Orb Sceptre Throne, page 69
Picker snatched a dirk from her belt.
‘Hold!’ Duiker bellowed. He pushed forward, and a strange sort of half-smile touched the newcomer’s lips.
‘Duiker,’ he said. ‘If there was one man I did not expect to run into right now, that would be you.’
The old Imperial Historian looked him up and down. ‘It is you,’ he breathed, amazed. ‘Yet not – you look different.’
‘We grow older. Things change. You are right … I am not the man I was.’
Picker snorted at that. ‘What do you want?’ She raised her chin in defiance. ‘We’re retired. It’s all official now. On the books.’
The High Mage shook his head, frowning now. ‘I understand your anger and suspicion, Bridgeburner. You have every right to it. All I can say is that I’m sorry for what happened. I regret it greatly.’
‘Sorry?’ Picker echoed, derisive. ‘You’re sorry?’
Tayschrenn glanced over his shoulder. ‘Let’s back up, Kiska.’
In the cellar the three still warily eyed the High Mage. ‘What are you doing here?’ Duiker asked.
The High Mage motioned to the tunnel. ‘I’ve come to attempt something long overdue. Something that should have been done years ago.’
Picker and Blend shared puzzled glances. Duiker eyed the tunnel then his gaze shifted back to Tayschrenn. He pulled at his black and grey beard. ‘If I’m right in what you’re suggesting, then I think no one has ever been strong enough – or willing enough – to risk it. If you fail you’ll probably be destroyed.’
At that the young woman at Tayschrenn’s side started her surprise and turned a savage glare on him. ‘What’s this?’ she hissed.
The High Mage raised a hand for quiet.
‘No! I’ll not be hushed. You never said anything about this.’
Duiker caught Blend’s eye and motioned to the stairs. She nudged Picker and they started up.
Alone now, Tayschrenn took Kiska’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. But it has to be this way. This is something only I can do.’
Kiska wrenched free of his hands. She stamped the butt of the stave to the cobbled floor in a crashing report. ‘For this I drag you from the ends of the earth? So you can throw your life away on some damned fool attempt – at what?’
The High Mage leaned back against a barrel. He eyed the darkness as if studying something hidden deep within its depths. ‘Think, Kiska. Think of all those who nudged and manipulated and plain lied to bring you and me here to this place at this time.’ He raised a finger, ‘Your Aunt Agayla for one. The Enchantress. That priest of Shadow you mentioned – so Shadowthrone himself schemed for this. Even D’rek has given me her blessing. And so it must be.’
She threw out her arms. ‘Oh, certainly! Better you than they, yes? Why haven’t they stepped up if it is all so vital?’
He pressed his hands together before his lips and studied her over them. ‘It is hard, I know. But right now at this moment all those I just mentioned, and many others, are utterly enmeshed in a struggle that spans the world. All their strength is already committed in a confrontation manifesting across countless fronts. And K’rul may fail. Wounded, poisoned, weakened – the effort may prove beyond her. That we cannot allow to happen.’
‘But why you?’
He crooked a chiding smile. ‘Tell me, Kiska. If Maker were here – what would he do?’
She drew a great shuddering breath, then her shoulders fell. ‘He would do his job,’ she granted, looking away, her lips clenched tight.
‘Very good.’ He crossed to her and touched his lips to her brow. ‘Kiska – you saved me and you have made me whole. For this I will always be grateful.’ He caught her gaze and held it. ‘But now it is your turn. Be whole. Live now not for me or any other. But for yourself. ’
Her answer was hardly audible. ‘Yes.’
‘Very good. Farewell. And, my thanks.’ He walked away down the tunnel.
Upstairs Blend gave a great shout of surprise and Picker and Duiker ran up to find the wrecked K’rul’s bar crowded. Antsy and Spindle were there, as was Fisher, plus three huge fellows, shields leaning up against their table, busy emptying tall tankards of ale.
Antsy shouted from the bar, ‘Did you see …’
Picker crossed to the bar and gave a sombre nod. ‘Yeah. We saw ’im.’
‘Just about crapped my pants, I tell you,’ Antsy muttered.
‘I need a drink.’ She fished behind the bar to pull out a bottle, eyed him up and down. ‘So, you’re back. You look awful. No big bags o’ gems?’
He ducked his head, glowering. ‘The go-down, get-rich, comeback plan got upended. Long fucking story. At least I didn’t die.’
Picker snorted a laugh. ‘Same old Antsy. Who’re these huge bastards?’
‘Old friends of Fisher.’ He lowered his voice, ‘Not too pleased to see ’em, though.’
‘No kiddin’?’
Spindle came to the bar and poured a glass from Picker’s bottle.
‘So what was all this trouble in the city anyway?’ Antsy asked him.
‘Long story,’ Spindle grumbled. He leaned back against the bar. ‘Just my stupid luck too. I come here to avoid all the trouble down south, then this happens!’ He studied the glass, took a sip. ‘I’m headin’ back south.’
Careful slow steps sounded from the rear, crackling and shifting through the broken stone and wood. All eyes turned to the noise and conversation died down to a heavy silence.
The young woman came up from below. She wore a once stylish dark shirt under leathers that were tattered, scraped and grimed. Her long black hair hung unwashed and mussed but pretty oval features did much to make up for all that. She held her stave crossways, a touch defensive, and peered around at everyone, her eyes puffy as if she had been crying. She wiped her face. ‘This supposed to be a bar, then?’ she asked of the room in general.
‘Yeah …’ Blend admitted guardedly.
‘Got any wine? I could use a glass.’
Blend nodded. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Who’s the gal?’ Spindle asked, his voice low.
‘She’s a Claw,’ Picker murmured.
Spindle choked on his drink.
Studious Lock was in the kitchen experimentally poking at a burlap bag of potatoes and thinking to himself: Dear Unknowable Ancients … They eat these growths? A crash sounded from the main chambers, followed by furniture breaking, gasping, flailing limbs thumping the floor, and a man’s roar of outraged pain.
Guests!
He hurried out. A man – half Andii! – in a torn green shirt, blood-spattered, blades in each hand, was climbing to his feet among the broken wood of an ornamental table. He drew the back of one hand across his face leaving a smear of bright fresh blood.
‘You are in need of dressing!’ Studious announced, eager.
Seeing him, the man flinched away, almost falling again. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ He ran off, following a trail of bare bloody footprints that led to stairs to the lower levels.
‘I have unguents!’ Studious called after him.
Then he sniffed the air and his mouth moved in what might be called a smile. Ah! The Mistress’s daughter has returned! Perhaps I should find some pretty live plants and pull them up to kill them. As is the barbaric custom here for celebrations.
The lowest cellar was all one empty roughly octagonal room. At its centre a single figure sat cross-legged. She occupied a series of concentric circles inscribed in the floor, which was dotted with wards and sigils and symbols in languages spoken by no human. Her head was bowed and long black hair hung in a curtain that touched the ground before her.
Taya came down the wide staircase sliding along a wall. She clutched her side, blood a smear down that leg. Her gauzy scarves hung in tatters. She threw herself down before the crouched figure, a hand reaching, entreating.
‘Mother! Protect me!’
The figure’s head rose.
Topper came bounding down the stairs. He caught sight of the two women and stuttered to a halt. He raised his blades out from his sides, head cocked.
The woman within the centre of the wards stood. Chains rattled, running from her wrists to rings set in the floor at her sides. She wrapped a hand round one of these chains and yanked. Metal screeched and the chain snapped. She did the same with the other.
Topper’s brows rose in silent appreciation. A feral smile twisted his lips and he flicked the blades, shaking droplets of blood across the floor.
The woman advanced out of the concentric circles dragging the chains behind her. She lashed one, sending a scattering of sparks flying. ‘Clawmaster,’ she said from behind the curtain of hair. ‘Do we have a quarrel?’
Topper eased his left leg slightly further back. ‘Vorcan. I’m here for that one. She must answer for a crime against the Empire.’
Vorcan glanced back to the prone figure. ‘Leave her to me.’
‘To you?’ A puzzled frown creased his brow. He tapped one bloody blade to his lips, thinking. After a moment the feral grin returned and he offered a mockingly elaborate courtier’s bow. ‘Very well. For now. However … if I see her again I will take her head.’
Vorcan pointed to the stairs. Remaining half bowed, Topper backed up them, all the while keeping his eyes on her. At the top he disappeared in a swirl of darkness.
Vorcan turned back to Taya.
She lay on her side, still panting, drenched in a sweat of pain and exhaustion. She stared up at Vorcan, her brows crimped in puzzlement. ‘All this time …’ she breathed. ‘You could have …’
‘Yes. Had I chosen to – of my own free will.’
Taya shook her head in mute rueful incomprehension. Then she grimaced, hissing. She struggled to rise. ‘Well, thank you. I knew you would help me, Mother.’
A metal click sounded and Taya jerked up an arm. One of the chains now hung from it. ‘What is this?’ Vorcan gripped the other wrist and transferred the second chain. ‘No!’ Taya reached for a fallen knife. Vorcan kicked it aside, then took her daughter’s neck in a vice grip. While she held her in the choking throttle she reattached the chains to their rings. Then she tossed her down and backed away.
Taya lunged but the chains rang and grated, restraining her. She lay rubbing her wrists. ‘You cannot do this to me! I’ll have your heart!’
Vorcan continued backing away up the stairs.
‘Mother? You’re not really … ?’
Vorcan disappeared. An unseen door closed heavily and a lock ratcheted.
‘Mother! Don’t leave me like this!’
She collapsed to curl into a tight foetal ball at the centre of the concentric rings. She wrapped her arms around herself and laid her head on the cold hard floor.
‘Mother …’
Rallick found his man sitting on a bench in the grounds of Majesty Hill. He was facing the east. The sun’s warm light was a golden wash across him. He sat next him; the man did not stir from studying the sunrise over the distant Gadrobi hills.
‘You were supposed to run,’ Rallick said after a time, his hands clasped on his lap.
Scholar Ebbin nodded, almost distractedly. He pressed a bunched cloth to his forehead.
‘He wanted you to. He drove you off.’
The man nodded again. He let out a long sigh.
‘But you didn’t.’
Ebbin shook his head.
‘Why not?’
Slowly, the scholar turned his head to face him. He swallowed to speak. ‘I don’t want to die.’
Rallick looked away. His mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ebbin studied the sunrise once more. He tapped a finger to his temple. ‘He’s inside right now. Raging. But only a voice. Just a voice. He’s harmless now, I swear. Couldn’t I just—’
‘No.’
Ebbin pressed the cloth to his watering eyes. ‘I’ve hurt no one! I didn’t mean this to happen. It isn’t right!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rallick said again. His voice was now much softer.
‘I could have run, you know! Could’ve. But I didn’t!’
At that Rallick’s gaze tightened as if pained. ‘I know.’
‘Couldn’t you just … ?
‘No.’
‘Please …’ Ebbin whispered.
Rallick motioned to a copse of woods. ‘Come with me.’
‘No … I don’t …’
Rallick put an arm round his shoulders to raise him from the bench. ‘This way, scholar. Only one thing left.’
A fist wrapped tight in the scholar’s shirt, Rallick banged on the door of the Finnest house. Ebbin stared, taking in all the details of the bizarre structure. ‘Is this …’ he murmured, awed. ‘Then there really was …’
The door swung open and there stood a horror. Ebbin jerked to scream but Rallick slapped a hand to his mouth. The scholar slumped, fainting in his arms.
‘A sign,’ Raest announced. ‘That is what I need. Something like – Keep off the Mounds.’
‘Can’t you take him?’
‘We already have a boarder.’
‘That sleeping fellow?’
Raest shuffled back up the hall. Rallick followed, dragging Ebbin with him. The Jaghut motioned to a huge man lying on the floor, snoring. ‘Our boarder. Quiet. Undemanding.’
Rallick studied the sprawled man. Now he thought he recognized him; in fact, he knew where he’d seen him. He’d been with that foreign blacksmith. He adjusted Ebbin in his arms. ‘Well, perhaps he’d like to leave now … Can he?’
‘Can he what?’
Rallick studied the Jag’s dead scarred face. He cleared his throat. ‘Can he – I mean, is he hale? Whole?’
‘Physically, yes. As for his mind – it is the same as when he came to us.’
Ebbin roused in Rallick’s arms. He peered about, frowning. ‘Where am I?’
‘Could you wake him?’ Rallick asked.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. I cannot. You, however, may.’
Rallick struggled to conceal his irritation. He leaned Ebbin up against a wall then knelt over the big fellow. He touched the back of a hand to his cheek. It was as warm as a child’s.
‘Is this …’ Scholar Ebbin gasped. He pointed to Raest. ‘Are you … ? By all the gods! I have a thousand questions!’
Standing above Rallick the Jaghut let out a long low growl.
In the grounds of the High Alchemist Baruk’s estate a small pot-bellied demon anxiously edged out of the tower’s open door. As the rich amber morning sunlight struck its knobbled head it hissed, ducking and writhing from side to side. Then it shaded its gaze, blinking, and continued along on its uneven gait.
It stopped before a man lying prone halfway up the walk. Smoke curled from his shredded robes and blood matted his torn scalp. He appeared to have been in an explosion. The demon took hold of his shoulders and began attempting to drag him up the walk.
After much gasping and flailing, with the man himself weakly pushing, the demon managed to pull him in through the door. He leaned him up against a wall and waddled off. A short time later he returned with a silver flask that he opened and offered to him.
The man just peered up through pained eyes, breathing wetly, his jaws clenching against his agony. Anger appeared to be gathering in those eyes.
The demon slapped a hand to his forehead then leaned over to carefully tilt the flask to the man’s mouth. The fellow drank as much as he could then gasped, choking and coughing. After a time he managed to lift an arm to take the flask. Blinking, he peered around at the rubbish, the strewn wreckage and broken furniture. ‘Chillbais …’ he began, weakly, and coughed again.
‘Yes, master?’
He waved the flask to the surroundings. ‘ … what have you done to the place?’
The brightening light cascading in through the windows woke Envy. A hand went to her forehead, pressing there, and she groaned. She rose unsteadily to her feet and staggered to a window. There she tensed, straightening, and glared about.
‘No …’ she breathed. She gripped the sill, cracking its stone under her nails. ‘No!’
She threw herself back from the window as if to dash from the room, but halfway across she raised both hands and came to a halt. She spent some time adjusting her dress and hair, then let out a long, calming breath. ‘Very well. What’s done is done. Can’t be helped. It has all been rather a disappointment, after all.’ She set her hands on her hips. ‘Yes. Not what I’d hoped at all. Not at all. Perhaps a change in scenery.’ She tapped a finger to her pursed lips. Her arched brows rose as an idea struck. ‘Yes … perhaps the Empire. Hmm. They may be sophisticated enough …’
She waved a hand as if dismissing the rooms, Majesty Hall, the entire city, and walked out.
Across the city a burly foreigner drove a wagon into the yard of the Eldra Iron Mongers and shut the gates behind him. The master of the works himself, Humble Measure, met him as he brought the wagon to a halt before one of the cavernous shops.
Barathol dropped the reins, peered down at Humble. ‘Ready?’
Humble Measure raised a long-handled pair of iron tongs. ‘Ready.’
They went to the rear of the wagon and lowered the gate. A metal casket filled the bed. Barathol grabbed hold of a rope handle and yanked it out. It fell with a crash amid the black clinker and slag. He looked to Humble again. ‘Furnace ready?’
‘Iron’s roiling white hot.’
‘All right. Let’s get it done.’
Humble set the tongs on the lid and took the other handle. Together they carried the casket into the shop, where an orange and yellow glow flickered and smoke once more billowed out to hang over the city.
Afterwards, as they walked back to the wagon, Humble Measure wiped his blackened hands in a filthy rag. ‘Until next time, then.’
Barathol gave a harsh laugh. ‘I know what you mean – but let’s hope not, yes?’
