Orb Sceptre Throne (62 page)

Barathol was in the back, building a crib. Little Chaur, he’d noticed, was now as long as the basket he currently slept in. It was late afternoon and the work was going slowly; he kept forgetting where he was in the process – which piece to cut and how long to make it. He was, frankly, dead on his feet. His hands were clumsy crude gloves, his thoughts glacial.

Glancing up he noticed Scillara at the back door, watching, arms crossed over her broad chest. ‘Asleep then?’ he said.

‘Aye. A feed and a nap – practising being a regular man, he is.’

‘Our needs are simple.’

‘Bar …’ she began slowly.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m … sorry. I was – I am – angry that you took that work. I’m scared that …’

He set down his handsaw. ‘Yes?’

She raised her eyes to the darkening sky as if not believing what she was about to confess. ‘I’m scared. Scared that I’m going to lose you.’

He sat back, resting his hands on his thighs, and gave her a crooked smile. ‘You’ll never lose me so long as you have Chaur, yes?’

‘I’m sorry, Bar. All I see is a lump of need that looks at me with hungry eyes. I don’t like that look, Bar.’

‘In time then, Scil. As he grows you’ll see more and more of you and me in him.’

She was looking to the north, picking at the cracked wood of the jamb. ‘I don’t know. It’s you I chose – not him. Maybe … maybe we should go. Leave tonight while we can.’

‘There’s work for me here. Enough for us to get by on.’

‘And this other work? When will it finish?’

‘Soon. Very soon. They’re almost done now.’

She watched him carefully, as if studying him. ‘What’ve they got you doing up there anyway?’

‘Nothing important, Scil. Nothing important.’

Grisp Falaunt was lord of one row of turnips. That and a shack that really wasn’t a shack being as it was more of a lean-to of broken lumber and canvas cobbled from the remains of what once was a shack. But from the shade of his wholly-owned domicile he could look south to the shimmering images of orchards, fields and groves covering the hills of the Dwelling Plain. All that had almost been – and rightfully ought to have been – his. For in the absence of all other claims was he not the lord and master of all the vast plain? Who could dispute that? Why, none, o’ course.

Again he reached down next to his chair, where his hand encountered nothing, and he growled and adjusted the cactus spine held between his teeth from one side to the other. Damned trespassing devil-dogs. Broke his fine cabin and burst the heart of his last loyal friend, fine Scamper, buried now among the turnips.

Ought to fence his property. That’s what he ought to do.
Then
them fancy nobles in Darujhistan would come a callin’. Why, then—

Grisp leaned forward, the front legs of his chair thumping in the dust. What in the name o’ dried-up Burn was
that
? More trespassers?

A file of men had emerged from a gulch, or draw, or gully, or whatever it was you called a damned depression out there on the plain. A great cloud of dust was following them. In fact, they was running like the very devil-dogs was after them.

And they was headed right for him.

Or not. Maybe not
quite
right for him. More like … His slit gaze shifted aslant to his last remaining row of turnips. The spine clamped between his lips stood straight up.
Oh no
.

Hood’s bones! They was headed for his turnip plantation!

Chair thrown aside numb bare feet tangling with staked rope ties of canvas roof much cursing and flailing to stand bony chest thrown out athwart limp brown leaves defiant!

The jogging twin files of men and women – masked, for all sakes! – parted to either side, their sandalled feet trampling the row into flattened dirt and bruised turnip flesh.

Upraised fists fell. Screwed-up features twisted into puzzlement, then despair.

Grisp landed on the tattered rear of his trousers while the yellow ochre dust of the Dwelling Plain blew about him. There, between his feet, brown leaves intact, lay his last undamaged turnip.

‘Fair enough,’ he croaked, waving the dust from his face. ‘
This
time, Scamper m’boy.
This
time I mean it. Time for action. Time for pullin’ up stakes and movin’ on. Fer …’ He eyed the limp bug-gnawed specimen before him and slumped even further into the dry dirt. ‘Aw, t’Hood with it.’

*

Not long after that, the guards of Cutter Road Gate, newly reconstructed, let go of the robes of the dealer in rare woods from the plains of Lamatath as the alarm from the watchtower sent up its strident warning. Both peered down the length of Cutter Lake Road over the heads of the crowd of farmers and petty traders held up behind the tottering wagon of the dealer in rare woods.

The elder guard noticed that the wagon was blocking the gate. ‘Get moving, you damned fool!’ he bellowed at the man. The other guard, staring south, mouthed something like ‘Ghak!’

Ghak?
the elder wondered, then an arm slammed him backwards into the wall of the gatehouse and he slid down the gritty stones, dazed and breathless, while a file of men and women jogged by, hands resting near the grips of sheathed swords as they passed without so much as a glance down.

After the last of the file had gone the man pulled himself up, wincing and gasping and rubbing his chest. Masks, he wondered? Why in Beru’s name were they wearin’ masks? He and his partner shared helpless stricken looks across the wagon. The dealer leaned to one side to spit a stream of thick brown fluid across the dusty road.

‘You all are in big trouble now,’ he commented with great satisfaction, and flicked the reins.

On a street in the Gadrobi district a boy coming into adolescence ran up to a heavyset woman standing in the entranceway to the open hall of a school of swordsmanship. ‘Masked men!’ he cried excitedly, his eyes shining. ‘Masked men running through the streets!’

‘What’s that?’ the woman answered sharply.

‘Some say Seguleh!’ He waved her out. ‘Come.’

‘Inside,’ she demanded.

‘But …’

‘Harllo …’

His shoulders slumped and he brushed in past her. ‘Yes, Mother.’

The woman slowly closed the door on people running past, on yells sounding from the distance. Inside, she lowered a heavy bar across the door then pulled a crossbow from where it hung on the wall. She flexed its band, testing it, and nodded.

Sulty handed out the plates of hot goat skewers on couscous then paused, tilting her head – marching feet, double-time. Been a long time since she’d heard
that
sound. Her gaze caught Scurve at the bar and he shrugged; evidently he knew nothing of it.

Moments later a man ducked inside, breathless, red-faced. ‘Seguleh!’ he shouted. ‘On the Way!’

As one the patrons surged to their feet to charge the door.

‘You ain’t paid!’ Jess bellowed. Then the two women were left alone in the room amid fallen chairs and steaming food. Sulty blew hair from her face. Jess motioned the others outside. ‘Might as well have a look.’

They joined the crowd eyeing the distant Second Tier Way. But there was nothing to see. Whoever, or whatever, had passed, and only the witnesses remained. The patrons gathered round those who claimed to have seen. The women rubbed their aching chapped hands in their aprons, shrugged, and went back inside.

It had nothing to do with them.

In the common room, Sulty eyed the table with its steaming plates and skewers and wondered – hadn’t there been five?

The clerk posted at the gate to the Way of Justice heard the marching echoing up the walls enclosing the Way. Puzzled, he picked up his scrolls and stepped outside. No notice of procession had been filed for this day. Who were these fools?

A double file of men and women came jogging round a corner and the clerk stared, squinting.
Great Fanderay … were they
… Before he could complete his thought they sped past to either side, leather jerkins stained wet with sweat, limbs glistening, eyes hidden behind masks riveted straight ahead.

One by one the scrolls slid from the clerk’s hands. Kicked and trampled, they flew, wind-caught, to flutter over the wall of the Second Tier, wafting towards the glimmering waters of Lake Azur.

After the last had passed the clerk quickly finished his sums and came to an astounding number that kept him from discovering his empty hands.
Five hundred. Great Ancient Mother of the Hearth! Surely they cannot be real!

He crossed to one of the city Wardens who guarded the Way. The man was staring off up the rising cobbled path, a gourd of water half-raised to his mouth. ‘Do something,’ the clerk demanded.

The man swallowed, his face as pale as the finest vellum. ‘Do what?’

‘Warn them! Warn the Council!’

The man slammed the wooden stopper home. ‘I’ll just trot along behind, shall I?’

The clerk raised his hands to shake a finger, then realized. He started, gaping. ‘Great Mother of Pain!’ He threw himself to the stone lip of the wall to peer over and down. ‘I’m ruined!’

‘You’re ruined?’ The guard flicked the truncheon at his side and snorted. ‘I think we’re all fucking ruined.’

*

The journey had been a strange experience in double vision for Jan. All the landmarks, major features and place names remained as handed down through the ancient lays and stories of his people. And yet all was different. Gone were the orchards, groves and fields of the verdant Dwelling Plain. All was dust and desolation. The great network of irrigation canals and the artificial lakes sand-choked and buried; the many brick towers, the leagues of urban dwelling, all gnawed to the barest foundations and scatterings of eroded sun-dried brick. A population collapse – just as described in the catastrophe of their exile.

And the city itself, fair white-walled Darujhistan. White-walled no more. Oh, it appeared large and wealthy enough. But gone were the soaring towers of translucent white stone so clear one could see the sun through their walls. Gone the great Orb of the King, the Circle of Pure Justice. All destroyed in the Great Shattering and Fall.

Many of the inhabitants carried weapons, as well. There appeared to have been a proliferation of those willing to place themselves under the judgement of the sword. But that could wait. Ahead lay the Throne and the one who sent out the call. What would it be? The fulfilment of the long-held dream of his people? It seemed unreal that this should be achieved, now, in his lifetime. The last First had never spoken of it, had always deflected Jan’s probes. It was this uncharacteristic
reluctance
that troubled him now as he jogged up the Way of Justice. Such guardedness had all been too much for one Second, the one whose name had been stricken. Slaves to tradition, he had denounced them, as he threw away his sword.

And it was said the man had subsequently taken up a sword in the service of true slavery. But such were tales outside the testing circle and thus beneath attending
.

In any case, they would soon know. Jan led the way. He hardly noticed the figures he brushed aside as he entered the Hall of Majesty. The body of their handed-down songs and stories contained many descriptions of the approach to the Throne, although it took a moment to sort through the subsequent alterations and additions to the rambling complex. That done, Jan directed those of the Fiftieth to guard the path, then walked up to the tall panelled doors – not even noting the two guards who stood ashen-faced to either side – and pushed them open.

It was dusk now, and the golden light of the sunset shone almost straight across the Great Hall, illuminating the gathered crowd in flames of argent. Jan paused, disconcerted to find a sea of plain golden masks directed his way. Though not all, he noted, wore them. And among those who did some now fell limp to crash to the floor.

He ignored them all as beneath his direct attention and strode for the Throne. His escort, the Twenty, followed him in. The crowd parted like torn cloth. Two of those insensate were dragged across the floor to clear the way.

The one on the throne rose to meet him.

He wore the template upon which all these others were obviously patterned. Jan recognized the power and authority radiating from it as if from the sun itself – but it was not the mask he had come all this way to meet. Halting, he met the man with his own masked head slightly inclined, eyes a shade downcast: the posture of uncertainty regarding rank.