Well, whatever that had been it must have been pretty insulting.
He was immediately frozen in the punishing constant wind. He hunched down behind the cover of the Silver’s back. The wind hurt his eyes, too, so it was through the barest slits that he watched a mountain ridge slip drunkenly beneath them as the quorl arched, turning.
Gods … I’m going to puke all over this Silver’s back. How embarrassing.
At the last instant Tor realized he had to but turn his head and the lashing wind would do the rest. His stomach was almost entirely empty anyway and so the gorge that came rushing up in a gagging acid heave hardly amounted to anything. As they swung over the next valley Tor sensed more than heard the Silver’s continuing laughter.
Here Tor was surprised to see square fields of green and the shimmering of irrigation canals. The Silver guided her quorl over a walled settlement that hugged the naked rock of the valley head. Beneath him Moranth of every hue went about their work. Tor marvelled. Never had he heard of such a thing. No traveller that he knew of had ever penetrated the Moranth’s borders.
The quorl began to circle in an ever narrowing spiral that brought them alighting on the broad flat roof of a tower. The Silver dismounted. Tor struggled to free his legs, feeling stiff and queasy with what seemed a curious analogue to seasickness. After much yanking he managed to release himself and staggered free of the quorl. A detachment of Moranth Black had climbed the rooftop. Tor shouldered his pack, eyeing them. The Silver gestured to the Black guards, speaking in the Moranth tongue. The Black encircled him. One motioned for him to drop his gear. Tor looked at the Silver. ‘What’s this?’
She was already on her way to the rooftop trapdoor and stairs down. ‘You are to be imprisoned as a spy and a thief,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘What?’
The Black gestured again, insistent.
Tor waved the Black guard aside. ‘I’ll have you know I am an emissary!’ he called as she disappeared down the stairs.
The Black reached for Tor’s pack. Tor shook his finger in a negative. ‘I am under the protection of the Legate.’ The guard motioned to his fellow on Tor’s left and involuntarily Tor glanced over.
Something smashed into his head from the right and his legs lost all strength. He toppled to the flags of the roof, his last thought a self-recriminatory oldest damned cheap trick around.
When Aman led her to his old shop Taya nearly deserted him at the door. ‘What are we doing here? Give me one minute and I’ll have all those soldiers’ heads.’
The mage was fiddling with the door’s many locks. ‘No, no, my dear. K’rul is not to be underestimated. There is a chance she may get hold of you.’ He shot her a hard glance. ‘Then we’d all be at risk.’
She accepted the warning with a simmering growl. ‘Fine. So what are we — oh, just force it!’
Aman looked up, horrified. ‘Certainly not!’ He opened the last lock. ‘That would invite thieves.’
Inside, the wreckage hadn’t changed. Their steps crushed the scattered litter. ‘Now what?’ she sighed.
‘K’rul and her adherents have obviously planned ahead. What could possibly fend off Seguleh? Why, undead Seguleh, of course!’ He stroked his uneven chin. ‘Quite the poetic solution when one considers it.’
Taya fanned the dusty stale air. ‘Yes, yes. There is a point? Or has your head finally cracked under all this pressure?’
He raised one gnarled and bent finger. ‘Ah, but I’ve been planning too.’ He crossed to where the huge statue glimmered in the shadows, dominating the room like a gigantic squat pillar. He peered up at it admiringly, perhaps the way one might admire a tall son. ‘What can beat down all obstacles before it, never resting, never relenting? An automaton, yes?’
Taya eyed it doubtfully. ‘I thought you said they weren’t automatons.’
Irritation twisted half Aman’s mismatched face. ‘Normally, yes. However, I’ve been making certain … ah … innovations.’ He patted the statue’s chest where the mosaic of inset precious stones flashed. ‘This one is my own project. And now it is time to set it into motion.’ He hobbled to the rear of the shop.
Taya heard pots thumping, then a rhythmic grinding of mortar and pestle. She blew out a breath and looked to the cobwebbed ceiling. Hoary ancients! I cannot believe I am wasting my time here!
‘I do not understand why Father tolerates this feud of yours,’ she called.
‘Hmmm?’
‘Just ignore them!’ she shouted. ‘Leave them barricaded in that heap of stones.’
‘The Warrens are a standing threat to us, my dear. Surely that must be obvious, even to you.’
She scowled, not liking the sound of that. He emerged carrying shallow ceramic bowls containing powders, which he lined up on the counter. She watched while he upended a tall earthenware jug over the statue, straining to reach its shoulders. Some sort of thick milk-like substance dribbled down its arms and front. Taya almost asked what it was, only to reconsider at the last instant. She decided she didn’t want to know.
‘How long is this going to take?’
‘Long?’ he murmured, distracted, as he rubbed the sticky liquid into the statue’s torso and arms. ‘Oh, quite some time. Quite some time.’
‘Well … I’m going.’
He turned, blinking at her. ‘Really? I thought you’d be interested.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
He picked up one of the shallow ceramic bowls and dipped a finger into the powder, sighed. ‘Let it not be said I did not try … I apologize, then, for attempting to further your education. There is no need for you to remain.’
‘Thank you. I will be at court.’
‘Of course you will,’ he murmured as she yanked open the door.
Barathol had been napping in the afternoon heat when he awoke to see Scillara standing over him. ‘That greasy fat fellow is here to see you.’
‘Fat fellow?’
‘That shabby one who warms a chair at the Phoenix Inn. Count your fingers when you’re done talking with that one, I say.’
He rose, stretching. Joints popped. He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘A breastfeeding mother is the most sensual sight to a father.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘So you keep sayin’.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Sure it is.’ She pushed him to the rear door of the row-house. ‘Try to get some more work. We’re not living off the fat of the hog here.’
He found the man sitting at their small table, the chair pushed far back to make room for his round stomach. ‘Make yourself at home,’ Barathol said.
‘Why, thank you! I shall and did. I could not help but also notice that your pantry possesses remarkable potential for filling … When might this be accomplished? Soon, I hope?’
Barathol pulled out their one other chair and sat heavily. He considered for a moment and then said, ‘I do the cooking here.’
‘Excellent! Then I certainly am speaking to the most important person here. I would like eggs. Poached. And a roasted bird, preferably plucked beforehand. Or a roasted bird still containing its eggs. Whichever is quicker, speed being the operational consideration here. Efficiency.’ He rested his pudgy hands on his stomach, grimacing.
Barathol crossed his arms, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. They reached halfway across the narrow main floor. ‘I cook over the forge I built in the yard.’
The eager moon-round face fell. ‘Oh dear. How unappetizing.’ A hand flew to his mouth. ‘I can’t believe that word passed my lips. You say you actually cook over the fire? How primal. No wonder you are favoured by Burn.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing. You wouldn’t have something, though, would you?’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Just a smidgen of a biscuit or a cut of lamb? Roasted, on a stick? A kebab? Yes, a kebab would be nice. Forge-roasted, perhaps?’