Much later that night only Fisher and the old Imperial historian remained within the bar’s common room. Fisher, it seemed to Duiker, appeared to be waiting for him to retire for the night. He finished his cold tea and turned a speculative eye on the tall bard, who had appeared preoccupied all evening. Perhaps even worried.
‘I’ve not heard that lay,’ he said.
‘It’s not local,’ Fisher said, his gaze on his hands. ‘It’s a travellers’ tale, told of a distant land.’
‘A land distant from where?’
Fisher offered a wry smile. ‘A land rather distant from here.’
‘And who is it that guards those tormented souls?’
The bard took a troubled breath, glanced down once more. ‘A prison of white stone guarded by … faceless warriors.’ He stood, brushed his trousers. ‘I’m … going for a walk.’
Duiker watched the man go. The lock of the door fell into place behind him. He returned his attention to the empty teacup, its leaves drying on the bottom. He swirled the dregs, studying them. There are patterns here. The trick is in being able to identify them.
Faceless warriors …
Fisher had prepared himself but he could not quell his start when the masked figure of Thurule opened the door to Lady Envy’s manor. ‘I wish to see the Lady,’ he said. ‘I take it she is up.’
Silent, of course, Thurule motioned him in.
Fisher knew he hadn’t given the fellow much thought before, other than that he was Seguleh, and a rarity. Now, however, with fresh suspicions gnawing at his mind, he could not help but distance himself slightly from the man as they walked along. Though he knew that even a Seguleh would find in him a far from easy challenge. The manor house was dark, and, it must be said, still almost entirely unfurnished. Thurule guided him to the rear terrace, where Fisher glimpsed Envy standing at a short brick wall overlooking the unkempt grounds, peering up into the night sky. She was shimmering bright in some sort of glowing sheer pale-green dress.
‘Bored with your simple-minded friends already?’ she said without even turning round.
He noted that she held a drink in one hand, elbow on her hip.
Fisher took a steadying breath. ‘You know what is coming …’ he began, and then a new thought struck him. ‘You’ve known all along … that’s why you’re here.’
She flashed a satisfied smile over her shoulder. ‘A proper court at last. It’s been ages. I’ll finally be able to get a decent wardrobe.’
The callousness, the monumental self-interest, struck him dumb. He realized there was nothing he could possibly say to change her mind. He spoke his anger instead. ‘It does not matter to you then that untold thousands must be ground into the dirt so that you can wear fashionable dresses and attend your damned balls?’
She slowly turned. The smile was still there, but it was as brittle as crystal. An emerald fire simmered in her eyes. ‘Really, Fisher, such hypocrisy. If you cared so much why are you not beating your chest already? There are poor in the city now. There will always be those who rule and those who are ruled.’ She gave the faintest shrug of her bare, shapely shoulders. ‘And come now, be honest. If you could choose, which would you really prefer?’
What he saw saddened him. He’d seen how Anomander’s death had touched her, yet he knew now it registered only because it was personal. Sympathy for any other’s loss or suffering was beyond her. He should have said nothing then, simply left. But his own anger was up — or was it bitterness and disappointment? ‘I would choose rulership that generated wealth rather than that of a parasite sucking blood and contributing nothing. Rather like a leech.’
The thrown glass struck him on the side of his face, shattering. ‘Said the bard — who contributes nothing save hot air! Thurule!’ she called. ‘See this man out. And never admit him again.’
Fisher touched his face where warmth ran down to his neck. His fingers came away wet with blood. Then Thurule was there, silent, one arm indicating the way out. He bowed his exit to Lady Envy though her back was turned.
There is nothing for me here anyway.
CHAPTER IX
For ages the citizens of Darujhistan were amazed by the riches dug from the tunnels and vaults beneath the region known as the Dwelling Plain. Yet while sitting in a tavern this visitor did overhear one fellow opining the following: ‘Is it not so that better these ancients had been men and women of worth than to possess things of worth?’
A kick to her foot woke Kiska and she blinked up to see Leoman kneeling next to her. He motioned her to follow. ‘They’re on the move.’
He led her up the slope of one of the dunes of black sand. Together they lay down just short of the crest and peered over. The troop of misfits and malformed survivors of the Vitr were shuffling off round a headland of jagged tumbled stone. Back the way she and Leoman had come.
Kiska pushed herself away from the crest. ‘We missed him?’
‘Perhaps he crossed back when we were in the cave,’ Leoman suggested, thoughtfully brushing at his moustache.
The sight irked Kiska and she climbed to her feet, taking care to remain crouched. ‘Let’s circle round inland.’ She jogged off without waiting to see whether he followed or not.
Soon the faint metallic jingle of armour and the chains of morningstars sounded just to her rear and she knew he’d caught up. Please, Oponn and the Enchantress — let this be it! This is no place for me … or even Leoman. This is a land for gods and Ascendants, not plain old mortals such as us. Let us please complete our mission and meekly slink away!
Keeping to the highlands and cliff-tops, they shadowed the file of waddling creatures as they made their slow awkward way along the shore. Against the sky she could just make out the mountain-tall shadowy figure of Maker as he continued his unending labour. Some, she knew, would consider his task a divine curse. For her own part she had yet to decide. After all, he was holding back the Vitr — wasn’t he?
Below, the creatures had gathered on a stretch of shallow beach where a broad strand ran out to the glimmering sea of light — what on any body of water would be called a tidal flat. And she wondered, could this ocean of seething energy even be said to have a tide? She’d seen no sign of any.
The creatures faced the shallow waves, perhaps waiting for something, or someone. Kiska shaded her gaze into the blinding brightness, but saw nothing.
‘Anything?’ she asked Leoman.
The man shook his head, his eyes slitted against the glare. ‘We’ll wait.’ He sat down, his back to the rocks, and stretched his legs out before him. ‘Kiska,’ he began after a time, tentatively, ‘if he wanted to return … don’t you think-’
‘Quiet,’ she hissed, not even glancing down.
She heard him shift impatiently, exhale his irritation, then ease into a reluctant silence. She kept watch. He had to be out there. Why else would these outcasts be waiting?
Eventually, after staring into the stabbing brilliance, her eyes came to water so furiously she couldn’t see anything at all and she had to cuff Leoman to signal him to take over. She sat down, blinking and rubbing her gritty eyes. Please, all the gods come and gone, let this be it.
After a time there came a tap on her shoulder. ‘Movement.’ She leapt up, but the hand on her shoulder pressed her back down. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
Crouched, she scanned the expanse of scintillating shimmering glare. At first she saw nothing: the stunning intensity of the sea of brightness blinded her to all else. ‘On the left,’ Leoman murmured. She edged her gaze aside, shaded her eyes. Movement there: a shadowy flickering among the silver-bright waves. A shape approaching like a dark flame almost lost amid all that brightness.