Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER IX

A kick to her foot woke Kiska and she blinked up to see Leoman kneeling next to her. He motioned her to follow. ‘They’re on the move.’

He led her up the slope of one of the dunes of black sand. Together they lay down just short of the crest and peered over. The troop of misfits and malformed survivors of the Vitr were shuffling off round a headland of jagged tumbled stone. Back the way she and Leoman had come.

Kiska pushed herself away from the crest. ‘We missed him?’

‘Perhaps he crossed back when we were in the cave,’ Leoman suggested, thoughtfully brushing at his moustache.

The sight irked Kiska and she climbed to her feet, taking care to remain crouched. ‘Let’s circle round inland.’ She jogged off without waiting to see whether he followed or not.

Soon the faint metallic jingle of armour and the chains of morningstars sounded just to her rear and she knew he’d caught up. Please, Oponn and the Enchantress — let this be it! This is no place for me … or even Leoman. This is a land for gods and Ascendants, not plain old mortals such as us. Let us please complete our mission and meekly slink away!

Keeping to the highlands and cliff-tops, they shadowed the file of waddling creatures as they made their slow awkward way along the shore. Against the sky she could just make out the mountain-tall shadowy figure of Maker as he continued his unending labour. Some, she knew, would consider his task a divine curse. For her own part she had yet to decide. After all, he was holding back the Vitr — wasn’t he?

Below, the creatures had gathered on a stretch of shallow beach where a broad strand ran out to the glimmering sea of light — what on any body of water would be called a tidal flat. And she wondered, could this ocean of seething energy even be said to have a tide? She’d seen no sign of any.

The creatures faced the shallow waves, perhaps waiting for something, or someone. Kiska shaded her gaze into the blinding brightness, but saw nothing.

‘Anything?’ she asked Leoman.

The man shook his head, his eyes slitted against the glare. ‘We’ll wait.’ He sat down, his back to the rocks, and stretched his legs out before him. ‘Kiska,’ he began after a time, tentatively, ‘if he wanted to return … don’t you think-’

‘Quiet,’ she hissed, not even glancing down.

She heard him shift impatiently, exhale his irritation, then ease into a reluctant silence. She kept watch. He had to be out there. Why else would these outcasts be waiting?

Eventually, after staring into the stabbing brilliance, her eyes came to water so furiously she couldn’t see anything at all and she had to cuff Leoman to signal him to take over. She sat down, blinking and rubbing her gritty eyes. Please, all the gods come and gone, let this be it.

After a time there came a tap on her shoulder. ‘Movement.’ She leapt up, but the hand on her shoulder pressed her back down. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

Crouched, she scanned the expanse of scintillating shimmering glare. At first she saw nothing: the stunning intensity of the sea of brightness blinded her to all else. ‘On the left,’ Leoman murmured. She edged her gaze aside, shaded her eyes. Movement there: a shadowy flickering among the silver-bright waves. A shape approaching like a dark flame almost lost amid all that brightness.

Over time the figure resolved itself into a tall man pushing his way to shore through the knee-high waves of liquid Vitr. Kiska surged to her feet. ‘It’s him!’

‘We don’t know …’ Leoman began, then some instinct made him throw himself round, hands going to the morningstars at his sides, and at the same time someone else spoke.

‘Yes. I do believe it is he.’

The hair on Kiska’s head actually rose. I know that voice! Slowly, dreading what she would find, she willed herself to turn round. There stood a haggard battered man in torn robes, his face scalded livid red and swollen. The Seven Cities mage and holy Faladan, Yathengar.

Ye gods — he was supposed to have been destroyed by the Liosan! How could he still live? The man who, to avenge himself against the Malazan Empire, summoned the Chaos Whorl, that in the end consumed him and Tayschrenn, flinging them both to this edge of creation. ‘You live!’ she gasped in shocked disbelief.

The rabid gaze swung to her. ‘So I wished you to never suspect. Ingrates! Did you not consider that I could follow where you-’

Leoman leapt upon him, his morningstars keening, only to fly aside, the weapons clashing together about his head. Kiska lunged as well, stave flashing in a thrust, but Yathengar merely tilted his head and the weapon flashed searingly hot and she cast it away, yelling her agony. Hands useless, she spun a backward kick. Her foot rebounded from the man’s torso, which seemed as hard as oak. He scowled his irritation, gesturing, and a vice-grip took her at the neck to lift her from the ground. He gestured with his other hand and Leoman lurched upright. The morningstars hung wrapped about his neck.

Starting forward, Yathengar marched the two of them along, each fighting for breath. ‘Let us go and say hello to our old friend, shall we? I’m sure he will be very pleased to see the two of you.’

They descended the rocks. Kiska fought to yell a warning. Leoman’s face darkened alarmingly, the veins at his neck swelling. At the shore the pressure eased off a touch. Perhaps Yathengar was worried they would expire before he could torment them any further. However, the grip at Kiska’s throat was still too fierce for any shout. The shambling creatures caught sight of them and scattered, gabbling their panic and terror. Kiska had no time for them: her gaze was fixed upon the slim man slowly advancing through the last of the shallow surf.

It was Tayschrenn, former High Mage of the Malazan Empire.

He’d changed, of course, as would be expected of anyone who had endured the passage he had experienced. His hair was now almost entirely grey, and short, as if growing out from having been shaved, or burned off. He’d lost weight. A simple shirt was loose upon him, hanging down over ragged trousers. Oddly he wasn’t wet. The glimmering Vitr merely ran from him in beads, like quicksilver.

But what troubled her was his expression: it was all open puzzlement. Not one hint of recognition touched his night-dark eyes.

‘Tayschrenn! You have eluded me for the last time,’ Yathengar called out.

The lean aristocratic head tilted to one side, apparently bewildered. ‘You are from my past then, are you?’

‘He is your enemy!’ Kiska managed to grind out, feeling as if her throat were tearing.

Snarling, Yathengar threw her and Leoman down, punching them into the sands.

‘So … I had enemies,’ Tayschrenn said, speaking almost to himself.

‘Do not take me for a fool! No play-acting will help you now.’

‘You are harming those two.’

‘This is as nothing compared to what I will do to you.’

‘What will you-’

But Yathengar had had enough of talk. He thrust with both hands. A storm of roaring energies engulfed Tayschrenn, who fell back into the Vitr, bellowing his pain. In the sands Kiska struggled to draw her long-knife.

Yet the smoking blackened figure that was Tayschrenn arose from the Vitr. ‘Why …’ He spat aside through blistered bleeding lips.

A howl of rage took everyone by surprise and Kiska snapped her head round to glimpse the giant demon launching itself upon Yathengar. An eruption of puissance threw the fearsome entity to the ground, where it lay groaning, the fur on its armoured torso smoking.

‘So …’ said Tayschrenn, agony making his voice faint, ‘you are a mage.’

Yathengar scowled, disbelief obvious on his ravaged face. ‘What is this …?’

Tayschrenn advanced a step. ‘Then you are my enemy …’

The mage’s hands fell, so startled was he by the statement. Tayschrenn lunged at him just as his huge friend had. This time the Seven Cities mage was too slow to react and the two went down grappling.

Kiska could only stare, baffled. What was he doing? Fighting? Why didn’t he just …

Then she realized — the man must have forgotten everything about his prior life. Everything. Perhaps he no longer even knew how to channel power. Gods! How could he defeat this madman? By punching him?

Perhaps strengthened by his insanity, Yathengar managed to raise his hands. Power rippled there, sizzling in Tayschrenn’s grip. At the same time the fist at Kiska’s throat eased and she sat up, drawing her knife. Leoman also rose. The morningstars hissed to life in his hands. But neither dared strike while the two mages squirmed in the sands.

Then Kiska realized even more. ‘The Vitr!’ she shouted to Tayschrenn. ‘He hasn’t touched the Vitr!’

Understanding, Tayschrenn heaved himself to one side. The two struggled while power lashed, searing the flesh of the ex-High Mage’s arms. They rolled into the thin anaemic surf. Tayschrenn fought to press Yathengar down while the mage wrestled to free his arms. Finally Tayschrenn managed to force the man into the wash.

Immediately, the silvery liquid burst into foaming hissing froth. Yathengar howled, jerking free of Tayschrenn. He lunged for the dry shore; the former High Mage yanked him back by his robes. Leoman saw an opening and moved to close, but Kiska shouted a warning. Leoman leapt back but not fast enough, and his sandals smoked. He dug his feet into the sands, almost dancing in panic.

Meanwhile Yathengar had fallen again into the Vitr and now writhed screaming and flailing. Tayschrenn grimly took hold of a leg to drag him further out. The writhing and screaming went on for a long time. The great demon arose, groggy, to stand to one side, and Kiska stood panting, shuddering with suppressed energy. The continuous distant shrieks and hoarse pleading mixed with vile threats made her wince. She sat heavily in the sands and Leoman joined her.

They had found Tayschrenn. Succeeded in an apparently impossible task. Followed him through the Whorl to the very edge of existence. And now he did not even recognize them.

Eventually, the tall figure re-emerged from the glare of the Vitr. Kiska climbed to her feet. The man favoured her and Leoman with a harsh, unforgiving gaze. Kiska couldn’t trust herself to speak; she was afraid that anything she might say would be wrong. ‘So,’ he began at last, musing, ‘you are from my past.’

Kiska swallowed to wet her throat, managed a faint, ‘Yes.’ Then, stronger, ‘You are needed-’ She stopped as he raised a hand to silence her. He examined that hand, and the other, turning them over before his face. Kiska noted that his flesh was healed. The Vitr appeared to have somehow restored him.

He continued to study his hands, flexing them. ‘And I take it that I, too, was a mage.’

‘Yes,’ Kiska breathed, knowing that she could not lie.

Leoman, to his credit, remained silent, his narrowed dark eyes travelling between them, observing, gauging. The demon was also silent, watching, its great taloned hands clenched, the lenses of its bulbous eyes flashing as it blinked.

At Kiska’s whispered yes the man shuddered as if struck. His eyes squeezed shut and his hands fisted rigid, then fell to his sides. He exhaled through clenched teeth, made a sweeping gesture with one hand as if cutting the air between them. ‘Well, you can keep that past. I want nothing to do with it.’ He motioned to the demon. ‘Come, Korus. We have work to do.’

Kiska could not read the demon’s alien face but the massive tangle of fangs at its mouth seemed to curve in a grin of triumph.

‘But Tayschrenn!’

The man paused. He turned back, his expression unchanged. ‘If that was my name it is no longer. You can keep it as well … and take it with you when you go.’

She could not think of anything more to say. The ex-High Mage walked away, trailed by the demon Korus. She turned to Leoman; the man gave a long slow shrug. ‘Kiska, I’m sorry …’

Snarling, she turned and stalked off along the shore. I’ve not come all this way …

The gentle metal jingling of Leoman’s armour announced his following. ‘Kiska, listen … You’ve done everything that could be expected. If he does not want to come then that is his choice …’

Kiska kept walking. I’ll convince him. He’s needed.

‘You may not believe me but I’ve been through something rather similar before.’

Did he really say that? She spun on her heel. ‘Yes — you’re right. I do not believe you’ve followed a quarry to the edge of creation only to have him walk away!’

Leoman gripped his belt in both hands, rocked ever so slightly under her glare. ‘I was bodyguard to Sha’ik. You know that.’

Her rage abated and she hesitated, interested despite her doubts. ‘Yes?’

His narrowed gaze was on the middle distance, perhaps unwilling to meet her eyes. ‘I was with the uprising from the start. Rose through the ranks to become her bodyguard. She dragged my partner and me out to the deep desert, claimed she was going to be reborn. She had her blasted Holy Book with her. She’d consulted it, the divinatory deck, the astrological signs, everything. All to be at the right place at the right time to be reborn …’

‘And?’ Kiska prompted.

‘The Malazans put a crossbow bolt through her head at that very moment.’

Queen preserve me! She turned away, furious. ‘There is a point to this?’

Stung, his voice hardened. ‘The point is that what happened was not what I thought was supposed to happen — that’s the point!’

She stopped, glancing back. ‘But she was reborn …’

‘A — girl — showed up just then to take on the mantle. She became the new Sha’ik.’

‘Ah-ha! So eventually you did succeed! Your determination paid off.’

‘No. Actually, that’s not my point at all. I was thinking more that we should strike inland, see what turns up.’

‘Well, I’m staying. His memory might return.’ She waved him away and walked on after Tayschrenn, yelling over her shoulder: ‘Did you think of that!’

Leoman stood kicking at the black sand. He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Yes,’ he said, all alone. ‘I thought of that.’

After they left the temple quarters Malakai scouted ahead as usual. Antsy was content to let him range about as before. Frankly, part of him hoped he’d never return. Orchid was subdued. The lass had been handed a lot to think about. Corien was still weak and so he carried the dimmed lantern and the crossbow while Antsy led.

The way up was an ornate hall, or tunnel, broad and gently rising. More like a covered boulevard, with openings off it, perhaps shops or private dwellings. These chambers gaped empty, stripped of furnishings but for a litter of broken pots, trampled torn cloth, and shattered glass. The avenue opened to what appeared to be a broad square, and beyond this, just hinted at by the weak lantern light, marched street after street of another underground city.

Shit. Now what? He turned to Orchid. ‘Which way?’

She was eyeing the buildings, her lower lip clenched in her teeth. Clearly, this was not what she’d been expecting.

‘Well?’

‘I don’t know. We should explore … I guess.’

‘Where is Malakai, I wonder?’ Corien murmured, keeping his voice down.

‘Exploring, I guess,’ Antsy said, rather more acidly than he’d intended. ‘C’mon. This way.’

He led them up a narrow alleyway where the tilt, or cant, of the entire structure was uncomfortably evident. Antsy had to push off occasionally from the right-leaning wall.

‘We should make for one edge of the town,’ Orchid finally announced, perhaps having regained her bearings.

‘Why?’ Antsy asked, and stopped for her answer. Both spoke in subdued tones, almost whispering; the quiet emptiness and gaping doorways seemed to demand a reverent, or at least sombre, response. Gone, the silent stone streets and alleys seemed to sigh. They are gone from us.

‘Because we’re under a kind of cave roof here, that’s why.’

Antsy couldn’t help glancing up into what was, for him, an impenetrable gloom. He grunted his understanding. ‘All right. This way.’ He headed in what he believed to be the right direction.

A short time later he felt it before he heard it: a massive shuddering that threw them all from side to side. They reached out to steady themselves on the walls. Stones fell all around them, shattering. Orchid let out a panicked cry. Wreckage within the buildings about them shifted and crashed anew. It felt like every earthquake Antsy had experienced — only in this case a Spawnquake.

Then, slowly, ponderously, the entire structure around them rolled slightly, forwards and backwards, like a titanic ship. They tottered and fought to keep their balance just as one would on any vessel. In the slow, almost gentle rocking Antsy thought he sensed a new equilibrium in the massive artefact’s balance. Thankfully a poise slightly closer to upright than before.

‘What is it?’ Orchid whispered, fierce.

‘I do believe we just lost a chunk of our island.’

‘Are we sinking?’ Corien asked, dread tightening his voice.

Antsy scratched the bristles of his untrimmed beard. ‘It’s possible … of course, we might just rise some, too.’

‘Rise?’ Orchid scoffed. ‘How could that be possible?’

Antsy took a breath to explain but both had moved on, obviously uninterested in anything too technical. He cleared his throat, muttering, ‘Well — it’s just a theory.’

They came to where walls of stone bordered the town. Some sections of the rock had been left naked, others smoothed. Some bore mosaics depicting scenes of a great river of brightness running through darkness, others of an immense city of towers. Antsy wondered if such a city were somewhere within this gigantic mountain of stone. Tracing round the edge of the town they came to a set of three broad staircases leading upwards. A strong breeze blew into their faces down out of the shafts.

‘Definitely rising,’ Antsy said. Corien and Orchid just eyed one another, uncertain. Corien, Antsy saw, was walking more and more stiffly, grimacing with the effort, while Orchid looked bedraggled and exhausted. ‘We’ll rest here.’

Orchid was so worn out she merely gestured her acceptance and slumped down against a wall. Corien eased himself down with a hiss of pain. Antsy crouched to sort through their provisions. ‘How’re you holding up?’ he asked Corien, if only to hold back the darkness and the unsettling, watchful silence.

‘Bed rest would have been better,’ he answered with a grin. ‘But I’m much improved. Thank you, Orchid.’

A non-committal murmur sounded from where she lay on her bedroll of cloaks and blankets. Antsy gnawed on some sort of dried meat, passed a waterskin to Corien. ‘I don’t know about you, lad, but my goals have experienced a major revision.’

The aristocratic youth’s answering grin was bright in the gloom. ‘Getting off alive would be a good start.’

‘Un-huh. I think we understand each other.’ Antsy hefted the waterskin, stoppered it. Too damned low. ‘You rest. I’ll take first watch.’

The lad nodded his gratitude and eased further down. Antsy pushed himself to his feet. He set the lamp in the middle of the alcove they’d chosen, then turned his back to the light to stare out into the dimly lit adjacent street and portals. He cradled his cocked crossbow in his arms. So many damned nights spent on sentry duty. Seems like nothin’s changed. Just the venue. Same ol’ same old. Still … there’s not many as can say they’ve wandered the bowels of the Moon’s Spawn. Thought I was gonna collect a retirement package but seems I’ve just bought myself a last hurrah.

Damned stupid waste. Looks like someone on this rock is gonna be cleaning his teeth with my bones.

An’ to think Blend and Picker were relieved to see me go! Not like there’s so many of us Bridgeburners left, is there? Even Ferret got a proper service and remembrance. Whiskeyjack took off his helmet and said a few words with Free Cities battle magics blastin’ overhead and two dragons circling. And it’s not like he was a popular guy.

Thinking of Ferret he found he could almost see the skinny hunched figure there in front of him: his pinched pale face and sharp teeth — gods! We weren’t kind to the fellow, were we?

Then Ferret looked him up and down and said: ‘What the fuck are you doin’ here, Antsy? You’re not dead.’

Antsy jerked a startled breath and the crossbow jumped in his hands, the bolt skittering off down the stone street.

Corien called, alarmed, ‘What is it?’

Feeling that he’d, well, seen a ghost, Antsy squinted into the empty dark. ‘Nothin’. False alarm.’

‘Time for my watch?’

Antsy eyed the remaining fuel in the lamp. ‘Naw. Bit longer.’

‘Well. I’m up now.’

Antsy nodded, distracted, while he rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Yeah. Fine.’ I swear this damned dark is gonna drive me rat-crazy.

In the ‘morning’ — that is, when they were all up and eating a light meal of dried fruit and old stale bread — Malakai emerged from the dark. He looked much the worse for wear, was growing a beard, and his dark jacket hung torn and stained with sweat.

But then, Antsy reflected, none of us is looking any prettier.

Distaste curled the man’s slash of a mouth as he studied them. ‘What’s this? You should be up the stairs by now.’

Antsy decided he’d had a stomachful of the man’s command style. He’s never with us yet he presumes he’s leading. He cleared his throat. ‘Ah, we had us a talk. An’ we’ve decided we’re goin’ our own way in our own time.’

‘Oh?’ the man breathed, a dangerous edge entering his voice.

Rather belatedly Antsy glanced about for his crossbow. He saw it sitting to one side, uncocked. Damn. Gotta think these things through before I open my stupid mouth.

‘Yes,’ Orchid cut in quickly. ‘We’ve decided.’

The dark glittering eyes shifted to her. A scoffing smile now openly stretched his lips. ‘And where will you go?’

‘The closest way out. We’re going to get off this rock while we still have food and water and strength in our legs.’

‘You’ll never make it.’

Antsy cast a quick anxious glance to Orchid: that evaluation, so final, made her flinch.

‘That may be so,’ Corien said into the silence following Malakai’s comment, ‘but that’s our worry.’

The man seemed to make a show of considering the idea. He gave a great exaggerated frown while his hands brushed his belt. Antsy knew all the blades the man carried at that belt, and in other places. He ached to slip a hand into his shirt to the shoulder harness where he kept a munition in reserve, but he also knew Malakai would act the moment he saw him do that. ‘There’s still the matter of my investment in you two,’ Malakai said, and cocked an eye to Antsy.

Shit. Why didn’t I load the damned crossbow when I had the chance?

‘If I may …?’ Corien spoke up. Malakai gave the slightest dip of his head, his eyes fixed on Antsy. ‘Well. It seems to me that you are already of the opinion that you’ve a far better chance of achieving your goal — whatever that is — without us … yes?’

Both Antsy and Malakai turned to eye the lad. ‘Yes?’ Malakai prompted.

‘Well, then, cutting us free recoups your investment by improving your odds of success.’

Antsy glared his anger. What in Osserc’s dark humour is this?

But Malakai nodded thoughtfully. Something in the proposition seemed to touch on his own private evaluation and he slipped his hands from his belt. ‘Very well. On your heads let it be.’

‘Yeah — right,’ Antsy said, scratching his stubbled jaw, still rather puzzled.

‘We’ll part company here, then.’ Malakai bowed to Orchid. ‘I would wish you luck but I’m afraid your luck will run to the lad’s pull.’

‘We’ll see,’ she answered, firm, having regained her confidence.

‘Farewell then.’ And the man backed away into the darkness to disappear up a narrow side alley. Antsy listened for a time but couldn’t hear one betraying step or scuff. He thought the man had gone but looked to Orchid for confirmation.

‘He’s left,’ she said after a time.

Corien let out a long breath. ‘Thank the gods.’

‘He didn’t ask for any of the water or food,’ Orchid said, surprised.

‘Maybe he knows where he can steal any he needs,’ Antsy said.

‘So what now?’ Corien asked.

Antsy was silent, until it occurred to him that maybe that question had been asked of him. He cleared his throat. ‘Well … I suppose we press on. Keep an eye out.’

‘Good,’ Orchid said, emphatic. ‘I don’t want him to get too far ahead of us.’

Antsy blinked in the dimming light of the lamp. ‘Hunh? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean just that. I don’t trust him. He’s after something. And there are things here on Moon’s Spawn that mustn’t see the light of day.’

As if on cue the lamp guttered then, and went out. After a moment of surprised silence Corien laughed. Even Orchid joined in, though Antsy just swore. ‘Can’t see a damned thing!’ he complained, and started searching through his bags for more oil.

‘Would you like to see then, Red?’ Orchid offered from the dark.

‘Hunh? You can do that? Why didn’t you-’

‘I told you I don’t trust Malakai. I don’t want him to know what I can do. If I can, that is.’

‘Well, gods, yes! If you would.’

She crossed to his side. He heard her skirts rustling over the stones, felt the warmth radiating from her. Her cool dry hands touched his face. The touch pleased him.

‘I’m glad you managed that without violence, Red,’ she whispered. ‘You nudged him just the right way.’

Antsy resisted the urge to shrug, kept his head steady in her hands. ‘He’s been itching to drop us since we landed. I just handed him the moment. Anyway, it was Corien here who sealed the deal.’

‘I just helped out,’ Corien protested.

‘No. How’d you know he’d buy that argument?’

The lad grunted from the dark, sitting down. ‘Well … it’s a touch embarrassing to say, but my guess is that he didn’t want to face you down, Red.’

Antsy jerked his surprise in Orchid’s hands and she let out an impatient hiss. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Lad, the man’s a killer. I think he just decided he didn’t want our blood on his hands.’

‘Is he a killer? Think on it, Red. We actually haven’t seen him use all that hardware, have we?’

‘In Pearl Town he knifed plenty.’

‘Certainly — scared unarmed men and women in the dark from behind. But you’re a veteran, Red. You wouldn’t flinch. You may not know it, but you’re a rather intimidating presence.’

Antsy snorted. Me? You haven’t met the scary Bridgeburners, friend.

Orchid’s long-fingered hands tightened on Antsy’s cheeks. ‘If you’ve quite finished?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Fine. Now hold still. Shut your eyes.’

He obeyed. She began speaking, singing really, in that smooth quiet tongue she’d used with the guardian. He was hearing Tiste Andii, he realized, and a sort of shiver ran up his spine. Been hunted too often by those strange people. The language seemed to hold more silence and pauses than sounds. It was as a whispering of a distant wind and seemed so suited to the dark. After a time she stopped, or the sounds drifted away to silence. The hands withdrew, warmed now by the heat of his cheeks. Antsy remained motionless; he felt profoundly relaxed, almost asleep. It reminded him of a trick Mallet used to pull on the wounded. A few low sounds, a steady touch, and the troopers calmed right down.

But nothing happened. A profound depression gripped his chest. Now he was doomed for sure. His last hope lost. How could he be any use, blind, a cripple? Then he realized that he was so relaxed he hadn’t opened his eyes.

He blinked and a world of vision jumped to life before him. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t credit his eyes because what he saw was so alien. Monochrome, it was. All shades of deepest blue. As if he was looking at the world through a shard of blue-stained glass. The darkness of deep murky mauve even gathered in the distances, just like true vision. He looked up. There, almost directly overhead, was a stone set in the wall. It was carved in the likeness of an Andii face, feline, almost, and it gave off a lantern-like blue glow. It had been there all this time yet he’d had no idea.

He laughed. It was amazing.

‘So … it worked?’

He looked to Orchid’s anxious, glistening face. The girl had never looked so beautiful to him. He quelled an urge to kiss her. ‘Yeah. Worked just great. It’s just … amazin’.’

‘So you can see me then?’ Corien asked. Antsy turned to where the lad sat slumped higher up on the stairs. He was squinting roughly in their direction.

‘Yeah. It’s like the light of a full moon. You look terrible.’

‘Oh dear. What would they say in Majesty Hall?’

‘Can you do him?’ he asked of Orchid.

‘Yes, I think so.’

Corien raised a gloved hand. ‘No need. Time to see to myself.’ He fumbled at his waist-pouch and withdrew a tiny wooden box. ‘Now we shall see,’ and he chuckled. He pulled off one glove and dipped the tip of a finger into the box. It looked to Antsy as if the man was about to take snuff but the finger went into one eye instead. Corien hissed his pain. After doing the other eye he peered about, blinking comically, eyes watering.

‘Well?’ Antsy asked.

‘Like pressing salt to one’s eyes. I really must talk to my alchemist about this. Tell me, is that face up there really glowing?’

A presence haunted the estate of Lady Varada. It brushed against windows and pressed against locked doors. The two colourfully dressed guards it easily bypassed to enter the main rooms of the manor house. In these empty halls it hovered near door handles and latches to find each and all dusted with a white powder the presence knew to be a rare poison sifted from the pollen of a flower found only in the near-mythical land of Drift Avalii. Other rooms it quickly sped through as if sensing the drifting fumes of scents deadly to any living creature.

Eventually, after much probing and many turnings back at dead ends, it gained access to the lower floors and here the tenebrous drifting presence coiled inwards, firmed and thickened into the figure of a slim young woman in diaphanous white cloth, silver wristlets and anklets tinkling musically on her limbs.

The girl descended a last set of raw granite steps to the deepest chamber to come to a halt where a figure crouched in the middle of the empty room, legs drawn up beneath her stomach, head bowed. The girl pressed a hand to her mouth to cover a smile but her eyes held a savage triumph.

‘Mother,’ she said. ‘You’re looking … poorly.’

The figure raised her head to peer up through tangled black hair like a sweep of night. ‘Taya,’ she answered, her voice tight with suppressed pain. ‘I asked you to stay away.’

‘You sent me away,’ Taya snapped. ‘Why, I now know.’

‘You know nothing,’ the woman snarled. She surged to her knees, revealing fine mesh chains at wrist and ankle that thrummed taut, and she gasped her agony as flames burst into life where the metal of the fetters clasped her flesh.

Taya nodded her appreciation. ‘So that is how you managed. Otataral chains. We’d wondered. Imagine. Vorcan Radok imprisoning herself.’ She pressed a hand to her lips. ‘Dare I say it? How … ironic?’

Vorcan returned to her crouch, panting and hissing her pain. ‘You’ve come. You’ve seen. Now you can go.’

The arm swept down savagely. ‘No, Mother. You do not dismiss me. Not any longer. Now it is I who dismiss you. And seeing you now … like this … I can finally do so.’ She set her hands on her hips, tsking. ‘Look at you. Such a mess. And your so-called guards! I could have slain the lot had I wished.’

Head down, Vorcan half gasped, ‘I would advise you not to draw any weapon on Lazan or Madrun. And Studlock … well, you wouldn’t know where to stick your knife to slay him.’

‘Where is that creature from?’

‘Not even I know.’

Taya’s mouth drew down in the small pout of a frown and she sighed her exaggerated boredom. ‘Well, it has been a treat talking, Mother. But I have a life worth living.’ She raised her hand to her mouth once more, this time blowing a kiss. ‘Thank you. Your wretched failure here frees me of so much. I had come dreaming of killing you but now I see that your suffering pleases me more. Farewell! Think of me often at the court of Darujhistan’s rightful king reinstated. I know I will be thinking of you.’

She backed away, climbing the steps, waving. Vorcan did not raise her head.

Some time later another figure came shambling down the stairs, long tatters of his cloth wrappings trailing behind. Studlock bowed, ‘She is gone, mistress.’

Vorcan nodded heavily. ‘Good. None interfered? Madrun? Lazan?’

‘None. Your instructions were most precise. Only she and the other are to be allowed to pass.’

She sank lower, relaxing, the chains clattering. ‘Good. Good.’

Studlock rubbed his cloth-wrapped hands together, perhaps as a gesture of worry. ‘What shall we do, mistress?’

‘We will wait. Wait and see. His arising will be contested. We will see what form that will take.’

‘But who, mistress? Who will contend?’

‘The same as before.’

The strangely jointed hands fell. ‘Oh dear. Him.’

A short stout man (generous of diameter, thank you!), dapper in waistcoat and frilled sleeves, daintily crosses the mud and open sewer channel of the town of broken hopes west of the dreaming city. And what is this? Does that city now whimper and grimace in its sleep? Does the dream threaten to slide into nightmare? Does a crowned figure stalk the edges of its vision?

And where all the frustrated failed gods take it does this meandering alley lead?

Vexed hero turns aside to a file of washerwomen bent to task at nearby trickle of stream. He pauses, struck breathless for the nonce by glorious vista of said washerwomen’s backsides presented. He mops brow with handkerchief, sighs wistfully. Then, remembering errand, approaches.

‘Good washerwomen! Would you be so kind as to help a poor lost soul?’

The stolid women slow in their hearty slapping of wet garments and muscular wringing of alarmingly wound cloth. ‘Who in Oponn’s poor jest are you?’ one welcomes rather undemurely.

‘I am but a humble petitioner hoping to find my way to a resident of these parts.’

‘Who’s ’at?’ another fine strapping figure of her trade asks, and spits a brown stream of chewing leaf juice.

After hastily shifting silk-slippered foot aside of striking juice our heroic quester bows gallantly. ‘Why, an old woman. Living alone. A widow, truth be told, many times over. Some think her perhaps crazy and ignorantly ascribe to her charges of witchery and hexing … and such …’

Enquirer splutters to silence as all slapping and wringing of cloths cease. All eyes turn narrowed and flashing to the fine generous figure of our innocent searcher — who extends one foot to his rear, poised.

‘Get ’im!’

‘Slimy rat!’

‘The nerve!’

Later that same evening a family of Maiten town was quite mystified to find a fat fellow in black and red silk finery, rather faded, hiding behind their goat pen. ‘Yes?’ the father asked, quite slowly, worried that perhaps the poor man had lost his senses.

The man straightened up, his head coming almost to the shoulders of the father. He adjusted his stained clothes, brushed soapsuds from his lapels, glanced about. ‘Just admiring your handsome animals, good sir. Ah! You wouldn’t by any chance happen to know of an old woman living alone hereabouts, that is about here — one whom the uncaring world unjustly ostracizes with calumny and obloquy?’

The father’s brow furrowed as he attempted to make sense of the question. He motioned upriver. ‘Well, there’s a crazy old witch further along at the edge of town.’

The rotund fellow bowed. ‘My thanks, keeper of such handsome animals.’

Later, after much dodging of roving packs of washerwomen armed with wet laundry, the out-of-breath and by now very hungry wanderer came across a straw-roofed wattle-and-daub hut upon the threshold of which sat a nest-haired old woman, pipe in mouth, busy kneading the mud with her naked toes.

He bowed in a lace-sleeved flourish. ‘Ah! Queen of the dreaming city! What a privilege! I am come to pay my respects.’

The old woman peered up, eyes red and unfocused. A vague smile came and went around her pipe. ‘Slippery ball of fish oil … do you bring offering?’

‘But of course.’ Another flourish and a wrapped object the size of a walnut appeared. He bowed, holding it out.

The old woman snatched it up with a speed that belied her years. She tore the paper and pinched off a piece of the dark gum within and pushed it into her pipe. Fumbling behind her at the hearth fire inside the hut, she found a smouldering stick that she touched to the pipe while pulling in long steady inhalations. After a few breaths the stick glowed and she drew long and hard. Her eyes closed in silky pleasure.

The man clasped his hands behind his back, looked to the sky, lips pursed, rocked back and forth on his muddy heels.

Eventually the woman exhaled, allowing the smoke to drift from her mouth and immediately sucking it in once more by drawing it up through her nose.

The man let out his own long breath and examined his fingernails.

Some time later a satisfied sigh returned the man’s attention to the old woman. He found her peering up at him, eyes dreamy, a wicked smile at the lips. ‘Oily Kruppe — what can this poor nobody do for you?’

‘Nobody! Calumny in truth! You are the secret carrier of my heart! This you have known all these years.’

‘Oiliness indeed …’ But the smile broadened, became rather lascivious. ‘You know my price.’

‘Of course! I am all aquiver. And so, the, ah … objects … are ready then?’

‘Almost now.’

‘Almost. Ah … well. Somehow I must contain myself. More dunkings in handy chilly river for this frustrated suitor.’

‘Come back again — and don’t forget more offering.’

‘Fates forfend! I shall come courting again, queen of my heart. You shall not be rid of me so easily. The siege has hardly begun!’

The woman leaned forward and clutched a clawed hand at the man’s knee. ‘Then don’t forget your battering ram!’

The man shrank back, paling, his arms nearly crossing over his crotch. ‘Earthy princess! Your saltiness is, and will be, a treat … I am sure. But I must go — ceaseless labour, twisty plottings, constant confounding, as you know.’

But the woman merely murmured, smiling dreamily, ‘Almost now.’ She giggled and patted her chest.

‘Er, yes. Farewell! He backed away, bowing, blowing kisses. ‘I shiver in anticipation.’ And he turned and waddled, rather swiftly, up the mud track.

The crowd of washerwomen watched the slimy interloper disappear into the maze of Maiten town. ‘Why let the wretch go?’ one hissed, furious.

‘Why?’ another snarled, turning upon her. ‘Why? Didn’t you see? He’s a friend of that crazy old witch!’

Looking out over the night-time blue-lit streets Ambassador Aragan considered whether the city had ever been this quiet. His gaze rose to the yawning banner of green slicing the night sky and he wondered if perhaps that had much to do with the general reserve. Somehow he didn’t think so.

He was out of the command loop now. The Fists had control. He’d remained as a sort of standing offer of dialogue with … whatever … was gathering power around Majesty Hill. Something that drove the Moranth off just by showing up. And we’re powerless to do anything.

He crossed his arms, leaned against the windowsill. At least the troops will be in a position to withdraw north if need be. Gods! He’d almost prefer a plain old physical threat like the Pannion Domin. Here he felt as if he were pushing against nothing. It was unnerving in the extreme. And he had to say that it reminded him of the way the old Emperor used to operate.

Someone stepped up next to him at the window then, making him jump aside, a hand going to his throat. ‘Gods, man! Don’t do that!’

The newcomer merely offered a slit of a smile, hands clasped behind his back. Aragan took in the green silk shirt, dark green cloak, long thin face and cat-like, openly dismissive eyes. Well, at least Unta is taking things seriously — sending this fellow, of all people. He cleared his throat. ‘So, what word from the capital?’

‘Darujhistan is important to the throne, Ambassador. Whosoever controls this city potentially controls the entire continent. The Empress knew it, as does the Emperor.’

Aragan simply nodded, returning his gaze to the city. ‘My thoughts as well. What will you do?’

‘What I do best, Ambassador. I will watch and wait.’

Not sure what to make of that, Aragan merely grunted, hoping his reaction would be taken as wise agreement.

The tall man turned to him. ‘I understand you have hired someone to gather intelligence already. I’d like to question him, if possible.’

‘Certainly. Dreshen has the particulars.’

‘Very good.’ The man gave the slightest inclination of his head. ‘I will be in touch, Ambassador.’

Aragan nodded, openly relieved that the man was going. ‘Yes, of course. Until later.’

The shadowy figure backed away to cross the room to the door. He quietly shut it behind him. Aragan was rather disappointed; he had expected something much more dramatic. Sulphurous smoke and a clap of thunder, perhaps. Still, shouldn’t be disillusioned. It’s few can boast of having the Master of all the Claw come up behind them out of the dark and live to tell the tale.

It was the dead of night but torches and lanterns set on poles lit the long excavation trench that extended in an immense arc all round one side of the sprawling Old Palace and the assembly galleries of Majesty Hall. Work continued day and night. Cleaned polished stones were delivered by hand-drawn cart up the steep Way of Just Rulership to be delivered to the excavation for setting within the trench. Workers dug, laid gravel and sand, levelled, compressed and prepared the foundation. All under the watchful exacting eyes of the construction bosses; one a hunched fellow with large hands that appeared to have been mangled by the white blocks he was always caressing; the other, tall, fierce and scowling, quick with a cuff or a strike of the staff he sometimes carried.

The stones were gently laid one by one. A moving tent enclosed the last touches of the installation and the refilling of the trench behind. ‘Interment’ the two overseers called this final series of hidden steps.

One worker, levelling-board in hand, often lingered close to the flaps of the heavy canvas tent. His fellow crew members frequently had to call him back to task. ‘If we fall behind I’ll not take a lashing for your laziness,’ one grumbled to him while they tamped down a layer of fine sand.

‘Walk away then,’ the new fellow answered. ‘There’s other work.’

‘Ha! Other work! Listen to this one, would you? There is no other work at all! Everything’s shut down. The mines, the ironworks, all road crews. It’s work here or starve for all of us. Where’ve you been, anyway?’

The newcomer shrugged. ‘Been working in a tavern lately.’

‘So that’s what you call working?’ another of the crew said, laughing. ‘I can believe that.’

The new hand pulled on the long ratty shirt he wore, mouth clamped against any comment.

The man next to him grimaced his distaste, covering his nose. ‘And it doesn’t cost anything to douse yourself with water once in a while too, you know.’

‘Back to work!’ came a barked command followed by a slap of wood against the shoulder of the newcomer, who straightened, glaring, hands fisted.

But the overseer had moved on, his back turned. Another of the crew dragged the newcomer back down to the bottom of the trench. ‘Don’t try it, friend. And what’s your name, anyway?’

The newcomer looked startled, as if the question was completely unexpected. He pulled at the greasy long shirt. ‘Ah … Turn- er. Turner.’

‘Turner? Harmon. Well, friend, a word to the wise. There’s much worse they’ve done to some.’

‘Oh? Such as?’

They were levelling a layer of gravel over the foundation. Head down, one answered, ‘A fellow dropped a tool on one of them stones and what happened to him was a terrible thing to see.’

‘So? What happened?’

Eyes met to share gauging looks. ‘Magery happened,’ whispered a crew member. ‘The tall one with the staff — he just points, he does, and the man goes down screaming in agony. Bites his own tongue off.’

‘No!’

‘Aye. There’s Warren magics here. Maybe these two are Free Cities mages from up north. Maybe Pale necromancers. Who knows?’

The crew had a break as more gravel was sent for. They stood, stretching and grimacing over their aches and pains. ‘What’re they up to?’ Turner asked.

Gazes slid aside, feet were shifted, uneasy. Harmon peered right and left then edged closer. A pained look crossed his face and he backed up a step. Then, taking a great breath, he leaned in. ‘Some kinda protection for the city, right? This is one o’ the new Legate’s improvements, right?’

‘One?’ grumbled another. ‘Only one I knows.’

Turner looked suitably impressed. ‘Damn … you don’t say. Must be them stones, hey?’

Harmon frowned, suddenly a touch uneasy. ‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘Only one way to find out, don’t you think?’ And Turner picked up a shovel and headed back up the trench for the tent.

‘Gods, man …’ Harmon hissed, appalled.

‘Don’t be a fool!’ another called, voice low.

After that, hammers started clanging and chisels ringing as the crew was suddenly very busy.

Spindle was damned terrified, but he bet that these two Adepts — and he knew the two as such: as far above his capabilities as any Imperial High Mage — would see only what they expected to see: an empty-headed labourer.

He pushed through the hanging flap to find himself almost blind in the shrouded darkness. Burn take it! Didn’t think of that.

‘What in the name of the Cursed Ones do you think you’re doing?’ a voice snarled down the length of the tent. Spindle bowed, touching his forehead repeatedly. ‘Just reportin’, sir. We’re almost done with the-’

‘I don’t give a shit what you’re finished with or not. Never come in here. Get out! Now!’

Spindle could just make out a hunched figure, lantern set before him, bent over the glowing white blocks, instruments in hand. He bowed again, touching his forehead. ‘O’ course, sir. Yes. Course. Sorry.’ He backed away, bowing, feeling behind himself for the flap.

‘Out!’

He scuttled backwards through the flap, turned round and ran straight into the other overseer, the tall quick-tempered one. This mage grabbed his arm, glowering murder. At his touch Spindle felt his hair shirt writhe as if it had come alive. The mage let go, obviously quite shocked. Spindle froze; he’d been found out. This Adept had him. But the tall fellow, scars healing on his face and hands, simply regripped his staff, slowly and stiffly, his knuckles white with strain. And the eyes, black pits in yellowed orbs, shifted to the side, urging him onwards. Spindle bowed again in his role of a normal labourer returning to his work, though this man had seen through his facade.

All the rest of his shift he shared in the loading, levelling and tamping of dirt, sand and gravels, but he hardly saw any of it. Nor did any of the crew bother him. They’d marked him as either touched or irredeemably dim. Trouble to be avoided, in either case. His hands did their tasks but his mind puzzled over what he’d glimpsed inside that tent. That strange hunchback bent over the stones — and such stones! Glowing, they were, as if lit from within. But what had captured his attention were the tools. Magnificent iron etching styluses, and an assortment of engineering instruments any saboteur would give his left hand for. A compass for inscribing arcs, a spirit level — only the second one he’d ever seen outside the Academy in Unta — and an eyepiece of what he suspected might be part of a surveyor’s instrument, one he’d only heard described: an alidade. Gods, he’d never even touched an alidade!

How he wished he could talk to Fiddler or Hedge about this. Those two knew more engineering than he. With such tools you could lay down a perfect wall — straight or curved.

And no one needs that kind of precision for a battlement!

In the auditorium of the assembly chambers Councillor Coll had lately had a great deal of time on his hands. Fewer of his fellow Councillors than ever were now comfortable being seen in his company. The faction supporting the reinstallation of the Legate was pre-eminent and the subsequent favours, funds and prestige flowed accordingly. So now, in assembly, Councillor Coll sat surrounded by empty seats, hands clasped over his wide stomach, tapping his fingers. He used the time to think.

That day it occurred to him that in fact it had been some time since he’d even seen Lim; not that this ‘Legate’ was legally obliged to officiate here at the Council. Around mid-morning he heaved himself out of his seat — Ye gods but I am starting to get a touch heavy — to walk the steps down to the debate floor. Among the councillors present he selected one clearly in the Legate’s camp, one who would have nothing to risk in actually being seen talking to him. Conversation quietened in the man’s group as he drew near and the three councillors sketched the briefest greetings his way. Coll bowed to Councillor Ester-Jeen, who merely arched a supercilious brow.

‘Councillor Coll,’ he murmured.

‘Ester-Jeen.’

The other two councillors remembered pressing business and bowed their leave-taking. ‘Yes?’ Ester-Jeen said, his tone implying the relationship of a superior to a petitioner. Coll let that pass, though in his youth such a peremptory and disrespectful greeting would have drawn a challenge from him. He noted an unusual ornament on the man’s breast, a gold brooch worked in the shape of a tiny oval mask.

‘I was wondering, Ester-Jeen, just where is our illustrious leader? He doesn’t seem very interested in actually leading.’

The man physically paled at Coll’s daring in giving voice to such disrespect. He dropped a gloved hand to the gilt rapier at his hip even though, as Coll knew, the councillor had never fought a duel. Then his eyes fluttered and the hand fell away as he seemed to remember that not only had Coll fought many duels but he was also a veteran of the Free Cities wars from years ago.

He opted for a superior frosty glare. ‘The Legate is not required to sit here and be bored by the Council’s unending chatter. He will grant audience in the Great Hall for any official business.’

‘Audience?’ Coll repeated, outraged. Conversations surrounding them stilled. Coll glanced about, met many hostile, even some pitying, gazes. He lowered his voice. ‘Since when do we here in Darujhistan use such language as “audience”? And the Great Hall … we don’t use that. It’s considered …’ Coll searched for the right term, ‘well … cursed.’

Having gauged the atmosphere of the room, Councillor Ester-Jeen was now quite at ease. No one, it appeared, was prepared to offer Coll any support whatsoever. The man was simply making a sad spectacle of his ignorance and isolation. Perhaps now, if he was very careful, he could even lure him into discrediting himself entirely. He spoke up loudly. ‘If you have any legitimate business regarding matters before the Council then of course you may approach the Legate. Otherwise, Coll, I would suggest you not waste his time.’ And he offered a small shrug of embarrassment as if to say: I am very sorry to be the one to have to tell you this.

He was gratified by the reaction his words elicited. The big man reared up as if slapped — which of course he had been — and his eyes widened, stunned. He glanced about at the gathered councillors and Ester-Jeen saw only flat gazes answering. Then Coll spun on his heels and marched for the doors. Ester-Jeen was delighted. He’s actually going to do it — the fool.

When Coll pushed past Councillor Orr the young woman whispered through gritted teeth: ‘Don’t.’ But he was past listening. He could not let this stand. There was no way he could ever face any one of those present again unless he did exactly what that upstart useless popinjay wanted him to. He marched for the Great Hall.

Majesty Hall itself was in truth a maze of halls and chambers and auditoriums, all of various sizes, ages, and levels of decrepitude. The Great Hall was among the most ancient of the hill’s architecture. It was sometimes used for ceremonial balls and mass assemblies. But other than that it stood empty and neglected, having a rather off-putting dusty air, quite similar to that of the equally old Despot’s Barbican.

Coll found the double doors of panelled beaten copper and bronze, as tall as three men, unaccountably closed. Before them stood two city Wardens.

‘Open up,’ he snapped, not slowing in his headlong rush.

The two shared helpless glances. Then, bowing to the inevitable, one threw open a small clerk’s door just before Coll brained himself on the polished copper panels. Coll was furious that he had to enter like some damned mouse but enter he did, ducking and stepping over the threshold. Within, he found the long hall lit by shafts of light streaming down from high openings. Motes hung in the shafts like the downy seeds of wild flowers over a sunny field. Other than that the Great Hall appeared empty. He walked slowly up its polished pink marble floor — recently dusted, he noted — his boot heels clicking loudly in the silence.

Someone, or something, waited at the far end. Some sort of large seat had been constructed of white stone blocks and someone sat upon it. He wore a long loose cloak of rich material, a deep maroon. But what was most mystifying was the large gold mask that entirely covered his face.

The Queen-damned Legate has lost his gibbering mind.

Coll stopped short of the — what should he call it? A dais? — and squinted up at the figure. ‘Lim? Is that you? What is all this ridiculous mummery?’

The figure on the dais flicked a hand and out from the side of the hall shuffled an old man in dusty frayed clothes, grey hair all askew. The man bowed to Coll, and, nervously rubbing his hands at his chest, gulped, ‘I speak for the Legate.’

‘What? You?’ Coll turned on Lim. ‘Speak for your damned self!’ He drew breath to excoriate the fool but stopped; he saw that the gold mask, beaten in the design of a calm half-smiling face, had no holes in it whatsoever. None for eyes or mouth. How in Burn’s mysteries does the man breathe?

A strange urge almost overcame Coll then to tear the mask from the fool’s face but he was distracted by the emergence of a second man from the side of the hall. A tall familiar figure walking with a staff of twisted gnarled wood. His one-time employer, High Alchemist Baruk.

Relief flooded Coll. ‘Thank goodness … Baruk, what is all this nonsense?’

The man came very close and Coll saw that the man was Baruk, yet not. A nest of pale scars skeined his face and hands and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a savage gleeful smile. Yet only a dead sort of dismissal, if even that, animated his eyes.

And suddenly Coll knew. He knew. All those whispered rumours and hearsay. The T’orrud Cabal. It was true. Baruk had been with them all along. And now, after all these years, they’d made their move and claimed power. He flinched away from this man whom he’d thought a friend. ‘You’ll never succeed,’ he breathed, feeling utterly hollow inside. ‘The Cabal will be deposed. You will see.’

Baruk shook his head, the smile broadening to become somehow even more fey. ‘You still don’t understand, Coll,’ he whispered, leaning close. ‘We’re here now because the Cabal failed.’

The hamlet clinging on at the southern edge of the Dwelling Plain was on no map. Once every few years a caravan train of camels and mules passed by on its way south to Callows and Morn beyond. But other than such intermittent visitors only ill-advised travellers, the desperate, criminal, or utterly lost, ever found their way to such an isolated stretch of emptiness. The inhabitants, refugees mostly, peppered by a few hardened locals born and raised, were bent to their task of squeezing any sustenance out of the unproductive sandy soil. Those in the southernmost fields noted the strange phenomenon first: a dark snaking line coming out of the depths of the hard brush of the Plain of Lamatath to the south. A few stopped to peer, hands shading their eyes, then returned to hoeing and jabbing at the hard soil as if to beat it into submission.

When next they looked up, the line had drawn nearer, taken on more dimension in the shimmering heat-glare of the sun. It looked like a double file of men jogging, no doubt on the move since dawn and not stopping yet. Some leaned on their hoes to watch for a time, wondering at the bizarre sight. One or two thought that perhaps they ought to sound some sort of alarm. Though what any of them could do in the face of such an unprecedented visitation they were not sure.

Close to noon, the sun at its highest, their unrelenting steady approach brought the file of men — and women — close enough now to make out details. Everyone had stopped working to watch, silent. Lightly armoured, they were, in leathers, those leathers now dark with sweat. All were armed with long blades, some carrying two. All lean, wiry and nut-dark. But these details were as nothing compared to their most extraordinary feature: all wore masks. And multicoloured, they were, too. Painted almost gaily.

They could be faintly heard now. Their sandalled feet fell unusually light upon the dry hardpan, all in unison, like a distant drumming. The double file of men and women passed straight across the landscape, unwavering, arrow-like, pointed north-east. Without a pause each easily vaulted a heaped wall of fieldstone as they came to it. The sight made one farmer think of a stream of water flowing magically northward.

And on they passed, none even sparing a glance for the closest of the farmers who stood not an arm’s reach aside. Apart from the beat of their footfalls, utterly silent. Ghost-like. Indeed, it was almost like a vision imposed by the heat. Only the dust remained to hang in the still air, the file now to the north, jogging onward, diminishing.

Yet as the dust settled it revealed a newcomer. One of the masked. He’d stopped next to one of the children: young Hireth. Who stood staring up, mouth agape, water gourd in one hand. The man knelt, held out a hand for the gourd. Hireth’s father dared to edge slightly closer; the visitor seemed to ignore him. As if being shaken out of a daze Hireth snapped her mouth shut then held out the gourd. The man took it. He turned his head aside while he lifted his mask to drink, then rose and handed back the gourd. Something in his manner made her bend her knees in a curtsy. The man reached out to gently run a hand down one cheek of her bare upturned face. The father almost started forward then but something in the gentleness of the touch, its near reverence, made him stop. He watched spellbound, his pickaxe clenched in his sweaty hands. Jogging all the day under this sun and not even breathing hard! These are demons off on some summoned errand. Go now. Do not trouble us!

And the stranger set off, running gracefully at a league-swallowing easy pace. Hireth’s father came to her. ‘Did he say anything, child?’

She shook her head, as if she too had somehow been captured by the visitors’ spell of silence.

He squeezed her shoulder to reassure her. So, he hadn’t spoken. Somehow he didn’t imagine the man, or demon, had. And he’d been different from the rest. His mask had been very pale, all creamy white, it was. With only one smear of reddish dirt across the brow.