‘There are disturbing movements of forces in the foothills.’ She paused for a time as if sorting through her words. ‘I have been chosen to act as your guide.’
‘No. I do not mean the northern tribals.’
‘No? Then … the Malazans?’
‘No. Not the Malazans.’
Tor frowned at the maddening woman. ‘Well … then who?’ She ushered him into a stone circular staircase that they climbed single-file, he second. ‘Well?’
‘Your Darujhistani army has been summoned, Nom of Nom.’
‘Army? Darujhistan has never had an army.’
They emerged on to another of the tower roofs. Here rank after rank of quorl awaited, wings setting up a roar of commingled thrumming. The wind buffeted him. Most, he saw, carried two Moranth: a driver and a passenger. As he watched, stunned, waves of the quorl took off in file after file, peeling away in flights. From other towers more arose until the sky was darkened by their fragile silhouettes sweeping overhead like a tide rushing down a valley.
‘Who?’ he shouted to Galene. ‘
‘Our old enemy,’ she answered, icy fury in her voice. ‘The ones who drove us from the plains. Who exiled us to these mountain tops ages ago.’ She thrust a finger at him. ‘Your murdering Seguleh.’
Just inside the unlocked gate of the Eldra Iron Mongers, Barathol cast about for someone, anyone, to greet him. It was illegal to be out this late; the Legate had lowered a curfew that was enforced by the Seguleh. And never had Barathol heard of a curfew so scrupulously respected.
The works were silent. For months now no black choking smoke had swirled about this end of the city and the waters of the bay lapped almost clear. He was of a mind to turn round — curfew breaking compounded by trespassing — when he spotted the odd little fellow himself, arms clasped behind his back, closely studying a workbench of abandoned tools. He came up behind and was about to speak when Kruppe asked: ‘Was the carriage ride diverting?’
‘Kruppe — I don’t know what you call a carriage, but I don’t call a cart pulled by an ass a carriage. I could have walked faster.’
The little man’s chin pulled in, aghast. ‘What! Why, the lad assured me it was a carriage. Most replete.’
‘Would that be the same lad who was hitting the ass to keep it going?’
‘I wouldn’t know, was it? And you
Barathol pulled a hand down his jowls and chin while he studied the bland-faced fellow. He appeared completely forthright. ‘I’m going now.’ He turned to leave.
‘No, no, no!’ Kruppe dodged around him. ‘It must be you. Please. A simple job. Delicate and … ah,
‘Kruppe — I’m no master craftsman. I’m just an average smith. You don’t want me. And I have to say I’m starting to wonder about this villa of yours.’
‘Why, I am assured it is most exquisite! Airy. Charming. With enormous … character.’
‘Sounds like an old shack missing a wall.’
Kruppe froze, surprised. ‘You’ve seen it?’
Barathol started off again. ‘Like I said, I’m heading home.’ Rattling at the gate stopped him. The tall iron- barred doors had been closed and someone was approaching. It was hard to see in the eerie jade-hued light but the man appeared to be a tramp or a beggar. His clothes hung tattered and blackened. His hair was a wild nest and his face and hands glistened, soot-smeared and sweaty. He was rubbing his hands in a rag that was even dirtier.
The derelict stopped before them. He eyed Barathol up and down, said to Kruppe, ‘Is this your smith?’
‘’Tis he.’
‘I know all the smiths in the city. This one’s new to me.’
‘He’s a smith of foreign extraction.’
A smile shone bright against the man’s grimed face. ‘Just as I am.’ He pointed. ‘This way.’
As they walked Barathol peered about the quiet ghostly yard and open silent sheds. ‘There may be guards …’
‘No guards,’ said the tramp. ‘Just me — the owner.’
Barathol stopped dead. ‘You are Humble Measure?’
‘In the flesh.’
Barathol turned to Kruppe, his gaze narrowing. ‘What’s going on here?’
Humble waved the rag at Kruppe. ‘This man has contracted for some work. Welcome income.’ He opened his arms wide to encompass his yards. ‘There has been a temporary slowdown in production.’
‘Fabrication,’ Kruppe said. ‘A delicate job.’
‘Indeed,’ Humble Measure agreed. He motioned Barathol onward. ‘Let me tell you a story — if I may. There once was a man who was frightened. He was afraid of the rule of oppressive overlords, of marauding armies, of murderers, of bloody-handed thieves. In short, of almost everything. To defend against them and to be strong he decided to build thick walls of stone all about him. He shackled himself to these walls so that he could not be dragged off. He barred the window with thick iron rods. He secured the door with locks and crossbars and swallowed the keys. Then, one day, peering terrified from between the bars he realized that in his extraordinary efforts to be protected and unassailable he had built for himself something else entirely.’
‘A prison.’
‘Exactly so. In his efforts to be free of oppression he had enslaved himself.’
They had entered one of the larger worksheds. Humble led him to a metal bench cluttered with metal forging tools, tongs, hammers, and pinchers. Nearby, one of the immense furnaces glowed, crackling and hissing. A wide stone box sat upon the bench.
‘Never touch with your naked hand what lies within,’ Kruppe warned.
Humble Measure raised a pair of fine pinchers. ‘I will assist.’
Barathol waved to him. ‘You do it. You’re the master smith.’
‘It requires your, ah, intent,’ Kruppe said.
‘Mine? What for?’
The little man peered to the vaulted roof as if searching for the right words. ‘For a certain quality of circularity.’
‘What?’
‘Just that.’
Barathol eyed the two as if judging their sanity — which seemed utterly lacking. ‘Just what is the job?’
‘Inlay,’ Humble said.
‘We do not possess the, ah,
Barathol grunted.
Kruppe entwined his pudgy fingers over his stomach. ‘Very good. I’ll leave you two to your trade secrets.’ He suddenly thrust a finger into the air. ‘But remember! The finished product must be dipped in bee’s wax! That is most imperative.’
Humble waved him off. ‘Yes, yes. We know our trade. Now be gone.’
‘Be gone? I’ll have you know, sir, that Kruppe was about to go! Kruppe will not be hurried or rushed off. No unseemly haste for the timely Kruppe.’
‘Shall we open the box now?’ Humble asked Barathol.
‘Kruppe is leaving — farewell!’
As they descended the foothills, the Dwelling Plain lay before them, dun and ochre, shimmering in the day’s heat, and Yusek cursed the sight of it. She could not believe that here she was yet again setting out across its damned dust-choked hills and draws. How many times had she sworn, and to how many gods and demons, that once she escaped she would never set foot upon it again?
