Dancer's Lament

Chapter 9

NOW THAT DORIN had secured the patronage of Li Heng’s black market boss, he was, truth be told, damned bored. Pung wouldn’t let him out of his sight. He had to remain within the compound; couldn’t leave without permission. It was as if the fellow didn’t trust him.

Perhaps Pung was only now realizing that it might not have been a good idea to order Dorin to murder his previous employer.

Certainly there were occasional jobs accompanying regular muscle on routine assignments to collect debts. But these were drying up as the siege dragged on. Indeed, even the thieves now came back empty-handed; it seemed the markets were now almost entirely empty and deserted. Yet Pung had him still remain close, unnamed, the lurking ominous threat. Nothing challenging. No real work. He was beginning to feel like a caged exotic pet. The sneaking suspicion now nagged that perhaps Pung had hired him – if hired was really the right word – just to take him out of everyone else’s hands.

In which case he’d sold himself far too cheaply. In fact, he was beginning to think that he’d made a very serious mistake in accepting anyone’s patronage at all. It just didn’t feel right. It wasn’t his style.

Still, his hobby remained: his pursuit of the mystery that was the Dal Hon mage.

Everyone, it seemed, knew he was down there, chained and locked in the dark. All the children forced to work about the compound, cleaning and running errands, seemed to know; certainly all those looting the tombs did. But none would speak of it. When he put the question to the dirt-faced kids, most looked frightened. A few, however, shot him narrow gauging looks. As if the prisoner were a secret they possessed and he was not to be trusted with it. An odd reaction, that.

His casual request of Gren to be allowed to go below was met with a similar silence and a long, measuring stare. And that was it. Not even a denial. That Gren ignored the question said everything. And of course Dorin couldn’t raise it again; to do so would look . . . suspicious.

So he was powerless. For a time. Then he noticed how many kids were smeared in the greenish silt and clay of the underground tombs. Too many to be accounted for by the few he watched using the one main entrance Gren had taken him through.

So he kept watch. Very carefully of course, from the most distant vantages available. And soon enough he noticed how many of the child labourers disappeared around certain woodpiles yet didn’t emerge. How many appeared from certain run-down storage huts without being seen to enter.

Pung and his crew of dim thugs didn’t seem aware of what was going on. But then they had nothing but contempt for the children, kicking and beating them at will. Why should they suspect them to be capable of their own deceptions?

One evening he started following them. Eventually one girl in filthy baggy rags, or at least what he thought was a girl, slid into a gap between piled logs and disappeared. It was a tight fit but he was quite lean and had trained for such narrow passages himself.

The gap led to a hole and a choice. Dive in headfirst and see what might await? Hadn’t the girl? Yet who knew what might lie in store for trespassers below? A pit? Sharpened stakes?

Lying there in the dark he decided that perhaps he was letting his imagination get the better of him. They were, after all, only kids. He sidled forward, lost his grip as his palms slid and slipped on clay, and was taken by the slick wet slope.

He thanked the gods he didn’t yell. He landed in utter darkness amid a litter of trash that he recognized by feel as rags, sandals, torn shoes, wooden slats and rope. Reflexively, he gathered his feet beneath himself and stood, only to bash his head on a timber. He ducked, biting back curses and biting his lips as well. Stars danced in the blackness of his vision.

He knelt in the dark, bent forward, gripping his head, and waited for his vision to adjust. Slowly he made out that he occupied a crude room, or cellar, hacked from the dirt. What glimmers of natural light there were shone down from the chute above, while the weak flickering yellow of lamplight glowed from a tunnel ahead. He tried walking hunched over, but found that the roof was still too low and so was reduced to shuffling forward on all fours.

He crawled for a time, cautiously, wary of detection – though why he should be wary of a pack of children he wasn’t certain – and was surprised to find a veritable warren of tunnels running beneath the compound, and no doubt beyond. At one corner he detected the murmuring of a voice and paused, listening, then followed the sound.

The raw dirt tunnel ended at a junction with a much larger, properly excavated and stone-lined one. He straightened, carefully, and padded forward to another corner. Here the voice was much stronger, amplified perhaps by the semicircular stone walls. He peeked round the corner and so confused was he by what he saw that it took him a moment to understand that he was looking at a horde of kids all sitting in a crowd before one door, all leaning forward, straining to hear the voice that Dorin now realized was coming from within.

He cocked his head as well, listening. ‘Gather round, gather round, my pretties,’ the voice was murmuring. ‘Listen to me and none will dare raise a hand against you, I swear. But we must stay together. United. A family.’

Dorin’s brows rose as he identified the voice as that of his Dal Hon rival.

‘So you always say,’ objected one boy, ‘but they still beat Jawan and came for little Rill and did those icky things they do to her.’

‘But they don’t enter our tunnels,’ answered the voice from beyond the door.

‘They’re too damned small for them!’

‘Exactly. Those are ours. How goes the digging beneath the main house, Deel?’

‘They don’t suspect nothing. But Gren’s poking round – he’s sharp, that one.’

‘Listen,’ objected the first youth again. ‘No more digging till you deliver on our protection. I say that’s fair.’

Many of the matted mops of dirty hair bobbed as the children nodded and murmured their agreement.

The voice behind the door was silent for a time, then the Dal Hon spoke again. ‘Very well. I was hoping to wait longer before having to resort to such measures. But I will summon a daemon out of the darkness . . . if I must.’

The kids’ eyes glowed brightly as they shared awed glances.

‘Really?’ one whispered in amazement. ‘You c’n do that?’

‘Of course!’ the Dal Hon snapped, quite annoyed. ‘I am not to be trifled with. As I shall demonstrate.’

Dorin decided he’d had enough of this ridiculous shadow-puppet show and stepped into the open. ‘That seems to be your problem,’ he said. ‘You promise more than you can deliver.’

The gathered diggers all gaped up at him, then, as one, let go shrill shrieks and ran pell-mell up the catacomb tunnel, disappearing. All that was left behind was the nacht. It eyed him malevolently and bared its fangs, hissing.

He ignored the beast, leaned up against the curved wall opposite the door, crossed his arms. ‘I’m right . . . aren’t I?’

After a long silence, the lad answered, grudgingly, ‘Maybe . . .’

‘You promised Pung too much and now look where you are.’

‘Maybe I’m right where I want to be.’

‘I don’t think so. But at least you’re making the most of where you are, anyway.’

‘True. That’s what I believe I’m best at. This locale is rife with possibilities. Something you can be part of . . . if you wish.’

Dorin rolled his eyes in the dark. ‘Partner of a lying charlatan chained in a cell. Very promising.’

‘I’m no charlatan!’ came the answer, quite heated. ‘And I can prove it if I have to.’

Dorin pushed himself from the wall. ‘You’re good with shadows and images and throwing sounds maybe – illusions and delusions out of Mockra and Thyr, perhaps. But that’s it. You can’t even magic yourself out of a cell, let alone summon some daemon.’

‘Don’t make me! I swear!’

Dorin made talking motions with his hand as he walked off. ‘I know, I know. You’ll be sorry and all that.’

‘You will be sorry. What’s to come is on all of you, then. Listen – whatsyourname – our box. The one from the crypt. I believe it contains the key to incalculable power. Really. It does. Are you listening?’

Dorin paused, shaking his head. This lad’s tenacity knew no bounds. ‘Gods. You really are crazy, aren’t you? Completely Oponn-taken mad.’ He waved an unseen dismissal and ducked into one of the hand-dug tunnels.

‘You’ll regret this!’ the lad yelled after him, his voice breaking. ‘All of you! Your lack of vision! You’ll regret the day you turned your back on me! You’ll see!’

The words receded into unintelligible noise, muted by the yards of dirt as Dorin shuffled along. He was furious with himself. He wanted to strangle the damned Dal Hon for piquing his interest to begin with. Yet another mistake in judgement. He couldn’t believe the time and effort he’d wasted on that useless fake. This town kept wrong-footing him somehow. But no more. Even though the lad did seem to be up to something here below. Stealing his share of the catacomb’s funerary loot, no doubt. Still, there had been something about him. His illusions had been amazingly real – he must have some talent, if only for that.

Dorin stopped as he came to a fork in the tunnel. Now, how to find his way out of this damned maze . . .

* * *

It surprised Iko that she was now being treated with a new measure of respect among her sisters. Grudging, in some cases, but a new respect all the same. The change in attitude seemed very strange to her; all she’d done was beaten one of the corps’ hotheads. Then the new thought came that prior to this bout she’d kept her distance from the sparring matches, choosing instead to watch and gauge weaknesses.

What hadn’t occurred to her before was that others might interpret this as weakness. As if she didn’t wish to expose her own incompetence. Stupid. She wouldn’t have been chosen for the corps if she couldn’t fight.

So too were her walks with Hallens being viewed in a different light. Some sisters even came to her to ask what their plans were, as if she and Hallens were discussing strategy.

The resentful and evil-minded among the sisters, however, did not relent. Iko caught a hint of the rumour that it was Hallens she was busy seducing now, instead of the guards. To this she could only shake her head. Those who delighted in insulting or working to smear others would not change their ways, even after repeatedly being proved wrong. It was the only manner they knew to deal with the world, warped, bitter, and pathetic though it was.

This day her commander was even more quiet and reserved than usual; she walked slowly with her hands clasped at her belt, her head lowered, perhaps studying the patterns in the gravel path. Iko was careful to allow her some distance, and remained quiet as well. The weather was cool with the autumn, fat clouds passing overhead. Shadows were chill, though the sunlight yet held a summer’s heat.

Hallens paused, raised her flat profile to the sky – her nose had been crushed in a fight long ago – and said, ‘You have heard the news regarding the north?’

‘Yes.’ The Hengan palace servants hadn’t been shy about reporting Ryllandaras’s progress in slaughtering the Kanese forces across the north.

‘Chulalorn must answer this,’ Hallens said, ‘or the siege is lost.’

‘Yes?’

Hallens nodded at the implied question. ‘I fear the struggle has entered dangerous new territory. There are those who say the Protectress controls Ryllandaras and it was she who unleashed him upon us. Whether that is true or not, Chulalorn must answer in kind or retreat. Escalation, dear Iko. I fear it.’

‘You mean sorcery – battle magics? But we cannot match the city mages.’

‘True. Our king’s resources are stretched thin. A’karonys is engaged in the south, and Ghula-Sin rarely leaves Horan. His presence there keeps the Dal Hon in check, after all. Yet pacts have been signed. Agreements that go back to Chulalorn’s grandfather’s time. Our king did not come out of the south empty-handed, Iko. He brought with him . . . things. Things that I fear he may unleash upon Heng, should he be pressed too hard.’

Iko stared in wonder at what almost sounded like criticism, even near infidelity, towards their king. ‘Such as?’ she barely breathed.

Her commander glanced to her, softened the exchange with a smile, albeit a sad one. ‘I do not know, Iko. Let us just say that in the columns were covered wagons and sealed carriages that even I was not allowed to search.’

Iko nodded her understanding. ‘I see. But it may not come to that.’

‘It may not. Though I fear it already has.’

‘How so?’

‘The emissary is dead. Slain last night.’

Iko was stunned for an instant, then recovered. ‘Really? Here? But the city mages’ protection . . .’

‘They obviously didn’t give a damn about some Kanese turncoat.’

‘Ah. But . . . we’ve heard nothing.’

‘They wouldn’t announce it, would they?’

‘No. I suppose not. It was the Nightblades, then?’

‘They let me know. But curiously, they did not take the credit for the execution. I suspect some third party. A hired killer.’

Iko shivered at the thought of someone brought in to take on work not even the Nightblades could accomplish. ‘Escalation,’ she said, affirming Hallens’ fear.

Gravel crackled as her commander walked on. ‘Yes, Iko. And we may no longer be safe.’

* * *

Dorin sat slouched in the common room of Pung’s quarters. He’d been doing a lot of that lately, slouching. Unfortunately, it also meant having to listen to Pung’s assembled thugs, enforcers and bodyguards as they talked. If their dumb grunting could be named talk. Of this or that tough guy who wasn’t so tough after all, was he? Or the girls they’d had, willing or usually not at all willing. Or last night’s dog fights and the great bags of coin won or lost. It was all so very trivial and astonishingly repetitive, when one examined it objectively.

If the toughs addressed him, which was rare, they usually called him ‘knife-boy’ or ‘little killer’. They seemed to think that their size – and they were large fellows, mostly fat – somehow meant that he was no threat to them. He ached to show them the error of their thinking. The second type of thug was the short and bony tiny rabid dog sort; these Dorin thought a far greater danger as they seemed especially resentful of his status. They had fierce defensive glares that intensified if he happened to glance their way. Often before he knew it his gaze would be caught by one’s bulging, daggers-drawn unblinking glower, and he would have to break the implied challenge by shifting his gaze to the ceiling and rolling his eyes. The owner of said glare would then settle back into his chair, snorting, or mutter some comment to his fellows who would guffaw on cue.

But they all worked for Pung. And Pung would be displeased if he cut them open. He was frankly finding it more and more difficult to conform to the narrow rules and expectations that came along with working for someone.

He was sitting in the common room, trying to avoid catching the eye of any of the short fierce thugs, wondering just what he got from throwing in his lot with Pung. Room and board, obviously. But as yet no pay. No coin. No wages. A cut of the proceeds, he supposed, not that he’d seen any distribution among the rest.

What seemed to be offered by being in Pung’s gang, or any band or organization, was security – and perhaps a crude sense of belonging or identity. One could lay one’s head down to sleep in the reasonable expectation of not waking up with one’s throat slit. You could, well, if not rely on your companions, at least turn your back on them with some measure of security.

All except him, of course. This minimal shared companionship didn’t seem to extend to him. Not yet, in any case, and not that he wanted or needed it. He considered his fellows no better than ham-handed amoral bullies good for nothing more than intimidating shopkeepers and twisting the arms of any fools desperate or stupid enough to borrow money from Pung.

The novel thought then occurred to him that perhaps they saw this completely open and frank evaluation in his gaze, which might tend to put their backs up.

He may need to work on filtering his contempt.

Or perhaps not.

And speaking of a sense of belonging, he’d seen Rheena once or twice. In the back of a few large gatherings of the crew. She’d made no special effort to approach him. Had rather made a show of her indifference, actually. Loor, though, hadn’t been shy about coming over and leaning against the wall near him and sharing the nod of an experienced operator. He was lonely, perhaps. Shreth had never fully recovered from his wound and was now working in a felt-maker’s shop.

If Rheena wanted to make it plain that there was nothing to talk about, then fine. He’d make no effort either. It wasn’t as though he needed –

An earthquake struck.

At least it felt like an earthquake. An avalanche-like roaring punished Dorin’s ears. Everyone in the common room surged to their feet; chairs were overturned; glasses vibrated off tables; the tables themselves shuddered across the floor while dust came billowing up in clouds that drove everyone outside, waving and coughing.

From all the compound buildings more of the strong-arms and toughs came running as if fleeing impending collapse. All except, Dorin noted, the hordes of digger youths. As the overpowering crashing and thundering roaring faded, it resolved itself in his ears as the earth-shaking guttural braying of a titanic beast.

Pung came staggering out, glaring right and left. ‘What in the name of Burn was that?’

‘Sounded like some kinda monster,’ said one of the toughs.

‘Right beneath us,’ supplied another.

Pung’s wild terrified gaze roved the compound till it lighted upon Dorin. ‘You! Take a look.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Go below. Look around. What do I pay you for?’

Dorin clenched his teeth so as to not point out that he’d yet to be paid. He would have looked to the sky in exasperation, but he saw the smirks of the assembled enforcers and this calmed him like a spray of cold water down his neck, reminding him to keep his professional neutral mask in place. He offered Pung the slightest inclination of his head. ‘Very well. If there are no other takers . . .’ He pointed an invitation to one of the bony, belligerent thugs.

The man laughed, quite nervously, and shook his head. ‘Your job, sneaky boy. Not mine.’

Now it was Dorin’s turn to offer his own snort of superior contempt, and look away. ‘Gren!’ he called.

Pung’s lieutenant jumped where he was still peering fearfully into the darker corners of the compound. ‘What?’

Dorin motioned to the warehouse. ‘The door . . .’

Gren’s hand went to his keys. ‘Oh. Right.’

Gren’s hands were shaking as he unlocked the door in the warehouse. He hesitated, peered anxiously down the murky lamplit stone stairwell. ‘Is that it?’ Dorin asked into the uncharacteristic silence surrounding them.

The man jumped again, flinching at the noise. ‘What?’

‘What about the gate below?’

The man stared at him, swallowing. He fiddled among the keys then silently handed over a large bronze one. Dorin took it and started down.

‘You’re really . . .’ Gren called after him in his hushed hoarse voice, ‘you really are just gonna walk in there?’

Dorin turned, made a show of shrugging casually. ‘It’s my job.’

The skinny lieutenant, so scornful of him earlier, now shook his head in disbelief and shut the door behind him. Motionless in the lamp’s dim light he considered the man’s expression. He didn’t know him well enough to read him easily, but he hoped that it had been more than a dismissive what a damned stupid fool.

He took a breath, loosened his shoulders, and listened to the dark. Silence, save for the ticking and creaking of wood above. Where were all the children? Dead? Torn to bloody pieces by some monster? He turned to face the darkness below. Grit slid and crackled beneath his sandals. He eased them off and continued down barefoot.

The barred gate was closed. He unlocked it, wincing at every click and grating of metal on metal. He edged it open and slid inside. In either direction lamps flickered along the semicircular stone tunnels. No bodies lay as humps on the floor, no signs of any struggle. But the lamps were far too weak to fully light the tunnels, and so the majority of the lengths held absolute dark, punctuated by flickering pools of inadequate amber glow. He eased into the tunnel, daggers out, and headed for the Dal Hon’s cell.

He suspected he knew what had happened. He’d heard stories of such things recounted many times. Had once even studied the messy aftermath. A mage, driven by desperation – or recklessness – reaches into Warrens far beyond his or her abilities and loses control of the forces thus summoned. It was not that uncommon, he understood, as often the only way new talents could practise was in that very manner: testing the waters, so to speak, and the surety of their grip and skill.

He believed this was what had happened. The Dal Hon youth, taunted and tortured, really did dare what he’d boasted of and the daemon had come. And of course shaken off the lad’s feeble attempts to compel it.

As for all the kids down here digging for tombs, they were probably still running.

He slowly felt his way forward along the stone-flagged tunnels, ready at any moment to find his bare foot sinking into something warm, wet and yielding. He peered round an intersection of the semicircular catacombs, spotted the length of tunnel that he believed held the youth’s cell, and edged forward, daggers readied.

By this time his vision had adjusted enough to make out the wreckage of the cell’s sturdy door of adzed planks scattered across the tunnel, apparently by an explosive force from within. He padded up as silently as possible and slid into the cell, put his back to one of the brick pillars, circled it, blades out.

Nothing. Empty. Emboldened, and a touch intrigued, he dared to search the rest of the cell as well as he could in the darkness. He found nothing; not even a mangled corpse or splash of blood.

Mysterious. Not at all like the other unravellings he’d heard described. He stepped out into the tunnel and listened to the quiet of the earth. Yet, not absolutely. Something . . . He stalked into the deepest of the dark and edged forward, hunched and ready.

In night blackness he heard it while seeing nothing: light panting breaths. Terror? And close – just beyond. He sensed a corner ahead and reached round it, hand open. His fingertips brushed something, cloth, and there came a quick intake of breath.

He snatched his captive and yanked the body to him, a blade to the neck. Backing up into the light he found that he held a young girl. One of the diggers. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.

She straightened and raised her chin, defiant. ‘Who’re you?’

‘What happened?’

She snorted. ‘What happened? Our mage summoned a monster and loosed it here in the tunnels. That’s what happened.’

Our mage? ‘Then why are you here?’

The girl sent him a superior glare. ‘Because we’re working together, that’s why. You tell your boss, Pung the Toad, that if he so much as sets foot down here . . . then the beast’ll eat him.’

Dorin couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. ‘Really? A beast. Will eat him.’

The girl wasn’t bothered by his tone. ‘Him’r anyone else comes down here!’ She raised a hand and pushed against the blade he held tucked under her chin. ‘So you better run while you can – ya hired knifer.’

Dorin was more surprised by her brashness than the threat of some monster. Smiling, he drew away the blade. ‘So you have your mage hidden somewhere, then.’

‘I ain’t saying.’

He sheathed the knife, took hold of her arm and twisted it to the angle where the joint could turn no further without tearing. ‘Where?’

The girl winced, but bit her lip.

Dorin, he said to himself, you’re twisting a kid’s arm.

He quickly let go and rubbed his hands on his thighs as if to clean them.

Now it was the girl who was surprised, but she recovered quickly, scowling. ‘The monster’s loose down here, so you better go.’

He backed away, still smiling. ‘You’d better go as well. They’ll come to look, I’m sure.’

She laughed her youthful derision, but he heard her quick footfalls as she slipped away.

So. Either they really are hiding him, or he’s gone and they’re bluffing to get out from under Pung’s yoke. Either way . . . He shrugged mentally. Didn’t matter to him.

He headed back to the entrance. He passed the wreckage of the door and paused, troubled by a suspicion. Too often this Dal Hon fellow had gotten the better of him. He collected a lamp and returned to the cell. Ignoring the scattered wood for the moment, he crouched down on his haunches and brought the lamp to the dirt-covered stone flags. He swung the light back and forth, searching.

Not a one. Not a single print other than human ones. No paw, or otherwise inhuman spoor. Straightening, he swept his bare foot across the floor, brushing the dirt and obscuring all record of who had or had not passed.

He turned to the broken door frame. It hung drunkenly, a ruin. Yet . . . He brought the flickering gold flame closer to the wounds scouring the wood.

These scars were not those of claws or teeth. He knew the difference, having been trained in how to counterfeit such marks. Edged blades made these gouges and scrapes. He straightened, smiling even more broadly.

Well, well, well. A good gambit, my friend. I salute you. Might even work. Threaten to loose a monster, whip up a fearsome noise . . . and slip away.

He returned the lamp to its niche.

Exiting the cavernous warehouse, he stood blinking in the light for a time. Gren was there, with a handful of the toughs, and Pung. The thugs all looked surprised and rather annoyed to see him. Coins changed hands.

Pung curtly waved him over. ‘Well? You see anything? What is it?’

‘Your mage’s gone.’

‘Gone? What d’ya mean, gone?’

‘How do you know?’ Gren demanded.

Dorin offered the man a lazy blinking look. ‘’Cause something crashed through his door.’ Which was true – technically.

‘Have a look,’ Pung told Gren. The lieutenant turned on the toughs, pointing. ‘You three – have a look.’

These three were now even more annoyed. ‘I want a lamp,’ one complained.

‘So take a fucking lamp, then!’ Pung snarled, jerking a thumb.

Dorin tossed the key, warning, ‘I wouldn’t stay down there too long. If you know what I mean . . .’

They sneered back, but looked even less happy.

He walked away without one glance back, not even to Pung. He returned to the common room, poured a glass of the cheap wine Pung supplied, and sat in his usual place. When he glanced up, none of the handful present would meet his gaze.

More damned like it.

*

Silk was with his tailor, examining his figure in a tall mirror of polished bronze, turning to left and right, and frowning. ‘The cut of your trousers makes my stomach look large.’

The tailor ducked his head, hunching abjectly. ‘I am sorry to do that, sir.’

Silk waved a hand. ‘Never mind. A wrap or sash perhaps. Black Darujhistani silk, of course.’

The tailor bowed once more. ‘My apologies, good sir . . . but I am very sorry to say that we have no more Darujhistani cloth available.’

‘No more—’ Silk turned on the fellow, blinking. ‘How could that be, man? You are a tailor, are you not?’

The bony old man bowed once more, wincing. ‘Disruption in overland trade from Unta, I’m told. The siege, perhaps . . .’

Silk eased the frown from his mouth and half turned away. He fussed with his collar. ‘Ah. You are right, of course.’ Strangely enough, it hadn’t occurred to him that the siege would have interfered with such mundane matters as cloth imports. Things were getting quite out of hand.

‘I do have some fine Talian brushed satin in sunflower yellow . . .’

‘Gods, no. What do I look like? A Bloorian bumpkin?’

‘Perhaps some—’ the tailor began, but Silk heard nothing more as a noise crashed inside his head like pounding hammers and he staggered into a stack of piled bolts of cloth. He leaned against it, nearly double, gripping his fractured skull. ‘. . . a physician, sir?’ the old fellow was saying, bending next to him and peering anxiously.

Silk straightened. He wiped the tears from his eyes with a sleeve and caught the pained wince from the tailor as he did so. ‘What on this side of Hood’s paths was that?’ he asked, blinking and still dizzy.

The old man peered about the shop. ‘What was what, sir?’

‘You heard nothing?’

‘No, sir.’

Just the Warrens, then, Silk thought, amazed. Like a gargantuan tearing, or shattering. He pulled off the samples and kicked away the pinned trousers. ‘I must go.’

‘Shall I start with the suit, then, sir?’

‘No!’ Silk snarled, pulling on his own trousers and hopping for the stairs.

Threading his way through the crowds on the street – none of whom appeared to have noticed the disturbance – he hurried for the palace.

‘Just the white shirt?’ came a distant reedy call from above, the tailor at a window. ‘The one with the fine tapering at the sleeves?’

Silk waved an angry negative and ran on, but two steps later he halted, hands going to his head. He turned, yelled, ‘The aqua blue!’ and raced on.

Palace functionaries waved him to the Inner Focus. Here the guards opened the door as he approached and shut it behind him. He crossed the gleaming bright marble floor to where Mara stood next to Shalmanat, who sat, uncharacteristically slumped, head in hands.

‘Are you well?’ he asked as he came. Shalmanat nodded. ‘Is it Ryllandaras? Has he entered the city?’

She shook her head. Her hands were clutched in her fine long hair.

‘That was my thought,’ Mara said, crossing her arms and scowling.

‘No . . .’ said Shalmanat, her voice weak and hoarse, ‘not Ryllandaras.’

‘Then what?’

‘Something else.’ The Protectress yanked at her hair as if frenzied.

Mara caught Silk’s eye and offered a helpless shrug.

Silk nodded at this. Okay. So, what now? ‘Ho and Koroll?’

Mara brought her head close to his, whispered, ‘Out searching the catacombs. They think it’s beneath the city, whatever it is.’

‘It could be anywhere!’ the Protectress yelled. She tore her hair as if she would yank it from her skull.

He knelt before her, tried to meet her gaze. ‘What is it? Shalmanat – help us.’

Her eyes were fixed upon some distant vista only she could see. ‘It cannot be,’ she said, her brows knotting. ‘How could it be? It was broken. Sealed away.’

‘What? What was sealed away?’

Her wild gaze met his, but it was empty of any recognition. ‘Our shame,’ she breathed.

Over Shalmanat, Mara tilted her head to the exit, suggesting it was time to go. Silk nodded his agreement.

Outside, in the hall, once they’d left the guards behind, Silk indicated a side chamber. Mara looked to the ceiling, but followed.

‘We have to decide what to do,’ he began, shutting the door.

She crossed her arms across her substantial chest. ‘Looks like we underestimated these Kanese. Cute trick, hey? We loose a monster on them outside the walls, and they retaliate by releasing one inside. But Koroll and Ho will track it down.’

Silk struggled to keep his face empty of the irritation he felt. ‘I mean, regarding the summoning.’

‘What of it?’

‘Officially, we make a point of ignoring it.’

Now she winkled her handsome features into a scowl. ‘What d’you mean?’

He couldn’t help pressing a hand to his brow. ‘We can’t let them know they’ve unnerved us.’

‘Us? Her, you mean.’

He bit back a few choice insults at that shortsightedness, pulled his hand down his face. ‘Her resolve is our resolve. The citizens would panic. Then we’re finished.’

Mara frowned now, eyeing him sidelong, considering this. Then she snorted, nodding, and paced the small meeting room. ‘Hunh. Not just a pretty face, hey Silk?’

His answering smile was brittle. ‘We wait for word from Koroll.’

She brushed past, waving her dismissal. ‘Fine. Okay.’ She yanked open the door, paused on the threshold. ‘And don’t try any of this pulling rank shit! ’Cause you got none, right?’ She stormed out.

Silk arched an eyebrow at the empty doorway. Gods! Co-workers! What can one do?

* * *

Fanah Leerulenal, a leather engraver, did not consider himself an aficionado of fortune-telling. His mother, however, bless her departed soul, had been quite the devotee. She consulted a talent once a week, and always before making any major decision. This siege, however, with its uncertainties and anxieties, left him wondering whether perhaps it would be better to flee the city, as so many of his friends constantly threatened.

He paused, therefore, that day on his way to work – not that there was any work, just a few remaining scraps of poorest quality hide. The market was mostly empty now but for a petty merchant’s wheeled street stall cluttered with charms, amulets, bones of noted local witches, and various decks of the Dragons. This fellow was of course doing a roaring business. Fanah picked up one boxed set – a too-expensive Untan edition done on ivory tablets – and set it back down.

‘I can see you have an expert’s eye,’ the fat stall-keeper announced, rather too eagerly.

Fanah merely cast him a disbelieving glance. He noticed one large wooden slat hanging from the twine that ran above the stall’s crowded counter; the face of the card appeared to depict empty moiling smoke. ‘What is this?’

The stall-keeper leaned out, arms akimbo. ‘Ah!’ he said, knowingly, ‘the new House. Shall I wrap you a set?’

‘No,’ Fanah answered, annoyed. ‘The damned thing’s blank.’

‘Not at all, good friend,’ the merchant responded, completely undeterred. He plucked it down and offered it. ‘Look more closely.’

Fanah had given the errand all the time he could spare, but he paused as his eyes caught movement on the face of the card. He peered more closely. ‘The House is undefined as yet,’ said the stall-keeper. ‘The talents say the new manifestations are searching for their final form.’

Fanah watched, fascinated, as the painted face seemed to coil and shift under his gaze. Rather like clouds, or fog, he thought – or shifting shadows. Yet as he bent closer, a shape did persist behind. Low, and broad . . . running?

‘My compliments to the artist,’ he said. ‘The light seems to move across the—’

A guttural, growling snarl like stones grating yanked Fanah up straight. The stall-keeper peered up and down the street, startled. ‘That’s a damned big dog,’ he muttered, annoyed, and a touch worried.

The growling rose to an avalanche roar and the stall began to vibrate. Charms and amulets clattered to the cobbles. Fanah backed away. A few people nearby paused, searching for the source of the noise. The rest simply ran away.

The stall erupted skywards as if the beast had somehow sneaked under the wheels and leaped up. Boards burst; the stall-keeper was thrown backwards. Fanah backpedalled beneath a shower of the cheap trinkets until his buttocks hit the opposite building’s wall. A creature the size of a pony shook itself, snorting and growling, among the wreckage of the stall. Huge it was, yet recognizably a hound, though of monstrous size. Its scarred hide was a tawny brown, going to cream towards its chest. Its sides and legs twitched and bunched in cables of muscle. Amber claws scratched and grated across the cobbles as it shifted left and right, sniffing in a great bellows-like testing of the air. Then, to Fanah’s horror, its pale glowing gaze lowered to him. One great lunge of its powerful back legs shot it over the street and Fanah fell to his knees, hands over his head, awaiting an agonizing death under its enormous maw.

And he waited. Yet nothing happened. He dared to lift his head for a look. Charms and trinkets rattled as the stall-keeper sat up from among the litter of his wares. ‘Where . . . where is it?’ Fanah breathed.

‘It’s run off,’ the stall-keeper offered, none too sure himself.

Fanah tottered to his feet. ‘Gods . . . what . . . who would . . . I’m late for work.’ He patted himself as if to ascertain that he was all there, then staggered onward.

‘Hey!’ he heard the merchant shouting to the empty street. ‘Whose was that! Who owns that monstrous thing? Who’s gonna pay for my stall!’

*

Ganoth Amtar lay drunk in an empty looted building that had once been a temple to some long forgotten god or cult. How appropriate it was too, he reflected, that he should occupy such a ruin, seeing as he himself had once been a priest in the cult of the Enchantress here in Heng. But he had fallen away from the order, or rather the order had moved away from him. Too complacent, he thought his fellow priests and priestesses in their comfortable sinecures, warming their wide bottoms next to fires and eating far too well. And he had not been discreet in voicing his disapproval and contempt. Where, he’d demanded, was the fire that drove proselytizing the faith? Where was the passion of their convictions? Nowhere that he could find. More effort went into vying for promotion and prestige than into care of the flock . . . and he had not been discreet in voicing his contempt of this too.

And his reward? Demotion to the most degrading of duties. This was his reward for his concern over the welfare of the order? Well, damn them to the mysteries they claimed to worship, then, he’d decided, and walked away from it all.

Though it broke his heart to turn his back upon his faith.

He tipped the tall earthenware jug to his lips once again, spilling much down the front of his already stained robes. So does the derelict lie within derelict precincts, he told himself, and lifted the jug in salute to the far murky corners where the moon’s slanting light failed to reach.

Yet he was not alone. Other shapes huddled in the dark; some his fellow casualties of life’s vicissitudes, others refugees or rendered homeless by the siege. All starving and freezing in the cold of the coming winter.

Ganoth saluted them as well; the needy, the flock that any true priest should tend rather than padding his own nest. He drank again, almost choking on the vile sour dregs.

And something shifted in the darkened gloom of the old temple’s far corner. As an ex-priest, he recognized it for what it was. The hairs on the nape of his neck stirred in recognition of the phenomenon. Only in the highest ritual invocations had he seen it, and then as a shimmering across a still pool, or a flickering on silvered glass: an opening to a Higher Realm.

He stood, tossed the jug to crash among the broken building stones. His neighbours grumbled their complaints. Across the moon-dappled mosaic floor, shadows stirred and spun in a chiaroscuro dance. Show me! he implored the darkness, throwing wide his arms. Give me revelation!

The shadows shifted then, seeming to retreat, revealing a half-glimpse into a murky desolate landscape of a rocky plain, and a gigantic creature leaped into the temple and howled to the sky.

Stones fell in that brassy roar. Every other occupant of the abandoned building jumped to their feet and ran amid screams and shouts that Ganoth barely heard over the great rolling braying.

Beautiful it was, and horrific. A hound of unearthly size, its pale sides much scarred by battle, its flanks quivering in anticipation and bloodlust. Ganoth recognized its attitude as well: the beast was tensed, on the hunt. It lifted its blunt muzzle, larger than Ganoth’s head, and sniffed mightily, peering this way and that.

Its pointed ears pricked then, and it growled a thoaty rolling of tumbling rock, and started across the mosaic floor where its claws scraped and gouged the stones, and leaped high into the air as if to clear a wall but disappeared instead into the stones as if passing through a window.

In the silence Ganoth stood panting, his heart drumming. Thank you! he breathed, transfixed. Thank you. He fell to his knees, arms wide to the dark, his face lifted to the shifting shadows above. Thank you!

* * *

In the next few days sightings were reported all over Li Heng; nearly every ring of the city’s nested circles experienced its share of the panic. Silk was kept busy investigating each encounter. There seemed no logic nor purpose behind the visitations. Witnesses spoke of the monster crashing through walls and disappearing into alleyways. Several deaths were blamed on the beast. Yet when Silk investigated he found that not one of the mortalities was directly caused by the creature. One old man’s heart gave out in fright; an old woman fell down a set of stairs in her panic and died of her injuries; a child was kicked by a terrified mule; a wall collapsed on a family. Not one citizen had been bitten or torn apart – at least none that had yet been found.

The sightings were separated by great distances. No trail of wreckage could be traced between the encounters. It was as if the thing were popping up randomly all over. Or, Silk was now coming to suspect, people were simply jumping at shadows.

It seemed even to be becoming fashionable to have caught a glimpse of the monster. Descriptions varied wildly. So-called ‘witnesses’ swore the thing was a daemon with blazing furnace eyes, or a shaggy furry beast with jaws that could tear the head off a horse; a prairie lion mated with a daemon; a monstrous jackal; or Ryllandaras’s cousin Trake himself.

At the scene of the most recent appearance Silk was bemused to find the floor of the house littered with cards – the sort talents used for their divinatory readings. Curious, he plucked one from the litter of shattered glass and fallen bric-a-brac, broken candles and goose down from a torn cushion. It was wrinkled and thin, of cheap pressed plant fibre paper. On a dusk-shrouded hillside a muscular figure, naked from the waist up, worked hunched over the construction of a stone structure of some sort. He knew enough of the Dragons to recognize the Mason of Darkness.

He went to where the witness, the owner of the establishment, waited under guard. He showed the woman the card. ‘You had these out?’

The terrified woman nodded, clutching at her throat. ‘Yes,’ she managed, hoarse. ‘Was doing a reading.’

‘A reading? For whom? Have they fled?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, sir. Was no client. Just looking ahead. Querying the future.’

Silk lost interest and turned away.

Stepping over the remains of the door he paused, tilted his head. He remembered another meeting involving a card of the Deck of Dragons; that visiting mage, the haughty one with the poorly kept hair. What was the name she’d given? Lady Night? She’d claimed to be investigating some manifestation involving the deck. Obviously, she’d brought this about. He’d lost track of her. But now he’d keep a lookout. If this thing hadn’t eaten her already.

Later that day he gave up hunting down reported sightings and went to find Koroll. Tracking the inhuman mage proved far easier in the intent than the reality. In the end, he was driven to the embarrassing expedient of shouting down the tunnels for the half-Thelomen giant.

He waited in the darkness beneath the city. The torch he held sizzled and popped as its resins burned. He cocked his head, trying to listen. The silence was profound. Such a contrast to the streets above. Movement made him start at the dark. But it was just rats scampering along with their fat rolling gait as they ran up the tunnel. Their eyes reflected the torchlight like lamps in miniature. He ignored them as he would ignore anyone else sharing the passage with him.

Heavy steps announced the approach of something large. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to raise his Warren, just in case. He was about to when a low, powerful voice spoke from the dark: ‘You needn’t yell.’

He eased his shoulders, lowering his Warren. ‘I was calling.’

The entire circumference of the tunnel ahead seemed to shift as something filling it closed upon him. It resolved into the walking hut that was Koroll. ‘Well, I am here.’

‘Any luck?’ Silk asked.

‘In what?’ Koroll seemed genuinely puzzled.

Silk looked to the ceiling just above his head. ‘In locating the beast.’

‘Ah. That. No.’

Silk struggled to stifle his annoyance. ‘Then what are you doing down here?’

‘I have been listening to the darkness.’

Silk’s brows rose in open irritation. ‘Really. Listening. Amazing. And what does the dark tell you?’

‘That we are not alone down here.’

‘Fascinating. I never would have suspected that.’

‘Really? You should open your mind, friend Silk.’

Silk clenched his teeth, granting Koroll the point on that exchange. ‘And the location of this presence?’ he asked, his voice tight.

‘Ah!’ Koroll gestured, inviting Silk along the tunnel. ‘That is the problem,’ he said as he shambled along, ducking arches and timbers. ‘My considered opinion is – everywhere and yet nowhere.’

Silk wondered whether the giant had struck his head on these obstructions once too often. ‘That’s no help, Koroll. Sounds like cheap mystical claptrap to me.’

The giant peered down at him, perhaps frowning, though his facial tattoos and the strange lines of his angular features made it hard to tell. ‘Really?’ he said, wonderingly. ‘Well, it is the best I can do.’

Silk looked to the arched ceiling. Gods help us.

Koroll brought him to Ho, who was kneeling, examining a pit where the floor of one catacomb tunnel had collapsed, opening on to yet another beneath.

‘Poor workmanship,’ Silk sniffed.

Ho straightened. He dusted his dirty torn trousers and shook his head. ‘This is new.’

‘The creature?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What word, friend Koroll?’ Ho asked.

As this section of catacomb was taller than most, the giant crossed his thick arms. He nodded as he considered for some time. Silk fought the urge just to walk away. ‘I’ve decided,’ the other announced, ‘to tell a story.’

‘Wonderful,’ Silk muttered into the dark.

Ho, he noticed, shot him an annoyed glare before turning back to Koroll. ‘Please do,’ he invited and he squatted, arms crossed over his knees, to listen.

The giant pursed his thick lips as he searched for where to start. Silk felt his shoulders falling in despair, but he remained.

‘Know you the wars of Light and Night?’ Koroll began, eyeing Silk.

Silk nodded, even opened his mouth to tell them Shalmanat had confessed that she’d been an officer in the Army of Light, serving one of its champions. But he stopped himself in time; these two, having been with her for so long, must be aware of that already.

‘Well,’ Koroll continued, ‘what few know is that there was a third party in the wars. A third tribe of Tiste.’

Silk nodded at this as well; he’d heard rumours of such.

‘They were the Edur,’ Koroll said, ‘the Tiste Edur. For a time they formed an alliance with the Andii but there was a falling-out, and in a great betrayal the Edur slaughtered many Andii. In turn, they themselves were hunted down and driven into the wilderness. Their homeland was shattered and broken in a great struggle. That homeland, or place of their power – the translations vary – was known as Emurlahn. Into it were exiled all the daemons, beasts, and horrors of that great war and it was irrevocably sealed off, and a guardian was set upon its borders to keep watch over them. A champion who could not be defeated. And so has it been inaccessible to all.’

Now Silk felt the hairs on his forearms stir and his breath shorten. Broken, she’d said. Sealed away. ‘Are you saying . . .’ he began, hesitating.

The giant was nodding his agreement. ‘It may be that someone has found a way in.’

Silk discovered that he was shaking his head. ‘No. This is preposterous. Too much. There must be some other explanation. Why go to such lengths . . .’ He could not stop shaking his head. ‘A hundred other more mundane explanations could suffice here, surely. Some rogue summoner, for example.’

‘Perchance,’ Ho murmured, sounding completely unconvinced.

‘In any case,’ Koroll rumbled on, ‘all the stories are in agreement that this realm, or homeland, possessed guardians. Heralds, one might even name them. Freely running creatures that attacked any and all who dared trespass or meddle in that place. And invariably,’ Koroll now glanced about at the murky tunnels surrounding them, ‘they are described as a pack of monstrous hounds.’

Silk felt almost dizzy as he remembered the character of that explosion in his mind. A bestial howl emerging from the Warrens and sending them shuddering with their power. Yes, bestial. But unlike anything he’d ever heard before. Monstrous and utterly terrifying. He licked his cracked dry lips and breathed into the dark, ‘Shalmanat fears this to be the case . . . What must we do?’

‘Find the one who has done this,’ Ho said. ‘Find this mage and get rid of him. Or, failing that, destroy him.’

‘But anyone with such daemons at his beck and call—’

‘I do not believe these things answer to anyone,’ Ho interrupted, sounding even more grim. ‘And are all the more dangerous for it.’

‘So we will search out this mage,’ Koroll said into the silence that followed Ho’s last comment. The giant raised his jagged profile and stared off into the dark. ‘And he is canny, this one. Good at hiding.’ He tilted his head then, as if struck by a thought. ‘Good at hiding in shadows.’