Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

‘Well — I could use a horse.’

The big man smiled behind his beard. His gaze shifted to the south where a galaxy of campfires now lit the plain. ‘I think I might be able to produce one.’

Leoman sat with his arms draped over his folded knees. He watched the titanic shadow of Maker high against the horizon where the giant continued his labour while the stars wheeled and the waves of glimmering Vitr worked their eternal erosion.

He sighed and glanced over to where Kiska stood high on the strand, facing the Sea of Vitr. Day after day she stood in plain view of Tayschrenn, or Thenaj, and his cohort of helpers while they carried out their rescue mission of dragging unfortunates from the burning energies of creation and destruction. Her goal, he believed he understood, was that somehow, eventually, the sight of her would trigger some memory within the archmagus and the man would come to his senses.

He thought it a forlorn hope. He stretched then sat back, his elbows in the black sand. Was he losing weight? Wasting away? Would he fade to a haunt doomed to wander the shores of creation wringing his hands or searching for a black button he’d dropped?

Kiska nudged his leg — he’d been wool-gathering. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. She peered down at him, then away, screwing up her eyes. ‘You don’t have to stay,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘True.’

‘You should go. There’s no need for you to be here.’

‘One does not return empty-handed to the Queen of Dreams.’

‘She’s not vindictive.’

He snorted. ‘This is all assuming we can return.’

‘She wouldn’t have sent us to our deaths.’

‘She said she couldn’t see beyond Chaos.’

Kiska set her hands on her hips. ‘Well … so, you’re just going to lie around watching?’

He peered about as if searching for something else, then returned his gaze to her. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Well … you’re making me uncomfortable.’

‘Oh — I’m making you uncomfortable?’

‘Yes! So go away.’

He pointed one sandalled foot to the beach. ‘I’m sure our friends feel the same way.’

‘That’s different.’

‘It is? Shall we ask them?’

Kiska’s lips tightened to almost nothing. ‘They won’t talk to me.’

Fine lips they are for kissing. Too bad there’s been precious little of that. Now there’s a reason to go back. He squinted up at her. ‘That’s because you’re making them uncomfortable.’

She waved curtly, dismissing him — ‘Gods, I don’t know why I bother’ — and marched away.

Well … that didn’t work. What now? Bash her on the head and drag her back to the Enchantress? Here you are, Your Ladyship — one troublesome agent returned safe and sound. Are we even now?

He eased back into studying the horizon. Time for that yet. Best wait a touch longer. See if she works this out of her system all on her own. As he’d learned from experience — it’s always easiest simply to set out the bait and wait for them to come to you.

The old witch who lived at the very western edge of the shanty town that itself clung to the western edge of Darujhistan seemed to spend all her time whittling. That and incessantly humming and chanting to herself. People whose errands happened to bring them wandering by sometimes considered telling the hag to shut up. But, after reconsidering, none ever did so. It was after all asking for trouble to insult a witch.

This afternoon, as the sun descended to the west, where just visible was the top of the great hump of the tomb of the Andii prince — uncharacteristically unlooted as yet, as, again, it would be asking for trouble to attempt to rob the tomb of the Son of Darkness — this afternoon the witch’s head snapped up from her sticks and she stuffed them away into the folds of her layered shirts. She stood, peering narrowly to the south. Out came her pipe in one hand and in her other a pinch of mud or gum that she rolled between grimy thumb and forefinger.

She brought the lump up to her eyes, squinting. Brought it even closer, so close that her thumb touched the bridge of her nose and her eyes crossed. Then she grunted, satisfied, and jammed the lump into the pipe. This she lit, puffing, before returning to studying the south, an arm tucked under the one holding the pipe. Passers-by noted her attention and stopped to look as well. But, seeing nothing but the dusty hills of the Dwelling Plain, they shook their heads at the woman’s craziness and moved on.

‘Almost,’ the woman muttered aloud as if conversing with someone. She blew twin plumes of smoke from her nostrils. ‘Almost.’

Barathol was in the back, building a crib. Little Chaur, he’d noticed, was now as long as the basket he currently slept in. It was late afternoon and the work was going slowly; he kept forgetting where he was in the process — which piece to cut and how long to make it. He was, frankly, dead on his feet. His hands were clumsy crude gloves, his thoughts glacial.

Glancing up he noticed Scillara at the back door, watching, arms crossed over her broad chest. ‘Asleep then?’ he said.

‘Aye. A feed and a nap — practising being a regular man, he is.’

‘Our needs are simple.’

‘Bar …’ she began slowly.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m … sorry. I was — I am — angry that you took that work. I’m scared that …’

He set down his handsaw. ‘Yes?’

She raised her eyes to the darkening sky as if not believing what she was about to confess. ‘I’m scared. Scared that I’m going to lose you.’

He sat back, resting his hands on his thighs, and gave her a crooked smile. ‘You’ll never lose me so long as you have Chaur, yes?’

‘I’m sorry, Bar. All I see is a lump of need that looks at me with hungry eyes. I don’t like that look, Bar.’

‘In time then, Scil. As he grows you’ll see more and more of you and me in him.’

She was looking to the north, picking at the cracked wood of the jamb. ‘I don’t know. It’s you I chose — not him. Maybe … maybe we should go. Leave tonight while we can.’

‘There’s work for me here. Enough for us to get by on.’

‘And this other work? When will it finish?’

‘Soon. Very soon. They’re almost done now.’

She watched him carefully, as if studying him. ‘What’ve they got you doing up there anyway?’

‘Nothing important, Scil. Nothing important.’

Grisp Falaunt was lord of one row of turnips. That and a shack that really wasn’t a shack being as it was more of a lean-to of broken lumber and canvas cobbled from the remains of what once was a shack. But from the shade of his wholly-owned domicile he could look south to the shimmering images of orchards, fields and groves covering the hills of the Dwelling Plain. All that had almost been — and rightfully ought to have been — his. For in the absence of all other claims was he not the lord and master of all the vast plain? Who could dispute that? Why, none, o’ course.

Again he reached down next to his chair, where his hand encountered nothing, and he growled and adjusted the cactus spine held between his teeth from one side to the other. Damned trespassing devil-dogs. Broke his fine cabin and burst the heart of his last loyal friend, fine Scamper, buried now among the turnips.

Ought to fence his property. That’s what he ought to do. Then them fancy nobles in Darujhistan would come a callin’. Why, then-

Grisp leaned forward, the front legs of his chair thumping in the dust. What in the name o’ dried-up Burn was