Spindle tottered on the last section of the rising walk up Majesty Hill. He fell against a buttress, banging the crate so that bottles clanked, and winced, biting his lip. Stones clattered down around him and acrid smoke wafted past.
He jerked his head to urge Fisher on. The bard straightened and jogged up.
Getting this far had been simple; everyone had run off. And K’rul’s hill was right next to Despot’s Barbican anyway. The district was pretty much entirely abandoned. Even the streetlights were unlit. Seemed the Greyfaces had taken the night off. Damned smart of them, considering. He peered over the wall to eye the nearest forest copse. Overhead the Moranth circled and swooped. A continuous barrage fell on Majesty Hall. Yet this magical barrier, this dome or circle, pretty much invisible up close and seemingly as delicate as a soap bubble, held back an entire war of punishment.
And Spindle knew what anchored it.
So loud were the near-continuous eruptions of munitions that he and Fisher could not speak. He caught the bard’s eye then jerked his head to the woods and ran. Hunched, bottles banging, they jogged through the park forest. At least Spindle knew exactly where he was headed.
He didn’t mean to slam down the crate of wine bottles but in the dark he tripped on a root and fell right on top of it. He rolled off immediately and brushed frantically at his front — which would have been a stupid thing to do if one of the bottles
Through the trees he could see the Moranth arcing overhead on their quorls and tossing their charges over Majesty Hall.
Most of the cussers blew far overhead but a few landed now and then on the unprotected hilltop and shook the ground. Off to one side a crater smoked in a reminder of what might happen to them at any moment. The bard didn’t know Malazan hand signs so Spindle was forced to wave and point. He’d found the site of their old excavation.
He threw himself to his knees and started digging in a feverish panic. Fisher joined him.
To make things even worse, through the trees he could see that the Seguleh were out as well. They were keeping to the doors and walls of the many buildings of the Majesty Hall complex. Waiting, watching, masks tilted upwards to follow the Moranth in their circling.
Spindle thought he knew what they were waiting for and he prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Things would get far too crowded then.
Best to have a hidey-hole in that case. And he dug and dug.
Barathol was out of bed with the first burst. He peered through the slats of the shutters.
‘What is it?’ Scillara asked from the dark.
A much closer blast; the house shook. A few things fell downstairs. Little Chaur set up a wail. ‘Get him,’ he said, pulling on trousers. ‘I’ll grab some food and water.’
She stood quickly, dressing as well. ‘You’re coming with us, yes?’ she said sharply.
He paused, glancing at her shadowed silhouette. ‘Yes. I’m coming with you.’
Outside, it was jarringly dark. He’d never seen the streets unlit. Now it was the Scimitar’s ill-omened glow that cast shadows across the shopfronts. They joined a swelling crowd jamming the street. He peered to the east, to the higher tiers where flashes lit the night. Flames rose from much closer, however.
Then something slashed overhead, raising shrieks of fear. It hissed arrow-straight up the road, lower than the rooftops.
Another close burst sent up a new wave of shrieks and panic through the pressing crowd.
Barathol turned to Scillara, who carried Chaur pressed against her chest. ‘I’m going to-’
‘No, you’re not!’ she cut in. ‘We’re all going together.’ She twisted a fist in his shirtsleeve, yanking. ‘And we’re going in
He smiled at the admonishment and pressed a hand over hers. ‘Yes. Let’s get out of here.’ He moved out in front of her and started pushing a way through the crowd.
Studious Lock pushed open the main front door of the Nom manor house and regarded the night. It was very dark and very noisy. There was some sort of local celebration going on nearby. Very annoying. No doubt this was what the Mistress’s odd instructions regarded.
‘Guards,’ he called.
Three figures approached from the gloom.
Studious paused, a finger raised.
He decided to fall back on the elegance of logic and biology — the process of elimination.
He extended a gauze-wrapped finger towards the middle guard. ‘And you are, what? A polyp? A bud? Has one of you reproduced?’
‘Nay, Studlock,’ the fat one boomed. ‘What we have here is our first apprentice.’
‘Our philosophy and concomitant way of life,’ Lazan explained.
‘Dressed appropriately, I see,’ Studious commented, hoping to set him at ease. ‘Now. I have instructions for you from the Mistress. Please pay due attention and enact due diligence.’
‘Of course,’ Madrun assured him smoothly. ‘We are all seriousness.’
‘Attend now, please.’
In the Eldra Iron Mongers in the far west of the city a man stood watching from the highest window of the old manor house. Leaning closer to the dirty glazing, he rubbed an even filthier rag over the glass, then hunched, peering. Through the rippled glazing the bursts of munitions reached him like flashes of fireworks during any one of the many religious festivals — fireworks ironically supplied by the Moranth. Beneath the barrage a broad pale dome flickered and winked in and out of sight.
Even at this great distance the window shuddered and rattled lightly.
He glanced to the card he held. So ancient. The Orb of Rulership. A white sphere held upraised in the hand of a cloaked figure.
He squeezed the card until the varnish cracked and shattered.
He only wanted to be safe. He only wanted the city to be strong.
How could he have been so blind?
Rallick was already on the roof when the assault began. For this reason he had mixed feelings regarding the Moranth’s failure to penetrate the Legate’s sorcerous defences. In either case, he felt that he had the best seat in the house, as they say, standing out on the roof peering up at the blinding eruptions where the munitions struck the clear opalescent wall of the Legate’s dome.
