Fluffy? Please be referring to the cat — my sanity won’t survive otherwise.
‘Can you give me any hint of what is to come?’
‘I serve the House now. Only it. However, I can tell you what sort of game we are playing.’
Game?
From his mangled leathery hand the Imass slowly slid a wooden card on to the table.
Raest leaned forward to study the image scratched upon its face. He sat back, shaking his head. ‘No — not her. She’s out of the game. For now.’ He brushed the card aside. The ligaments of the Imass’s neck creaked as it followed the card to the far edge of the table. It growled.
Rallick found he was holding his breath. ‘What sort of game … is it?’ he asked, hardly able to speak.
‘It’s a game of bluff. Bluff on both sides. Remember that, servant of Hood.’
‘Hood is gone.’
‘The paths remain.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? It would be astounding if you did.’
Rallick clenched his lips. I can’t settle my aim here. He turned his attention to the Imass. Those are not his leg bones. He looked away. ‘Is there anything more you can tell me?’
The Jag remained immobile, his slashed and battered face a mask, long grey hair like iron shavings hanging to his shoulders. ‘I can tell you that you are distracting me from the game. Go away.’
Rallick decided that he should not wait to be told twice. He edged back out of the room, not turning away from the oddly mismatched, yet so utterly matched, couple.
He reached the closed door.
Now for the hardest part of all.
But the door did open.
When someone entered his office, Legate Jeshin Lim’s first thought was that a councillor had requested an unscheduled meeting and his staff had ushered him or her through. He was surprised, therefore, upon peering up from composing his next speech to see the merchant Humble Measure standing before him.
He stifled the urge to leap from his chair. Burn’s mercy! Who allowed the man in! Someone will lose their position over this. He transformed his twitch of mouth into a rigid, if rather strained, welcoming smile. Well … one can hardly complain. This man’s money allowed me entrance to this office … why not the man himself?
He stood, smiling, and came round the desk. ‘Humble Measure! This is a surprise!’ He motioned to a chair. ‘Please, sit. May I offer you some tea?’
The big man sat stiffly and ponderously. ‘None, Legate … thank you.’
How odd to see him outside the offices at his works. He looks … diminished. Jeshin poured himself a tiny thimbleful of tea and retreated once more behind his desk. ‘What can I do for you, old friend?’
‘First,’ the man ground out, ‘congratulations upon the renewal of the ancient honoured position, Legate.’
Lim waved such formalities aside. ‘It is our victory, Humble. Our shared vision led to this. We achieved it together.’
Humble inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘The Legate is too generous. Yet I wonder, then, why, with this victory in your grasp, you have not gone on to move Darujhistan towards the position of pre-eminence we once agreed it deserves?’
Jeshin frowned, cocking his head. The tea sat forgotten before him. ‘How so?’
‘Legate — Darujhistan must have an arsenal. Arms, armour, siege engines. The materiel of war-’ He stopped himself, because the Legate had raised a hand to speak.
Back to this old argument. Should’ve anticipated it. The man’s a fanatic. ‘Humble … your point is well taken. Arms and armour are needed, yes. Yet look at what we have accomplished! We are in accord on so much. Darujhistan shall be set once more on a course of pre-eminence. We only differ in this one small matter — you believe that putting weapons and armour on every citizen will accomplish this, while I believe the city’s defences must first be addressed. The walls, Humble-’
The merchant interrupted. ‘Darujhistan has walls, Legate.’
Jeshin waved this aside. ‘Hardly worth the name. Playgrounds for the city’s children. Neglected and pillaged for centuries. They must be rebuilt, strengthened.’
‘It’s not the walls of Darujhistan that must be strengthened, Legate … it is the will.’
Jeshin stilled, hands pressed to the cool marble surface of his desk. ‘The discussion is closed, Humble. I thank you for your concern. I know I can count on your cooperation in our efforts to bring prestige and influence to our city.’ And he stood, smiling once more. He motioned to the door.
Humble Measure levered his bulk from the chair. He glowered from under his thick brows. Without a word he turned and lumbered to the door.
Jeshin watched him go, stiff smile still fixed on his lips. A guard. Guards, today. Unbribable guards. Am I not the damned Legate of this ridiculous city?
Humble’s closed carriage rocked as he settled his weight within. He sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, as if examining someone seated opposite. The carriage started its twisting way down Majesty Hill. The man’s heavy-lidded eyes were narrowed, almost closed, as he lolled back and forth. Indeed, another passenger might have thought him asleep.
But he was far from asleep. Like the ponderous presses of his foundry his mind was slowly working, inexorably turning, and with crushing irresistible weight. And the conclusion he reached was that he did not sacrifice so much to put a Legate in charge of this city in order that the holder of the position could cower behind walls.
Fortunately, however, ways exist to resolve this temporary hindrance.
The Mengal mountains ran as a backbone along the west coast of the Genabackan continent. They were for the most part a dangerous unsettled wilderness. A trader mud track twisted along the skirts of their inland eastward slope, unkept, swept away in places by erosion, crossed by fallen trees. Mule trains, two-wheeled carts and backpacks were the only way to make the trip. And even then in places the track was practically impassable. Far quicker and easier to ship any goods, livestock or people up and down the coast by water. But there were always those for whom the up-front expense of such cargo space or berths was unaffordable. For these petty traders, tinkers, travelling smiths, would-be homesteaders, or plain adventurers off to find a new horizon there would always be the mud track through the tall evergreen forest, their breath pluming in the cold wet mist cascading down the slopes, and their own rag-swathed feet and bent, burdened backs.
And so, too, there were always those who preyed upon them.
Yusek’s people were out of the east, Bastion way. During the Troubles they’d packed up and headed west. By the time they crossed the Dwelling Plain the way of life had become habit and they just kept on moving. Eventually Yusek raised her head and looked around and realized that all her family’s starving and slogging hadn’t gotten them anywhere worth going. So she packed up everything useful and did the only thing she knew how to do: she moved on.
She’d fallen in with Orbern’s crew, or rather they’d taken everything she had and given her the choice to join them or starve in the cold. She being young and new, they’d tried using her, of course, but she’d grown up defending herself and had discovered early on that she didn’t mind the shedding of blood half as much as those around her. So they made her a scout, or a runner, or whatever you damned well wanted to call it, on account of the fact that she could walk all their fat drunken arses into the ground. And they had no armour worth the name to give her anyway.
Orbern claimed to be from Darujhistan. From one of the city’s noble families. Kept going on about being cheated of his position, unappreciated, or driven out by idiots, or some such. Not that anyone gave a damn. Fancied himself ‘Lord of the western mountains’. Even had a horse, a sickly lonely-looking thing that he insisted on riding through the dense brush. Stupidest spectacle Yusek had ever seen.