Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  He turned round to climb the walkway.

  City Wardens had already formed a cordon holding everyone back from the crater smoking in the pocket forest. He identified himself as a worker on the installation and so was let through. He found his two bosses – the hunchback and the hooknose, as he thought of them – investigating the site. The hooknose caught sight of him and waved him closer. He edged his way down into the pit. The loose dirt was hot beneath his sandals.

  Looking like some sort of scholarly vulture, hooknose rose from studying the arc of exposed blocks. To Barathol the stones looked to be discoloured and scorched, but otherwise intact. The mage eyed him sourly. ‘What is your opinion?’ he asked.

  Barathol allowed himself a shrug. ‘Moranth munitions, I imagine.’

  Hooknose, ever in an ugly temper, looked to the sky. ‘Obviously, fool! No, the blocks. The links – how are they?’

  ‘I’ll have to examine them, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, do so!’ and the man swept aside, curtly waving him forward.

  Suppressing his own temper, Barathol knelt next to the course of blocks and began brushing away the dirt. He found the pins and, spitting and wiping, used his shirt-tails to clean them. Leaning close, he studied the silver for cracks, the hair-line skein of shattering, or other surface distortions such as stress from flexing. He studied four in all, two exposed sets, but saw no damage that he could make out. Throughout the entire examination the two mages hovered close, shadowing his every move.

  He leaned back, motioning to the exposed course. ‘There’s no damage that I can see. Amazing, that. The blast must have been enormous.’

  Over Barathol’s head the two mages shared looks of savage satisfaction. ‘So we conclude as well,’ said the hunchback.

  The hooknose waved him away. ‘That is all – you may go.’

  He inclined his head then clawed his way up the steep side of the blast pit. The Malazans must have back-filled it to contain the force, he thought to himself. Yet the explosion had failed to mar the stones at all. He could only conclude that the blocks were ensorcelled against such attacks.

  News to pass on to the Malazans. But no doubt they’d discover the failure of their opening move soon enough.

  *

  Blend, Picker and Duiker were playing cards. Or at least pretending to. None seemed to have their mind on the game. Spindle paced, stopping on every lap of the common room to peer out of the window. Fisher was at the bar, plucking out a composition.

  ‘Do you think he talked?’ Spindle asked of the room in general.

  ‘Topper’s watching,’ Blend said, irritated.

  ‘’Cause he might’ve.’

  ‘Shut up, Spin. We’ll hear all about it.’

  Spindle rubbed his shirt. ‘Should’ve gone by now,’ he murmured.

  ‘Don’t trust your own work?’ Picker asked, cocking an eye.

  ‘It’s been a while, okay?’

  ‘Like never.’ Picker smirked at Blend.

  ‘I’m trained!’

  ‘So you keep claiming, Spin. So you claim.’

  ‘Well … I am. Okay?’

  Then a sound like a loud booming gust of wind passed over the bar and everyone stilled. The empty bottles on the bar rattled.

  Blend and Picker both eased back in their chairs, letting go long breaths. ‘There you go,’ Picker said, lifting a glass. Blend clacked hers with Picker’s and they tossed back the liquor.

  Spindle raised his fists. ‘There! I told you. Two cussers! There ain’t nothing left. Ha!’

  ‘Good job,’ Duiker told Spindle. ‘Now have a seat, will you?’

  Spindle pulled up a chair. ‘What are we playing?’

  Before mid-day a knock sounded at the door. Spindle pushed himself from the table. ‘That couldn’t be Topper, could it?’ He headed across.

  Before Spindle reached the door Picker’s head snapped over and she dropped her cards. ‘Get away from there!’ she shouted.

  Spindle turned. ‘What?’

  The door burst from its hinges in a blast of light and heat that knocked Spindle flat. Blend and Picker upturned the table, cards flying, and ducked behind, pulling Duiker with them. Fisher leapt over the bar.

  Dazed, Spindle raised his head to see the crab-like figure of the hunched mage in his loose layered rags lumbering into the room. The man’s arms hung unnaturally long and the hands seemed grotesquely oversized and warped. He gestured savagely and the table protecting Blend and Picker punched backwards. ‘Too obvious, Bridgeburners!’ he bellowed. ‘Too damned obvious!’

  In answer Spindle rolled aside, shouting, ‘Clear!’

  Blend and Picker appeared from behind the table, threw in unison.

  Twin explosions tore into the mage, lacerating his already tattered clothes. The blast threw him back into a wall. Fisher stood up behind the bar, a crossbow levelled. He fired and the bolt took the invader in the chest. Spindle had crawled to a far corner. Now he stood, reaching for the one munition he always carried for just such an end-game.

  An arm in a rich brocaded silk sleeve grasped his arm and twisted it painfully backwards. Spindle looked up into the snarling features of the tall mage. The man shook him like a dog. ‘Do not make me do what I might otherwise avoid doing, Bridgeburner,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. Spindle reached for his shortsword but remembered he wasn’t wearing it. Twins take it! You drop your guard for one moment … ‘Now we shall see – she will not tolerate this insult,’ the man said, scanning the common room.

  A girl appeared next to Fisher. She wore the diaphanous scarves and wraps of a courtesan but brandished a wicked slim dagger. The bard smashed the crossbow into her, sending her staggering back. The shocked outrage on her face was almost comical to Spindle. Fisher threw aside the mangled weapon and raised his empty hands.

  Great Osserc! The man broke a crossbow over her!

  The girl darted in once more. Somehow the bard grasped her wrist. He twisted the arm in a tight circle and Spindle heard the snap of the joint clear across the room. The girl voiced her agony in an inhuman guttural snarl.

  Ye gods, who is this man?

  Even the fellow holding Spindle by one fist eyed the bard, unease wrinkling his brow.

  A shape appeared before the table behind which Blend and Picker were crouching once more and Spindle’s hair shirt writhed with agitation. It was a haunt, a ghost. It snatched them both by the necks. ‘I have them,’ it announced. Duiker rose, slashing with a long-knife, but the blade passed harmlessly through it.

  ‘Just kill them,’ snarled the one who had taken the crossbow bolt. He straightened, brushing at his smouldering rags, then took hold of the bolt and yanked on it. ‘At least we’ve cleared out this rats’ nest early on.’ He cocked his lopsided head to Fisher. ‘Stand aside, bard. We’ve no quarrel with you.’

  ‘No quarrel?’ the girl snarled, furious, cradling her broken arm.

  Fisher inclined his head in greeting to each. ‘Aman. Barukanal. Hinter.’ He raised a brow to the girl.

  ‘Your future killer,’ she said, baring her teeth.

  Despite Blend’s and Picker’s struggles the revenant maintained his grip. He slammed them into the wall, yet their blows and tearing hands swept through him as if he were smoke. Duiker backed away, calling, ‘Spin!’

  Spindle gaped. What? Set my Warren against these mages?

  ‘Perhaps questions are in order,’ Hinter said.

  The stairs leading from the upper floors creaked and everyone stilled. All knew that no one else was present within the old building. All eyes moved to the open portal where the stairs rose. A hunched figure stepped out, cloaked, a large hood down. Her thin hair shone silver. Her face was deeply tanned and weathered. Black glittering eyes settled on Hinter and Spindle was shaken to glimpse their depths.

  ‘Begone,’ she said, and waved. The shade of Hinter faded away, astonishment on its face. Blend and Picker fell to the floor, gasping in breaths.

  The girl backed away towards the door. A
man raised his hands. ‘What can these be to you?’ he demanded as he too edged to the door.

  ‘They are not important,’ the old woman said, slowly advancing. ‘What is important is that I did not give you leave to enter my house. Therefore, you must go.’

  ‘Your house?’ Aman said. ‘Not for ages.’

  ‘Blood has been shed. What has been done is done.’

  Aman threw down the crossbow bolt and hurried to the door in his limping shambling gait. He waved to the girl. ‘Come. He must be apprised of this.’

  The old woman turned on the one Fisher had named Barukanal. The mage released Spindle’s arm, bowed ever so faintly. ‘Foolish, to make things all so clear.’

  ‘I am taking no one’s side but my own. And there is nothing any of you can do about it.’

  The tall hatchet-faced mage bowed again, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps not us …’ he allowed. He peered down at Spindle. ‘Your gambit of Moranth munitions was inspired, but ineffective. The … structure … is proofed against their alchemy.’ The man glared then, holding Spindle’s gaze, as if meaning to say more.

  ‘Go,’ the old woman commanded.

  The mage winced, the scars across his face rippling. ‘I have no choice but to obey,’ he murmured, his voice thick. Bowing, he backed away to the door.

  Picker crowded the smoking doorway after him. ‘And don’t come back!’ she yelled. She turned to the room. ‘Our thanks, old … Where’d she go?’

  Spindle looked up from rubbing his numb elbow. Blend was righting the table. She peered about as well. ‘She’s buggered off.’

  ‘She’s still here,’ Duiker said. Fisher was setting out glasses on the bar, and the historian watched him fill them with Free Cities white wine. ‘This is her house. We can all use a drink, I imagine.’ Everyone took a glass. ‘To our host,’ Duiker announced. ‘K’rul.’

  Spindle, who had started drinking already, spluttered his mouthful down his shirtfront. ‘The hoary old one? Not just some city mage who’s taken up residence? He’s a she? Really? Well, why doesn’t she just curse these wretches to the Abyss? Or snap her fingers?’

  ‘Because she’s under assault everywhere,’ Fisher said. ‘I’d wager her direct influence extends only to these four walls.’

  The old historian was nodding. ‘I didn’t like Barukanal’s – Hood, Baruk’s – comment. They’ll send soldiers next. Regular mundane agents.’

  Spindle winced. Just us mortals. K’rul wouldn’t be able to help them out then.

  ‘Or assassins …’ Picker snarled.

  Blend slammed down the empty glass. ‘I hope so. I want their blood.’

  Spindle peered round. ‘Yeah – and speakin’ of them, just where’s Topper, anyway?’

  Blend sneered. ‘The useless blowhard! Looks like four of them is four too many.’

  She spent her days turning pots. A fever of work seemed to have taken hold of her. As if Darujhistan suffered from a crushing lack of pots, urns and amphorae that she alone could answer.

  And why would there be such a shortage?

  Because all the rest are broken.

  The malformed mass of clay squashed in Tiserra’s hands and she threw herself back, panting, pushed sweaty hair from her face with a forearm. She stopped working the pedals of the wheel with her bare feet.

  A time of great shattering.

  She cleaned her hands in a basin of water and walked through the empty house as she dried them. Gone again. She could not stop that niggling question: Fleeing her?

  No. He had his life just as she had hers.

  She stopped at one particular place in the floor. Kneeling, she tapped, listening. Had he?

  She went to her shop to return with a clawed bar. With this she attacked the floorboards, found the dug-out space below. Empty. He’d never taken them with him before.

  All those strange Moranth items, gone. Why this time?

  She hammered the floorboards back into place, and, standing, pushed up her sleeves. Best get back to work. There will be a great need soon.

  They climbed the stairs single file. Antsy led, crossbow freshly reassembled and cocked. Orchid came next, followed by Corien. They made much better time now they all could see. Granted, it was not the clear vision of daylight, but it was far better than total blindness. And Antsy thought his vision was even improving as he got used to discerning the subtle shadings of blues, mauves and deepest near-black.

  The majestic circling stairwell ended at a wide arch-roofed hallway. Chandeliers of glowing blue crystals hung at intervals, floating like clouds of fireflies. Trash littered the polished stone floor: shards of smashed vases and pots, ornate alien sculpture and broken stone statuary. Yet there was no cloth, leather or wood. Nor anything of obvious value such as jewellery or gold or silver artwork. In the distance one chandelier had fallen, leaving a patch of darkness and a jumble of the blue crystals bright on the floor like a scattering of coals. There was no sign of Malakai, though Antsy was sure he must be ahead of them.

  Again he was surprised by just how empty the place was. Where was everyone? Hundreds must’ve taken boats out over the months. They couldn’t all be dead … could they? The memory of those clawing hands and desperate starved faces in Pearl Town returned and he wanted to spit but he couldn’t draw enough saliva.

  ‘Anyone?’ Orchid asked, her voice pitched so low as to be almost inaudible.

  ‘No. But someone may be around.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Corien said, ‘all the combustibles are gone.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Antsy seconded. ‘Picked clean. Which way?’ he asked Orchid.

  She edged further up the hall, stepping carefully over the scattered debris, and sighed, a hand going to her mouth.

  ‘What is it?’ Antsy asked.

  She glanced to him then lowered her gaze, embarrassed. ‘This hall. Beautiful, even yet. The Curtain Hall of the Hunter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This could be it. One of the Twenty Halls … one for each of their ancient zodiac. Each has its own name, architecture, history. There will be temples, cloisters, living quarters. A lot of rooms.’

  ‘Fine,’ Antsy cut in. ‘Just which way?’

  She turned back, glaring, but sighed again, adjusting her skirts. ‘Straight, for now.’

  ‘Okay. Take this.’ He handed her the crossbow. It yanked her arms down.

  ‘I can’t use this. What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Fire off a shot at any hostiles.’

  ‘Oh, certainly.’

  Antsy waved Corien to the right then drew his long-knives. Orchid followed, the heavy crossbow braced in both arms. They advanced along one edge of the wide hall. Far ahead awaited a tall set of double doors, ajar. Darkness lay beyond. They passed portals that opened on to smaller side halls and chambers. Some were dark, others were lit by the glowing feline faces that Antsy figured to be stylized representations of the Children of the Night themselves. From his own memories of those faces he was glad none remained on the Spawn.

  Short of the tall doors the air currents brought a new draught to his face and he raised his hand for a halt. People. The unmistakable stomach-churning miasma of latrine-stink mixed with sweat and cooking odours. He motioned to a nearby portal and they slipped inside.

  Watching intently, he could now see a shifting brightness flickering from the right side of the hall. Firelight, and people moving. And above the constant groans and rumblings that reverberated through the rock around them came the murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of gear.

  ‘Now what?’ Corien mouthed.

  Orchid motioned to the left. Antsy shook his head. She made an impatient face demanding explanation. Antsy leaned close. ‘They’re ignoring it. Therefore, there mustn’t be any route up or down that way. Yes?’ She appeared unconvinced, but subsided. He motioned Corien close. ‘We need to find a way round.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  ‘No—’

  He stood up but Antsy pulled him back:
a bright light was approaching. A man appeared walking up one of the right-hand halls. He was carrying the smallest of lanterns yet to Antsy’s dark-adjusted vision the light seemed as intense as the sun. The man stopped at a side opening, threw something in that clattered amid debris, then set down the lantern and started undoing the ties at the front of his trousers.

  Orchid turned her face away.

  A stream of urine hissed against the stone floor.

  Wonderful. They were skulking in the cesspit.

  Finished, the man hawked up a great mouthful of phlegm and spat, then picked up the lantern and headed back up the hall. Embarrassed, Antsy did not look at Orchid when he motioned them across. He chose the darkest of the right-hand halls, hoping that it would perhaps lead to a way round the camp. Once within it was obvious to Antsy that it was indeed dark, even to him. There was no source of the blue night-light in the hall. A side portal beckoned just beyond and he had started towards it, meaning to talk things over with Orchid – perhaps she could provide some sort of light – when he stepped on someone.

  The woman shrieked to crack open the very rock and Antsy leapt backwards. ‘Shit!’

  Many voices arose around them, clamouring, shouting. Sleeping quarters? They’d stumbled into the fucking sleeping quarters? He waved Orchid and Corien back.

  Pounding feet sounded from a number of the side corridors. Antsy pushed Orchid back across the main hall into the maze of left-hand passages. She thrust the crossbow at him and he sheathed his long-knives to take it. ‘What are we doing?’ she hissed.

  ‘Hiding. Now, c’mon.’

  He led them up a side corridor, turned a corner and stopped dead. Now he knew why the left-hand side of the complex was being ignored. The corridor was blocked by heaped rubble. They’d stopped up the route. Hood take it! He motioned for a reverse through another chamber. After just a few further twists and turns, the inhabitants of the encampment yelling and rushing about behind them, they came to yet another blocked doorway. Shit! There’s no other way! He led them back towards the main hall. Have to double back, hope to find a different route.