Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 12

Lee sat in the common room of the Golden Gyrfalcon. It was crowded now to bursting with Geffen’s toughs, plus a score of new hires, and she felt distinctly uncomfortable. Geffen had talked through his plan with her, of course, but she still couldn’t shake her dismay at the outlay of such a massive hiring; every out of work would-be street-thug and worthless dock-front layabout on the island must be crammed into the common room.

She wondered on the scale of the riot should it come out that they didn’t have the coin to pay half those present.

Geffen himself paced before the broad cobblestone fireplace, eyeing his gathered force, impatient.

‘Everyone here?’ he demanded.

She scanned the crowd. ‘Near enough. I called for everyone.’

He gave a curt nod. ‘Good.’

She couldn’t help it. Her gaze drifted to the slim dark figure sitting alone despite the crowd, leaning back, arms crossed and hands tucked up beneath his armpits, that mordant smile on his lips as if he knew what was going to happen – and that it would all end in disaster. She yanked her gaze away.

Geffen raised his arms for silence. ‘Okay! Everyone! You all know the fleet left this morning. Mock and most of his captains are gone – including most of the damned Napans.’

‘Going to finally burn that bar down, Gef?’ someone called from the crowd.

‘Mock doesn’t want property damage,’ Lee snapped. ‘Bad for business.’

Geffen gestured for silence. ‘That bitch has earned it right enough. But that’s just for openers.’ He raised an arm, pointing towards the ceiling. ‘Why mess around with the small timers when the Hold is empty?’

Though he’d let her in on the scale of his plan, Lee couldn’t help letting out an awed breath. Gods be damned … he’s actually going to go through with it. In the stunned silence she sensed the implications of Geffen’s words settling in.

‘Why should the captains listen to you?’ someone called out, breaking the long silence.

Good question.

Geffen nodded, acknowledging the concern, then opened his arms wide. ‘Because we’re inside and they’re out! Possession is nine-tenths of the law, my friend.’

Good answer.

‘And the Napans?’ someone else asked.

‘We’ll settle that score tonight. Then the Hold.’

Lee frowned, thinking. Why bother with the Napans at all? But then, if they couldn’t handle even that feud then they sure didn’t belong in the Hold. And so she nodded, sending Geffen her approval.

He nodded back, winking, and threw his arms wide. ‘Tonight.’ He gestured to her. ‘Lee, take whoever you need.’

The crowd broke up, everyone preparing for the coming assault. The doors were barred and guarded against any word’s getting out and the cellar store room doors were thrown open – the doors to the armoury hidden below. Geffen crossed the room, the savage narrow slit of his mouth set. Some hireswords stopped him to swear their loyalty; he acknowledged them, then pushed onward. Lee saw where he was headed and joined him.

The two stood staring down at the foreign knifer, Cowl, alone at his table. The young man was mutely clapping, offering his ironic applause. ‘All hail the possible new ruler of Malaz,’ he said. ‘But I think you’re forgetting one thing – what about his pet mage?’

Geffen lifted his bony narrow shoulders, unconcerned. ‘I think she might like to know what lover boy’s been up to all these years.’ Then he waved the subject aside, scowling with undisguised distaste. ‘Things have changed. I no longer require your services – wretched as they have proved to be. Our contract is void.’

The lad pressed his hands flat against the tabletop, dropped his sardonic smile. ‘That would be ill advised. Drag me here only to dismiss me?’ He shook his head at the magnitude of the mistake.

Lee was feeling the confidence of the company of some fifty toughs and hireswords; she leaned over the table and jerked a thumb to the door. ‘Pack your stupid little bag and get your useless arse out of here.’

She did not know what to expect, but it wasn’t the sudden laugh and the hands thrown up in mock surrender. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I should be mad but I’m not. Because I’m grateful to you. If you hadn’t brought me here then I wouldn’t have found the real potential hidden on this wretched island. Power just waiting for someone daring enough and strong enough to take it.’

Geffen waved him down, as if he wasn’t worth his time. ‘I’m taking it, arsehole.’ He marched off.

Cowl watched him go, murmuring, ‘I’m not talking about the Hold, fool.’

Lee hesitated. ‘The house, you mean … you gonna try to enter it?’

The mage’s gaze remained aside, following Geffen. ‘Someone will, and soon. It’s in the air. It’s why powers are gathering here. It’s like a lodestone.’

‘What do you mean … powers?’

The young mage made shooing gestures with his hands. ‘Go away, little bird. This does not concern you. But, by way of advice, I suggest you keep your head down.’

Lee waved him off as Geffen had done and turned to the jammed room. ‘All right!’ she shouted, ‘Went, Quilla, Donner – pick five men each. You’re with me.’ She headed for the door. ‘Let’s go.’

She hated to rush, but they had to strike quickly before word got to the Napans. That gal in charge, the servitor Surly, struck Lee as canny; she might have taken the precaution of buying an informant among their hirelings, so they had to act now.

They closed on the waterfont and Smiley’s bar. She sent Went ahead with his team to move in from the rear once they heard the rest entering at the front. She motioned Quilla forward, half mouthing, ‘Take the door.’

‘No lookouts,’ one of the hired knife-fighters observed, sounding uneasy.

Quilla’s boys kicked the door open and charged in. Lee waited, tensed, with Donner and his team. The crash of breaking furniture and crockery sounded from within, but no clash of blades or bodies. She edged in the doorway; the common room was dark and empty. Quilla came down the stairs, shaking her head. ‘Gone. All gone. ’Cept for one,’ and she gestured to the bar.

Lee crossed to where a young woman lay atop the counter, legs straight, hands crossed on her chest: Amiss, the youngest of the Napan crew.

She set her hands on her hips. What in Mael’s name…? Tentatively, she reached out to raise one shoulder and there she found the wound – stabbed in the back through to the heart, one expert thrust. Without taking her eyes from the corpse she asked, ‘Gef put out any kill orders?’

‘Not one,’ Quilla answered. ‘In fact, we was definitively told no bloodshed – for now.’

Lee nodded at her lieutenant’s words. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She let the shoulder fall – stiffening, yes, but still a touch warm. Must’ve been within the evening.

‘We burn the place now?’ Donner asked, eager.

Lee had to restrain herself from cuffing the hulking fellow. ‘No, we don’t burn it! It’s ours now, innit? They’ve run off.’ She backed away from the bar, nodded to Quilla, ‘Hold the building,’ then went upstairs.

The empty office was a mess of papers, most of them covered in shadowy drawings of obscure landscapes and mysterious charts of some kind involving multiple overlapping circles marked with hen-scratchings of dates and places; Lee couldn’t make head or tail of it all. Other than that, the place was a mess: drawers pulled out and upturned in a quick search for valuables, broken glass and bits and pieces on the floor. Every step was a grating crackle of shards. After one last scan of the shabby place she returned to the main common room and waved her people to follow.

Outside, she raised a hand to shade her gaze against the spitting rain. Someone was stirring up a blood-feud, and she thought she knew who. The damned little smirking shit.

She squinted north, up to the black silhouette that was the Hold. Dark now; no watchfires. Was Geffen there already … and just where had the damned Napans fled to?

She spat aside, swearing, and motioned everyone onward. ‘C’mon, y’damned useless layabouts – we’re for the Hold!’

* * *

They jogged up the twists and turns of the steep Rampart Way up the cliff to the Hold, losing steam about halfway and labouring up the rest of the distance through the chill rain, only to be greeted by the hunchbacked gatekeeper Lubben, sitting under the stone arch of the entry tunnel, a lantern on an iron hook next to him. The old fellow was leaning back and drinking from a pewter flask.

‘Is Geffen within?’ Lee demanded of the old souse, brushing the cold wetness from her face.

The grey-haired fellow screwed up one bloodshot eye to squint at her. ‘Aye.’

‘Any Napans show up here?’

He shook his long hound’s head. ‘No.’

‘Fine.’ She motioned to Went. ‘You stay here and watch the gate with your boys.’

‘Not necessary,’ Lubben objected, but lazily, without even stirring in his chair.

Lee dismissed him with a wave and headed onward into the dark and empty bailey. She crossed the wet cobbles to the doors to the main keep and found them ajar. Donner, next to her, had his light crossbow readied and she took it from him and motioned for him to push open the stained iron-bound door. This he did, then jumped back while she stepped in, crossbow raised.

She faced a long main hall, empty, but lit brightly from far within by what must be a roaring fire. Donner and his toughs readied their knives and clubs. Fresh wet mud marred the fieldstone flags. She crept inward, a finger on the crossbow’s tiller-bar.

Raucous laughter sounded from beyond; a godsdamned celebration. She crept up to the end of the hall and leaned into the room, sighting down the crossbow stock, then let the weapon fall.

The main audience chamber was crowded with Geffen’s toughs. They’d cracked open kegs and were now at the long tables carousing. Sighting her, a number cheered and waved her in.

‘What in the Abyss is this?’ she snarled, and cuffed away a proffered tumbler of wine.

‘We won, didn’t we?’ Two-ton answered, laughing loudly.

‘Won?’ Lee said, scowling. ‘Won what?’

Their biggest enforcer lifted his thick shoulders. ‘Well … the fight, a’ course.’

‘Not that there was much a’ one,’ Leath put in, and tossed back her glass. ‘Mock’s boys just put up their weapons and walked away.’

‘Said they wouldn’t die for him,’ offered a new hiresword whose name she couldn’t remember. ‘The cowards.’

‘I’d say they just made a sensible calculation,’ Lee answered, and she took up a glass to sniff the wine, found it excellent. She sipped it and was amazed by how fine it truly was. She ruefully considered the jugs of godsawful plonk she’d been consuming all her life.

The new hiresword, a waterfront layabout by the look of his tattered canvas pants and tarred hair, frowned up at her, irritated by her answer. ‘What d’you mean, calculation?’

‘I mean they calculated that when Mock comes back you’ll be doing it instead.’

The hireling swore and knocked the glass from her hand. ‘I’ll be doing no such thing, you damned bitch – and who in the Abyss are you anyway?’

With her other hand she raised the crossbow and jammed its business end into his chest until she could feel it grating against his ribs. ‘I’m your boss, dim-wit.’ She eyed Two-ton. ‘Where’s Geffen?’

The giant fellow had thrown up his hands and now he mutely pointed upwards. She raised the crossbow to rest it on her shoulder, snatched up the wine, and headed for the wide stone staircase. ‘Thanks.’

She couldn’t find Geffen immediately, but the occasional noise of overturning furniture or crashing ceramics on the fourth floor eventually led her to him. She tracked him down to one of the many bedrooms. He was tossing the place, and she leaned against the doorjamb, crossbow cradled at her chest, and enquired, sweetly, ‘Whatcha doing?’

Geffen started, bent over as he was to inspect beneath a large armoire of some dark exotic wood. He straightened to his considerable lean height. ‘What the fuck does it look like?’

‘Searching for enemy dust-bunnies?’

He ignored her comment. ‘He’s got to have a stash hidden here somewhere.’

‘You ain’t gonna find it. Not like this.’

‘Thank you for your support. So, what happened at the bar?’

She shrugged. ‘They ran off. No one there ’cept the youngest – that girl – dead. Knifed in the back. Did you order that?’

To her immense frustration, her boss was hardly listening; he was studying the woodwork of the ceiling, frowning. ‘No.’

‘No? Well, she’s dead.’

He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘So? She’s dead.’

Lee finished the wine, shaking her head. ‘So they’re gonna think you ordered it. That it’s a blood-feud now.’

He lowered his gaze, the frown deepening into a dark scowl of anger. ‘I’ve taken the Hold and you’re whining about a few Napans?’ He waved her off. ‘Get down there and sort out the lads and lasses. Do your job.’

She raised the crossbow to her shoulder, almost gaping at the fellow. Taken the Hold? So what? Keeping it was what worried her.

But he’d already dismissed her and was now running his hands along the room’s rich wooden panelling, searching, no doubt, for some hidden cavity or latch. She pushed away from the jamb, shaking her head, and turned back to the circular stairs down to the third floor. If Geffen didn’t have an answer for that pet mage then this was going to be the shortest occupancy in history.

On the way down, she stopped. She could hear voices. Geffen talking with someone. Carefully, she crept back up the curve of the stairs and ducked into the first side room to listen. Yes, definitely. He was talking to someone. A woman.

Gently, she pressed the tip of the crossbow to the stone-flagged floor, set her weight on the iron lever until it cocked, then raised the weapon and adjusted the quarrel in its channel. Taking a steadying breath, she started up the hall.

The voices led her to a meeting chamber. Stairs to an overhanging balcony led off from the side, and she padded up them. Slowly, she edged forward until she could see over the edge of the balcony, and down the runnel of the raised weapon.

With some satisfaction – and no small relief – she saw that it was that damned Napan bitch, Surly.

She and Geffen were facing off.

Well … we have no time for this. She sighted on the woman’s back and slipped her fingers over the weapon’s trigger tiller to squeeze.

A cold blade pressed itself to her neck and a voice whispered from behind, close and wet in one ear, ‘That wouldn’t be fair, would it?’

The fucking knifer, Cowl.

He whispered, ‘Drop it.’

She eased her fingers from the tiller, lowered the weapon. ‘Why?’ she answered, just as faint.

‘I want to see what she can do, of course.’

‘No – why kill the girl?’

‘What girl?’

‘The Napan scout.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about – ah!’

Lee knew he was lying but didn’t answer as Geffen and the woman, Surly, were finished talking and he’d drawn his knives. Surly, for her part, faced him unarmed, striking some sort of ready stance, one leg ahead of the other, side on.

A grunt of appreciation sounded from the lad behind as he seemed to recognize what she was doing. He rested his chin on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, ‘Now let’s see how good she really is.’

Damn stupid is what she is, Lee thought. Geffen was a ferocious knife-fighter; had climbed through the ranks of the freebooters on his skills. She didn’t think the woman stood a chance.

Geffen obviously thought so too, as he came on swirling and spinning, switching grips and slashing high and low. Yet somehow the woman managed to slip all attacks, blocking with hands and feet and counter-punching, driving him backwards to a wall where he rebounded, spat up a mouthful of blood, snarled and raised his razor-slim blades once more.

Cowl grunted. ‘Good…’

Geffen kicked a table at Surly that she somehow leapt, bringing a heel down on his shoulder. Even from the balcony Lee heard the snap of bone. Yet he slashed at her as she spun away and both staggered backwards, Geffen’s left arm hanging limp, his collarbone broken certainly, while the woman’s side was opened up in a long cut from shoulder blade to hip that now gushed blood down her leg, smearing her bare foot.

Yet she pressed forward, hands raised in loose fists. She left behind wet red footprints as she came.

Again Cowl grunted his approval.

The blade slipped from Geffen’s limp left hand. He turned sideways, facing her with his right, slashing in a blur of attacks. These the woman somehow blocked, her arms twisting until she suddenly had his good arm locked between hers. She bent it backwards until a snap resounded – his elbow – and he snarled his agony. Then one of her hands shot up under his chin and he stiffened, his eyes growing huge and wide.

She pulled backwards, releasing him, and he fell to his side, dead. She stood regarding his corpse for a time, then limped from the chamber, leaving a path of bright wet footprints behind.

Cowl whispered into Lee’s ear: ‘Still think you could’ve taken her?’

Lee grated through clenched teeth, ‘No.’

‘That’s right,’ Cowl affirmed, so damned smugly, his warm lips touching her ear, ‘and yet she works for my boy Dancer. Think on that, darling.’ And he drew away from her, chuckling. She spun, but he was already gone.

Fucking mages. She lifted the crossbow, checked to make certain of the quarrel, and headed for the stairs. In the main hall she paused for an instant, considering for a moment whether to follow the woman, but decided against it; even wounded, that was an opponent she didn’t want. She headed down. Now I have to find a way to pay off half these parasites without turning them against me.

At the top of the wide main staircase she set her fingers to her lips and let go a shriek of a whistle. All the gabbling halted below.

‘Geffen’s dead,’ she announced. ‘Mock left behind some hidden guards and they did for him.’

After a stunned silence, some smartass called back, ‘How do we know that?’

‘Go check for yourself,’ she invited. ‘He’s on the fourth floor.’

The fellow answered, ‘How do we know you didn’t do him?’

Lee hefted the crossbow and thought about skewering the fellow right then and there, but refrained. After all, there was a chance she might miss, and that would be it for her. She sighed, openly showing how little she really cared. ‘Well … I guess you don’t. We’re pulling out.’

Two-ton’s thick brows rose comically. ‘Pullin’ out? But we own the place.’

She cut a hand through the air. ‘No! Mock still owns this place. And even if he dies out at sea his captains will fight among themselves to claim it. There’s no way they’ll put up with us squatting in their way. So pack up.’

Two-ton peered round. ‘Pack up? Pack up what?’

She showed them all a big grin. ‘Everything not nailed down.’

* * *

Nedurian was sitting at his usual table in the dark, low-ceilinged bar that was Coop’s Hanged Man inn – something of a local hangout for ex-pats, refugees, and those otherwise wanting a low profile – when in came two of the Napan crew from Smiley’s and sat down in an empty booth. One was the giant hulking fellow, and he was supporting the other bar’s serving-woman, who was wrapped in a rain-darkened cloak.

Nedurian had been keeping a close eye on Smiley’s for some time now. He’d narrowed down the epicentre of the bizarre turbulence among the Warrens to its location and believed that the mage who’d bought the place was their practitioner of Meanas. He’d even managed to question old Durard on the sale of the Twisted before he’d left town and the fellow’s description of the encounter meshed well with earlier accounts of this Dal Hon mage, especially the wild and disturbing tales out of Li Heng.

There was also the sale of the Twisted itself. Not a particularly impressive ship; quite the opposite, in fact. Yet known throughout the southern seas. And certainly not for its prowess in battle; for the dark name of its curse. Ill-luck, deaths of crew and prior owners, capture, ransom, plague, storm, and lack of any prizes at all made it a pariah to sailors in all ports.

Then there were the tales of its current haunting.

Only someone insane would buy that vessel. Or someone who believed that everyone made their own luck. Someone daring enough, or insane enough, to try his luck with Meanas.

So he’d been watching Smiley’s – even becoming something of a regular – and knew that the woman, Surly, was much more than a mere servitor. He also knew what was transpiring this very night, now that Mock had gone away.

He picked up his mug and crossed to the booth, sitting down uninvited. The big fellow glared murder at that, his massive hands clenching, but the woman sent him a sharp look and he eased back in the bench seat, which creaked and groaned beneath him.

Nedurian noted that more than rain darkened the cloak wrapping the Napan woman, who appeared greyer than usual, and sheathed in sweat. So he made a cast hoping for a bite, saying, ‘Did you get him?’

The woman eyed him warily – he knew she recognized him from Smiley’s. ‘And you are?’ she answered, her voice tight and clenched.

He shrugged. ‘A retired mage. Geffen was no friend of mine. So I ask again – did you get him?’

‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

Fat Coop came over to the table, rubbing his hands in his apron. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked.

‘Wine,’ said the woman weakly.

‘Beer,’ said the fellow – Urko, Nedurian believed his name to be.

Coop gave Nedurian a nod, saying, ‘Good to see you. I’ll get you your usual.’

Once Coop had left the table, Nedurian shrugged again. ‘Fine. Be that way. But I’m sympathetic. I’ve been watching you, and I think that what you need is a mage cadre.’

The big fellow pulled a hand down his face to wipe away the rain. ‘A what?’

The woman took a sharp breath, sagging into the booth. ‘He means mages who are integrated with squads or crews, like in the old days among the imperial Talian legions.’

Nedurian gave her a nod. ‘Showing a lot of book-learning for a servitor.’

The woman’s smile was brittle with pain as she sat holding her side. ‘I’ve just heard all the old stories, of course.’

His answering smile was equally sincere. ‘Of course.’

‘So?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’

He opened his arms. ‘Employment, naturally.’

She shook her head. ‘We don’t need another mage.’

Coop passed by and set down a tumbler of brandy before Nedurian. He turned it in his hands. ‘Oh, yes. You have two. One is of Ruse. Excellent at sea, but limited on land. The other is … well, of questionable usefulness.’

Now her eyes narrowed and the front of disinterest hardened into a mask. ‘I’m not hiring right now.’

The front door opened, sending the candle and lamp flames flickering. It was another of the Napan crew, a tall, mast-thin fellow whom Nedurian knew to be named Tocaras.

This one crossed to the table and bent to whisper in Surly’s ear. She nodded and moved to rise, carefully. ‘Thanks for your offer,’ she told Nedurian by way of dismissal. Together, the three exited.

He gave them a while, then rose and headed for the door. A cleared throat behind brought him up short. It was Coop at the table, who motioned to the glasses. ‘On me,’ Nedurian told him.

He felt eyes on him then, steady and level. He glanced over to see two of the long-standing regulars here, one a wiry drunkard named Faro and the other a giant of a fellow who sometimes served as a sort of unofficial bouncer when he was sober enough. He gave them a nod, which Faro answered in a strangely measured way.

Shrugging off the fellow’s gaze, Nedurian ambled out on to the wet night-time street. He was in no hurry; after all, he knew where the Napans were headed. When he reached the block containing Smiley’s he was rewarded by the noise of a scuffle and the crash of a door. He paused, leaning against a neighbour’s shop-front, and watched while street-toughs came rocketing out of the door one by one to crash to the gleaming cobbles. Groaning, they picked themselves up, dragged their compatriots up off the ground, and limped away.

Nedurian smiled to himself in the dark and gave them a while, then pushed off, thinking, Well … nothing has ever been gained by timidity.

He pushed open the door to find himself facing one of the Napan crew, the tallest, Tocaras, longsword bared. ‘Not now,’ the fellow said, his face grim. Nedurian peered in past him to see another of the crew, Grinner, cleaning the counter.

‘You’re closed?’

Tocaras nodded, almost as if he couldn’t trust himself to speak. ‘Aye. Closed.’

The servitor and Urko emerged from the rear, the giant fellow still half supporting her. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘That mage, Nedurian,’ Tocaras answered over his shoulder.

‘Let him in.’

Grinner and Shrift were slowly righting chairs and sweeping up broken crockery. They eyed him, suddenly rather hostile. He sat at the table nearest the door. Surly herself sat on a high stool at the bar, still wrapped in a cloak. She nodded the big one, Urko, to him. The fellow lumbered over, frowning. ‘Uh … what d’you want?’

‘Like I said. Employment.’

Urko glanced back to Surly. She tilted her head, her gaze hardening. ‘You know who runs this place?’

A loaded question: he was tempted to say ‘you’ but decided she was testing his honesty and so he nodded. ‘Yeah. Some Dal Hon mage, and a fellow who looks handy with a knife. But I haven’t seen them lately.’

She nodded in turn, satisfied. ‘Well, they’re abroad. Could be back any time, though. So remember that.’

‘All right.’ Interesting – she’s using them as a threat to keep the hirelings in line. Are they really so scary? Well, that’s what I’m here to find out. ‘I consider myself forewarned.’

‘Do so. Now, why us? Why not the other lot? We’re outnumbered, you know.’

He inclined his head at the justness of the question. ‘Been watching for some time now. The other lot, they’re a gang. But you’re a crew.’ He raised a finger. ‘That’s a very important difference.’

She was eyeing him steadily. After a few moments she pursed her thin hard lips as if to say, Good enough. Her gaze fell to the bar’s counter then seemed to shy away; she regarded him anew. ‘Can you heal?’

He shrugged. ‘I know the basics. Both mundane and magical.’

She leaned back and waved to Grinner, who was standing as if quivering with some sort of rage – as if he wanted to knife someone, anyone, and even he’d do. ‘Let’s go upstairs. Mage, you have yourself a patient.’

* * *

Dancer squinted through a hanging haze of dust to a horizon of jagged canyons and flat isolated buttes and despaired. He stood at the crumbling edge of a ridge and resolved not to continue any further in this ridiculous exploration of Shadow. He crossed his arms as Kellanved came puffing up behind.

‘We could wander like this for ever,’ he announced, not turning round.

‘Indeed, the Realm is ours to discover,’ Kellanved answered, sounding very pleased with himself.

Dancer resisted looking to the pewter sky. ‘I mean this is useless. We should return.’

‘Useless? When every turn reveals new knowledge? Every vista a revelation of discovery?’

This time Dancer did look up.

The walking stick appeared, thrusting out past Dancer’s side. ‘What is that?’ Dancer narrowed his gaze to the right. A tall mount? ‘There is a strange light there – we should investigate.’

Dancer uncrossed his arms, let out a long-suffering breath. ‘Very well. But after that we return, yes?’

Kellanved brushed past him, waving a hand. ‘Yes, yes.’ He shuffled down the slope rather awkwardly to the ravine below, setting off great rattling slides of rocks and shale.

Dancer followed, his gaze on the ridge-lines and the deeper murk of the boulders littering the valley below. He knew that the hounds would find them again anyway and that Kellanved would be forced to shift them like wind-blown leaves across Shadow regardless of their plans.

* * *

After meandering through a maze of steep and narrow canyons they glimpsed a horizon ahead, seemingly oddly close. It hung like a sky-to-ground curtain of shifting silvery grey, shot through by glimmerings of light, like sparks or motes.

Kellanved halted, planting the walking stick in front of him, hands atop it. As Dancer closed, his companion gestured to a turn in the canyon, and announced, as if he’d just created the panorama, ‘Behold…’

Dancer peered over and grunted, astonished. The canyon allowed a direct approach to their objective, revealed now through the thinning dust not as a dark mount or pinnacle, but as a hulking construction like a fortress of dark rock, tilted near sideways along the slope of a butte, and apparently half sunk in the curtain of hanging silver light.

Of all the sights Shadow had revealed as yet, Dancer had to admit this was the most impressive. ‘What is it?’ he breathed aloud.

‘I do not know,’ Kellanved answered. ‘But I must find out.’ And he set off at a quick scuttle.

Cursing, Dancer hurried after the little fellow, who could move quite fast when he wished to. He drew his blades, hissing, ‘We can’t just march right up.’

‘And why ever not?’

‘There might be guards, occupants.’

‘Nonsense. It is long abandoned.’

‘You don’t know that. How do you know that?’

The wiry mage started climbing the fan of broken rock and detritus that spread down from the nearest leaning walls of the immense structure. He threw a finger into the air, saying, ‘I surmised.’

Dancer was tiring of the fellow’s posturing. ‘Surmised? From what? There is no evidence.’

Halting, Kellanved gestured ahead to the great hulking construct, then opened his arms wide. ‘As I thought,’ he announced, ‘a Sky Fortress of the K’Chain Che’Malle.’

Dancer was not surprised; he’d already suspected as much. Studying the great broken edifice, its exposed galleries, floors, and cracked walls, he imagined in his mind’s eye the enormous object crashing into the hillside to break apart and slide to its present tilted resting place. Yet what of this strange glittering curtain that blocked their view of half the remains? ‘And this barrier?’ he asked Kellanved.

The hunched, falsely old mage was already scrambling up the slope of shattered rock and gravel. He waved his walking stick as he held forth. ‘As we know, Kurald Emurlahn – the Elder Warren of Shadow – was broken apart in great wars. That barrier must be one such border – an edge of this shard of Emurlahn.’

Dancer nodded to himself. ‘So … we could pass through there into another Realm?’

‘Very possibly so, yes.’

As far as Dancer could see they were alone, yet somehow he could not bring himself to sheathe his blades. ‘Well, perhaps we’ve seen enough, then. We know it’s here. We could return another time.’

Kellanved paused – probably to catch his breath. ‘Nonsense!’ he puffed. ‘So close to who knows how many astounding discoveries?’ He eyed Dancer anew, cleared his throat. ‘Ah, you wouldn’t happen to have any water left, would you?’

Sighing, Dancer tucked his blades away and passed over their last waterskin.

* * *

They clambered up the shattered lip of a broad room, an enclosed space as large as the great domed audience chamber of Li Heng. Rusted hulking machines covered in dust and broken rock littered the room. Those not fixed to the floor had slid down to rest in a jumbled heap at the lowest point. Dancer had no idea as to what their purpose might have been. In fact, he felt rather like a mouse poking his nose into an abandoned house and staring up at the enormous human-sized furniture. An overly inquisitive mouse at that. The fine hair on his forearms and the back of his neck prickled with a strange dread.

‘Kellanved,’ he began, ‘I don’t like—’

The distant brassy baying of a hound interrupted him.

‘The barrier, I should think,’ Kellanved announced, and took off at a run.

They lowered themselves down open canted floors where a great crack ran through the edifice. It overlooked the silvery grey curtain barrier and they were making their way down to the littered base far below where the gap disappeared into the strange glittering wall, beyond which nothing could be seen.

The baying drew nearer, echoing now from the surrounding walls, ceilings and floors. ‘Shift us now,’ Dancer called.

‘No time,’ Kellanved answered, panting and short of breath. Then he skidded to a halt amid a great collected heap of sand and dust, pointing. ‘That again!’

Dancer reflexively snapped a hand to a blade, but unnecessarily, as far across the great gap a familiar squarish, canted object was rising into the empty air.

Kellanved pointed, ‘Ah, our old friend from before – taking off to leave us to our fate again!’

Dancer urged the mage onward. ‘Never mind that little reptile. We can’t stop.’

The mage awkwardly shuffled and half leapt down a heap of fallen rock. ‘This must be its base,’ he offered.

‘Just keep going. We can’t…’ Dancer trailed off as it became clear there was something wrong with the flying fragment’s trajectory as it skidded low across the ruins, heading directly for the tall soaring main section of the fortress. The smaller piece wobbled, perhaps as the creature within struggled to adjust its course, but to no great effect.

‘It’s going to…’ Kellanved began, only to trail off as well.

The fragment crashed into a wall, shattering into bricks and shards, and Dancer thought he caught a glimpse of the lizard-like beast as it fell. An alien gurgled wail sounded across the great gap.

‘Damn,’ Kellanved said. ‘I’ve wanted to examine that flying thing ever since we first came to Shadow.’

Dancer decided that this was not the time to comment on the man’s lack of sympathy, opting instead to push him onward, down towards the base of the greyish, silvery curtain.

Another ear-punishing howl sounded and Dancer flinched; two of them. He launched himself past Kellanved, rushing pell-mell down the slope of loose broken rock and gravel. ‘I will scout ahead!’

He was almost at the barrier – which remained utterly opaque, even at this close distance – when something hit him in the back. He spun, blades whipping out. Kellanved’s walking stick lay at his feet. The mage himself came puffing and gasping after, waving his arms, his mouth moving soundlessly as he fought to say something.

‘We have no time!’ Dancer snarled, and turned for the barrier.

‘Stop!’ Kellanved exploded, panting, bent over, hands on his knees. ‘Stop!’

‘I’ll just take a look.’

The mage waved his hands in a wild negative. ‘No … mustn’t.’

‘What? What is it?’

Kellanved reached him and took hold of his shoulder – perhaps to support himself more than to hold him back. ‘Grey,’ he panted. ‘Glitterings. Not barrier … edge.’

‘Yes. To another Realm.’

The mage shook his half-bald, wrinkled head. ‘No. Nothing. Chaos.’

A long eager hunting howl snapped Dancer’s gaze to the north. They have our fresh scent. He shook Kellanved. ‘What do you mean? Can we go or not?’

‘There is nowhere to go to,’ the mage answered, gaining a snarl of impatience from Dancer. ‘This shard of Emurlahn is being consumed by Chaos. Eaten. Eroded.’ He pointed to the shimmering, slowly wavering curtain. ‘That is the edge of the nothingness between Realms.’

Dancer threw his arms up. ‘Shift us away then. Quickly.’

The wizened fellow pressed a finger to his lips, squinting. ‘There may be interference this close to the edge of Chaos. It may not be safe.’

‘Fine!’ Dancer thrust the man’s walking stick into his arms, took him by the collar and began marching him off across the rubble. ‘Start now.’

Kellanved wriggled, struggling to free himself. ‘This is not conducive to the high arts of thaumaturgy, I’ll have you know!’

‘Neither is sliding down the gullet of a hound.’

The fellow’s tiny ferret eyes shifted left and right. ‘Well … you have a point. I will begin.’

‘Do so!’ And if we ever get out of this it will be a miracle. Dancer realized this was probably the third or fourth time he’d told himself this.

* * *

Lars Jindrift had always thought his lot in life unjust; he’d never had the breaks and everyone had always been against him. It wasn’t his fault that that damned girl had struggled out the ground and come staggering into town to denounce him! How was he to know she’d still been alive? He was certain he’d throttled her thoroughly enough.

And of course no one believed his side of the story. It was all so damned unfair.

But that was before.

Now he knew that his life to date had been nothing but a dance through lilacs and butterflies. ‘Butterflies,’ he whispered aloud, deep within the empty guts of the Tempest, then giggled, and clamped a hand over his mouth.

Glancing about at the empty hold he raised his treasure in his hands. He brushed away the swarming roaches and weevils, took a nibble of what was left of the hardtack, then thrust it back into its filthy cloth wrapping and tucked it away in its hiding spot behind crates of rotted mouldy cloth.

He straightened from his knees and nearly toppled as a wave of darkness took him; he steadied himself at a timber. Not eating well of late, he thought, and giggled again. He made for the deck.

What new expanse of empty sea awaits!

He emerged beneath a clear, star-studded night-time sky when he climbed to the mid-deck. Peering about – squinting, as his vision was not what it used to be either – he found their tormentor near the bows. The daemon in man form, Kallor, stood with hands clasped behind his back, armoured as always, peering up at the stars. A faint wind brushed his wispy iron-grey hair and beard.

A mad urge to rush the man and thrust him over the side took hold of Lars, but he wept instead as he no longer had the strength even to throttle a child. Instead, he sidled up beside the monster and asked, ‘Why read the stars, m’lord?’

The creature shot him a glance of disgust before returning to examining the night sky. ‘Just dredging up an old memory, in truth.’

‘Memory?’

‘Yes.’ Kallor turned to the stern, calling, ‘A point north, steersman!’

Lars and he waited in silence for a time, until there came from the darkness a weak ‘Aye’.

‘Memory, m’lord?’ Lars prompted, blinking, and though the sea was uncannily calm this night he steadied himself with a hand at the railing. How long had it been since he’d eaten real food? Not counting the blood he drank from that wounded fellow he’d found below …

The monster in human form nodded, smiling faintly, as if at an old memory. ‘Yes. I came this way once before … long ago.’

Lars blinked again, peered uncomprehending at the great vastness of rolling waves surrounding them and the empty heavens coursing above, and could not contain the hilarity that came bubbling up from within. He laughed openly, giggling and guffawing. He swept an arm to the broad sea, sneering in open scorn. ‘You came this way? In the trackless ocean? Are you a fool?’

Kallor glanced to him in revulsion, then raised an arm and swung it backhanded.

Stars exploded in Lars’ vision. Stars that floated, dimming, like butterflies, until they faded and darkness took him.

* * *

He awoke to glaring sunshine and the thump of feet on the decking. Something crusted his mouth. He groaned, fumbled at the railing above him, and drew himself up. One of the last of their sailors came limping past, his head hanging, and Lars called to him, ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

The sailor pointed ahead. ‘Land.’

Lars blinked. Land? Truly? He squinted to the western horizon – all he could make out was a dark blur far off atop the waves. Land? Really? Which could it be? Fabled Stratem? Rich Quon? Or perhaps the immense lands of the Seven Holy Cities? He staggered after his tormentor to the very bows. ‘What land is this, m’lord?’ he asked, and could not help but flinch away as the fiend turned to him.

This time, however, an indulgent smile crooked the monster’s mouth, as if he were addressing a child, and he said, ‘It is no land.’

Lars examined the broad thin smear. Not land? He blinked, nearly faint from lack of food, and decided that perhaps he could no longer trust his senses. How could this be?

But as the Tempest closed upon the dark blur it became more and more clear that the manifestation, whatever it was, certainly was not land. Land thickened as one neared from offshore; highlands and distant mountains resolved out of the blue haze, and clouds massed. Here, however, no such distant inland heights appeared; the darkness remained just that, a thin line floating barely above the waves.

It was not until they were almost within bowshot that Lars could make out exactly what they approached: a floating construct. Huge, immense, fully the size of a large fortress or city. He marvelled that such an artefact could exist – and that he, or anyone he knew, would have no knowledge of it. It astounded him that there could exist some whole new place in the world of which he had heard no hint whatsoever.

Enormous tree-trunk pillars supported piers that extended from its boardwalk wharves. Smoke and the stink of humanity now wafted over them; that and a delicious commingled mouth-watering scent of cookery that almost made him faint. Those among the crew of the Tempest who still had the strength to rise now struggled with lowering the sails and preparing lines.

As the Tempest neared a berth at the end of one such pier, Lars saw no other vessels of its size anywhere. All the rest were small single-masted open boats, or oared smacks or dories – none capable of any ocean crossing.

Lines were thrown, weakly, all falling short, but crew on shore used boathooks to catch them, drawing in the Tempest just as a double file of armoured men and women came marching down the pier. Each carried a large oval shield on their back, and held a wicked-looking crossbow. They lined up facing the Tempest, and on an order the front rank knelt and raised their weapons, while the second remained standing, also with weapons raised. All this Kallor took in while leaning on the side rail, an amused smile hovering at his lips.

A strange armoured figure then pushed through the double line to stand before it. Lars thought it a thin man in plate, but he appeared even too skinny for that. Yet he seemed to be encased in metal – rusted and dented bands gleamed here and there, and even his face was a contoured metallic mask. Twin wickedly curved blades hung at his hips. He raised an arm, pointing, and Lars was amazed to see that the hand too was metal, shaped from articulating metal segments.

‘You,’ came a screeching, scraping voice, as of metal snagging on metal, ‘are known of old. You are not welcome here among the Meckros.’

The fiend merely shrugged his mail-encased shoulders. ‘I am not here for trouble. I simply wish to trade.’

Lars frowned at that, thinking: Trade? So, this was not their destination after all? A terrible suspicion now dawned upon him and he thought, So, we are to travel even further?

Another figure pushed forward, this one a bearded old man, his thin hair tied in a long braid and a gold circlet of metal upon his head. ‘You have nothing we want,’ he shouted. ‘Begone, or we will slay you all!’

‘What of slaves?’ Kallor answered. ‘You may have four of my crew.’

Now Lars gaped in truth. What? Slaves?

The city elder looked over the crew now crowding the side, Lars included, and shook his head. ‘They are too sickly. They would be of no use.’

Lars let out a breath of relief while the monster sighed deeply, as if disappointed. ‘Very well. For a few barrels of food and water I trade you your continued miserable existence. A fair deal, I should think.’

The elder flinched as if struck; he choked, fury darkening his face. ‘That is blackmail! We will not agree to that!’

‘Think on my last visit,’ Kallor reminded him mildly.

The fellow’s hands clenched and unclenched. He cast quick calculating glances between the unnatural creature of metal at his side and the fiend on the ship. In the quiet, Lars became aware of a strange whirring sound wafting across the gap, as of gears spinning and ratchets softly clicking.

‘Keng here may defeat you,’ the old man finally pronounced.

Kallor pointed. ‘That thing cannot slay me. You know this. Yet I have it within my power to sink your precious city. Think on that.’

The elder glowered, his mouth working. Finally, he spat through gritted teeth, ‘Very well. A few barrels of dried fish, fruit, and water. And that is appropriate, as that is all you are worth.’

Kallor was grinning now, and he shook a warning finger. ‘Careful, or I shall add one pickled head to my order.’

The city elder snarled, huffing, and pushed his way through the guards, disappearing from sight. The eerie creature, Keng, remained; immobile, watchful, its inner mechanisms whirring.

Kallor turned away from the Tempest’s side, chuckling. His grey, dead-eyed gaze swept Lars and he motioned to him. ‘You should be pleased. Food is on the way.’

Lars swallowed to wet his parched throat, ventured warily, ‘Then, m’lord, we are not to stay?’

The fiend appeared surprised. ‘Stay? Here?’ He laughed scornfully. ‘There is nothing for me here in the middle of nowhere. No, we continue westward.’

‘Westward, m’lord? May I ask where?’ He flinched, anticipating a blow for his daring.

But Kallor merely peered in that direction, frowning in thought behind his iron-grey beard. ‘Southern Quon Tali, I believe. I shall know as we draw closer.’ His armoured boots thumped the decking as he stepped away. ‘However,’ and he turned back, a finger raised, ‘if you are considering jumping ship and trying your luck among the Meckros, you will be disappointed. They are a ruthless and efficient people who cannot afford to feed anyone who cannot contribute. Sickly ones like all of you will simply be thrown into their pens of carnivorous fish.’ The dead eyes scanned all on deck, including Lars, and the monster smiled without humour. ‘Therefore, I suggest your chances remain better with me.’ He bowed his head in withdrawal. ‘If you need me, I shall be in my cabin.’ And he clomped across the deck and slammed the cabin door behind him.

Lars wrapped his arms round his head and sank down to his haunches, shuddering with suppressed sobs. A nightmare! His life had become a living nightmare. Whatever did he do to deserve this?

It was all so completely unfair!