VII.

Outside we are greeted by a late-summer day, though the calendar insists it is still early spring. The sun lays a warm hand upon my shoulder, yet the feverish chills persist.

We call for Jerry, but she does not appear.

“Leave her breakfast dish there beneath the hedge,” I say to Nokweed. “When she’s ready, she’ll come sniffing for it.”

We follow the usual path toward the Execution Grounds. The scent of sourdough baking in the brick stove reaches me and turns my stomach. Nokweed walks several paces ahead, stopping now and then to allow me to catch up.

“Are you feeling all right?” he says. “You’re slow. And pale.”

“I am well,” I say.

He studies me a moment longer, then nods and resumes his pace.

As we round a bend, we catch sight of the old woman who crossed our path yesterday. She smiles when she sees us—a wide, open grin. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” she says, reaching out to tousle Nokweed’s hair.

“It is,” I say, though I must steady my gaze to keep her in focus. “Quite lovely.”

“You must be off to the Grounds, then?”

“Yes. We seem to be running late,” I say, gently urging Nokweed onward. “Good day to you, Madam.”

“I’ve just come from the Grounds, you know,” she says, catching my arm, her grip firmer than I expect.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she says, holding my gaze. “The Conductor is present.”

“I am aware,” I reply, easing my arm free. “Which is why we must be on our way. Good day to you.”

We move off down the road, passing a row of green-and-yellow rickshaws, when she calls after us:

“When it concerns the Conductor, one must never be late.”

We do not turn back.

The road widens as it approaches the Southern Gate, and with it the usual traffic thickens. Carts have been drawn to the roadside and left at uneven angles; their owners stand in loose clusters, speaking loudly or not at all. A line of temporary stalls has been erected where yesterday there were none. The smell of frying oil, sour beer, and sugared dough hangs in the air, clinging to the back of the throat.

I do not make it far.

A sudden pressure rises beneath my sternum and before I can excuse myself I have turned aside and bent double behind a crate of root vegetables. The contents of my stomach—flax porridge, black coffee—come up in a thin, bitter stream, splattering against the packed earth and the stall’s wooden supports.

“Hey—hey!” a voice barks behind me. “Not there. Ya’Allah, not there!”

A broad man with beet juice caked into the seams of his hands rounds the stall and plants himself just outside my field of vision. “You can’t be doing that here,” he says, gesturing angrily toward the mess. “Please—people eat from this. You think I want them stepping in, in—”

“I apologize,” I say, straightening as best I can. “It will not happen again.”

He stomps his feet furiously, then glances past me to Nokweed, who stands a few paces back, rigid.

“Get him out of here,” the man mutters, pushing a beet-stained finger into the chest of Nokweed’s tunic. “Take it elsewhere or I will take you there myself.”

“We are already on our way,” I reply, getting to my feet.

The man shakes his head and disappears around the stall, still cursing under his breath.

For a moment Nokweed just stares at the ground. Then he steps forward cautiously. “Dad,” he says. “You don’t look so good.”

“I am fine,” I say, though my voice wavers. “A passing inconvenience, now passed.”

“Look,” he says. “Call it off. Just for today. The Conductor—” he hesitates, then presses on—“the Conductor doesn’t matter. Not if you’re sick.”

I dab my mouth with the back of my hand. There is a metallic taste, not unlike blood.

“No,” I say. “It is already arranged. All of us must do our part to see this through.”

“But—”

“I will be able to rest when I am dead,” I add, with what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Which should be within the hour if we get back to it.”

He does not smile back.

“If you would rather not attend,” I say, more gently, “you are free to go on ahead to your studies. Midterms, and all that. Your mother will understand. Diesel will understand.”

He shakes his head immediately. “No. If you go, I go.”

“Very well.”

We resume walking.

The stalls thin out as we near the Gate proper. I nod at the Gatekeeper, who sits erect in his turret, as we pass through; he nods back. We disappear beneath the damp stone archway, our footsteps echoing upon the loose gravel. The sudden dip in temperature leads me to shiver uncontrollably. Thankfully, it is too dark for Nokweed to notice. Then we step past back into daylight and the Grounds reveal themselves.

At first, I do not understand what I am seeing.

Where the open field once lay there now stand great banks of seating, tier upon tier of wooden bleachers erected in a wide semicircle. They rise from the earth as if they had always been there, their rough-hewn beams packed with bodies (hundreds, perhaps more) each turned toward the centre of the field.

The targets have been removed; the brush has been cleared.

In their place, the sand has been raked smooth into a broad oval, in the midst of which stands a structure of glass and polished metal—something like a chamber, though of a design I have not encountered before. Every surface clean, transparent, without obstruction.

A low, continuous sound carries across the field.

In my state, I had taken it for wind. Then, gradually, it resolves itself into a pattern, rising and falling, a measured insistence that gathers the air and presses it forward.

Music.

My gaze drifts in the direction of the sound and locates him at once.

The Conductor stands upon a raised platform at the head of the field, his back to the bleachers, his face turned toward the chamber. He is dressed in a deep red coat that catches the light and throws it back, as if the fabric itself were a million little mirrors. His posture is effortless, his movements precise but unhurried. One hand lifts, then falls, then lifts again; small gestures that draws the sound out of the air rather than commands it.

An orchestra surrounds him, though I cannot say I know very well what an orchestra consists of. There are, of course, strings, brass, woodwinds—all arranged in careful arcs. The music moves through them as through a single body.

As we step onto the sand, the Conductor’s hand pauses midair, though he has not glanced our way.

For an instant, there is only the sound of the bleachers creaking under the weight of so much flesh.

Then, with a subtle turn of the wrist, he alters the pattern. The music, once bright and measured, becomes martial, insistent. The melody hardens into something familiar—yes, the opening strains of the latest Battle Hymn, though rendered with a richness I have not heard before.

A figure in uniform approaches us. A young paige, scarcely older than Nokweed. He half bows.

“You are expected,” he says.

“So it would seem,” I reply.

He gestures toward the platform. “The boy will be seated with the Conductor.”

Nokweed looks at me.

“It is an honor,” I say, placing a hand on his back.

Nokweed nods, though his expression remains neutral.

“And me?” I ask.

The paige inclines his head toward the centre of the field. “You will proceed to the chamber.”

“Of course.”

Nokweed hesitates a moment longer, then steps toward the paige. As they move off, I watch him climb the steps of the platform, passing between the musicians, until he reaches the front row of seats. My wife is already there. Erwan beside her, his posture like the trunk of a fine oak. Beyond them, I catch sight of the lamplighter’s employer, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his chin raised as high as it will go.

Nokweed takes his place among them. I turn back toward the field. There are two figures at the centre, one slightly offset from the other. I blink, and the second disappears. Or perhaps the first.

Diesel stands alone.