Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘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.’

&nb
sp; 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.