Orb Sceptre Throne

flinched back from its lip; whatever was down there, it smelled vile.

‘What now?’ she asked, a hand at her nose.

‘Now she and I are going to have a talk, and you mustn’t interfere. Stay here, yes?’

‘Well, all right,’ she allowed, doubtful. ‘But where are you-’ Then she screamed as Tayschrenn stepped up and threw himself into the pit, diving in a long arc to disappear from sight.

Screaming still, she nearly threw herself in after him, but a strong hand grasped her cloak and yanked her away. She fell on her back and found herself looking up at an old woman, bent, hair a thick ropy nest and eyes bright circles of milky white. ‘Doan do that,’ the old crone snarled at her crossly, shaking a crooked finger.

‘Don’t do what?’ she gasped, completely shocked.

‘Doan yell like that to wake the dead. Hurts the ears, that does.’

‘Sorry.’ She leapt to her feet. ‘But he jumped! He-’

‘Yes, yes.’ The old woman waved dismissively. ‘That’s what the most powerful of them do. Doan worry y’self. He’ll be back. Or … he’ll be dinner for the Worm!’ and she chuckled, shuffling off.

Kiska followed. ‘Dinner! You mean … down there … it’s down there?’

‘Oh aye. Down there. Far enough. Coiling and churning eternal. The Worm of the Earth. A worm of energy, it is. Fire and flame, molten rock and boiling metal. Ever restless. And a good thing too! Else we’d all be dead!’

‘I’m sorry — I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Never mind. Make y’self useful. See that bucket?’

Kiska peered into the shadows. ‘I think so.’

‘Well, fill it and follow me!’

Against the wall Kiska found a bucket and woven baskets bursting with coal. She filled the bucket and followed.

‘Keep the fires going — that’s my job,’ the old hag was muttering. ‘Can’t be neglected! It’s the light and heat that keeps us all alive. Yes?’ She peered about blindly.

‘Ah … yes,’ Kiska said.

‘That’s right!’ Reaching the wall, the woman walked along, tracing her way with one hand. The other hand she held up high, quavering. Nearing a brazier, she patted at the hot metal to test its heat. Kiska winced at the sight. Nodding to herself, satisfied, she moved on. ‘There’s precious few these days understand that, girl,’ she muttered. ‘Precious few understand that it’s all about service. Serving!’

‘Yes,’ Kiska answered, understanding now that this was her role.

‘No,’ the old crone muttered, spitting aside. ‘Nowadays it’s all about gathering — influence and power and whatnot.’ She found another brazier, patted its hot iron with her naked hand, waved. ‘Low! Fill it!’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s not how it used to be. Not how it should be! Do you understand me?’

‘Ah … yes.’ I have no idea what you’re blathering on about, you miserable hag.

‘Only way to sustain anything, to build anything, is to give! You understand me, girl? Give and give of y’self till there’s nothing left to give! Only then can you have something! If you take, you diminish things till there’s nothing left. If you give, you provide and things grow! Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘There y’go! That’s right. Everyone’s greedy these days. It’ll only diminish the pot till there’s nothing left! Then we’re all in the dark, yes?’

‘Ah … right. Yes.’

The old woman leaned back against the wall, breathing wetly. ‘There we go. All done.’

‘We’re done?’ Kiska studied the countless other braziers surrounding the chamber.

‘Not us! Me. I’m done. You go on and finish.’

Kiska eased out a long low breath between her teeth, but continued. She went all the way round the cavern, tossing lumps of coal into any of the braziers that were low, relighting others that had gone out. When she returned the bucket to its place she found the old woman sitting against the wall, her knees drawn up tight, a cloak wrapped around her, asleep, her mouth half open.

Tired, hungry, her nerves still jangling for Tayschrenn, Kiska eased herself down the wall to sit with her own knees drawn up and rested her chin on them. Soon afterwards she fell asleep.

She awoke to a light kick and jerked, blinking. Tayschrenn was peering down at her. He appeared to be in a good mood. He was smiling and seemed unharmed from his descent, but for his mussed hair and soot-stained cloak.

‘I’m sorry if I scared you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you would’ve reacted well to my telling you what I was about to do.’

‘No. I wouldn’t have.’ She pushed herself up, wincing and easing her back. ‘So — we’re done here?’

‘Yes.’

‘You … spoke to her?’

The mage eyed her sidelong. ‘Sort of. That’s not really how we communicated.’

‘I see. Well, I had a grand old time doing chores here.’

‘Chores?’

‘Yes. The old woman who takes care of the place. She showed me the ropes. Gods, does she ever go on.’

Tayschrenn had been on his way to the tunnel. He stopped to turn. ‘Kiska. There’s no one else here.’

‘Sure there is.’ She glanced about. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. ‘She was right here.’

‘Must have been a dream, Kiska. Because we are all alone. But tell me … what did she have to say?’

Baruk’s workroom was at the very top of the tower. On the way up the endless narrow circular stairway Spindle had grumbled to himself: Gods, why do they always have to be at the top? Never on the ground floor. All this useless walking up and down!

Since being guided into the room by the little waddling demon, Duiker had had him searching for all the various chemicals in their phials, globes, decanters and cups. The historian dropped samples from each liquid on to a chip of the white stone. He hadn’t been happy with any of the reactions produced.

Eventually, long past midnight, they gave up for the time being and Spindle gestured for the old man to rest. He would take first watch. An old campaigner, the historian curled up on all the cloths they’d piled together as a bed and went to sleep.

From a seat beneath a window Spindle watched the city below. It struck him as oddly dark. Very few of the many gas jets of blue flame that normally illuminated its streets and buildings appeared to be lit. Above, the green radiance of the Scimitar shone down. And it seemed to him that the two nimbuses warred over the city. Or at least that was what he fancied. The night was very quiet. In fact the city had been very quiet ever since the Seguleh arrived. Everyone hurried, reluctant to be out, constantly peering over their shoulders. People were afraid. And the Seguleh hadn’t even done anything yet! He had the impression that they simply weren’t welcome, weren’t wanted, here in Darujhistan. Which struck him as odd since the city seemed to welcome everyone, priding itself on being so cosmopolitan and all.

He supposed it was more what they represented. Or stood for, perhaps.

A few bells later he woke the historian.

In the morning nothing had changed. None of the chemicals they tested elicited the sort of reaction the historian seemed to expect. As the day waned Spindle returned to his seat at the window. A growled sigh of frustration drew his gaze to Duiker as the man pushed himself away from the worktable. He regarded Spindle through bloodshot, squinting eyes. ‘Nothing. I don’t understand it. This should be the answer. Why is nothing reacting?’

Spindle shrugged. ‘Maybe we need a new sample? Another shard?’

The historian waved his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Well … perhaps. Go get one.’

‘All right.’ He heaved himself from the chair and headed to the top of the stairs where they’d dropped their load of stones. Here he found the fat little demon, its head in the cloak, stuffing its great mouth with the chips.

‘Hey! Git outta there!’