Orb Sceptre Throne (76 page)

‘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 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 for sale there cloth 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 Orbern 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 one 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?’