Orb Sceptre Throne

The crew had a break as more gravel was sent for. They stood, stretching and grimacing over their aches and pains. ‘What’re they up to?’ Turner asked.

Gazes slid aside, feet were shifted, uneasy. Harmon peered right and left then edged closer. A pained look crossed his face and he backed up a step. Then, taking a great breath, he leaned in. ‘Some kinda protection for the city, right? This is one o’ the new Legate’s improvements, right?’

‘One?’ grumbled another. ‘Only one I knows.’

Turner looked suitably impressed. ‘Damn … you don’t say. Must be them stones, hey?’

Harmon frowned, suddenly a touch uneasy. ‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘Only one way to find out, don’t you think?’ And Turner picked up a shovel and headed back up the trench for the tent.

‘Gods, man …’ Harmon hissed, appalled.

‘Don’t be a fool!’ another called, voice low.

After that, hammers started clanging and chisels ringing as the crew was suddenly very busy.

Spindle was damned terrified, but he bet that these two Adepts — and he knew the two as such: as far above his capabilities as any Imperial High Mage — would see only what they expected to see: an empty-headed labourer.

He pushed through the hanging flap to find himself almost blind in the shrouded darkness. Burn take it! Didn’t think of that.

‘What in the name of the Cursed Ones do you think you’re doing?’ a voice snarled down the length of the tent. Spindle bowed, touching his forehead repeatedly. ‘Just reportin’, sir. We’re almost done with the-’

‘I don’t give a shit what you’re finished with or not. Never come in here. Get out! Now!’

Spindle could just make out a hunched figure, lantern set before him, bent over the glowing white blocks, instruments in hand. He bowed again, touching his forehead. ‘O’ course, sir. Yes. Course. Sorry.’ He backed away, bowing, feeling behind himself for the flap.

‘Out!’

He scuttled backwards through the flap, turned round and ran straight into the other overseer, the tall quick- tempered one. This mage grabbed his arm, glowering murder. At his touch Spindle felt his hair shirt writhe as if it had come alive. The mage let go, obviously quite shocked. Spindle froze; he’d been found out. This Adept had him. But the tall fellow, scars healing on his face and hands, simply regripped his staff, slowly and stiffly, his knuckles white with strain. And the eyes, black pits in yellowed orbs, shifted to the side, urging him onwards. Spindle bowed again in his role of a normal labourer returning to his work, though this man had seen through his facade.

All the rest of his shift he shared in the loading, levelling and tamping of dirt, sand and gravels, but he hardly saw any of it. Nor did any of the crew bother him. They’d marked him as either touched or irredeemably dim. Trouble to be avoided, in either case. His hands did their tasks but his mind puzzled over what he’d glimpsed inside that tent. That strange hunchback bent over the stones — and such stones! Glowing, they were, as if lit from within. But what had captured his attention were the tools. Magnificent iron etching styluses, and an assortment of engineering instruments any saboteur would give his left hand for. A compass for inscribing arcs, a spirit level — only the second one he’d ever seen outside the Academy in Unta — and an eyepiece of what he suspected might be part of a surveyor’s instrument, one he’d only heard described: an alidade. Gods, he’d never even touched an alidade!

How he wished he could talk to Fiddler or Hedge about this. Those two knew more engineering than he. With such tools you could lay down a perfect wall — straight or curved.

And no one needs that kind of precision for a battlement!

In the auditorium of the assembly chambers Councillor Coll had lately had a great deal of time on his hands. Fewer of his fellow Councillors than ever were now comfortable being seen in his company. The faction supporting the reinstallation of the Legate was pre-eminent and the subsequent favours, funds and prestige flowed accordingly. So now, in assembly, Councillor Coll sat surrounded by empty seats, hands clasped over his wide stomach, tapping his fingers. He used the time to think.

That day it occurred to him that in fact it had been some time since he’d even seen Lim; not that this ‘Legate’ was legally obliged to officiate here at the Council. Around mid-morning he heaved himself out of his seat — Ye gods but I am starting to get a touch heavy — to walk the steps down to the debate floor. Among the councillors present he selected one clearly in the Legate’s camp, one who would have nothing to risk in actually being seen talking to him. Conversation quietened in the man’s group as he drew near and the three councillors sketched the briefest greetings his way. Coll bowed to Councillor Ester-Jeen, who merely arched a supercilious brow.

‘Councillor Coll,’ he murmured.

‘Ester-Jeen.’

The other two councillors remembered pressing business and bowed their leave-taking. ‘Yes?’ Ester-Jeen said, his tone implying the relationship of a superior to a petitioner. Coll let that pass, though in his youth such a peremptory and disrespectful greeting would have drawn a challenge from him. He noted an unusual ornament on the man’s breast, a gold brooch worked in the shape of a tiny oval mask.

‘I was wondering, Ester-Jeen, just where is our illustrious leader? He doesn’t seem very interested in actually leading.’

The man physically paled at Coll’s daring in giving voice to such disrespect. He dropped a gloved hand to the gilt rapier at his hip even though, as Coll knew, the councillor had never fought a duel. Then his eyes fluttered and the hand fell away as he seemed to remember that not only had Coll fought many duels but he was also a veteran of the Free Cities wars from years ago.

He opted for a superior frosty glare. ‘The Legate is not required to sit here and be bored by the Council’s unending chatter. He will grant audience in the Great Hall for any official business.’

‘Audience?’ Coll repeated, outraged. Conversations surrounding them stilled. Coll glanced about, met many hostile, even some pitying, gazes. He lowered his voice. ‘Since when do we here in Darujhistan use such language as “audience”? And the Great Hall … we don’t use that. It’s considered …’ Coll searched for the right term, ‘well … cursed.’

Having gauged the atmosphere of the room, Councillor Ester-Jeen was now quite at ease. No one, it appeared, was prepared to offer Coll any support whatsoever. The man was simply making a sad spectacle of his ignorance and isolation. Perhaps now, if he was very careful, he could even lure him into discrediting himself entirely. He spoke up loudly. ‘If you have any legitimate business regarding matters before the Council then of course you may approach the Legate. Otherwise, Coll, I would suggest you not waste his time.’ And he offered a small shrug of embarrassment as if to say: I am very sorry to be the one to have to tell you this.

He was gratified by the reaction his words elicited. The big man reared up as if slapped — which of course he had been — and his eyes widened, stunned. He glanced about at the gathered councillors and Ester-Jeen saw only flat gazes answering. Then Coll spun on his heels and marched for the doors. Ester-Jeen was delighted. He’s actually going to do it — the fool.

When Coll pushed past Councillor Orr the young woman whispered through gritted teeth: ‘Don’t.’ But he was past listening. He could not let this stand. There was no way he could ever face any one of those present again unless he did exactly what that upstart useless popinjay wanted him to. He marched for the Great Hall.

Majesty Hall itself was in truth a maze of halls and chambers and auditoriums, all of various sizes, ages, and levels of decrepitude. The Great Hall was among the most ancient of the hill’s architecture. It was sometimes used for ceremonial balls and mass assemblies. But other than that it stood empty and neglected, having a rather off- putting dusty air, quite similar to that of the equally old Despot’s Barbican.

Coll found the double doors of panelled beaten copper and bronze, as tall as three men, unaccountably closed. Before them stood two city Wardens.

‘Open up,’ he snapped, not slowing in his headlong rush.

The two shared helpless glances. Then, bowing to the inevitable, one threw open a small clerk’s door just before Coll brained himself on the polished copper panels. Coll was furious that he had to enter like some damned mouse but enter he did, ducking and stepping over the threshold. Within, he found the long hall lit by shafts of light streaming down from high openings. Motes hung in the shafts like the downy seeds of wild flowers over a sunny