Orb Sceptre Throne, page 60
Sall hesitated, glanced ahead to the others. ‘They will not stop.’
Yusek sank to her knees. ‘Well – what’s the use of arriving on your last legs? Too tired to be of any use? Aw, fuck it,’ and she glared at the river making its sluggish way north, gleaming beneath bands of clouds.
Sall jogged ahead.
Some time later the three returned. They sat without a word. A few scraps of food were handed out and the waterskins made the rounds. Someone must have kept watch but Yusek didn’t know who because she immediately fell asleep.
Late in the morning they set off again, following the Maiten’s east shore. Here they climbed small hills and narrow gullies the sides of which seemed too steep to be natural. It occurred to Yusek that they were crossing the remains of large channels that might have once carried water from the river. The Maiten was far too low now even to reach these features, but at some time in the past it must have run much higher. And these channels, then, would have directed part of the flow eastward. To farms, no doubt. Yet now the Dwelling Plain was a dusty wasteland of dry hills and wind-scoured hardpan. Frankly that fitted quite well with her personal experience of what happened anywhere after people arrived. She’d seen it again and again as a refugee fleeing the Pannions. Their bands would come staggering into towns and settlements, and fighting would immediately break out over water and food. Homes were invaded, herds decimated, water sources bled dry. Then the whole stream would move on again, a swarm of locusts, consuming and destroying all it met. And the only way to have a hope of snatching anything, a handful of barley, or a crust of hard bread, was to be among the first to arrive. Thus the mad dash westward; the desperate effort to beat the mob; to be among the first to kick down the doors.
It had been a harrowing time. And it had left its mark upon her wiry lean limbs, her restless gaze and her constant, almost feverish, nerves. And what of the scars one couldn’t see? The marks upon psyche and spirit? Well, she didn’t even want to think about that.
Now Sall, he interested her. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met on her march west, nor among Orbern’s crew. All those boys forced too early to become men had ruled through muscle and viciousness, the fist and the club. But not Sall, nor his father Lo, or this fellow, the Seventh.
Their way was strange, and, she could admit, harsh. But it had clear rules, and that attracted her. She knew she wanted to be part of it.
Late in the day, from one of the higher hillsides, they saw the first hints that they were getting closer. Smoke stained the north-east sky and ahead more and more huts and rotten piers crowded the riverbanks.
They were close now. Close to the greatest city of the continent. Yusek had to hug herself to contain her yip of glee.
The murmurings of the arrival preceded them: doors slamming, sandalled feet stamping the stone floor; gasps and exclamations. Then the doors to the Great Hall swung open to admit a troop of Seguleh, dirty and sweat-stained, jogging up the centre.
Courtiers and aristocrats hastily flinched to the sides, making way. From near the white throne Jan watched their advance with stunned incomprehension. What was this? Why were they here?
Leading the troop came Gall. Soot stained his mask and black dried blood caked his side where a wound still gaped wet and open. The Third bowed to Jan.
‘Speak,’ Jan managed, almost breathless with wonder.
Gall straightened, weaving slightly. His chest worked soundlessly. ‘The Moranth,’ he grated. ‘They … used their alchemical weapons upon us. Only we few … escaped the slaughter.’
Still uncomprehending, Jan glared at the man. ‘That is nothing new. They have always had their strange chemistries. The smoking and bursting globes that they throw.’
The Third shook his head as if unable to find the words. ‘This is different, Second. Things have changed during our absence.’
And what an understatement, Gall. Yes. It seems that just as we have changed, so too have the Moranth. It is to be expected.
The Third bowed again. ‘I accept full responsibility, Second. I await your judgement.’
Jan signed for him to rise. ‘No, Third. All responsibility is mine and mine alone. Our rush to engage was foolish. And obviously costly beyond measure. We must re-evaluate our strategy.’
‘I concur,’ put in a new voice and Jan glanced down to see the Mouthpiece at his side. ‘When the rest of your people arrive, Second, then a new army will be sent to punish the Moranth. In the meantime control over the city must be enforced. You Seguleh must keep the population in order.’
Jan struggled to keep his tone neutral as he said: ‘And how do you propose we do so?’
‘Why,’ the sickly pale man answered as he daubed a cloth to his sweaty forehead, ‘are you not my sword and anvil?’
Jan turned his mask to the immobile Legate upon his white stone seat. ‘I suggest, Legate, that we may not have the time.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. The Moranth have dealt us a severe blow. I would be surprised if they did not strike now while we are weakened.’
‘Do not fear, Second. We are impregnable here within the protection of the Circle.’
Fear? This creature thinks I fear? Great Ancestors! The gulf between our thinking. Our mutual miscomprehension … beyond belief. If I fear at all, it is for the future of my people.
Yet Jan bowed, saying, ‘Of that I have no doubt, Legate.’
A knock brought Tiserra to her door. She was reluctant to open it, expecting some damned debt collector – not that she couldn’t handle such a one, but it was a distraction from her work. Finally, the persistence of the knocking, and its gentleness, persuaded her to answer.
She saw there the tall slim man that Bellam, one of her nephews on Torvald’s side, had become. She opened the door fully and he bowed.
‘Auntie.’
‘Bellam – a pleasure. You do not come by often enough.’
‘I am sorry, Auntie. I understand that the Legate has sent Torvald from the city. Some sort of political mission. So you are alone …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, Seguleh have returned to the city from the west. Just a bare ragged handful. People think there will be trouble. We are heading out to a residence in the Gadrobi hills. Perhaps you would care to join us?’
Touched, she squeezed his arm. ‘Why, thank you for the offer, nephew. But no. I will remain. Torvald will be returning and I will have to be here for him. And do not worry, I will be safe. Now go. Look after your mother and father, yes?’
Reluctant, a touch confused, the lad hesitated. ‘How do you know …’
‘Never you mind that, lad. Now go.’
He was still uncertain, but he bowed, deferring to her in any case. Sometimes, she knew, a reputation for fierceness made things so much easier.
She did not shut the door but threw on a shawl instead. So, it shall be this night. I must warn the Greyfaces – no gas! Shut the pipes! Squeeze their throats shut just as tight if I must!
The forest they walked gave way to a canyon. A narrow strip of starry night sky shone above. Tayschrenn led, moving confidently. Kiska kept a wary eye out. The canyon became a cave then a series of natural stone tunnels. Kiska finally ventured to ask: ‘Where are we going?’
But the mage merely raised a hand for patience. Kiska subsided, grumbling.
Eventually they emerged from a cave mouth and Kiska found herself high on the steep slope of some sort of mountain. Not too far away the sea spread to the horizons, black and glimmering like the sky. The jade banner of the Visitor glared high above. They were on an island.
‘Where are we?’
‘Kartool.’
‘Kartool!’ Kiska suppressed a start of revulsion. ‘Why here of all places?’
A fond, almost amused, was turned to her. ‘As I said, a long delayed reunion. Come.’ Kiska wasn’t sure if she approved of this peculiar sense of humour the High Mage seemed to have acquired.
He led the way along the narrow stone ledge. It curved round the wall of the mountain. For an instant Kiska had a flashback to a similar path on the cliffs of Malaz Isle, no great distance from her now. Agayla … are you there? Is this the Queen’s intent? Is this the right path? Gods, if I only knew.
The path stepped up on to a wide flat walkway that ran straight into the side of the mountain, to a worked cave entrance whose stone pillars were carved with the sigils of D’rek, the Worm of the World’s Autumn. After a moment’s stunned silence, Kiska cleared her throat. ‘Ah, Tayschrenn – this is a temple to D’rek …’
‘Indeed it is. I am glad to see your education encompasses the cult’s iconography.’
Ha! ‘D’rek tried to capture you!’
‘Many times, yes. Capture or kill. But that is the past. A new crossroads has been reached. It is time for a chat. Mustn’t hold grudges.’
They walked the processional way, where braziers lit the tunnel between thick pillars carved from the stone of the walls. No one was about. ‘Where is everyone?’ Kiska breathed, her voice low.
‘D’rek is still without priests, Kiska. Even here and at the temple below. This is the Holy of Holies. The most sacred shrine. Only priests and priestesses were ever allowed entrance here.’
‘And these braziers?’
‘We’ve been invited, Kiska. Here we are.’
The processional way ended at a great cavern, roughly circular. Its roof went up and up until Kiska, squinting, realized there was no roof. They stood at the base of a central vent that penetrated the mountain from its very top. A dormant volcano.
At the centre of the cavern was a pit, a black jagged hole that led down into smoke and utter night. Kiska flinched back from its lip; whatever was down there, it smelled vile.
‘What now?’ she asked, a hand at her nose.
‘Now she and I are going to have a talk, and you mustn’t interfere. Stay here, yes?’
‘Well, all right,’ she allowed, doubtful. ‘But where are you—’ Then she screamed as Tayschrenn stepped up and threw himself into the pit, diving in a long arc to disappear from sight.
Screaming still, she nearly threw herself in after him, but a strong hand grasped her cloak and yanked her away. She fell on her back and found herself looking up at an old woman, bent, hair a thick ropy nest and eyes bright circles of milky white. ‘Doan do that,’ the old crone snarled at her crossly, shaking a crooked finger.
‘Don’t do what?’ she gasped, completely shocked.
‘Doan yell like that to wake the dead. Hurts the ears that does.’
‘Sorry.’ She leapt to her feet. ‘But he jumped! He—’
‘Yes, yes.’ The old woman waved dismissively. ‘That’s what the most powerful of them do. Doan worry y’self. He’ll be back. Or … he’ll be dinner for the Worm!’ and she chuckled, shuffling off.
Kiska followed. ‘Dinner! You mean … down there … it’s down there?’
‘Oh aye. Down there. Far enough. Coiling and churning eternal. The Worm of the Earth. A worm of energy it is. Fire and flame, molten rock and boiling metal. Ever restless. And a good thing too! Else we’d all be dead!’
‘I’m sorry – I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Never mind. Make y’self useful. See that bucket?’
Kiska peered into the shadows. ‘I think so.’
‘Well, fill it and follow me!’
Against the wall Kiska found a bucket and woven baskets bursting with coal. She filled the bucket and followed.
‘Keep the fires going – that’s my job,’ the old hag was muttering. ‘Can’t be neglected! It’s the light and heat that keeps us all alive. Yes?’ She peered about blindly.
‘Ah … yes,’ Kiska said.
‘That’s right!’ Reaching the wall, the woman walked along tracing her way with one hand. The other hand she held up high, quavering. Nearing a brazier, she patted at the hot metal to test its heat. Kiska winced at the sight. Nodding to herself, satisfied, she moved on. ‘There’s precious few these days understand that, girl,’ she muttered. ‘Precious few understand that it’s all about service. Serving!’
‘Yes,’ Kiska answered, understanding now that this was her role.
‘No,’ the old crone muttered, spitting aside. ‘Nowadays it’s all about gathering – influence and power and whatnot.’ She found another brazier, patted its hot iron with her naked hand, waved. ‘Low! Fill it!’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s not how it used to be. Not how it should be! Do you understand me?’
‘Ah … yes.’ I have no idea what you’re blathering on about, you miserable hag.
‘Only way to sustain anything, to build anything, is to give! You understand me, girl? Give and give of y’self till there’s nothing left! Only then can you have something! If you take, you diminish things till there’s nothing left. If you give, you provide and things grow! Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘There y’go! That’s right. Everyone’s greedy these days. It’ll only diminish the pot till there’s nothing left! Then we’re all in the dark, yes?’
‘Ah … right. Yes.’
The old woman leaned back against the wall, breathing wetly. ‘There we go. All done.’
‘We’re done?’ Kiska studied the countless other braziers surrounding the chamber.
‘Not us! Me. I’m done. You go on and finish.’
Kiska eased out a long low breath between her teeth, but continued. She went all the way round the cavern tossing lumps of coal into any of the braziers that were low, relighting others that had gone out. When she returned the bucket to its place she found the old woman sitting against the wall, her knees drawn up tight, a cloak wrapped around her, asleep, her mouth half open.
Tired, hungry, her nerves still jangling for Tayschrenn, Kiska eased herself down the wall to sit with her own knees drawn up and rested her chin on them. Soon afterwards she fell asleep.
She awoke to a light kick and jerked, blinking. Tayschrenn was peering down at her. He appeared to be in a good mood. He was smiling and seemed unharmed from his descent, but for his mussed hair and soot-stained cloak.
‘I’m sorry if I scared you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you would reacted well to my telling you what I was about to do.’
‘No. I wouldn’t have.’ She pushed herself up, wincing and easing her back. ‘So – we’re done here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You … spoke to her?’
The mage eyed her sidelong. ‘Sort of. That’s not really how we communicated.’
‘I see. Well, I had a grand old time doing chores here.’
‘Chores?’
‘Yes. The old woman who takes care of the place. She showed me the ropes. Gods, does she ever go on.’
Tayschrenn had been on his way to the tunnel. He stopped to turn. ‘Kiska. There’s no one else here.’
‘Sure there is.’ She glanced about. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. ‘She was right here.’
‘Must have been a dream, Kiska. Because we are all alone. But tell me … what did she have to say?’
Baruk’s workroom was at the very top of the tower. On the way up the endless narrow circular stairway Spindle had grumbled to himself: Gods, why do they always have to be at the top? Never on the ground floor. All this useless walking up and down!
Since being guided into the room by the little waddling demon, Duiker had had him searching for all the various chemicals in their phials, globes, decanters and cups. The historian dropped samples from each liquid on to a chip of the white stone. He hadn’t been happy with any of the reactions produced.
Eventually, long past midnight, they gave up for the time being and Spindle gestured for the old man to rest. He would take first watch. An old campaigner, the historian curled up on all the cloths they’d piled together as a bed and went to sleep.
From a seat beneath a window Spindle watched the city below glowing in its blue flames. Above, the green radiance of the Scimitar shone down. And it seemed to him that the two nimbuses warred over the city. Or at least that was what he fancied. The night was very quiet. In fact the city had been very quiet ever since the Seguleh arrived. Everyone hurried, reluctant to be out, constantly peering over their shoulders. People were afraid. And the Seguleh hadn’t even done anything yet! He had the impression that they simply weren’t welcome, weren’t wanted, here in Darujhistan. Which struck him as odd since it seemed to welcome everyone, priding itself on being so cosmopolitan and all.
He supposed it was more what they represented. Or stood for, perhaps.
A few bells later he woke the historian.
In the morning nothing had changed. None of the chemicals they tested elicited the sort of reaction the historian seemed to expect. As the day waned Spindle returned to his seat at the window. A growled sigh of frustration drew his gaze to Duiker as the man pushed himself away from the worktable. He regarded Spindle through narrowed, squinting eyes. ‘Nothing. I don’t understand it. This should be the answer. Why is nothing reacting?’
Spindle shrugged. ‘Maybe we need a new sample? Another shard?’
The historian waved his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Well … perhaps. Go get one.’
‘All right.’ He heaved himself from the chair and headed to the top of the stairs where they’d dropped their load of stones. Here he found the fat little demon, its head in the cloak, stuffing its great mouth with the chips.
‘Hey! Git outta there!’
It raced off, dragging the cloak with it. Spindle gave chase. Its little clawed feet clicked over the polished stone floor as it ducked under tables and around furniture. Spindle swore again for leaving his shortsword behind. He almost lost his quarry amid all the furnishings and hangings but spotted a telltale corner of the cloak peeping out of a well-hidden door. Searching about, Spindle found a fireplace poker and raised it, then reached for the slim stone door.
He yanked it open, poker poised, and the little demon hissed at him then ran between his legs and scuttled off. Spindle let it go; it had abandoned the cloak. He gathered it up and gave it a shake. Just a few leavings rattled at the bottom.
