never seen before, except for the black vertical bar and pale blue wave of Korelri far to the south. Warm firelight spilled from an open door at the hall’s far end, sending shadows rippling and dancing madly. A draft of cool air brushed Kiska’s cheeks and she heard, distantly, the surf murmuring far below.
At the entrance Tayschrenn paused, blocking Kiska’s view. The draft, stronger here, billowed his cloak. He waved a sign to Hattar then entered. Hattar grunted, plucked at Kiska’s sleeve and motioned for her to stay close to him. Kiska swallowed and steadied her breathing. Hattar’s lip curled again as if he expected her to faint on the spot.
Heat struck her at the doorway like the blast from a stoked stove. That, and the stink of smoke mixed with the sour iron tang of spilled blood. Hattar moved to one side of the doorway. Kiska stepped to the other and pressed her back against the warm stones.
It was a long rectangular room. She wondered if perhaps it was some kind of a reception chamber. Now it was devoid of furniture and ornament. A roaring fire filled the huge hearth towards the left inner wall. Over the floor, here and there, corpses lay like discarded clothes. By a broken set of doors leading to a balcony they were gathered more thickly. Claws, all of them. Kiska counted twelve.
At the centre of the room a woman sat in the chamber’s only furnishing: a plain wood chair. The woman’s brown hair was cut short, military-style. The bluish tinge of her skin marked her as Napan. She wore a green silk shirt, torn and blood-spattered, a wide sash of emerald green, and loose pantaloons gathered snug at the ankles. Her feet were dark and calloused as if always bare. A Claw, kneeling at her side, was wrapping her hand in dressings. Kiska recognized him as the one from the duel with the armoured colossus: Possum.
Tayschrenn crossed the long room towards her. An ironic smile tilted one edge of her mouth as she watched. Halfway, the magus stilled, peered down at the bare stone floor. Kiska looked also but saw nothing, just a fine swirl of spilled red powder. From Kiska’s side, a hiss escaped Hattar. The plainsman’s jaws worked and his hands were white fists gripping the bone handles of his long-knives. Slowly, carefully, Tayschrenn gathered up his cloak and shook the dust from its edges. He continued on, stepping over the corpses as if they were no more than puddles in a muddy street. Just short of Surly, he bent to the corpse nearest the chair and lifted its head. Kiska recognized the body.
‘Ash,’ said Surly. ‘Ex-Lieutenant of the Bridgeburners. And one very determined man.’ She raised her bandaged hand. ‘Acid.’
Tayschrenn straightened from the body and turned to the smashed balcony doors. Reaching them, he glanced out. ‘Gone, then?’
Surly nodded, but sharply, as if things hadn’t gone exactly as she wished. On the floor, just before the balcony, lay a stick amid the spattered blood. A walking stick of dark wood, ebony perhaps, with a silver handle. Kiska stared. Gods! Was that it then? Was he dead?
A second surviving Claw stepped out from the shadowed balcony. Unusually tall, he favoured one leg and cradled his right arm at his breast, wet with dripping blood. His hood was down, revealing long startling white hair, a dark face, hooked nose with a goatee and black glittering eyes. Kiska had never seen him before.
‘Organize a search for the corpses,’ Surly told Possum. He bowed and backed away to the door. Kiska watched him sidelong as he passed and saw that he now bore a slash across his shirt-front, and that blood smeared his cloak. But his hood-shadowed face did not turn to regard her. It was as if the man had his mission and all else was mere dross.
Tayschrenn stepped out onto the balcony. The railing of low stone arch-work had been broken or blasted away, leaving a large gap into open air. He peered out and down, a gloved hand at the shattered edge. In the wind his cloak billowed and fluttered, and from below came the muted beat of the surf.
He returned to Surly, his boots scraping over the littered floor. ‘You can’t be sure-’
‘Certain enough,’ she snapped. ‘Absolutely. It is over and done. Finished. I’m surprised you bothered to come.’
Glancing back at the balcony, Tayschrenn murmured, ‘I was truthfully drawn here for another reason — if you must know.’
Rage flared like dark fires in Surly’s eyes and her good hand shot out to the High Mage as if she would crush him in her fist. Kiska almost shouted a warning, but as quickly as the fires rose so were they banked. She gave a small, low laugh. ‘Play the pompous lord to your underlings, Tay, not me. That you are here belies your words.’
The magus turned to her. Kiska watched him blinking, as if he were utterly unaware of the woman’s reaction. Yet how could that be? The two of them had worked, fought, and schemed together for generations. They must know to a hair’s breadth how far they could goad each other. Clearly, Tayschrenn wanted to remind Surly of something.
His shoulders rose and fell in a slow, indifferent shrug. ‘If you insist. Still, it would seem-’
‘I don’t care how it seems to you.’ She studied her bandaged hand. ‘It is over. I am Imperial Regent no longer. I will take the Throne, and my new name to rule it by. What say you to that?’
He said nothing. Kiska imagined he had already carefully thought through all possible outcomes.
‘Hail the Empress,’ prompted the Claw from the balcony, stroking his neck with a hand in a green leather glove. Tayschrenn eyed the man, who offered a predatory smile in return. There was open dislike here between Tayschrenn and these pet servants of the throne. Kiska wondered how such a meeting would have developed years ago, with Kellanved and Dancer also present. Likely a nest of vipers.
Tayschrenn gave a short bow. Kiska couldn’t tell if it was genuine or mocking. ‘Indeed. Hail,’ he echoed.
Surly answered with a curt nod, all business. ‘Good. Now, we have much to discuss…’ She inclined her head towards Hattar and Kiska, whose heart lurched at the attention.
Tayschrenn waved to the Claw. ‘And what of him?’
A thin smile tightened Surly’s lips. ‘The Claw is now part of the command structure, Tay. Each one speaks with a measure of my personal authority; each will be, in a measure, my representative. Topper will stay’
Tayschrenn bowed as briefly as before and backed away. To Hattar he said, ‘Your task is done for the night. Take her and return to the dining hall. Get some sleep. I’ll join you later.’
Hattar’s jaw tightened in distaste, but he nodded. Waving a brusque farewell to Kiska, Tayschrenn turned away. Hattar motioned to the hall, pushed her ahead of him. Startled by the abruptness of it, she peered back over her shoulder. Was that it? Not even a goodbye? Hattar urged her on with a jab at her back.
In the hall, Kiska glared and hissed, ‘Couldn’t I get a word in?’
The plainsman’s face remained set. ‘Not now. Tomorrow.’
Kiska relaxed, ceased resisting. ‘Okay’ She walked on. ‘I just don’t want to be shaken off, you know. I went to a lot of trouble to talk to him.’ She laughed at the thought of that. ‘Hood’s own trouble.’ But Hattar had set his face ahead, ignoring her. Kiska shut up. Here she was complaining to the one fellow who couldn’t possibly give a damn.
In the dining hall, Kiska watched while Hattar blocked the door with a chair, lit the candles, and sat. He thumped both booted feet onto the table, then untied his belt and lay it before him so that the sheathed knives rested within reach.
Kiska eased herself down into a chair across the table. ‘What was that about the red dust upstairs? What was it? Poison?’
Hattar’s gaze had been directed up at the ceiling. Now it swung down to her. The eyes were slitted, unreadable. ‘You ever heard of Otataral ore?’
‘Something about magic?’
‘Magic deadening.’ His gaze returned to the ceiling. ‘Upstairs, in that room, he’s helpless.’
She blurted, ‘Then Surly must have seeded the room, or thrown it, and Kellanved-’
Hattar’s nod was savage. ‘A great leveller that. Just knives and sheer numbers after.’
Kiska was silent, trying to imagine what it must have been like: the crippled Kellanved a useless burden in any mundane battle. Dancer struggling to both fight and protect him. The two retreating to the balcony, desperate to escape. How many dead had she seen? Twelve? She shook her head, awed. ‘Now what?’
‘Now nothing. We wait.’
