charging Hounds. Delicious touch! Lovingly rendered, all that snarling terror.
‘Yes, the doors were my idea, by my own hand in fact-I dabble. Sculpture, tapestry, portraiture, caricature, potterature-pottery, I mean, I was simply using the technical term. See this funerary urn, exquisite, yes. She’s inside. Yes, my beloved departed, my belovedly departed, my blessedly departed, hee hee-oh, folding up her limbs was no easy task, let me tell you, quite a tight fit. I know, hard to believe she’s in there, in an urn barely larger than a jar of wine. I have many skills, yes, as befits the most glorious mortal servant of High House Shadow. But I’ll tell you this, she fought hard all the way in!’.
He crouched in front of the bronse doors, glowering into the gaping jaws of the Hounds Reached up one knuckled hand, and rapped Baran’s nose,
A Irtim, hollow reverberation.
‘I knew it,’ he said, nodding.
The bhokarala fidgeted on the steps, knocking each other on their snouts, then sagely nodding.
The door to the left opened a crack. A hood-shrouded head poked out at about chest height, the face peering up vague and blurry. ‘We don’t want any,’ said a thin, whispery woman’s voice.
‘You don’t want any what?’
‘They’ll soil the furniture.’
Iskaral Pust scowled. ‘She’s insane. Why is everyone I meet insane? Listen, wretched acolyte, step aside. Scrape your pimply forehead on the tiles and kiss my precious feet. I am none other than Iskaral Pust.’
‘Who?’
‘Iskaral Pust! High Priest of Shadow. Magus of the High House. Our god’s most trusted, favoured, valued servant! Now, move aside, let me in! I claim this temple by right of seniority, by right of rightful hierarchy, by right of natural superiority! I will speak with the High Priestess immediately! Wake her up, clean her up, prop her up- whatever you need to do to get her ready for me.’
The door creaked back and all at once the acolyte straightened, revealing herself to be ridiculously tall. She swept her hood back to display an exquisitely moulded face surrounded by long, straight, rust-red hair. In a deep, melodic voice she said, ‘I am High Priestess Sordiko Qualm of the Darujhistan Temple of Shadow.’
‘Ah, a master of disguise. Just like me.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘You can?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, isn’t that funny.’ He tilted his head. ‘Not funny at all.’ Then smiled winningly up at her. ‘And what do you think I am, dear?’
‘Some sort of sunburned toad, I believe.’
‘Just what I want you to think. Now, invite me in, before I lose my temperature.’
‘Temper, you mean.’
‘No, temperature. It’s getting chilly.’
Her amber eyes shifted to the steps behind him. ‘What of your offspring?’
‘Ha ha. Offspring they are not. Never mind them. They can weep, they can whimper, they can grovel, they can-’
‘Right now they are all waving their hands about in perfect mimicry of you, Iskaral Pust. Why would they do that?’
‘Forget them, I said.’
Shrugging, she stepped back.
Iskaral Pust scrambled inside.
Sordiko Qualm shut the door and locked it. ‘Now, you claim to be a High Priest. From where?’
‘Seven Cities, the secret monastery.’
‘What monastery?’
‘The one that’s a secret, of course. You don’t need to know and I don’t need to tell you. Show me to my chambers, I’m tired. And hungry. I want a seven-course supper, plenty of expensive, suitably delicate wine, and nubile female servants eager to appease my delighted whim.’
‘I cannot, alas, think of a single servant here who would touch your whim, as you so quaintly call it. As for the rest, let it not be said I am remiss in according fellow seneschals every courtesy as befits a guest of my temple.’
‘Your temple, is it?’ Iskaral Pust sniggered. ‘Not for long, but say nothing at the moment. Leave her such pathetic delusions. Smile, yes, and nod-and how in the Abyss did they get inside?’
The bhokarala were now crowding behind the High Priestess, heads bobbing.
She swung about. ‘I don’t know. There are wards… should be impossible. Most disturbing indeed.’
‘Never mind,’ Iskaral Pust said. ‘Lead on, underling.’
One fine eyebrow lifted. ‘You claim to be the Magus of High House Shadow-that is quite an assertion. Have you proof?’
‘Proof? I am what I am and that is that. Pray, pray. Pray, I mean, do pray and perchance all manner of revelation will afflict you, humble you, reduce you to wondering adoration. Oh,’ he added, ‘wait until she does just that! Oh, the song will change then, won’t it just! Never mind servants servicing my whim, it will be this glorious woman!’
She stared at him a moment longer, then, in a whirl of robes, swung about and gestured that he follow. The grace she no doubt sought was fouled almost immediately as she had to kick and stumble her way through the squall of bhokaral, each of which bared teeth in rollicking but silent laughter. She shot a glance back at Iskaral Pust, but not, he was certain, in time to see his noiseless laugh.
Into the sanctum they went.
‘Not long,’ Iskaral Pust whispered. ‘Those doors need paint, yes. Not long now at all…’
‘Gods below,’ the guard gasped, ‘you’re bigger than a Barghast!’
Mappo Runt ducked his head, embarrassed that he had so shocked this passing watchman. The guard had staggered back, clutching momentarily at his chest-yes, he was past his prime, but it seemed that the gesture had been just that, a gesture, and the Trell’s sudden dread that he had inadvertently sent the first citizen he met stumbling through Hood’s Gate slowly gave way to shame. ‘I am sorry, sir,’ he now said. ‘I thought to ask you a question-nothing more.’ The guard lifted his lantern higher between them. ‘Are you a demon, then?’
‘You regularly encounter demons on your patrols? A truly extraordinary city.’
‘Of course not. I mean, it’s rare.’
‘Ah I am a Trell, from the plains and hills east of Nemil, which lies west of the Jhag Odhan in Sevent Cities,’
‘What, then, was your question?’
‘I seek the Temple of Burn, sir,’
‘I think it best that I escort you there, Trell. You have been keeping to the alleys thin night, haven’t you?’
‘I thought it best.’
‘Rightly so. And you and I shall do the same. In any case, you are in the Gadrobi Distirct, while the temple you want is in the Daru District. We have some way to go.’
‘You are very generous with your time, sir.’
The guard smiled. ‘Trell, you plunging into any crowded street is likely to cause a riot. By taking charge of you, I hope to prevent that. Thus, not generous. Simply doing my duty.’
Mappo bowed again. ‘I thank you even so.’
‘A moment, while I douse this light, then follow me-closely, please.’
The fete’s celebrants in this quarter seemed to be concentrated in the main streets, bathed in the blue glow of the gas lamps. It was not difficult to avoid such places with the watchman guiding him down narrow, twisting and turning alleys and lanes. And those few figures they encountered quickly slunk away upon seeing the guard’s uniform (and, perhaps, Mappo’s massive bulk).
Until, behind a decrepit tavern of some sort, they came upon two corpses. Swearing under his breath, the guard crouched down beside one, fumbling to relight his lantern.
‘This is becoming a problem,’ he muttered, as he cranked the wick high and a golden glow filled the area, revealing filth-smeared cobblestones and the gleam of pooled blood. Mappo watched as he rolled over the first
