of the stairs was bedding, most of it rather darkly stained.
‘They stripped the rooms,’ observed Skintick. ‘That was considerate.’
‘You suspect they’ve prepared this place for us?’
‘With bodies in the well and ichor-stained sheets? Probably. It’s reasonable that we would stay on the main street leading in, and this was the first inn we’d reach.’ He paused, looking round. ‘Obviously, there are many ways of readying for guests. Who can fathom human cultures, anyway?’
Outside, Nenanda and the others were unpacking the wagon.
Nimander walked to the taproom entrance and ducked to look inside. Dark, the air thick with the pungent, bittersweet scent of kelyk. He could hear Skintick making his way up the stairs, decided to leave him to it. One step down, on to the sawdust floor. The tables and chairs had all been pushed to one side in a haphazard pile. In the open space left behind the floor was thick with stains and coagulated clumps that reminded Nimander of dung in a stall. Not dung, however he knew that.
He explored behind the bar and found rows of dusty clay bottles and jugs, wine and ale. The beakers that had contained kelyk were scattered on the floor, some of them broken, others still weeping dark fluid.
The outer door swung open and Nenanda stepped inside, one hand on the grip of his sword. A quick look round, then he met Nimander’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Was you I heard, I guess.’
‘The stables?’
‘Well enough supplied, for a few days at least. There’s a hand pump and spout over the troughs. The water smelled sour but otherwise fine-the horses didn’t hesitate, at any rate.’ He strode in. ‘I think those bodies in the well, Nimander-dead of too much kelyk. I suspect that well was in fact dry. They just used to it dump the ones that died, as they died.’
Nimander walked back to the doorway leading into the foyer.
Desra and Kedeviss had carried Clip inside, setting him on the floor. Skintick was on the stairs, a few steps up from the mound of soiled bedding. He was leaning on one rail, watching as the two women attended to Clip. Seeing Nimander, he said, ‘Nothing but cockroaches and bedbugs in the rooms. Still, I don’t think we should use them- there’s an odd smell up there, not at all pleasant.’
‘This room should do,’ Nimander said as he went over to look down at Clip. ‘Any change?’ he asked.
Desra glanced up. ‘No. The same slight fever, the same shallow breathing.’
Aranatha entered, looked round, then went to the booth, lifted the hingedcounter and stepped through.She tried the latch on the panel door and when it opened, she disappeared into the back room.
A grunt from Skintick. ‘In need of the water closet?’
Nimander rubbed at his face, flexed his fingers to ease the ache, and then,.in Nenanda arrived, he said, ‘Skintick and I will head out now. The rest of you,,, well, we could run into trouble at any time. And if we do one of us will try to get back here-’
‘If you run into trouble,’ Aranatha said from the booth, ‘we will know it.’ Oh? How? ‘All right. We shouldn’t be long.’
They had brought all their gear into the room and Nimander now watched as first Desra and then the other women began unpacking their weapons, their fine chain hauberks and mail gauntlets. He watched as they readied for battle, and said nothing as anguish filled him. None of this was right. It had never been right. And he could do nothing about it.
Skintick edged his way round the bedding and, with a tug on Nimander’s arm, led him back outside. ‘They will be all right,’ he said. ‘It’s us I’m worried about.’
‘Us? Why?’
Skintick only smiled.
They passed through the gate and came out on to the main street once more. The mid-afternoon heat made the air sluggish, enervating. The faint singing seemed to invite them into the city’s heart. An exchanged glance; then, with a shrug from Skintick, they set out.
‘That machine.’
‘What about it, Skin?’
‘Where do you think it came from? It looked as if it just… appeared, just above one of the buildings, and then dropped, smashing everything in its path, ending with itself. Do you recall those old pumps, the ones beneath Dreth Street in Malaz City? Withal found them in those tunnels he explored? Well, he took us on a tour-’
‘I remember, Skin.’
‘I’m reminded of those machines-all the gears and rods, the way the metal components all meshed so cleverly, ingeniously-I cannot imagine the mind that could think up such constructs.’
‘What is all this about, Skin?’
‘Nothing much. I just wonder if that thing is somehow connected with the arrival of the Dying God.’
‘Connected how?’
‘What if it was like a skykeep? A smaller version, obviously. What if the Dying God was inside it? Some accident brought it down, the locals pulled him out. What if that machine was a kind of throne?’
Nimander thought about that. A curious idea. Andarist had once explained that skykeeps-such as the one Anomander Rake claimed as his own-were not a creation of sorcery, and indeed the floating fortresses were held aloft through arcane manipulations of technology. K’Chain Clic’Mallc, Kallor had said. Clearly, he had made the same connec-ion as had Skintick.
‘Why would a god need a machine?’ Nimander asked. ‘How should I know? Anyway, it’s broken now.’
They came to a broad intersection. Public buildings commanded each corner, the architecture peculiarly utilitarian, as if the culture that had bred it was singularly devoid of creative flair. Glyphs made a mad scrawl on otherwise unadorned walls, some of the symbols now striking Nimander as resembling that destroyed mechanism.
The main thoroughfare continued on another two hundred paces, they could see, opening out on to an expansive round. At the far end rose the most imposing structure they had seen yet.
‘There it is,’ Skintick said. ‘The Abject… altar. It’s where the singing is coming from, I think.’
Nimander nodded.
‘Should we take a closer look?’
He nodded again. ‘Until something happens.’
‘Does being attacked by a raving mob count?’ Skintick asked.
Figures were racing into the round, naked but with weapons in their hands that they waved about over their heads, their song suddenly ferocious, as they began marching towards the two Tiste Andii.
‘Here was I thinking we were going to be left alone,’ Nimander said. ‘If we run, we’ll just lead them back to the inn.’
‘True, but holding the gate should be manageable, two of us at a time, spelling each other.’
Nimander was the first to hear a sound behind him and he spun round, sword hissing from the scabbard. Kallor.
The old warrior walked towards them. ‘You kicked them awake,’ he said.
‘We were sightseeing,’ said Skintick, ‘and though this place is miserable we kept our opinions to ourselves. In any case, we were just discussing what to do now.’
‘You could stand and fight.’
‘We could,’ agreed Nimander, glancing back at the mob. Now fifty paces away and closing fast. ‘Or we could beat a retreat.’
‘They’re brave right now,’ Kallor observed, stepping past and drawing his two-handed sword. As he walked he looped the plain, battered weapon over his head, a few passes, as if loosening up his shoulders. Suddenly he did not seem very old at all.
Skintick asked, ‘Should we help him?’
‘Did he ask for help, Skin?’
‘No, you’re right, he didn’t.’
They watched as Kallor marched directly into the face of the mob.
And all at once that mob blew apart, people scattering, crowding out to the skies as the singing broke up into walls of dlsmay Kallor hesitated for but a mo ment, before resuming his march. In the center of a corridor now that had opened up to let him pass.
