Orb Sceptre Throne (83 page)

‘Who’re you?’ she called. A low voice murmured something. ‘Yeah, he’s here,’ Picker answered. She looked at Spindle. ‘Someone’s got a message for ya.’

He pushed through to peep. He was a tall fellow, lean, hooded. The evening light made his lined face look even more harsh. Spindle raised his crossbow. ‘What d’ya want?’

‘I have a message that I think is for the sapper here,’ he answered.

‘All’s we got is this fella,’ Picker said.

‘I’m trained!’

‘Barely,’ she grumbled beneath her breath.

‘What is it?’

‘The message is – you should consider the peculiar qualities of the white stone. That’s it. The qualities of the stone.’

Spindle raised a fist. ‘Yes! The stones! I
knew
it.’ He punched Picker’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re on to something, I’m sure!’

She gave him an angry stare then turned to the front. ‘Yeah? Who says … damn.’

‘What?’ Spindle looked: gone. He pushed himself from the barricade and heaved up the crossbow to his shoulder. ‘The stones,’ he murmured, musing. ‘I need to take another look.’

‘All buried now, ain’t they?’ Picker said.

Spindle snapped his fingers. ‘I bet there’s still some down by the mole. I’m gonna go.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Duiker said from where he sat towards the back.

‘What? Why?’

‘You’re only partially trained,’ the old scholar muttered as he eased himself up.

‘You mean partially house-trained,’ Picker sneered. ‘Anyway – you’re not going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’

‘What if those Seguleh return? And us shorthanded?’

‘Faugh.’ Spindle waved that aside. ‘If they was going to come back they’d have done it already.’ He went for the door but stopped short, staring at the nailed boards and heaped benches. He glanced to Duiker. ‘I guess we’ll go out the back.’

Out on the streets Spindle felt naked armed only with his little pigsticker. He was grateful to Duiker, though, for remembering and stopping him at the door. They’d both set aside all their weapons – no sense risking a meeting with the Seguleh.

Nervous, Spindle rubbed his shirt as he walked the street. Anyway, he reflected, he was never
entirely
helpless. Always had his magics. Not that it ever amounted to much. What use was the ability to drive animals insane? It was just embarrassing, though it seemed to have helped now and then. Saved his life, if only by accident. Like that time the camp was attacked by riders and he raised his Warren, or whatever the Abyss it was, and all the animals went crazy.

Maybe, the thought just struck, it was chaos. Maybe that was the force he raised. Kind of a mental chaos. Now that sounded a lot more proper and menacing, that did. Not just Spindle, the guy who scares rats and cats. And goats and stoats. And horses and …
Damn, what rhymes with horses?

At his side Duiker cleared his throat, hands hooked in his belt as he walked along. The late-afternoon sun shone golden on the walls of the taller buildings. Inns and cafés were doing a brisk early dinner trade with the curfew in force. ‘So what happened down south anyway?’ the old soldier asked.

Spindle waved all that aside. ‘Ach, you don’t want to know. Gates and Warrens and power up for grabs. It was ugly but it came out all right in the end. I don’t rightly know exactly all what happened myself.’

‘Had enough of it down there, though, did you?’

‘Actually I’m thinking of heading back.’

They reached the waterfront close to the paved walk and open green where the mole began. Here the wreckage of the construction site lay abandoned like a demolished building. Spindle was surprised to see that people had moved in, putting up shacks and hanging awnings; the sort who normally would do so outside the city walls at Maiten town or Raven. Usually, he imagined, the city Wardens would’ve rousted them along. Things seemed to have ground down to a standstill all over the city. He searched among the shanty town for any sign of the stone blocks but saw none.

‘There was a bunch of ’em,’ he told Duiker.

The old man frowned at the disheartening sight of the families crouched under canopies. ‘Reminds me of Seven Cities,’ he said to himself.

‘Here we are!’ He’d found a shard. A piece of a broken block about the size of a keg.

Duiker knelt next to him to run a hand over what Spindle knew to be the smooth, almost flesh-like surface. ‘Amazing,’ the man murmured.

‘You recognize it?’

‘Yes. In fact I do. Among my studies were writings of the ancient natural philosophers.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind. But I know this stone. It’s not marble at all, in truth. It’s a rare mineral. Usually you see it only as small statuettes or figurines. Where did anyone find so much of it?’

‘Don’t know. So, what is it?’

The old scholar sat back on his thin haunches, scratched his beard. ‘Well – there’re many names for it, of course. The name I know is
Alabaster
.’

Spindle repeated the name, trying it out. It meant nothing to him.
Damn. I thought this would be it. That we’d crack it. Hood – maybe it’s nothing after all. Just a dry hunch
.

‘Who would use this for construction, though?’ the old man went on. ‘It’s useless for that. It’s much too soft. Among the softest of all stones …’

Spindle threw down a handful of dirt to pace next to the kneeling historian.
Dammit! I’m supposed to know my materials. But this is no granite, no limestone. I never studied the rarer minerals
.

‘In fact,’ the historian continued, musing, ‘it shouldn’t have even survived submersion in the lake. Some forms of it dissolve in water, you know. It must be inured to it – to all sorts of things.’ He peered up at Spindle. ‘They claim it survived the blast of a cusser. It shouldn’t have at all. Must be hardened to that as well. Through magics and alchemical treatments, perhaps. Yet some forms of it are reputed to be particularly … particularly …’ The old man shot to his feet. ‘Queen forgive me!’ Spindle yelped as the historian suddenly clutched his wrist. ‘The Alchemist!’ he yelled. ‘We have to go to his tower!’

Spindle peered anxiously around, hissing, ‘Quiet.’

‘Do you think it will be safe?’ Duiker demanded, low and urgent.

‘I don’t know. He’s kinda busy elsewhere, ain’t he.’

‘We’ll have to chance it. Now, collect all the pieces you can.’ He stared his insistence and gestured to the ground. ‘Right now, man!’

Spindle led the way through the darkening streets. The sun was setting. A deep burnished bronze light shone over the city, marred only by the glowing arc of jade already visible in the still bright sky. He carried his cloak under his arm in a bundle wrapped around a great load of the Alabaster chips. The historian followed, walking at a much slower pace, his shirt stuffed with the shards.

He led the man to the small wrought-iron gate into the grounds of the tower of the High Alchemist, Baruk. The place looked completely neglected. Brown dry stalks stood in the various planting beds. Dirt had blown across the paving stones. Spindle noted that it revealed no recent tracks.

‘This is his tower?’ Duiker said, dubious.

‘Yeah.’

‘Won’t there be wards? Protections? Guardians?’

Spindle directed the historian’s attention ahead. ‘Look.’

The door stood a touch open. ‘Ah,’ Duiker said, straightening. ‘Togg take it. Probably not a thing’s left.’

‘Well,’ Spindle sighed, ‘let’s see.’ He crossed the grounds, climbed the short set of steps and tried to peer in round the door. All he saw was dust, blown leaves and litter. ‘Looks like no one’s home,’ he said over his shoulder. He started pushing open the door, then reconsidered; he set down his bundle and reached for his long-knife only to close his hand on empty air. His shoulders fell.
Mother of Hood! How do you like that. Should I raise my Warren? Yeah – an’ bring all those fiends down on me in an instant! No, thank you
.

Instead, he rubbed his chest.
What say you, Ma? What should I do? Should I go in? What’s waitin’ in there for your little boy?

No answer. Nothing.

Fair enough. No news is good news
.

He pushed open the door and stepped in to give Duiker room. The historian quickly closed the door behind him. It was dark; the day’s fading light barely reached from distant windows. From what Spindle could see from the entrance foyer Duiker’s prediction was correct: the place was a mess. Looted and wrecked. He set down the bundle. ‘Well, maybe there’s still—’

A demon jumped out of a doorway, waving its arms and snarling.

Spindle swung the bundle of stones, knocking the creature flying back up the hall, where it lay groaning. He exchanged glances of surprise and disbelief with the historian. ‘Smallest demon I’ve ever seen,’ Duiker murmured.

The little pot-bellied fiend climbed unsteadily to its feet. It held its head and weaved from side to side. It felt at its mouth. ‘My toof! You broke toof!’

Spindle marched up to it. ‘I’ll do more than that, you wretched excuse for a guardian. Now – take us to your master’s workroom.’

The creature stilled, a hand over its jagged teeth. ‘Worroom? You wan’ worroom?’

‘Yes! Workroom! Where he keeps his chemicals and stuff.’

The guardian eyed the bundle. ‘Wha in tere?’

‘Why in Fener’s arse does that matter?’

The red-skinned fiend touched at its mouth and groaned. ‘Prife. Is prife. Show me.’

‘I think he means “price”,’ Duiker said.

‘Oh, for …’ Spindle threw down the bundle and undid it. He held out one of the chips. The little beast snapped it up and eagerly licked and bit, tasting it. It smiled, revealing needle teeth, then popped the chip in and munched happily.

Spindle and Duiker shared another amazed glance.

The fiend flinched, wincing, and hopped in circles, clawed hands clapped to its mouth. ‘Arrgh! Toof! Oh, foor toof! Foor me!’

‘Well?’ Spindle said.

It waved them forward. ‘Yef, yef. Fis way. Fome!’

As soon as the vessel bumped up against the sagging pier Aragan and Captain Dreshen led their uneasy mounts by short reins across the gangway and up the pier. They saddled the horses then set off westward for the foothills of the Moranth mountains. They rode for two days, angling south. Early on the second night Captain Dreshen woke Aragan and nodded towards a large band of riders approaching under the bright jade light of the Scimitar.

The Rhivi band encircled them, peering down expressionless from their mounts.

‘Yes?’ Aragan challenged, belting on his sword.

One dipped his spear to urge his mount a few steps closer. ‘Come with us, Malazan,’ was all he would say.

Aragan and Dreshen shared a resigned look and set to readying their mounts. Almost immediately after heading further west they encountered more Rhivi outriders. An ever enlarging band of horsemen gathered around them as the night deepened. They were guided to a fresh encampment where elders, horsewives and shouldermen tended wounded laid out in the bloodstained grass. The sight of so many slashed and crippled tore at Aragan’s heart and he had a difficult time finding his voice.

‘So, I’m too late,’ he said to a nearby old woman. ‘I’m your prisoner.’

She rose and came to him. A blood-spattered hand clutched his leg. The horror of what she had seen was still in her gaze and he had to look away. ‘No, Malazan,’ she said. ‘We hope there is still time. See to your people. Even now the Seguleh hunt them.’

‘The Seguleh! They did this?’

‘No one else is so … precise. Few are killed, most are sorely wounded. So they would burden us.’

‘I see … I am sorry.’

‘Save your pity for your own.’

‘Yes. You will ride north, then?’

The woman flinched away as if slapped. ‘No! We will answer this insult. How little they know us. We are not to be brushed aside.’

‘Yet … they are Seguleh.’

‘Irrelevant. We must be who
we
are. That is what has been thrown down here before us. And we will answer it!’

‘I understand. I should ride, then.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ She raised her blood-wet arms to shout: ‘All who would bring the spear to our enemies ride now! Go! Bring blood and terror! Ride them down!’