Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

‘Korus, trust me. I am still the man you knew as Thenaj. Truly. I am. Now give me your hands.’

The high-born demon edged its wide taloned hands closer. Its knife-like fangs ground and scraped at the strain of the gesture. Tayschrenn took the mangled fingers in his. Scar tissue that twisted up Korus’s forearms marked the extent of its past suffering. After a moment Tayschrenn released them. ‘There.’

‘There? What trick is this?’

‘You are now inured to the Vitr, friend. You may enter it as I did. Without fear or effect. You will take my place.’

The demon backed away. It cocked its wide mangy head as if it could not, or would not, believe. ‘How can I …’

Tayschrenn gestured to the Vitr sea. ‘Go ahead. Test it.’

Korus stepped back, still wary. Then it padded down to the waves. It dipped a hand into a glimmering wash of the liquid light and raised it, letting the fluid run from its taloned fingers. Then, peering back at them, it laughed. It threw back its maned head and let go a great shaking roar of laughter. It fell to its knees splashing both hands in the Vitr as if it were no more than a tidal pool. The malformed creatures gathered nearby on the shore. They murmured their amazement while Korus chuckled on and on.

‘That was a great thing,’ Kiska said.

The mage shook his head. ‘Was it? Few who call survive. He will suffer much failure. That will be a torment.’

‘No. His helplessness was his torment.’

‘Helplessness?’ The mage examined his own hands once more. ‘Ah. Helplessness.’

‘And now?’ she asked.

‘Now we will go.’

‘Yes,’ Leoman said. ‘Now you will go.’

‘You?’ Kiska repeated sharply. ‘What do you mean? You said that earlier too.’

The man brushed his moustache, shrugging again. ‘I mean I will be staying, I think.’

‘You? Stay?’ Kiska laughed. ‘That’s absurd.’ She gestured to the desolate shore. ‘There’s nothing here for you.’

‘It’s peaceful, Kiska,’ he answered calmly, completely unruffled by her disparagement. ‘I can sleep here. And to me that means a lot.’

‘I understand,’ Tayschrenn said.

Kiska set her hands on her hips. ‘This is ridiculous.’ She gestured towards Tayschrenn. ‘I just got- You’re coming with us. That’s all there is to it.’

‘No. And who knows … if this place can help our friend here, perhaps it can help me.’

Kiska waved, entreating Tayschrenn to speak. ‘Say something. He can’t stay here all alone!’

The mage cleared his throat, nodding. ‘Maker likes stories. I was always sorry I didn’t have any for him.’

Leoman groomed his moustache again. ‘Oh-ho!’ He smiled behind his hand. ‘Have I got stories for him.’

‘No.’

Tayschrenn took her hand. ‘Come.’

‘No!’

He pulled her along behind like a reluctant child.

‘No — we can’t just leave him here all alone …’

‘He is not alone.’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘He knows what is best for him. Now come. We have far to go.’

‘Fine!’ She twisted her hand free and straightened her shirt. ‘Fine. Leave him exiled, then! For ever!’

Tayschrenn walked on, hands clasped behind his back. ‘He is not exiled. He can leave whenever he wishes. Maker can send him anywhere he chooses.’

‘Oh … well. Why didn’t you say so?’ Kiska ran to catch up. She glanced back, caught Leoman’s eye, and waved farewell.

Leoman answered the wave then turned away, arms crossed, to watch Korus play in the sea. And, to Kiska’s eyes, he did possess the look of a man at peace.

Noise from downstairs woke Scillara. She tensed, listening in the dark. The city had been quiet these last weeks now that the Legate had imposed his curfew. Every sound carried a sudden insistence and stood out as rare and unexpected as … well, as an honest man.

She reached down for the long-knife Barathol kept on the floor under the bed. She’d laughed, of course, as was her way with him — anything to dance away from the grim — for she’d spotted him long ago as one of those who could slide too easily into gloomy brooding.

Up to her to chivvy him along.

Strangely enough, her first thought had been for the babe. Now there’s a shocker. Gettin’ to me after all. Just as Barathol said.

She listened once more: now all she could hear were the babe’s quick wet breaths.

Then it came again. Someone moving about downstairs. As if they had two sticks to steal! As disappointing a break-in as they come. She went quickly to the stairs and edged her way down, blade out in front. Let them chuckle at the fat woman with a knife; she’d had to cut her fair share of men turned ugly with drink and sour tempers.

A light was visible on the main floor. Halfway down the stone stairs she saw Barathol at the rear seeing to the banked fire. She reached up through the trapdoor to slip the blade on to the bedroom floor and went down.

‘Back already?’

He grunted and turned from coaxing the fire going. She was shocked to see that he was sodden through. ‘You’re soaked. Was it raining?’

‘No,’ he croaked, his voice ragged.

She took the sticks and tinder from his shaking hands. ‘I’ll see to it. What happened, then?’ She blew on the embers.

He slumped into a chair. ‘I washed. Washed everything. Dumped water over myself from a cistern.’

‘To hide the smell of the drink?’

Not a glimmer answered that. ‘No. To wash away … something else.’ He held out his hands and turned them over. They shook like leaves. Kneeling, she reached for them but he yanked them away. Even so, she felt their chill. Frozen!

‘A lad came yesterday with a cooked meal for us and a note sayin’ you were working still.’ He looked confused, blinking heavily. Exhausted — what was this job? I’ll have that fat man’s head!

‘Message? I sent no message.’

‘Well. You’re back now. Want to see the little one?’

He straightened, lurching. ‘No! Have to … have to wash first.’

‘Wash?’ She laughed lightly. ‘You’re cleaner than I’ve ever seen you!’

He merely stared at the fire. ‘Heat water. Bring that cake of soap. And our smallest knife. Have to cut my nails. Scour my hands. Before — before I touch anything.’

‘Barathol … you’re clean enough-’

‘No!’ He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. ‘Dammit, woman, just do as I ask for once.’

Scillara backed away. Fine. Just this once then! She went to fill the pot.

*

Chal Grilol had been a woodwright turning out spoked wheels for wagons and chests, benches, just about anything anyone required in the neighbourhood. Then the joint-ache took his hands and he couldn’t hold a tool no more. He couldn’t work so he lost his home; his boys were long gone and the wife was dead so he was out on the street sleeping under a wharf on the waterfront. Tonight he was out fishing off the end of the dock, using a lantern to lure fingerlings.

Then along came this two-wheeled cart pushed backwards up the dock by a shaggy man all dirty and wild- haired and muttering to himself. And while Chal watched, amazed, this burly fellow proceeded to toss tools and bits and pieces from the cart into the lake. He threw hammers as far as he could out into the waves. Wearing thick