The ceremony was certainly ostentatious, but they both agreed it had a curiously subdued atmosphere.

  The streets around the temple-pyramid were swarming with people. Small children gathered in groups or climbed atop the shoulders of their carers to peer over the mass of jostling bodies and bobbing heads. Cadres of nobles created breathing room for themselves with their protectors’ blades, or sat in gilded palanquins carried by groaning soldiers. Merchants and guildsmen watched from stately apartments lining Light’s Way, the main thoroughfare from the temple to the southern gates, lit perfectly in the noon-day sun. All while down below, the common folk attempted in vain to find a good viewing spot.

  Such was the occasion that even the Spatharii were out in force. These indentured warrior-servants used their bodies to hold open the way between the temple and the small dais erected in the pyramid’s shadow. They stood at attention in the shadow of two holy legionary statues; stone simulacrums supposedly carved in the image of the ancient and angelic construct-protectors brought into the world at the height of the age of miracles so many centuries before. They were the will of Aten in physical form; the hands of God. Accurate or not, they were giants that towered over all, every aspect of their once-metallic bodies rendered in flowing stone. They had no tails or scales; their forms were smooth and engraved with ornamental patterns. Slight grooves around the joints suggested the possibility of movement, that they were waiting to come to life. They stood at eternal attention, bearing a dignified aspect borne from their proud, featureless skulls.

  As they found their own place to view the ceremony, Aretuza said there was an army of constructs waiting in the afterlife to serve the faithful.

  Of that, Syla was not so sure. To her, they looked like instruments of war.

  Their perch was the roof of a tall, but slim townhouse directly overlooking the area cleared for the ceremony, and the small dais at its fore. They had the entire house to themselves, and Aretuza was under the impression that Syla knew the man who owned it.

  Syla had not lied. She did know the owner, in a fashion. She had enough information to know he was a deal-broker for a small conglomerate of grain merchants along the banks of the Ahbek, that he was out of the city on business at the time, and that he kept a spare key hidden under a flagstone near the door.

  She had not, however, ever spoken to this man. Nor did she ever intend to, he sounded quite the bore.

  They had refrained from pilfering the meagre bottles of wine he had left in a cabinet on the first floor, and had instead brought their own bottle of dewclaw, accompanied with a pair of crystal glasses. It was a decent claret imported from Dhasha, a coastal town far to the south. As expected from its name, the taste was sharp and refined. Combined with Aretuza’s intriguing, but meaningless trivia, it passed the time until the ceremony began rather pleasantly.

  When it did, they only realised when a wave of cautious silence radiated out from the crowd below.

  Ezerkal emerged first from the grand entryway into the temple-pyramid. He was dressed in an ornate houppelande with sleeves so long they almost reached his feet. A sash of crimson was worn from left shoulder to right hip and he carried the all-important treaty, rolled up with a piece of green ribbon. He clutched it tightly as if he expected someone to jump out and tear it from him.

  He stepped up to the dais and held the treaty aloft, the entire crowd remaining silent before him. He began to speak, a meandering preamble introducing the purpose and terms of the treaty to, as he put it, “the good people of Nerkai”. Of course, anyone with even a modicum of sentience in the city had already heard what had been agreed, as rumours had been spreading for over a week.

  Syla turned her attention to the procession that had marched out after him.

  Every representative of house Zerkash present had donned bronze ceremonial armour, ranging from career commanders to mere accountants. Between them they reflected the noon-day sun in every direction, leaving eyes watering if one stared too long. They marched in a grand formation, though there were not more than a hundred of them in total.

  On the flanks marched chain-veiled legionaries in glittering scale carrying burnished shields. Drawn from the cohorts of the first legion, no doubt. At their fore marched Aiur, helmless and flanked by Daiss and Cleonar. Behind them, in a symmetrical wedge, came the five legates of the Nerkai legions.

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  At its head, as befitted his station, marched Khafra, resplendent in a lion’s-head helm, its bronze-rendered mane spilling down his neck and over his shoulders. To his right marched Nitis and Irsu of the second and fourth, wearing helms with the leering grin of a jackal, and the fanged maw of a serpent. To his left marched Shabaka, and Aneksi of the third and fifth legions, encased in helms of the snaggle-toothed crocodile, and the eternally haughty eagle.

  A roof-less lectica followed behind them, carried by four broad soldiers who strode confidently without weapons. Ra’ven’s dark shape loomed from amongst the purple cushions. He sat with his hands on his knees like a glowering warlord passing judgement on all he saw.

  Behind them, dressed in the remnants of their battledress from weeks before, came the forces of house Krie.

  Mavan marched at the front, his praetorians looming over his shoulders like guardian angels. Behind him came a cadre of officers Aretuza could not name, followed finally by their meagre contingent, looking worse for wear after resisting Ra’ven’s offer of board, food and pay.

  They formed up neatly, arraying themselves to leave clear access to the dais as Ezerkal’s introductory speech seemed to be finally coming to a close.

  Rolling up the scroll, Ezerkal called Aiur and Mavan forward. They climbed the steps in tandem and stood opposite one another. On demand, Aiur produced a slim wooden tube and the treaty was placed neatly inside. From the folds of his flowing outfit, Ezerkal retrieved a seal and one of the temple guardians broke off from the crowd, holding a stick of crimson wax and assumedly a candle to melt it, though it was difficult to see from this distance.

  The wax was melted, the seal applied, and the tube held aloft for all to witness.

  “It is done so none with honesty in their hearts can doubt that the treaty has been tampered with,” Aretuza chimed in, always so eager to explain things as though she were an uninitiated novice. It had become irksome. Syla wondered if it was some sort of compulsion, or if she lacked company amongst her fellow priestesses.

  Syla still nodded politely along, watching as the tube was passed to Mavan. Hands were shaken, and a few quiet words exchanged.

  The temple guardians began to spill forward, opening up Light’s Way and pushing the watching citizens against the sides of the street, into back alleyways, or onto the winding paths along the riverbanks.

  As space began to appear, the House Krie troops marched forward, appearing eager to leave. Was it simply a desire to get home, or, as Syla believed was more likely, did they wish to be rid of this humiliating reminder of their failings?

  She watched Mavan, Aiur and Ezerkal exchange further words, now that the soldiers were moving past them and obscuring them from most of the crowd. Most, but not those with a neat perch directly overlooking them. Syla allowed herself a smirk. She was almost certain of what they were discussing, though Aiur was saying little in reply.

  “That was far shorter than I expected,” Aretuza said, frowning as she watched the soldiers march southwards, oblivious to the conversation taking place below them.

  “I believe Mavan wishes to stop living in borrowed clothes, and his soldiers very much want to go home,” Syla said, leaning over for a better look at the trio below.

  Their conversation suddenly grew heated. Aiur had put one foot forward and was gesturing sternly towards Ra’ven. Syla frowned, wondering whether it had been too farfetched to hope that Aiur might join them.

  “It was never going to work, you know,” Aretuza suddenly said, still watching the marching columns as they moved towards the city gates.

  “What was never going to work?” Syla snapped, turning away from the procession to glare at the priestess.

  “You were never going to lure in that one with words, particularly from any mouth but your own. His reaction is as predictable as the setting of the sun.”

  “And what would you have done?” Syla asked.

  “I perhaps would have started as you did, though my nature as a priestess affords me an advantage in that,” she mused aloud, gently swirling the wine in her glass. “I would have introduced myself in person rather than through an intermediary. A polite, cordial introduction to the idea before rumours spread; give the man time to lay out his grievances and attempt to alleviate them. I would then have proposed an invitation to our endeavour, and left it at that, for the time being,” Aretuza said.

  “We both know full-well that would just leave the door open for him to remain silent and never provide an answer.” Syla scowled.

  “I said for the time being.” Aretuza smiled, finally twisting around to face her. “That would not be enough to convince him, but it would not offend him like you have. To truly convince nobility such as him requires actions, not words.”

  Syla sighed heavily, glancing down to see Aiur marching stiffly back inside the pyramid, as Ezerkal and Mavan exchanged farewells.

  “Have we missed that opportunity, then?” she muttered, two vertical creases appearing between her eyebrows.

  Aretuza’s smile only broadened, a kind, motherly thing. “Of course not,” she said decisively. “His mind may be full of questions and stubborn as ever. The streets might be full of rumours, but that by no means makes him a lost cause. The only lost cause here is his master. With careful observation we may still convince him.”

  “I would prefer your recommendations now, rather than after the fact this time.” Syla scowled.

  Aretuza considered for a moment, placing her wine glass on the ledge. “Subtlety. That would be my maxim. We must wait for a chance to build trust with him, for that is the opportunity that has been lost. We both know there is only one way to build true trust.”

  “With our actions?” Syla asked.

  “With our actions.”