Outside in the night the picks and shovels had gone silent. The stones were set and ready for their pins.
Once the liquid silver reached the mark scratched into the glowing wall of the crucible, Barathol readied the bars he would use to lift and tilt the vessel. At that moment the mage’s hand shot out like a viper to grasp his wrist. He pulled against the grip but couldn’t free himself. And Barathol was a strong man; among the strongest. Not even Kalam could beat him.
The mage’s other hand came up with a short wicked blade. ‘Blood from the forger of the links,’ he whispered, close. ‘Such will strengthen the circle immeasurably.’
Barathol raised the bars to smash the man across the head but the mage clenched his grip ferociously and he groaned from the agony of the grinding bones.
The mage slashed the blade across Barathol’s numb wrist then held the wound over the crucible. Drops fell hissing and dancing.
‘Do not be upset,’ the creature murmured. ‘Aman would have taken the offering from your throat.’ He released him and moved to one side. ‘Now pour. Quickly.’
Working his hand, Barathol readied the bars. He pinched the crucible between their jaws. Grunting, he lifted the vessel and swung it to where the moulds waited. He poured until the level of the first swelled just above the lip of the mould, where surface tension kept it from spilling, then moved to the second.
Finished, Barathol set the crucible on its stand to cool and stood back to wipe the sweat from his face. Blood dripped freely from his wrist. He washed his hands in the quenching water.
From where he was bent over the smoking moulds, the mage said, ‘Go now. Do not return. Your work is done.’
Barathol merely grunted. He wrapped his wounded wrist in a rag then pushed his way from the tent. In the trench the final two white stones waited end to end. The tips of the installation coming together to form one perfect infinite circle. Briefly Barathol wondered what this structure might be meant to enclose or foreclose. Was it to keep inviolate what lay within? Or was it to keep ineffective that which lay without?
No matter. It was no longer his concern. If it came to it he could simply do as Scillara suggested and pack up the family to go. He turned away, flexing his wrist. He’d had enough of all this. His concern now was just the small circle of his family.
The uncomfortable echoes within that thought haunted him all the way down the hill.
*
Lady Envy was with her maid and dressmaker when a servant announced, ‘Someone at the door, m’lady.’
Arms held outstretched, the dressmaker measuring a length of cloth against one, her maid’s hands in her freshly washed hair, Lady Envy stared at the man. ‘Well — answer it, you great oaf!’
The servant bowed from the waist and shuffled backwards, head lowered.
He returned accompanied by three Seguleh.
Lady Envy beamed. She drew her dressing gown tighter about her and shooed away her servants. The three remained immobile, tensed, hands close to their weapons, their attention everywhere but on her. Envy crossed the room, a hand at her lips. ‘How very thoughtful of Lim!’ she exclaimed. ‘Three new ones! The old ones had become rather battered.’
One turned her —
‘We have been warned against you, Envy,’ the Seguleh woman said. ‘Your enchantments hold no more power over us. The Second has knelt and we are bound by links far stronger than any you can forge.’
Envy fiddled at the knot of her gown. ‘What nonsense is this? Links?’
‘Where is he, sorceress?’
Envy seemed to have just discovered her wet hair; she began twining the length. ‘I’m sorry … where is who?’
‘The renegade. We know he is with you. Where is he?’
‘Renegade? Whatever are you-’ But the three turned aside, dismissing her.
Thurule had entered. The three fanned out, facing him. The one who had spoken made a small gesture with her left hand, turning it palm up as if in interrogation. Thurule’s masked face seemed to drop ever so slightly. Perhaps it was the light, but it appeared as if his dark eyes behind the mask were blinking rapidly.
‘Choose!’ the woman commanded.
Carefully, Thurule raised a hand to his mask and peeled it away. The face revealed beneath appeared surprisingly youthful. He released the mask to let it fall before him then raised his sandalled foot and pressed down upon it. The mask shattered into powder and painted shards. His own face seemed to splinter in the act.
The three Seguleh relaxed, hands easing slightly from their weapons. Without a word they turned and left.
Envy crossed her arms and regarded Thurule. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Whatever am I to do with you now?’
‘Whatever you wish,’ the man said, speaking the first words she had heard from him in perhaps a year. He wouldn’t raise his gaze from the fragments littering the polished floor.
She hugged her chilled shoulders. ‘Well … you have rather lost that certain mysterious cachet I kept you for, I must say.’ She bit at a finger with perfect white teeth. ‘I’m going to have to let you go, Thurule.’
The man’s brows clenched as he bowed. ‘I understand. I am unworthy.’
Her maid rushed back into the room. When Envy glanced back the man was gone.
*
Madrun and Lazan Door were tossing dice against the steps of Lady Varada’s estate house when four masked Seguleh entered the compound. The two shared knowing looks as Lazan scooped up the dice.
‘Our taciturn kin approach,’ Madrun rumbled. ‘Perhaps we too should remain silent as well. We could stare at one another till the gods pack up the world and return from whence they came.’
‘And these would yet remain none the wiser,’ Lazan answered. ‘No, reflections of themselves these understand all too well.’ They straightened to meet the arrivals, the giant Madrun in his clashing patchwork clothes looming over all. ‘You are bold burglars, sirs,’ Lazan greeted them.
‘You two are known to us,’ one said. ‘Cause no trouble and you may remain.’
‘This is of no help,’ Madrun complained to Lazar. ‘Trouble has so many facets.’
‘Stand aside. We are here to search the premises.’
‘Does doing our job constitute trouble?’ Lazar enquired, smiling, revealing his silver-tipped gold teeth.
The four spread out. The spokesman stepped forward. Olive green dominated the swirls painted upon his mask. From the pattern Madrun and Lazan Door knew him to be of the Four Hundredth. ‘I shall enter,’ he said calmly. ‘If you interfere my companions will act. Is this clear enough even for you?’
Madrun raised his hand. ‘A moment, please. If you would. Am I to understand, then, that you mean to enter while your companions wait, poised, in case we should attempt to stop you? Is that what you are trying to explain?’
The spokesman remained silent for some time. From behind his mask his gaze stabbed between the two, blazing. He drew breath to speak again, reconsidered, and clamped his jaws against it. His hand went to his sword.
‘Gentlemen and lady …’ a sibilant voice quavered from the doorway, ‘may I direct your attention to what I have here?’
All turned to face the doorway where Studious Lock floated amid his gauzy layers of tattered wrap. He held in one rag-covered hand a glass sphere containing a dark mist. ‘Spores of the Even-tine fungus. Known as the Mind- gnawer among the clans of the northern Odhan. Inhaled, they germinate within, sending fibres stealing up into the brain and releasing pathogens that render the poor victim insane … before killing him … or her. My companions have of course been consuming an inoculating chemical regularly. I myself am immune for reasons I need not expound
