‘Who’s ’at?’ another fine strapping figure of her trade asks, and spits a brown stream of chewing leaf juice.
After hastily shifting silk-slippered foot aside of striking juice our heroic quester bows gallantly. ‘Why, an old woman. Living alone. A widow, truth be told, many times over. Some think her perhaps crazy and ignorantly ascribe to her charges of witchery and hexing … and such …’
Enquirer splutters to silence as all slapping and wringing of cloths cease. All eyes turn narrowed and flashing to the fine generous figure of our innocent searcher — who extends one foot to his rear, poised.
‘Get ’im!’
‘Slimy rat!’
‘The nerve!’
Later that same evening a family of Maiten town was quite mystified to find a fat fellow in black and red silk finery, rather faded, hiding behind their goat pen. ‘Yes?’ the father asked, quite slowly, worried that perhaps the poor man had lost his senses.
The man straightened up, his head coming almost to the shoulders of the father. He adjusted his stained clothes, brushed soapsuds from his lapels, glanced about. ‘Just admiring your handsome animals, good sir. Ah! You wouldn’t by any chance happen to know of an old woman living alone hereabouts, that is about here — one whom the uncaring world unjustly ostracizes with calumny and obloquy?’
The father’s brow furrowed as he attempted to make sense of the question. He motioned upriver. ‘Well, there’s a crazy old witch further along at the edge of town.’
The rotund fellow bowed. ‘My thanks, keeper of such handsome animals.’
Later, after much dodging of roving packs of washerwomen armed with wet laundry, the out-of-breath and by now very hungry wanderer came across a straw-roofed wattle-and-daub hut upon the threshold of which sat a nest-haired old woman, pipe in mouth, busy kneading the mud with her naked toes.
He bowed in a lace-sleeved flourish. ‘Ah! Queen of the dreaming city! What a privilege! I am come to pay my respects.’
The old woman peered up, eyes red and unfocused. A vague smile came and went around her pipe. ‘Slippery ball of fish oil … do you bring offering?’
‘But of course.’ Another flourish and a wrapped object the size of a walnut appeared. He bowed, holding it out.
The old woman snatched it up with a speed that belied her years. She tore the paper and pinched off a piece of the dark gum within and pushed it into her pipe. Fumbling behind her at the hearth fire inside the hut, she found a smouldering stick that she touched to the pipe while pulling in long steady inhalations. After a few breaths the stick glowed and she drew long and hard. Her eyes closed in silky pleasure.
The man clasped his hands behind his back, looked to the sky, lips pursed, rocked back and forth on his muddy heels.
Eventually the woman exhaled, allowing the smoke to drift from her mouth and immediately sucking it in once more by drawing it up through her nose.
The man let out his own long breath and examined his fingernails.
Some time later a satisfied sigh returned the man’s attention to the old woman. He found her peering up at him, eyes dreamy, a wicked smile at the lips. ‘Oily Kruppe — what can this poor nobody do for you?’
‘Nobody! Calumny in truth! You are the secret carrier of my heart! This you have known all these years.’
‘Oiliness indeed …’ But the smile broadened, became rather lascivious. ‘You know my price.’
‘Of course! I am all aquiver. And so, the, ah … objects … are ready then?’
‘Almost now.’
‘Almost. Ah … well. Somehow I must contain myself. More dunkings in handy chilly river for this frustrated suitor.’
‘Come back again — and don’t forget more offering.’
‘Fates forfend! I shall come courting again, queen of my heart. You shall not be rid of me so easily. The siege has hardly begun!’
The woman leaned forward and clutched a clawed hand at the man’s knee. ‘Then don’t forget your battering ram!’
The man shrank back, paling, his arms nearly crossing over his crotch. ‘Earthy princess! Your saltiness is, and will be, a treat … I am sure. But I must go — ceaseless labour, twisty plottings, constant confounding, as you know.’
But the woman merely murmured, smiling dreamily, ‘Almost now.’ She giggled and patted her chest.
‘Er, yes. Farewell! He backed away, bowing, blowing kisses. ‘I shiver in anticipation.’ And he turned and waddled, rather swiftly, up the mud track.
The crowd of washerwomen watched the slimy interloper disappear into the maze of Maiten town. ‘Why let the wretch go?’ one hissed, furious.
‘Why?’ another snarled, turning upon her. ‘Why? Didn’t you see? He’s a friend of that crazy old witch!’
Looking out over the night-time blue-lit streets Ambassador Aragan considered whether the city had ever been this quiet. His gaze rose to the yawning banner of green slicing the night sky and he wondered if perhaps that had much to do with the general reserve. Somehow he didn’t think so.
He was out of the command loop now. The Fists had control. He’d remained as a sort of standing offer of dialogue with … whatever … was gathering power around Majesty Hill. Something that drove the Moranth off just by showing up. And we’re powerless to do anything.
He crossed his arms, leaned against the windowsill. At least the troops will be in a position to withdraw north if need be. Gods! He’d almost prefer a plain old physical threat like the Pannion Domin. Here he felt as if he were pushing against nothing. It was unnerving in the extreme. And he had to say that it reminded him of the way the old Emperor used to operate.
Someone stepped up next to him at the window then, making him jump aside, a hand going to his throat. ‘Gods, man! Don’t do that!’
The newcomer merely offered a slit of a smile, hands clasped behind his back. Aragan took in the green silk shirt, dark green cloak, long thin face and cat-like, openly dismissive eyes. Well, at least Unta is taking things seriously — sending this fellow, of all people. He cleared his throat. ‘So, what word from the capital?’
‘Darujhistan is important to the throne, Ambassador. Whosoever controls this city potentially controls the entire continent. The Empress knew it, as does the Emperor.’
Aragan simply nodded, returning his gaze to the city. ‘My thoughts as well. What will you do?’
‘What I do best, Ambassador. I will watch and wait.’
Not sure what to make of that, Aragan merely grunted, hoping his reaction would be taken as wise agreement.
The tall man turned to him. ‘I understand you have hired someone to gather intelligence already. I’d like to question him, if possible.’
‘Certainly. Dreshen has the particulars.’
‘Very good.’ The man gave the slightest inclination of his head. ‘I will be in touch, Ambassador.’
Aragan nodded, openly relieved that the man was going. ‘Yes, of course. Until later.’
The shadowy figure backed away to cross the room to the door. He quietly shut it behind him. Aragan was rather disappointed; he had expected something much more dramatic. Sulphurous smoke and a clap of thunder, perhaps. Still, shouldn’t be disillusioned. It’s few can boast of having the Master of all the Claw come up behind them out of the dark and live to tell the tale.
It was the dead of night but torches and lanterns set on poles lit the long excavation trench that extended in an immense arc all round one side of the sprawling Old Palace and the assembly galleries of Majesty Hall. Work continued day and night. Cleaned polished stones were delivered by hand-drawn cart up the steep Way of Just Rulership to be delivered to the excavation for setting within the trench. Workers dug, laid gravel and sand, levelled, compressed and prepared the foundation. All under the watchful exacting eyes of the construction bosses; one a hunched fellow with large hands that appeared to have been mangled by the white blocks he was always caressing; the other, tall, fierce and scowling, quick with a cuff or a strike of the staff he sometimes carried.