Orb Sceptre Throne

Barathol the stones looked to be discoloured and scorched, but otherwise intact. The mage eyed him sourly. ‘What is your opinion?’ he asked.

Barathol allowed himself a shrug. ‘Moranth munitions, I imagine.’

Hooknose, ever in an ugly temper, looked to the sky. ‘Obviously, fool! No, the blocks. The links — how are they?’

‘I’ll have to examine them, I suppose.’

‘Well, do so!’ and the man swept aside, curtly waving him forward.

Suppressing his own temper, Barathol knelt next to the course of blocks and began brushing away the dirt. He found the pins and, spitting and wiping, used his shirt-tails to clean them. Leaning close, he studied the silver for cracks, the hair-line skein of shattering, or other surface distortions such as stress from flexing. He studied four in all, two exposed sets, but saw no damage that he could make out. Throughout the entire examination the two mages hovered close, shadowing his every move.

He leaned back, motioning to the exposed course. ‘There’s no damage that I can see. Amazing, that. The blast must have been enormous.’

Over Barathol’s head the two mages shared looks of savage satisfaction. ‘So we conclude as well,’ said the hunchback.

The hooknose waved him away. ‘That is all — you may go.’

He inclined his head then clawed his way up the steep side of the blast pit. The Malazans must have back- filled it to contain the force, he thought to himself. Yet the explosion had failed to mar the stones at all. He could only conclude that the blocks were ensorcelled against such attacks.

News to pass on to the Malazans. But no doubt they’d discover the failure of their opening move soon enough.

*

Blend, Picker and Duiker were playing cards. Or at least pretending to. None seemed to have their mind on the game. Spindle paced, stopping on every lap of the common room to peer out of the window. Fisher was at the bar, plucking out a composition.

‘Do you think he talked?’ Spindle asked of the room in general.

‘Topper’s watching,’ Blend said, irritated.

‘’Cause he might’ve.’

‘Shut up, Spin. We’ll hear all about it.’

Spindle rubbed his shirt. ‘Should’ve gone by now,’ he murmured.

‘Don’t trust your own work?’ Picker asked, cocking an eye.

‘It’s been a while, okay?’

‘Like never.’ Picker smirked at Blend.

‘I’m trained!’

‘So you keep claiming, Spin. So you claim.’

‘Well … I am. Okay?’

Then a sound like a loud booming gust of wind passed over the bar and everyone stilled. The empty bottles on the bar rattled.

Blend and Picker both eased back in their chairs, letting go long breaths. ‘There you go,’ Picker said, lifting a glass. Blend clacked hers with Picker’s and they tossed back the liquor.

Spindle raised his fists. ‘There! I told you. Two cussers! There ain’t nothing left. Ha!’

‘Good job,’ Duiker told Spindle. ‘Now have a seat, will you?’

Spindle pulled up a chair. ‘What are we playing?’

Before mid-day a knock sounded at the door. Spindle pushed himself from the table. ‘That couldn’t be Topper, could it?’ He headed across.

Before Spindle reached the door Picker’s head snapped over and she dropped her cards. ‘Get away from there!’ she shouted.

Spindle turned. ‘What?’

The door burst from its hinges in a blast of light and heat that knocked Spindle flat. Blend and Picker upturned the table, cards flying, and ducked behind, pulling Duiker with them. Fisher leapt over the bar.

Dazed, Spindle raised his head to see the crab-like figure of the hunched mage in his loose layered rags lumbering into the room. The man’s arms hung unnaturally long and the hands seemed grotesquely oversized and warped. He gestured savagely and the table protecting Blend and Picker punched backwards. ‘Too obvious, Bridgeburners!’ he bellowed. ‘Too damned obvious!’

In answer Spindle rolled aside, shouting, ‘Clear!’

Blend and Picker appeared from behind the table, threw in unison.

Twin explosions tore into the mage, lacerating his already tattered clothes. The blast threw him back into a wall. Fisher stood up behind the bar, a crossbow levelled. He fired and the bolt took the invader in the chest. Spindle had crawled to a far corner. Now he stood, reaching for the one munition he always carried for just such an end-game.

An arm in a rich brocaded silk sleeve grasped his arm and twisted it painfully backwards. Spindle looked up into the snarling features of the tall mage. The man shook him like a dog. ‘Do not make me do what I might otherwise avoid doing, Bridgeburner,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. Spindle reached for his shortsword but remembered he wasn’t wearing it. Twins take it! You drop your guard for one moment … ‘Now we shall see — she will not tolerate this insult,’ the man said, scanning the common room.

A girl appeared next to Fisher. She wore the diaphanous scarves and wraps of a courtesan but brandished a wicked slim dagger. The bard smashed the crossbow into her, sending her staggering back. The shocked outrage on her face was almost comical to Spindle. Fisher threw aside the mangled weapon and raised his empty hands.

Great Osserc! The man broke a crossbow over her!

The girl darted in once more. Somehow the bard grasped her wrist. He twisted the arm in a tight circle and Spindle heard the snap of the joint clear across the room. The girl voiced her agony in an inhuman guttural snarl.

Ye gods, who is this man?

Even the fellow holding Spindle by one fist eyed the bard, unease wrinkling his brow.

A shape appeared before the table behind which Blend and Picker were crouching once more and Spindle’s hair shirt writhed with agitation. It was a haunt, a ghost. It snatched them both by the necks. ‘I have them,’ it announced. Duiker rose, slashing with a long-knife, but the blade passed harmlessly through it.

‘Just kill them,’ snarled the one who had taken the crossbow bolt. He straightened, brushing at his smouldering rags, then took hold of the bolt and yanked on it. ‘At least we’ve cleared out this rats’ nest early on.’ He cocked his lopsided head to Fisher. ‘Stand aside, bard. We’ve no quarrel with you.’

‘No quarrel?’ the girl snarled, furious, cradling her broken arm.

Fisher inclined his head in greeting to each. ‘Aman. Barukanal. Hinter.’ He raised a brow to the girl.

‘Your future killer,’ she said, baring her teeth.

Despite Blend’s and Picker’s struggles the revenant maintained his grip. He slammed them into the wall, yet their blows and tearing hands swept through him as if he were smoke. Duiker backed away, calling, ‘Spin!’

Spindle gaped. What? Set my Warren against these mages?

‘Perhaps questions are in order,’ Hinter said.

The stairs leading from the upper floors creaked and everyone stilled. All knew that no one else was present within the old building. All eyes moved to the open portal where the stairs rose. A hunched figure stepped out, cloaked, a large hood down. Her thin hair shone silver. Her face was deeply tanned and weathered. Black glittering eyes settled on Hinter and Spindle was shaken to glimpse their depths.

‘Begone,’ she said, and waved. The shade of Hinter faded away, astonishment on its face. Blend and Picker fell to the floor, gasping in breaths.

The girl backed away towards the door. Aman raised his hands. ‘What can these be to you?’ he demanded as he too edged to the door.

‘They are not important,’ the old woman said, slowly advancing. ‘What is important is that I did not give you leave to enter my house. Therefore, you must go.’