Orb Sceptre Throne, page 33
‘Oiliness indeed …’ But the smile broadened, became rather lascivious. ‘You know my price.’
‘Of course! I am all aquiver. And so, the, ah … objects … are ready then?’
‘Almost now.’
‘Almost. Ah … well. Somehow I must contain myself. More dunkings in handy chilly river for this frustrated suitor.’
‘Come back again – and don’t forget more offering.’
‘Fates forfend! I shall come courting again, queen of my heart. You shall not be rid of me so easily. The siege has hardly begun!’
The woman leaned forward and clutched a clawed hand at the man’s knee. ‘Then don’t forget your battering ram!’
The man shrank back, paling, his arms nearly crossing over his crotch. ‘Earthy princess! Your saltiness is, and will be, a treat … I am sure. But I must go – ceaseless labour, twisty plottings, constant confounding, as you know.’
But the woman merely murmured, smiling dreamily, ‘Almost now.’ She giggled and patted her chest.
‘Er, yes. Farewell! He backed away, bowing, blowing kisses. ‘I shiver in anticipation.’ And he turned and waddled, rather swiftly, up the mud track.
The crowd of washerwomen watched the slimy interloper disappear into the maze of Maiten town. ‘Why let the wretch go?’ one hissed, furious.
‘Why?’ another snarled, turning upon her. ‘Why? Didn’t you see? He’s a friend of that crazy old witch!’
Looking out over the night-time blue-lit streets Ambassador Aragan considered whether the city had ever been this quiet. His gaze rose to the yawning banner of green slicing the night sky and he wondered if perhaps that had much to do with the general reserve. Somehow he didn’t think so.
He was out of the command loop now. The Fists had control. He’d remained as a sort of standing offer of dialogue with … whatever … was gathering power around Majesty Hill. Something that drove the Moranth off just by showing up. And we’re powerless to do anything.
He crossed his arms, leaned against the windowsill. At least the troops will be in a position to withdraw north if need be. Gods! He’d almost prefer a plain old physical threat like the Pannion Domin. Here he felt as if he were pushing against nothing. It was unnerving in the extreme. And he had to say that it reminded him of the way the old Emperor used to operate.
Someone stepped up next to him at the window then, making him jump aside, a hand going to his throat. ‘Gods, man! Don’t do that!’
The newcomer merely offered a slit of a smile, hands clasped behind his back. Aragan took in the green silk shirt, dark green cloak, long thin face and cat-like, openly dismissive eyes. Well, at least Unta is taking things seriously – sending this fellow, of all people. He cleared his throat. ‘So, what word from the capital?’
‘Darujhistan is important to the throne, Ambassador. Whosoever controls this city potentially controls the entire continent. The Empress knew it, as does the Emperor.’
Aragan simply nodded, returning his gaze to the city. ‘My thoughts as well. What will you do?’
‘What I do best, Ambassador. I will watch and wait.’
Not sure what to make of that Aragan merely grunted, hoping his reaction would be taken as wise agreement.
The tall man turned to him. ‘I understand you have hired someone to gather intelligence already. I’d like to question him, if possible.’
‘Certainly. Dreshen has the particulars.’
‘Very good.’ The man gave the slightest inclination of his head. ‘I will be in touch, Ambassador.’
Aragan nodded openly relieved that the man was going. ‘Yes, of course. Until later.’
The shadowy figure backed away to cross the room to the door. He quietly shut it behind him. Aragan was rather disappointed; he had expected something much more dramatic. Sulphurous smoke and a clap of thunder, perhaps. Still, shouldn’t be disillusioned. It’s few can boast of having the Master of all the Claw come up behind them out of the dark and live to tell the tale.
It was the dead of night but torches and lanterns set on poles lit the long excavation trench that extended in an immense arc all round one side of the sprawling Old Palace and the assembly galleries of Majesty Hall. Work continued day and night. Cleaned polished stones were delivered by hand-drawn cart up the steep Way of Just Rulership to be delivered to the excavation for setting within the trench. Workers dug, laid gravel and sand, levelled, compressed and prepared the foundation. All under the watchful exacting eyes of the construction bosses; one a hunched fellow with large hands that appeared to have been mangled by the white blocks he was always caressing; the other tall, fierce and scowling, quick with a cuff or a strike of the staff he sometimes carried.
The stones were gently laid one by one. A moving tent enclosed the last touches of the installation and the refilling of the trench behind. ‘Interment’ the two overseers called this final series of hidden steps.
One worker, levelling-board in hand, often lingered close to the flaps of the heavy canvas tent. His fellow crew members frequently had to call him back to task. ‘If we fall behind I’ll not take a lashing for your laziness,’ one grumbled to him while they tamped down a layer of fine sand.
‘Walk away then,’ the new fellow answered. ‘There’s other work.’
‘Ha! Other work! Listen to this one would you? There is no other work at all! Everything’s shut down. The mines, the ironworks, all road crews. It’s work here or starve for all of us. Where’ve you been, anyway?’
The newcomer shrugged. ‘Been working in a tavern lately.’
‘So that’s what you call working?’ another of the crew said, laughing. ‘I can believe that.’
The new hand pulled on the long ratty shirt he wore, mouth clamped against any comment.
The man next to him grimaced his distaste, covering his nose. ‘And it doesn’t cost anything to douse yourself with water once in a while too, you know.’
‘Back to work!’ came a barked command followed by a slap of wood against the shoulder of the newcomer, who straightened, glaring, hands fisted.
But the overseer had moved on, his back turned. Another of the crew dragged the newcomer back down to the bottom of the trench. ‘Don’t try it, friend. And what’s your name, anyway?’
The newcomer looked startled, as if the question was completely unexpected. He pulled at the greasy long shirt. ‘Ah … Turn—er. Turner.’
‘Turner? Harmon. Well, friend, a word to the wise. There’s much worse they’ve done to some.’
‘Oh? Such as?’
They were levelling a layer of gravel over the foundation. Head down, one answered, ‘A fellow dropped a tool on one of them stones and what happened to him was a terrible thing to see.’
‘So? What happened?’
Eyes met to share gauging looks. ‘Magery happened,’ whispered a crew member. ‘The tall one with the staff – he just points, he does, and the man goes down screaming in agony. Bites his own tongue off.’
‘No!’
‘Aye. There’s Warren magics here. Maybe these two are Free Cities mages from up north. Maybe Pale necromancers. Who knows?’
The crew had a break as more gravel was sent for. They stood, stretching and grimacing over their aches and pains. ‘What’re they up to?’ Turner asked.
Gazes slid aside, feet were shifted, uneasy. Harmon peered right and left then edged closer. A pained look crossed his face and he backed up a step. Then, taking a great breath, he leaned in. ‘Some kinda protection for the city, right? This is one o’ the new Legate’s improvements, right?’
‘One?’ grumbled another. ‘Only one I knows.’
Turner looked suitably impressed. ‘Damn … you don’t say. Must be them stones, hey?’
Harmon frowned, suddenly a touch uneasy. ‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘Only one way to find out, don’t you think?’ And Turner picked up a shovel and headed back up the trench for the tent.
‘Gods, man …’ Harmon hissed, appalled.
‘Don’t be a fool!’ another called, voice low.
After that hammers started clanging and chisels ringing as the crew was suddenly very busy.
Spindle was damned terrified, but he bet that these two Adepts – and he knew the two as such: as far above his capabilities as any Imperial High Mage – would see only what they expected to see: an empty-headed labourer.
He pushed through the hanging flap to find himself almost blind in the shrouded darkness. Burn take it! Didn’t think of that.
‘What in the name of the Cursed Ones do you think you’re doing?’ a voice snarled down the length of the tent. Spindle bowed, touching his forehead repeatedly. ‘Just reportin’, sir. We’re almost done with the—’
‘I don’t give a shit what you’re finished with or not. Never come in here. Get out! Now!’
Spindle could just make out a hunched figure, lantern set before him, bent over the glowing white blocks, instruments in hand. He bowed again, touching his forehead. ‘O’ course, sir. Yes. Course. Sorry.’ He backed away, bowing, feeling behind himself for the flap.
‘Out!’
He scuttled backwards through the flap, turned round and ran straight into the other overseer, the tall quick-tempered one. This mage grabbed his arm, glowering murder. At his touch Spindle felt his hair shirt writhe as if it had come alive. The mage let go, obviously quite shocked. Spindle froze; he’d been found out. This Adept had him. But the tall fellow, scars healing on his face and hands, simply regripped his staff, slowly and stiffly, his knuckles white with strain. And the eyes, black pits in yellowed orbs, shifted to the side, urging him onwards. Spindle bowed again in his role of a normal labourer returning to his work, though this man had seen through his façade.
All the rest of his shift he shared in the loading, levelling, and tamping of dirt, sand and gravels, but he hardly saw any of it. Nor did any of the crew bother him. They’d marked him as either touched or irredeemably dim. Trouble to be avoided, in either case. His hands did their tasks but his mind puzzled over what he’d glimpsed inside that tent. That strange hunchback bent over the stones – and such stones! Glowing they were, as if lit from within. But what had captured his attention were the tools. Magnificent tooled iron etching styluses, and an assortment of engineering instruments any saboteur would give his left hand for. A compass for inscribing arcs, a spirit level – only the second one he’d ever seen outside the Academy in Unta – and an eyepiece of what he suspected might be part of a surveyor’s instrument, one he’d only heard described: an alidade. Gods, he’d never even touched an alidade!
How he wished he could talk to Fiddler or Hedge about this. Those two knew more engineering than he. With such tools you could lay down a perfect wall – straight or curved.
And no one needs that kind of precision for a battlement!
In the auditorium of the assembly chambers Councillor Coll had lately had a great deal of time on his hands. Fewer of his fellow Councillors than ever were now comfortable being seen in his company. The faction supporting the reinstallation of the Legate was pre-eminent and the subsequent favours, funds and prestige flowed accordingly. So now Councillor Coll sat surrounded by empty seats in assembly, hands clasped over his wide stomach, tapping his fingers. He used the time to think.
That day it occurred to him that in fact it had been some time since he’d even seen Lim; not that this ‘Legate’ was legally obliged to officiate here at the Council. Around mid-morning he heaved himself out of his seat – Ye gods but I am starting to get a touch heavy – to walk the steps down to the debate floor. Among the councillors present he selected one clearly in the Legate’s camp, one who would have nothing to risk in actually being seen talking to him. Conversation quietened in the man’s group as he drew near and the three councillors sketched the briefest greetings his way. Coll bowed to Councillor Ester-Jeen, who merely arched a supercilious brow.
‘Councillor Coll,’ he murmured.
‘Ester-Jeen.’
The other two councillors remembered pressing business and bowed their leave-taking. ‘Yes?’ Ester-Jeen said, his tone implying the relationship of a superior to a petitioner. Coll let that pass, in his youth such a peremptory and disrespectful greeting would have drawn a challenge from him. He noted an unusual ornament on the man’s breast, a gold brooch worked in the shape of a tiny oval mask.
‘I was wondering, Ester-Jeen, just where is our illustrious leader? He doesn’t seem very interested in actually leading.’
The man physically paled at Coll’s daring in giving voice to such disrespect. He dropped a gloved hand to the gilt rapier at his hip even though, as Coll knew, the councillor had never fought a duel. Then his eyes fluttered and the hand fell away as he seemed to remember that not only had Coll fought many duels but he was also a veteran of the Free Cities wars from years ago.
He opted for a superior frosty glare. ‘The Legate is not required to sit here and be bored by the Council’s unending chatter. He will grant audience in the Great Hall for any official business.’
‘Audience?’ Coll repeated, outraged. Conversations surrounding them stilled. Coll glanced about, met many hostile, even some pitying, gazes. He lowered his voice. ‘Since when do we here in Darujhistan use such language as “audience”? And the Great Hall … we don’t use that. It’s considered …’ Coll searched for the right term, ‘well … cursed.’
Having gauged the atmosphere of the room, Councillor Ester-Jeen was now quite at ease. No one, it appeared, was prepared to offer Coll any support whatsoever. The man was simply making a sad spectacle of his ignorance and isolation. Perhaps now, if he was very careful, he could even lure him into discrediting himself entirely. He spoke up, loudly. ‘If you have any legitimate business regarding matters before the Council then of course you may approach the Legate. Otherwise, Coll, I would suggest you not waste his time.’ And he offered a small shrug of embarrassment as if to say: I am very sorry to be the one to have to tell you this.
He was gratified by the reaction his words elicited. The big man reared up as if slapped – which of course he had been – and his eyes widened, stunned. He glanced about at the gathered councillors and Ester-Jeen saw only flat gazes answering. Then Coll spun on his heels and marched for the doors. Ester-Jeen was delighted. He’s actually going to do it – the fool.
When Coll pushed past Councillor Orr the young woman whispered through gritted teeth: ‘Don’t.’ But he was past listening. He could not let this stand. There was no way he could ever face any one of those present again unless he did exactly what that upstart useless popinjay wanted him to. He marched for the Great Hall.
Majesty Hall itself was in truth a maze of halls and chambers and auditoriums, all of various sizes, ages, and levels of decrepitude. The Great Hall was among the most ancient of the hill’s architecture. It was sometimes used for ceremonial balls and mass assemblies. But other than that it stood empty and neglected, having a rather off-putting dusty air, quite similar to that of the equally old Despot’s Barbican.
Coll found the double doors of panelled beaten copper and bronze, as tall as three men, unaccountably closed. Before them stood two city Wardens.
‘Open up,’ he snapped, not slowing in his headlong rush.
The two shared helpless glances. Then, bowing to the inevitable, one threw open a small clerk’s door just before Coll brained himself on the polished copper panels. Coll was furious that he had to enter like some damned mouse but enter he did, ducking and stepping over the threshold. Within, he found the long hall lit by shafts of light streaming down from high openings. Motes hung in the shafts like the downy seeds of wild flowers over a sunny field. Other than that the Great Hall appeared empty. He walked slowly up its polished pink marble floor – recently dusted, he noted – his boot heels clicking loudly in the silence.
Someone, or thing, waited at the far end. Some sort of large seat had been constructed of white stone blocks and someone sat upon it. He wore a long loose cloak of rich material, a deep maroon. But what was most mystifying was the large gold mask that entirely covered his face.
The Queen-damned Legate has lost his gibbering mind.
Coll stopped short of the – what should he call it? A dais? – and squinted up at the figure. ‘Lim? Is that you? What is all this ridiculous mummery?’
The figure on the dais flicked a hand and out from the side of the hall shuffled an old man in dusty frayed clothes, grey hair all askew. The man bowed to Coll, and, nervously rubbing his hands at his chest, gulped, ‘I speak for the Legate.’
‘What? You?’ Coll turned on Lim. ‘Speak for your damned self!’ He drew breath to excoriate the fool but stopped; he saw that the gold mask, beaten in the design of a calm half-smiling face, had no holes in it whatsoever. None for eyes or mouth. How in Burn’s mysteries does the man breathe?
A strange urge almost overcame Coll then to tear the mask from the fool’s face but he was distracted by the emergence of a second man from the side of the hall. A tall familiar figure walking with a staff of twisted gnarled wood. His one-time employer, High Alchemist Baruk.
Relief flooded Coll. ‘Thank goodness … Baruk, what is all this nonsense?’
The man came very close and Coll saw that the man was Baruk, yet not. A nest of pale scars skeined his face and hands and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a savage gleeful smile. Yet only a dead sort of dismissal, if even that, animated his eyes.
And suddenly Coll knew. He knew. All those whispered rumours and hearsay. The T’orrud Cabal. It was true. Baruk had been with them all along. And now, after all these years, they’d made their move and claimed power. He flinched away from this man whom he’d thought a friend. ‘You’ll never succeed,’ he breathed, feeling utterly empty inside. ‘The Cabal will be deposed. You will see.’
Baruk shook his head, the smile broadening to become somehow even more fey. ‘You still don’t understand, Coll,’ he whispered, leaning close. ‘We’re here now because the Cabal failed.’
