Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [21]
We stared at the scene overhead, at the huge black clouds flecked with crimson, at the unheeding feast-goers and the single doomed man, and at the rich blue splash in the centre of the dome, which depicted the very instant in which the dammed-up waters of justice were loosed, to roll down across the feasts and the solemn assemblies and flood the world in a torrent, that when it had passed, the stream of righteousness might flow undisturbed.
Then, between one breath and another, the master of Justice Hall was there, standing in the centre of the gallery at the top of that great staircase, framed perfectly by the arch of the doorway behind him, hands in his pockets, looking as if he’d been occupying the spot for an hour. Alistair threw the magazine down and trotted up the stairway; something about the way he swept upwards evoked the swirl of robes about his person.
Mahmoud—Marsh—remained where he was, so immobile he might have been unaware of his companion’s approach, might have believed that the objects of his gaze—Holmes and I—did not know he was there, although we were looking straight at him. He might have thought himself all alone in the hall, but for his reaction when his cousin gained the top step and reached out to embrace him in the Arab fashion: The duke pulled back. Very slightly, a mere fraction of an inch, but it cut off the embrace more effectively than a fist. Alistair stuttered awkwardly to a halt; only when he had taken his hand from the ducal arm did Maurice Hughenfort come to life. He took his hands from his pockets, turned to look into his cousin’s face, said a few words in a voice too low to hear, and reached out to grasp the younger man’s shoulder briefly. He then started down the long staircase.
Watching him descend, my first impression was that five years had turned Mahmoud into an old man, deliberate in his every movement, going grey (had I even seen his hair before?). As he drew nearer, it seemed more that he was in some deep and chronic pain, the kind that only iron control can keep at bay. But then he came off the stairs and was crossing the marble floor towards us, and the knowledge came stark into my mind: This man is dying.
He moved with the ease of health and shook Holmes’ hand with no sign of discomfort, but the look on his face was one I had seen too often during the War, when one of the wounded soldiers I was nursing gave up his fight, and let go. Such was the expression on the man now taking my hand, bending over it with old-fashioned formality, calling me Mary, a name he had never used: The man was one of the walking dead, a person who had made the decision to die, who in complete peace and bemused detachment watched the antics of his neighbours and his would-be saviours, awaiting only the day when he would be permitted to leave them behind. The wounds of some of those dying soldiers had been relatively mild, just as, other than the old scar down the side of his face, this man seemed whole and psychologically undamaged. And yet, the look was unmistakable.
“Mahmoud!” I cried out—or began to. I had only let out the first pain-filled syllable when he shot me a glare that shrivelled the name on my tongue. Dying he might be, but he could definitely summon the old air of command when he needed to.
“We are such old friends, Mary,” he pronounced,