He reached the junction to Pointas Street, marked by the fountain statue of Captain Gootwai, and turned down it past the Ministry of Transport. Holat trees lined the road, their long red and yellow variegated leaves fluttering in the humid breeze. It was always humid in Varlan, something Slvasta still hadn’t accustomed himself to. This far south of the equator, it wasn’t anything like as hot as his home county of Cham, but the clamminess from the Colbal, which at this point was over three kilometres wide, was extraordinary, and unrelenting.

Pointas Street ended at Okherrit Circus, and the buildings became slightly less stolid, with elaborate carvings on the stonework, and larger windows making them more open and welcoming. This was a commercial district, with fashionable stores and many family offices. Today, of course, the businesses were all shut. He began the steep walk up Longlear Road, with its notorious open stream bubbling and gurgling down a channel cut into the centre of the flagstones.

Major Arnice was waiting for him outside the Burrington Club, his scarlet jacket and white breeches seemingly glowing in their own little haze of extra-strength sunlight. But then, Arnice was utterly faithful to the mould of a dashing officer and gentleman. He caught sight of Slvasta and raised a solemn hand in greeting. ‘There you are,’ he ’pathed.

Arnice was one of the very few people in the city Slvasta considered a friend – a fellow sufferer of duty on the Joint Regimental Council, and only a few years older than Slvasta himself. They were the two youngest officers on the Council, with a shared contempt for its painfully bureaucratic workings.

Slvasta greeted him with a firm handshake. ‘Thanks for this.’

‘Delighted to help, old chap.’

They went into the club. And at once Slvasta felt a resurgence of that nagging insecurity he’d experienced since the day he arrived at Varlan. For a boy who grew up on a farm of modest means in the countryside fifteen hundred miles from the capital, a sense of social inferiority was the inevitable fallback position. It didn’t help that the dark wooden panelling of the club’s hallway, with its classic black and white marble tiled floor, reinforced his impression of the city’s casual wealth. Even his own dress uniform, a dark-blue tunic with discreet brass buttons and olive green trousers, was far less ostentatious than Arnice’s resplendent Meor Regiment regalia.

‘The ladies are waiting,’ Arnice said as they made their way up the stairs to the lounge restaurant. There were no mod-dwarfs in the club, which was one of the main reasons Slvasta had accepted the invitation. Here old men and women in stiff black suits with snow-white shirts served the members’ every whim with quiet efficiency. None of them would dream of taking a holiday, not even on this day.

The club’s lounge restaurant had a wide balcony, with two dozen tables under an ancient wisteria canopy providing a grand view across the rooftops to the river Colbal itself. As such, it was proving very popular with the members. Every table was occupied.

‘Best view in the city,’ Arnice said from the corner of his mouth. ‘Excepting Captain Boorose’s pavilion itself, of course.’

Slvasta followed his friend’s gaze. Down on the waterfront, the stone dome of Captain Boorose’s pavilion stood out against the more utilitarian warehouses and boatyards. It was on a raised mound just behind Chikase’s wharf, a simple building open at the front where fluted pillars supported the roof. Palace Guards in full green and blue dress uniforms stood round it, carbines held tightly across their chests. The elaborate black and gold coaches of the Captain’s family had just pulled up outside.

Captain Philious was the first to emerge, waving at the crowds, who waved back, every hand grasping a colourful blossom. It looked as if he was swimming in a wildflower meadow. His wife followed, and they held hands and walked up the short steps to the pavilion, where a long table had been set up, allowing them to picnic while gazing out across the fast brown waters of the Colbal.

His family followed, the smaller children giggling and waving enthusiastically back at the good-natured crowd. Then Aothori, the First Officer, climbed out of his carriage, the Captain’s eldest son, clad in the suave black of a Marine colonel. The cheering quietened. Even from the Burrington Club, Slvasta could sense the mood of the well-wishers darkening.

‘Giu help us when that one becomes Captain,’ Arnice muttered discreetly.

Slvasta said nothing as he studied the young man through the public gifting. He’d heard talk about Aothori. About the extravagance and the arrogance. How people who complained about incidents involving their daughters or missing property and unpaid bills left the city unexpectedly.

He kept a neutral smile in place as they approached the table Arnice had reserved. There were two young ladies standing waiting for them – dressed, inevitably, in the yellow and blue that Varlan’s younger aristocracy had decided was in fashion this season. He recognized one, Jaix – a nice girl in her late twenties whose features showed a strong Chinese heritage. She was the fifth daughter of a merchant family, and as such a likely fiancée for Arnice, though they had only been courting for a month. Slvasta had spent the last three weeks listening to Arnice talking endlessly about her – up until last week, when Arnice had withdrawn from social evenings in the city’s clubs and pubs and theatres. Now all Slvasta heard was how he spent every evening visiting Jaix at her day villa over in the Gonbridge district. For propriety’s sake, the unmarried daughters of good family were supposed to return home by midnight.

Arnice introduced the other lady as Lanicia. She was tall and slender, the same age as Slvasta, with long strawberry-blonde hair arranged in elaborate curls. Her smile as he took her hand was fixed and emotionless, like all women of her class. Slvasta didn’t really care; all he could focus on was her nose, which was petite with an upturned tip. On such a narrow face, it was striking. He managed to look away before his stare became blatant.

But then she was directing her ex-sight at his stump. It didn’t help that he pinned the tunic’s empty sleeve across his torso, drawing attention to it. He wanted a jacket tailored so the sleeve could be folded down his side, making it less obtrusive. And like so many things in Varlan, he hadn’t quite got round to doing it. Time seemed so very different here; the city’s languid pace was insidious. People spent so much of their day in the pursuit of such small goals. But they did know how to enjoy themselves, he admitted.

Slvasta used his teekay to pull Lanicia’s chair out, as a gentleman should. Her eyes widened in appreciation.

‘That’s a very powerful teekay you have,’ she said as she sat down.

Slvasta caught the glance she and Jaix exchanged. ‘It’s a compensation,’ he explained.

‘How did it happen?’ Lanicia asked, without any of the usual semi-embarrassment most people had.

‘Slvasta’s a genuine hero,’ Arnice said loudly. ‘Don’t let him tell you otherwise.’ He turned to a waiter. ‘We’ll start with champagne, thank you. The Bascullé.’

‘Sir,’ the waiter bowed.

‘It wasn’t heroic,’ Slvasta said. ‘I was caught by a nest.’

‘Giu, really?’ Lanicia asked, her hand going to her throat. ‘You’ve met a Faller?’

‘Yes. She and her mod-apes captured my squad. Then we were stuck to eggs. The Marines arrived just in time for me, but not my two friends.’

‘How dreadful. I don’t know what I would do if eggs Fell on Varlan. Flee, I expect.’

‘That’s the worst thing you can do,’ Slvasta said. ‘Arnice’s regiment is the one that will sweep the city for eggs. It’s a well-planned exercise. Unless one lands in your house, just stay put and wait for the all-clear.’