and dark, cloudy, or raining, but today, sunshine. What else?’
As they entered the small plaza, Hatushaly looked around, taking a moment to appraise their surroundings, then said, ‘This is far from a happy place.’ Rather than busy market stalls, which he would have expected to see in any city he visited, only a few people moved around a small, well-kept, but otherwise unremarkable fountain in the centre of the plaza.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bodai as he paused before the water, reached in, and made a show of rubbing his face and neck.
Hatu followed his example and leaned over the water to freshen up before he replied, ‘No one lingers here. There are no sellers, despite this being a wonderful market, so someone – the king?’ he speculated. ‘Or someone important has decided to keep this plaza free of merchants.’ Hatu splashed a little water on his own face, glancing around as he wiped it with his hands. ‘They don’t want people gathering here. There are three armed men in identical garb: the city guard? For a place this size, with so few people, there are too many soldiers. They watch. People passing near to them avert their eyes. We saw the same behaviour on the streets from the docks.’
‘Enough,’ whispered Bodai, shaking his hands as if ridding them of excess water. ‘Come along.’
Hatu followed the counterfeit monk through the streets as instructed by the church official. They found the site of the former Temple of Tathan, now a skeleton of burned timbers and an altar charred black. Rain and wind had scoured the abandoned building of ash and cinders, and they could walk across the stone floor without turning their sandalled feet black.
‘Some time ago,’ said Bodai softly, ‘the king of this dolorous nation embraced the Church of the One. All other gods and goddesses were pronounced lesser and demonic beings, and in their enthusiasm to rid the city of the evil places of worship, the king’s soldiers got a little carried away. They failed to remember that this order had contrived a narrative, a wonderful story that named Tathan the Pure a prophetic being, a heavenly messenger who proclaimed the coming of the One.’
The false monk knocked on a still-upright timber with his staff. ‘Hmmm, with some good craftsmen, this place might be restored sooner than I thought.’ As if musing to himself, he muttered, ‘Scrape off this char, see how much good timber is left …’
After studying the burned timber, Bodai came out of his reverie. ‘Now, as I was saying, this king was the first monarch of stature to elevate the Church of the One above all others, and by seizing this opportunity Lodavico Sentarzi, ruler of Sandura’ – he lowered his voice – ‘known widely as “the King of Sorrows”, not only gained a new title, “His Most Holy Majesty”, which he seems to find most agreeable, but gave the Church of the One an official base from which to operate, a home, as it were. Word reached us some months ago that the ancient city of Sandura’ – he gestured to their surroundings – ‘was now being called “the Holy City”, which also seems to please Lodavico.
‘You will learn that some places are often very important,’ Bodai continued. He found a relatively clean piece of masonry, a support for an interior wall now missing, and sat. He motioned for Hatu to sit at his side. ‘The obvious places are defensible positions along routes others wish to take or occupy, or advantageous sites from which to launch assaults. Being near a good water supply and fertile land, a tidy harbour, or other natural features often persuaded people to choose a place to build a city, or rather they did in ages past; we do not see a lot of cities being built now, do we?’
Hatu could see it was a rhetorical question and so said nothing, merely nodding his understanding and agreement.
‘Other important places are symbolic: sites where great battles were undertaken, so we remember the victors’ heroics or lament the loss of the vanquished. Or the holy places.’ He motioned out of the burned doorway, and Hatu looked up at the high plateau barely visible above the rooftop of the building across the street. ‘Up there,’ continued Bodai, ‘the Church is constructing their most holy place: a cathedral, the grandest of their churches and the seat of an episkopos. Only this cathedral will be the home of many episkopos, their entire ruling council.’ He sighed theatrically, sounding, in Hatu’s opinion, far too amused, and said, ‘And they’re building it right next to His Most Holy Majesty’s palace.’
Hatu looked confused. ‘But—’
‘That compromises the defensible position of Lodavico’s castle, I know.’ Bodai waved his hand around, indicating the entire city. ‘His castle is now a citadel given how much his capital has grown since his forefathers built the fortress. Should an army knock at its gates, the addition of the cathedral will hardly matter. He will have already lost the war.’ He smiled at Hatu. ‘But it’s good to see that you pay attention when your preceptors speak about military history. Unlike that rock-headed friend of yours.’
Hatu tried not to smile, for he knew Bodai was speaking of Donte. Being the grandson of one of the seven masters on the Council had often saved Donte from receiving the more severe punishments he deserved. Any other student would have been sent away for several of his infractions, and certainly for the number of rules Hatu’s friend had broken over the years.
As a boy, Donte had been merely fractious, but as he grew older, his behaviour turned to a near-constant defiance. Hatu judged that within a few years Donte could be a crew captain, or perhaps a gang captain, or even dead, but he doubted his friend would rise to his father’s and grandfather’s status. He might have a chance if he learned to curb his impulses, but Hatu doubted Donte would ever become a master.
Students who were sent away from the schools when they were little, returned to their parents, were apprenticed to crafts in the town, or sent to work on farms or in fishing villages. But after a certain age, when certain secrets had been learned … Hatu didn’t care to think about it but had made the assumption that those students were discreetly murdered.
That was the curse of the chosen: to be selected to train as a sicari and potentially become a member of the Quelli Nascosti, the secret army of Coaltachin, meant that after a certain point you would know too much to be allowed to leave. Hatu sensed that he, Hava, and Donte were close to that point. While certain intricacies about the inner workings of the army were still kept from students of their age and experience, Hatu had observed enough to extrapolate how the Coaltachin nation might be organized, and little of what he had been told of late had come as a surprise, which had bolstered his confidence. Remembering the conversation he shared with his friends after being scolded by the gang boss Hilsbek, Hatu realised that they had perhaps already passed that point. Hatu was uncertain, for he had little more than speculation to go on. There was an old saying about what happened within powerful families when someone like a Donte failed to rise: ‘Those who know don’t talk, and those who talk don’t know.’
For the deepest secret of the Kingdom of Night was that, beyond its islands, it represented the largest, most extensive criminal empire on Garn. Coaltachin was not a kingdom, as there was no king, but it was ruled by a council of seven masters, each of whom controlled a ‘family’. Within these families were the regimes who directed many gangs across many cities.
Council titles usually passed from family member to family member – unless a family was displaced by another, more powerful family, often at the cost of bloodshed and the creation of factions; this organization had been formed to settle such disputes and, most important of all, to protect an ancient way of life. Master Zusara was the final arbiter for issues that the Council was unable to settle, and while masters might contest with one another, all united against outsiders.
Criminal activity provided the island nation with the bulk of its wealth, but the agents sent around the world to work on behalf of distant rulers, or affluent merchants, provided the most vital commodities:
