Orb Sceptre Throne

Aragan undid the buckles, opened the latches, and swung up the lid. Within lay a long thin object wrapped in oiled leathers. Captain Dreshen studied the item, mystified. The truth was, he had no idea what was in the box — other than that the cadre mages all considered it the most important artefact the Fifth Army possessed.

Aragan pulled off the oiled wrap and Dreshen caught his breath, stepping back. Burn, Oponn and Fanderay protect him. No. It couldn’t be …

His mouth drawn wide in satisfaction, Aragan hefted the thing in one hand. It was about the length of a long-knife. One end was a blade, the other sculpted into a three-toed bird’s foot grasping a frosted orb of glass or crystal.

An Imperial Sceptre.

Aragan slammed the artefact blade-first into the table. The gleaming point bit deep into the wood and the sceptre stood upright, at a slight angle. Aragan set his fists to the table on either side, studied the orb. Despite his awe, Dreshen edged forward as well.

Aragan cleared his throat. ‘This is Ambassador Aragan in Darujhistan. I do not know whether anyone is listening, or if this message will reach anyone, but I must report that all the remaining mage cadre of the Fifth have been murdered. Assassinated. Cadre Filless may have also reported that our allies, the Moranth, have fled the city — terrified, as far as I can see. Something is stirring here in the city and it has moved against us. This is our only remaining communication channel to command. If Unta values Darujhistan then some sort of help must be sent. That is all.’

The ambassador pushed himself from the table, stood with arms crossed regarding the sceptre. Dreshen watched as well, though for what he had no idea.

After a protracted silence during which nothing apparently changed in the state of the sceptre, Dreshen coughed into a fist. ‘How long,’ he began, ‘until …’

‘Until we know? Until they answer — or if anyone’s going to answer at all?’ Aragan shrugged his round shoulders. ‘Who knows.’ He peered round the room. ‘Until then I want this room sealed and guarded. Yes, Captain?’

‘Yes, sir.’

They shut and sealed all the doors, locking the last one behind them. While Aragan waited Captain Dreshen went to find two marines to post on the door.

Behind, in the gloom of the office, the only light was the glow through the slats of the folding terrace doors, now barred from within. And it may have been a trick of that uncertain light, but deep within the depths of the orb, a glimmering awakened and the clouds, like a storm of snow, began to churn.

When Spindle finally started awake, fully clothed on his cot, he lay back and held his head, groaning. No more Barghast mead. Never again. Even warm, as he’d had it with Duiker. Though come to think of it, the historian had drunk little more than one tumbler from the jug.

Holding his head very still for fear that it might fall off, he carefully edged his way down the stairs to the common room. By the light streaming in through the temple-bar’s few windows he saw that it was late afternoon. Damned well slept most of the day — a bad sign. Discipline’s goin’ by the wayside.

Now that the bar was wet once more a few of the regulars had returned to sit by themselves among the tables and booths. Irredeemable souses all, they spent the day expertly maintaining a steady state of numbness bordering on unconsciousness. Watching them, Spindle sometimes worried that that was where he was headed. Somehow, though, the abstract dread was not enough to stop him from getting hammered whenever possible.

He was surprised to see some tall well-dressed fellow sitting with the historian, and slowly eased himself down into a chair at the table. The two older men shared a knowing, amused glance.

‘Care for another to chase that one away?’ Duiker asked.

Spindle showed his teeth. ‘Evil bastard.’

The historian — a dour grim man at the best of times — offered a death’s-head grin. He motioned to his companion, ‘Fisher, Spindle.’

The bard nodded his greeting, his face held tight — Spindle recognized this as the politest possible reaction he could get to his hair shirt, which he never washed. He was surprised that this was the fellow Picker and Blend had spoken of: he had thought he’d be more imposing, more … mysterious. And they said he didn’t come round much any more. Taken up with a witch, or some such thing. He turned to the historian. ‘Remind me to never buy mead again.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ Duiker answered.

Spindle blew out a breath, rubbed his face. ‘Damned strange night last night.’ He tried to get the attention of Picker behind the bar.

‘They have been strange, lately,’ Fisher affirmed, his gaze distant.

‘Last night?’ Duiker asked, a grey brow arching. ‘You mean two nights ago, don’t you?’

Spindle stared, amazed. Damn, but time flies when you finally have coin in your pocket!

‘Spindle, why don’t you tell Fisher here what you thought you saw two nights ago.’

Spindle waved to Picker, who looked right through him. ‘Does a man have to get his own tea and a bite around here?’ he murmured absently. Then he stiffened and half started up from the table, only to groan and sink back down again, holding his head. ‘Beru take it!’

The historian lost his amused half-smile and studied him, uncertain. ‘What is it?’

Ye gods! Two days and I haven’t reported in! What was that woman’s name? Fells? Fillish? Damn! The saboteur’s bloodshot eyes darted right and left and his face took on a pale greenish hue. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll get me some soup.’ He nodded a curt goodbye and ran.

After Spindle had darted out of the bar Duiker said to Fisher, ‘There goes one of the last remaining Bridgeburner cadre mages. Or rather, a mage who thinks he’s a saboteur.’

Fisher touched a long thin finger to his nose and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, there was a certain air about him.’

The papers in Humble Measure’s hands did not so much as quiver when the double doors to his office were kicked open and his secretary was pushed in before an armed and armoured knot of the city watch. His brows, however, did climb his pale forehead as he peered up from the accounts. ‘And to what do I owe this interruption?’ he asked from across the darkened room.

‘They wouldn’t-’ the secretary began only to be hushed by a wave from a man accompanying the guards. This fellow wore plain, rather cheap dark woollen robes.

‘The business of the ruling Council of Darujhistan does not wait for appointments, nor sit patiently for the pleasure of a mere merchant.’

Measure nodded to himself, setting the papers down on the cluttered desk before him. ‘Ah, yes. Council business. Pray tell, what business could the Council have with this mere merchant?’

The young man produced a sealed scroll from his robes. ‘By order of the ruling Council of Darujhistan, as countenanced by its newly elected City Legate, this business is seized as property of said Council as a strategic resource vital to the defence of the city.’ He swallowed as if out of breath, or awed by the significance of what he had just blurted out.

Humble Measure cocked one brow. ‘Indeed?’

‘It is of course your prerogative to dispute the Council’s decision. You are free to appeal the judgement with the relevant subcommittee-’

‘I am not disputing the Legate’s decision,’ Humble said calmly.

The young man continued: ‘All petitions must be reviewed before any hearing …’ He blinked, faltering. ‘Not disputing?’ he repeated as if uncomprehending.

Humble waved to dismiss the very possibility.

‘Not — that is — there will be no appeal?’

‘None. I’ve been expecting this, truth be told.’

The young clerk of the Council wet his lips then cleared his throat into a fist. ‘Very well. You are free to remain, of course, in a purely supervisory role, as the entire production capacity of these facilities is to be