Touched, she squeezed his arm. ‘Why, thank you for the offer, nephew. But no. I will remain. Torvald will be returning and I will have to be here for him. And do not worry, I will be safe. Now go. Look after your mother and father, yes?’
Reluctant, a touch confused, the lad hesitated. ‘How do you know …’
‘Never you mind that, lad. Now go.’
He was still uncertain, but he bowed, deferring to her in any case. Sometimes, she knew, a reputation for fierceness made things so much easier.
She did not shut the door but threw on a shawl instead. So, it shall be this night. I must warn the Greyfaces – no gas! Shut the pipes! Squeeze their throats shut just as tight if I must!
The forest they walked gave way to a canyon. A narrow strip of starry night sky shone above. Tayschrenn led, moving confidently. Kiska kept a wary eye out. The canyon became a cave then a series of natural stone tunnels. Kiska finally ventured to ask: ‘Where are we going?’
But the mage merely raised a hand for patience. Kiska subsided, grumbling.
Eventually they emerged from a cave mouth and Kiska found herself high on the steep slope of some sort of mountain. Not too far away the sea spread to the horizons, black and glimmering like the sky. The jade banner of the Visitor glared high above. They were on an island.
‘Where are we?’
‘Kartool.’
‘Kartool!’ Kiska suppressed a start of revulsion. ‘Why here of all places?’
A fond, almost amused, was turned to her. ‘As I said, a long delayed reunion. Come.’ Kiska wasn’t sure if she approved of this peculiar sense of humour the High Mage seemed to have acquired.
He led the way along the narrow stone ledge. It curved round the wall of the mountain. For an instant Kiska had a flashback to a similar path on the cliffs of Malaz Isle, no great distance from her now. Agayla … are you there? Is this the Queen’s intent? Is this the right path? Gods, if I only knew.
The path stepped up on to a wide flat walkway that ran straight into the side of the mountain, to a worked cave entrance whose stone pillars were carved with the sigils of D’rek, the Worm of the World’s Autumn. After a moment’s stunned silence, Kiska cleared her throat. ‘Ah, Tayschrenn – this is a temple to D’rek …’
‘Indeed it is. I am glad to see your education encompasses the cult’s iconography.’
Ha! ‘D’rek tried to capture you!’
‘Many times, yes. Capture or kill. But that is the past. A new crossroads has been reached. It is time for a chat. Mustn’t hold grudges.’
They walked the processional way, where braziers lit the tunnel between thick pillars carved from the stone of the walls. No one was about. ‘Where is everyone?’ Kiska breathed, her voice low.
‘D’rek is still without priests, Kiska. Even here and at the temple below. This is the Holy of Holies. The most sacred shrine. Only priests and priestesses were ever allowed entrance here.’
‘And these braziers?’
‘We’ve been invited, Kiska. Here we are.’
The processional way ended at a great cavern, roughly circular. Its roof went up and up until Kiska, squinting, realized there was no roof. They stood at the base of a central vent that penetrated the mountain from its very top. A dormant volcano.
At the centre of the cavern was a pit, a black jagged hole that led down into smoke and utter night. Kiska flinched back from its lip; whatever was down there, it smelled vile.
‘What now?’ she asked, a hand at her nose.
‘Now she and I are going to have a talk, and you mustn’t interfere. Stay here, yes?’
‘Well, all right,’ she allowed, doubtful. ‘But where are you—’ Then she screamed as Tayschrenn stepped up and threw himself into the pit, diving in a long arc to disappear from sight.
Screaming still, she nearly threw herself in after him, but a strong hand grasped her cloak and yanked her away. She fell on her back and found herself looking up at an old woman, bent, hair a thick ropy nest and eyes bright circles of milky white. ‘Doan do that,’ the old crone snarled at her crossly, shaking a crooked finger.
‘Don’t do what?’ she gasped, completely shocked.
‘Doan yell like that to wake the dead. Hurts the ears that does.’
‘Sorry.’ She leapt to her feet. ‘But he jumped! He—’
‘Yes, yes.’ The old woman waved dismissively. ‘That’s what the most powerful of them do. Doan worry y’self. He’ll be back. Or … he’ll be dinner for the Worm!’ and she chuckled, shuffling off.
Kiska followed. ‘Dinner! You mean … down there … it’s down there?’
‘Oh aye. Down there. Far enough. Coiling and churning eternal. The Worm of the Earth. A worm of energy it is. Fire and flame, molten rock and boiling metal. Ever restless. And a good thing too! Else we’d all be dead!’
‘I’m sorry – I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Never mind. Make y’self useful. See that bucket?’
Kiska peered into the shadows. ‘I think so.’
‘Well, fill it and follow me!’
Against the wall Kiska found a bucket and woven baskets bursting with coal. She filled the bucket and followed.
‘Keep the fires going – that’s my job,’ the old hag was muttering. ‘Can’t be neglected! It’s the light and heat that keeps us all alive. Yes?’ She peered about blindly.
‘Ah … yes,’ Kiska said.
‘That’s right!’ Reaching the wall, the woman walked along tracing her way with one hand. The other hand she held up high, quavering. Nearing a brazier, she patted at the hot metal to test its heat. Kiska winced at the sight. Nodding to herself, satisfied, she moved on. ‘There’s precious few these days understand that, girl,’ she muttered. ‘Precious few understand that it’s all about service. Serving!’
‘Yes,’ Kiska answered, understanding now that this was her role.
‘No,’ the old crone muttered, spitting aside. ‘Nowadays it’s all about gathering – influence and power and whatnot.’ She found another brazier, patted its hot iron with her naked hand, waved. ‘Low! Fill it!’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s not how it used to be. Not how it should be! Do you understand me?’
‘Ah … yes.’ I have no idea what you’re blathering on about, you miserable hag.
‘Only way to sustain anything, to build anything, is to give! You understand me, girl? Give and give of y’self till there’s nothing left! Only then can you have something! If you take, you diminish things till there’s nothing left. If you give, you provide and things grow! Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘There y’go! That’s right. Everyone’s greedy these days. It’ll only diminish the pot till there’s nothing left! Then we’re all in the dark, yes?’
‘Ah … right. Yes.’
The old woman leaned back against the wall, breathing wetly. ‘There we go. All done.’
‘We’re done?’ Kiska studied the countless other braziers surrounding the chamber.
‘Not us! Me. I’m done. You go on and finish.’
Kiska eased out a long low breath between her teeth, but continued. She went all the way round the cavern tossing lumps of coal into any of the braziers that were low, relighting others that had gone out. When she returned the bucket to its place she found the old woman sitting against the wall, her knees drawn up tight, a cloak wrapped around her, asleep, her mouth half open.
Tired, hungry, her nerves still jangling for Tayschrenn, Kiska eased herself down the wall to sit with her own knees drawn up and rested her chin on them. Soon afterwards she fell asleep.
She awoke to a light kick and jerked, blinking. Tayschrenn was peering down at her. He appeared to be in a good mood. He was smiling and seemed unharmed from his descent, but for his mussed hair and soot-stained cloak.
‘I’m sorry if I scared you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you would reacted well to my telling you what I was about to do.’
‘No. I wouldn’t have.’ She pushed herself up, w
incing and easing her back. ‘So – we’re done here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You … spoke to her?’
The mage eyed her sidelong. ‘Sort of. That’s not really how we communicated.’
‘I see. Well, I had a grand old time doing chores here.’
‘Chores?’
‘Yes. The old woman who takes care of the place. She showed me the ropes. Gods, does she ever go on.’
Tayschrenn had been on his way to the tunnel. He stopped to turn. ‘Kiska. There’s no one else here.’
‘Sure there is.’ She glanced about. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. ‘She was right here.’
‘Must have been a dream, Kiska. Because we are all alone. But tell me … what did she have to say?’
Baruk’s workroom was at the very top of the tower. On the way up the endless narrow circular stairway Spindle had grumbled to himself: Gods, why do they always have to be at the top? Never on the ground floor. All this useless walking up and down!
Since being guided into the room by the little waddling demon, Duiker had had him searching for all the various chemicals in their phials, globes, decanters and cups. The historian dropped samples from each liquid on to a chip of the white stone. He hadn’t been happy with any of the reactions produced.
Eventually, long past midnight, they gave up for the time being and Spindle gestured for the old man to rest. He would take first watch. An old campaigner, the historian curled up on all the cloths they’d piled together as a bed and went to sleep.
From a seat beneath a window Spindle watched the city below glowing in its blue flames. Above, the green radiance of the Scimitar shone down. And it seemed to him that the two nimbuses warred over the city. Or at least that was what he fancied. The night was very quiet. In fact the city had been very quiet ever since the Seguleh arrived. Everyone hurried, reluctant to be out, constantly peering over their shoulders. People were afraid. And the Seguleh hadn’t even done anything yet! He had the impression that they simply weren’t welcome, weren’t wanted, here in Darujhistan. Which struck him as odd since it seemed to welcome everyone, priding itself on being so cosmopolitan and all.
He supposed it was more what they represented. Or stood for, perhaps.
A few bells later he woke the historian.
In the morning nothing had changed. None of the chemicals they tested elicited the sort of reaction the historian seemed to expect. As the day waned Spindle returned to his seat at the window. A growled sigh of frustration drew his gaze to Duiker as the man pushed himself away from the worktable. He regarded Spindle through narrowed, squinting eyes. ‘Nothing. I don’t understand it. This should be the answer. Why is nothing reacting?’
Spindle shrugged. ‘Maybe we need a new sample? Another shard?’
The historian waved his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Well … perhaps. Go get one.’
‘All right.’ He heaved himself from the chair and headed to the top of the stairs where they’d dropped their load of stones. Here he found the fat little demon, its head in the cloak, stuffing its great mouth with the chips.
‘Hey! Git outta there!’
It raced off, dragging the cloak with it. Spindle gave chase. Its little clawed feet clicked over the polished stone floor as it ducked under tables and around furniture. Spindle swore again for leaving his shortsword behind. He almost lost his quarry amid all the furnishings and hangings but spotted a telltale corner of the cloak peeping out of a well-hidden door. Searching about, Spindle found a fireplace poker and raised it, then reached for the slim stone door.
He yanked it open, poker poised, and the little demon hissed at him then ran between his legs and scuttled off. Spindle let it go; it had abandoned the cloak. He gathered it up and gave it a shake. Just a few leavings rattled at the bottom.
Togg curse it!
Then he glimpsed something else in the narrow cupboard. A huge amphora as tall as his waist set on a wrought-iron stand. It looked to be of some sort of fired ceramic, glazed black. Its lid was sealed with wax and pressed into the liberal drippings was some kind of sigil.
He went to get the historian.
Together they carried the amphora into the workroom. Duiker studied the seal then looked at Spindle, arching one grey brow. Spindle reached outward to feel for any Warren-anchored wardings or traps. He sensed nothing and shrugged. ‘What’s the seal?’ he asked.
‘Looks like the High Alchemist’s own. As far as I can deduce.’
‘Should we open it?’
The historian sat back in his chair, rested his chin in one hand. ‘Well, that is a question. We’re inside the inner sanctum of a powerful alchemist. We find an amphora specifically hidden away and sealed and so naturally we open it. Sounds like an epitaph to me.’
Spindle nodded, pursing his lips. ‘I see what you mean. Let’s go get the pet.’
They lured it in with the stone chips. Spindle held one out, beckoning, backing up until they had it in the room. Duiker closed the door on it. It looked unhappy but Spindle held the chip over its head and let it have it.
Then he held out another of their rapidly dwindling supply and pointed to the amphora. ‘Should we open that?’ The little demon wouldn’t take its beady blood-red eyes off the chip. It hissed and tried to jump. Its pot belly wobbled. ‘What will happen if we open that?’ Spindle tried again, pointing. It held up its skinny arms, clawing the air. Spindle sighed.
‘Put the chip on the jar,’ Duiker suggested.
Spindle did so, resting the piece of Alabaster on the wax. The little demon watched with narrowed eyes. It waddled over to the amphora and with scratching claws and feet tried its best to climb it. Spindle had to stop the thing from toppling over.
Duiker came up and shooed the demon off. It snatched up the stone chip and scrambled off, claws scritching. ‘I guess we have our answer,’ Spindle said.
‘Unless the wretch has no idea what’s in there – which is more than likely.’
‘Ah. Well. What’ll we do?’
Duiker rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. ‘I guess we have no choice. We open it.’
Using the tools and supplies available in the alchemist’s workroom Spindle set up a rig. First he selected the sharpest steel tool he could find to scour a ring all the way round the neck of the amphora. Then he adjusted the height of a table so that it matched the height of the scoured line and secured the amphora to the edge. He cleared the table of everything and poured a decanter of oil all over it. Earlier he’d spotted a long iron bar and this he laid down on the tabletop so that one end touched the neck of the amphora while the other extended out over the opposite edge. Then he stood on a chair to drive a pin into the ceiling over the table. Using rope, he hung the biggest lead weight he could find from the pin. Carefully, he measured the length so that the weight – in the form of an elephant, appropriately enough – just touched the far end of the bar.
All this extraordinary effort Duiker watched, bemused, arms crossed. Finally he waved a hand. ‘Why all this?’
‘Don’t want to be in the room when it opens, do we?’
‘Well, no. I suppose not. But there has to be an easier way …’
Spindle paused in the act of tying off the weight so that he could pull another cord and release it to swing free, striking the end of the bar as it swung. He glared his annoyance. ‘You tellin’ me my trade?’
Duiker raised his hands. ‘No, no. It just seems rather … intricate.’
‘It’ll work, I’m pretty sure. The point is, I can pull the cord from the door and we’ll be outside when it happens.’
Duiker decided that perhaps it would be best if he said nothing more. Spindle waved him from the room, played out the cord until he stood outside with the door open a slit, then gave Duiker the high sign. He shouted, ‘Munitions!’ pulled the cord and slammed the door, throwing himself down on the hall floor next to Duiker.
The sound of the weight hitting the iron bar, a crash, and the metallic ringing of
the bar hitting the stone floor, reached them almost simultaneously. Spindle raised a hand for a pause, waited, then carefully climbed to his feet. He edged to the door, drew a breath, and glanced back to Duiker. The historian waved him on. Shrugging, he swung open the door. They both peered in. The top of the amphora was on longer visible above the table.
Spindle cuffed Duiker’s shoulder. ‘Ha! Knew it would work. What did I say?’
Indeed, the neck had snapped right off. Duiker was rather impressed; he hadn’t thought the weight would strike the bar. Spindle held a hand over the open amphora neck then sniffed his palm. He wrinkled his nose: ‘Sour. Acidic.’ Duiker went to find a clean pot.
Spindle edged over the amphora while Duiker held the container ready. Clear liquid poured out, smelling strongly acidic. Duiker set the pot down on the table then held one chip over it. ‘Ready?’ he said. Spindle nodded. Duiker dropped it in and jumped backwards.
The reaction was, even by saboteur standards, impressive.
Spindle had leaned out the open window; the stink in the room was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. ‘What now?’ he asked Duiker, who was pacing. ‘Can’t lug that through the streets. Might get stopped by the Wardens, or the masked boys.’
Duiker stood still. He tapped his thumb to his lips as he thought. ‘Might have an answer there. Any more chips?’
‘One or two.’
‘Get our friend.’
Spindle went to the hall and tapped a chip to a wall, calling, ‘Here, boy!’ He whistled and tsked. A crimson head poked round a corner, one red eye cocked.
Duiker knelt, hands on knees, to address the demon. ‘Tell me, friend. Does your master have a wine cellar?’
As the afternoon waned Spindle and Duiker walked through the city streets burdened by wooden crates of wine bottles. It was slow going. Duiker was an old man who’d been through a lot. This was more physical activity than he’d had in over a year. Spindle was patient; he knew what the man had experienced. Frankly it was a miracle the fellow was still able to function. In fact, Duiker might not be aware of it, but Spindle admired him to no end. It seemed to him that they just didn’t make them that tough any more. And while the message that sent them on this errand might have been delivered to him, Spindle was of the opinion that it had really been meant for the Imperial Historian. He was the one who possessed the knowledge that had gotten them this far.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 251