Orb Sceptre Throne

she didn’t even want to think about that.

Now Sall, he interested her. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met on her march west, nor among Orbern’s crew. All those boys forced too early to become men had ruled through muscle and viciousness, the fist and the club. But not Sall, nor his father Lo, or this fellow, the Seventh.

Their way was strange, and, she could admit, harsh. But it had clear rules, and that attracted her. She knew she wanted to be part of it.

Late in the day, from one of the higher hillsides, they saw the first hints that they were getting closer. Smoke stained the northeast sky and ahead more and more huts and rotten piers crowded the riverbanks. They were close now. Close to the greatest city of the continent. Yusek had to hug herself to contain her yip of glee.

The murmurings of the arrival preceded them: doors slamming, sandalled feet stamping the stone floor; gasps and exclamations. Then the doors to the Great Hall swung open to admit a troop of Seguleh, dirty and sweat-stained, jogging up the centre.

Courtiers and aristocrats hastily flinched to the sides, making way. From near the white throne Jan watched their advance with stunned incomprehension. What was this? Why were they here?

Leading the troop came Gall. Soot stained his mask and black dried blood caked his side where a wound still gaped wet and open. The Third bowed to Jan.

‘Speak,’ Jan managed, almost breathless with wonder.

Gall straightened, weaving slightly. His chest worked soundlessly. ‘The Moranth,’ he grated. ‘They … used their alchemical weapons upon us. Only we few … escaped the slaughter.’

Still uncomprehending, Jan glared at the man. ‘That is nothing new. They have always had their strange chemistries. The smoking and bursting globes that they throw.’

The Third shook his head as if unable to find the words. ‘This is different, Second. Things have changed during our absence.’

And what an understatement, Gall. Yes. It seems that just as we have changed, so too have the Moranth. It is to be expected.

The Third bowed again. ‘I accept full responsibility, Second. I await your judgement.’

Jan signed for him to rise. ‘No, Third. All responsibility is mine and mine alone. Our rush to engage was foolish. And obviously costly beyond measure. We must re-evaluate our strategy.’

‘I concur,’ put in a new voice and Jan glanced down to see the Mouthpiece at his side. ‘When the rest of your people arrive, Second, then a new army will be sent to punish the Moranth. In the meantime control over the city must be enforced. You Seguleh must keep the population in order.’

Jan struggled to keep his tone neutral as he said: ‘And how do you propose we do so?’

‘Why,’ the sickly pale man answered as he dabbed a cloth to his sweaty forehead, ‘are you not my sword and anvil?’

Jan turned his mask to the immobile Legate upon his white stone seat. ‘I suggest, Legate, that we may not have the time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. The Moranth have dealt us a severe blow. I would be surprised if they did not strike now while we are weakened.’

‘Do not fear, Second. We are impregnable here within the protection of the Circle.’

Fear? This creature thinks I fear? Great Ancestors! The gulf between our thinking. Our mutual miscomprehension … beyond belief. If I fear at all, it is for the future of my people.

Yet Jan bowed, saying, ‘Of that I have no doubt, Legate.’

*

A knock brought Tiserra to her door. She was reluctant to open it, expecting some damned debt collector — not that she couldn’t handle such a one, but it was a distraction from her work. Finally, the persistence of the knocking, and its gentleness, persuaded her to answer.

She saw there the tall slim man that Bellam, one of her nephews on Torvald’s side, had become. She opened the door fully and he bowed.

‘Auntie.’

‘Bellam — a pleasure. You do not come by often enough.’

‘I am sorry, Auntie. I understand that the Legate has sent Torvald from the city. Some sort of political mission. So you are alone …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, Seguleh have returned to the city from the west. Just a bare ragged handful. People think there will be trouble. We are heading out to a residence in the Gadrobi hills. Perhaps you would care to join us?’

Touched, she squeezed his arm. ‘Why, thank you for the offer, nephew. But no. I will remain. Torvald will be returning and I will have to be here for him. And do not worry, I will be safe. Now go. Look after your mother and father, yes?’

Reluctant, a touch confused, the lad hesitated. ‘How do you know …’

‘Never you mind that, lad. Now go.’

He was still uncertain, but he bowed, deferring to her in any case. Sometimes, she knew, a reputation for fierceness made things so much easier.

She did not shut the door but threw on a shawl instead. So, it shall be this night. I must warn the Greyfaces — no gas! Shut the pipes! Squeeze their throats shut just as tight if I must!

The forest they walked gave way to a canyon. A narrow strip of starry night sky shone above. Tayschrenn led, moving confidently. Kiska kept a wary eye out. The canyon became a cave then a series of natural stone tunnels. Kiska finally ventured to ask: ‘Where are we going?’

But the mage merely raised a hand for patience. Kiska subsided, grumbling.

Eventually they emerged from a cave mouth and Kiska found herself high on the steep slope of some sort of mountain. Not too far away the sea spread to the horizons, black and glimmering like the sky. The jade banner of the Visitor glared high above. They were on an island.

‘Where are we?’

‘Kartool.’

‘Kartool!’ Kiska suppressed a start of revulsion. ‘Why here of all places?’

He turned on her a fond, almost amused, glance. ‘As I said, a long delayed reunion. Come.’ Kiska wasn’t sure if she approved of this peculiar sense of humour the High Mage seemed to have acquired.

He led the way along the narrow stone ledge. It curved round the wall of the mountain. For an instant Kiska had a flashback to a similar path on the cliffs of Malaz Isle, no great distance from her now. Agayla … are you there? Is this the Queen’s intent? Is this the right path? Gods, if I only knew.

The track stepped up on to a wide flat walkway that ran straight into the side of the mountain, to a worked cave entrance whose stone pillars were carved with the sigils of D’rek, the Worm of the World’s Autumn. After a moment’s stunned silence, Kiska cleared her throat. ‘Ah, Tayschrenn — this is a temple to D’rek …’

‘Indeed it is. I am glad to see your education encompasses the cult’s iconography.’

Ha! ‘D’rek tried to capture you!’

‘Many times, yes. Capture or kill. But that is the past. A new crossroads has been reached. It is time for a chat. Mustn’t hold grudges.’

They walked the processional way, where braziers lit the tunnel between thick pillars carved from the stone of the walls. No one was about. ‘Where is everyone?’ Kiska breathed, her voice low.

‘D’rek is still without priests, Kiska. Even here and at the temple below. This is the Holy of Holies. The most sacred shrine. Only priests and priestesses were ever allowed entrance here.’

‘And these braziers?’

‘We’ve been invited, Kiska. Here we are.’

The processional way ended at a great cavern, roughly circular. Kiska followed the line of its roof up and up until, squinting, she realized there was no roof. They stood at the base of a central vent that ran through the mountain to its very top. A dormant volcano.

At the centre of the cavern was a pit, a black jagged hole that led down into smoke and utter night. Kiska