Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

The man hobbled back up on to his platform behind the counter. ‘Watching the shop? Of course they were watching the shop. They are always watching the shop! These agents of my one-time allies have proved most persistent. But because I remain within, and am circumspect … they have been none the wiser.’ He gently touched his fingertips to the wood countertop. ‘Needless to say, said circumspection has now been shattered …’

‘They are dead, Aman.’

The shopkeeper started to speak, caught himself, rubbed his hands over the countertop as if stroking it. He began again, slowly, ‘Yes. However, the one who hired them now knows he, or she, is close to something. Best to have maintained the aura of mystery.’

The girl’s pale thin shoulders lifted in an unconcerned shrug. She began unwrapping the package. ‘Then I will kill whoever that person is.’

‘Ah yes. Speaking of mysteries. No one knows the identity of the circle-breaker. Many poseurs have surfaced pretending to the title, but no one knows for certain. It may have even been one of my old allies — even your mother.’

The girl’s coquettish gaze hardened. ‘Never mention her to me, Aman.’ She peered up from half-lidded eyes. ‘Anyone, you say? But not you, of course.’

Aman shook a bent finger. ‘You are learning.’

She made a face, then indicated the carved fragment. ‘Is this thing really as valuable as you say?’

He raised it between them, his gaze holding her eyes. ‘Ahh … beautiful, yes? Slender, striking. A magnificent specimen. On the outside. But within, flawed. Worthless. A piece of useless trash.’ He crushed it in his hand.

The girl flinched away as if slapped, bumping something in the dark. Her full lips tightened to a pale slash and a molten light blazed within her eyes. The man studied her quite calmly, his head cocked, fingertips lightly touching together. The golden light faded from her eyes as she stood quivering in suppressed rage. She drew a snarling breath and raised her chin in defiance. ‘You are quite finished, I hope?’

He bowed. ‘Quite.’

‘And what is this monstrosity?’ she demanded, waving at the tall figure she’d struck.

Aman raised the lamp, revealing an armoured statue. The light reflected green and blue from an inlay of semi-precious stones. ‘Magnificent, is it not? From distant Jacuruku. One of their stone soldiers.’

She peered closer in an almost professional evaluation. ‘An automaton?’

‘Not … quite.’ He set the lamp on the counter. ‘In any case, m’lady, since you have returned, I suggest you make yourself useful and shadow our friend. Nothing untoward must happen to him. Be ready to intervene. He is close, Taya. Very close.’

‘Why him? Why don’t you go down?’

The man did nothing to hide the condescension in his answering chuckle. ‘My dear. You are most diverting. The countless protections, wards and conditions imposed by my erstwhile allies are most exacting. Almost without openings. Only those who do not seek may pass. They must be innocent of bloodshed, possess no lust for personal gain … the conditions go on and on. Mammotlian contrived them. And so, since Mammotlian, a scholar, built the tomb, perhaps only a fellow like-minded spirit may possess the instincts to follow. If you see my reasoning.’

‘And should he fail — like all the others?’

A crooked shrug from the man. ‘Well, they’re nearly out of floor space down there, aren’t they?’

Her eyes constricted to slits and she tilted her head, unsure of his meaning.

On the street of the whitesmiths in the Gadrobi district, Barathol Mekhar inspected his latest consignment of iron ore. It was of unusually good quality. There was a useful variation of softness and brittleness within the clumps. He closed the box and went to the forge, held a hand over the bed of coals. Still needed more time. He left the shop to cross a small open court to the rear of his row-house. Dusting his hands, he climbed the narrow stairs to his rooms above. Dawn was just brightening the sky outside the shuttered windows. For a time he stood next to the bed where his wife Scillara still slept. Then he went to the other side of the bed to the tiny crib fashioned by his own hands. Kneeling, he studied the infant within, curled and plump.

Never had he imagined such a treasure would be his. It seemed too defenceless for the world. Too tenuous. Its fragility terrified him. He feared even to touch it with his coarse blackened hands. He did however gently ease one into the crib to let the child’s quick hot breath warm those fingers.

Smiling, he rose to see Scillara watching him. ‘Not run off yet, I see,’ she said, stretching.

‘Not yet.’

‘Not even with a squalling brat and a fat wife?’

‘I guess I must have done something terrible in a prior life.’

‘Musta been pretty damned awful.’ She looked about as if searching for something. ‘Gods, I miss my pipe.’

‘You’ll live.’

She pointed to the door. ‘Throw me my gown. Don’t you have work to do? Money to earn? Enough to hire a cook. I’m getting sick of your burnt offerings.’

‘You could try lending a hand, you know.’

She laughed. ‘You don’t want to eat my cooking.’

‘I’ll be out back then.’ He threw the gown. ‘Could use some tea.’

‘We all could.’

On the way down the stairs he looked forward to another day standing at the forge where he could look over to the courtyard and see Scillara sitting on rugs laid out on the ground there, nursing little Chaur.

Life, it seemed to him, was better than he’d ever hoped it could be.

CHAPTER II

Turn not thine hand against thy father; for it is sacrilege

Inscription upon stone fragment, Dwelling Plains

The challenge began as these things always do: with a look. A glance held a heartbeat too long. In this case lingering across the beaten dirt of the practice grounds at the centre of Cant, the marble halls of the Seguleh.

Jan, in the act of turning away to call for a slave, noted the glance, and stopped. Those of the ruling Jistarii family lineage out exercising that morning also instinctively sensed the tension. The crowd parted and Jan found himself staring across the emptied sparring fields and wrestling circles to Enoc, the newly installed Third. He watched while the young aristocrat’s friends and closest supporters within the rankings crossed to stand at his side. Without needing to turn his head Jan knew his own friends had come to his. He held out his wooden practice sword. It was taken from his hand.

‘Give him your back,’ Palla, the Sixth, hissed from behind. ‘How dare he! This is not the place.’

Jan answered calmly: ‘Does not our young Third claim that daring is just what is lacking these days among our ranks?’ A snarl of clenched rage answered that. Jan allowed himself a slight raise of his chin to indicate the seats of the amphitheatre across the way. ‘Look … the judges of the challenge assembled already.’

‘They are all of his family!’ Palla exclaimed. ‘This is the work of his scheming uncle, that fat Olag.’

Jan’s sword appeared, offered hilt-first from behind. He took it and began securing the sheath to his sash. Across the field Enoc’s coterie of supporters, ambitious young-bloods mostly, did the same for him. Someone handed Jan a gourd of water and he sipped. His gaze did not leave Enoc’s mask: a pale oval marred only by two black slashes, one down each cheek.

So, a year already, is it? He was surprised. Time seemed to pass ever more quickly as he became older. Not that he intended to get older — it was merely the byproduct of his extended wait for someone to manage to defeat him. Enoc obviously thought his chance had come. And he had to acknowledge that the daring youth seemed to have chosen his moment quite well: Enoc himself was yet fresh, merely having