Rain patters on the iron roof, and drops race across the window. The mugs of chicory steam up the glass and make the shed feel cosy. It’s hard to think when I last felt so good. Maybe on the river. But this is a different kind of happiness. The word contentment comes to mind.

Boss might be thinking something similar, for his voice is mellow and relaxed.

“You might be wondering,” he begins, as if about to tell a story, “how I came to be holed up here in the Director’s garden …”

I had been wondering exactly that: the Cerel man has a very fortunate position.

Boss gives a low chuckle. The glossy raindrops skid across the glass. “It was an accident, to tell the truth. I was in a crowd outside the House of Law one day – you know, that last big national holiday we had many years back, when everybody still went to the Via Parada to celebrate and give thanks to the Director.”

I was a little boy then, yet I still remember it. The street had been closed off, there were tents selling beer, and a man walked up and down with a cooker hanging over his shoulders, roasting sausages. Music was playing, and people danced in the middle of the street.

“Well, when the Director came through in his carriage, you know, with the black horse, I was in a crush of people and trying to get a good look at him. Everybody was waving little flags and cheering.”

That bit, I remember clearly. It was the first time I’d ever seen one of the Travester horses. It was after that day that the Director started to travel around the city not in an open carriage but in the black automobile.

“You know, tall as I am …” Boss isn’t all that much taller than myself, “I couldn’t see above all the heads, so I was casting round to see if there was a handy step or some way I could get a head above the crowd. That’s when I saw the bloke with the gun. He was up on a step, and his eyes were fixed on the Director. The gun was down by his side. A pistol. Everybody was busy cheering the Director, so nobody else had noticed.”

Boss blows on the inky surface of the chicory and takes a sip.

“It didn’t sink in straight off. I mean, the Director was popular back then. Most people thought he was a hero for saving Ursa from the drought.”

He takes another sip, smacking his lips, and I wish he’d get on with the story.

“Then I saw the bloke lift up his gun and steady it on his other arm. It was obvious, even to me, what he was going to do.