In the courtyard a fiery wind blows in from the northeast. We cross the square. I glance for the last time at the icons of the illustrious. Can they withstand the cankers and corrosions that will buffet them with the changing of the wind? Probably better than the heroes they immortalized.

Then I hear the helicopter. It swoops out of the sky like a sudden storm, flashing its rotors, quaking and clattering, a monster of a bird pounding its chest. It hovers over the square and settles down in the clearing, churning up a cyclone. The overhead prop continues to swing, but slowly, and the dust subsides. The door slides back and Grady stands in the frame, armed with his .45. He displays no surprise in seeing me, but he does seem impressed.

“Glad you’re out,” he says without enthusiasm. “Abdul grant a reprieve?”

“Abdul’s dead.”

“Dead?” he repeats. At once he notes my arsenal and the acrid reek of the weapon I’ve just used on Abdul. His eyes take fire. “You killed him,” he says, “and the BRITs died with him, thanks to your… your apostasy.”

He’s shouting now, his rage churns his bellow into a shrill falsetto. ““You stupid punk bastard,” he yells, “I came back here, risk life and limb for one last shot of talking some sense into fucking Abdul about fucking BRITs and you killed him before I had a fucking chance!”

Christ knows how much longer he would have seethed, but his focus drifts to something of greater immediacy than the tale of Abdul’s death. I follow his cautious, walleyed gaze.

Out of nowhere, people are converging on us. They stand around, too damned close, like haunters of the landscape, their dull, dusty eyes watching us expressionlessly. They hone in on the copter, surrounding it. I feel menaced in the blowtorched air, although they menace no one. Valerie feels it too. Swiftly she climbs into the aircraft, and I follow her. I turn to look back on Coproliabad for the last time. Above the heads of the people I see the palace dome, the prison tower, and for reasons I cannot attempt to explain I feel the unmistakable pangs of melancholy and regret.

Then I see Zun. He stands away from the crowd, far back, his gaze piercing me, exclusively, shutting out everyone else. Despite the distance between us, he seems to lean into me, so close that his long hair falls about my shoulders. His face is like a thin flame, a part of my conscience, and his eyes are a deep well of light even as the day grows darker.

I climb out of the copter and run to his side, to that still, sad look of his.

“Come on,” I say, in a voice that is hushed and commanding. “You come with us. We have to get out of here.”