Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XXI

Since she had the dawn watch Blend made an early breakfast of fried rashers, eggs, the butt-end of a loaf of heavy black bread and a pot of herb tea, and sat down near the front to eat.

The smell of cooking roused Picker, who was asleep on a bench. She sat up and rolled her neck to get the kinks out. ‘Save me some tea.’

‘’Course.’

Picker groaned, rubbing her face where she sat. ‘You know — I really expected something last night under cover of all that mayhem.’

‘Me too. Haven’t heard from Spin or Fisher neither.’

‘True. Can’t believe those Moranth dropped in to take on the Seguleh.’

‘Must’ve had munitions up the you-know-what.’

Blend washed down a mouthful of bread then set down her cup. ‘You hear somethin’?’

‘What?’

‘Out front …’ She pushed back her chair.

The barrier at the door exploded inward with an eruption of flung splinters and boards. The heavy oak table that held heaped benches slid backwards, grating on the stone floor. Blend tripped on her chair. Picker threw aside the table before her and made for the bar.

A giant fought to force his way through the shattered timbers of the door.

Blend drew her long-knives and closed in a leap, arms drawn back to thrust. Both weapons hit home in the armoured giant’s chest. One rebounded while the other shattered into fragments. A sweep of one thick arm knocked her flying backwards.

Picker fired a crossbow from the bar but the bolt glanced off the creature’s inlaid armour. It stepped forward, pushing back the heaped benches and broken timbers. Blend ran for the kitchen. Picker reloaded. Duiker appeared from the hall then ducked away.

Picker fired again but the second bolt glanced off the creature’s closed full helm. She threw down the crossbow and headed out from behind the bar.

The giant batted aside benches and took another step. Blend came in from the kitchen; she carried their massive log-splitting axe. This she raised over her head in both hands and ran across the room loosing a blood-searing war howl. The axe crashed home against the creature’s chest and flew free of Blend’s hands. A great shower of stone chips clattered to the floor and the thing lumbered a heavy single step backwards. A crack now showed in its broad chest armour.

‘It ain’t human!’ Blend yelled.

From the hall Duiker appeared carrying a great two-handed broadsword. He shook it free of the sheath and advanced. Blend searched for the axe. Picker lifted one of the benches and swung it at the thing in an attempt to beat it back. It groped clumsily for the bench.

The broadsword hacked stone chips from arms and torso, yet still it advanced. It appeared to be making straight for the stairs down to the cellars. Picker hammered at it using the bench as a battering ram while Blend and Duiker chopped at the limbs. Nearing the top of the stairs it managed to get hold of the haft of the axe to wrench it from Blend’s hands. It snapped the thick haft in two and tossed the pieces aside.

‘Spindle’s munition!’ Picker suddenly yelled.

‘Right!’ Blend dodged one awkward grab to run for the bar.

Both Duiker and Picker gripped the bench and fended the thing off by butting it in the chest. Blend reappeared behind it, cut off. ‘Now what?’

‘Dive!’ Picker yelled.

Blend hugged the munition, hunched, then threw herself forward, sliding between the thing’s wide braced legs, and almost tumbled down the stairs. Duiker stopped her. The thing planted one foot on to the cellar steps. The three looked at each other, their close quarters. ‘Now what?’ Picker asked again.

‘I don’t-’ Duiker began, and then a skeletal hand grasped his shoulder and shoved him aside. A file of undead Seguleh came climbing the stairs, unsheathing their swords. Duiker, Picker and Blend slid down along the walls, dodging the swinging weapons.

The guardians, or whatever they were, held the giant off for a time. Their weapons hacked great gouges out of its armour, which appeared to be layered plates of solid stone or fired clay. Its finish of inlaid multicoloured stones had long since been scraped and bashed away. Yet it was destroying them; the clumsy stone hands grasped arms to wrench them from sockets; closed over heads to crush skulls like blood-fruit. The guardians were falling one by one. Their torn limbs and mangled bodies cluttered the stairs.

Down in the darkness of the first cellar level the three eyed one another. Duiker motioned to the cusser in Blend’s hands. She nodded.

They waited until the last of the pickled Seguleh fell. Duiker took a torch, then he and Picker lay down on the much narrower rough stone staircase leading down to the lowest cellar — the one they never used. From the top of this staircase Blend watched for the giant to make its appearance.

Its heavy leaden steps announced it. Each shook the stone beneath them. It turned the corner of the landing. Blend yelled, ‘Munitions!’ and threw, then jumped for the stairs.

They heard the cusser crack like a dropped pot. Then the giant took another step.

Duiker cursed under his breath.

‘How do you like that!’ Blend snarled. ‘It really was a dud!’

Another step sounded and the rock beneath them creaked as if under immense pressure.

‘Now what?’ Picker whispered, fierce.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Duiker said.

Picker climbed to her feet. ‘Damn right.’

They scrambled back up into the upper cellar only to find that the giant had reached the narrow aisle that led through barrels stacked ceiling tall. They were cut off.

‘Shit!’ Picker exploded, and she reached for her sheaths only to find them empty. ‘Now what?’

Exhausted, Duiker wiped his hot slick face. ‘We back up. It might widen out down below.’

‘That’s a plan,’ Blend growled and she motioned them back.

The stairs were uneven, roughly hewn and overgrown with mould — even something that felt like a kind of moss or thick lichen. Duiker hoped the thing might lose its footing and come tumbling down in a heap of wreckage. Then he thought — lichen? Growing on these cut stone stairs? Then that would mean … Burn preserve them … thousands of years!

The stairs lost definition until Duiker found himself sliding backwards down nothing more than a stone chute. Roots hung, clawing their hair. It had become hotter and far more humid.

‘We ain’t never come this low,’ Picker whispered, hushed. ‘I don’t know if I can go down any more!’

Duiker, leading the backwards descent, came up against a hard flat surface. In the dimming light of the torch he could just make out a rough-hewn granite slab. ‘End of the way,’ he called. ‘Looks like the entrance to a tomb.’

In the gloom Picker punched a dirt wall. ‘Fener take it! I can’t fucking believe it. What a goddamned place to die. Break it down!’

‘No! I think that’s what it’s here to do,’ Duiker said. ‘If we all charged it and hit it high we might trip it up. One of us might get by.’ He glimpsed movement up the narrow tunnel. ‘Here it comes.’ He jabbed the end of the torch high into a wall. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I’ll lead,’ Picker growled, and turned sideways, hunching a shoulder.

They ran back up the sloped tunnel. Picker and Blend let out bellowing war howls as they went. They jumped up at the last instant to smash into the creature’s battered chest only to tumble together at its stone feet. It rocked backwards but did not fall.

Lying in a heap before it they peered up, bruised and puzzled. It remained immobile, like the statue it perhaps had been in truth. A sudden sharp crack split the air like the eruption of a flawed pot in a kiln and an arm fell off it to thump on to them then roll down the tunnel floor, bursting into shards. The other arm split and fell too, bursting like crockery.

They all scrambled up and backed away. A great crack shot in a jagged diagonal across its torso and the halves slid in opposite directions to crash into countless shards. Its lower torso and legs fell forward, shattering as well.

The flickering torch revealed standing behind the wreckage a man with long straight greying hair wearing a dirty threadbare shirt and trousers. A young woman hovered close behind him, all in dark clothes and carrying a stave. Blend took one look at the man, gaped, then went for her empty sheaths once more. ‘Fucking Tayschrenn!’

Picker snatched a dirk from her belt.

‘Hold!’ Duiker bellowed. He pushed forward, and a strange sort of half-smile touched the newcomer’s lips.

‘Duiker,’ he said. ‘If there was one man I did not expect to run into right now, that would be you.’

The old Imperial Historian looked him up and down. ‘It is you,’ he breathed, amazed. ‘Yet not — you look different.’

‘We grow older. Things change. You are right … I am not the man I was.’

Picker snorted at that. ‘What do you want?’ She raised her chin in defiance. ‘We’re retired. It’s all official now. On the books.’

The High Mage shook his head, frowning now. ‘I understand your anger and suspicion, Bridgeburner. You have every right to it. All I can say is that I’m sorry for what happened. I regret it greatly.’

‘Sorry?’ Picker echoed, derisive. ‘You’re sorry?’

Tayschrenn glanced over his shoulder. ‘Let’s back up, Kiska.’

In the cellar the three still warily eyed the High Mage. ‘What are you doing here?’ Duiker asked.

The High Mage motioned to the tunnel. ‘I’ve come to attempt something long overdue. Something that should have been done years ago.’

Picker and Blend shared puzzled glances. Duiker eyed the tunnel, then his gaze shifted back to Tayschrenn. He pulled at his black and grey beard. ‘If I’m right in what you’re suggesting, then I think no one has ever been strong enough — or willing enough — to risk it. If you fail you’ll probably be destroyed.’

At that the young woman at Tayschrenn’s side started her surprise and turned a savage glare on him. ‘What’s this?’ she hissed.

The High Mage raised a hand for quiet.

‘No! I’ll not be hushed. You never said anything about this.’

Duiker caught Blend’s eye and motioned to the stairs. She nudged Picker and they started up.

Alone now, Tayschrenn took Kiska’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. But it has to be this way. This is something only I can do.’

Kiska wrenched free of his hands. She stamped the butt of the stave to the cobbled floor in a crashing report. ‘For this I drag you from the ends of the earth? So you can throw your life away on some damned fool attempt — at what?’

The High Mage leaned back against a barrel. He eyed the darkness as if studying something hidden deep within its depths. ‘Think, Kiska. Think of all those who nudged and manipulated and plain lied to bring you and me here to this place at this time.’ He raised a finger, ‘Your Aunt Agayla for one. The Enchantress. That priest of Shadow you mentioned — so Shadowthrone himself schemed for this. Even D’rek has given me her blessing. And so it must be.’

She threw out her arms. ‘Oh, certainly! Better you than they, yes? Why haven’t they stepped up if it is all so vital?’

He pressed his hands together before his lips and studied her over them. ‘It is hard, I know. But right now at this moment all those I just mentioned, and many others, are utterly enmeshed in a struggle that spans the world. All their strength is already committed in a confrontation manifesting across countless fronts. And K’rul may fail. Wounded, poisoned, weakened — the effort may prove beyond her. That we cannot allow to happen.’

‘But why you?’

He crooked a chiding smile. ‘Tell me, Kiska. If Maker were here — what would he do?’

She drew a great shuddering breath, then her shoulders fell. ‘He would do his job,’ she granted, looking away, her lips clenched tight.

‘Very good.’ He crossed to her and touched his lips to her brow. ‘Kiska — you saved me and you have made me whole. For this I will always be grateful.’ He caught her gaze and held it. ‘But now it is your turn. Be whole. Live now not for me or any other. But for yourself.’

Her answer was hardly audible. ‘Yes.’

‘Very good. Farewell. And, my thanks.’ He walked away down the tunnel.

Upstairs Blend gave a great shout of surprise and Picker and Duiker ran up to find the wrecked K’rul’s bar crowded. Antsy and Spindle were there, as was Fisher, plus three huge fellows, shields leaning up against their table, busy emptying tall tankards of ale.

Antsy shouted from the bar, ‘Did you see …’

Picker crossed to the bar and gave a sombre nod. ‘Yeah. We saw ’im.’

‘Just about crapped my pants, I tell you,’ Antsy muttered.

‘I need a drink.’ She fished behind the bar to pull out a bottle, eyed him up and down. ‘So, you’re back. You look awful. No big bags o’ gems?’

He ducked his head, glowering. ‘The go-down, get-rich, comeback plan got upended. Long fucking story. At least I didn’t die.’

Picker snorted a laugh. ‘Same old Antsy. Who’re these huge bastards?’

‘Old friends of Fisher.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Not too pleased to see ’em, though.’

‘No kiddin’?’

Spindle came to the bar and poured a glass from Picker’s bottle.

‘So what was all this trouble in the city anyway?’ Antsy asked him.

‘Long story,’ Spindle grumbled. He leaned back against the bar. ‘Just my stupid luck too. I come here to avoid all the trouble down south, then this happens!’ He studied the glass, took a sip. ‘I’m headin’ back south.’

Careful slow steps sounded from the rear, crackling and shifting through the broken stone and wood. All eyes turned to the noise and conversation died down to a heavy silence.

The young woman came up from below. She wore a once stylish dark shirt under leathers that were tattered, scraped and grimed. Her long black hair hung unwashed and mussed but pretty oval features did much to make up for all that. She held her stave crossways, a touch defensive, and peered around at everyone, her eyes puffy as if she had been crying. She wiped her face. ‘This supposed to be a bar, then?’ she asked of the room in general.

‘Yeah …’ Blend admitted guardedly.

‘Got any wine? I could use a glass.’

Blend nodded. ‘Take a seat.’

‘Who’s the gal?’ Spindle asked, his voice low.

‘She’s a Claw,’ Picker murmured.

Spindle choked on his drink.

Studious Lock was in the kitchen experimentally poking at a burlap bag of potatoes and thinking to himself: Dear Unknowable Ancients … They eat these growths? A crash sounded from the main chambers, followed by furniture breaking, gasping, flailing limbs thumping the floor, and a man’s roar of outraged pain.

Guests!

He hurried out. A man — half Andii! — in a torn green shirt, blood-spattered, a blade in each hand, was climbing to his feet among the broken wood of an ornamental table. He drew the back of one hand across his face, leaving a smear of bright fresh blood.

‘You are in need of dressing!’ Studious announced, eager.

Seeing him, the man flinched away, almost falling again. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ He ran off, following a trail of bare bloody footprints that led to stairs to the lower levels.

‘I have unguents!’ Studious called after him.

Then he sniffed the air and his mouth moved in what might be called a smile. Ah! The Mistress’s daughter has returned! Perhaps I should find some pretty live plants and pull them up to kill them. As is the barbaric custom here for celebrations.

The lowest cellar was all one empty roughly octagonal room. At its centre a single figure sat cross-legged. She occupied a series of concentric circles inscribed in the floor, which was dotted with wards and sigils and symbols in languages spoken by no human. Her head was bowed and long black hair hung in a curtain that touched the ground before her.

Taya came down the wide staircase sliding along a wall. She clutched her side, blood a smear down that leg. Her gauzy scarves hung in tatters. She threw herself down before the crouched figure, a hand reaching, entreating.

‘Mother! Protect me!’

The figure’s head rose.

Topper came bounding down the stairs. He caught sight of the two women and stuttered to a halt. He raised his blades out from his sides, head cocked.

The woman within the centre of the wards stood. Chains rattled, running from her wrists to rings set in the floor at her sides. She wrapped a hand round one of these chains and yanked. Metal screeched and the chain snapped. She did the same with the other.

Topper’s brows rose in silent appreciation. A feral smile twisted his lips and he flicked the blades, shaking droplets of blood across the floor.

The woman advanced out of the concentric circles, dragging the chains behind her. She lashed one, sending a scattering of sparks flying. ‘Clawmaster,’ she said from behind the curtain of hair. ‘Do we have a quarrel?’

Topper eased his left leg slightly further back. ‘Vorcan. I’m here for that one. She must answer for a crime against the Empire.’

Vorcan glanced back to the prone figure. ‘Leave her to me.’

‘To you?’ A puzzled frown creased his brow. He tapped one bloody blade to his lips, thinking. After a moment the feral grin returned and he offered a mockingly elaborate courtier’s bow. ‘Very well. For now. However … if I see her again I will take her head.’

Vorcan pointed to the stairs. Remaining half bowed, Topper backed up, all the while keeping his eyes on her. At the top he disappeared in a swirl of darkness.

Vorcan turned back to Taya.

She lay on her side, still panting, drenched in a sweat of pain and exhaustion. She stared up at Vorcan, her brows crimped in puzzlement. ‘All this time …’ she breathed. ‘You could have …’

‘Yes. Had I chosen to — of my own free will.’

Taya shook her head in mute rueful incomprehension. Then she grimaced, hissing. She struggled to rise. ‘Well, thank you. I knew you would help me, Mother.’

A metal click sounded and Taya jerked up an arm. One of the chains now hung from it. ‘What is this?’ Vorcan gripped the other wrist and transferred the second chain. ‘No!’ Taya reached for a fallen knife. Vorcan kicked it aside, then took her daughter’s neck in a vice grip. While she held her in the choking throttle she reattached the chains to their rings. Then she tossed her down and backed away.

Taya lunged but the chains rang and grated, restraining her. She lay rubbing her wrists. ‘You cannot do this to me! I’ll have your heart!’

Vorcan continued backing away up the stairs.

‘Mother? You’re not really …?’

Vorcan disappeared. An unseen door closed heavily and a lock ratcheted.

‘Mother! Don’t leave me like this!’

Taya collapsed to curl into a tight foetal ball at the centre of the concentric rings. She wrapped her arms around herself and laid her head on the cold hard floor.

‘Mother …’

Rallick found his man sitting on a bench in the grounds of Majesty Hill. He was facing the east. The sun’s warm light was a golden wash across him. He sat next to him; the man did not stir from studying the sunrise over the distant Gadrobi hills.

‘You were supposed to run,’ Rallick said after a time, his hands clasped on his lap.

Scholar Ebbin nodded, almost distractedly. He pressed a bunched cloth to his forehead.

‘He wanted you to. He drove you off.’

The man nodded again. He let out a long sigh.

‘But you didn’t.’

Ebbin shook his head.

‘Why not?’

Slowly, the scholar turned his head to face him. He swallowed to speak. ‘I don’t want to die.’

Rallick looked away. His mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ebbin studied the sunrise once more. He tapped a finger to his temple. ‘He’s inside right now. Raging. But only a voice. Just a voice. He’s harmless now, I swear. Couldn’t I just-’

‘No.’

Ebbin pressed the cloth to his watering eyes. ‘I’ve hurt no one! I didn’t mean this to happen. It isn’t right!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Rallick said again. His voice was now much softer.

‘I could have run, you know! Could’ve. But I didn’t!’

At that Rallick’s gaze tightened as if pained. ‘I know.’

‘Couldn’t you just …?’

‘No.’

‘Please …’ Ebbin whispered.

Rallick motioned to a copse of woods. ‘Come with me.’

‘No … I don’t …’

Rallick clasped an arm round his shoulders to raise him from the bench. ‘This way, scholar. Only one thing left.’

A fist wrapped tight in the scholar’s shirt, Rallick banged on the door of the Finnest house. Ebbin stared, taking in all the details of the bizarre structure. ‘Is this …’ he murmured, awed. ‘Then there really was …’

The door swung open and there stood a horror. Ebbin jerked to scream but Rallick slapped a hand to his mouth. The scholar slumped, fainting in his arms.

‘A sign,’ Raest announced. ‘That is what I need. Something like — Keep off the Mounds.’

‘Can’t you take him?’

‘We already have a boarder.’

‘That sleeping fellow?’

Raest shuffled back up the hall. Rallick followed, dragging Ebbin with him. The Jaghut motioned to the huge man lying on the floor, snoring. ‘Our boarder. Quiet. Undemanding.’

Rallick studied the sprawled man. Now he thought he recognized him; in fact, he knew where he’d seen him. He’d been with that foreign blacksmith. He adjusted Ebbin in his arms. ‘Well, perhaps he’d like to leave now … Can he?’

‘Can he what?’

Rallick studied the Jag’s dead scarred face. He cleared his throat. ‘Can he — I mean, is he hale? Whole?’

‘Physically, yes. As for his mind — it is the same as when he came to us.’

Ebbin roused in Rallick’s arms. He peered about, frowning. ‘Where am I?’

‘Could you wake him?’ Rallick asked.

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. I cannot. You, however, may.’

Rallick struggled to conceal his irritation. He sat Ebbin against a wall then knelt over the big fellow. He touched the back of a hand to his cheek. It was as warm as a child’s.

‘Is this …’ Scholar Ebbin gasped. He pointed to Raest. ‘Are you …? By all the gods! I have a thousand questions!’

Standing above Rallick the Jaghut let out a long low growl.

In the grounds of the High Alchemist Baruk’s estate a small pot-bellied demon anxiously edged out of the tower’s open door. As the rich amber morning sunlight struck its knobbled head it hissed, ducking and writhing from side to side. Then it shaded its gaze, blinking, and continued along in its uneven gait.

It stopped before a man lying prone halfway up the walk. Smoke curled from his shredded robes and blood matted his torn scalp. He appeared to have been in an explosion. The demon took hold of his shoulders and began attempting to drag him up the walk.

After much gasping and flailing, with the man himself weakly pushing, the demon managed to heave him in through the door. He propped him against a wall and waddled off. A short time later he returned with a silver flask that he opened and offered to him.

The man just peered up through pained eyes, breathing wetly, his jaws clenching against his agony. Anger appeared to be gathering in those eyes.

The demon slapped a hand to his forehead then leaned over to carefully tilt the flask to the man’s mouth. The fellow drank as much as he could then gasped, choking and coughing. After a time he managed to lift an arm to take the flask. Blinking, he peered around at the rubbish, the strewn wreckage and broken furniture. ‘Chillbais …’ he began, weakly, and coughed again.

‘Yes, master?’

He waved the flask to the surroundings. ‘… what have you done to the place?’

The brightening light cascading in through the windows woke Envy. A hand went to her forehead and, pressing there, she groaned. She rose unsteadily to her feet and staggered to a window. There she tensed, straightening, and glared about.

‘No …’ she breathed. She gripped the sill, cracking its stone under her nails. ‘No!’

She threw herself back from the window as if to dash from the room, but halfway across she raised both hands and came to a halt. She spent some time adjusting her dress and hair, then let out a long, calming breath. ‘Very well. What’s done is done. Can’t be helped. It has all been rather a disappointment, after all.’ She set her hands on her hips. ‘Yes. Not what I’d hoped at all. Not at all. Perhaps a change in scenery.’ She tapped a finger to her pursed lips. Her arched brows rose as an idea struck. ‘Yes … perhaps the Empire. Hmm. They may be sophisticated enough …’

She waved a hand as if dismissing the rooms, Majesty Hall, the entire city, and walked out.

Across the city a burly foreigner drove a wagon into the yard of the Eldra Iron Mongers and shut the gates behind him. The master of the works himself, Humble Measure, met him as he brought the wagon to a halt before one of the cavernous shops.

Barathol dropped the reins, peered down at Humble. ‘Ready?’

Humble Measure raised a long-handled pair of iron tongs. ‘Ready.’

They went to the rear of the wagon and lowered the gate. A metal casket filled the bed. Barathol grabbed hold of a rope handle and yanked it out. It fell with a crash amid the black clinker and slag. He looked to Humble again. ‘Furnace ready?’

‘Iron’s roiling white hot.’

‘All right. Let’s get it done.’

Humble set the tongs on the lid and took the other handle. Together they carried the casket into the shop, where an orange and yellow glow flickered and smoke once more billowed out to hang over the city.

Afterwards, as they walked back to the wagon, Humble Measure wiped his blackened hands on a filthy rag. ‘Until next time, then.’

Barathol gave a harsh laugh. ‘I know what you mean — but let’s hope not, yes?’

‘Yes. Quite. Twins favour you, then.’

Barathol nodded and shook the reins.

Humble Measure watched the man go. Yes, he agreed: let us hope there will be no further call. Yet in the meantime one must remain vigilant. He had his cause now. He’d been misguided before. Sought answers in the wrong directions. But now he understood. And he would apply all his resources just as ruthlessly as before. He knew where the true threats lay now and he would keep watch.

He would await the slips of paper inscribed with the broken circle.

For Torvald the farewells had been swift and without ceremony. The quorls arrived to pick up the survivors of the Moranth assault group and they had flown off, swooping to the east around the city. Galene left last. As if in salute she offered the slightest tilt of her engraved helm. He answered with his best awkward effort at a formal bow.

He stood for a time watching them disappear into the sun’s glare. A mannered cough brought him round to see a young Darujhistani aristocrat in much-damaged finery. ‘Yes?’

The lad bowed. ‘I understand you are the new Councillor Nom.’

‘I am.’

‘Permit me to introduce myself — my name is Corien. Corien Lim.’

Torvald could not keep his brows from rising. ‘Ah … I see. Well … I am sorry for your loss.’

The lad bowed again. He rubbed at his grimed nose, grimacing. ‘You are most courteous, sir. I take this liberty because given the circumstances I believe we may be seeing much more of each other.’

Torvald had no idea what to say to that so he nodded sagely. ‘Really. That is … most interesting.’

The Lim scion bowed again, taking his leave. ‘Until then, sir.’

Torvald turned on to a path down the hill. He walked in silence, deep in puzzled thought. Had he just received his first overture of recognition from an aristocrat — a possible future councillor? If so, things were looking up for Torvald Nom. Then he recalled what lay ahead and he lost even that thin shred of optimism: homecoming awaited.

What should it be this time? Pirates? Invasions? Slavers? Stomach troubles?

As he walked the district he passed patches of fire damage. A few city blocks had burned but overall the harm was not nearly so terrible as he had feared. And everywhere, on every corner, lay pots in heaps, abandoned or broken. Some still held water — no doubt drawn from wells, troughs, and even the lake itself.

He frowned, eyeing them: something familiar about those pots.

He paused before the door to his own house. Once more wiped his hands on the thighs of his trousers. As he reached for the handle the door was yanked inward. Tiserra stood in the threshold. She cocked an eye.

‘Greetings, fair wife!’ He moved to step in but she blocked the way.

‘And what was it this time?’ she demanded.

‘Ah! Well …’ Torvald pulled a hand down his unshaven cheek. ‘You may not believe this, good wife … but I was sent on a secret diplomatic mission to the north, only to be kidnapped by Moranth. And in negotiation with them, I managed to save the city!’

‘Oh, really? You saved the city, did you?’

He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘Gods’ own truth! That’s exactly what happened. If I may come in I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Indeed?’ She edged slightly to one side. ‘I can’t wait to hear. Does it bear upon this non-paying job of yours?’

He slid in around her. ‘Ah … odd you should mention that. In fact it does.’

She shut the door and brushed drying clay from her hands. ‘Well then. It’s a good thing that I’m owed for a great many pots.’

Councillor Coll walked the empty rooms of his manor house. Reaching the wide base of the ornate curved staircase he paused to rest a hand on the balustrade. After a time he set a booted foot on the first stair. Jaws tight, he leaned forward until he had to raise his rear foot to place it upon the second. He eased a breath out between clenched teeth, then continued on.

The bedroom door was open. He entered to stand by the low dresser. Thick curtains hung closed before the terrace doors, holding the room in a dim murky light. The air smelled of dust and stale perfume. He crossed to the curtains and parted them. A shaft of light played across the room: dust motes spun and danced.

He yanked the thick cloths to the sides and then pulled the double doors open. A gust of wind sent the dust swirling from the bedcovers. Taking a deep breath of the air, he turned to the door. Passing the dresser cluttered with its tiny glass bottles he ran a finger through the thick grey layer upon it. He examined his finger, then dusted his hands together and left.

Outside, his carriage-driver asked, ‘Destination, Councillor?’

‘Destination?’ Coll answered, outraged. ‘Why, Majesty Hall of course!’

The carriage-driver rolled his eyes to the sky as he gave the reins a tug.

Far outside Darujhistan, on the western edge of Maiten town, an old woman staggered from her straw-roofed shack. She held her head, groaning and blinking in the light. She wrenched at her great mane of matted frizzy hair to examine a handful. She let out a great yelp of horror and batted at the curled mass, raising a cloud of dust and dirt.

Then she worked her mouth as if having tasted something vile. She spat in the street, wiped her mouth and grimaced her disgust. She caught sight now of her mud-caked tatters of skirts and grabbed fists of them, twisting them back and forth. ‘May the gods die of crotch-rot! What’s happened to my dress?’

‘Watch yer mouth, y’ damned drunken witch,’ a passer-by growled.

‘How would you like-’ She held her head and groaned anew. ‘Oh gods! Wait till I get my hands on that slimy toad!’ She reached for the wall of her shack. ‘Oh, my head. My poor head. Where’s Derudan’s hookah off to?’ She stumbled inside and began searching amid the rubbish.

West of the Maiten River the Malazan army broke camp to march. Fist K’ess was packing his travel panniers with orders and records when Ambassador Aragan entered. The Fist saluted, then motioned an invitation to a stool where a tray of tea waited.

Aragan waved a negative. ‘I’m off for the city.’

K’ess paused in his packing. ‘With respect, Ambassador. Perhaps you should wait …’

The big man tucked his hands into his tight weapon belt. ‘No, no. I’ll have my honour guard, of course.’

‘Come to Pale with the Fifth.’

The Ambassador tilted his balding head. ‘Generous offer, Fist, but the embassy hasn’t been formally closed. We’ll see what the final decision is from whoever ends up in control there.’

‘Very well.’ K’ess saluted once more. ‘A pleasure, Ambassador.’

Aragan seemed almost embarrassed as he turned away, clearing his throat. ‘You’re too kind, Fist.’ He walked off with his splay-legged rolling gait.

K’ess watched him go. A soldier who just wanted to be a soldier but ended up a politician.

Captain Fal-ej paused at the open tent flaps to salute.

‘Yes?’

‘Outriders ready.’

‘Send them off.’

‘At once.’ She turned to go.

‘Captain,’ K’ess called quickly.

She turned back, blinking. ‘Yes?’

‘We’ll stay close to the lake shore, Captain.’

‘Very good, Fist.’

K’ess pulled a hand down his unshaven chin. ‘And perhaps — as we ride — you might tell me all about Seven Cities. I never did make it there.’

Captain Fal-ej’s thick dark brows rose very high and she smiled broadly. ‘That would please me a great deal, Fist.’

That evening Kruppe sat once more at his usual table near the back of the Phoenix Inn. Jess was on duty that night and when she caught sight of him she marched right over. ‘You again! You’ve some nerve showing your oily self here. I’ve half a mind to call Scurve to toss you out right now.’

Kruppe threw up his hands. ‘Good Jess! What ire! What passion! I am overcome. Indeed, I am overcome with famishment. A bottle of red if you would be so kind. With two glasses, for Kruppe is in a bountiful munificent mood. And a touch of that gorgeous mutton I smell. And the pear tart for afters.’

Jess set her fists on her wide hips. ‘And how are you going to pay for all this?’

Kruppe pointed past her. ‘Oh, look! ’Tis Meese herself there at the bar. She’ll speak for me, I’m certain.’

‘Oh, I’ll have a word with her about you all right, you can be sure of that.’

Jess crossed to the bar and spoke with Meese. Kruppe watched, eyes narrowed, nervously tapping his fingertips together. The older woman waved Jess close and whispered something in her ear. Jess’s eyes widened in surprise and she appeared to mouth Really?

The older woman gave a serious nod.

Jess straightened. Her wondering frown seemed to say: who would have thought it?

She returned to Kruppe’s table. Here she bent down to him with a wide smile, and pushed back her hair. ‘Was that two glasses you asked for, sir?’

Kruppe’s gaze darted left and right. His fingertips halted their tapping. ‘Why … yes, good Jess. If you would be amenable?’

‘Certainly, sir. Right away.’ She turned to go but paused for a moment to adjust the lie of her skirt over one broad hip. Then she walked off, swinging those hips like two great warships.

Kruppe’s brows climbed very high indeed and his gaze shifted to Meese at the bar. An evil smirk raised the corners of her mouth and she winked.

Great anxious gods! Whatever did the evil Meese tell the poor woman!

Later that night Kruppe sat back to wipe his enormous handkerchief across his mouth and survey the conquered plates, crusts and bones scattered before him. Most restorative struggle to the death! Kruppe is … satisfied.

Yet the second glass remained untouched opposite and he regarded it for a moment, then poured himself more of the — slightly disappointing — red.

Two cloaked and hooded figures pulled up chairs to either side of him and leaned close.

Kruppe set his glass back down. ‘Gentlemen … Kruppe was expecting company this night, but not you two.’ He gestured to the empty glass. ‘Alas, perhaps my friend’s days of bachelor conviviality are done. The chains of domesticity have closed upon him and gone are the times of carefree bonhomie … Out of the window, as it were.’

‘Whatever in the Abyss are you going on about, ya fat fool?’ Leff growled. ‘We’re in real trouble here and we need your help!’

‘My help? How can poor Kruppe be of any service to you?’

‘We need to get out of town,’ Scorch added urgently from the other side.

Kruppe’s expressive thick brows climbed again; he clamped his handkerchief to his mouth and coughed behind it for a time. Fit over, he stuffed the cloth back into a frilly sleeve and thoughtfully stroked the tiny rat’s tail braided beard at his chin. ‘Really?’ he managed after a time. ‘Kruppe hardly dares ask what for …?’

‘It was an accident-’ Scorch began.

‘It was your fault!’ Leff cut in. ‘You fired!’

‘You grabbed it!’ Scorch yelled, nearly choking.

Nearby conversations stopped as people glanced over.

Kruppe raised his hands for quiet. ‘Decorum in the bar, please, gentlemen. Now, what, exactly, are you two staggering blindly around?’

The two exchanged stricken looks. ‘We killed the Legate,’ they said together in a fierce whisper.

Kruppe slapped a hand to his mouth, choking again. Once the coughing fit had passed he took a quick sip of wine to clear his throat. ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured. ‘Most serious. I daresay you are in a great deal of trouble.’

Leff pulled his hood lower and glared about. ‘You have to help! The whole city’s after us!’

Kruppe stroked the slim beard once more, shaking his head. He sighed heavily. ‘Kruppe is only one man … This may lie beyond even his astounding abilities.’

‘You have to get us out of the city,’ Scorch pleaded. ‘We’ll do anything!’

Kruppe’s hand paused upon the beard. His eyes darted once more. ‘Anything …?’

The two shared a glance of utter desperation and together they jerked a nod.

The little man picked up a last crust and gave it an experimental nibble. ‘It just so happens that Kruppe does know of a job outside the city that may be admirably suited to your, ah, unique, talents …’

The two sagged in relief. Leff cuffed Kruppe on the back. ‘You’re a true friend, Kruppe. Got no idea where we’d be without ya.’

Kruppe took a dainty sip of his wine. ‘You have no idea,’ he murmured.