Orb Sceptre Throne

‘And I suppose you have some brilliant alternative?’

‘I suggest we strike inland. Perhaps we’ll find something. A way …’ He tailed off, seeing Kiska’s change of expression. She was no longer looking at him, but above and beyond. He turned round. A moment later he cursed softly. She came up to stand next to him. ‘It’s closing,’ he said.

‘Yes. Definitely smaller.’

The dark smear in the slate-grey sky that was the Whorl had faded to a fraction of the size it had once been.

‘Looks like the Liosan have put an end to it.’

‘I suppose so. Two offspring of Osserc ought to be enough.’

He studied her, his gaze oddly gentle. ‘That could be our way out closing before us.’

She turned away to keep walking. ‘All the more reason to track him down.’

‘Kiska,’ he called, a touch irritated. ‘We could be walking in the wrong direction.’

‘Go ahead! I’m not keeping you! I’m sure all the ladies are missing your moustache.’

She walked on in silence. Part of her wondered whether he’d answer, or whether he was following along at a distance. She refused to glance behind.

Then his voice came, shouting from far off: ‘What if I told you I could find him?’

She stopped, let out a long angry breath. Ye gods! Was this all just some sort of game to the fellow? She turned round, eyed him. He was standing as before, hands still at his belt, rocking back and forth on the heels of his boots. Shaking her head, she retraced her tracks back up the stretch of beach and planted herself before him, hands on hips.

‘This better be good.’

His brown eyes held the usual glint of amusement. He brushed at his now enormous untrimmed moustache, so very pleased with himself. Like the damned cat that has the mouse.

‘You seem to have a soft spot for these local unfortunates, don’t you?’

She flinched away, eyeing him warily. ‘I’ll not let you harm any of them.’

The man looked positively pained — or made a great show of it. ‘Never. What do you think I am?’

A murderous self-interested callous prick? Yet didn’t there seem to be something more to the man? He did appear to have a surprising gentleness. A kind of unpredictable fey compassion. His problem is that he hides it too well. ‘Your point?’

A nod. ‘My point is that your pity for them seems to have blinded you to how they could be of use in your … well, quest.’

She felt distaste hardening her mouth. ‘And that is?’

He sighed, opening his hands. ‘Think, Kiska. There is some kind of connection there. All we need do is keep an eye on them. And eventually …’ He gave an evocative shrug.

She felt a fool. Yes. Stands to reason. Simple. Elegant. Why didn’t I think of it? Because it was passive. She much preferred action. Yet Leoman was hardly the retiring type. Perhaps it was because he must have grown up hunting and thought like a hunter, whereas she had not. For her, just sitting and waiting for something to happen, well, it grated against all her instincts.

Yet she had to agree. And so she allowed a curt nod and headed back up the curve of shoreline. Leoman followed at a discreet distance. Perhaps to spare her his supercilious smirk and self-satisfied grooming of his moustache.

Barathol was slow to answer the loud persistent knocking at his door. It had a suspiciously arrogant and officious sound to it. Finally opening up, he found that he’d been right. A clerk faced him, a great sheaf of scrolls tucked under one arm and another in his hand. Behind him stood three Wardens of the city watch, and behind them stood a wrinkled pinch-faced woman he recognized as a representative of the city blacksmiths’ guild.

He crossed his thick arms, peered down at the clerk. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you …’ the young man consulted the scroll he was holding, ‘the smith known as Barathol Mekhar, a registered foreigner?’

‘I’m not foreign where I was born.’

The clerk blinked up at him. His brows wrinkled as he considered the point. Then he shrugged. ‘Well, Barathol, as a tradesman and a resident you are hereby conscripted to the city’s construction efforts.’

‘I’m not a mason.’

‘Metalworking is also required,’ the woman observed from the rear.

Barathol jerked a thumb to her. ‘Then why isn’t she conscripted?’

‘Members of the blacksmiths’ guild in good standing are exempt,’ the woman replied, prim and flushed with triumph.

Barathol nodded. ‘I see.’

‘I’ll give you a good exempting,’ Scillara spat from behind Barathol and tried to push past him. He threw an arm across the doorway.

‘Is it paid service?’ he asked.

The clerk allowed the thick paper of the scroll to snap back into a cylinder. ‘It will count as taxation.’

Barathol had yet to pay any tax whatsoever on any of his income but decided that perhaps it would be best not to raise the point at this time. ‘Starting when?’

‘The morrow. Report to the site foreman in the morning.’ The man hurried off, clearly relieved to be done. The woman threw Barathol a haughty glare then hastened in his wake. The three Wardens ambled off, hands tucked into belts. Barathol closed the door.

‘How can you go along with that?’ Scillara demanded.

Barathol peered around the small apartment, which was barely furnished at all. The only domestic touches were those he’d added: a cloth at the table, utensils he’d made. ‘Have to,’ he murmured. ‘No choice.’

‘No choice,’ she echoed, disappointed. ‘No choice. I thought I’d picked one with a spine.’

He flinched, but eased his shoulders. ‘They would arrest me. You’d be on the street.’

She sniffed, dismissing that. ‘I’ve been there before. I’ll do it again.’

‘Not with the little ’un. Not with him. I’ll not see that happen.’

Scillara gave a great rolling of her eyes. ‘Gods! Back to that. Martyr for the children.’ She waved him off and headed up the stairs. Barathol watched her go.

Only thing worth martyring for, I’d say.

‘You a friend o’ that rat?’

Rallick looked up from his usual seat in the Phoenix Inn. He blinked, widening his gaze at the astounding apparitions before him. Two men, twins it seemed, embalmed in dust. Clothes ragged and torn. Dirt-pasted faces cadaver hollow. Hair all standing wind-tossed and hardened in grime. ‘What rat might that be?’ he asked, though he sat at the man’s table.

Each pulled out a chair and sat, stiffly. One coughed into a fist and managed, croaking, ‘While we hash that out how ’bout standing two thirsty men a drink?’

Rallick signed to Scurve for a round.

The two let out long exhalations as if cool cloths had just been pressed to their brows.

‘And who are you?’ Rallick asked.

‘Leff.’

‘Scorch.’

Ah. In the flesh. He leaned back, nodding. ‘I see. What can I do for you?’

‘We’re at the rat’s table but we don’t see no hide nor tail,’ said the one who gave his name as Leff.

‘And for the immediate future let’s keep it to rat — shall we?’

‘Oh?’ said the other, Scorch, his expression puzzled. Or at least so it looked beneath all the pancaking of dust and grit and untrimmed beard. ‘Why’zat?’

Subtlety, Rallick decided, would be lost upon these two and so he allowed himself an exaggerated frown and lift of his shoulders. ‘Well … let’s just say that everyone’s name is on a list somewhere …’

The two stiffened, their gazes flying to one another. One touched a dirty finger to his nose; the other touched