All except him, of course. This minimal shared companionship didn’t seem to extend to him. Not yet, in any case, and not that he wanted or needed it. He considered his fellows no better than ham-handed amoral bullies good for nothing more than intimidating shopkeepers and twisting the arms of any fools desperate or stupid enough to borrow money from Pung.
The novel thought then occurred to him that perhaps they saw this completely open and frank evaluation in his gaze, which might tend to put their backs up.
He may need to work on filtering his contempt.
Or perhaps not.
And speaking of a sense of belonging, he’d seen Rheena once or twice. In the back of a few large gatherings of the crew. She’d made no special effort to approach him. Had rather made a show of her indifference, actually. Loor, though, hadn’t been shy about coming over and leaning against the wall near him and sharing the nod of an experienced operator. He was lonely, perhaps. Shreth had never fully recovered from his wound and was now working in a felt-maker’s shop.
If Rheena wanted to make it plain that there was nothing to talk about, then fine. He’d make no effort either. It wasn’t as though he needed –
An earthquake struck.
At least it felt like an earthquake. An avalanche-like roaring punished Dorin’s ears. Everyone in the common room surged to their feet; chairs were overturned; glasses vibrated off tables; the tables themselves shuddered across the floor while dust came billowing up in clouds that drove everyone outside, waving and coughing.
From all the compound buildings more of the strong-arms and toughs came running as if fleeing impending collapse. All except, Dorin noted, the hordes of digger youths. As the overpowering crashing and thundering roaring faded, it resolved itself in his ears as the earth-shaking guttural braying of a titanic beast.
Pung came staggering out, glaring right and left. ‘What in the name of Burn was that?’
‘Sounded like some kinda monster,’ said one of the toughs.
‘Right beneath us,’ supplied another.
Pung’s wild terrified gaze roved the compound till it lighted upon Dorin. ‘You! Take a look.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. Go below. Look around. What do I pay you for?’
Dorin clenched his teeth so as to not point out that he’d yet to be paid. He would have looked to the sky in exasperation, but he saw the smirks of the assembled enforcers and this calmed him like a spray of cold water down his neck, reminding him to keep his professional neutral mask in place. He offered Pung the slightest inclination of his head. ‘Very well. If there are no other takers . . .’ He pointed an invitation to one of the bony, belligerent thugs.
The man laughed, quite nervously, and shook his head. ‘Your job, sneaky boy. Not mine.’
Now it was Dorin’s turn to offer his own snort of superior contempt, and look away. ‘Gren!’ he called.
Pung’s lieutenant jumped where he was still peering fearfully into the darker corners of the compound. ‘What?’
Dorin motioned to the warehouse. ‘The door . . .’
Gren’s hand went to his keys. ‘Oh. Right.’
Gren’s hands were shaking as he unlocked the door in the warehouse. He hesitated, peered anxiously down the murky lamplit stone stairwell. ‘Is that it?’ Dorin asked into the uncharacteristic silence surrounding them.
The man jumped again, flinching at the noise. ‘What?’
‘What about the gate below?’
The man stared at him, swallowing. He fiddled among the keys then silently handed over a large bronze one. Dorin took it and started down.
‘You’re really . . .’ Gren called after him in his hushed hoarse voice, ‘you really are just gonna walk in there?’
Dorin turned, made a show of shrugging casually. ‘It’s my job.’
The skinny lieutenant, so scornful of him earlier, now shook his head in disbelief and shut the door behind him. Motionless in the lamp’s dim light he considered the man’s expression. He didn’t know him well enough to read him easily, but he hoped that it had been more than a dismissive what a damned stupid fool.
He took a breath, loosened his shoulders, and listened to the dark. Silence, save for the ticking and creaking of wood above. Where were all the children? Dead? Torn to bloody pieces by some monster? He turned to face the darkness below. Grit slid and crackled beneath his sandals. He eased them off and continued down barefoot.
The barred gate was closed. He unlocked it, wincing at every click and grating of metal on metal. He edged it open and slid inside. In either direction lamps flickered along the semicircular stone tunnels. No bodies lay as humps on the floor, no signs of any struggle. But the lamps were far too weak to fully light the tunnels, and so the majority of the lengths held absolute dark, punctuated by flickering pools of inadequate amber glow. He eased into the tunnel, daggers out, and headed for the Dal Hon’s cell.
He suspected he knew what had happened. He’d heard stories of such things recounted many times. Had once even studied the messy aftermath. A mage, driven by desperation – or recklessness – reaches into Warrens far beyond his or her abilities and loses control of the forces thus summoned. It was not that uncommon, he understood, as often the only way new talents could practise was in that very manner: testing the waters, so to speak, and the surety of their grip and skill.
He believed this was what had happened. The Dal Hon youth, taunted and tortured, really did dare what he’d boasted of and the daemon had come. And of course shaken off the lad’s feeble attempts to compel it.
As for all the kids down here digging for tombs, they were probably still running.
He slowly felt his way forward along the stone-flagged tunnels, ready at any moment to find his bare foot sinking into something warm, wet and yielding. He peered round an intersection of the semicircular catacombs, spotted the length of tunnel that he believed held the youth’s cell, and edged forward, daggers readied.
By this time his vision had adjusted enough to make out the wreckage of the cell’s sturdy door of adzed planks scattered across the tunnel, apparently by an explosive force from within. He padded up as silently as possible and slid into the cell, put his back to one of the brick pillars, circled it, blades out.
Nothing. Empty. Emboldened, and a touch intrigued, he dared to search the rest of the cell as well as he could in the darkness. He found nothing; not even a mangled corpse or splash of blood.
Mysterious. Not at all like the other unravellings he’d heard described. He stepped out into the tunnel and listened to the quiet of the earth. Yet, not absolutely. Something . . . He stalked into the deepest of the dark and edged forward, hunched and ready.
In night blackness he heard it while seeing nothing: light panting breaths. Terror? And close – just beyond. He sensed a corner ahead and reached round it, hand open. His fingertips brushed something, cloth, and there came a quick intake of breath.
He snatched his captive and yanked the body to him, a blade to the neck. Backing up into the light he found that he held a young girl. One of the diggers. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.
She straightened and raised her chin, defiant. ‘Who’re you?’
‘What happened?’
She snorted. ‘What happened? Our mage summoned a monster and loosed it here in the tunnels. That’s what happened.’
Our mage? ‘Then why are you here?’
The girl sent him a superior glare. ‘Because we’re working together, that’s why. You tell your boss, Pung the Toad, that if he so much as sets foot down here . . . then the beast’ll eat him.’
Dorin couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. ‘Really? A beast. Will eat him.’
The girl wasn’t bothered by his tone. ‘Him’r anyone else comes down here!’ She raised a hand and pushed against the blade he held tucked under her chin. ‘So you better run while you can – ya hired knifer.’
Dorin was more surprised by her brashness than the threat of some monster. Smiling, he drew a
way the blade. ‘So you have your mage hidden somewhere, then.’
‘I ain’t saying.’
He sheathed the knife, took hold of her arm and twisted it to the angle where the joint could turn no further without tearing. ‘Where?’
The girl winced, but bit her lip.
Dorin, he said to himself, you’re twisting a kid’s arm.
He quickly let go and rubbed his hands on his thighs as if to clean them.
Now it was the girl who was surprised, but she recovered quickly, scowling. ‘The monster’s loose down here, so you better go.’
He backed away, still smiling. ‘You’d better go as well. They’ll come to look, I’m sure.’
She laughed her youthful derision, but he heard her quick footfalls as she slipped away.
So. Either they really are hiding him, or he’s gone and they’re bluffing to get out from under Pung’s yoke. Either way . . . He shrugged mentally. Didn’t matter to him.
He headed back to the entrance. He passed the wreckage of the door and paused, troubled by a suspicion. Too often this Dal Hon fellow had gotten the better of him. He collected a lamp and returned to the cell. Ignoring the scattered wood for the moment, he crouched down on his haunches and brought the lamp to the dirt-covered stone flags. He swung the light back and forth, searching.
Not a one. Not a single print other than human ones. No paw, or otherwise inhuman spoor. Straightening, he swept his bare foot across the floor, brushing the dirt and obscuring all record of who had or had not passed.
He turned to the broken door frame. It hung drunkenly, a ruin. Yet . . . He brought the flickering gold flame closer to the wounds scouring the wood.
These scars were not those of claws or teeth. He knew the difference, having been trained in how to counterfeit such marks. Edged blades made these gouges and scrapes. He straightened, smiling even more broadly.
Well, well, well. A good gambit, my friend. I salute you. Might even work. Threaten to loose a monster, whip up a fearsome noise . . . and slip away.
He returned the lamp to its niche.
Exiting the cavernous warehouse, he stood blinking in the light for a time. Gren was there, with a handful of the toughs, and Pung. The thugs all looked surprised and rather annoyed to see him. Coins changed hands.
Pung curtly waved him over. ‘Well? You see anything? What is it?’
‘Your mage’s gone.’
‘Gone? What d’ya mean, gone?’
‘How do you know?’ Gren demanded.
Dorin offered the man a lazy blinking look. ‘’Cause something crashed through his door.’ Which was true – technically.
‘Have a look,’ Pung told Gren. The lieutenant turned on the toughs, pointing. ‘You three – have a look.’
These three were now even more annoyed. ‘I want a lamp,’ one complained.
‘So take a fucking lamp, then!’ Pung snarled, jerking a thumb.
Dorin tossed the key, warning, ‘I wouldn’t stay down there too long. If you know what I mean . . .’
They sneered back, but looked even less happy.
He walked away without one glance back, not even to Pung. He returned to the common room, poured a glass of the cheap wine Pung supplied, and sat in his usual place. When he glanced up, none of the handful present would meet his gaze.
More damned like it.
*
Silk was with his tailor, examining his figure in a tall mirror of polished bronze, turning to left and right, and frowning. ‘The cut of your trousers makes my stomach look large.’
The tailor ducked his head, hunching abjectly. ‘I am sorry to do that, sir.’
Silk waved a hand. ‘Never mind. A wrap or sash perhaps. Black Darujhistani silk, of course.’
The tailor bowed once more. ‘My apologies, good sir . . . but I am very sorry to say that we have no more Darujhistani cloth available.’
‘No more—’ Silk turned on the fellow, blinking. ‘How could that be, man? You are a tailor, are you not?’
The bony old man bowed once more, wincing. ‘Disruption in overland trade from Unta, I’m told. The siege, perhaps . . .’
Silk eased the frown from his mouth and half turned away. He fussed with his collar. ‘Ah. You are right, of course.’ Strangely enough, it hadn’t occurred to him that the siege would have interfered with such mundane matters as cloth imports. Things were getting quite out of hand.
‘I do have some fine Talian brushed satin in sunflower yellow . . .’
‘Gods, no. What do I look like? A Bloorian bumpkin?’
‘Perhaps some—’ the tailor began, but Silk heard nothing more as a noise crashed inside his head like pounding hammers and he staggered into a stack of piled bolts of cloth. He leaned against it, nearly double, gripping his fractured skull. ‘. . . a physician, sir?’ the old fellow was saying, bending next to him and peering anxiously.
Silk straightened. He wiped the tears from his eyes with a sleeve and caught the pained wince from the tailor as he did so. ‘What on this side of Hood’s paths was that?’ he asked, blinking and still dizzy.
The old man peered about the shop. ‘What was what, sir?’
‘You heard nothing?’
‘No, sir.’
Just the Warrens, then, Silk thought, amazed. Like a gargantuan tearing, or shattering. He pulled off the samples and kicked away the pinned trousers. ‘I must go.’
‘Shall I start with the suit, then, sir?’
‘No!’ Silk snarled, pulling on his own trousers and hopping for the stairs.
Threading his way through the crowds on the street – none of whom appeared to have noticed the disturbance – he hurried for the palace.
‘Just the white shirt?’ came a distant reedy call from above, the tailor at a window. ‘The one with the fine tapering at the sleeves?’
Silk waved an angry negative and ran on, but two steps later he halted, hands going to his head. He turned, yelled, ‘The aqua blue!’ and raced on.
Palace functionaries waved him to the Inner Focus. Here the guards opened the door as he approached and shut it behind him. He crossed the gleaming bright marble floor to where Mara stood next to Shalmanat, who sat, uncharacteristically slumped, head in hands.
‘Are you well?’ he asked as he came. Shalmanat nodded. ‘Is it Ryllandaras? Has he entered the city?’
She shook her head. Her hands were clutched in her fine long hair.
‘That was my thought,’ Mara said, crossing her arms and scowling.
‘No . . .’ said Shalmanat, her voice weak and hoarse, ‘not Ryllandaras.’
‘Then what?’
‘Something else.’ The Protectress yanked at her hair as if frenzied.
Mara caught Silk’s eye and offered a helpless shrug.
Silk nodded at this. Okay. So, what now? ‘Ho and Koroll?’
Mara brought her head close to his, whispered, ‘Out searching the catacombs. They think it’s beneath the city, whatever it is.’
‘It could be anywhere!’ the Protectress yelled. She tore her hair as if she would yank it from her skull.
He knelt before her, tried to meet her gaze. ‘What is it? Shalmanat – help us.’
Her eyes were fixed upon some distant vista only she could see. ‘It cannot be,’ she said, her brows knotting. ‘How could it be? It was broken. Sealed away.’
‘What? What was sealed away?’
Her wild gaze met his, but it was empty of any recognition. ‘Our shame,’ she breathed.
Over Shalmanat, Mara tilted her head to the exit, suggesting it was time to go. Silk nodded his agreement.
Outside, in the hall, once they’d left the guards behind, Silk indicated a side chamber. Mara looked to the ceiling, but followed.
‘We have to decide what to do,’ he began, shutting the door.
She crossed her arms across her substantial chest. ‘Looks like we underestimated these Kanese. Cute trick, hey? We loose a monster on them outside the walls, and they retaliate by releasing one inside. Bu
t Koroll and Ho will track it down.’
Silk struggled to keep his face empty of the irritation he felt. ‘I mean, regarding the summoning.’
‘What of it?’
‘Officially, we make a point of ignoring it.’
Now she winkled her handsome features into a scowl. ‘What d’you mean?’
He couldn’t help pressing a hand to his brow. ‘We can’t let them know they’ve unnerved us.’
‘Us? Her, you mean.’
He bit back a few choice insults at that shortsightedness, pulled his hand down his face. ‘Her resolve is our resolve. The citizens would panic. Then we’re finished.’
Mara frowned now, eyeing him sidelong, considering this. Then she snorted, nodding, and paced the small meeting room. ‘Hunh. Not just a pretty face, hey Silk?’
His answering smile was brittle. ‘We wait for word from Koroll.’
She brushed past, waving her dismissal. ‘Fine. Okay.’ She yanked open the door, paused on the threshold. ‘And don’t try any of this pulling rank shit! ’Cause you got none, right?’ She stormed out.
Silk arched an eyebrow at the empty doorway. Gods! Co-workers! What can one do?
* * *
Fanah Leerulenal, a leather engraver, did not consider himself an aficionado of fortune-telling. His mother, however, bless her departed soul, had been quite the devotee. She consulted a talent once a week, and always before making any major decision. This siege, however, with its uncertainties and anxieties, left him wondering whether perhaps it would be better to flee the city, as so many of his friends constantly threatened.
He paused, therefore, that day on his way to work – not that there was any work, just a few remaining scraps of poorest quality hide. The market was mostly empty now but for a petty merchant’s wheeled street stall cluttered with charms, amulets, bones of noted local witches, and various decks of the Dragons. This fellow was of course doing a roaring business. Fanah picked up one boxed set – a too-expensive Untan edition done on ivory tablets – and set it back down.
‘I can see you have an expert’s eye,’ the fat stall-keeper announced, rather too eagerly.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 21
