Orb Sceptre Throne

confrontation and escalation. Before entering into battle one must consider all the potential outcomes, select the most desirable, then guide the engagement to the achievement of that end.

And what is that end? At this time I have no idea what it might be …

When the city Warden opened the cell door for Jan and two of the Hundredth, the prisoner stood to meet them. He held his head level. His hands were bound behind his back. He was an older, rather overweight, retired city guardsman, now dishevelled from having been searched and mildly beaten.

‘You are charged with conspiring to bring down the rule of the Legate,’ Jan said.

The two of the Hundredth exchanged wondering glances; the prisoner seemed unaware of the extraordinary honour Jan had just accorded him.

The man shrugged as best he could with his hands tightly bound. ‘I am not ashamed. Nor do I deny it. I would do it again. Darujhistan can govern itself without coercion or command.’

‘That would be chaos.’

The ex-guardsman appeared amused. ‘Only to those who do not understand it.’

Jan gave a quick cut of his hand. ‘Hierarchy must be clear.’

‘You of all people I do not expect to understand such things.’

‘Perhaps that is so,’ Jan agreed. ‘I do not pretend to be conversant with all forms of rulership.’

The former guardsman nodded. ‘Ah … I see it now. You speak of rulership. I speak of governance.’

‘I do not see the distinction.’

The ex-guardsman studied Jan closely, as if attempting to peer in behind the mask. What he saw there, or failed to see, appeared to disappoint him. ‘Then that is the gulf between us.’ He tilted his head as if struck by a new thought. ‘Yet you are speaking to me — why?’

‘I am trying to understand.’

This admission rocked the ex-guardsman and his eyes widened as he seemed to appreciate the depth of it. Then his gaze slid to the floor and he let out a heavy breath. ‘If that is so, then I am saddened for you.’

Now Jan was shaken as if struck. I am here to execute this man yet he pities me?

Perhaps alarmed by Jan’s reaction one of the Hundredth stepped forward, gripping her sword. ‘Kneel,’ she commanded. ‘You have been condemned to die.’

Jan snapped out a hand-command. No. ‘This is for me.’

‘You are Second,’ the woman dared breathe, mask held aside.

‘All the more reason it must be me.’ Yes, I am Second. To me must fall this burden. To me must fall the guilt. He slipped a hand to his sword-grip, addressed the ex-guardsman. ‘It will be quick.’

‘For me it will be,’ the man whispered before Jan’s blade flashed one-handed beneath his chin. The knees gave first, seeming to drag the body down. It fell straight, limp, sagging.

Jan regarded the corpse and its last pumping jets of arterial blood as the heart stubbornly laboured on, refusing to admit to the end. He carefully cleaned his blade before resheathing it. The two of the Hundredth stared on, fascinated by the graphic demonstration. Jan motioned them out, rather impatiently, and remained behind. The man was right. For him this had been quick. But I fear I will never put this behind me. I have murdered. To me now falls the guilt for this … and so much more. Oh, First, why did you not speak of this? Was it because your guilt was too great? And yet all that was so long ago. Can’t a people change? Perhaps they can — if those around them will allow it.

Leaving the hall of cells Jan motioned to the prison guards. They passed him, eyes downcast, sliding along the far wall. And where Jan might have once read respect, or due esteem, he now saw only fear. Perhaps even a touch of distaste.

Or was that just himself?

Antsy could no longer hear the muted groaning and crack of rock echoing through the Spawn now that he was chiselling out the stone threshold under the great stone doors concealing what this crazy-eyed gang of witches, priests, mages and mercenaries were convinced was the Throne of Night.

He didn’t think they led to anything remotely like that at all. Maybe the Broom Closet of Dust. Or more likely the Toilet of Crap. But that wasn’t his worry. His job was to open these doors, or no one was going anywhere. Even when he rested, the sharp ringing of iron on iron twanged in his ears, and so it was a shock to glance over and see a set of fine polished leather boots right next to him. He glanced up and saw the armoured and richly attired fellow who he assumed to be a mage, who had given his name as Bauchelain.

‘What do you want?’ Antsy said, rather loudly because of all the ringing.

The man bent down to study him with unsettling intensity. ‘You are close to death,’ he said.

Antsy looked the fellow up and down very pointedly. ‘I sure am.’

He shook his head, chuckling. ‘No, no, no. Not me. Not at the moment, in any case. No, I mean death is watching you. You are of interest to … ah … it.’

‘You mean Hood?’

‘Certainly not. Hood has gone to his oh-so-poetic and appropriate end, has he not? Dying, as he did. Which itself raises all sorts of disturbing chicken-and-egg questions and other philosophical conundrums. No, what I mean is the new manifestation it has fixed on while it flails about trying to find a permanent one — if any. Which brings us back to you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. The current manifestation of death is, again appropriately enough, soldiers. A certain band of soldiers, whose remains, so rumours have it, can be found on this very rock. My companion, Korbal Broach, is very eager to make their acquaintance. Quite keen he is to study them. You wouldn’t happen to know their whereabouts, would you?’

Antsy swallowed hard and said, dead level, ‘I have no idea what yer talking about.’

‘Ah. A shame, that. Well, let’s hope something turns up, yes?’

Antsy said nothing.

A reedy old man’s voice called from the darkness: ‘Master Bauchelain! Our, ah, friend is getting into trouble again!’

The fellow stroked his goatee, looking at the ceiling and sighing. ‘Must go. Korbal’s wandered off. Till later then, yes? Take care.’

Shaken, Antsy returned to his chiselling. Burn’s own blood! Truth be told, he’d come here precisely to make sure nothing like what that creature was hinting at would happen, or had happened. In the back of his mind he’d known the danger existed, what with the Spawn crashing and all. Sure, a bucketful of gems and coin would go a long way. But that was just cream. All along he’d wanted to make sure things were still all squared away and proper. The thought of a broken sealed pit or whatever it was, and people messin’ about with the bones of his brothers and sisters, made him too furious to even think straight-

He left off his chiselling, panting, hands fisted on his thighs. Almost busted a thumb there.

Someone else was standing behind him now: cracked sandals, tattered trouser legs over bony bruised shanks. The lad, Jallin. He leaned down. ‘You’re gonna die, soldier,’ he said, matter of fact. ‘My mistress. The things I seen her do. She’s gonna do for you …’

‘Shut the Abyss up,’ Antsy growled. ‘I’m busy.’

The lad flinched, almost hurt. Then he recovered, grinning toothily. ‘Gonna die,’ he mouthed, backing away.

Shaking his head Antsy returned to his work. Some time later someone banged on the stone flag of the threshold and Antsy whipped round, a curse on his lips. It was the blond-haired mercenary in his plain cloth tabard over mail armour, and canvas-covered round shield. With him were two of his guards. The other two, it seemed, hadn’t made it. ‘What is it?’ Antsy asked, wary.

The man peered at his work from under his tangled brows. ‘You are making a hole, yes? A nest?’

The accent was completely unfamiliar but Antsy nodded. ‘Yeah. Sorta …’

‘How deep?’

‘About the span of a hand. Why?’

‘We will help dig. You go rest. Yes?’