Waylander descended the steps, counting them as he went. One hundred and fourteen had been cut into the cliff, and as he reached the hundredth he saw the faintest gleam of moonlight dappling the lower wall.
He paused at the hedge that disguised the lower entrance, then edged his way around it and stepped across the rocks leading to the winding path. The sky was clear, the night warm. He glanced up at the windows and terrace of the Great Hall far above. There were still people there but they would be leaving soon.
As indeed would he.
Tomorrow he would see Matze Chai and reveal his plans. The Chiatze would be horrified, he knew. The thought lifted him briefly. Matze Chai was one of the few people Waylander both trusted and liked. The merchant had arrived just before the Gathering. Waylander had sent Omri to show Matze Chai the suite of rooms assigned to him, and to convey Waylander’s apologies for not being present to greet him. Omri had returned looking flustered and annoyed.
‘Were the rooms to his liking?’ Waylander had asked.
‘He indicated they would suffice,’ answered Omri. ‘He then had one of his servants move around the suite wearing a white glove, which he used to see if there was any dust upon the shelves.’
Waylander laughed aloud. ‘That is Matze Chai,’ he said.
‘I did not find it amusing, sir. In fact, it was extremely annoying. Other servants stripped the satin sheets from the bed examining it for bugs, while still more appeared with cloths and began cleaning and perfuming the bedroom. All the while your friend sat upon the balcony, saying nothing to me, but relaying his instructions through the captain of his guard. You told me that Matze Chai speaks our language perfectly, and yet he did not say a word to me. Most discourteous. I wish you had been there, sir. Perhaps he would have acted in a more civilized manner.’
‘You dislike him?’ asked Waylander.
‘I do, sir.’
‘Trust me, Omri, once you get to know him you will detest him.’
‘What is it, may I ask, that you like about him?’
‘A question I ask myself constantly,’ answered Way-lander, with a smile.
‘I do not doubt it, sir, but – if you don’t mind me saying – that is no answer.’
‘A full answer would only confuse you more, my friend. So let me say this. There is only one fact that I know for certain about Matze Chai. His name is not Matze Chai. He is an invention. My guess is that Matze was low born, and clawed his way up from the lowest levels of Chiatze society, reinventing himself at every stage.’
‘You mean he is a fraud?’
‘No, far from it. Matze is like a living work of art. He has transformed something he perceived as base into a flawless Chiatze noble. I doubt he even allows himself to remember his origins.’
Waylander walked on through the moonlight, angling towards his own quarters. He paused at the edge of the cliff and stared out at the dark sea. The moon was reflected there, broken and shimmering upon the gentle waves. He stood in silence as a sea breeze blew gently across his face, and wished that he had been as successful as Matze in reinventing himself.
He gazed at the two moons, the high perfect light in the sky, and the fragmented twin upon the waves. As he did so he recalled the words of the seer: ‘When you close your eyes and think of your son, what do you see?’
‘I look down upon his dead face. He is lying on the meadow and there are spring flowers around his head.’
‘You will not know happiness until you look up into his face,’ the old man had told him.
The words had been meaningless then, and were meaningless now. The boy was dead, murdered, and buried. Waylander would never be able to look up into his face. Unless the seer had been talking about picturing him in some spiritual paradise high above the stars. Waylander took a deep breath, then moved on along the cliff path.
Ahead were a series of terraces, covered by flowers and screened by scented bushes. Waylander slowed, then stopped. ‘Come out, boy,’ he said wearily.