Orb Sceptre Throne (9 page)

Ebbin cleared his throat, uncomfortable. ‘I see.’

Aman tucked the package under the countertop. ‘And how may I help
you
, good scholar?’

‘I’ve come to a chamber. One still sealed.’

The shopkeeper’s fingers, which had been tapping the counter like spiders, stilled. ‘In truth?’ he breathed in wonder. ‘Sealed as yet? Astonishing. You must take care, good scholar. The traps these ancients set upon their interred …’ He shook his misshapen head. ‘Deadly.’

‘Of course, Aman. I know the risks. I am no amateur.’

‘Of course,’ the shopkeeper echoed, smiling to reveal a mouthful of misaligned teeth. ‘The barrier?’

Ebbin cleared his throat once more. ‘Stone. A flat slab. Unmarked in any way.’

‘Unmarked, you say? No sigils of any sort? Not even the faintest of inscriptions?’

Ebbin frowned, impatient. ‘I know my work. I’ve been excavating for decades.’

Aman raised his hands. ‘No disrespect intended, good scholar. Please. It is just very … unusual.’

An uncomfortable shivering took Ebbin then and he rubbed his chest, nodding his agreement. ‘Yes. It is … unusual.’

‘An unimportant personage, perhaps. A minor court retainer.’

Ebbin thought of the figure laid out on its onyx bier at the chamber’s centre. The beaten gold mask with its eerie mocking smile, and the bands of skulls encircling the plinth. Nested circlets of death. He nodded, shivering. ‘Yes. My impression exactly.’

Aman appeared to be studying him somehow, his gaze weighing. Then the man quickly turned away to his shelves. ‘I may have just the tools for you, good scholar. Moranth alchemicals … acids, perhaps? Or chisels. Not your everyday sort of tool, no, not at all. Hardened iron, alloyed with that Malazan mineral otataral. If you give me a few days I will have them for you.’

‘You have nothing like that here?’

A dry laugh from the man. ‘Oh my goodness, no. That mineral would have a most deleterious effect upon … upon my wares.’

Ebbin could only agree. ‘If you say so, sir. A few days then. I have to consult with my backer in any case.’

‘Excellent, excellent.’ And he bobbed his head, his knotted fingers tapping incessantly on the counter.

~

Once every bolt had been shut and every bar replaced, Aman shuffled back into his shop. Here he found a beautiful young woman, her long black hair braided and coiled atop her head, awaiting him. His mouth tightened into a sour pucker. ‘Your
intrusion
into my affairs is most ill-advised. Most unwelcome.’

The girl merely cocked a shapely hip to lean against the counter where she turned the wrapped package in slow circles. ‘Why are we relying on this cretin?’

‘We? There is no
we
. You are deluded. Your uninvited meddling will complicate matters most stressfully.’

‘They were watching the shop, Aman.’

The man hobbled back up on to his platform behind the counter. ‘Watching the shop? Of course they were watching the shop. They are always watching the shop! These agents of my one-time allies have proved most persistent. But because I remain within, and am
circumspect
… they have been none the wiser.’ He gently touched his fingertips to the wood countertop. ‘Needless to say, said circumspection has now been shattered …’

‘They are dead, Aman.’

The shopkeeper started to speak, caught himself, rubbed his hands over the countertop as if stroking it. He began again, slowly, ‘Yes. However, the one who hired them now knows he, or she, is close to something. Best to have maintained the aura of mystery.’

The girl’s pale thin shoulders lifted in an unconcerned shrug. She began unwrapping the package. ‘Then I will kill whoever that person is.’

‘Ah yes. Speaking of mysteries. No one knows the identity of the circle-breaker. Many poseurs have surfaced pretending to the title, but no one knows for certain. It may have even been one of my old allies – even your mother.’

The girl’s coquettish gaze hardened. ‘Never mention her to me, Aman.’ She peered up from half-lidded eyes. ‘Anyone, you say? But not you, of course.’

Aman shook a bent finger. ‘You
are
learning.’

She made a face, then indicated the carved fragment. ‘Is this thing really as valuable as you say?’

He raised it between them, his gaze holding her eyes. ‘Ahh … beautiful, yes? Slender, striking. A magnificent specimen. On the outside. But within, flawed. Worthless. A piece of useless trash.’ He crushed it in his hand.

The girl flinched away as if slapped, bumping something in the dark. Her full lips tightened to a pale slash and a molten light blazed within her eyes. The man studied her quite calmly, his head cocked, fingertips lightly touching together. The golden light faded from her eyes as she stood quivering in suppressed rage. She drew a snarling breath and raised her chin in defiance. ‘You are
quite
finished, I hope?’

He bowed. ‘Quite.’

‘And what is this monstrosity?’ she demanded, waving at the tall figure she’d struck.

Aman raised the lamp, revealing an armoured statue. The light reflected green and blue from an inlay of semi-precious stones. ‘Magnificent, is it not? From distant Jacuruku. One of their stone soldiers.’

She peered closer in an almost professional evaluation. ‘An automaton?’

‘Not …
quite
.’ He set the lamp on the counter. ‘In any case, m’lady, since you have returned, I suggest you make yourself useful and shadow our friend. Nothing untoward must happen to him. Be ready to intervene. He is close, Taya. Very close.’

‘Why him? Why don’t you go down?’

The man did nothing to hide the condescension in his answering chuckle. ‘My dear. You are most diverting. The countless protections, wards and conditions imposed by my erstwhile allies are most exacting. Almost without openings. Only those who do not seek may pass. They must be innocent of bloodshed, possess no lust for personal gain … the conditions go on and on. Mammotlian contrived them. And so, since Mammotlian, a scholar, built the tomb, perhaps only a fellow like-minded spirit may possess the instincts to follow. If you see my reasoning.’

‘And should he fail – like all the others?’

A crooked shrug from the man. ‘Well, they’re nearly out of floor space down there, aren’t they?’

Her eyes constricted to slits and she tilted her head, unsure of his meaning.

On the street of the whitesmiths in the Gadrobi district, Barathol Mekhar inspected his latest consignment of iron ore. It was of unusually good quality. There was a useful variation of softness and brittleness within the clumps. He closed the box and went to the forge, held a hand over the bed of coals. Still needed more time. He left the shop to cross a small open court to the rear of his row-house. Dusting his hands, he climbed the narrow stairs to his rooms above. Dawn was just brightening the sky outside the shuttered windows. For a time he stood next to the bed where his wife Scillara still slept. Then he went to the other side of the bed to the tiny crib fashioned by his own hands. Kneeling, he studied the infant within, curled and plump.

Never had he imagined such a treasure would be his. It seemed too defenceless for the world. Too tenuous. Its fragility terrified him. He feared even to touch it with his coarse blackened hands. He did however gently ease one into the crib to let the child’s quick hot breath warm those fingers.

Smiling, he rose to see Scillara watching him. ‘Not run off yet, I see,’ she said, stretching.

‘Not yet.’

‘Not even with a squalling brat and a fat wife?’

‘I guess I must have done something terrible in a prior life.’

‘Musta been pretty damned awful.’ She looked about as if searching for something. ‘Gods, I miss my pipe.’

‘You’ll live.’

She pointed to the door. ‘Throw me my gown. Don’t you have work to do? Money to earn? Enough to hire a cook. I’m getting sick of your burnt offerings.’

‘You could try lending a hand, you know.’

She laughed. ‘You don’t want to eat my cooking.’

‘I’ll be out back then.’ He threw the gown. ‘Could use some tea.’

‘We all could.’

On the way down the stairs he looked forward to another day standing at the forge where he could look over to the courtyard and see Scillara sitting on rugs laid out on the ground there, nursing little Chaur.

Life, it seemed to him, was better than he’d ever hoped it could be.

Turn not thine hand against thy father; for it is sacrilege

Inscription upon stone fragment

Dwelling Plains

THE CHALLENGE BEGAN
as these things always do: with a look. A glance held a heartbeat too long. In this case lingering across the beaten dirt of the practice grounds at the centre of Cant, the marble halls of the Seguleh.

Jan, in the act of turning away to call for a slave, noted the glance, and stopped. Those of the ruling Jistarii family lineage out exercising that morning also instinctively sensed the tension. The crowd parted and Jan found himself staring across the emptied sparring fields and wrestling circles to Enoc, the newly installed Third. He watched while the young aristocrat’s friends and closest supporters within the rankings crossed to stand at his side. Without needing to turn his head Jan knew his own friends had come to his. He held out his wooden practice sword. It was taken from his hand.

‘Give him your back,’ Palla, the Sixth, hissed from behind. ‘How dare he! This is not the place.’

Jan answered calmly: ‘Does not our young Third claim that daring is just what is lacking these days among our ranks?’ A snarl of clenched rage answered that. Jan allowed himself a slight raise of his chin to indicate the seats of the amphitheatre across the way. ‘Look … the judges of the challenge assembled already.’

‘They are all of his family!’ Palla exclaimed. ‘This is the work of his scheming uncle, that fat Olag.’

Jan’s sword appeared, offered hilt-first from behind. He took it and began securing the sheath to his sash. Across the field Enoc’s coterie of supporters, ambitious young-bloods mostly, did the same for him. Someone handed Jan a gourd of water and he sipped. His gaze did not leave Enoc’s mask: a pale oval marred only by two black slashes, one down each cheek.

So, a year already, is it?
He was surprised. Time seemed to pass ever more quickly as he became older. Not that he intended to get older – it was merely the byproduct of his extended wait for someone to manage to defeat him. Enoc obviously thought his chance had come. And he had to acknowledge that the daring youth seemed to have chosen his moment quite well: Enoc himself was yet fresh, merely having stretched and warmed up, while he had just completed a very gruelling series of sparring matches and was even now still sweating with exertion. It would appear that this cunning new Third had the advantage.

But Jan was where he wanted to be. His blood was hot and flowing fast. His limbs glowed with heat and felt strong. Practice did not drain him as it seemed to so many others. Rather, it enlivened him. Yet … a challenge during exercise … a time when by tradition all members of the Jistarii aristocracy were welcome to mix freely, practising and training. This was very bad form. An assembly of impartial judges wouldn’t even countenance it.

Yet there was no question he must answer. It was his duty. He was Second.

He set the tips of his fingers on the two-handed grip of his longsword and walked out to the middle of the amphitheatre sands. Over the years he had lost count of the many Thirds who had come and gone beneath him. The ranks of the Agatii, the top thousand, were like a geyser in this manner – ever throwing up new challengers. And this one was an impatient example of a notoriously impatient ranking. Long ago it was always said that Second was the worst ranking to attain. Ever Second, never First. But with the death of the last ancient to achieve First, it was Third that was now so regarded. The itchiest ranking; the briefest rung … in one manner or another.
And this one seems to think me tired. Very well. Let him do so. Let him challenge now, so very early. So very … precipitately. So be it. I can only do my part and accept
.

Enoc strode out to meet him. The other Jistarii backed away, leaving the field clear, while slaves removed equipment. The wind was calm, and the sun was far enough overhead not to be an issue. Jan waited, head cocked. When the Third was close enough to allow private conversation, he offered the ritual exchange: ‘I give you this last chance to reconsider. Form has been obeyed. No shame would accrue.’