Dancer's Lament

Chapter 7

‘I DO NOT want you here,’ said the black-haired Dal Hon swordsman, practically pouting.

Dorin was leaning against the doorjamb of the mausoleum, watching the empty night-time Street of the Gods. He said, distractedly, ‘I’m really not interested in what you want.’

‘Leave now.’

Dorin cupped a hand at his ear and made a show of listening to the rear of the chamber. ‘I don’t hear the priest objecting.’

‘He only talks to me,’ the youth ground through clenched teeth.

Dorin crossed his arms, shot a quick glance to the street. ‘You mean like an imaginary friend?’

The youth jerked forward, a hand slapping to the much-worn grip of his sword. Dorin imagined he could hear the wire, horn, and tang creaking in that white-knuckled clench.

He remained calm – outwardly, at least. He’d guessed that the youth slew only those who threatened the temple, or his god, or something like that. In which case, the lad’s own bizarre self-imposed strictures protected him. He’d just have to be careful not to overstep some stupid obscure religious law like eating horse on a new moon, or wearing a pointy hat indoors.

The youth subsided into sullen silence after that, which suited Dorin fine. He kept watch without being further accosted. His one remaining concern was the child – she lay as before amid rumpled old blankets against a wall. Asleep this time, at least. Yet kept in a mausoleum? What was this lad thinking?

‘Yours?’ he asked, pointing to the girl.

The lad’s jaws hardened. ‘My ward. Why?’

‘Just wondering why you haven’t passed her along to some family.’

‘She is safest here with me. None shall harm her here. I’ve sworn it.’

Dorin raised a hand in surrender. ‘Just wondering.’

As the night hours passed, the street emptied of legitimate devotees while a crowd came to gather on the street in either direction from the mausoleum. A rather burly crowd for this particular thoroughfare; not one black-shawled grandmother among them.

Some ten of the sturdy fellows detached themselves from the crowd and advanced. Dorin slipped further into the cover of the stone jamb. ‘Far enough!’ he called. ‘No sense continuing with this unless the man himself is here.’

The street enforcers parted, revealing another figure among them, this one far shorter and broader. The fellow padded forward with a slow rolling gait. His round bald head gleamed with sweat even in the cool night air. His body was just as round, with a great protruding pot belly and thick trunk-like arms. If this was Pung himself, then Dorin wondered why he wasn’t known as Pung the bung. He was dressed rather conventionally for an underworld boss, in plain wide trousers, a dark blue silk shirt and dark green jacket.

‘Are you Pung?’ Dorin called.

‘What is this?’ the black-haired youth hissed from the hall. Dorin ignored him. The man nodded his shiny bullet-like head, then advanced up to the mausoleum’s stone threshold.

‘You wanted to talk?’ Dorin asked.

The man raised a hand for silence, then knelt. ‘First things first,’ he said in a thick, wet voice, like molasses. On his knees, he crossed his arms at his chest and bowed, then extended his arms in front of him. ‘May Hood preserve me,’ he murmured and stood, grunting with effort.

Meaty hands on his hips, he studied Dorin up and down. ‘So. You’re the fella causing all the ruckus.’

‘Depends on the ruckus.’

Pung rubbed his heavy jowls, cocking an eye. ‘Well, let’s see now . . . There’s a baker’s dozen or so on a barge south of the city that included an officer of the Kan Elites. Then there’s a near equal number of Kan Nightblades gutted across roofs and spattered on streets.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

Pung shook his head and gave him a disgusted look. ‘Lad, I got eyes on the roofs. I see the Nightblades comin’ and goin’. There’s nothin’ that moves in this town that I don’t know about.’

‘That include the city mages?’

‘I’m smart enough to stay out of their way.’

Dorin sensed, rather than felt or heard, the youth come up behind him. ‘Leave our threshold,’ the young man demanded.

Pung raised his wide hands, empty, palm outward. ‘I come offering worship.’

‘You are no devotee of Hood.’

‘Oh, I am, lad. I am.’

Dorin looked to the ceiling and crossed his arms. ‘Is this what we’re here to talk about?’

Pung’s lips drew down in disapproval of such rudeness. ‘I’m thinking you’ve been doing a heap of free killin’ for someone who claims to do it only for pay.’

‘And?’

‘Want to get paid?’ One edge of his heavy mouth crooked up with that question.

Dorin did indeed want to get paid. However, now that he saw which way things were going, he decided to try a little fishing instead. ‘I’m wondering why you need me when you have such a deadly mage.’

The squat fellow’s hairless thick brows clenched in confusion, then he burst out with a harsh guffawing laugh. ‘Oh, yeah! That guy. My fearsome mage. Ha! I’ll drag him out for you if you like.’

Dorin was puzzled by the reaction, but made a show of waving it off as unimportant. He said, ‘Well, I would like to get paid.’

Pung inclined his blunt head. ‘Good. We should talk. But not here. Private, don’t you think?’

‘I’ll pay you a visit.’

The man’s small eyes narrowed in their deep pockets, then the edge of his mouth curled up again in appreciation of the comment. ‘Soon.’ He backed away. As he did so, he raised a finger to the youth. ‘Your time will come, lad.’

‘Not before yours,’ the young man answered with what Dorin thought a strange tone of certainty.

The two watched Pung’s guards encircle him once more, and all move off with many glances back over their shoulders.

Once they were alone, the youth’s blade was suddenly across the threshold, barring the way out. The speed of the move shocked Dorin. ‘Do not follow this man.’

Blinking to recover, Dorin grated, ‘Or . . . you will do what?’

‘I will do nothing. It is what I see.’

‘And that is?’

‘Death. There will be death.’

‘That’s the general idea. Or do you mean mine?’

‘No, not yours.’

‘Whose?’

‘Hood commands my silence in this.’

Dorin pressed a hand to the flat of the blade and edged it away. ‘Then stand aside. And never interfere with me again. Or I will kill you. Is that clear?’

‘It is very clear.’

The way the youth spoke disturbed Dorin, but he could not pin down the reason. He nodded to emphasize his point and walked out, slipping round the side of the mausoleum to head in the opposite direction from the toughs. Frankly, the lad’s entire manner made him uneasy. He had to wonder whether the fellow was actually sane. Perhaps he wasn’t just pretending to hear voices to delude the gullible. Perhaps he was hearing them, and he was the deluded one. Or, far scarier, perhaps he was hearing them and they were real.

* * *

Just because they were hostages didn’t mean that Iko and the rest of the Sword-Dancers neglected their training. Their daily routines had even become something of a local attraction as city aristocrats and members of the rich merchant families made a point of gathering to watch, as if the display were some sort of sport. Sitting after a long run of twelve katas, Iko worked on recovering her breath and watched as well. It occurred to her that one reason for the crowds might be that many of the girls chose to exercise in a tight chest wrap and loincloth only. Because they wished to soak up the last of the sun, they would say. But Iko knew some enjoyed showing off.

Hallens, sweaty herself from recent sparring, came and sat next to her. Her eyes were on the ongoing matches, but she said, beneath her breath, ‘I have word the king is becoming impatient and that tonight the Blades will see employment.’

‘Who?’

‘The one herself.’

Iko sat back, surprised and, for a fleeting instant, a touch disappointed. Chulalorn would order such a move? Still – it wasn’t as if she was nobility. ‘We will be on alert all through the night.’

‘No. Nothing out of the ordinary. We must not be seen as complicit.’

‘Then . . . what?’

‘Take one of your midnight walks. Take someone with you. One you trust. Watch for any alarm.’

‘I would chose Rei.’

‘Good choice.’ Hallens stood, stretching, and Iko sat back, now quite distracted from the bouts. He is the king, she reminded herself. The Nightblades serve him as they served his father. It was not her place to judge. She was also a mere servant sworn to serve.

Still, the idea that the Protectress would stoop to such a dishonourable deed had earlier disgusted her. Now she must serve as a near accessory when the king orders the same thing? She clenched her lips tight and eased her shoulders. He was the king. His was the right, as ruler. Hers was to obey.

She could not help being rather subdued through the day and later as they sat together for the evening meal. This they took cross-legged on the floor of their quarters, serving one another; in Itko Kan, and many other southern cities, chairs were looked upon as rather odd and awkward contrivances.

After, she waited aside, quiet. This too was easily accomplished, for in the eyes of her sisters she was Hallens’ new whipping-girl, unable to do anything right, and constantly in need of correction.

When the appointed hour neared she rose and approached Rei where she sat among the sisters, talking and laughing about gods knew what. Iko couldn’t fathom how anyone could still have anything to talk over after living together for so many years.

‘Walk with me, Rei,’ she said.

The tall sister – almost all were taller than Iko – waved her off. ‘Find another chaperon.’

‘I choose you.’

Rei made a face and peered round for Hallens. Iko pointed. ‘She’s over there.’

Rei went to her and Iko watched while Hallens waved her off in turn. She stalked back, picked up her sword, and marched off. ‘Fine!’

They walked the grounds. Or rather, Iko walked the grounds, while Rei shambled after, sighing and huffing her annoyance. Iko tried to keep her gaze from the tall dome of the Inner Focus, which some named the temple, with its single tall tower behind. But she kept glancing that way, wondering just what was transpiring behind those stone walls.

After a time Rei ceased her complaints. Then she said, ‘You won’t see one.’

Iko jumped. ‘See what? What are you talking about?’

‘A Nightblade. You won’t see one.’

‘Of course I won’t! Whatever made you think that?’

Rei glanced to the walls. ‘I see you watching the roofs and such. But you never see them. Not that you’d want to anyway. They’re not what the songsters make them out to be.’

Iko studied the slim woman, who was pushing back her long straight bangs as was her constant habit. ‘Have you seen them?’

‘No. Not that I want to. They’re just murderers. Romanticized cowardly back-stabbers.’

Iko was almost shocked. ‘Cowardly?’

‘They won’t face anyone honestly. So they come in the night, from behind.’

Iko cast another quick glance to the dome of the Inner Focus. ‘I don’t know . . . I imagine it must take courage to enter enemy territory all alone, without retreat, and know you are dead if you are discovered.’

The woman was unmoved. ‘I hear their graduation test is to strangle a baby.’

Iko stared. ‘Strangle—’ She laughed nervously. ‘Now who is the one listening to stories?’

‘This is what I hear.’

Iko turned away, hugged one shoulder against the chill of the night air. What an absurd claim. Chulalorn would employ such monstrous creatures? Still, after such an act, the only thing left to cling to would be the service that demanded it . . .

She kneaded her shoulder, wondering, could there be similar stories circulating regarding them?

For a time neither spoke, then Rei drew a breath that might have been a sigh. ‘It is . . . pleasant, out here, Iko. The air is welcome. One can almost imagine . . .’

‘That we are not prisoners?’

A laugh. ‘We can escape from here whenever we wish.’

‘So we like to think.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we could.’

‘But we haven’t yet.’

‘You are always worrying. Don’t worry.’

‘I was just considering—’ Iko stopped herself because she saw a shadow. She glimpsed it clearly as a long drawn out lance thrown across the ground in a flash. She spun to see the dome of the Inner Focus dimming like a fading ember.

Behind her, Rei’s breath caught.

‘Did you see that?’ Iko gasped, wondering whether she’d imagined it.

‘I can hardly see now. We should report this.’

‘You report. I will take a look.’

‘Be careful.’ Rei dashed off.

Iko headed to the nearest doors leading to the inner chambers. Two palace guards stood watch. She didn’t know if she should be relieved by this or not. Did it mean that the Nightblades hadn’t made it in? She stopped a good distance beyond sword range and pointed up past them. ‘Did you see that?’

‘See what?’

‘The dome. I thought I saw it glow.’

‘You must be mistaken,’ said one.

‘We saw no such thing,’ said the other.

Of course you didn’t. She didn’t know what to say to that and so shrugged. ‘Well . . . I guess I was mistaken.’

‘I suggest you stay in your chambers from now on, Sword-Dancer.’

‘Perhaps so.’ She bowed a farewell, and backed away.

She found the rooms a whirlwind of activity as her sisters dashed about, each asking what had happened and no one knowing. She pushed through the crowd surrounding Hallens and Rei. Hallens cast her a questioning glance to which she responded with a negative shake of her head.

The captain’s answering frown was sour. She waved everyone away. ‘Back to bed. Tomorrow.’

‘What is it?’ Yvonna demanded. ‘What is going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Hallens snapped. ‘Nothing happened and no one will say anything. Understood? Now back to sleep.’

Iko nodded her assent. She headed to her bedding. Yvonna grasped her arm and whispered, insistent, ‘You were out there. What was Rei talking about? What did she see? You can tell me.’

‘Nothing. Didn’t you hear? Nothing happened.’

Yvonna glared down at her, then snorted. ‘Of course you wouldn’t know, would you?’ Iko just damned her to the Abyss and went her way.

* * *

Silk was kissing the smooth stomach of the daughter of a very rich merchant family when a summons pierced his concentration. It came as white light of a purity far beyond any that a mage of Thyr could fashion. In fact, it came from that other realm that Silk had been privileged to glimpse twice during his most profound incantations. It came not in words, but as an image and a demand.

The Inner Focus – the temple – and his presence.

He flinched from the bed, wincing, and rubbing his temples. ‘Sorry, dearest. Have to go.’

She stared up at him, utterly shocked. ‘What?’

‘I must go. City mage business.’

She pulled her silk robes about herself, sat up. ‘Bullshit! It’s as they say – you do prefer men!’

He drew on his trousers. ‘If that will soothe your vanity, my sweet.’

‘Or you can’t perform!’

He squeezed his erection through the cloth, showing her. ‘Not an issue.’

She heaved a pillow. ‘Get out! My father will hear of this!’

‘And what details exactly will he hear?’

She fairly shrieked, ‘Just get out!’ and hid her face.

He backed away as he buttoned up his shirt. ‘I’m very sorry, dearest. You really were . . . most tasty.’

A perfume pot smashed into the wall next to his head. He ducked as he exited.

Reaching the street, he turned and made directly for the nearest gate. As it was the middle of the night it would be closed, but it would be manned, and he would be let through. He was confident the girl – what was her name? – wouldn’t give any true account of the night. Rather the opposite, in fact. The truth would quite take away from the glow of her conquest, after all.

He jogged listening for sounds of any disturbance or attack, yet heard nothing out of the ordinary. Now he feared the worst. Could she be wounded? Surrounded? Had the others been summoned? He quickened his pace and wished he were a talent of one of those Warrens that allowed faster physical movement, such as Serc.

He charged up the stairs, waving at the guards as he came, and sprinted through the empty halls of the outer palace. Past these, he reached the more private rooms, then saw ahead the doors of Shalmanat’s sanctum, the Inner Focus. Here a mass of guards milled, blocking the way, and he yelled, ‘Make room!’

‘The doors are shut,’ one told him.

He waved them aside. ‘Not to me.’

Fresh blood smeared the stone flags before the doors. Dread clenched his heart.

‘Four dead,’ one guard whispered.

Silk pressed a hand to a door, found it warm to the touch. ‘What happened?’

‘Don’t know. People just report a blinding flash from the Focus. Then silence. No one can get in.’

‘Are the other mages here?’ The guard shook a negative. Mystified, Silk gave the door a push and felt it yield. ‘Bar the way,’ he told the guard, and slipped within, shutting the door after him.

Brilliance assaulted him. He blinked, squinting, his eyes watering, and shaded his gaze. Eventually, as his vision adjusted, he could make out one smear of lesser intensity and he headed towards it. He marvelled as his feet struck the white stone flags invisible to him. It was as if he were suspended within the sun itself. No adept of Thyr could marshal anything near this potency.

He realized that this manifestation transcended his Warren – and then he knew. He knew who, or more accurately what, Shalmanat was.

He found her sitting on her camp stool once more. Surrounding her lay eight smears of black ash – as if she had tossed eight handfuls of soot from where she sat. Ignoring these for the moment, he went to her and knelt.

Her eyes were shut and she was weaving gently in her seat, as if in a trance, or a dreaming dance. He reached out to touch her but reconsidered, and withdrew his hand. Instead he called to her, softly, ‘Protectress . . . Shalmanat . . .’

The sinuous dance slowed, halted. The eyes fluttered, opening. Irises lay before him like twin open wells. Yet instead of darkness within, each pupil glowed a bright velvety crimson.

He knew for certain then. ‘Shalmanat.’

The eyes found his, focused. A wan smile touched the lips. ‘You heard.’

‘Yes. And I came. What—’ He started, seeing her shirt sliced open at her side. He drew on the cloth to see the wound along her ribs as a bright sealed gash. Healed as if cauterized instantly.

As if.

He lowered himself as before to one knee, gestured to each side in wonder. ‘This is more than Thyr. This is Liosan. Kurald Liosan. Elder Light.’ He bowed his head to her. ‘And you are Tiste Liosan.’

Her exhausted smile lifted a touch higher. ‘I am unmasked.’

He indicated the nearest tossed dusting of soot. ‘And this?’

The thin-lipped mouth tightened. ‘Chulalorn’s childishness.’

‘Childishness?’

She took a deep breath, straightened her back. ‘Kings are like children. They expect to be obeyed, and throw fits when thwarted.’

Silk eyed the eight smears. Light alone did this. The power that moves all creation, some say. ‘But how could they have gained entry?’

She lifted her thin shoulders. ‘Who knows? A bribe? A threat? They need only suborn one guard.’

‘You are not safe.’

The lips quirked upwards again. ‘On the contrary, dear Silk.’ She gestured to the streaks. ‘I am very safe.’

Silk answered the wry smile. Yes . . . well. ‘I mean, what will we do?’

‘Yes. Good question.’ She hugged herself. Her long arms reached far beyond each shoulder. ‘Yes. Chulalorn poked the hornets’ nest. Now he will find himself facing far more than he bargained for. This is an escalation, Silk. And thoughtless. Overweening.’ She was nodding to herself now. ‘Very well. The child must be taught that there are far older powers in this world and that he is but an infant among them. The north, I think. Their grip is weakest in the north. We still get foraging parties in and out there. Tomorrow, Silk. You shall accompany me tomorrow night.’

‘To the north?’

She was still nodding. Her gaze held somewhere far past Silk now. ‘Yes. I will summon Ryllandaras.’

* * *

Dorin sought out one of his few remaining rented safe-rooms and lay back on the straw-stuffed pallet. Sleep, however, would not come. He wondered how to enter Pung’s compound. Simply walk in the front door? No. He must not be spotted meeting the man. It was already regrettable that a few of the toughs had seen him. Unavoidable, he supposed.

He would pursue the best option he’d planned during those long vigils overlooking the black market boss’s compound. He would gain entry to the larger open compound among the returning crews of street thugs, beggars and cutpurses. From there, he would try to push into the main quarters that held Pung’s offices. Failing that, he would circle round and try for another entrance. And failing that, he would climb to the second storey or the roof.

Very well. That would have to do. If he was cornered, he would simply reveal that he was expected. Yes, much easier to enter a defended position if you didn’t have to worry about how you would get out.

That resolved, he eased into relaxation and allowed himself to fall asleep. The last thought that came to him was what Pung had meant regarding his old acquaintance – that Dal Hon mage. It sounded to him as if the fellow was not sitting quite as comfortably as he’d imagined.

With the sixth bell of the next day the shift of returning crews came trickling in through the doors of Pung’s compound. With them came a well-dressed lad, walking straight in. A guard raised his truncheon to stop the fellow. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Toben.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I take things from people.’

The guard gestured, inviting him to show what he had. The lad drew out a very fat bag and opened it. The guard took a handful of the clinking contents then urged the lad onward. ‘Okay. You can go.’

The lad didn’t move. Others pushed in past him. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Just grab a bunch of my coin.’

‘Got no idea what you’re talking ’bout, kid. G’wan.’

‘I’ll complain.’

‘You do that and I’ll beat the crap out of you every time I see you – okay?’

The lad tossed a rude gesture and marched off. The guard turned to his fellows. ‘Did you see that? The nerve of some people, I tell you.’

The nearest guard held out his hand and the first looked to the sky, groaning, and began portioning out shares.

Inside, Dorin turned away from the main stream heading to what looked like the largest of a series of dormitories. He angled towards the open-fronted warehouses and great piles of gravel, bricks, and other building materials, throwing off his jacket as he went.

He was reaching behind his back, in the process of moving the weapons he’d brought to more accessible places, when he turned a corner of piled lumber and almost ran straight into a guard.

Inwardly, he cursed. He’d known Pung kept four wandering compound guards – just his bad luck to run into one here. He slapped a hand to his forehead, jumping. ‘Gods! You frightened me!’

‘What’re you doin’ here?’ the older fellow grumbled, his mouth turned down beneath a huge moustache.

‘My girl’s waiting for me at the back. It’s our only chance to . . . you know . . . get together . . .’

The guard snorted, peering round. ‘Got a hot date, hey?’ The moustache drew down. ‘How hot?’

Wincing, Dorin held out a single Hengan round.

The guard sneered. ‘Not so hot. What do you get? Just a stroking?’

Dorin added three. The guard looked mildly impressed. ‘Lookin’ better – but not quite all the way.’

Letting out a hissed breath, Dorin added one more. The guard swiped them into his hand. ‘There you go. Worth your while, I’d say.’

Dorin forced a nervous laugh. ‘Oh yeah! That’s for sure.’ He edged past the guard and jogged onward. That had cost him dear, but it was worth it as the plan was to wait into the night and come upon Pung in the pre-dawn hours. A slain guard would’ve forced his hand.

He found a ready hiding spot among the odds and ends of piled wood, sat cross-legged, and dozed, waiting for the appointed time.

The sky glowing the rosy pink of imminent dawn was his sign to straighten his legs and rub the circulation back into them. Once that was accomplished, he rose and readied the gear he’d brought. First he reversed his shirt and trousers to their inside lining, which was a dull pewter grey. Then he finished moving his weapons and gear to ready-at-hand positions and set off for the main building. The west wall was the least overlooked and here he spotted several possible means of ingress – all windows. He took a running leap and reached the lowest. Its shutters proved too corroded to open. He propped his feet on the sill and launched himself up to the window above. This one had bars, but very far apart. He slid between them, landed on his hands, cartwheeled, and stood. He was in a hireling dormitory. Everyone was asleep. He padded between the bunks to the door. Peeping out, he saw that the hall was empty. He went to find the stairs up to the second floor where he assumed Pung kept court.

The stairs led up to a guardroom, or antechamber, which was empty. He gently padded forward to the inner door, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open. Across a room rested a broad desk behind which sat Pung himself, reading. The many other chairs in the room were all empty.

Pung glanced up from the sheaf of papers he was studying. ‘It’s about time. Everyone’s fallen asleep waiting.’

Determined not to show the least disappointment, Dorin slipped in the door, walked up to Pung’s desk, and sat in the nearest chair. He swung his feet up on to the desk. ‘Seems private now.’

Nodding, Pung opened a drawer, pulled out a tall bottle and two tiny shot glasses and poured two drinks. Dorin ignored the one in front of him. Pung tossed his back, sucked air through his teeth, and regarded Dorin. ‘Been hearing rumours for months now that there was a blade in town. Had to take it slow, though. You’d be surprised how many arseholes show up claiming to be shit-hot deadly knifemen – or women. Full of talk they are. And talk is cheap. The real thing, though,’ he lifted his glass to Dorin, ‘that’s rare.’

Dorin waited, saying nothing; he’d yet to hear any offer.

Pung sucked his teeth once more, regarded him silently for a time. ‘You gonna work for me you have to prove you’re not all talk. Anyone can knife a person. All those I’ve met who like that sorta work are the kind of fellas high on my own list to kill out of pure self-protection – if you see what I mean. So . . . you’re going to have to prove yourself. Kind of like an initiation.’ And he smiled, his thick lips pulled back in a teeth-baring grin.

The word gave Dorin an ugly feeling. It reminded him of that night at Tran’s place and he was taken by a chilling premonition that perhaps he’d made a mistake in coming here.

‘There’s a fella works for Urquart,’ Pung continued. ‘Works well with the young street thieves and such. Too popular. Makes my work harder. Can’t have that.’

Dorin’s feeling of unease grew.

‘You kill him and you’re in. His name’s Rafalljara. But you might’ve heard of him by his street name, Rafall.’

Dorin kept his face flat, but inwardly he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Why not some other damned agent of Urquart? Did Pung know? Was that behind the assignment? He stared at the fellow hard, but the wide-jowled sweaty face revealed nothing. The man was far too experienced in hiding his thoughts. Not trusting himself to speak, Dorin nodded his assent. He suddenly felt as dirty as he had that night at Tran’s.

Pung grunted his agreement and did something behind the desk – pulled a cord perhaps. A moment later the door opened and a tall bland-looking fellow entered and closed the door behind himself.

‘This is Greneth,’ said Pung. ‘He’s my second.’ He asked Dorin, ‘Anybody see you comin’ in?’

‘No one who would remember me tomorrow.’

Pung grunted again. ‘Good. Gren, take this fellow down and introduce him around as a new enforcer – nothing more than that. What name?’

Dorin was startled. ‘Danar,’ he managed, stammering, and damned the stammer.

Pung’s grin seemed to curl briefly. ‘Okay . . . Danar.’ He motioned to Greneth. ‘Oh! And show him our mage too. Danar here was curious about him.’ Now the wide grin was definitely sneering. Pung gestured to the door. Dorin eased himself to his feet. Greneth stepped away from the door. Dorin cast one look back; Pung had returned to glancing through the sheaf of papers.

None of this had gone the way he’d intended at all. Pung hadn’t even mentioned a sum – and he stupidly hadn’t demanded one. It had all somehow twisted, and he couldn’t pin down just when it had happened. He decided it was when he sat down.

Greneth introduced him around. They passed the guard he’d met yesterday and the man didn’t even blink. Dorin could only shake his head: we all see what we expect, or want, to see.

Then Greneth took him out to the works. Here hordes of kids ran about making bricks, sawing wood, picking rope, twisting hemp, and feeding dried dung into kilns. They entered the largest of the great warehouses. Greneth unlocked a door to an inner room revealing stone stairs leading underground. He locked the door behind them, lifted a lantern, lit it from a torch, and started down the stairs. Dorin followed, intrigued.

‘There’re leagues of catacombs under the city,’ Greneth explained as they descended. He had a very weak, almost wheezy voice. ‘Our forebears buried their dead in them for thousands of years.’ A gate of iron bars blocked the way at the base. Greneth unlocked this as well and pushed it open. Beyond, they came to an intersection of rounded, semicircular tunnels. Dorin was surprised to see a troop of young children slouching up out of the darkness, some no more than infants. They looked for all the world like dirt-smeared escapees from Hood’s paths, except that they carried shovels and buckets, and all were manacled. He glanced up to see Greneth watching him, a sly grin at his lips. ‘They buried them with the richest funerary goods they could afford.’ He waved Dorin onward. ‘This way.’

At last Greneth stopped at a door in the round stone wall, selected a key from the large ring he carried, and unlocked it. He pushed the door inward, and it grated and scraped over the ground from disuse. He extended the lantern for Dorin to take and waved him in. ‘Our terrifying and fearsome mage.’

Dorin almost stepped into the chamber but managed to catch himself at the threshold. Lantern in hand, he invited Greneth to proceed him. The man’s sly smile grew to almost split his face, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement of the delicate point. ‘Of course.’ He entered, hands clasped behind his back.

Dorin edged in and peered round. It was a large chamber, though very low-roofed. Thick pillars of brick took up most of the room’s volume. The stink of excrement and sweat was appalling. The walls appeared to be decorated. He crossed to the nearest and raised the lantern for a better look. Charcoal drawings covered the brickwork, rectangular panels about the size of large tablets. He chose one and studied it. Some sort of animal was depicted bounding in mid-leap, its fearsome jaws agape. Some sort of . . . hound?

‘Noo!’

Dorin spun, knife readied, but relaxed immediately as he took in the shape closing upon him. It was the Dal Hon youth, chained and manacled, his clothes tattered and filthy. The poor fellow was secured at the ankles with a chain leading up to cuffs at his wrists, but the length was insufficient and he couldn’t raise his hands past chest height.

He shuffled over to put himself between Dorin and the wall. ‘It’s not ready yet,’ he slurred, his voice sounding strange. Then Dorin saw that he held a burned stick in his mouth. Bobbing, almost shrugging in embarrassment, the fellow continued, ‘Just some ideas I’m working on – nothing finished yet!’ and he gave a laugh whose note of madness sent a shiver up Dorin’s spine.

Greneth grabbed hold of the chain and yanked it so that the lad fell to the floor. Then he set to kicking him savagely in his side.

‘Critics!’ the fellow whimpered as he curled into a protective ball. ‘Critics everywhere!’

Catching his breath, Greneth straightened, brushed back his hair. ‘This,’ he began, with a kick to punctuate every word, ‘is . . . what . . . happens . . . when . . . you . . . lie . . . to . . . Pung.’ He raised his gaze to Dorin. ‘This fellow came to us promising the moon—’

‘Yes, the moon . . .’ the lad said, eagerly.

‘Shut up!’ Greneth kicked him again. ‘But when it came time to deliver, what could he do? Nothing! Couldn’t kill anyone. Couldn’t conjure a damned thing. Turns out he’s a charlatan. A fake.’ Greneth straightened his shirt, eyed Dorin up and down. ‘This is what Pung does to those who can’t deliver.’

Dorin turned away to study the countless other panels sketched on the walls. What did the lad mean about the moon? It made him shiver. It seemed . . . insane.

‘Pung took everything,’ the lad groaned. ‘Everything. Even something that wasn’t mine.’

Dorin shot a look to Greneth, then crouched down over the Dal Hon. ‘What? What was it?’

‘A box. A box containing something incalculably important . . .’

‘He carried no treasures,’ Greneth said, dismissive.

Dorin straightened. Did he mean the box they took from the Jaghut? Did the lad even recognize him? Or had he been driven irredeemably mad? He couldn’t question him with Greneth here. He’d have to return later. As to being a charlatan – he was sure the fellow possessed some sort of power. Certain of it. He’d done things Dorin had never seen anyone else do.

He turned to Greneth, shrugging. ‘Serves him right, then.’ He headed for the door. ‘Let’s go. Stinks in here.’

He pulled up short at the entrance as it was crowded by the child labourers. All peered in, their eyes bright on their dirt-smeared faces. Greneth waved them off. ‘Get back to work!’ They scattered, leaving something in the entrance – something small and furry with tiny eyes. Greneth sent a kick after it and it scampered off, chattering. ‘Damned monkey!’

‘I don’t think that was a monkey,’ Dorin said, amazed.

‘It’s the mage’s pet. No one can catch the damned thing. Now it has the run of the tunnels beneath the city. We’ll poison it yet.’

A slight wind brushed Dorin. It blew hot and dry in the doorway and he frowned, casting a glance to Greneth who seemed oblivious, or simply uninterested. Where could it be coming from? There were no other entrances that he could see. Behind him, the lad had shuffled over to a wall and returned to his sketching, humming and murmuring to himself – even though there was no light at all within his cell.

Dorin felt all the hairs of his arms and neck stand on end. There was something very strange here. Something of the Warrens, but Greneth seemed blind to it. Dorin allowed the man to swing the door shut and lock it, then handed back the lantern. Glancing over his shoulder as he followed Greneth back up the tunnel, he noticed the many child miners edging in from the dark, closing once more on the mage’s cell.

He’d return as well. Sometime. But first he had his own promise to Pung to fulfil.