Orb Sceptre Throne

this thing before him? Would he then become … it?

Some force compelled Ebbin’s gaze upwards. His eyes climbed to the oval gold mask, now a glowing circle of reflected light. The mysterious mocking smile engraved there was sly now, as if he and it shared some hidden knowledge unguessed at even by those surrounding them.

The cloaked figure raised a hand, gesturing, and Aman bowed again. ‘Yes. Spread out. Guard all approaches. Let none interfere.’

Ebbin was left alone with the creature. What had they named it? Father? In truth? Perhaps the title was merely honorific. Now would it do it? Take him? His knees lost their strength and he fell to the ground. Gods! Why this agonizing delay? Won’t it just end things?

Standing above him the creature held out its right hand, pointed to Ebbin’s. Mystified, Ebbin looked at his own right hand. It was fisted, the knuckles white with pressure. When did … His breath caught. He remembered the tomb. He remembered reaching …

Oh no. Please, no …

Something was in his fist. It was hard and round. Ebbin’s heart lurched, skipping and tripping, refusing to beat.

Oh no. Oh no, no. Please no.

He held out his hand. It was oddly numb, as if it were someone else’s. He unclenched his fingers and there on his palm rested the gleaming white pearl from the last niche of the sepulchre. Moonlight shone from it like molten silver.

Please! I beg of you … do not make me do what I think you will demand. Please! Spare me!

The creature raised its head to the night sky, and for an instant Ebbin had the dizzying sense that the moon was no longer in the sky but on the mask before him.

A pale circle. A pearl … of course! It was so obvious. He would have to warn everyone! He-

The creature raised a hand above that smiling uplifted mouth. The fingers were pinched together as if holding some delicacy, a grape or a sweet, then opened there above the mouth. The moon lowered to regard him. Its enigmatic smile was now one of triumph.

Oh no.

*

At Lady Varada’s estate its two remaining guards, Madrun and Lazan Door, were engaged in their timeless ritual of tossing dice against a wall when one bone die refused to stop spinning. Both watched it, wonder-struck, as it turned and turned before them.

Then screaming erupted from the estate. They ran for the main hall. Here they found the castellan, Studlock, in his layered cloths as if wrapped in rags, blocking the way down to the rooms below. The continuous howling was not just one of fear. It sounded as if a woman was having her hands and feet sawn off.

Studlock raised open hands. ‘M’lady gave commands not to be disturbed.’

The two guards peered in past the castellan. ‘Would you listen!’ said Madrun. ‘Someone’s got her.’

‘Not at all,’ soothed Studlock. ‘M’lady is experiencing an illness. Nothing more. You may characterize it as something like withdrawal. I will prepare suitable medicines this moment — if I have your word not to go below! M’lady values her privacy.’

Madrun and Lazan winced at a particularly terrifying scream. ‘But …’

Studlock shook a crooked finger. ‘Your devotion is commendable, I assure you. However, all is in hand. Oil of d’bayang, I believe, is called for. And alcohol. A great deal of alcohol.’ The castellan shuddered within his strips of cloth. ‘Though how anyone could consume such poison is beyond me.’

Lazan stroked his face and jerked as if surprised when his fingers touched his flesh. He tapped his partner on the shoulder and the two reluctantly withdrew.

Behind them the tormented howling continued throughout the night.

*

In the deepest donjon beneath his estate High Alchemist Baruk knelt before a large diagram cut into the stone floor and inscribed in poured bronze, silver and iron. In one hand he held out a smoking taper with which he drew symbols in the air, while with the other he flicked drops of blood from a cut across the meat of his thumb.

In mid-ceremony the locked, warded and sealed iron-bound door to the chamber crashed open and a gust of wind blew out the taper and brushed aside the intricate forest of symbols lingering in the air.

Baruk’s shoulders fell. ‘Blast.’

He lunged for the middle of the concentric rings of wards but something seemed to yank on his feet and he fell short. His arms, which crossed the rings of engraved metal, burst into flames. The robes fell to ash, revealing black armoured limbs twisted in sinew. His hands glowed, smoking, becoming toughened claws. The yanking continued. He scrabbled at the stone floor, gouging the rock and the metal bands.

‘No!’

He flew backwards, stopped only by his clawed hands grasping the stone door jamb. He hung there, snarling, while the stone fractured and ground beneath his amber talons. The stones exploded in an eruption of dust and shards and he was whipped away up the hall to disappear.

*

Rallick entered the Phoenix Inn to find the common room uncharacteristically subdued. The crowd was quiet, the talk a low murmur, tense and guarded. He nodded to Scurve, the barkeeper, as he crossed to the back. Here Kruppe sat at his usual table. A dusty dark bottle stood before him, unopened. Rallick pulled up a chair and sat, noted the two glasses.

‘What are you celebrating?’

The fat man roused himself, blinking as if returning from some trance. ‘I? Celebrating? Neither. I invite you to join me in giving witness. We shall drink to the inevitable. The unavoidable. The relentless turning of the celestial globes in which all that was before shall be again. As it must.’ He took up the bottle and began picking at its seal.

‘What are you going on about?’

Tongue pressed firmly between his teeth, Kruppe answered, ‘Nothing. And everything. Chance versus inevitability. How those two war. Their eternal battle is what we call our lives, my friend! Which shall win? We shall see … as we saw before.’

For a time Rallick watched his friend wrestling with the bottle, then, sighing his impatience, snatched it from him and began picking with his knife at the tar-like substance hardened around the neck. ‘What drink is this?’ he asked. ‘I’ve not seen the like. Is it foreign? Malazan?’

‘No. No foreign distillation is that. It is sadly entirely of our own making. And very sour it is too. It was set aside long ago for just this foreseen occasion.’

‘And the occasion?’ Rallick managed to remove the last of the old wax.

Kruppe reached for the bottle but Rallick jammed his blade into the cork and twisted. The fat man winced, yanking back his hand. He studied his fingertips as if burned. ‘Nothing important,’ he murmured. ‘Everything is connected to everything else. Nothing is of more significance than any other thing.’

Twisting and twisting, Rallick drew out the cork. He handed back the bottle. Kruppe took it, gingerly.

‘So we’re celebrating nothing?’ Rallick said, arching a brow.

Kruppe raised the bottle. ‘You are most correct. This is nothing to celebrate.’ He tilted the bottle to pour. Nothing appeared. He tilted the bottle even further. Still nothing emerged. He held the bottle upside down over the glass, shook it, and not one drop fell. Rallick took it from him and held it up to one eye. He handed it back.

‘Empty. Empty as death’s mercy. What kind of joke is this, Kruppe?’

Kruppe frowned at the bottle. ‘An entirely surprising one, I assure you, dear friend.’

Rallick raised a hand to Jess. ‘If you’re too tight-fisted to spring for a bottle you just have to say so, Kruppe. No need for cheap conjuror’s tricks.’

The squat man suddenly grinned like a cherub, his cheeks bunching. He raised a finger. ‘Ahh! Now I have the way of it. The bottle was not empty at all!’

Rallick grimaced his incomprehension. ‘What?’