1 Strahlend sat regarding the object that the young official had left him. An oblong box of wood that gleamed dark under a cuirass of lacquer. He drew it across the bench to examine the thing closely. Aside from a simple copper latch, the thing was unadorned. However, touching the wood revealed that within the box were moving parts. It ticked rhythmically. Curious, he turned the latch and opened the box to reveal a clockwork filigree of brass cogs, wheels and springs. A coil of green wires joined a glass bulb to the mechanism, at the centre of which was placed a button of the same dark wood as the device’s exterior. Presumably, pressing the button would signal for the return of the gentlemanly Mardin Thack. Strahlend shut the thing in sudden distaste and pushed it across the bench. Government. Still, the arrival of the gaudy youth and his attendant had brought good news. Great news, even. King Jerum was dead. For three decades Strahlend had almost believed that the old man had made his greatest conquest, that being over death itself. Immortality, then, had been beyond even Jerum’s reach. Momentarily, he allowed for pride to move him to anger. Two months and the public had not yet been told of Jerum’s death. An epoch had ended and the people of Slim-Nacre were unaware. The new King Abiron wanted him, Simon Gill Strahlend, to produce a work commemorating the death of the Grand Bastard. He laughed at the prospect. This all called for celebration. From his meagre supply of spirits, Strahlend poured himself a half glass of whiskey and raised it to the air. ‘For king and country,’ he said, and tilting back his head, drained the glass of its fiery contents. He wiped his mouth and let out a satisfied sigh. Strahlend was no drinker. Indeed, the man had little interest for the many temptations of the flesh. Vices, he had learnt at a young age, consumed both money and time like a flame. These days the man had little of either, so he spent what he could to the dedication of his craft. Even so, news such as today’s demanded certain dues. Strahlend wanted to learn more of the king’s death, and to discuss it with one of his few friends. Who was there that would share his elation? He knew many an anti-monarchist, the kind was not hard to find, but who shared in his particular brand of distaste when it came to the crown? What friends did he have? Few now. They were all dead, or forgotten, or fallen to wealth. None of them would do. There was Syanne, but she could be haughty and he was in no mood to hear her preach. The explorer. Of course. Halliard would be good company. He found a piece of paper and scribbled a note to the man, folded it into an envelope and took it to the front door. He squinted, staring up into the branches of the fig trees lining the mews. Somewhere in the limbs above there was movement. Strahlend put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. Something dropped from the shadows. The little ekek ambulated towards the artist. Strahlend crouched and handed both the envelope, with Halliard’s address clearly labeled, and a sugar cube to the ekek’s fingered wings. His little courier eyed the envelope, chittered, then tucked the envelope under a leather cord round its waist, and placing the sugar cube into a pouch. It then turned and loped up the trunk of the fig tree, up to the higher branches from which it could begin its flight. Strahlend briefly marvelled at the ekeks for their lack of economy. The ubiquitous message bearers of Slim-Nacre that worked all hours through day and night were payed with sugar cubes, a substance to which they were no doubt now dependant upon. Returning to the studio, Strahlend found his palette and squeezed out a selection of colours onto its surface. He picked up a brush and stood once again before his easel. He eyed the piece, searching for the detail that would call to be born and bring his brush to the canvas. It was a new work, one he had not planned until the evening before when sudden inspiration had struck, calling him from his bed and downstairs to greet the waiting dark. From the canvas he had evoked a vast swamp. Two figures, men he presumed, though he was yet to be sure, fought waist deep in the mire. Each held a wooden club, which they raised against their opponent. The mud prevented them from making any escape. Ah. Strahlend circled the tip of the brush on the palette, brought it up and caressed a trail of crimson down the face of one figure. Their fight was to the death. Overhead the sky would be an unflinching blue.