crable influence, Iskaral Pust.’
‘Soon we shall be as peas in a pod! Those spiny, sharp pods that stick to every-
thing especially crotch hair if one is forced to wee in the bushes.’ He reached out for her. ‘Hand in hand gliding down the streets!’
She seemed to recoil, but of course that was only his delicate and fragile self-esteem and its niggling worries, quickly buried beneath the plastering of yet another ingratiating smile on his face.
They escaped the temple through a little used side postern gate, slamming it shut just in time to avoid the squall of bhokarala excitedly pursuing them down the corridor.
Wretched sunshine in the streets, Sordiko Qualm seemingly indifferent to such atmospheric disregard-why, not a single cloud in sight! Worse than Seven Cities, with not a crevasse to be found anywhere.
Miserable crowds to thread through, a sea of ill-tempered faces snapping round at the gentle prod of his elbows and shoulders as he hurried to keep pace with the long-legged High Priestess. ‘Long legs, yes! Ooh. Ooh ooh ooh. Look at them scythe, see the waggle of those delicious-’
‘Quiet!’ she hissed over a shapely shoulder.
‘Shadowthrone understood. Yes he did. He saw the necessity of our meeting, her and me. The consummation of Shadow’s two most perfect mortals. The fated sto-rybook love-the lovely innocent woman-but not too innocent, one hopes-and the stalwart man with his brave smile and warm thews. Er, brave thews and warm smile. Is “thews” even the right word? Muscled arms and such, anyway. Why, I am a mass of muscles, am I not? I can even make my ears flex, when the need presents itself-no point in showing off. She despises the strutting type, being delicate and all. And soon-’
‘Watch that damned elbow, runt!’
‘And soon the glory will be delivered unto us-’
‘-a damned apology!’
‘What?’
A hulking oaf of a man was forcing himself into Iskaral Pust’s path, his big flat face looking like something one found at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket. ‘I said I expect a damned apology, y’damned toad-faced ferret!’
Iskaral Pust snorted. ‘Oh, look, a hulking oaf of a man with a big flat face look-ing like something one finds at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket wants
The enormous apish hand that reached for his throat was so apish that it barely possessed a thumb, or so Iskaral Pust would later report to his wide-eyed murmuring audience of bhokarala.
Naturally, he ignored that hand and did some reaching out of his own, straight into the oaf’s crotch, where he squeezed and yanked back and forth and tugged and twisted, even as the brute folded up with a whimper and collapsed like a sack of melons on to the filthy cobbles, where he squirmed most pitifully.
Iskaral Pust stepped over him and hurried to catch up to Sordiko Qualm, who seemed to have increased her pace, her robes veritably flying out behind her.
‘The rudeness of some people!’ Iskaral Pust gasped,
They arrived at the gates of a modest estate close to Hinter’s Tower. The gates were locked and Sordiko Qualm tugged on a braided rope, triggering chiming Irom somewhere within.
They waited.
Chains rattled on the other side of the gates, and a moment later the solid doors creaked open, streams of rust drifting down from the hinges.
‘Not many visitors, I take it?’
‘From this moment on,’ said Sordiko Qualm, ‘you will be silent, Iskaral Pust.’
‘I will?’
‘You will.’
Whoever had opened the gates seemed to be hiding behind one of them, and the High Priestess strode in without any further ceremony. Iskaral Pust rushed in behind her to avoid being locked out, as both gates immediately began closing. As soon as he was clear he turned to upbraid the rude servant. And saw, working a lever to one side, a Seguleh.
‘Thank you, Therule,’ said Sordiko. ‘Is the Lady in the garden?’
There was no reply.
The High Priestess nodded and walked on, along a winding path through an overgrown, weedy courtyard, its walls covered in wisteria in full bloom. Sordiko paused upon seeing a large snake coiled in the sun on the path, then edged care-fully round it.
Iskaral crept after her, eyes on the nasty creature as it lifted its wedge-shaped head, tongue flicking out in curiosity or maybe hunger. He hissed at it as he passed and was pleased at its flinch.
The estate’s main house was small, elegant in a vaguely feminine way. Arched pathways went round it on both sides, vine-webbed tunnels blissfully draped in shadows. The High Priestess chose one and continued on towards the back.
As they drew closer they heard the murmur of voices.
The centre of the back garden was marked by a flagstone clearing in which stood a dozen full-sized bronze statues in a circle facing inward. Each statue wept water from its oddly shielded face down into the ringed trough it stood in, where water flowed ankle deep. The statues, Iskaral Pust saw with faint alarm as they drew closer, were of Seguleh, and the water that fell down did so from beneath masks sheathed in moss and verdigris. In the middle of the circle was a thin-legged, quaint table of copper and two chairs. In the chair facing them sat a man with long grey hair. There was blood-spatter on his plain shirt. A woman was seated with her back to them. Long, lustrous black hair shimmered, contrasting perfectly with the white linen of her blouse.
Upon seeing Sordiko Qualm and Iskaral Pust the man rose and bowed to his host. ‘Milady, until next time.’
A second, sketchier bow to the High Priestess and Iskaral, and then he was walking past.
Sordiko Qualm entered the circle and positioned herself to the right of the now vacated chair. To Iskaral Pust’s astonishment (and, a moment later, delight) she curtsied before her host. ‘Lady Envy.’
‘Do sit, my love,’ Lady Envy replied. Then, as Iskaral Pust hovered into view, seeing at last her exquisite face, so perfect a match that lovely hair, and the poise of her, er, pose, there in that spindly chair with her legs crossed revealing the un-derside of one shapely thigh just begging for a caress, she scowled and said, ‘Perhaps I should get a sandbox installed for your foundling, High Priestess? Somewhere to play and soak up his drool.’
‘We would, alas, have to bury him in it.’
‘Interesting suggestion.’
Therule then arrived with another chair. The similarity between him and the statues was somewhat disquieting, and Iskaral Pust shivered as he quickly bowed to Lady Envy then perched himself on the chair.
‘Her beauty challenges even that of the High Priestess! Why, imagine the two of them-’
‘Iskaral Pust!’ snapped Sordiko Qualm. ‘I did instruct you to be quiet, did I not?’
‘But I said nothing, my love! Nothing at all!’
‘I am not your love, nor will I ever be.’
He smiled, and then said, ‘I will play these two beauties off one another, driv-ing both to spasms of jealousy with my charm, as it slides so easily from one to the other. Pluck here, brush there! Oh, this will be such a delight!’
‘I am of a mind to kill him,’ said Lady Envy to Sordiko Qualm.
‘Alas, he is the Magus of Shadow.’
‘You cannot be serious!’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Iskaral Pust. ‘She is! Furthermore, it is most propitious that I am here, for I know something you do not!’
‘Oh, goodness,’ sighed Lady Envy. ‘A beautiful morning thus shattered into ruin.’
‘Who was he?’ Iskaral demanded. ‘That man who was here? Who was he?’
‘Why should I tell you that?’
‘In exchange-you satisfy my curiosity and I yours-and so we shall satisfy each other and how do you like that, Sordiko Qualm? Hah!’
Lady Envy rubbed at her temples for a moment, as if overwhelmed, and then said. ‘That was the bard, Fisher kel Tath. A most unusual man. He… invites confession. There have been dire events in the city-’
