Banouin removed his tunic and sandals and climbed into the tub. The water rose around him, the sweet perfume filling his nostrils. The feeling was exquisite. Splashing water to his face and hair he lay back, remaining in the bath until the water cooled. As he climbed out his foot touched something in the base of the tub. Reaching down his finger hooked into a ring of metal. He tugged it. Immediately the water began to bubble down the exposed hole. In panic he struggled to replace the plug, frightened that he was flooding the apartments below. He could hear water splashing from outside the tub room window. Moving to it he glanced out. An exit pipe protruded from the wall, the water gushing to the ground below. Banouin smiled, returned to the tub and pulled the plug once more, then ran back to the window, leaned out, and watched the water flow away. For some reason this small activity lifted his spirits and he returned to the main room and ate the food left for him. Weariness was heavy upon him and he went into the bedroom. The bed was of gilded wood, but curiously the mattress was slightly overlarge, jutting over the wooden frame. He lay down upon it, and immediately his anxiety returned. Sitting up swiftly he realized that something had touched his Talent. He lay back once more and honed his concentration.
In an instant he saw a vision of two soldiers looming above the bed, and the swollen, angry face of Nalademus beyond them. The soldiers had knives in their hands and were reaching for him. In terror he sat bolt upright.
The vision vanished from his mind.
Clambering from the bed he grabbed the edge of the mattress and pushed it back. In the lantern light he saw a patch of wet upon the planks of the bedframe below it. When he touched it with his finger it felt sticky. Banouin lifted his hand, and saw that it was blood. Running to the washroom he cleaned his hand, then hurled the bloodstained towel to the floor. His heart was hammering, his mind awash with fear.
The man who had lived in this room had been murdered that day, killed in his bed while Nalademus watched. Then servants had removed the blood-drenched mattress, replacing it with another that did not quite fit. The murdered man had not been killed swiftly, for the blood had continued to flow, seeping through the mattress to the frame beneath. What had been his perceived crime? Banouin wondered.
Back in the main room Banouin drank some water, and gazed once more at the little porcelain figures. When at last exhaustion overcame him he walked back to the bed, pulled the mattress back in place.
Then slept fitfully on the couch.
A bad dream awoke him in the middle of the night, and he sat up shivering with fear. The memory of the dream drifted out of his consciousness like water falling through his fingers. All he could remember were sharp knives pricking at his skin.
Rising to his feet Banouin wandered out to the balcony. Stars were bright in a clear sky and he felt the tension easing from him. He wished he could close his eyes and let his spirit soar free, but that was impossible here, surrounded by stone. A cold wind blew and Banouin walked back to the couch and threw the blanket round his shoulders. Back inside the room he felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in on his spirit. Returning to the balcony he sat down under the starlight, and gazed out over the city of Stone.
From here he could see the towers of the university building, and the awesome, moonlit majesty of the Palace of the Republic, where the emperor now dwelt. Stone is truly magnificent at night, he thought. And found himself filled with both sadness and shame. This was the city of his dreams, and because of that he had blinded himself to the truth. Yes, Stone was beautiful, but it was the beauty of the tomb, its glorious exterior merely hiding corruption and decay within.
The buildings had been designed and constructed by men of awesome talent, using only the finest materials. Those materials had been purchased by conquest, by the butchering of neighbouring races and civilizations. The foundation of Stone was blood. Every column, every statue, every block of every road was drenched in it.