Orb sceptre throne, p.52
Orb Sceptre Throne, page 52
‘Fabrication,’ Kruppe said. ‘A delicate job.’
‘Indeed,’ Humble Measure agreed. He motioned Barathol onward. ‘Let me tell you a story – if I may. There once was a man who was frightened. He was afraid of the rule of oppressive overlords, of marauding armies, of murderers, of bloody-handed thieves. In short, of almost everything. To defend against them and to be strong he decided to build thick walls of stone all about him. He shackled himself to these walls so that he could not be dragged off. He barred the window with thick iron rods. He secured the door with locks and crossbars and swallowed the keys. Then, one day, peering terrified from between the bars he realized that in his extraordinary efforts to be protected and unassailable he had built for himself something else entirely.’
‘A prison.’
‘Exactly so. In his efforts to be free of oppression he had enslaved himself.’
They had entered one of the larger worksheds. Humble led him to a metal bench cluttered with metal forging tools, tongs, hammers, and pinchers. Nearby one of the immense furnaces glowed, crackling and hissing. A wide stone box sat upon the bench.
‘Never touch with your naked hand what lies within,’ Kruppe warned.
Humble Measure raised a pair of fine pinchers. ‘I will assist.’ Barathol waved to him. ‘You do it. You’re the master smith.’
‘It requires your, ah, intent,’ Kruppe said.
‘Mine? What for?’
The little man peered to the vaulted roof as if searching for the right words. ‘For a certain quality of circularity.’
‘What?’
‘Just that.’
Barathol eyed the two as if judging their sanity – which seemed utterly lacking. ‘Just what is the job?’
‘Inlay,’ Humble said.
‘We do not possess the, ah, resources to unmake what lies within that box,’ Kruppe explained. ‘But perhaps you can soften it enough for a fine bit of inlay.’
Barathol grunted. Inlay. Well … that didn’t seem so unreasonable.
Kruppe entwined his pudgy fingers over his stomach. ‘Very good. I’ll leave you two to your trade secrets.’ He suddenly thrust a finger into the air. ‘But remember! The finished product must be dipped in bee’s wax! That is most imperative.’
Humble waved him off. ‘Yes, yes. We know our trade. Now be gone.’
‘Be gone? I’ll have you know sir that Kruppe was about to go! Kruppe will not be hurried or rushed off. No unseemly haste for the timely Kruppe.’
‘Shall we open the box now?’ Humble asked Barathol.
‘Kruppe is leaving – farewell!’
As they descended the foothills, the Dwelling Plain lay before them, dun and ochre, shimmering in the day’s heat, and Yusek cursed the sight of it. She could not believe that here she was yet again setting out across its damned dust-choked hills and draws. How many times had she sworn, and to how many gods and demons, that once she escaped she would never set foot upon it again?
The master of the monastery led the way. Sall followed, then she, and Lo came last. The master carried a sword on his back, wrapped and tightly tied in cloth. Other than this he was unarmed. Yusek still did not know what to call him. When Sall had asked what name they should use in addressing him he’d been silent for a very long time before drawing a ragged breath and saying in a hoarse voice, ‘Grief.’
Yet neither Seguleh chose to call him that. When they needed to gain his attention they simply said, ‘Seventh.’
One day as they descended towards the plain the Seventh halted, peering to the north. Everyone stopped as well and Yusek squinted, but she saw nothing. ‘Large numbers on the move,’ the Seventh said. ‘Possibly armies.’ He started off again but Sall remained still.
‘Our brothers and sisters may be involved,’ the youth said.
‘That does not concern us,’ the Seventh replied harshly. ‘Our purpose lies in Darujhistan. And we must hurry. Things move apace.’
‘We should not turn from them.’
The Seventh faced him squarely now. He drew a hard breath. ‘Tell me, do you think I want to go to this cursed city? It’s the last place I would ever want to go. But I am going – because you came to me. So the least you can damned well do is accompany me.’
The ferocity of the man’s words almost drove Yusek back a step. Sall merely inclined his head in acquiescence. Though he did murmur, ‘My apologies, Seventh.’
The man looked away, blinking. He threw himself further down the trail. ‘Let’s move.’
For her part Yusek couldn’t believe she was actually going to Darujhistan. Never did she ever dream she would see the great city. City of Blue Flames. Wealthiest city on all the continent, from Evinor in the north to Elingarth in the south. It was said you could find cloth for sale there so sheer it was like the kiss of water. And rare fruits and birds to eat. Like duck. She’d never had roasted duck. She’d heard it called succulent. Now there was a word for food. Succulent. She’d like all her food to be succulent. And she’d bathe in hot water in a tub with scented soap. She’d heard of that too. Now that, as far as she could imagine, must be the height of luxury.
Eating duck in a tub. Now there’s luxury for you.
And Sall here. Well, she’ll talk him out of wearing that stupid mask. And with him at her back there’ll be no stopping them. They’ll waylay all those rich fat merchants. She’ll become so famous even bearded Obern squatting in his fort in the woods will hear of her. Yes, that sounded like a plan to her. And you had to have a plan – that much she knew. You don’t get anywhere without a plan.
The two figures walking down the street of the bakers in the Gadrobi district cut a colourful, if jarring, picture. One was unusually tall and dressed as if he had rolled in the cast-off scraps behind a tailor’s shop. The other wore drab threadbare rags, was bald, and had a face that glimmered as if speckled in metal paint. And when this one smiled at those passing in the streets, they flinched away.
They strode nonchalantly, apparently pointing out the sights to one another. They might have been on a stroll to find an inn to pass the evening. They came abreast of a sad figure crouched down on his haunches against a wall, head bowed, and the shorter of the figures nudged his companion and they swung to stand either side of the hunched beggar. There they slid down the wall to sit as bookends.
‘All is not as desolate as it seems,’ the larger, bushy-haired one sighed, his gaze scanning the street.
‘The sting fades and new horizons show themselves,’ the other confirmed.
The larger cocked his head. ‘Think of it as rigidity sacrificed for an infinity of possibility …’
‘Well said,’ his companion agreed. ‘You are your own man now. You may do as you choose.’
The one between them tentatively raised his head. His long untrimmed hair hung down over his eyes. ‘Actions not dedicated to a higher purpose are meaningless,’ he countered as if reciting a text.
The two exchanged glances over his head.
‘Then select a purpose,’ the thin bald one suggested, smiling and flashing gold-capped teeth.
‘Such as?’
The big one waved expansively. ‘Well … such as ours, perhaps.’
‘And that is?’
Smiling, the thin one clasped the fellow’s shoulder. ‘That our every action, our very appearance, be a constant denunciation and thumb in the eye to our brethren. Now …’ he and his companion hooked arms through the young man’s, ‘let us continue this discussion in more convivial surroundings.’
‘I suggest Magajal’s place,’ the big on rumbled as they set off.
The bright metal glimmering on the bald one’s face was in fact gold thread stitching. It wrinkled as he frowned. ‘She waters her wine to excess. No. Dinner first at the Terrace overlooking the lake. We will consider later diversions over the meal.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Come, friend,’ the bald one encouraged. ‘Let this day be the first in an open-ended garden of companionship, adventure and extravagance. ’
Spindle watched the street through the slats nailed over the window of K’rul’s bar then sat back in his chair, crossbow on his lap. ‘Looks quiet,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Maybe they’ve given up on us as not worth the candle.’
‘Whistling in the dark,’ Picker grumbled from the bar. She cocked an eye to the bard Fisher at the end of the counter where he was scratching on a sheet of vellum. She drew two tankards of beer and slid down to him, peered uncomprehending at the marks squiggled on the sheet. ‘Whatcha writin’?’
‘An epic poem.’ He lifted one of the tankards, saluted her, and drank.
Leaning forward on her elbows, she narrowed her gaze as if struck by a sudden new thought. ‘Why’re you here anyway?’
‘I like a quiet place to compose.’
She chuckled. ‘That’s a good one.’ Then she frowned. ‘Wait a minute …’ She had opened her mouth to say more when a loud groaning stilled everyone. It seemed to be coming from the walls themselves, as if the building were twisting, or being squeezed.
Spindle jumped to his feet clutching his crossbow. ‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t fucking know,’ Picker growled as she eased her way from behind the bar, long-knives out. ‘Blend!’
‘Clear,’ came the answer from the rear.
‘Sounded like it came from below,’ Fisher said.
Picker nodded her agreement. ‘Let’s have a look. Spin, check the cellar.’
‘What? Why do I have to check the cellar?’
‘’Cause I say so, that’s why! Now go.’
Grumbling, Spindle tramped for the stairs.
After Spindle disappeared a sudden explosive crack of wood made everyone flinch. ‘Upstairs,’ Picker grunted and headed up. Fisher’s hand strayed to his longsword.
‘This epic poem of yours,’ Duiker whispered into the heavy silence, ‘what’s it about?’
‘The Elder Gods.’
Picker came back down, wonder on her face. She motioned upstairs. ‘Timbers split in the roof and walls. Main load-bearing ones too. ‘
Spindle emerged looking pale and ill. Speechless, he indicated his boots. Black fluid, crusted and gummy like old blood, caked them. His feet had left a bloody smeared trail on the dirty stone floor. ‘The cellar,’ he managed, his voice choked. ‘Awash. Somethin’s goin’ on, Pick. Somethin’ terrible.’
Duiker turned his head to study the foreign bard straight on. ‘This poem … How’s it going?’
Fisher let out a taut breath. ‘I think I’m nearing the end.’
CHAPTER XVI
Paradise would be a city where pearls cobble roads and gems serve as playthings for children. And why? Not because all will be so wealthy, but because its citizens will have recognized that such things truly are toys.
Words of the Street Prophets
Compiler’s name withheld
THERE WERE TIMES WHEN KISKA WAS DOZING IN THE CAVE HALF asleep in the dim phantom light of night when she thought she heard weeping. The sound came drifting in over the surf, faint, wavering, and she would have dismissed it as a scrap of dream had she not heard it more than once.
The sound grated like a blade down her spine, for she knew who it was. If Tayschrenn was not dead as Leoman insisted, then it could be none other. His mind was gone – or, more accurately, she had destroyed his mind by playing into the hand of the Queen of Dreams.
The scheming bitch. She saw it all now. The elegance. All the hallmarks of her plotting. She, Kiska, naïve agent, would find the archmagus and deliver to him the poison supplied by her. And once that happened whatever reaction it was would be unleashed and he would be stricken.
And she the brainless dupe. Gods! Every time her thoughts returned to that she bashed the heels of her hands to her forehead. She would escape from here if only to track the damned Enchantress down.
And Agayla? No – she too must have been ignorant of the Queen’s intent. Must have.
Gods above and below, forgotten and forsworn! When would she ever learn? Never trust anyone. Never. That had been her mistake. She’d trusted and been used. As it is for everyone everywhere. You are no different, woman.
She groaned again and wrapped her head in her arms, pulling it down between her knees.
Further into the cave Leoman stirred. ‘Don’t beat yourself up child,’ he said. ‘You … we … had no way of knowing.’
‘Shut the Abyss up.’
She heard pebbles striking the wall as he tossed them one by one. ‘It stings now but that will pass. I should know. And it wasn’t even on purpose. So never mind. What’s done is done. There’s no sense worrying about it.’
She raised her head to stare at him, incredulous. ‘Says the man who murdered thousands in a firestorm he deliberately set!’
He shrugged. ‘It was war. I was fighting for my life.’
‘Why should your life be worth more than anyone else’s in that city?’
The man tossed another pebble. ‘It is to me.’
She turned away. ‘Gods. You’re beyond hope.’
‘Just honest.’
From the cave mouth came the dragging uneven footsteps of the rescued creatures. Kiska and Leoman shared a glance. He rose, brushed dirt from the tattered Seven Cities robes he still wore over his mail. Kiska pushed herself to her feet.
‘You may exit,’ came a weak quavering voice. ‘Follow us.’
She ducked from the cave, followed by Leoman. The creatures had hobbled off towards the shore. ‘Come,’ one called.
They descended the strand of black sand. Kiska glanced about, searching for the giant, Korus. He seemed nowhere about. The enormous faint silhouette of Maker was visible, larger than any mountain, labouring somewhere on the distant shoreline.
Then she saw someone at the shore and froze. Her heart lurched as if it had been hammered. She clamped a hand to her mouth. Him. Standing. Standing. Staring out at the bright Vitr sea. Oh, my Queen – I have wronged you so.
She ran all the way down to him only to stop just short. She reached out as if to touch him but yanked her hand back, afraid she shouldn’t. Or that he might not be there. He turned to her and she flinched, catching her breath. For he was Tayschrenn yet he wasn’t. Gone was the sharp questing gaze that could flense flesh from bone. And gone also was the guarded mien – immobile, almost mask-like. He smiled now, studying her in turn. Yet the sight made her heart ache even more so sad was it, so melancholy.
‘You are … healed?’ she asked, her voice catching.
‘Healed? Yes, Kiska. I am healed.’ He reached out to brush her hair from her face. ‘And harrowed. Cut through to the core.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He invited her to walk with him along the shore. ‘You restored me, Kiska. Though I wonder whether I should thank you for it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I was – am – Thenaj still. Just as I am also Tayschrenn. And I find that I was everything Thenaj loathed. I am both still and now I must choose who to be.’
‘You are both? Be both then. Who you are.’
Again the wintry smile as he walked, his long thin hair loose. ‘Always the hard choice with you, hey Kiska? Easier just to deny the one or the other. Blot it out. Pretend it never was … but instead you counsel conciliation. The difficult third path of adaptation and growth.’
He held his long-fingered hands out in front of him, turned them over as if studying them for the first time. ‘So be it. I shall be both – and neither.’
‘And,’ Kiska asked warily, ‘what will you do?’
‘Yes. What to do. I cannot return to the old now that I am not who I was … Yet one possibility does beckon. A possible place for me. One perhaps only I can fill …’
‘And that is?’
He turned to face her, square on. Shook his head. ‘We shall see. I may not be strong enough to take it on. For now it is enough that we will be going. I am finished here.’
‘So – we are leaving? You are coming with me?’
‘Yes.’
Kiska felt as if she had shed ten stone. ‘Thank the gods!’
‘Do not thank them,’ Tayschrenn snapped in a manner something like his old self. ‘Terrible, unforgivable things are stirring and it could be argued that they are to blame. They’ve stuck their hands into the furnace once too many times and now they find they cannot pull them out. So do not thank them. But perhaps we can find it within us to pity them.’
Kiska did not know what to make that – most of which seemed directed more at himself, in any case. But it wasn’t important. She’d heard the words she’d wanted to hear. He was returning. She had succeeded. Sent on a mission across creation to find someone cast into Chaos – and she had succeeded!
And now she wondered: was that in truth what mattered to her? Was it that which had been gnawing at her all this time? Not concern for Tayschrenn; not fear of her own fate. Was it just that she couldn’t stomach failure? Not a flattering piece of self-revelation.
Perhaps, as Tayschrenn suggested, she should just blot that one out.
He led her back to where Leoman stood waiting, hands on his belt, next to the gathered creatures.
Tayschrenn stopped before the man and frowned. ‘Leoman of the Flails. You have some nerve standing here before me.’
The man gave an insouciant shrug. ‘All that is the past.’
The mage’s gaze narrowed, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. ‘Funny you should say that …’
‘Thenaj …’ one of the unformed asked, its thin voice trembling. ‘What is happening?’
‘I am sorry. But – I am leaving.’
‘Leaving? Going?’ The creatures set up a clamour of murmuring and crying.
Then Korus appeared, bounding towards them from among the dunes. ‘What is this!’ it bellowed. ‘You are going?’ Coming close, it dug in its odd clawed feet to halt, kicking up sand. ‘I knew you would betray us! Look at you. I sense it in you – mage. Torturer! Murderer!’
