Orb Sceptre Throne

‘Your house?’ Aman said. ‘Not for ages.’

‘Blood has been shed. What has been done is done.’

Aman threw down the crossbow bolt and hurried to the door in his limping shambling gait. He waved to the girl. ‘Come. He must be apprised of this.’

The old woman turned on the one Fisher had named Barukanal. The mage released Spindle’s arm, bowed ever so faintly. ‘Foolish, to make things all so clear.’

‘I am taking no one’s side but my own. And there is nothing any of you can do about it.’

The tall hatchet-faced mage bowed again, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps not us …’ he allowed. He peered down at Spindle. ‘Your gambit of Moranth munitions was inspired, but ineffective. The … structure … is proofed against their alchemy.’ The man glared then, holding Spindle’s gaze, as if meaning to say more.

‘Go,’ the old woman commanded.

The mage winced, the scars across his face rippling. ‘I have no choice but to obey,’ he murmured, his voice thick. Bowing, he backed away to the door.

Picker crowded the smoking doorway after him. ‘And don’t come back!’ she yelled. She turned to the room. ‘Our thanks, old … Where’d she go?’

Spindle looked up from rubbing his numb elbow. Blend was righting the table. She peered about as well. ‘She’s buggered off.’

‘She’s still here,’ Duiker said. Fisher was setting out glasses on the bar, and the historian watched him fill them with Free Cities white wine. ‘This is her house. We can all use a drink, I imagine.’ Everyone took a glass. ‘To our host,’ Duiker announced. ‘K’rul.’

Spindle, who had started drinking already, spluttered his mouthful down his shirtfront. ‘The hoary old one? Not just some city mage who’s taken up residence? He’s a she? Really? Well, why doesn’t she just curse these wretches to the Abyss? Or snap her fingers?’

‘Because she’s under assault everywhere,’ Fisher said. ‘I’d wager her direct influence extends only to these four walls.’

The old historian was nodding. ‘I didn’t like Barukanal’s — Hood, Baruk’s — comment. They’ll send soldiers next. Regular mundane agents.’

Spindle winced. Just us mortals. K’rul wouldn’t be able to help them out then.

‘Or assassins …’ Picker snarled.

Blend slammed down the empty glass. ‘I hope so. I want their blood.’

Spindle peered round. ‘Yeah — and speakin’ of them, just where’s Topper, anyway?’

Blend sneered. ‘The useless blowhard! Looks like four of them is four too many.’

She spent her days turning pots. A fever of work seemed to have taken hold of her. As if Darujhistan suffered from a crushing lack of pots, urns and amphorae that she alone could answer.

And why would there be such a shortage?

Because all the rest are broken.

The malformed mass of clay squashed in Tiserra’s hands and she threw herself back, panting, pushed sweaty hair from her face with a forearm. She stopped working the pedals of the wheel with her bare feet.

A time of great shattering.

She cleaned her hands in a basin of water and walked through the empty house as she dried them. Gone again. She could not stop that niggling question: Fleeing her?

No. He had his life just as she had hers.

She stopped at one particular place in the floor. Kneeling, she tapped, listening. Had he?

She went to her shop to return with a clawed bar. With this she attacked the floorboards, found the dug-out space below. Empty. He’d never taken them with him before.

All those strange Moranth items, gone. Why this time?

She hammered the floorboards back into place, and, standing, pushed up her sleeves. Best get back to work. There will be a great need soon.

They climbed the stairs single file. Antsy led, crossbow freshly reassembled and cocked. Orchid came next, followed by Corien. They made much better time now they all could see. Granted, it was not the clear vision of daylight, but it was far better than total blindness. And Antsy thought his vision was even improving as he got used to discerning the subtle shadings of blues, mauves and deepest near-black.

The majestic circling stairwell ended at a wide arch-roofed hallway. Chandeliers of glowing blue crystals hung at intervals, floating like clouds of fireflies. Trash littered the polished stone floor: shards of smashed vases and pots, ornate alien sculpture and broken stone statuary. Yet there was no cloth, leather or wood. Nor anything of obvious value such as jewellery or gold or silver artwork. In the distance one chandelier had fallen, leaving a patch of darkness and a jumble of the blue crystals bright on the floor like a scattering of coals. There was no sign of Malakai, though Antsy was sure he must be ahead of them.

Again he was surprised by just how empty the place was. Where was everyone? Hundreds must’ve taken boats out over the months. They couldn’t all be dead … could they? The memory of those clawing hands and desperate starved faces in Pearl Town returned and he wanted to spit but he couldn’t draw enough saliva.

‘Anyone?’ Orchid asked, her voice pitched so low as to be almost inaudible.

‘No. But someone may be around.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ Corien said, ‘all the combustibles are gone.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Antsy seconded. ‘Picked clean. Which way?’ he asked Orchid.

She edged further up the hall, stepping carefully over the scattered debris, and sighed, a hand going to her mouth.

‘What is it?’ Antsy asked.

She glanced to him then lowered her gaze, embarrassed. ‘This hall. Beautiful, even yet. The Curtain Hall of the Hunter.’

‘What?’

‘This could be it. One of the Twenty Halls … one for each of their ancient zodiac. Each has its own name, architecture, history. There will be temples, cloisters, living quarters. A lot of rooms.’

‘Fine,’ Antsy cut in. ‘Just which way?’

She turned back, glaring, but sighed again, adjusting her skirts. ‘Straight, for now.’

‘Okay. Take this.’ He handed her the crossbow. It yanked her arms down.

‘I can’t use this. What am I supposed to do?’

‘Fire off a shot at any hostiles.’

‘Oh, certainly.’

Antsy waved Corien to the right then drew his long-knives. Orchid followed, the heavy crossbow braced in both arms. They advanced along one edge of the wide hall. Far ahead awaited a tall set of double doors, ajar. Darkness lay beyond. They passed portals that opened on to smaller side halls and chambers. Some were dark, others were lit by the glowing feline faces that Antsy figured to be stylized representations of the Children of the Night themselves. From his own memories of those faces he was glad none remained on the Spawn.

Short of the tall doors the air currents brought a new draught to his face and he raised his hand for a halt. People. The unmistakable stomach-churning miasma of latrine-stink mixed with sweat and cooking odours. He motioned to a nearby portal and they slipped inside.

Watching intently, he could now see a shifting brightness flickering from the right side of the hall. Firelight, and people moving. And above the constant groans and rumblings that reverberated through the rock around them came the murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of gear.

‘Now what?’ Corien mouthed.

Orchid motioned to the left. Antsy shook his head. She made an impatient face demanding explanation. Antsy leaned close. ‘They’re ignoring it. Therefore, there mustn’t be any route up or down that way. Yes?’ She appeared