‘I ain’t so lucky he trips,’ Antsy said in a growl. ‘In case you ain’t noticed, Blend, it’s been a run of the Lord’s push for us. Oponn’s got it in for me, especially.’
‘Why?’ Scillara asked.
‘Because I don’t believe in the Twins, that’s why. Luck-it’s all bad. Oponn only pulls now to push later. If you’ve been pulled, it don’t end there. Never does. No, you can expect the push to come any time and all you know for sure is it’s gonna come, that push. Every time. In fact, we’re all as good as dead.’
‘Well,’ said Scillara, ‘I can’t argue with that. Sooner or later, Hood takes us all, and that’s the only certainty there is.’
‘Aren’t you two cheerful this morning,’ Blend observed. ‘Look, here we are.’
They had arrived at the Warden Barracks, suitably sombre and foreboding.
Blend saw an annexe fronting the blockish building with the barred windows and set out towards it, the other two following.
A guard lounging outside the door watched them approach, and then said, ‘Check your weapons at the front desk, You here to visit someone?’
‘No,’ snorted Antsy, ‘we’ve come to break ’im out!’ And then he laughed. ‘Haha.’
No one found the joke at all amusing, especially after the sharper was found and correctly identified. Antsy then made the mistake of getting belligerent, in the midst of five or six stern-visaged constabulary, which led to a scuffle and then an arrest.
When all was said and done, Antsy found himself in a lock-up with three drunks, only one of whom was conscious-singing some old Fisher classic in a broken-hearted voice-and a fourth man who seemed to be entirely mad, convinced as he was that everyone he saw was wearing a mask, which was hiding something demonic, horrible, bloodthirsty. He’d been arrested for trying to tear off a merchant’s face and he eyed Antsy speculatively before evidently deciding that the red-whiskered foreigner looked too tough to take on, at least while he was still awake.
The sentence was three days long, provided Antsy proved a model prisoner. Any trouble and it could stretch out some more.
As a result of all this, it was some time before Scillara and Blend managed to gain permission to see Barathol Mekhar. They met him in a holding cell while two guards stood flanking the single door, shortswords drawn.
Noting this, Scillara said, ‘Making friends in here, are you?’
The blacksmith looked somewhat shamefaced as he shrugged. ‘I had no intention of resisting the arrest, Scillara. My apprentice, alas, decided otherwise.’ Anxiety tightened his features as he asked, ‘Any news of him? Has he been captured? Is he hurt?’
Scillara shrugged. ‘We’ve not seen or heard anything like that, Barathol.’
‘I keep telling them here, he’s only a child in his head. It was my responsibility, all of it. But he went and broke some bones and noses, and they’re pretty annoyed about that.’
Blend cleared her throat. Something was going back and forth between Barathol and Scillara and it made her uneasy. ‘Barathol, we can pay the fine to the Guild, but that scrap you had, that one’s more serious.’
He nodded morosely. ‘Hard labour, yes. Six months or so.’ There was the twitch of a grin. ‘And guess who I will be working for?’
‘Who?’
‘Eldra Foundry. And in six months I’ll earn my ticket as a smith, since that’s allowed. Some kind of rehabilitation programme.’
Scillara’s throaty laugh straightened up both guards. ‘Well, that’s one way to get there, I suppose.’
He nodded. ‘I went about it all wrong, it seems.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Scillara. ‘Is the Guild happy with that? I mean, it’s sort of a way round them, isn’t it?’
‘They’ve no choice. Every Guild in the city has to comply, barring, I suppose, the Assassins’ Guild. Obviously, for most prisoners six months working in a trade might earn them an apprentice grade of some sort-but there’s no limit to how fast you can advance. Just pass the exams and that’s that.’
Scillara looked ready to burst out laughing. Even Barathol was struggling.
Blend sighed and then said, ‘I’ll go settle the fine. Consider it a loan.’
‘Much appreciated, Blend, and thank you.’
‘Remembering Kalam,’ she replied, heading out. Neither guard paid her any at-tention. But she was used to that.
A bhokaral answered the door. High Alchemist Baruk stared down at it for a long moment before concluding that this was nothing more than a bhokaral. Not a demon, not Soletaken. Just a bhokaral, its little wizened face scrunched up in belligerent regard, spiky ears twitching. When it made to close the postern door again Baruk stepped forward and held it open.
Sudden outrage and indignation. Hissing, spitting, making faces, the bhokaral shook a fist at Baruk and then fled down the corridor.
The High Alchemist closed the door behind him and made his way along the corridor. He could now hear other bhokarala, a cacophony of bestial voices joining in with the first one, raising an alarm that echoed through the temple. At a branching of the passageway he came upon an old Dal Honese woman tearing apart a straw broom. She glared up at Baruk and snapped something in some tribal tongue, then made squiggly gestures with the fingers of her left hand.
The High Alchemist scowled. ‘Retract that curse, Witch. Now.’
‘You’ll not be so bold when the spiders come for you.’
‘Now,’ he repeated, ‘before I lose my temper.’
‘Bah! You’re not worth the effort anyway!’ And all at once she collapsed into a heap of spiders that scurried in all directions.
Baruk blinked, and then quickly stepped back. But none of the creatures skit-tered his way. Moments later they had inexplicably vanished, although not a single crack or seam was visible.
‘High Alchemist.’
He looked up. ‘Ah, High Priestess. I did knock-’
‘And a bhokaral let you in, yes. They’re in the habit of doing that, having chased away most of my acolytes.’
‘I wasn’t aware bhokarala were in the habit of infestation.’
‘Yes, well. Have you come to speak to me or the chosen… mouthpiece of Shadowthrone?’
‘I do not believe you have been entirely usurped, High Priestess.’
‘Your generosity is noted.’
‘Why is there a witch of Ardatha in your temple?’
‘Yes, why? Come with me.’
The Magus of Shadow-
‘High Alchemist Baruk, Magus. And no, it is not a lovely day. What are you doing?’
His eyes darted. ‘Doing? Nothing, can’t you see that?’ He paused. ‘Can’t he smell them? Close, oh so close! It’s going to be a mess and whose fault will that be? A real mess-nothing to do with Iskaral Pust, though! I am perfect.’ He attempted an ex-pression of innocence. ‘I am perfect… ly-perfectly-fine.’
Baruk could not help himself, turning to Sordiko Qualm. ‘What was Shad-owthrone thinking?’
The question clearly depressed her. ‘I admit to a crisis of faith, High Alchemist.’
Iskaral Pust leapt to his feet. ‘Then you must pray, my love. To me, since Shadowthrone sees through my eyes, hears through ears, smells through my nose.’ His crossed his eyes and added in a different tone, ‘Farts through my bung-hole, too, but that would be too offensive to mention.’ He struggled to correct his gaze and smiled again. ‘Sordiko, my sweetness, there are very special, very secret prayers. And, er, rituals. See me after this man has left, there’s no time to waste!’
Bhokarala were creeping into the chamber. A score of them, moving with pointless stealth, all converging on Iskaral Pust-who seemed entirely unaware of them as he winked at Sordiko Qualm.
