Post by Sire Halfblack on Nov 23, 2014 18:38:58 GMT
Deathly IM 1011: The Final Dawn
It was not much of a plant, stunted and wiry, a thorn bush with some disease or one cursed by a druid, drunk, not quite as attuned as he had thought to nature. There had been no rain so that the ground had cracked. It was lifeless clay, chalk and flint in baked and brittle layers. There was of course a skull, just the one, that of an ox. Without even the frailest clouds the sky just seemed too big, the sun hidden behind the hills that jutted up leagues away in rows, upright, fingers held open. A silver trail crossed these Badlands. Stood between it and them a stack of gnoll nuts waist high and topped with someone’s lost tin dolly. There were no flies, no snakes, the dung was going nowhere.
“Nice to see a sign at least,” said Fifor.
Alendari grunted. He was thirsty but held off from attacking his water skin because the streams were dry and the wells, well... had been left by gnolls. He and his had the knack of enduring most any land, any terrain – and they did so, but that did not mean it was enjoyable. They had seen tracks. They had seen the remains of gruesome meals. Rude camps, a crude temple burned out and almost certainly by adventurers though how long ago it was hard to say, years ago most like. Frost edged the ruins. He said, “The funny thing is if the people weren’t so bloody clever in there now they’d not be assuming the worst. They’re too smart to go home, not for them the foolish death of a yokel. It can’t help much their being fleeced on by their city cousins, they probably want to do the same,” nor too seeing the wider benefits of city life. This was not the Heartlands. No green and flowering rolling land of fields and stacked hay. Better though than finding bodies everywhere, or more likely the signs and tracks of great slave caravans going north. True they had lost, what, a few hundred? Probably lose as much due to the season anyway.
“Where to now, boss?”
Alendari had had his fill of inspecting villages and towns empty, soiled and sullen. Of the odd ruin, wells he would not touch and livestock half eaten or treated like women and young men after a long siege. He would have spat to show what he thought of the land but couldn’t spare the spittle. He nodded north and east, he wanted to see the trees where doubtless a number of his followers already were.
*
Things had changed and Andre not sure quite how much had arrived home to find the city in places crowded, the rural lands empty and apparently everyone too scared to put their noses even over Deci’s never-manned walls. There was a lot of what passed for crime here. Even the now towering Guilds had to be scrubbed from the pictograms and even crude slogans. People thought nothing of calling abuse to city and one another – and probably only half meant it and of course, there was murder. Assassination was a way of life in Deci. It probably held the city together as better for one Guildsman to die than a whole Guild to fight amongst itself. It was just the way of social promotion. And fighting there was, and most everyone carried a knife, and often because everyone robbed everyone else to the extent that everyone was in a gang, even if recent years there was a veneer of rules and even civilisation to that.
What there wasn’t, from what he could see, was a Watch. Well, in Deci that was a job for people who did not have families at the best of times and some of those from his time now had. The North Quarter, or the Dogs (as some were starting to call it amongst other names) was where the tribes had come to live for the now – and not just scruffy paupers from the badlands either – these tribes were fighting Hirds, real, hardy, happy-for-battle fighting Hirds – and worse, most of them at least a little bit wolf.
“What the bloody hell happened?” said Andre. The Ten Bells had been a Watchman hole back in days gone by and many still drank there, even if none of them carried the bell or staff any longer. Most had actually gone on to have families, some were in Guilds Most did all right as hired ruffians protecting people that could pay. He sat there now with Yeller who if they had never exactly been friends, then at least neither had they been enemies. And given the state of things now that was about as good as any man could expect. “Where’s the Watch?”
“There is no Watch,” Yeller tapped his nose.
The gesture went right by Andre, who said so, “If you’ve got something to say, just do it.”
Yeller sighed and actually looked about the dank little tavern as if they might be overheard. Indeed that was exactly it, “He’ll know we spoke.”
“Pretend he’ll hear later. And who?”
“The Sleek.”
“Some criminal, some crime lord?” said Andre in interest.
“Well, yes. But also the Watch Captain, not that we have a Watch Captain. He goes masked. He’s got this shadow Watch that kill people in case they’re criminals. And, well, a year or two back he and his black-hearted killers strung up hundreds of folk in Cheapside. Said they were all wolves. There’s no Watch now, just killers as do... well, not what we did. But what gets done here.”
Andre frowned. That was the sort of thing both to control a city and also see it rise up and hang everyone. Besides which it did not actually seem to be stopping people dying, people robbing, nor the casual violation that went on. He said, “Does Troy know?”
“King Troy?”
“King?”
“King Troy the Faceless. Oh yes, The Sleek is his right-hand man, we’re pretty much expecting the King to be killed by the Sleek, then take over. Like the old days. Mind,” said Yeller, “he’s taking his time about it. Troy’s been King for a while now, and he rules. I mean, Selgard’s the Governor – but that’s not a real role is it? Keeps the bloody Empire sweet is all. No, no Watch Kortaine. Just killers.”
“I’m the Law.”
“Nice for you.”
“You’d think so wouldn’t you? I should talk to Troy.”
“King Troy.”
“The Faceless, I heard you.”
Yeller nodded. He said, “Mind you, the Seething is back, so I hear. And of course there are no crime lords. Silly idea, just gives all the big nobs something to kill. No, crime is very much the people’s preserve.”
Andre nodded again and called over a fresh jug to share. The Ten Bells served the local brew - that made mostly from tar, “So, no crime lords?”
“Well, apart from the Council,” he laughed.
“Careful.”
Yeller waved away the warning. Andre hadn’t been too forceful about it.
Andre still had a few of the Watch instincts and here he could probably learn more about who was doing what than any amount of shaking people over rooftops. He had brutally put down a few of the more obvious thefts but with the level in the city it was rather like putting out a burning house with the aid of a damp sock. It was the way things moved around. People had treasure, grulls and centuries, but goods moved about mostly by being robbed from place to place. He said, “No one really behind it all then? Silly question I know.”
“Nah, the Guilds are bloody powerful and do as they wish, and the Honey, the filth that shovels filth, well they’re pretty much a thieves house all of their own. Everyone knows that.”
It was news to Andre, “Everyone?”
“Well, everyone that don’t have a title or a big hat. Speaking of big hats, they don’t bother Sire Berry and keep things tidy, they’re just so far below everyone else that you only know it if you’re swimming in it.”
Andre rose. He had people to speak to but was sure he would be back.
*
The poison smog of the city no more than a spear’s throw from the higher rooftops suggested it was day. Already people had been gathered, bullied, flattered and then told that yes, they were going to be paid. Already and buckets, spades and picks had been fetched from the market and stores of the city. A number of the older buildings had already been cleared and then for three days and as many nights thick, dirty clay had been fetched in a steady procession until two of them striking something a lot more valuable than gold had been hurriedly closed off and those emerging swiftly searched in case of souvenirs. The streets had been easy. In places here they were going down. Whether by Anath’s influence or otherwise there were a lot of Guildsmen here too and not wanting pay, but then how many had come from Cheapside? How many had family here, how many of the streets had once had gangs that now were Guilds? Pitching in, in Deci? Extraordinary!
The Black Hat who had stood proudly to oversee the work for exactly the ten minutes it took him to think of something more interesting to do waved away Pilgrim (a young rat with pretensions to religion) with a promise that he was seeing the beggars later, and that he would ‘sort it out den’. He did it from one side of a door Deci-locked and in a voice somewhat higher than any of his stepsons could remember.
*
It was at least serene, that much could be said for it. H had been absent too long perhaps, his manner changed so much, that the peace of this place allowed him at last (away from the clamour of change and the voices of old comrades) to think. Here amongst the Forgotten Hills, high on a mountain whose name had been, of course, lost to time to hide perhaps only in stories. H had walked up the mountain, climbing only in places. It was important to exert himself, what he sought did not come through trickery. As the last of his old life had at last fallen away he had felt something of the old, dead and bad days but not here. Rather well to the south and west where there in Bildteve night had fallen and the dead had begun once more to rule.
The Empire was bordered by mountains. The great ranges of the Braekens just seen to the north and the Brandins much further south and not seen even from here, at all. Once it was said those ranges had been the very ends of the world, centuries, two ages before. There the mountains were majestic and there the tallest peaks were found. But these were not in the Empire, they marked where it ended. Perhaps then there he would go, but the pull of the land and the Empire was strong in him and here in the Forgotten Hills between Deci and Alguz, then across a distant pass Eartholme and Gothiel.
The hills were still mountains for the tallest of the peaks. He had crossed below that point where the dry earth had given way to old water, and then here snow. It was the Deathly Season and the clouds were all to the east and Alguz. West and over the Deci there was instead a distant smear of sickly fug. The sky otherwise clear and here the stars bright, that sky crowded by them, stars that now moved in the slow dance of the Final Dawn.
For two days H had walked through close forests of pine and spruce. No path, no trail, only ‘up’ for a direction to guide him. Here and where the cold began to bite they ended, of a sudden, a line made as if farmed so that the mountain top he came to might resemble some friar’s tonsure. A mountain top that was rounded and a half mile across, an upturned dish of plateaux, and in which amongst the snow H spied ruins. There could hardly be a place less readily built upon than here, mountains by their nature did not invite idle travellers. He had heard no birds he had seen no deer, no blinking horned hares, not even a goblin. There had been stories of gnolls but no one hereabouts to tell them.
“What sort of people built here?” said H. He did not expect an answer, which was as well. The ruins all of the same mountain stone, some still roofed in places but long empty, were of a town. Once he guessed from the rubble they had been part of something greater, one that had risen higher still. There was a winding roadway that ran through its heart. People had lived here, raised children, seen out their lives and died here but long ago and in keeping with the hills... forgotten.
He cracked the ice on a stone-sided pool. The water was as pure as any he could remember. The mountains the best for his purpose in the Empire, looking west he saw only the tiny rolling landscape of Alguz where it peeked between other rises. The ‘Rest still further still in the unseen Heartlands had hills, but was compared to the north of the Empire a place of fields and woodlands, of green where here was grey.
At first he did not react to the sight of the young man coming in the other direction. He was dressed in bits of clothing from every city, the epitome of the traveller, and not then an idle one. He boasted only a light beard and curling hair that covered his ears and a stick on one shoulder holding a knotted sack.
H blinked. He said, “A good night to you.”
“And you, I’m not sure I’ve seen you before?”
“I feel sure I would have remembered, and your purpose?”
“I like the water here. Just passing through, on my way,” he nodded to the west, “to poke my nose in and see what Jander is up to.”
“A fellow Knight!”
“As you say.”
H had done. He also said, “What is this place?”
“I think it was called Umbriamen, but I’ve mostly forgotten. Well before my time. Many things are,” uninvited he sat down. He took from his small sack a very good cheese, two bottles, and pots sealed with lead. These he explained from Sellaville, Halgar, and Thimon. He liked the north of the Empire but the food, he added, was bloody awful. Then, “Are you a bit like Tsu-Ling?”
“Hardly.”
“He’s all Tranquil and serene. I’ll have to look in there too in a bit. You’d think they’d all crowd together a bit wouldn’t you?”
“Would I?”
The traveller waved off his own question. He said, “Great warriors, fighting men? You know who they are. The heroes of the land, the great champions, the adventurers, none better, few more powerful. Sorry friend, in this land the greatest are heroes, you probably know most of them. There’s probably some but for me you heroes are the best. Well,” he conceded, “There’s Methac, but you never met anyone so grumpy. He’d kick your teeth so far down your throat you’d have to sit down to eat if you get me?”
“I’ll try and remember that, this place?”
“Lost for quite some time, it was approached but not found by the dead and rotten memory of what you might call a god - did it no good. Still you being here has drawn old Nexus a bit. Quite nice isn’t it? Are you going to stay?”
“I might.”
“Then I’d best leave you a meal at least. I have to be off,” said the traveller, “People to see, a year to gather in. If you see her, give my best to Hagwetha.”
“I don’t know anybody by that name,” said H.
“If you want learn about this place then you might want to. Don’t let the apron and floury hands put you off. Down there,” he nodded in the vague direction of distant and unseen Deci. “Word to the wise, Master H. And H?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let them buy you.”
H bridled a little at that, “I’m not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale in Deci H, just sometimes you don’t see the price.”
*
They looked worse than he remembered. Foul, horrid women and men unshaven, unkempt and dirty their eyes were shadowed by greasy fur hats. Cloaked, pony-mounted and with their horn bows levelled at him their Baron raised both hands. Not so far away leathery bags hung from a tree. Those bags he knew were the bodies of gnolls, half-liquefied by the diseases that lived on long after their slave’s death. Smokey fires burned about the border. The streams were half frozen here in the north. They did not recognise him it seemed.
“I’ve been dead,” said Selgard.
“Lots’ve people been dead, stranger,” said one of the tribesmen. “Lots of that about,” Haff (Selgard thought he recalled), “catching too.”
*
It was too warm in the Braided Fox after the chill of the night outside. True it was not much of a Deathly, but cold was cold and the Fox with its fireplaces and roasting meat meant that when he tugged at the ties of his fox fur cape it was to too many people seeing too much of him, and he did not like it. Cheapside was no friend to The Sleek and his people here now abroad perhaps a little too keen for their own good. It was their nature, his knife was the sharpest and if it sharpened itself then he was not going to make it blunt by telling it to do otherwise. He was no stranger here. Once Talath had met a girl in the ‘Fox, he might now be the head of his own great House. He had chosen the city, and family, something no one would have credited.
The Fox close to the gate might have been in Cheapside but its patrons were not. Traders and adventurers, Guildsmen meeting to carry on informally between their Guilds, and at his normal table where he looked plumper and more contented than ever, Catskinner.
The Sleek sat himself down without asking. He said, “For a seller of information you don’t do well by your patrons to meet in a place to open to other’s eyes?”
“Less likely to be stabbed, chief. You being a stabby feller and all, you’ll understand?”
Talath stared at the young man until he with a chuckle looked down. The Sleek knew a lot, or learned it at need and he had heard from a number of reliable sources that the young man had paid an awful lot for a very potent curse. He was also no peon, he had vitae. He was a part of the city in a manner that suggested something akin to the Kallah, or a Spirit, or the like. The Sleek had not come here to kill Catskinner, nor would he likely send another to do it. The curse was rather cunning like that. And he had to respect such precautions, in truth it only meant that he was talking to the right person. Sometimes respect was a mirror. You got what you gave.
Nonetheless, “You sell information only once, what if another of my... kind,” he indicated himself as a noteworthy hero, “should overhear?”
“Two of you might, you know who. Might. No one else.”
“But the people closest to us here, can hear everything that we say?”
“Not...”
*
There were no flies in the Deathly. This was the time at best of the maggot-brood and yet they crawled about in clumps, close as any lover for Berek stank. He stank enough to burn his nose and it was all his own doing for to smell otherwise was here to burn a candle in a dark and empty city. Two of his best stank no better and were all the more invisible because of it. They were further back, the closest a mile by foot, only a hard stone’s throw to a crow for the land dropped and rose here in the most forgotten places of these Forgotten Hills.
The trees full grown were young. Their roots held hands tightly and across them he slipped to where and after a long, slow climb he could stare down to where the moon was strongest. There too were trees but the rock of the hills thinned them. There were caves and one very large so that its mouth ringed by torches of dripping man-fat it made one whole side of a jagged bowl here high on a mountain whose name, if it had ever had one, was of course... forgotten.
He need not have moved so quietly for the noise was tremendous. Caught in the heaving gully it was only a dead sound a half mile back. Berek looked down at length then upon a scene from some church’s hell. Streaked in gnoll nuts and covered in their diseases he watched as a hundred gnolls, two perhaps, danced and jumped. They were ugly, no two alike, these the most horrid, the most deformed and therefore the greatest. Some of them had the heads of goats, others those of rats, or cattle, but mostly something of many. They were grossly fat or terribly thin, but about that cave mouth the largest with the heads of bulls and the bodies of mountain trolls the gnolls were muscle, bone and layer upon layer of savaged and salvaged armour. They were each and every one of them horned. Each was dressed in gold, in silver, barrow-old or Deci-bright. Close to the cave some made captives fight. Over a fire others were roasted and some of whom still screamed. Here and there Berek spied what must have been a handsome calf, beautiful women, pretty youths – or what had been. Now soiled and cut, noses split, chests carved; now sport for the gnoll-moot.
He saw no guards, no watchers. Not here and not now. He had seen signs of that on his approach. He had found burrows and tree top hides, pits and prepared gullies. Abandoned for now, for this night only perhaps, for this, where hoots and honks and drums of stretched skin on forked branches thundered and drove fat sparks from the fires that sparked and spat with more fat and more screams. This was the gnoll-moot and if it was foul then what might it have been had not the gnolls been butchered in Eartholme? What army of the diseased would have been here? A thousand, more – certainly, and if there would have been an army here then so too Berek half saw an army of wolves and men all about him, only the ghosts now, of what might have been.
Berek settled himself and made sure not to pant. He was despite himself fascinated.
The moon was red.
*
Surprised most of all by the light Davian sat quite comfortably where he had become used to speaking with a dragon, and did so again now. “We must be in accord, clearly. No band of sneaking killers has come upon you and you have not come to Deci to devour anyone,” he thought, “or thing.”
The light came from great clusters of candles. He could see by them the long dribbled remains of last year’s tallow bowls but these here now were tall, pure wax candles such as one rarely saw. He knew they had been bought from a trader at some expense who in turn had acquired them in Halgar, made by the Nobility no less (or at least on such an estate). For a thing of darkness King Grudamagh seemed to be very taken with such light. And by which light Davian noticed now the dragon cast no shadow. There had been a shadow-dragon in Deci in recent years Davian thought he recalled.
“My House is a powerful one, a respectful one that rules in Deci. We are powerful friends, and terrible enemies. Much it must be said like yourself?”
They talked and at length they had an agreement, one on which Davian would chew and which he would deliver to Troy.
On one point however Grudamagh was clear, “It is you that has come here, Lord Davian.”
“Indeed?”
“I do not deal with vassals. If one is to become Lord Thorns then it will be you, on this I will not debate. That title will not be exchanged nor given to another. Another will not come here, or he does then I shall devour him. Or he perhaps I, but then without a dragon, this place and all its treasures shall be... paltry things. I am of this place and this place is I. Otherwise it shall once more boast good access to wood and... little else. Certainly no people, my people here are devoted to me.”
Which was true enough, Davian knew.
Perhaps mistaking his hesitation for disbelief King Grudamagh opened his mouth a little and Davian was washed in the black breath of the dragon.
*
It was possible to lose the Guild on the skyline of Deci for other than its turrets and the bell towers, weather vanes and chimneys that were the fashion amongst the Hundred it was a building given more to weight than height. A Guildhall that enjoyed its own square and one faced on every side with ornamentation upon ornamentation, tiny statuary that made up larger statues. It was said that there was a tiny person there for every citizen of Deci, each a part of someone greater. The work was exquisite, the materials dressed wood and stone, warm, deeply varnished and hard as Jander’s left bollock. Or so he had been told, and Gideon believed it. That square now boasted a cart that looked like a guildhall itself and again made up of so many thousand tiny models of people that the Puppeteers had they the wish might probably have made it dance.
People in Deci were notoriously skinny, sallow – ‘pointy’ was the politest term a visitor might have used. But these Guildsmen Gideon saw had more of the King about them. There were as many chins as there were eyes, and hands thick with rings were pinched like so many sausages. Not that the Guildsmen were doing any actual work, wastrel they always employed (they were very particular) stood now harnessed like horses, a hundred of them in Guild patch and strangely proud to be there.
This was a Guild with many Masters. These were the Mercers, though no one called them that any more. This was the City Guild of Deci. On a plinth, on a chair, was sat one such Master and he made three of Gideon even as sugared dainties were sthingyed into his mouth by young boys with very long sthingys. None of them had a full count of fingers. Gideon made sure not to laugh. No one got that fat in Deci without some influence, some power, and the City Guild he had been advised had more than most. Argoth or the Sleek might take up a contract on the Guild, but no more secretive cut-throat in the city would.
He introduced himself. He was pleasantly surprised by the reaction. The Guild Master Vitodemus waved for a chair to be brought. Revived fruits were offered. Good wine and a rather better quality coat. A fellow in a striped apron appeared to barber Gideon’s hair or oil his head as he preferred. And Vitodemus did not rule the City Guild, not for another few days yet.
*
There was Hecter who saw to the King’s horde. Miss Able who had the look of a throttler but who was respected here, old lady, wise woman and bloody awful harridan of the land. Liar Liar was a hunter, and he did hunt, though he had been branded a long time ago and been a brigand in his time. Gilly and Moffat were miners and taught others how to do the same, both mountain men and who did not seem to speak much. Rory Planter that had suggested and then overseen the long task of shifting dirt from the tree line to here and who was filthy from a day of digging up seasonal roots. There was Gerda a girl that despite her current appearance still had the city about her, and who carried knives. There was The Gump, who was a genuine hill giant who two decades before had been a terror in the hills and against whom six adventuring bands in a single long weekend had tried (and failed) to do away with. And there was Saw Tully that was the leader, the Reeve as he night well be, of The Thorns.
And they loved their King that had given them all a second chance. And many more like them (if perhaps plainer). All of them with bad pasts - if mostly due to circumstance or youth, rather than any real badness. They had all been found by the King, all been drawn here, and all of whom now called Davian ‘Lord’.
Which was jolly nice, all told.
They had all come here after the King, who had been awoken by the noise made about the old wood Gathen that had prowled the land and made people into trees. That conflict had woken the dragon, they believed, so all in all the Deci Gents had started this all along. So the people hereabouts believed.
They were independent folk, surprisingly honest if hardly paragons of virtue. They had not been troubled by the Pine, nor any gnolls, despite being in distance so close to the mountain forests that had once been so strong in them. They had a dragon of course, which helped. But they were not very well organised. They had not needed to be, and their lives if basic were better than they had known in recent years. There was definitely room for Davian to make his mark here.
Importantly they did not want to become some hub, some place of note, some calling-by place on some map. They were for the dragon, and if Davian made an estate here then that was what the dragon had willed – but they weren’t part of Deci, and of an Empire they said little. The mines might see trade, and that was all very well, but outward and inward and not with gathers and travellers taverns. No outsiders, that was what they wanted.
Davian understood. That did not mean that he might not make for himself a particular sort of Guard, that the drawing of the dragon might not draw particular people at need. The people and the dragon would never stand to be some great and noticeable landmark. And they were rogues, and they were thieves, but they would fight for what they had. They would call him Lord and he would rule, in council, which was as well unless Davian wanted to spend his every waking day here. There was or would be the mines, and a quarry, and lumber jackers to help their selves to wood, and a good iron cage of a gibbet to keep outsider firmly that.
Outside.
*
“Artisans, friends?”
“Fecking Ulis!” said the Totter Man. The tar barrel on which he had been perched toppled with a bang. Slat Henry turned with a snarl. The honey man with them like so many of his kind a lot more than he seemed hissed as claws ripped his work gloves open. They had been talking and as was common for all of them quietly, without bothering anybody. A young man in an old man’s mask perched on the sill of a lop-sided window. Not so far away the sound of digging, swearing and loud complaining kept the whole Quarter awake. There was a whistle. Above them and whilst they looked to the window a further three just like their visitor had slipped through the broken slates. They stood now on rafters hung with pots and sthingys, griddles pans and sacks of hard cheese.
“None of your concern,” said Slat Henry.
“Everything’s our concern, friends,” said the young man at the window. He waved a finger when Henry touched a knife. “Now, now, behave.”
“You wanna watch it hereabouts,” said the Totter Man. He would never have thought them overheard, and certainly not cornered. “There’s a reason you boys haven’t been seen for some time. Especially,” he said with a smirk, “when there was fighting to be done.”
“The Sleek is the Law, friends, and the Guilds make the law. Don’t believe different. Now then - artisans? Bit out of Forgetown aren’t we? Shame that, still, any particular temple you want what remains of you to be delivered?”
The Totter Man drew himself upright. Thumbs to frayed lapels he put on a show that the honey man could smell was just that. The honey cuffed at his nose, still curled up as was his habit, still just the height in his rags of any man. There were of course no artisans in Deci. There were plenty in Forgetown, Anath had imported some. Import, export, black cap and how- do-you-do? All Guilds despised artisans, in Deci it just a lot easier to do something with that hate. Totter Man said, “Sleek ain’t here, children.”
“Now who went and told you that, friends?” The young man on the sill waited for an answer, and was satisfied when there was none. “Guilds keep a close noose on Deci, Serpent bless ‘em for the fuddled old uncles they are. Blasphemy that, says so in the Guild Charters. So if this is an artisan then we’ll tip our hats and thank you for the lamb, and we’ll pass you a little mint dripping for your time.”
“He ain’t no artisan,” said Slat Henry. “His business is with us. You’re a long way from...”
...but the new arrivals were not interested. They were having what passed for fun. It was a time of celebration and the Hundred were what was being celebrated, no matter what was said. So they were feeling a little Guild-minded. One above said, “Sorry children, can’t take the chance.”
“We’re beggars,” said Slat Henry.
“Go on then,” said the man on the sill. “Beg.”
“You beg,” said Sire Berry who kicked the legs out from the nearest. Thumps on the roof and then inside heralded more figures. These rag covered, snouts showing, little eyes gleaming had old blades hard glued and bound to their forearms. They had ropes and nets, cruel weapons and nasty weapons and weapons that did not even have a name. The Black Hat, Sire Berry, had business with Slat Henry. Slat Henry was a friend, and the Totter Man close enough to be worth killing for. The honey man he did not know but at a pinch and if an excuse was needed? “Or just feck off, eh?”
They moved. The first-comers made to slip away and were shoved, cuffed and kicked as they did so. The young man on the sill said before leaving, “Now uncle, there’s no shouty words with you and yours, why the boss himself is...”
“Dis Black ‘At don’t care. Dis Black ‘At’s been very good, forra very long time. It ‘urts being so good. So mebbe this ‘At think’s it about time he ‘urt someone. Just ter keeps in practise?”
They left without another word. Sire Berry nodded to Jamjar to follow and see them on their way. He turned to Slat Henry. “’Dis ‘At needs a word, pal,” then, “What’s stinky want?” indicating the honey-man.
The Totter Man explained. Sire Berry nodded. He said, “Take’s ‘im to Paupers Pit.”
Totter Man blinked.
“Just feck off, son – me and ‘Enry got business,” then to the honey worker. “You still ‘ere?”
“Ah, yesss.”
“Welcome to the lardy-cake, son.”
*
One gate hung free, the flagpole had been chopped down and the timber chopped at. Plaster lay in clumps below stone in places pitted but otherwise whole. There was of course dung and bones everywhere. It stank and warned by the druids amongst his followers Alendari had told those few of his spears that had joined him to stay outside. The fort was pestilential. The ground, the very air was ripe, living with disease. Cold as it was it was not the hard cold of previous years. When came the Pestilence Season this place would send out its plagues on the wind. Yet it was still here, otherwise untouched and perhaps because the gnolls did not have much of a hand at destruction, not of stone and hard timber, and not most likely if they were not allowed to set fires.
He stepped free of the stink, hacking up brown phlegm that writhed a little on the icy ground. He squashed it with his boot. All around the fort and the trees remained. Just as they covered the Forgotten Hills now, evergreen pine and spruce, but just trees. Perhaps some rite might see them animate, perhaps some might use them to make those warriors of the pine he was making sure had gone. But no more than some other hand might make a table, a plate, or more importantly for Deci – charcoal, fuel and the novelty of a material that didn’t ring when knocked against absolutely anything else to hand.
These unnatural woods and forests then that stretched about the territory in a line that bordered it across the hills and away were just that, trees. They had grown too fast, but the Pine was still natural, and not just (as some of his folk) were thinking perhaps not even just hostile? Such thoughts indicated men with too much time on their hands and so waspishly Alendari ordered them away, to pass the signals, to call them in, to head to where they could tell him what he wanted to know.
Alone and if the trees then were natural still something concerned Alendari. It took only a short while once alone to decide what that was. It was quiet. He had seen no animal sign. The ground so far boasted no undergrowth, the trees all evergreen were all of a size. Yet there were stranger things in nature, and some of them had shat all over his nice warm, fort.
*
“And this,” said the long, pointed and highly-polished mask. “This is the pride of my collection.”
“It is very nice,” said Argoth. The entrance hall had been very narrow and the more so the further he had ventured in. The angle itself had been the door, deceptive, so that the walls had folded up to make an arch with soft clicks. Within and for several steps it had been dark. The archway behind had fallen apart. Then he might have been in some monstrous clock. Some tangled web. Some great confusion of disorder that had clicked, and ticked, and struck and turned about him as by the light of dull orange eyes he had been led here (on giving his business) by a child made of porcelain and glass. That child held his hand still no matter that he had tried to remove it, and his dignity would not allow him for the moment to struggle or strike. It was not for him to exhibit fear.
Not here. Here in the menagerie of one of the five Guild Masters. That Guild Master was a looming thing himself of spun metal and polished brass, his face then as now a long curved mirror so that it seemed that when one addressed the figure it was to oneself, only larger, taller and that little bit more looming. Sire (for what time remained) Gayes The Mirror.
Somewhere a clock struck but too slow for seconds. It was rather cold yet the air was that of a cake shop, all spiced new bread and rum-soaked fruits. The darkness about them he knew to be unnatural, like the light from a lantern – reversed. It was oily, it had substance. It was somewhat like steam. Argoth carefully his reflection. He said, “A recent acquisition?”
“Obtained at some expense, a rare example of the art, at some small effort, and here am I freshly returned from the unfortunate death of my grandmother.”
“I would say,” said Argoth, “that I am sorry to hear that. Although you will understand given my nature that it would be entirely out of keeping to do so?”
“Quite, quite, in any case I can always make another,” The Guild Master engaged in rather delicate negotiations regarding the coming year was keen he explained, to be away. His bags were packed. His toys stood watching and close enough to act were dressed for the world outside. Chests had been sent on. Arrangements had been made. He supposed then that Argoth had been asked to do away with him, and enjoying the manners endemic at this level of society said so adding, “Though I thought you might have made more of an effort? I mean, the whole drow thing, so Second Age, I thought you had moved on?”
Argoth who was here on other matters did not immediately reply. Instead he tapped the cage with the point of a knife. “I cannot possibly talk about what contracts might come my way. To be honest yours would be but shopping change.”
“The Primus Elector would perhaps also not approve?”
“There is that, as you say, so we are left with a quandary...”
They stood together here in one of the outer halls of the Puppeteers the one reflecting perfectly the other. Neither man offered a solution to the other. That might have shown weakness. It was fortunate then that a Guildsmen entered hung from a rail upon which puppets peddled. The Guild Sire apologised to Argoth for the intrusion, and to the messenger said, “Yes?”
“The Grand Vizier to see you, Guild Master.”
Anath? Aha, inspiration struck. Argoth allowing nothing said as if completely changing the subject, “I have often thought that certain Traditions of this our Deci are always to be admired. I would not insult you for instance by suggesting that I provide you with a gift? That suggests I might allow you enough life to enjoy it.”
“Indeed, quite so. Indeed?”
“However I have always thought the honourable Deci tradition of outright bribery to be a much maligned institution.”
On which at least they were of a mind.
*
He could have taken the bows off them and snapped each to make a point but Selgard was rather of the opinion that quite aside from the fact the alternative to such caution did not bear thinking about, it would also have been terribly rude. There had been damage done by a bad raid but nothing now needing more than a fresh lime wash. It had been a night more terrifying than terrible, the raiders so used to facing little more than a palisade at best had fallen back rapidly when faced with bowmen and the sort of swords more commonly used for skinning trolls. Slavers, the gnolls had been warriors to be honest about it, but not enough of them to be a Hird. They had taken slaves from the smallest settlings, the most outward and backward places, those hardly known of and so therefore not ultimately to be missed. So much so they had passed on into Eartholme and there... well, split up to be best against adventurers they had instead been fallen on by warbands.
Where on his way here such of the Mittlenacht he had smelled, had been dwindling by another’s hand, and Selgard having proven who he was asked wryly now once they returned to the manor if he might put down his hands? He made a show of thanking the tribesmen, thinking that a trip to the goldsmiths would soon be in order. A wise chief rewarded his warriors, and they liked their reward chunky and golden, old gold. It was just completely different to buying or stealing such things, he sort of understood. Somehow the gold knew. Selgard who could have talked to it to find out decided he would not. Life was already complicated enough, and his still rather pink in the middle.
He had missed his manor, his house so far from anyone else on his land, with its trees, close enough to be a part of Deci but distant enough for it not to notice. His manor which on entering he saw had not been lonely in his absence. Amongst the cattle and pigs were people, mountain folk by the look of them, a few travellers who of course had known of the Barony, and an ogre in an apron that had turned Selgard’s fireplace into a kitchen. He did not want to know what the kitchens had been turned into because of it.
“They had to go somewhere, chief,” said Haff. Then because the tribe that had settled with Selgard were also touched by Deci, “They paid for the priv’lidge of being safe, course. In a chest, in your room, speaking of which you like chickens?”
Selgard had no great objection to them, and said so adding, “Why?”
“We had to put the chickens somewhere too.”
*
It had not been a taxing walk. Cold there had been little frost and no ice. The ground here hard it had cracked under his boots for he was heavier than he looked, though dressed only in an apron of beaten metal over boots and britches. He carried a hammer. A working man’s hammer not one of war and with him only a single miner that carried long stakes of iron and bronze one of which when a given rock or dry stream suggested itself he would drive hard into that ground with a single tap of that hammer. The land was dry. The sun jealous of its light was still bright, molten gold and polished brass.
“Now,” the Forge said, “I will see the mine.”
His caddy yawned, “After breakfast.”
“Eggs, many sausages, fatty bacon, double fried slice,” said the Forge. “It is right and proper to give thanks to me in such a way, yay even with crispy bits.” Especially with crispy bits.
“And a pint?”
“A breakfast without a pint of good brown ale is no breakfast at all. That would be blasphemy, or heresy, one of the two. The Forge is a good and hearty demi-god, a great one for a proper breakfast but not much on wordplay.”
“Who talks in the third person?”
The Forge nodded. It had just that sort of a day.
*
Within and the opulence nearly set him to twitching. Grand enough from without few were ever admitted to the Guild itself. He could see why. It was as if he stood in some mythical glade, whose tall trees made a canopy that allowed only a single, perfectly round view of what must have been ceiling so high above. No such thing could be seen, only a globe, the sun itself, perfect and still and ever shining. Gold of course, and indoors, which was neat trick he thought.
A fountain of gold tripped down gilded rocks each rock the same and perfectly aligned between golden mosses and here by a pool of more gold divans had been set out. Handsome women and finely sculpted men stood naked and oiled so that they too caught the same rich light. Yet he had seen opulence before, this day in fact but where the Mercers adopted the manner of indolence, of luxury earned and displayed the whole here was cold, it was not enough.
And Merilyn Love despite her trappings looked scornful, unhappy - cruel even. If she was beautiful then it was a little too perfect. There had been ritual made about her, or a potion carefully maintained. He knew for a fact she was seventy at least, yet she seemed far younger than he – and at the same time older, her skin too tight, her eyes too sculpted. He knew that Merilyn Love had once been a Silversmith, and a Mercer, but originally of the long diminished Guild of Takers. That told him more than rumour might.
“I will speak with you,” he said firmly.
*
If it couldn’t be found here then it could not be found anywhere. Ambrose Graves not the largest premises in the King’s Bazaar that occupied streets, lanes and squares about the Quarter was not so much a curiosity shop as a shop amongst a hundred that could have claimed that. Everyone a specialist and Graves as the name suggested, things from just such places. It was dark (of course) and empty, but empty in the way of crowded places occupied entirely by people caring not to be noticed caring not to notice anybody else. Ambrose Graves himself was not as might be expected, dead. Stood overseeing a pair of old men that were unpacking crates from Bildteve he was only too happy to help his customer. “We do have one such thing, collector?”
“Sssomething like that, bit of a russsh on to be honessst.”
“Always the rush, sir. Always the rush. Cash or threat, sir?”
He blinked. “I’ve got thesss?” in claws he held up a thick wedge of grulls, mildewed and damp but still perfectly serviceable. He was nervous, and that had not happened for a while. He just was not entirely sure why, “Um, issss a thousand about right?”
“Wrapped or delivered, sir?”
“Um, I’ll take with me. And can we keep itssss quiet?”
“In Deci, sir? Ha, ha, ha.”
It took only a moment and several yards of tarred paper and wire later the shop bell tinkled as the customer left both relieved to be out of there and certain that he would return. He liked digging up barrows and teasing the dead - but sometimes easy was good too. And he had treasure enough. Deci had that effect on people.
*
All angles the sheer size of the cavern beggared easy understanding. Here so deep the territory was only a distant sky, unseen, remote. It was possible the cavern had no ending, no easy limits such as that might matter. Empty it was mine without material, a vessel to be filled.
*
There were three, three (and if not for his patience then he would have seen only two) for the third was small, a lump on long legs that it kept coiled where its two peers, enemies even, were great stacks of muscle and distended bellies. These three Berek watched with his practised eye and the passing night had become the subtle centres of here where really the mob was three mobs jostling, mingling and hooting together. When the three came together before the cave it was only the presence of the great beasts that guarded it that prevented them from falling upon one another.
They snapped, growled and even shouted and if their words were a nonsense lost amongst the greater din then their intention and meaning was hard to miss. They were rivals, tribal chiefs that vied with one another. Mountain gnolls by the look and smell that only stilled when a great horn was heard and then who like all those there jumped up to whoop, to shout and to tear at their chests, their rank faces and braided fetid hair.
From the cave had come a figure. Berek who had been watching everything had missed its appearance. It hardly seem possible that such a thing had been so stealthy, yet there it was.
*
“Dirt?”
Slat Henry was pretty sure it was. The Totter Man would know for sure. It was Deci and they were not experts. Deci did not have much in the way of dirt. The badlands were dead, the wind carried much of the precious dirt here and there in great clouds. Jander had taken to netting it down in places and the trees right on the borders kept theirs greedily. “Good, ripe, dirt at that.” Washed into the city on the floods, left to fester and brew in the undercity, wet and stinking, good, hearty, dirt. Other cities built farms, Deci was not quite so fortunate. But by the sack full? But it was just dirt, dirt that could be cut into slabs, taken out. Laid down. Things could grow in it, which was where Sire Berry lost the thread a little.
“Dirt mines?”
A tall man in a flat-topped hood standing nearby watched the work with scrolls rolling and unrolling about him. Quills whispered in the air. His face betraying nothing still said a great deal. Sire Berry looked at the man. The man raised his hood politely. He knew that man. That was Sneertwice and he worked for Anath Halfblack. And here he was, making notes. That sealed it then, it must be valuable.
*
Hand-in-hand they left the city. The one a wooden boy with varnish chipped and veneer cracked, the other exactly the very person no one cared to make eye-contact with. Deci was deserted. The sound of softly-shutting doors and thrown bolts rattled about them as it had for a mile. They had passed through a procession forming up of faded-flags and dressed wagons that had stopped as if frozen until they had gone from view. Even now a thousand or so eyes were very carefully not looking to make sure that one, or both, of them were actually going away.
“We can kill something now?” said the boy. His face was that of an old man with a badly fitted mask, splintered and slightly darkened where once someone had tried and failed to burn it.
“Is that what you do?”
“Isn’t that what you do?”
“It has been known,” admitted Argoth. It was terribly easy for an Argoth to pass unseen in Deci. Absolutely everyone took great pains not to see him. “But not here, not right now,” he sniffed the air. He nodded. Beyond the gates and a band of horrid looking tribesmen with fantastic new boots and cloaks were rounding up the last of the cattle that the city had just left out in the muddy lake that had been there now for a year or three.
Then the pair had gone, vanished, and in that there was nothing odd.
The cattle lowed and the tribesmen laughed, avoiding the city gate here entirely for their own in the more northerly quarter and a short rustle away. It would make a decent change from all the pig and snake they had been eating up till now.
*
The procession was a solemn one. No celebration it was a Tradition, and despite all Deci had found more solace and strength in Tradition than anyone might once have warranted. It was important too and never more so than this year for reason some there appreciated only too well Sat a little lower than the outgoing Grand Sire and Vitodemus his successor Gideon was still not sure what to make of it all. He had been expecting to have to bribe, to trick, or to outright threaten the Guilds. The last he knew now would have resulted in quiet words and swift recriminations from those that had advised him to come here at all. Yet he was being honoured. The advice to come to this Guild was proving to be wise.
Pale faces stood alongside the roads that ever shrinking each year made the procession more sluggish. The Hundred had their wagons, for this was a Tradition, and Traditions were important. Also it seemed that their meeting should be public. Gideon had either to frighten the Guilds or gain their support.
“Strictly speaking of course, I am an arti...”
Horns sprung up to cut off the word.
“...fact, maker, sort of,” Gideon said quickly, his diplomacy just about enough to jump in waving at him with some urgency. Thereafter it was exhausted. So he decided instead to listen.
“There is a Tradition, of an Alchemist,” the capital was stressed. “And by the by, the occasional visitors from Faketown are going to be going home very soon,” this from a man that had previously said nothing, but to whom his hosts nodded gently.
“They... are,” said Gideon. Just as swiftly as Jander or someone lent him a bunch of spearmen to act as a reassuring escort, he had discerned. And given the nature of Forgetown then to Gideon’s mind golden-boy should indeed stump up the spears to do so. There was something political here that eluded him, but which Gideon was happy enough to be led by.
“And it would be refreshing for the Alchemist to attend the Hundred as an... ally, rather than as a...”
“Ulis?”
“Such a thing to say,” said Vitodemus.
There was an offer here. Gideon nodded but without commitment. They were not looking for a slave, nor even some chattel, but certainly... he was again not sure what. Nonetheless a hand was being extended and not for very long perhaps?
Gideon looked up so as not to catch anyone’s eye. The sky obscured by the poison smog still the sun could be made out. Also, the sun. He looked from milky image to the other, one stronger, and growing if anything brighter.
“Wine?” asked the thinner fellow who had otherwise only spoken the once. “Delicacies? An elf perhaps?”
Gideon still looking up only said, “What’s that?”
*
The village had escaped the gnolls, had never heard the call from King Troy, had had no idea who Alendari was or claimed to be and thought when asked that Deci itself was a made-up thing.
“Sadly not,” he had said. The village lay in a star formed by five gullies with only a narrow opening to the sky. It was feet deep in soil and seasonal roots, leafy buds and sprouts. The people lived in caves that had been lived in for generations and so had proven to be remarkably homely. Alendari had been led here by two of his people, they had wanted him to see the place but also it made for somewhere to gather. Still his people were arriving in twos and threes, telling him what they had found, what they had seen and at least as importantly what they had avoided.
In Five Gullies Alendari listened, accepting the hospitality of people whose accents were so thick everyone had probably talked the same two hundred years before. Already he liked it here. Good food, nice people, it was a Deci miracle.
*
“I’m the Governor, Halfblack...” said Selgard. They stood on a balcony suitable for the occasion in a building that Anath had discovered he owned, just right for the occasion, but probably only until next Starsday. Somewhat taller than them all a polished mask stood on a cloak rack just within the artful shadows. Anath simply did not feel comfortable at the front of anything and since this year he and Troy had not been seen much together (a very unusual occurrence in public) tongues had wagged. Anath did not mind when things wagged in the city. Dog tails wagged. Good dog, good city, fetch, roll-over. Whose’a’good Deci den!
The stone rails were just short enough to allow Sire Berry’s nose (yet all his hat) to peer over. He had just given Anath the butcher’s bill of his precious treasury. What with all the urgency he had demanded, and the need for everyone. And everyone had to live somewhere, certainly not out in the dangerous wilds, finding food and raw materials and the rest of it. Anath had already muttered that once Alendari had gotten round to killing all the gnolls people really must think about going home. Ideally he had pondered aloud only an hour before, people would consume nothing and pay taxes promptly. He had been he realised, too long in Bildteve...
“Of course you are, Governor.. um..?”
“Selgard...” said Selgard, with a sigh. “You know? The great presence of the Empire amongst you all?” Then, “The King not here?”
Sire Berry coughed. He nodded at the cloak rack and doing so tipped a finger to the brim of his hat out of respect for their monarch.
“That’s just a stick with a mask on it,” said Selgard.
“You’re just a stick with a mask on it, your majesty,” corrected Anath tetchily, “Now, wave to the nice people in their carts.”
It was as solemn an occasion as anyone could remember. Anath who had made a great show of tutting at the state of the place, asking around if it was too much effort to flick a duster about in his absence, had on the whole expected the very thing. The alternatives however being a city savaged by wolves, killed by ritualists just showing off or, frankly, a big wood he had accepted everyone’s presumed apologies. He had no wish whatsoever to be going back to having a Day of the Dead festival. It simply sent out the wrong message.
Selgard surprised them all by offering a bow to His Majesty King Stick. He had been dead for some now and for all he knew someone was really annoyed with the city, and that someone then could stab up someone else other than him. Being dead he had still paid his taxes. This was Deci and whilst robbery was the price of getting out of bed, the city was happy to take its lawful cut. Below and the procession too large for streets no longer as wide as they once had been, snarled up. They still waved but the procession was going nowhere.
Beginning to look foolish (an unconscionable crime in Deci) it was the cunning Sire Berry that hastily came up with the solution.
*
Pigs roasted over charcoal spread across much of the square. Ferocious looking beasts they now looked set to make a ferocious sort of feast. Racks of snakes made a curtain along one lane. Tirack who had come to the northerly quarter of the city had only to follow the smell that in a city (already like all cities stinking worse than a privy) found that it did not as it happened smell as bad as a privy at all. Because the honey men were not coming here, and without the honey men there was to be frank, nuts everywhere. The odd body too. Filth and spoil, a tenement nearby looked as if it had been on fire – but Deci was not a city that burned all that easily else it would have long ago. He stepped around two dogs fighting. Laughing a fat woman rode a brute across his path, both naked despite the cold night that would normally at this time of year been much colder still. One boot stumbled on broken glass. Down the lane a stream of piss dribbled by on its way.
Not far away and some of the city’s fine flagstones had been dug up to show older cobbles underneath. Tirack adjusted a very large hat made from the best part of a bear and hoped the oxen horns were actually necessary.
There was quite a crowd. Being armed in Deci was nothing new. Being armed with broadswords, axes and spears most certainly was. Hair was tangled, teeth were plentiful. Many of them seemed to have coughs. They all looked angry and Tirack who had just overseen the building of a statue that proudly pointed out that its focus and his demise had been nothing to do with him did know full well why.
Deci had seen its quiet, annoying but ultimately mostly-tax-paying wolves chased out. It now had a small army of wild men and women that were not so much at peace with Deci as waiting to see who was going to lead them in its bloody destruction, or so (he knew) they said. They were not sure in truth. They were giving Nichal and Berek a chance, assuming the worst – not surprised if it was true. Some were already saying that the pack heroes were lapdogs. Playing the part and probably because they were scared.
“Nice hat,” said a woman with a sword on her back and a baby at the breast.
“It wasn’t me!” he said quickly.
*
The King’s Court of the Kingdom of Deci walked slowly along the lines of Guild carts, waving and nodding and being seen. If the procession could not pass them by, then the King’s Court would pass by it. It was not ideal, but it was certainly in keeping with the city. Whilst Selgard and Sire Berry moved on Anath was buttonholed by a large man in traditional black.
“My Lord Hail,” said Anath with a polite nod.
“Earl Hail,” said the Nobleman. His estates, Anath recalled, had flourished. Rural like those of Majius, Halfblack remembered but he could recall little more. His expertise did not lie in the Blood. That made Hail possibly the highest ranking Nobleman in the city at present. “What the bloody hell has happened to the city? I hold you responsible Halfblack!”
Which is exactly when something appeared briefly through the poison smog. Burning it struck one of the wagons that disintegrated under the impact and with such a bang those wagons nearest jumped a clear foot into the air.
*
“Don’t it’s just not worth it.”
Tirack had a crowd that had last listened to a hero with a sword enchanted to defy a dead god. They were on the whole happy with the idea of not following him back into the rest of the city to cause trouble. Frankly it was proving quite expensive anyway. “What are they going to do?” someone shouted.
There was a question. They were not about to attack Cheapside since no one had much of a problem with Cheapside. It was a good place to get bladdered and no one there much liked the Nobles either. And whilst in Cheapside there was an enemy worth fighting, that enemy was scruffier than them and on the sly, some thought, much of a mind. One or two knew full well it had been some colossal trick anyway just to get so many of them together in order to make a horde that would then go and fight... well, they weren’t too sure now. But that enemy as might have been had been replaced by another.
Tirack was friendly, forceful and managed to pull back then from describing too much as to what they should not do in case he gave them ideas therefore as to what they might! So he was caught between what to say when the first of the cattle arrived and with it the news that the city was forming up a great procession. Probably, many he saw thought, to celebrate its victory over the tribes.
“That, don’t do that – it’s not true, they do it every year,” Tirack said loudly. “They used to celebrate the dead of which they had no small number. Now they celebrate their Guilds,” he thought fast as he saw the interest run through the crowd somewhat faster than dysentery. “You don’t want that, it’s all frilly silky pants and wearing dresses. Shaving and that dancing they do where no one gets hurt.”
The tribes muttered at that. They had also seen distant aunties and cousins forced out of their homes and sent to live in a forest. Which Tirack had also pointed out was surely a good thing? Some of the hottest heads were still waiting for the likes of Braw Defaed and Burned Feather Crow Wife to be assassinated (two of the elderly and honoured figures amongst them, two of the few that actually united them). The assumption had rather been that the city would have been totally incapable of not assassinating what looked to be their leaders. After all cut the head of an angry tribe and you had a good hundred really angry people all secretly rather eyeing up the chance to take their place (and with a ready cause by which to do it).
But the wolves were not going anywhere just yet. Not now, not with Tirack at the moment answering their every, obvious, thought. There was no glory to be had and they could not leave without a victory, a set of good tales, a mountain of rare gold and a good few pretty slaves. Being Deci they were short on finding anything but the gold. And the gold was all new, young, soft and buttery sort of stuff. Tirack agreed because importantly and for the moment none of those things included bloody and terrible vengeance.
He had worked a very hard few hours to make it so.
*
The bang was still in the ears a minute after it had left for further quarters. The wagon had vanished to be replaced by a fetching crater from which spun a single wheel, only a little on fire. There had been thirty people on that wagon and who now (due to long habit and an instinct only a Deci education can bring about) were now part of the crowd that was coughing, brushing themselves down and only now after the event worrying about what had happened.
And how it was most certainly not their fault.
“What the bloody hell was that Halfblack?” Earl Hail had to shout even to hear himself. He looked about, then again. “Where the bloody hell has Halfblack gone? He was here a minute ago. And who the feck are you?”
A man tall and dusted in small pieces of cart raised a well trained eyebrow. “Sir?” he said.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Sneertwice, sir. And you are mistaken sir, Master Anath was not here. He is being quite categorical on the matter. Until we ascertain what has happened, if anything, then the matter of whether the Master was here, or indeed not, has yet to be decided.”
By Alan Morgan