Orb Sceptre Throne, page 38
‘Barathol?’ said the one named Topper. ‘Mekhar? Kalam’s brother?’
‘Yes.’
The knife point pressed harder for an instant, as if its holder were of a mind to finish him quickly then and there. He wasn’t the type to go quietly and he almost moved rather than just stand and be slaughtered but the thought of little Chaur without stopped him and he froze, tensed, his limbs twitching.
‘Don’t,’ Blend urged Topper. ‘He’s a friend.’
The blade withdrew – slightly. ‘Are you, Barathol … a friend?’
‘This is just a job. I have rent to pay. A family to feed. I’m lucky to have any work.’
‘If it’s just a question of coin – you’ll have it.’
‘On your word?’
‘Yes.’
Barathol allowed himself a small shrug. ‘Then I’ll be on my way. This isn’t my business.’
‘Very well. On your way. But I’ll be watching. One word to anyone and you’ll die. Understood?’
‘Yeah. I know the drill.’
The blade pricked him to urge him on. He nodded to Blend and headed off. A few steps later he tossed the crowbar into the woods and continued along the path.
At the trench the work crew had returned to prepping the foundation. Barathol made a show of straightening his trousers as he descended into the trench. He pushed aside the tent flap and ducked in. The tall mage was there waiting for him, staff of old wood in one hand.
‘Where were you?’ he growled.
‘Call of nature.’
‘Took your time.’
‘I’m not eating right these days.’
‘How much do you think I care about the state of your bowels?’
Barathol held a hand over the coals, thrust in a bar to stir them. ‘You asked.’
‘Don’t leave the forge again. We are on a timetable. There can be no delay.’
Over his shoulder Barathol studied the strangely lean angular fellow. ‘Oh? To accomplish what?’
The man’s eyes seemed to flare and he clasped the staff in both hands. The wood creaked in the fierce grip. ‘That is not your concern,’ he ground out.
Barathol shrugged. He gestured to the wood and leather bellows. ‘Work those for me then.’
The mage sneered. The fresh scars on his face twisted in disgust. ‘Find another to do that, imbecile.’
Barathol threw down the bar. ‘Fine. More delay.’
He impressed a worker from the crew to help on the bellows. The entire time, the mage paced the narrow confines of the tent. The work might have gone as usual, but for Barathol it seemed to flow as slowly as the silver melting in the glowing ceramic crucible. He kept suppressing the urge to peer over his shoulder, and he hunched at particularly loud bangs and crashes of dropped equipment in the trench.
All the time, he felt the gaze of the mage on his back like the twin impressions of heated dagger-points. Finally, the work was done. Both moulds were poured, and the mage shouldered him aside to inspect the cooling bars. ‘These appear acceptable,’ he growled, bent over them. A flicked hand dismissed Barathol, who straightened his back with a murmured ‘You’re welcome’.
He pushed aside the heavy canvas flap and stepped out into cool dawn air. He drew a cloth from inside his shirt and wiped his face and hands, then stood still for a moment, enjoying the caress of the wind. Walking up from the trench he paused, glanced back towards the distant woods hidden behind a wing of the rambling complex of Majesty Hall. No alarm as yet. Not even a peep. Reconnoitring? Investigating the stones? Or … no, they wouldn’t dare try that, would they?
Best to be far away in any case.
He headed for a twisting walkway down the hill.
Halfway down he flinched as a boom creaked over the hillside, echoing and rolling into the distance. It sounded eerily like broad sails catching a brisk wind. He turned in time to see a great cloud of dirt and dust billowing up over the tiled rooftops of the various buildings crowding the hilltop. He could even make out the clattering of rocks as they tumbled down the cliffs. Distant shouts and screams sounded. He hung his head. Damn! Now I have to go back for a look – it would be strange if I didn’t.
He turned round to climb the walkway.
City Wardens had already formed a cordon holding everyone back from the crater smoking in the pocket forest. He identified himself as a worker on the installation and so was let through. He found his two bosses – the hunchback and the hooknose, as he thought of them – investigating the site. The hooknose caught sight of him and waved him closer. He edged his way down into the pit. The loose dirt was hot beneath his sandals.
The hooknose rose from studying the arc of exposed blocks. To Barathol the stones looked to be discoloured and scorched, but otherwise intact. The mage eyed him sourly. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
Barathol allowed himself a shrug. ‘Moranth munitions, I imagine.’
The hooknose, ever in an ugly temper, looked to the sky. ‘Obviously, fool! No, the blocks. The links – how are they?’
‘I’ll have to examine them, I suppose.’
‘Well do so!’ and the man swept aside, curtly waving him forward.
Suppressing his own temper, Barathol knelt next to the course of blocks and began brushing away the dirt. He found the twin pins and used his shirt-tails to clean them, spitting and wiping. Leaning close, he studied the silver for cracks, the hair-line skein of shattering, or other surface distortions such as stress from flexing. He studied four in all, two exposed sets, but saw no damage that he could make out. Throughout the entire examination the two mages hovered close, shadowing his every move.
He leaned back, motioning to the exposed course. ‘There’s no damage that I can see. Amazing, that. The blast must have been enormous.’
Over Barathol’s head the two mages shared looks of savage satisfaction. ‘So we conclude as well,’ said the hunchback.
The hooknose waved him away. ‘That is all – you may go.’
He inclined his head then clawed his way up the steep side of the blast pit. The Malazans must have back-filled it to contain the force, he thought to himself. Yet the explosion had failed to mar the stones at all. He could only conclude that the blocks were ensorcelled against such attacks.
News to pass on to the Malazans. But no doubt they’d discover the failure of their opening move soon enough.
Blend, Picker, and Duiker were playing cards. Or at least pretending to. None seemed to have their mind on the game. Spindle paced, stopping on every lap of the common room to peer out of the window. Fisher was at the bar plucking out a composition.
‘Do you think he talked?’ Spindle asked of the room in general.
‘Topper’s watching,’ Blend said, irritated.
‘’Cause he might’ve.’
‘Shut up, Spin. We’ll hear all about it.’
Spindle rubbed his shirt. ‘Should’ve gone by now,’ he murmured.
‘Don’t trust your own work?’ Picker asked, cocking an eye.
‘It’s been a while, okay?’
‘Like never.’ Picker smirked at Blend.
‘I’m trained!’
‘So you keep claiming, Spin. So you claim.’
‘Well … I am. Okay?’
Then a sound like a loud booming gust of wind passed over the bar and everyone stilled. The empty bottles on the bar rattled.
Blend and Picker both eased back in their chairs, letting go long breaths. ‘There you go,’ Picker said, lifting a glass. Blend clacked hers with Picker’s and they tossed back the liquor.
Spindle raised his fists. ‘There! I told you. Two cussers! There ain’t nothing left. Ha!’
‘Good job,’ Duiker told Spindle. ‘Now have a seat, will you?’
Spindle pulled up a chair. ‘What are we playing?’
Before mid-day a knock sounded at the door. Spindle pushed himself from the table. ‘That couldn’t be Topper, could it?’ He headed across.
Before Spindle reached the door Picker’s head snapped over and she dropped her cards. ‘Get away from there!’ she shouted.
Spindle turned. ‘What?’
The door burst from its hinges in a blast of light and heat that knocked Spindle flat. Blend and Picker upturned the table, cards flying, and ducked behind pulling Duiker with them. Fisher leapt over the bar.
Dazed, Spindle raised his head to see the crab-like figure of the hunched mage in his loose layered rags lumbering into the room. The man’s arms hung unnaturally long and the hands seemed grotesquely oversized and warped. He gestured savagely and the table protecting Blend and Picker punched backwards. ‘Too obvious, Bridgeburners!’ he bellowed. ‘Too damned obvious!’
In answer Spindle rolled aside, shouting, ‘Clear!’
Blend and Picker appeared from behind the table, threw in unison.
Twin explosions tore into the mage, lacerating his already tattered clothes. The blast threw him back into a wall. Fisher stood up behind the bar, a crossbow levelled. He fired and the bolt took the invader in the chest. Spindle had crawled to a far corner. Now he stood, reaching for the one munition he always carried for just such an end-game.
An arm in a rich brocaded silk sleeve grasped his arm and twisted it painfully backwards. Spindle looked up into the snarling features of the tall mage. The man shook him like a dog. ‘Do not make me do what I might otherwise avoid doing, Bridgeburner,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. Spindle reached for his shortsword but remembered he wasn’t wearing it. Twins take it! You drop your guard for one moment … ‘Now we shall see – she will not tolerate this insult,’ the man said, scanning the common room.
A girl appeared next to Fisher. She wore the airy white clothes of a dancing girl but brandished a wicked slim dagger. The bard smashed the crossbow into her, sending her staggering back. The shocked outrage on her face was almost comical to Spindle. Fisher threw aside the mangled weapon and raised his empty hands.
Great Osserc! The man broke a crossbow over her!
The girl darted in once more. Somehow the bard grasped her wrist. He twisted the arm in a tight circle and Spindle heard the snap of the joint clear across the room. The girl voiced her agony in an inhuman guttural snarl.
Ye gods, who is this man?
Even the fellow holding Spindle by one fist eyed the bard, unease wrinkling his brow.
A shape appeared before the table behind which Blend and Picker were crouching once more and Spindle’s hair shirt writhed with agitation. It was a haunt, a ghost. It snatched them both by the necks. ‘I have them,’ it announced. Duiker rose, slashing with a long-knife, but the blade passed harmlessly through it.
‘Just kill them,’ snarled one who had taken the crossbow bolt. He straightened brushing at his smouldering rags, then took hold of the bolt and yanked on it. ‘At least we’ve cleared out this rats’ nest early on.’ He cocked his lopsided head to Fisher. ‘Stand aside, bard. We’ve no quarrel with you.’
‘No quarrel?’ the girl snarled, furious, cradling her broken arm.
Fisher inclined his head in greeting to each. ‘Aman. Barukanal. Hinter.’ He raised a brow to the girl.
‘Your future killer,’ she said, baring her teeth.
Despite Blend’s and Picker’s struggles the revenant maintained his grip. He slammed them into the wall, yet their blows and tearing hands swept through him as if he were smoke. Duiker backed away, calling, ‘Spin!’
Spindle gaped. What? Set my Warren against these mages?
‘Perhaps questions are in order,’ Hinter said.
The stairs leading from the upper floors creaked and everyone stilled. All knew that no one else was present within the old building. All eyes moved to the open portal where the stairs rose. A hunched figure stepped out, cloaked, a large hood down. Her thin hair shone silver. Her face was deeply tanned and weathered. Black glittering eyes settled on Hinter and Spindle was shaken to glimpse their depths.
‘Begone,’ she said, and waved. The shade of Hinter faded away, astonishment on its face. Blend and Picker fell to the floor, gasping in breaths.
The girl backed away towards the door. Aman raised his hands. ‘What can these be to you?’ he demanded as he too edged to the door.
‘They are not important,’ the old woman said, slowly advancing.
‘What is important is that I did not give you leave to enter my house. Therefore, you must go.’
‘Your house?’ Aman said. ‘Not for ages.’
‘Blood has been shed. What has been done is done.’
Aman threw down the crossbow bolt and hurried to the door with his limping shambling gait. He waved to the girl. ‘Come. He must be apprised of this.’
The old woman turned on the one Fisher had named Barukanal. The mage released Spindle’s arm, bowed ever so faintly. ‘Foolish, to make things all so clear.’
‘I am taking no one’s side but my own. And there is nothing any of you can do about it.’
The tall hatchet-faced mage bowed again, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps not us …’ he allowed. He peered down at Spindle. ‘Your gambit of Moranth munitions was inspired, but ineffective. The … structure … is proofed against their alchemy.’ The man glared then, holding Spindle’s gaze, as if meaning to say more.
‘Go,’ the old woman commanded.
The mage winced, the scars across his face rippling. ‘I have no choice but to obey,’ he murmured, his voice thick. Bowing, he backed away to the door.
Picker crowded the smoking doorway after him. ‘And don’t come back!’ she yelled. She turned to the room. ‘Our thanks, old … where’d she go?’
Spindle looked up from rubbing his numb elbow. Blend was righting the table. She peered about as well. ‘She’s buggered off.’
‘She’s still here,’ Duiker said. Fisher was setting out glasses on the bar, and the historian watched him fill them with Free Cities white wine. ‘This is her house. We can all use a drink, I imagine.’ Everyone took a glass. ‘To our host,’ Duiker announced. ‘K’rul.’
Spindle, who had started drinking already, spluttered his mouthful down his shirtfront. ‘The hoary old one himself? Not just some city mage who’s taken up residence? Well, why doesn’t she just curse these wretches to the Abyss? Or snap her fingers?’
‘Because she’s under assault everywhere,’ Fisher said. ‘I’d wager her direct influence extends only to these four walls.’
The old historian was nodding. ‘I didn’t like Barukanal’s – Hood, Baruk’s – comment. They’ll send soldiers next. Regular mundane agents.’
Spindle winced. Just us mortals. K’rul wouldn’t be able to help them out then.
‘Or assassins …’ Picker snarled.
Blend slammed down the empty glass. ‘I hope so. I want their blood.’
Spindle peered round. ‘Yeah – and speakin’ of them, just where’s Topper, anyway?’
Blend sneered. ‘The useless blowhard! Looks like four of them is four too many.’
She spent her days turning pots. A fever of work seemed to have taken hold of her. As if Darujhistan suffered from a crushing lack of pots, urns, and amphorae that she alone could answer.
And why would there be such a shortage?
Because all the rest are broken.
The malformed mass of clay squashed in Tiserra’s hands and she threw herself back, panting, pushed sweaty hair from her face with a forearm. She stopped working the pedals of the wheel with her bare feet.
A time of great shattering.
She cleaned her hands in a basin of water and walked through the empty house as she dried them. Gone again. She could not stop that niggling question: Fleeing her?
No. He had his life just as she had hers.
She stopped at one particular place in the floor. Kneeling, she tapped, listening. Had he?
She went to her shop to return with a clawed bar. With this she attacked the floorboards, found the dug-out space below. Empty. He’d never taken them with him before.
All those strange Moranth items, gone. Why this time?
She hammered the floorboards back into place, and, standing, pushed up her sleeves. Best get back to work. There will be a great need soon.
They climbed the stairs single file. Antsy led, crossbow freshly reassembled and cocked. Orchid came next, followed by Corien. They made much better time now they all could see. Granted, it was not the clear vision of daylight, but it was far better than total blindness. And Antsy thought his vision was even improving as he got used to discerning the subtle shadings of blues, mauves and deepest near-black.
The majestic circling stairwell ended at a wide arch-roofed hallway. Chandeliers of glowing blue crystals hung at intervals, floating like clouds of fireflies. Trash littered the polished stone floor: shards of smashed vases and pots, ornate alien sculpture and broken stone statuary. Yet there was no cloth, leather or wood. Nor anything of obvious value such as jewellery or gold or silver artwork. In the distance one chandelier had fallen, leaving a patch of darkness and a jumble of the blue crystals bright on the floor like a scattering of coals. There was no sign of Malakai, though Antsy was sure he must be ahead of them.
Again he was surprised by just how empty the place was. Where was everyone? Hundreds must’ve taken boats out over the months. They couldn’t all be dead … could they? The memory of those clawing hands and desperate starved faces in Pearl Town returned and he wanted to spit but he couldn’t draw enough saliva.
‘Anyone?’ Orchid asked, her voice pitched so low as to be almost inaudible.
‘No. But someone may be around.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ Corien said, ‘all the combustibles are gone.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Antsy seconded. ‘Picked clean. Which way?’ he asked Orchid.
She edged further up the hall, stepping carefully over the scattered debris, she sighed, a hand going to her mouth.
‘What is it?’ Antsy asked.
She glanced to him then lowered her gaze, embarrassed. ‘This hall. Beautiful, even yet. The Curtain Hall of the Hunter.’
‘What?’
