‘High Alchemist Baruk, Magus. And no, it is not a lovely day. What are you doing?’
His eyes darted. ‘Doing? Nothing, can’t you see that?’ He paused. ‘Can’t he smell them? Close, oh so close! It’s going to be a mess and whose fault will that be? A real mess — nothing to do with Iskaral Pust, though! I am perfect.’ He attempted an ex shy;pression of innocence. ‘I am perfect. . ly — perfectly — fine.’
Baruk could not help himself, turning to Sordiko Qualm. ‘What was Shad shy;owthrone thinking?’
The question clearly depressed her. ‘I admit to a crisis of faith, High Alchemist.’
Iskaral Pust leapt to his feet. ‘Then you must pray, my love. To me, since Shadowthrone sees through my eyes, hears through my ears, smells through my nose.’ His crossed his eyes and added in a different tone, ‘Farts through my bung-hole, too, but that would be too offensive to mention.’ He struggled to correct his gaze and smiled again. ‘Sordiko, my sweetness, there are very special, very secret prayers. And, er, rituals. See me after this man has left, there’s no time to waste!’
Bhokarala were creeping into the chamber. A score of them, moving with pointless stealth, all converging on Iskaral Pust — who seemed entirely unaware of them as he winked at Sordiko Qualm.
‘High Priestess,’ said Baruk, ‘you have my sympathy.’
‘I have news from Shadowthrone,’ Iskaral Pust said. ‘This is why I have sum shy;moned you, Baruchemist.’
‘You did not summon me.’
‘I didn’t? But I must have. At least, I was supposed to.’ He tilted his head. ‘He’s another idiot, nothing but idiots on all sides. There’s just me and Sordiko darling, against the world. Well, we shall triumph!’
‘Shadowthrone?’ Baruk prompted.
‘What? Who? Oh, him.’
‘Through your mouth.’
‘Brilliance shall pass, yes yes. Let me think, let me think. What was that mes shy;sage again? I forget. Wait! Wait, hold on. It was. . what was it? Set a watch on the Urs Gate. That’s it, yes. Urs Gate Or was it Foss Gate? Raven Gate? Worry Gate? Cutter Gate? Two-Ox?’
‘Yes,’ said Baruk, ‘that’s all of them.’
‘Urs, yes, it must have been. Urs.’
Sordiko Qualm looked ready to weep.
Baruk rubbed at his eyes, and then nodded. ‘Very well. I shall take my leave then.’ He bowed to the High Priestess.
The bhokarala rushed in. Each stole a knife and then, with shrieks, they raced away clutching their prizes.
Iskaral Pust stared agape, and then pulled at the two snarls of hair above his ears. ‘Evil!’ he screamed. ‘They knew! They knew all my plans! How? How?’
‘Now, what shall I do with you?’
Chaur watched her with doleful eyes. He had been crying again, his eyes puffy, two runnels of snot streaking down to his reddened, chapped lips.
‘We must assume,’ Spite continued, ‘that Barathol is unavoidably indisposed — of course, at the moment all we can do is assume, since in truth we have no idea what’s happened to him. One thing is obvious, and that is that he cannot come here. If he could he would have, right? Come to collect you, Chaur.’
He was moments from bawling again. The simple mention of Barathol threat shy;ened to set him off.
Spite tapped her full lips with one long, perfectly manicured finger. ‘Unfortu shy;nately, I will need to leave here soon. Can I trust you to stay here, Chaur? Can I?’
He nodded.
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded again, and then wiped his nose, rather messily.
She frowned. ‘Dear me, you’re a sight. Do you realize it is nothing more than certain pathways in your brain that are in disarray? A practitioner of High Denul could work wonders for you, Chaur. It’s a thought, isn’t it? Oh, I know, you don’t have “thoughts” as such. You have. . impulses, and confusion, and these two make up the man known as Chaur. And, barring times such as this one, you are mostly happy, and perhaps that is not something to be fiddled with. The gods know, happiness is a precious and rare commodity, and indeed it seems that the more intelligent and perceptive the individual, the less happy they generally are. The cost of seeing things as they are, I expect.
‘Then, of course, there is my sister. My smiling murderess sibling. My vicious, ice-cold, treacherous kin. She happens to be almost as intelligent as me, and yet she is immune to unhappiness. A quality, I suspect, of her particular insanity.
‘Anyway, Chaur, you will need to remain here, staying out of sight. For I must pay my sister a visit. For a word or two. Soon, yes?’
He nodded.
‘Now, let’s get you cleaned up. I wouldn’t want to upset Barathol and neither would you, I’m sure.’
Now, Chaur was good at understanding people most of the time. He was good at nodding, too. But on occasion understanding and nodding did not quite match. This was such a time.
But more of that later.
The carter failed to complete his breakfast, as it did not take long for someone to take note of the wrapped corpse, and then to bring word in to Meese that some fool had left a body in the bed of the cart outside the inn — hardly the kind of positive advertisement any inn might welcome, even the Phoenix. Swearing, Meese went out to see for herself, and something about those boots looked familiar, With a suddenly cold heart, she pulled the canvas back from Murillio’s face.
Things happened quickly then: wretched comprehension, word’s swift rush, and finally, the dusty, lifeless place in the soul that was grief. Abject sense of use shy;lessness, the pummelling assault that is shock. The carter was cornered by Irilta and, seeing the strait he’d found himself in, the old man was quick to tell everyone all he knew.
The short, round man at the back of the room rose then with a sober expression and quietly took charge. He told Irilta and Meese to carry the body to a spare room upstairs, which they did with heartrending tenderness. Word was sent out to Coll. As for the others, well, everyone returned to the Phoenix Inn eventually, and so the ordeal of relaying the bad news would not end soon, and each time the emotions would well up once more. The living felt this new burden and they could see that the next few days would be without pleasure, without ease, and already everyone felt exhausted, and not even Kruppe was immune.
A dear friend is dead, and there is nothing just in death. When the moment ar shy;rives, it is always too soon. The curse of incompletion, the loss that can never be filled. Before too long, rising like jagged rocks from the flood, there was anger.
The carter was made to explain again about the visit to a mining camp, the duel over some boy, and the victor’s instructions that the body be returned to the Phoenix Inn. That was all he knew, he swore it, and for the moment none but Kruppe — wise Kruppe, clever Kruppe — comprehended who that boy must have been.
Must he now visit a certain duelling school? Possibly.
The ordeal of the burden, the dread weight of terrible news — the witnessing of another crushed spirit, oh, this was a fell day indeed. A most sad, fell day.
And on this night, widows will weep, and so shall we.
Two men are converging on the Phoenix Inn. Which one arrives first changes everything. If the redressing of balance truly existed beyond nature — in the realm of humanity, that is — then Rallick Nom would have been the first to hear of his friend’s death; and he would have set out, hard-eyed, to take upon himself a new burden, for although vengeance salved certain spiritual needs, cold murder deliv shy;ered terrible damage to the soul. Of course, he had done this once before, in the name of another friend, and so in his mind he felt he could be no more lost than he already was.