“Are you implying,” Glokta murmured, scarcely moving his lips, “that they would inform Arch Lector Sult of their little gift to the defence of Dagoska?”
“That is the very least of what they would do.” Mauthis’ expression was unmistakable.
Glokta swallowed. “You may tell your employers that there will be no further enquiries.”
Mauthis closed his eyes for a moment and blew out with evident relief. “I am delighted to carry that message back to them. Good day.” And he turned and left Glokta alone in Ardee’s living room, staring at the door, and wondering what had just happened.
The Abode of Stones
The prow of the boat crunched hard into the rocky beach and stones groaned and scraped along the underside. Two of the oarsmen floundered out into the washing surf and dragged the boat a few steps further. Once it was firmly grounded they hurried back in as though the water caused intense pain. Jezal could not entirely blame them. The island at the edge of the World, the ultimate destination of their journey, the place called Shabulyan, had indeed a most forbidding appearance.
A vast mound of stark and barren rock, the cold waves clutching at its sharp promontories and clawing at its bare beaches. Above rose jagged cliffs and slopes of treacherous scree, piled steeply upwards into a menacing mountain, looming black against the dark sky.
“Care to come ashore?” asked Bayaz of the sailors.
The four oarsmen showed no sign of moving, and their Captain slowly shook his head. “We have heard bad things of this island,” he grunted in common so heavily accented it was barely intelligible. “They say it is cursed. We will wait for you here.”
“We may be some time.”
“We will wait.”
Bayaz shrugged. “Wait, then.” He stepped from the boat and waded through knee-high breakers. Slowly and somewhat reluctantly the rest of the party followed him through the icy sea and up onto the beach.
It was a bleak and blasted place, a place fit only for stones and cold water. Waves foamed greedily up the shore and sucked jealously back out through the shingle. A pitiless wind cut across this wasteland and straight through Jezal’s wet trousers, whipping his hair in his eyes and chilling him to the marrow. It snatched away any trace of excitement he might have felt at reaching the end of their journey. It found chinks and holes in the boulders and made them sing, and sigh, and wail in a mournful choir.
There was precious little vegetation. Some colourless grass, ill with salt, some thorny bushes more dead than alive. A few clumps of withered trees, higher up away from the sea, clung desperately to the unyielding stone, curved and bent over in the direction of the wind as though they might be torn away at any moment. Jezal felt their pain.
“A charming spot!” he shouted, his words flying off into the gale as soon as they left his lips. “If you are an enthusiast for rocks!”
“Where does the wise man hide a stone?” Bayaz hurled back at him. “Among a thousand stones! Among a million!”
There certainly was no shortage of stones here. Boulders, rocks, pebbles and gravel also were in abundant supply. It was the profound lack of anything else that rendered the place so singularly unpleasant. Jezal glanced back over his shoulder, feeling a sudden stab of panic at the notion of the four oarsmen shoving the boat back out to sea and leaving them marooned.
But they were still where they had been, their skiff rocking gently near the beach. Beyond them, on the churning ocean, Cawneil’s ill-made tub of a ship sat at anchor, its sails lowered, its mast a black line against the troubled sky, moving slowly back and forward with the stirring of the uneasy waves.
“We need to find somewhere out of the wind!” Logen bellowed.
“Is there anywhere out of the wind in this bloody place?” Jezal shouted back.
“There’ll have to be! We need a fire!”
Longfoot pointed up towards the cliffs. “Perhaps up there we might find a cave, or a sheltered spot. I will lead you!”
They clambered up the beach, first sliding in the shingle, then hopping from teetering rock to rock. The edge of the World hardly seemed worth all the effort, as far as final destinations went. They could have found cold stone and cold water in plenty without ever leaving the North. Logen had a bad feeling about this barren place, but there was no point in saying so. He’d had a bad feeling for the last ten years. Call on this spirit, find this Seed, and then away, and quickly. What then, though? Back to the North? Back to Bethod, and his sons, racks full of scores and rivers of bad blood? Logen winced. None of that held much appeal. Better to do it, than to live in fear of it, his father would have said, but then his father said all kinds of things, and a lot of them weren’t much use.
He looked over at Ferro, and she looked back. She didn’t frown, she didn’t smile. He’d never been much at understanding women, of course, or anyone else, but Ferro was some new kind of riddle. She acted just as cold and angry by day as she ever had, but most nights now she still seemed to find her way under his blanket. He didn’t understand it and he didn’t dare ask. The sad fact was, she was about the best thing he’d had in his life for a long time. He puffed his cheeks out and scratched his head. That didn’t say much for his life, now he thought about it.
They found a kind of cave at the base of the cliffs. More of a hollow really, in the lee of two great boulders, where the wind didn’t blast quite so strongly. Not much of a place for a conversation, but the island was a wasteland and Logen saw little chance of finding a better. You have to be realistic, after all.
Ferro took her sword to a stunted tree nearby and soon they had enough sticks to make an effort at a flame. Logen hunched over and fumbled the tinderbox out with numb fingers. Draughts blew in around the rocks and the wood was damp, but after much cursing and fumbling with the flint he finally managed to light a fire fit for the purpose. They huddled in around it.
“Bring out the box,” said Bayaz, and Logen hauled the heavy thing out from his pack and set it down next to Ferro with a grunt. Bayaz felt around its edge with his fingertips, found some hidden catch and the lid lifted silently. There were a set of metal coils underneath, pointing in from all sides to leave a space the size of Logen’s fist.
“What are they for?” he asked.
“To keep what is inside still and well-cushioned.”
“It needs to be cushioned?”
“Kanedias thought so.” That answer did not make Logen feel any better. “Place it inside as soon as you are able,” said the Magus, turning to Ferro. “We do not wish to be exposed to it for longer than we must. It is best that you all keep your distance.” And he ushered the others back with his palms. Luthar and Longfoot nearly scrambled over each other in their eagerness to get away, but Quai’s eyes were fixed on the preparations and he scarcely moved.
Logen sat cross-legged in front of the flickering fire, feeling the weight of worry in his stomach growing steadily heavier. He was starting to regret ever getting involved with this business, but it was a bit late now for second thoughts. “Something to offer them will help,” he said, looking round, and found Bayaz already holding a metal flask out. Logen unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. The smell of strong spirits greeted his nostrils like a sorely missed lover. “You had this all the time?”
Bayaz nodded. “For this very purpose.”
“Wish I’d known. I could’ve put it to good use more than once.”
“You can put it to good use now.”
“Not quite the same thing.” Logen tipped the flask up and took a mouthful, resisted a powerful urge to
