raise it. The hand and arm were rigid.

  ‘He is dead, Hepteidon,’ he said weakly, feeling a sense of betrayal. He could not avoid the thought that Kandrigi had somehow been graced by his death. He had faced something directly, an act that would be impossible for most other men.

  ‘He is to be buried within the Ka,’ Hepteidon said curtly. ‘The people must honour him as a saint. It may help to calm their growing fear.’

  ‘There are always rumours among the common people,’ Lamla interjected sourly.

  ‘Nevertheless, they begin to fear the star. They already know Kandrigi’s prophecy. It will become harder to restrain them.’

  Lamla cocked his head with impatience: ‘We will keep order by force if reason and piety will not do it.’

  ‘This is only the beginning, Lamla.’ Hepteidon turned away. ‘Tomorrow I sail into the North. I will not see this place again.’

  Lamla broke through his introspection: ‘Go with my blessing, Hepteidon,’ he said automatically.

  Without replying, Hepteidon left, his tunic creaking and his swinging arms flashing in the candle-light.

  Lamla knelt by the couch, sinking back into his introspection. The massed candles flickered in the chamber, lighting the wall paintings and the furnishings.

  Lamla did not see this. Everything was transparent, without foundation.

  Lamla saw this, even though his eyes were closed.