The Machinery

They were all there, seated at the long table, when she came into the main reception room. Darrah had only lit one of the tall candles, leaving the main lamps extinguished. A strange, weak light played across the faces of the members of Rangle’s study group.

There were three members these days, apart from her. They were clustered together at one end of the table, whispering among themselves. In the centre, at what he undoubtedly perceived to be the head of the table, was Lanurus Randalo. In many ways he was a rather pitiable creature. He was the head of an illustrious family, whose wealth had originally been built by some hardy Randalos who cornered an offshoot of the northern fur trade. From these tough, resourceful people had descended a line of weaklings and dilettantes, who spent their days carousing and dipping their toes into a succession of ill-starred careers and ventures. They never spoke of the business that had made them rich; there was no allusion to it in their coat of arms, no hint of it in their halls. Their snobbery was almost amusing in its crassness, especially as their share in the original venture was all that kept them afloat.

Lanurus was the scion of this brood. He was a sharp-nosed thing, with long chestnut hair that he slathered with oils and an eclectic array of jewellery that encrusted his ears, nose and fingers. His pale skin had turned a sickly yellow over the years, perhaps through his legendarily poor diet, though it did not manifest itself in any extra weight; on the contrary, he was a rattling bag of bones. He was older than he looked; he had to be, for Rangle had known him now for almost two decades, and his appearance had never changed.

To Lanurus’s right sat an entirely contrasting character. Maro Danussa was a short man, but he made up for it in sheer bulk; his chair seemed to warp under his weight. But his girth was of a different order to Grotius’s, the hideous wretch, or even to Canning’s. It was muscle, not fat; he was a round ball of sinew. He was black, and his eyes were quick and wary. He shaved his head entirely, save for a single band of hair that ran from the middle of his brow to the back of his skull.

Rangle did not know what he did in the real world, and she had never asked. But he had attended her group now for almost ten years, and though his interventions were rare, they were thoughtful when they came.

Finally, there was Darrah. She smiled up at Rangle when the Tactician entered, and rolled her eyes at whatever Lanurus had been saying.

‘Tactician,’ Lanurus said, getting to his feet and opening his arms. Rangle embraced him, and took a seat by Darrah.

‘You should call me Annara, Lanurus.’

‘Yes, I know. I will do so from now on, Tactician.’

This had been a little tradition of theirs for almost twenty years.

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