‘Oh … well. Why didn’t you say so?’ Kiska ran to catch up. She glanced back, caught Leoman’s eye, and waved farewell.
Leoman answered the wave then turned away, arms crossed, to watch Korus play in the sea. And, to Kiska’s eyes, he did possess the look of a man at peace.
Noise from downstairs woke Scillara. She tensed, listening in the dark. The city had been quiet these last weeks now that the Legate had imposed his curfew. Every sound carried a sudden insistence and stood out as rare and unexpected as … well, as an honest man.
She reached down for the long-knife Barathol kept on the floor under the bed. She’d laughed, of course, as was her way with him – anything to dance away from the grim – for she’d spotted him long ago as one of those who could slide too easily into gloomy brooding.
Up to her to chivvy him along.
Strangely enough, her first thought had been for the babe. Now there’s a shocker. Gettin’ to me after all. Just as Barathol said.
She listened once more: now all she could hear were the babe’s quick wet breaths.
Then it came again. Someone moving about downstairs. As if they had two sticks to steal! As disappointing a break-in as they come. She went quickly to the stairs and edged her way down, blade out in front. Let them chuckle at the fat woman with a knife; she’d had to cut her fair share of men turned ugly with drink and sour tempers.
A light was visible on the main floor. Halfway down the stone stairs she saw Barathol at the rear seeing to the banked fire. She reached up through the trapdoor to slip the blade on to the bedroom floor and went down.
‘Back already?’
He grunted and turned from coaxing the fire going. She was shocked to see that he was sodden through. ‘You’re soaked. Was it raining?’
‘No,’ he croaked, his voice ragged.
She took the sticks and tinder from his shaking hands. ‘I’ll see to it. What happened, then?’ She blew on the embers.
He slumped into a chair. ‘I washed. Washed everything. Dumped water over myself from a cistern.’
‘To hide the smell of the drink?’
Not a glimmer answered that. ‘No. To wash away … something else.’ He held out his hands and turned them over. They shook like leaves. Kneeling, she reached for them but he yanked them away. Even so, she felt their chill. Frozen!
‘A lad came yesterday with a cooked meal for us and a note sayin’ you were working still.’ He looked confused, blinking heavily. Exhausted – what was this job? I’ll have that fat man’s head!
‘Message? I sent no message.’
‘Well. You’re back now. Want to see the little one?’
He straightened, lurching. ‘No! Have to … have to wash first.’
‘Wash?’ She laughed lightly. ‘You’re cleaner than I’ve ever seen you!’
He merely stared at the fire. ‘Heat water. Bring that cake of soap. And our smallest knife. Have to cut my nails. Scour my hands. Before – before I touch anything.’
‘Barathol … you’re clean enough—’
‘No!’ He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. ‘Dammit, woman, just do as I ask for once.’
Scillara backed away. Fine. Just this once then! She went to fill the pot.
*
Chal Grilol had been a woodwright turning out spoked wheels for wagons and chests, benches, just about anything anyone required in the neighbourhood. Then the joint-ache took his hands and he couldn’t hold a tool no more. He couldn’t work so he lost his home; his boys were long gone and the wife was dead so he was out on the street sleeping under a wharf on the waterfront. Tonight he was out fishing off the end of the dock, using a lantern to lure fingerlings.
Then along came this two-wheeled cart pushed backwards up the dock by a shaggy man all dirty and wild-haired and muttering to himself. And while Chal watched, amazed, this burly fellow proceeded to toss tools and bits and pieces from the cart into the lake. He threw hammers as far as he could out into the waves. Wearing thick leather gloves he tossed handfuls of smaller tools like scatterings of stones off the dock. Then he got up on to the cart and kicked over a big anvil that fell with a resounding bang that shook the entire dock from end to end. This he pushed over and over until he tipped it off the end with a huge splash. Last, the gloves themselves followed into the drink.
Dusting his hands, the fellow turned to Chal, still sitting, pole in his hands. He took out a soot-smeared rag and wiped his face and hands then peered down, frowning. ‘You might be thinking to yourself, friend: “That lot could be worth a copper or two.” But don’t consider it.’ He leaned even closer and there was something in his eyes, something wild and terrible. ‘They’re cursed, friend. Touched with a fearsome curse.’ He glanced about as if listening to the night, the water lapping, the boats groaning against their berths. ‘Even now it might not be safe.’ And he patted Chal’s shoulder and started up the dock with his cart. ‘G’night!’
As the creaking of the cartwheels diminished up the waterfront Chal sat listening and it seemed to him that the murmur of the water had taken on a more ominous hollow moaning and that the wheels’ groaning had returned to his ears – this time accompanied by the jangling of metal chain, perhaps from the nearby ships. Pole in one hand and lantern in the other, he ran. His naked feet slapped the grey boards as he went and a cold chill seemed to nip at them with each step.
*
Spindle was half awake in the bar common room, chin in hands, dredging his brain trying to figure out what that damned alchemist-mage, Baruk, had been trying to tell him. There must be something there. He was sure of it. Why else let him go? Why else hint at … whatever it was he meant? Something was there just beyond his reach; it was driving him crazy.
At the barrier they’d thrown across the door, watching the night-time street, Blend recrossed her legs and tilted back in her chair, her crossbow on her lap. Then the long stone counter of the bar exploded. There was no other word for it. It just burst with an eruption that sent Blend cartwheeling backwards, the crossbow firing, to fall on her back. Spindle fell from his chair and scooted under the table.
Feet thumped and in came Duiker wearing a shirt and trousers, sheathed sword in hand, followed by Picker in a long nightshirt. The bard, Fisher, was out: taking the mood of the city, or some damned thing like that.
‘What happened?’ Picker demanded. Peering up, Spindle thought the woman’s heavy unbound breasts pushed out the nightshirt in a very appealing way.
‘Damned bar cracked,’ Blend said. ‘Spin … Get outta there, Spin. Take a look.’
‘Fell out of my chair, that’s all.’ He straightened, adjusted his shirt. She waved him to the bar.
The stone was cracked clean across. Dust still lingered in the air. ‘More of the same,’ he said. ‘This place is under some kinda pressure. Like it’s bein’ twisted and squeezed. Just like K’rul himself.’
‘Herself,’ Blend corrected. ‘You saw her.’
‘Yeah. But I always thought o’ K’rul as a he.’
‘Always been a she – everyone knows that!’
‘Not as I’d heard.’
‘Doesn’t fucking matter!’ Picker cut in. ‘Get your priorities straight, would you? Spin, we in worse trouble now? Should we cut out?’
He laid a hand on the stone counter and tried to sort through the jangling messages blaring from his Warren. Gods! Like an overturned anthill. Everything’s running all over, frantic, hunting for cover from what they don’t even know. Got the feeling it won’t matter where we go …
‘We should stay,’ Duiker suddenly announced. Everyone looked at the old man.
‘Why?’ Blend demanded.
‘I think it helps. Us, people, being here. I think it helps.’
Blend turned to Spindle. ‘Well?’
He gave a quick jerk of his head. ‘Yeah. Not sure we’d be any safer anywhere else.’
‘Good.’ Blend peered about the place, almost possessive. ‘Don’t want to be run out. Got too much invest
ed here.’ She glared at them. ‘Well, get back to sleep. Excitement’s over.’
Spindle watched Picker head back to the old priest cells. Man, haven’t had a woman in a long time if Picker’s lookin’ good. He rubbed his hand on the smooth cold stone. Stone. The stones. Maybe that was it. Something about the stones. Yes! Had to be it. But what? What about the stones?
He slapped the counter. Queen take it! It was infuriating! He knew there was something there. He just couldn’t reach it. Had to be important. It just had to be.
Jan lay in the quarters that had been set up for the Seguleh among the rambling rooms of Majesty Hall. One of the Hundredth came to let him know that the Legate required him in the Great Hall. He nodded and rose.
Required. Their new status here. Servants. Servants to the Throne. Yet it was not as if this were new. They were merely returning to their original place. Their original role. Was this not all they had yearned for during the long exile? Why then his disquiet, his unease?
Too proud for service? Too arrogant to bend the knee? Was that his trouble?
Perhaps. Yet he could not help suspecting that the cause lay deeper than that. Something more integral, more essential.
He found the Great Hall crowded with councillors, city aristocrats, court functionaries, and general hangers-on such as Lady Envy – many of whom had no actual purpose but who seemed able to behave as if they did. He ignored them all, of course, not being of the sword. Even those who did wear weapons on their hips, such as some of the councillors. He and his brothers and sisters had had to come up with a new category for those individuals: eunuchs who still retained their weapons.
Talk was a low murmur – perhaps so that everyone could eavesdrop on everyone else. Jan walked straight for the throne. Four of the Twenty guarded it. Also present were those two shabby guards. They stood off to one side among the pillars of the colonnade. Right now their crossbows hung at their sides as they ate some sort of steamed buns. It occurred to Jan that they always seemed to be eating.
The Mouthpiece approached, looking as pale and haggard as always. He appeared sick, fevered perhaps, sweaty, a hand constantly at his throat. ‘Second,’ he greeted him. Jan bowed. ‘We have a prisoner. A spy who worked against us. He must be executed.’
Jan gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘Executed? Very well. Let it be done.’
The Mouthpiece wiped his brow, swallowed, and held his stomach, pained. ‘You do not seem to understand. The execution is for you Seguleh to perform. You must see to it.’
Jan faced the gold-masked figure on the throne. ‘There must be some misunderstanding. We are warriors, not headsmen. We do not kill prisoners.’
The gold oval edged his way. It seemed to Jan that the graven half-smile on the lips took on a cold aloofness. ‘You Seguleh have always been my executioners,’ said the Mouthpiece. ‘That is the purpose for which I moulded you. The perfect executioners who slew any and all who opposed me. Now … fulfil your role.’
It was not only the speed of Jan’s reflexes that had raised him to the rank of Second; it was also the quickness of his mind. And so in answer he merely inclined his mask slightly and turned to leave.
Now is not the time, nor the place. Leaping into opposition now would mean confrontation and escalation. Before entering into battle one must consider all the potential outcomes, select the most desirable, then guide the engagement to the achievement of that end.
And what is that end? At this time I have no idea what it might be …
When the city Warden opened the cell door for Jan and two of the Hundredth, the prisoner stood to meet them. He held his head level. His hands were bound behind his back. He was an older, rather overweight, retired city guardsman, now dishevelled from having been searched and mildly beaten.
‘You are charged with conspiring to bring down the rule of the Legate,’ Jan said.
The two of the Hundredth exchanged wondering glances; the prisoner seemed unaware of the extraordinary honour Jan had just accorded him.
The man shrugged as best he could with his hands tightly bound. ‘I am not ashamed. Nor do I deny it. I would do it again. Darujhistan can govern itself without coercion or command.’
‘That would be chaos.’
The ex-guardsman appeared amused. ‘Only to those who do not understand it.’
Jan gave a quick cut of his hand. ‘Hierarchy must be clear.’
‘You of all people I do not expect to understand such things.’
‘Perhaps that is so,’ Jan agreed. ‘I do not pretend to be conversant with all forms of rulership.’
The former guardsman nodded. ‘Ah … I see it now. You speak of rulership. I speak of governance.’
‘I do not see the distinction.’
The ex-guardsman studied Jan closely, as if attempting to peer in behind the mask. What he saw there, or failed to see, appeared to disappoint him. ‘Then that is the gulf between us.’ He tilted his head as if struck by a new thought. ‘Yet you are speaking to me – why?’
‘I am trying to understand.’
This admission rocked the ex-guardsman and his eyes widened as he seemed to appreciate the depth of it. Then his gaze slid to the floor and he let out a heavy breath. ‘If that is so, then I am saddened for you.’
Now Jan was shaken as if struck. I am here to execute this man yet he pities me?
Perhaps alarmed by Jan’s reaction one of the Hundredth stepped forward, gripping her sword. ‘Kneel,’ she commanded. ‘You have been condemned to die.’
Jan snapped out a hand-command. No. ‘This is for me.’
‘You are Second,’ the woman dared breathe, mask held aside.
‘All the more reason it must be me.’ Yes, I am Second. To me must fall this burden. To me must fall the guilt. He slipped a hand to his sword-grip, addressed the ex-guardsman. ‘It will be quick.’
‘For me it will be,’ the man whispered before Jan’s blade flashed one-handed beneath his chin. The knees gave first, seeming to drag the body down. It fell straight, limp, sagging.
Jan regarded the corpse and its last pumping jets of arterial blood as the heart stubbornly laboured on, refusing to admit to the end. He carefully cleaned his blade before resheathing it. The two of the Hundredth stared on, fascinated by the graphic demonstration. Jan motioned them out, rather impatiently, and remained behind. The man was right. For him this had been quick. But I fear I will never put this behind me. I have murdered. To me now falls the guilt for this … and so much more. Oh, First, why did you not speak of this? Was it because your guilt was too great? And yet all that was so long ago. Can’t a people change? Perhaps they can – if those around them will allow it.
Leaving the hall of cells Jan motioned to the prison guards. They passed him, eyes downcast, sliding along the far wall. And where Jan might have once read respect, or due esteem, he now saw only fear. Perhaps even a touch of distaste.
Or was that just himself?
Antsy could no longer hear the muted groaning and crack of rock echoing through the Spawn now that he was chiselling out the stone threshold under the great stone doors concealing what this crazy-eyed gang of witches, priests, mages and mercenaries were convinced was the Throne of Night.
He didn’t think they led to anything remotely like that at all. Maybe the Broom Closet of Dust. Or more likely the Toilet of Crap. But that wasn’t his worry. His job was to open these doors, or no one was going anywhere. Even when he rested, the sharp ringing of iron on iron twanged in his ears, and so it was a shock to glance over and see a set of fine polished leather boots right next to him. He glanced up and saw the armoured and richly attired fellow who he assumed to be a mage, who had given his name as Bauchelain.
‘What do you want?’ Antsy said, rather loudly because of all the ringing.
The man bent down to study him with unsettling intensity. ‘You are close to death,’ he said.
Antsy looked the fellow up and down very pointedly. ‘I sure am.’
He shook his head, chuckling.
‘No, no, no. Not me. Not at the moment, in any case. No, I mean death is watching you. You are of interest to … ah … it.’
‘You mean Hood?’
‘Certainly not. Hood has gone to his oh-so-poetic and appropriate end, has he not? Dying, as he did. Which itself raises all sorts of disturbing chicken-and-egg questions and other philosophical conundrums. No, what I mean is the new manifestation it has fixed on while it flails about trying to find a permanent one – if any. Which brings us back to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. The current manifestation of death is, again appropriately enough, soldiers. A certain band of soldiers, whose remains, so rumours have it, can be found on this very rock. My companion, Korbal Broach, is very eager to make their acquaintance. Quite keen he is to study them. You wouldn’t happen to know their whereabouts, would you?’
Antsy swallowed hard and said, dead level, ‘I have no idea what yer talking about.’
‘Ah. A shame, that. Well, let’s hope something turns up, yes?’
Antsy said nothing.
A reedy old man’s voice called from the darkness: ‘Master Bauchelain! Our, ah, friend is getting into trouble again!’
The fellow stroked his goatee, looking at the ceiling and sighing. ‘Must go. Korbal’s wandered off. Till later then, yes? Take care.’
Shaken, Antsy returned to his chiselling. Burn’s own blood! Truth be told, he’d come here precisely to make sure nothing like what that creature was hinting at would happen, or had happened. In the back of his mind he’d known the danger existed, what with the Spawn crashing and all. Sure, a bucketful of gems and coin would go a long way. But that was just cream. All along he’d wanted to make sure things were still all squared away and proper. The thought of a broken sealed pit or whatever it was, and people messin’ about with the bones of his brothers and sisters, made him too furious to even think straight—
He left off his chiselling, panting, hands fisted on his thighs. Almost busted a thumb there.
Someone else was standing behind him now: cracked sandals, tattered trouser legs over bony bruised shanks. The lad, Jallin. He leaned down. ‘You’re gonna die, soldier,’ he said, matter of fact. ‘My mistress. The things I seen her do. She’s gonna do for you …’
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