Orb Sceptre Throne (17 page)

Leff stretched out, yawning. ‘Keep a watch, Scorch,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

Around mid-afternoon Leff awoke to the screeching of the winch. The guards were raising it. He and Scorch wandered over. It was the scholar, Ebbin. Scorch leaned over to help him out, then lurched as the man seemed to fall into his arms. Leff helped to yank him over the lip of the well and set him down in the dirt where he lay panting, his face gleaming pale as milk.

‘Where’s the captain?’ one of the guards asked.

‘Water,’ Ebbin gasped, and Leff helped him to sit up while Scorch went to fetch a skin. The scholar took a long drink, then splashed his face and pulled out a cloth to wipe it dry. ‘Down below,’ he breathed, hoarse. ‘A trap. They were taken.’

‘Taken?’ the guard echoed.

Ebbin nodded. He appeared on the verge of tears.

‘Show us,’ the guard said.

Ebbin gaped up at him. ‘What?’

The guard stepped back and drew his longsword. Scorch and Leff eyed one another, set their hands on the grips of their shortswords. Ebbin struggled to his feet. ‘
Show you
?’ He laughed. Rather unnervingly, Leff thought. ‘You have no idea—’

The second guard raised a cocked crossbow. ‘You show us, old man. Or die now.’

Ebbin looked from one to the other, pressed his hands to his face and moaned from behind his fingers: ‘Gods forgive me …’ Then he brushed Scorch’s hand from his weapon. ‘You wish to see?’ he asked the guard. ‘Truly
see
?’

The man gestured to the well with his longsword. ‘You first.’

‘If you must.’ Ebbin looked at Scorch and Leff. ‘You two. Lower us.’

Leff scratched his cheek, bemused. ‘Well – if you say so, scholar.’

‘Those are my orders.’ He swung his feet up over the stone lip of the well, began readying the sling seat.

‘We come back up first,’ the guard warned.

Ebbin gave a long slow nod. ‘Yes. You first.’

It seemed to Leff that no sooner had the second guard descended than the rope shook with a signal to be raised. He and Scorch rewound the barrel winch to bring it back up and were surprised to see that the occupant of the sling seat was Ebbin. Scorch helped him out.

‘And the guards, sir?’ Leff asked. ‘They saw?’

The scholar was sickly pale and panting once again. He drew a cloth and wiped at his sweaty face. He nodded. ‘Oh yes. They found out what happened to their captain.’

‘So …’ Scorch began, ‘we wait for ’em?’

‘No. They won’t be coming back up.’ Ebbin held his brow, looking faint.

‘You all right, sir?’ Leff asked.

‘No. I … I don’t feel well. I need to get back to Darujhistan.’ He nodded with sudden vigour. ‘Yes. That’s right. I must go to Darujhistan.’

‘We’ll pack up the camp then,’ Leff said.

‘No! You two wait here. Guard the camp. Wait for me. Yes?’

Leff frowned, doubtful. ‘Well … if you say so.’

Ebbin took his forearm. ‘Excellent. Thank you.’ He paused, blinking, then glanced about as if confused. ‘Now, you’ll close up here, yes? You won’t go down?’

Scorch and Leff eyed one another:
the man’s mad!
‘No, sir. You don’t have to worry about that. We ain’t goin’ down there.’

‘Good! Good. I knew I could trust you. Now, I must go.’

‘Go? Now?’ Leff raised a brow. ‘Night’s comin’, sir. We really shouldn’t let you go all alone. Can’t you wait till tomorrow?’

Ebbin jerked as if stung. ‘No! I must go! It is important … I feel it.’

Scorch and Leff exchanged looks. Scorch inclined his head, indicating that Leff should accompany the scholar. Leff flinched, offended, and pointed back. Scorch gestured angrily that Leff should go. Leff’s hand went to his sword grip and he glared his defiance.

‘Uncle!’ a voice called from the gathering dusk and both guards spun, hands at weapons.

A slim girl was suddenly quite close. She wore loose white robes that rippled in the weak evening wind. Her feet were bare. Rings glinted gold on her toes.

Ebbin stared at the girl in utter incomprehension. ‘Uncle?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, smiling. She took the man’s arm, leaning against him. ‘May I call you that? I feel there is some sort of connection between us, yes? You feel it too?’

Scorch cleared his throat. ‘Ah, miss? You lost?’

She ignored him so completely it was as if he hadn’t spoken. She whispered something into Ebbin’s ear and the scholar’s brows rose. ‘Really? From
him
?’

She nodded eagerly. ‘Oh yes! And he is ever so keen to hear what you have found.’

Ebbin passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Gods! What I have found! Yes. Of course.’ He turned to Scorch and Leff and rubbed his eyes, squinting, as if trying to focus on them. ‘Ah, you two. I will go with this girl here. You two stay.’

The guards shared another look. ‘I think,’ Scorch began respectfully, ‘you should both come back to camp with—’ He stopped because the girl had flicked out an arm and a knife blade appeared in her hand. Its razor tip hovered a finger’s width from his throat.

‘You have seen and heard enough,’ she said.

‘No!’ Ebbin shouted, rousing himself. ‘Ignore them. They have no idea …’

The girl’s kohl-ringed eyes, now touched by a deep smouldering crimson, slid to the scholar. The arm flexed and the blade disappeared. She bowed her head. ‘As you command, Uncle.’

But Ebbin had staggered off. ‘Darujhistan,’ he was muttering. ‘There’s something …’

The girl remained a moment, eyeing the two men. A smile played about her full lips as she enjoyed their extreme discomfort. Then she winked and blew a kiss at each, and sauntered off after Ebbin.

Leff let go a long tensed breath.

‘Gods below,’ Scorch murmured.

‘Reminds me of the Mistress.’

Scorch cocked his head. ‘Yeah. Don’t she just. Now what?’

‘Now?’ Leff kicked at the lid of the well. ‘Now I’d say we’re out of work again.’

‘
Shit
.’

*

Lying flat on the crest of one of the low rises of the Dwelling Plain, Picker watched the white-robed girl escort the old man north. If they kept going in that direction they’d make the trader road to Raven Town, then on to Darujhistan. A long hike, but if they didn’t stop at an inn they’d make Darujhistan near dawn.

A noise from the dark behind her announced Spindle’s presence and she slid backwards down behind the rise.

‘See that?’ Spindle hissed from the dark.

‘Yeah,’ she answered drily. ‘I was watchin’.’ Struck by a thought she raised her chin to the north, asking, ‘What does your mum say about that girl?’

Spindle reflexively rubbed his shirt. ‘My mum tells me to watch out for girls like that.’

Picker grunted her agreement. ‘Well … she was right.’

‘’Course she’s right! She’s a witch!’

Picker paid no attention to the tense in that statement since the man’s shirt was woven from his mother’s hair, and that shirt was the main reason he was still alive.

‘Now what?’

‘Now?’ Picker gave a slow shrug in the dark. ‘Maybe we should eyeball that well.’

‘Hunh. Well, I ain’t goin’ down.’

She raised a hand as if to slap him. ‘’Course no one’s goin’ down! Six go down. One comes up! They ain’t payin’ us enough for that!’

‘Where’s Blend anyway?’

‘She’s around. C’mon. Let’s see if those two guards are gone yet.’

~

Blend joined them at the well. She just appeared out of the dark, as was her way. Picker examined the wooden lid and the lock. ‘All back like nothin’ happened.’

‘Mark it,’ Blend said. ‘We may have to describe its location.’

Picker used a rock to scrape the side – a mark that would only mean something to a Malazan marine.

Spindle had been standing motionless as if listening, and now he raised a hand for silence. He pointed frantically to the well. Picker stilled, listening. A blow from down below. Falling stones, rubble. A muted splash. Another strike, like a punch. Closer. She raised her stunned gaze to Spindle, who was now backing away, a hand pressed to his chest over his shirt. Picker signed a
retreat
and scrambled for cover.

Moments later some sort of blast sent the wooden lid erupting into the night sky, where it turned over and over, hung for a moment, then fell with a crash.

A figure climbed from the well. He wore a long dark cloak and a mask. The mask caught the moonlight and for an instant it glowed like a moon in miniature. Then the man turned away to walk off north, calmly and regally, as if out for a stroll in his own pleasure garden.

‘Did you see that?’ Picker breathed. She eyed Spindle behind their pile of stones. ‘What does your mum say about
him
?’

‘I think she would’ve shat herself.’

‘Well, I nearly did.’

Spindle drew his crossbow from beneath his cloak. ‘I say we give him lots of room.’

Picker nodded. ‘Oh yeah. Plenty.’

*

It was all very confusing for Ebbin. He knew that he had to get back to Darujhistan – though
why
, he didn’t really know. It was some sort of instinct, or overwhelming certainty. Then a girl appeared in the middle of the plain and claimed to have been sent by Aman. Even more strangely, somehow he recognized her, though he was sure he’d never seen her before in his life.

Then they set out on a damnably trying walk. His legs ached beyond anything he’d ever experienced. The soles of his feet felt as if they’d been hammered all over by truncheons. And he was having hallucinations. Sometimes it seemed as if the entire Dwelling Plain was one huge urban conglomeration of square flat-roofed mud buildings all jammed together. Smoke from countless hearth fires rose into the night sky while he and Taya walked the giant city’s narrow crooked ways.

Of course, Ebbin realized … the
Dwelling
Plain!

Far ahead, glimpsed through the narrow gaps in the tall mud walls, there sometimes reared some sort of domed edifice like a monument, or immense temple. Its pallid stone glowed with a pale blue luminescence that seemed somehow familiar. At other times the great urban sprawl lay smashed in flaming ruins all around, the victim of some sort of titanic upheaval.

When they entered Raven Town he was desperate for a rest, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to demand that they stop. And the girl, Taya, was pushing him along like some sort of draught animal and constantly shooting quick looks behind. It seemed as if she was actually frightened of something.

Could it be …
him
? No, that would be too terrible to imagine. Too awful.

And there, on the main street through town, within sight of the closed city gate, who should stand waiting wrapped in a shabby cloak but Aman himself? Ebbin stared – he’d never seen the man stick his head outside his shop, let alone leave it.

Aman waved Taya onward then wrapped one crooked arm round Ebbin as if supporting him. Ebbin tried to tell him what he’d seen, all the horrors, but somehow he couldn’t force the words past his throat. Aman started force-marching him along in his own slow crablike limp. Ebbin glared ferociously at him as if he could somehow send his thoughts to him but the man just patted his arm. ‘There, there, good friend. It’ll all be over soon enough.’

What would be over? This nightmare of a night? Or far more than that? Ebbin dreaded the answer. As they closed on the gates the great iron-bound leaves improbably swung open to greet them, and there was Taya. She waved them in.

Aman frog-marched him onward. Like Taya, he too was glancing behind, squinting with one eye, then the other. What was back there? Ebbin tried to look but the shopkeeper forced him on. They passed through mostly empty streets. In one of the market squares the early-morning vendors were busy setting up their stalls and arranging their goods. Ebbin and Aman marched through with no one paying them any particular attention. Taya was still with them. Sometimes she shadowed them closely and Ebbin caught sight of her glowing white robes. At other times she was nowhere to be seen.

They reached the main east–west thoroughfare that ran alongside the Second Tier Wall. Aman hugged Ebbin closely, as if afraid he would run off, but the scholar was too confused to muster any sort of resolution. At times he didn’t recognize any of the streets they walked. Tall white-stone buildings faced the roads, great estates, their façades richly decorated with scrollwork. Fanciful miniature creatures, some winged, peeped out amid the scrolls and stone forests.

And Ebbin recognized the style. It was the fabled Darujhistani Imperial baroque.

But perhaps this was all nothing more than his own deluded wish fulfilment. He wondered, terrified, whether the horrific events in the mausoleum had finally driven him over the edge. Perhaps he
was
mad. His peers, the scholars and researchers of the Philosophical Society, had already dismissed him as such.

He remembered a chilling definition of insanity he’d read in some wry old commentator’s compendium: when you think everyone around you is mad, that’s when you should start to suspect it’s actually you.