Free Stands a Shadow by Col Buchanan Page A

house-slave, even though she couldn’t hear him, for she had been rendered deaf by hot oil some time during her captivity. ‘Whiskers,’ and he waved a hand to catch her eye, ‘no need for that now.’ But the woman continued to polish the shelving, paying him no mind.
    He looked at the slate board that hung about her chest, swinging free as she bent forwards, along with a stub of chalk fixed to a length of string.
    He had so far refused to use the board to communicate with the woman, largely because Whiskers refused to use it herself; as though she preferred to let it hang there uselessly like an accusation of all that had been done to her. Instead, he preferred to talk to the woman, persisting in the hope that some communication might still pass between them.
    Besides, he liked to hear words spoken in the usual silence of the apartment, even if they were only his own.
    Ché wandered into his bedroom and stared at his double-sized bed, with its silk covers of maroon tastefully chosen to match the pale golds of the wallpaper. He realized that he was still too energized from the Royal Milk and the previous night’s events to sleep, so instead pulled off his robe and changed into a loose-fitting tunic and trousers, and then a pair of soft leather shoes, which he laced tightly.
    ‘I’m going for a run!’ he hollered on his way out of the door.
    Ché pounded along the wide, tree-lined avenue of the Serpentine. He ran with the city’s rhythms in his ears, the local priests calling out through bullhorns from their temple spires; the calls of hawking cart-merchants and street dealers; the doleful songs of slave-gangs going about their business. People turned to watch him pass or to step out of his way, drawn by the simple spectacle of a man running through the streets. Sweat beaded his skin, and the rain too. With every footfall he found his head clearing of all the thoughts that had been possessing him so compulsively of late; a clarity he struggled for ever more these days. Ché dodged past carts and groups of people, light-footed and free.
    His usual route was a circuit of streets to the east of his apartment, an area that was prettified with the greenery of parks. He turned left at the Getti playhouse and followed a boulevard alongside the Drowning Gardens, seeing the rich greens of the trees and shrubs through the flicker of the iron railings, the contrasts of red-robed pilgrims scattered amongst them. In the street, building-sized paintings of the Holy Matriarch snagged his eyes, and the lesser placards for new restaurants, housing developments, brands of alcohol and food; he tried to ignore their simple messages, but the images flashed by and left their impression nonetheless, the smiling white-toothed faces of happy affluence.
    Joy Street lay at the end of the boulevard, and next to it his mother’s Sentiate temple. Ché had been ignoring his mother of late, unable to bring himself to visit her. He didn’t wish to be reminded of what she represented in his life, nor of her role within the order. When he saw the Sentiate tower looming ahead, its scarlet flags raised high today to show that it was open once more for business, his mood began to falter along with his pace.
    He turned away before he reached Joy Street, and entered the Drowning Gardens instead.
    He followed a straight paved path between the shorn lawns. On the hottest of summer days he would sometimes run in these gardens of glittering pools and broken shadows to escape the clammy heat of the streets beyond. Today, though, he saw that it was a mistake to come here, for the pilgrims were drowning themselves in earnest.
    Ché ran past stone pools with pilgrims kneeling all around their rims, heads plunged deep in the water. Occasional bubbles broke the surface, and some flailed their arms without control as they forced themselves to remain submerged; the more dedicated had their arms bound behind them with leather belts. He skirted around attendants of the