‘Go on then,’ Brynd said. This wasn’t the first time Apium had explained to Brynd what his problems were. Certainly it wouldn’t be the last.

Brynd took another sip of lager.

‘You’re a pushover,’ Apium continued. ‘That’s what you are, a pushover. You’ll take anything up the arse and not complain about it. You’re just a bitch to these councillors.’

‘Really?’ Brynd said. ‘Thanks for your support.’

‘Just stand up for yourself once in a while – that’s what you should do. I would’ve given them hell!’

‘You’re not really one for diplomacy, are you?’

‘Diplomacy’s never won us soldiers a war.’

Brynd pondered the inherent truth in Apium’s statement.

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ As he spoke he realized that Apium’s attention was drawn to the barmaid who was busy cleaning tables. ‘You with me?’

‘I was with her in spirit,’ Apium stated. ‘I have been since we walked in here.’

Brynd stared at him. ‘Stop leering. Haven’t you got a sense of decency?’

‘No, I’m not armed with a sense of decency,’ Apium said. ‘That way, my other senses are as sharp as they can possibly be.’

Brynd laughed, shook his head, then glanced over the bar, silent in thought.

Because they were carousing at the top level of the city, they didn’t have far to walk to reach the military quarters of Balmacara. Brynd considered such privileged accommodation a wasted luxury, because they were so frequently away from the city on military service. This housing could so easily be used for refugee families. Instead, the chambers they occupied were set into the cliff face just to the north of the late Emperor’s private quarters, and usually a minimum two members of the Night Guard remained in residence at all times, in case the Emperor should need to call on them in an emergency. Not that there had ever been one in Brynd’s memory, but it was a sensible precaution.

As he was commander, Brynd’s own chamber was by far the most extravagant, set slightly apart from the others. He liked the decor inside, a mixture of polished marble and slate, with purple drapes hanging on every wall. Hidden behind them were maps of the Empire’s far-flung territories, should he need to examine them quickly. It often helped during sleepless nights, to study these lands that he was charged to protect. It affirmed his sense of duty. Military medallions hung from the mirror on his dressing table.

Then he noticed the letter left for him on a side table. He lit a lantern before opening it to reveal precise details, provided by Chancellor Urtica, of where Jamur Rika was living near the settlement of Hayk, on the Southfjords. The letter also confirmed that Chancellor Urtica would like an interview with Brynd before he left, in order to discover further details of the disastrous ambush at Dalúk Point.

Brynd was disturbed by the thought of now finding time to come to terms with the deaths in his regiment, and discovering who was responsible for their ambush. Such quieter moments were difficult for soldiers, as the killings they witnessed worked over and over again in the mind. He would have to organize letters of sympathy to be sent to the families of the deceased soldiers – there was still so much to be done, and he must be ready to leave early the next morning. Brynd settled down at his desk for a couple of hours’ paperwork.

Brynd paused to look up at the clock. Not even an hour had passed, and he wasn’t feeling particularly tired, but he decided the letters could wait. He needed some fresh air, he needed some relaxation. Perhaps Apium was right, and Brynd took life too seriously. The pressure was starting to get to him.

He changed out of his uniform into a featureless brown tunic, threw on a hooded cloak, then walked quickly out into the chill of the night.

Brynd knocked on the door. The darkness felt suffocating, one of those nights when you felt like someone was watching your every move.

Brynd’s secret would then be out.

And he would be executed on the city walls.

He was standing outside an inconspicuous doorway near Gulya Gata, not far from where painters from the gallery customarily loitered in the company of poets inside bistros by Cartanu Gata and the Gata Sentimental. Nearby, past the bad hotel in the exposed street, there was always the sound of activity: erratic laughter, retreating footsteps, the clink of glass or the scrape of metal. Depending on the mood of the city, it could also mean drunkenness, lovemaking, even a murder. Such sounds were interpreted according to your own degree of paranoia – Villjamur was constructed by a state of mind.

The door opened, and a slim young man stood there wearing only a flimsy robe. High cheekbones, thin lips, a wicked grin that Brynd could never stay away from too long. The young man brushed his sleek black hair back with his fingers. ‘Well, if it isn’t my big war hero. Haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘I’ve had a hell of a week,’ Brynd breathed, his gaze flickering from Kym’s face to the ground. In a way it was a refusal to see himself reflected in Kym’s eyes.

‘You look like you have, too,’ Kym said. ‘You look bloody terrible. And you haven’t even come in uniform. Well, you’re a right scruff, but I can live with that.’

‘If someone catches us together while I’m uniform we’ll both be hanged. And think of how my unit would react if they discover the truth about me. My fellow soldiers are suspicious enough of me already.’ Having no wife might arouse suspicion normally, but at least being an albino gave him an excuse to hide behind.

Kym said, ‘You’re just paranoid because of the colour of your skin, honey. So stop being so self-conscious. People give less of a shit about you than you believe.’

‘I didn’t come here to argue,’ Brynd said.

‘Well, in that case, you may as well come in.’

Still hesitant now. ‘Are you… alone? No one else here?’

‘Of course I am, otherwise I’d say so.’

Brynd followed him inside, looking around carefully before he closed the door. Kym was always so casual, and there was something deeply attractive about his carefree attitude. Or was it more carelessness? His lack of care was seen as a sign of strength by many. Women in particular were attracted to the deep confidence from which he drew his plenitude of sarcasm and humour and surreal wisdom. They felt the urge to be noticed by him, but he always came back to Brynd in the end.

‘That a cut on your face?’ Brynd had noted a thin line under Kym’s eye, in this clearer light.

‘Experienced some rough treatment, you know how it is. Well, you don’t quite, I suppose, being all military and precise. This was just a little bit more than name-calling, though, a threat to inform the Inquisition. Just so happens the guy I was seeing at the time was tough, tall and muscled. Gave the guy who did this a broken jaw, poor bastard. Can’t eat his meals without help now.’ Kym gave the gentlest of smiles.

‘Indeed.’ Brynd was not sure whether to feel jealous or angry. He had no right to be either. ‘So how’ve you been? I see you’ve decorated the place again.’

Brynd indicated the metal-frame chairs, the elaborate new murals, the stylish new lanterns that cast shades of green and blue all around them. He found it impressive, Kym’s ability over the years to always find something new to do with the place.

The first time they’d met was when Brynd was just a captain in the Second Dragoons. He didn’t have such a high reputation to protect, so they were good days, relatively stress-free, when he could spend his evenings in lovemaking and easy companionship. The two of them would visit the galleries, even stroll on the bridges through the warmer evenings, just to get closer to the stars. But always in the darkness of the executioner’s shadow because of a few lines in an ancient Jorsalir text. Back then, the Freeze was not something people even thought about, and he didn’t have a crucial role to play in the Empire’s development or safety, so he was less bothered about his reputation.