Their employer motioned for him and Sour to accompany her.
‘What’s up, Miss Spite?’ Sour asked.
Her smoky gaze slid sideways to the poor fellow and Murk winced at the heat of that glare.
‘It’s what’s down, actually.’
‘Oh?’ Murk asked, as if disinterested. ‘What?’
‘Us.’
Sour’s face wrinkled up all puzzled once more. Then he scowled. ‘I don’t like the—’
Murk threw up a hand for silence. ‘We didn’t sign up for some sort of tomb robbery.’
The dismissive gaze shifted to him and Murk was startled to glimpse for an instant how the pupils churned like liquid magma only to flit to black once again in a blink. ‘You signed up with me, little man, and that is that.’ She smiled a straight savage slash. ‘You do as I say or I’ll hunt you down and slit you open like a pig, yes?’
He inclined his head in acceptance of the warning. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Sour shot him his I told you so look.
As they tramped between the rows of stone pillars, the barrier Spite raised yesterday hove into view flickering and shimmering ahead. Sour’s gaze moved significantly to the mercenaries following along. Murk knew the Warren-laid barrier of wards and snares was invisible to them and that without warning they would walk right into it: to their deaths if Spite had woven it so. Of course, she wouldn’t have brought them all this distance only to slay them, but still he couldn’t help holding his breath and stiffening as they all passed through the barrier. Within lay the inner ring of the standing dolmens and the flat central plaza of featureless white sand and gravel.
She turned to Yusen. ‘Start your soldiers digging around the bases of these pillars.’ He nodded and went to organize his troop. ‘You two. You’re with me.’
‘Yes, your Spitefulness,’ Sour answered.
Her response was a humourless predatory smile. She led them aside then snapped out an arm to indicate the plain of coarse sands. ‘You two are supposed to be thieves – find me a way into that.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Murk answered before his partner could come out with something else.
She stalked off. Murk sat himself down against a dolmen. Sour took another one, grumbling under his breath. ‘Knew we shouldn’t a taken the damned job.’
‘Kind of late now, mister prescient.’
‘You want my help or not?’
‘You know the drill.’
Sour kept grumbling but crossed his legs and rested his arms on his lap, squinting his eyes closed. Murk drove himself to likewise relax, though it was a forced sort of poise, the kind that usually accompanied the tension of battle. ‘Forced calm’, the magery schools called it. An acquired skill necessary for any battle mage. When his mind had stilled sufficiently he summoned his Warren and opened his eyes to regard the location through Meanas.
And almost walked away right then and there.
‘Queen’s tits!’ Sour grunted next to him.
Murk growled his awed assent. Before them the inner circular plaza of sand was not the flat calm it appeared in the mundane world. The pit, for it was a pit – a hole that opened on to the bottomless Abyss itself – roiled and stirred, agitated by something contained within. But that was as nothing compared to the storm of Warren-energies that lanced and flickered about the construct in a near-constant release of deadly charges. Coiled lightning-like ropes sizzled and whipped, anchored from each and every standing dolmen, and converged on whatever lay ensnared, imprisoned, at the very centre.
‘Do you know what this is …’ Sour murmured beneath his breath as if afraid to mention it aloud even here within a Warren.
‘Yes.’ Neither of them had ever seen one, of course. But among mages they were legendary. What they were looking at was a Chaining. A prison constructed by an assemblage of the world’s most powerful practitioners of any one age: Ascendants, mages, some say even gods themselves. All to contain the various scattered fragments of the Shattered God – not coincidentally also known as the Chained God.
‘We ain’t up to this,’ Sour hissed, and for once Murk heartily agreed. ‘We are pissing in too many ponds.’
‘Yeah … I get it.’
‘Gonna get our—’
‘Yes! All right! Trying to think here.’ Could just sneak in and out. No need to broadcast. These constructs ain’t made to keep things out. Rather the reverse, in actual fact. ‘What does the queen of soothsayers say?’
‘Doesn’t like me being here.’
‘That’s it? Nothing stronger?’
Vexation glowed from the presence of his partner. ‘What’d you mean? We’re all free to do as we choose! None of us is slaves. What about Ammanas?’
‘Same,’ Murk answered, his thoughts elsewhere. ‘Could put the boot to this right now if he wanted … so, either he approves, or, like you said … we really are free to choose …’
‘I think your boy just plans for everything,’ Sour grumbled, ‘that’s what I think.’
‘As if yours doesn’t.’
‘I think she just makes it her business to know the players and follows the odds.’
‘That doesn’t sound so reverent.’
‘She never asked for no worship.’
Murk grunted his assent then cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s enough hemming and hawing, don’t you think?’
Sour stood, stretching. ‘Yeah, s’pose so …’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Following the paths of Shadow, Murk stepped into the construct. As was their usual arrangement, his partner monitored his progress by way of the Warren of Thyr. Murk carefully edged between the twisting coiled power ‘chains’ where they spread to be anchored at each dolmen. Touching one, he knew, would diffuse him into nothingness. He walked a full circuit of the construct.
For an instant he froze as a new vision out of Meanas superimposed itself upon the scene before him: that of another, similar construct, its enormous fetters lying shattered before dissolving to be swept away as if by some unseen wind. It took a moment for him to gather his composure after that, but eventually he managed to calm his pulse enough to continue on.
He returned to Sour and the two shared a nod of understanding. They lowered their Warrens and went to find Spite.
She was squatting, her back to them, next to a pit dug around one of the dolmens. Murk heard a whimper from Sour where he stood with his knuckles jammed into his mouth. Murk resisted elbowing the man: the sweeping double curve presented was breathtaking.
She straightened, facing them, brushing the sand from her hands. ‘Well?’
‘You can get in,’ Murk said, ‘but can you get out?’
‘You leave that to me.’
‘What’s with the digging?’
‘Have to break the bindings.’
Murk shook a negative. ‘No. It’s suspended over the Abyss. Break the bonds and it’s lost for ever.’
The rumbling growl that escaped Spite did not sound human. Murk felt the tiny hairs of his forearms straightening in atavistic fear.
‘It’s like one of them trick musical instruments,’ Sour said.
Both Murk and Spite eyed the squat fellow with his matted unwashed hair, scrunched-up frog-face, and one squinted eye higher than the other. ‘A what?’ Murk asked.
‘A conun-drum,’ he said with a grin.
Murk stared anew, studying the man. By all the gods … sometimes I wonder, I really do.
Spite’s eyes seethed now, almost roiling with a deep crimson glow as she regarded the plaza. ‘What if we left two in place? I might manage against two.’
Murk tilted his head, considering. ‘Maybe. Opposite tendrils.’
‘Yes, good. Can you break the bonds?’
‘Have to give a look. Sour here might be better at that than I.’
Her scepticism couldn’t have been more obvious. ‘Really? Well, get to it.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
After Spite stalked off Yusen approached. ‘What’s the word?’
‘Sour and I are gonna give the dolmens a poke.’ The man’s frowned disapproval vexed Murk. ‘What did you expect? You took the job.’
‘I’ll earn my pay, mage. Don’t have to like it.’
‘Yeah, well, life’s tough all over.’
A ghost of a smile flitted across the officer’s face. ‘That’s my line.’ He gestured to nearby troopers. ‘Ostler, Tanner, Dee … you’re with these two.’
That’s better. We ain’t dead yet.
* * *
The view from one of the windows of the Dead House offered a prospect on the harbour and the dark waters of Malaz Bay beyond. Osserc preferred this view. Such a preference was, he could admit, all too human of him. He had slipped now into his elder, slimmer version of the Tiste form. He allowed himself such an indulgence, for, having succeeded in one long-blunted ambition, that of penetrating the Azath, he now felt another all too human emotion … that of a vague troubling dissatisfaction.
He let out a long breath, sending cobwebs fluttering across the glazing. Now he must face the mountain of smugness waiting downstairs and sit himself before him and endure the predictable ritual of the petitioner before the possessor.
It was, to be frank, all too exquisitely distasteful. And he would rather die. Almost.
His mouth hardening, he turned. Enough. The inevitable awaits, as it so prosaically does. And he would face it. Was that not his strength? Accepting what must come – what cannot be avoided? So he had thought … once.
The stairs creaked beneath his feet. In the main hall the only source of light was a fire burning in a stone hearth at one end. At the long battered main table waited the House’s current … what? Resident? Custodian? Curator? Curse? Or just plain servant? He did not know, not having been accepted among the Azath in the usual manner. As was his manner. Not the usual, that is.
All the appearance was, of course, an illusion – only the inner essence being real. He regarded the fellow hunched at the table, amber firelight flickering from coarse iron-grey hair, lined green-tinged skin and prominent thrusting tusks. A Jaghut, and not just any Jaghut. Gothos himself, hoary old teller of tales and self-appointed judge of all. Once known, appropriately enough, as the Lord of Hate.
He sat opposite. The figure did not stir, though Osserc glimpsed the shimmer of light within the eyes hidden by their cascade of wiry hair. Osserc crossed his legs, set one hand atop the other on one knee, and exhaled a long tired breath.
The two regarded one another in silence for some time after that exhalation. The fire continued to burn, though neither stirred to feed it. At length Osserc inhaled through his nose and plucked a bit of dust from his trousers. ‘Is this all there is, then,’ he offered as a statement. ‘Disappointing.’
Gothos’ habitual sour expression deepened even further. ‘You disappoint me. How conceited to think that existence should arrange itself merely to be interesting to you.’
Osserc clenched his teeth so tightly he heard them creak. After a time he managed to loosen his jaws enough to grate his answer. ‘Such was not my expectation, I assure you. Yet still. One must admit to the … mundaneness of it.’
Now the wide hunched shoulders fell even further and Gothos slouched back against the high-backed chair. He shook his head in exaggerated frustration. ‘The mere fact that you sought does not somehow call into being that which you sought. Or imply that there should be anything to seek at all. Typical backwards thinking.’ A clawed hand rose to wave as if dispersing smoke or fumes. ‘Positing a question does not magically create an answer.’
Lips tight, Osserc snapped his gaze to the murky ceiling. His entwined clenched fingers shook until they became numb. Eventually he mastered himself enough to clear his throat and say, slow and thick, ‘You try my patience, Gothos.’
Now a one-sided smile crept up the Jaghut’s lips and the hidden gaze seemed to sharpen. ‘Really? I rather hoped to break it.’
‘Break it? Or exhaust it?’
A slow shrug of the shoulders. ‘The choice is yours – as the way out is through me.’
‘Through you? You mean that to leave I must twist your arm, or some such childishness?’
Gothos inspected the blackened nails of one hand, each broken and striated. ‘If that is the best you can think of … but I’d rather hoped for more from you. But be that as it may. The way is open. You may go whenever you should choose. As has been the case since you entered, of course. However …’ and he shrugged again.
Osserc’s answering smile was as brittle as old dead branches. ‘I see. I may go … but without any answers.’ Gothos merely stared back. Osserc settled into his chair. Once more he eased his hands one on the top of the other over his crossed legs. ‘I understand. We must face one another until you relinquish what you know. Very well. You were foolish to enter into this with me, Gothos. The will of any other you would crush. But not mine.’
To this Gothos, as was his wont, gave no answer.
The fire continued to burn though neither stirred to feed it.
* * *
The great lumbering beast that was the army of the Thaumaturgs lurched onward, threading east through the jagged mounts that stood like rotten bones from the forest canopy, and Cohort Leader Pon-lor watched it go.
After the ordered columns of soldiers came the roped human chains of bearers, their feet great lumps of black mud, hunched almost double beneath their massive loads, hands clutching the cloth bindings that supported the fat baskets and boxes and ran round as tumplines to their heads. Then came the supply train of carts and further bearers and labourers, all conveying the necessary materiel and services of an army on the march in hostile territory: the small portable smithies, the various messes, the infirmaries, and behind them yet more tramping bearers bringing along even further materiel and supplies. With this sauntering mass came a second army – the camp followers. Wives and husbands and children of officers and soldiers, and surgeons and clerks and tradesmen. Plus their mistresses and prostitutes. And their soothsayers, petty traders and merchants, unsanctioned private healers, minor apothecaries, arrack and palm-wine tappers, professional gamblers, singers, dancers and thieves.
Last to disappear up the broad mud-churned track to be swallowed into the jungle’s hanging fat leaves went the great groaning siege wains, oxen-pulled, their tall wheels of solid wood levered along by hunched slaves and labourers, mud-smeared, straining and chanting in unison.
For the first time in his life Pon-lor was left entirely in charge. It struck him as exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Exhilarating to finally be out from the suffocating fist of his superiors; to have the opportunity to prove his competence or perhaps, more important, his reliability. Terrifying for the now very real prospect of failure and disappointing said superiors.
He drew his robes about himself and nodded to Overseer Tun to see to the arrangement of his troops. The overseer bowed in his iron-studded leather armour and set to kicking and cajoling the soldiers into column. Pon-lor took his place at the centre of the column. The train of his troops’ bearers followed at the rear beneath their loads of equipment and supplies.
For three days they backtracked the route the army had hacked through the jungle. The way was a mire of trampled paths. They filed through abandoned villages where all was ghostly quiet but for the calls of birds and the hooting of monkeys, the inhabitants having fled with food and valuables to avoid confiscation and impressment.
On the third day word came to him from Overseer Tun at the van: a civilian had approached wishing to speak to him and was being brought. Pon-lor cast about and spotted the impressive broad trunk of an ancient kapok tree from which vines hung like a collection of ropes and whose roots gripped the jungle floor like the fists of giants. He chose to receive the fellow while standing beneath it, his men arrayed around him.
Tun pushed the fellow down on to his knees and he bowed, head lowered, arms straight forward in obeisance. ‘What is your name, peasant?’ Pon-lor asked.
‘J
ak, Great Lord Thaumaturg.’
‘And you would speak with me?’
‘Yes, Great Lord.’
‘You realize that if you are wasting my time you will be killed.’
‘Yes, Lord Thaumaturg.’
Pon-lor was intrigued to see that this pronouncement had not evoked the usual shudder and tightness of voice that it did from other peasants. He stepped closer and saw that the fellow was young, probably new to his twenties – much like himself. He also noted that the man’s shirt and trousers betrayed the wear pattern of having lain under armour; that the man’s belt was scraped where a sheath would hang; and that his hair was pressed and rubbed away in places as if habitually beneath a helmet.
‘You are a deserter.’
This evoked a satisfying squirm and abject writhing in the rotting humus and mud. ‘No, m’lord. A private guard and bounty man.’
‘You have papers?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
The man reached for his neck but Tun slapped the hand away and yanked free the pouch that hung there, snapping its leather thong. He knelt, proffering it in both hands. Pon-lor opened the pouch and studied the cheap reed-paper certificates. Water-smeared and half rotten, they might have been valid, years ago. He handed the documents to Tun. ‘These have long expired. Private guard, you say? For whom?’
‘Khun-Sen, lord.’
Pon-lor was quite surprised. ‘Khun-Sen? The warlord? He is still alive?’
‘Yes, lord.’
The news seemed hard to credit; that old general had been exiled in his grandfather’s time. Some sort of political falling-out among the Circle of Masters. He’d fled to the border region and claimed an outpost in the mountains. ‘You are far from Chanar Keep and Sen has no business interfering in Thaumaturg lands.’
‘He does not seek any influence, m’lord.’
‘Yet here you are – with a band of men, no doubt. Taking advantage of the army’s passage to raid a few villages?’
‘No, lord. We are collecting recruits for the army.’
‘To sell to the army, you mean. Very well. Have you a message from Sen?’
‘No, lord. But—’
‘No? No message? Then you are wasting my time.’ He waved for Tun to take the man away. ‘This one will now follow all those whom he has sent ahead into the ranks, Overseer. No doubt they will be pleased to see him.’
Blood and Bone Page 11