Orb Sceptre Throne

like a mockery of some conspirator, the fellow offered him an exaggerated wink and shifted his gaze to the rear. As usual Rallick chose to reveal no hint of his mood — which was one of extreme annoyance — and he got up to push out through the crowd to the back door.

He waited leaning against a wall, arms crossed, hands on the grips of his knives. The stranger ambled out after a moment, hands clasped behind his back. ‘What do you want?’ Rallick said, trying to keep his voice as flat as possible.

The man held up his gloved hands, a smirk at his lips. ‘Parley, as they say.’

‘Claw?’

The fellow merely shrugged.

‘Say your piece.’

The man waved a hand in an airy manner and Rallick clamped down even harder on his irritation. ‘Oh … a pooling of intelligence and a uniting of efforts.’

‘I’m not with the guild. You got the wrong man.’

A smile from the man — the kind of crazy grin that Rallick had known from some as an affectation of unpredictable menace. But he now saw with a tensing of chilling certainty that from this fellow the pose was utterly genuine. A very dangerous sort — the kind who truly just doesn’t give a damn. ‘The guild, such as it is, doesn’t interest me. But you do.’

‘How so?’

The man leaned up against the opposite alley wall, which put him in the light of the Scimitar. He grimaced and held up a hand in the light. ‘You know, there are those around the world right now who go out at night carrying parasols so that the unnatural light of our Visitor doesn’t reach them. They claim it corrupts all it touches.’

‘Then everything’s corrupted.’

‘Indeed. We are all of us slowly rotting until we fall dead.’

‘Is that your message? Sounds like something from a street prophet of the Broken God.’

The man let his hand fall, frowned his exaggerated thoughtfulness. ‘Indeed? I suppose so. But no. That is not my message. My point is that we have intelligence mentioning “the Eel”. And in that intelligence this very inn features rather prominently. And here you are. What say you to that?’

Great Burn! Does this man think I’m the Eel? No — he must be fishing. Ha! Fishing for the Eel. Have to remember that one. But then if I told him who I thought maybe was the Eel he’d have a good laugh. No — he’s just trying to provoke a reaction.

Rallick turned his face away to study the empty street and the rats waddling down the centre gutter. ‘That’s not much of a point.’ His peripheral vision caught his reward in a first betrayal of temper from the man as his mouth tightened to a slit.

‘You are being deliberately difficult. Well, I blame myself. Ought to have expected it. We are both victims of our calling, yes? Neither of us willing to place our cards on the table. So be it — for now. If you should wish to exchange intelligence, then look to reach me through K’rul’s bar.’

Rallick eyed the man, puzzled. ‘K’rul’s bar? You mean the old temple to K’rul?’

‘Yes. K’rul’s Bar and Temple.’ The man tilted his head in farewell and ambled off up the street.

There he goes. Yet another rat on the street.

There’s a bar at K’rul’s temple? Since when?

A knock brought Barathol to the door. Little Chaur was down for the night and Scillara was in bed, sent off by that one evening pipe she allowed herself to ‘ease the nerves’. He’d taken the pipe from her hand as he did every night, and pulled up the blanket.

He was downstairs making a meal when the knock came. He opened the door to find one of the Majesty Hall clerks, now known as court officials, awaiting him with hands tucked into his robes and an oddly arrogant and impatient angle to his head.

‘What?’ Barathol asked, his own mood not improved by the youth’s superior airs.

‘You are summoned to the installation. Immediately.’

He half turned away. ‘In a minute. I’m just making a meal.’

‘Immediately,’ the young man repeated, emphasizing each syllable. Lifting his head he directed Barathol’s attention to his companions. Barathol peered out to see two Seguleh standing on the road, masked, swords at their hips.

Ah. So that’s how it is. The new cock of the roost. So be it. No business of mine.

He gave the clerk a slow nod. ‘Very well. I’ll get my gear.’

Barathol watched the faces of the passers-by as the little party walked the streets. At first there’d been jubilation. The average citizen now thought himself unassailable. Now, as the Seguleh went abroad to enforce the Legate’s will it seemed to him that a few people had finally — belatedly — begun to wonder. Just who did these swordsmen protect the city from? They limited themselves to guarding within the walls, atop Majesty Hill, and in the throne room itself. Protecting the ruler from … whom? Well, to his mind, from the ruled, of course. Perhaps this mounting suspicion was behind the worried, even pitying, glances that followed him. Could I be next? some seemed to wonder.

The worksite was guarded by four Seguleh. Ducking into the tent Barathol found the two mages already present, awaiting him impatiently. ‘Begin at once,’ the tall one, Barukanal, commanded, motioning to the forge with his staff. Barathol rolled down his sleeves and donned his thick leather apron.

And who were these two anyway? Advisers? Hirelings? Surely not servants, as some believed. Yet why should such obviously powerful mages advise a mere Darujhistani aristocrat, mask or not? Unless, as others hinted, dark pacts were sealed, deals struck, and powers granted. To Barathol’s mind these more ominous speculations ran closer to whatever might be the truth of things.

He took over at the bellows from the worker who was prepping the coals. After pumping, he picked up a bar to stir the bed, testing the heat by holding his hand over the glowing pile.

‘This is your last pour,’ the hunched mage told him from the entrance.

Barathol eyed the man’s warped puzzle-piece face. A warning?

‘I go now to deal with those fools at K’rul’s,’ the hunched one told Barukanal.

‘I will finish things here,’ Barukanal answered.

Barathol straightened from the forge. K’rul’s? The Malazans? How to warn them? And finish things here? What did he mean by that?

Both now watched him, their eyes glittering in the glow of the forge. ‘Get back to work,’ the hunched one, Aman, told him and ducked from the tent.

Barathol reluctantly turned to nurturing the bed. Well, if anyone could handle themselves, it was those Bridgeburners. They hardly needed his help. He thought of that chaotic night not so many months ago. Antsy guiding him and his friend, poor dying Chaur, to that eerie structure on Coll’s estate. Do I not owe him more than I can ever repay?

He turned from the forge, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘I’m going for a bite,’ he announced. ‘The bed needs to heat yet.’

The mage did not move from the entrance. He leaned on his tall warped staff. ‘You will remain until the pour is done. Such are my orders.’

‘There is nothing I can do here for a while.’

A grimace twisted the mage’s face and he said, his voice tight and impatient with something that might have been pain, ‘The blacksmith’s sand awaits. I believe you have a mould to form?’

Barathol regarded the table, turned aside. ‘If I must.’ Well, I tried. After that blast they must know what to expect anyway.

After packing and setting the mould and checking the bed’s heat again, he set the ceramic crucible into the coals and heaped them up around it. The bits and pieces of silver went in next. Barukanal crowded his elbow through the entire process.

As the silver melted Barathol skimmed the slag of impurities from the top. It was hardly demanding work. The mould was uncomplicated, open-faced. Not like a lost-wax pour where so many little things could go wrong.