‘If it’s just a question of coin — you’ll have it.’
‘On your word?’
‘Yes.’
Barathol allowed himself a small shrug. ‘Then I’ll be on my way. This isn’t my business.’
‘Very well. On your way. But I’ll be watching. One word to anyone and you’ll die. Understood?’
‘Yeah. I know the drill.’
The blade pricked him to urge him on. He nodded to Blend and headed off. A few steps later he tossed the crowbar into the woods and continued along the path.
At the trench the work crew had returned to prepping the foundation. Barathol made a show of straightening his trousers as he descended into the trench. He pushed aside the tent flap and ducked in. The tall mage was there waiting for him, staff of old wood in one hand.
‘Where were you?’ he growled.
‘Call of nature.’
‘Took your time.’
‘I’m not eating right these days.’
‘How much do you think I care about the state of your bowels?’
Barathol held a hand over the coals, thrust in a bar to stir them. ‘You asked.’
‘Don’t leave the forge again. We are on a timetable. There can be no delay.’
Over his shoulder Barathol studied the strangely lean angular fellow. ‘Oh? To accomplish what?’
The man’s eyes seemed to flare and he clasped the staff in both hands. The wood creaked in the fierce grip. ‘That is not your concern,’ he ground out.
Barathol shrugged. He gestured to the wood and leather bellows. ‘Work those for me then.’
The mage sneered. The fresh scars on his face twisted in disgust. ‘Find another to do that, imbecile.’
Barathol threw down the bar. ‘Fine. More delay.’
He impressed a worker from the crew to help on the bellows. The entire time, the mage paced the narrow confines of the tent. The work might have gone as usual, but for Barathol it seemed to flow as slowly as the silver melting in the glowing ceramic crucible. He kept suppressing the urge to peer over his shoulder, and he hunched at particularly loud bangs and crashes of dropped equipment in the trench.
All the time, he felt the gaze of the mage on his back like the twin impressions of heated dagger-points. Finally, the work was done. Both moulds were poured, and the mage shouldered him aside to inspect the cooling bars. ‘These appear acceptable,’ he growled, bent over them. A flicked hand dismissed Barathol, who straightened his back with a murmured ‘You’re welcome’.
He pushed aside the heavy canvas flap and stepped out into cool dawn air. He drew a cloth from inside his shirt and wiped his face and hands, then stood still for a moment, enjoying the caress of the wind. Walking up from the trench he paused, glanced back towards the distant woods hidden behind a wing of the rambling complex of Majesty Hall. No alarm as yet. Not even a peep. Reconnoitring? Investigating the stones? Or … no, they wouldn’t dare try that, would they?
Best to be far away in any case.
He headed for a twisting walkway down the hill.
Halfway along the trail he flinched as a boom erupted over the hillside, echoing and rolling into the distance. It sounded eerily like broad sails catching a brisk wind. He turned in time to see a great cloud of dirt and dust billowing up over the tiled rooftops of the various buildings crowding the hilltop. He could even make out the clattering of rocks as they tumbled down the cliffs. Distant shouts and screams sounded. He hung his head. Damn! Now I have to go back for a look — it would be strange if I didn’t.
He turned round to climb the walkway.
City Wardens had already formed a cordon holding everyone back from the crater smoking in the pocket forest. He identified himself as a worker on the installation and so was let through. He found his two bosses — the hunchback and the hooknose, as he thought of them — investigating the site. The hooknose caught sight of him and waved him closer. He edged his way down into the pit. The loose dirt was hot beneath his sandals.
Looking like some sort of scholarly vulture, hooknose rose from studying the arc of exposed blocks. To Barathol the stones looked to be discoloured and scorched, but otherwise intact. The mage eyed him sourly. ‘What is your opinion?’ he asked.
Barathol allowed himself a shrug. ‘Moranth munitions, I imagine.’
Hooknose, ever in an ugly temper, looked to the sky. ‘Obviously, fool! No, the blocks. The links — how are they?’
‘I’ll have to examine them, I suppose.’
‘Well, do so!’ and the man swept aside, curtly waving him forward.
Suppressing his own temper, Barathol knelt next to the course of blocks and began brushing away the dirt. He found the pins and, spitting and wiping, used his shirt-tails to clean them. Leaning close, he studied the silver for cracks, the hair-line skein of shattering, or other surface distortions such as stress from flexing. He studied four in all, two exposed sets, but saw no damage that he could make out. Throughout the entire examination the two mages hovered close, shadowing his every move.
He leaned back, motioning to the exposed course. ‘There’s no damage that I can see. Amazing, that. The blast must have been enormous.’
Over Barathol’s head the two mages shared looks of savage satisfaction. ‘So we conclude as well,’ said the hunchback.
The hooknose waved him away. ‘That is all — you may go.’
He inclined his head then clawed his way up the steep side of the blast pit. The Malazans must have back-filled it to contain the force, he thought to himself. Yet the explosion had failed to mar the stones at all. He could only conclude that the blocks were ensorcelled against such attacks.
News to pass on to the Malazans. But no doubt they’d discover the failure of their opening move soon enough.
*
Blend, Picker and Duiker were playing cards. Or at least pretending to. None seemed to have their mind on the game. Spindle paced, stopping on every lap of the common room to peer out of the window. Fisher was at the bar, plucking out a composition.
‘Do you think he talked?’ Spindle asked of the room in general.
‘Topper’s watching,’ Blend said, irritated.
‘’Cause he might’ve.’
‘Shut up, Spin. We’ll hear all about it.’
Spindle rubbed his shirt. ‘Should’ve gone by now,’ he murmured.
‘Don’t trust your own work?’ Picker asked, cocking an eye.
‘It’s been a while, okay?’
‘Like never.’ Picker smirked at Blend.
‘I’m trained!’
‘So you keep claiming, Spin. So you claim.’
‘Well … I am. Okay?’
Then a sound like a loud booming gust of wind passed over the bar and everyone stilled. The empty bottles on the bar rattled.
Blend and Picker both eased back in their chairs, letting go long breaths. ‘There you go,’ Picker said, lifting a glass. Blend clacked hers with Picker’s and they tossed back the liquor.
Spindle raised his fists. ‘There! I told you. Two cussers! There ain’t nothing left. Ha!’
‘Good job,’ Duiker told Spindle. ‘Now have a seat, will you?’
Spindle pulled up a chair. ‘What are we playing?’
Before mid-day a knock sounded at the door. Spindle pushed himself from the table. ‘That couldn’t be Topper, could it?’ He headed across.
Before Spindle reached the door Picker’s head snapped over and she dropped her cards. ‘Get away from there!’ she shouted.
Spindle turned. ‘What?’
The door burst from its hinges in a blast of light and heat that knocked Spindle flat. Blend and Picker upturned the table, cards flying, and ducked behind, pulling Duiker with them. Fisher leapt over the bar.
Dazed, Spindle raised his head to see the crab-like figure of the hunched mage in his loose layered rags lumbering into the room. The man’s arms hung unnaturally long and the hands seemed grotesquely oversized and warped. He gestured savagely and the table protecting Blend and Picker punched backwards. ‘Too obvious, Bridgeburners!’ he bellowed. ‘Too damned obvious!’