Orb Sceptre Throne

It raced off, dragging the cloak with it. Spindle gave chase. Its little clawed feet clicked over the polished stone floor as it ducked under tables and around furniture. Spindle swore again for leaving his shortsword behind. He almost lost his quarry amid all the furnishings and hangings but spotted a telltale corner of the cloak peeping out of a well-hidden door. Searching about, Spindle found a fireplace poker and raised it, then reached for the slim stone door.

He yanked it open, poker poised, and the little demon hissed at him then ran between his legs and scuttled off. Spindle let it go; it had abandoned the cloak. He gathered up the cloth and gave it a shake. Just a few leavings rattled at the bottom.

Togg curse it!

Then he glimpsed something else in the narrow cupboard. A huge amphora as tall as his waist set on a wrought-iron stand. It looked to be of some sort of fired ceramic, glazed black. Its lid was sealed with wax and pressed into the liberal drippings was some kind of sigil.

He went to get the historian.

Together they carried the amphora into the workroom. Duiker studied the seal then looked at Spindle, arching one grey brow. Spindle reached outward to feel for any Warren-anchored wardings or traps. He sensed nothing and shrugged. ‘What’s the seal?’ he asked.

‘Looks like the High Alchemist’s own. As far as I can deduce.’

‘Should we open it?’

The historian sat back in his chair, rested his chin in one hand. ‘Well, that is a question. We’re inside the inner sanctum of a powerful alchemist. We find an amphora specifically hidden away and sealed and so naturally we open it. Sounds like an epitaph to me.’

Spindle nodded, pursing his lips. ‘I see what you mean. Let’s go get the pet.’

They lured it in with the stone chips. Spindle held one out, beckoning, backing up until they had it in the room. Duiker closed the door on it. It looked unhappy but Spindle held the chip over its head and let it have it.

Then he held out another of their rapidly dwindling supply and pointed to the amphora. ‘Should we open that?’ The little demon wouldn’t take its beady blood-red eyes off the chip. It hissed and tried to jump. Its pot belly wobbled. ‘What will happen if we open that?’ Spindle tried again, pointing. It held up its skinny arms, clawing the air. Spindle sighed.

‘Put the chip on the jar,’ Duiker suggested.

Spindle did so, resting the piece of Alabaster on the wax. The little demon watched with narrowed eyes. It waddled over to the amphora and with scratching claws and feet tried its best to climb it. Spindle had to stop the thing from toppling over.

Duiker came up and shooed the demon off. It snatched up the stone chip and scrambled off, claws scritching. ‘I guess we have our answer,’ Spindle said.

‘Unless the wretch has no idea what’s in there — which is more than likely.’

‘Ah. Well. What’ll we do?’

Duiker rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. ‘I guess we have no choice. We open it.’

Using the tools and supplies available in the alchemist’s workroom Spindle set up a rig. First he selected the sharpest steel tool he could find to scour a ring all the way round the neck of the amphora. Then he adjusted the height of a table so that it matched the height of the scoured line and secured the amphora to the edge. He cleared the table of everything and poured a decanter of oil all over it. Earlier he’d spotted a long iron bar and this he laid down on the tabletop so that one end touched the neck of the amphora while the other extended out over the opposite edge. Then he stood on a chair to drive a pin into the ceiling over the table. Using rope, he hung the biggest lead weight he could find from the pin. Carefully, he measured the length so that the weight — in the form of an elephant, appropriately enough — just touched the far end of the bar.

All this extraordinary effort Duiker watched, bemused, arms crossed. Finally he waved a hand. ‘Why all this?’

‘Don’t want to be in the room when it opens, do we?’

‘Well, no. I suppose not. But there has to be an easier way …’

Spindle paused in the act of tying off the weight so that he could pull another cord and release it to swing free, striking the end of the bar as it swung. He glared his annoyance. ‘You tellin’ me my trade?’

Duiker raised his hands. ‘No, no. It just seems rather … intricate.’

‘It’ll work, I’m pretty sure. The point is, I can pull the cord from the door and we’ll be outside when it happens.’

Duiker decided that perhaps it would be best if he said nothing more. Spindle waved him from the room, played out the cord until he stood outside with the door open a slit, then gave Duiker the high sign. He shouted, ‘Munitions!’ pulled the cord and slammed the door, throwing himself down on the hall floor next to Duiker.

The sound of the weight hitting the iron bar, a crash, and the metallic ringing of the bar hitting the stone floor reached them almost simultaneously. Spindle raised a hand for a pause, waited, then carefully climbed to his feet. He edged to the door, drew a breath, and glanced back to Duiker. The historian waved him on. Shrugging, he swung open the door. They both peered in. The top of the amphora was no longer visible above the table.

Spindle cuffed Duiker’s shoulder. ‘Ha! Knew it would work. What did I say?’

Indeed, the neck had snapped right off. Duiker was rather impressed; he hadn’t thought the weight would strike the bar. Spindle held a hand over the open amphora neck then sniffed his palm. He wrinkled his nose: ‘Sour. Acidic.’ Duiker went to find a clean pot.

Spindle edged over the amphora while Duiker held the container ready. Clear liquid poured out, smelling strongly acidic. Duiker set the pot down on the table then held one chip over it. ‘Ready?’ he said. Spindle nodded. Duiker dropped it and jumped backwards.

The reaction was, even by saboteur standards, impressive.

~

Spindle was leaning out of the open window; the stink in the room was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. ‘What now?’ he asked Duiker, who was pacing. ‘Can’t lug that through the streets. Might get stopped by the Wardens, or the masked boys.’

Duiker stood still. He tapped his thumb to his lips as he thought. ‘Might have an answer there. Any more chips?’

‘One or two.’

‘Get our friend.’

Spindle went to the hall and tapped a chip to a wall, calling, ‘Here, boy!’ He whistled and tsked. A crimson head poked round a corner, one red eye cocked.

Duiker knelt, hands on knees, to address the demon. ‘Tell me, friend. Does your master have a wine cellar?’

As the afternoon waned Spindle and Duiker walked through the city streets burdened by wooden crates of wine bottles. It was slow going. Duiker was an old man who’d been through a lot. This was more physical activity than he’d had in over a year. Spindle was patient; he knew what the man had experienced. Frankly it was a miracle the fellow was still able to function. In fact, Duiker might not be aware of it, but Spindle admired him no end. It seemed to him that they just didn’t make them that tough any more. And while the message that had sent them on this errand might have been delivered to him, Spindle was of the opinion that it had really been meant for the Imperial Historian. He was the one who possessed the knowledge that had gotten them this far.

But it was his show from this point onward.

As the afternoon edged into a warm humid evening they reached the alley at the back of K’rul’s bar. They stacked the crates in the kitchen and then, completely drained, staggered upstairs to rest.

The Great Hall of Darujhistan glittered with the silken finery of the city’s female aristocracy vying to display the most intricate and, to Lady Envy’s eyes, most cumbersome and uncomfortable dresses. Jewellery was heaped upon jewellery in a — really, quite vulgar — draping of necklaces, brooches, tiaras, bracelets and jewelled sashes.

It was all rather sadly disappointing. Not at all what she’d hoped it would be.

No one here appeared sophisticated enough to appreciate the fine subtleties she brought to the court in her