'Did the mage give you any warning as to the handling of this package, Karpolan?'
The merchant grimaced. 'He said we were not to jostle too much. However, this last stretch of our journey was somewhat … rough. I regret to say that some of the crate's contents may well be broken.'
Fiddler smiled. 'I am pleased to inform you that they have survived.'
Karpolan Demesand frowned. 'You have not yet examined the contents — how can you tell?'
'You'll just have to trust me on that one, sir.'
Crokus closed the door once Fiddler had carried the crate inside. The sapper gingerly set the container down and prised open the lid. 'Ah, Quick Ben,' he whispered, eyes scanning the objects nestled within, 'one day I shall raise a temple in your name.' He counted seven cussers, thirteen masonry crackers and four flamers.
'But how did that merchant get here?' Crokus asked. 'From Darujhistan! Hood's breath, Fid!'
'Don't I know it.' He straightened, glanced at the others. 'I'm feeling good, comrades. Very good indeed.'
'Optimism!' Pust snarled in a tone close to bursting with disgust. The High Priest yanked at the wispy remnants of his hair. 'While that foul monkey pisses terror into the lad's lap! Optimism!'
Crokus now held the familiar out from him and stared disbelieving at the stream pouring down to splash the flagstones. 'Moby?' The creature was grinning sheepishly.
'Soletaken, you mean!'
'A momentary lapse,' Apsalar said, eyeing the squirming creature. 'The realization of what has come about. That, or an odd sense of humour.'
'What are you babbling about?' Pust demanded, eyes narrowing.
'He thought he'd found the Path, thought that what called him here was the ancient promise of Ascendancy — and in a way, Moby was right in thinking that. The bhok'aral there in your hands, Crokus, is demonic. In true form, it could hold you as you now hold it.'
Mappo grunted. 'Ah, I see now.'
'Then why not enlighten us?' Crokus snapped.
Apsalar nudged the corpse at her feet. 'Tremorlor needed a new guardian. Need I be any clearer?'
Crokus blinked, looking again at Moby, the trembling creature in his hands. 'My uncle's familiar?'
'A demon, at the moment somewhat intimidated by expectation, we might assume. But I'm sure the creature will grow into the role.'
Fiddler had been packing the Moranth munitions into his leather sack while this had been going on. Now he rose and gingerly swung the bag over a shoulder. 'Quick Ben believed we'd find a portal somewhere in here, a warren's gate-'
'Linking the Houses!' Pust crowed. 'Outrageous audacity — this cunning mage of yours has charmed me, soldier. He should have been a servant of Shadow!'
He was, but never mind that. If your god's of a mind to, he'll tell you — though I wouldn't hold my breath. . 'It's time to find that portal-'
'To the T-intersection, down the left passage to the two doors. The one to the left takes us into the tower. Top floor.' Apsalar smiled.
Fiddler stared at her a moment, then nodded. Your borrowed memories. .
Moby led the way, revealing a return of nerve, and something like possessive pride. Just beyond the intersection, in the left-hand passage, there was an alcove set in the wall, on which hung resplendent scale armour suited to a wearer over ten foot tall and of massive girth. Two double-bladed axes leaned against the niche walls, one to either side. Moby paused there to play a tiny, loving hand over one iron-sheathed boot, before wistfully moving on. Crokus stumbled in passing as it momentarily gripped his full attention.
Upon opening the door, they entered the tower's ground floor. A stone staircase spiralled up from its centre. At the foot of the saddlebacked steps lay another body, a young, dark-skinned woman who looked as if she had been placed there but an hour before. She was dressed in what were clearly underclothes, though the armour that had once covered them was nowhere to be seen. Vicious wounds crisscrossed her slight form.
Apsalar approached, crouched down and rested a hand on the girl's shoulder. 'I know her,' she whispered.
'Eh?' Rellock growled.
'The memory of the one who possessed me, Father,' she said. 'His mortal memory-'
'Dancer,' Fiddler said.
She nodded. 'This is Dassem Ultor's daughter. The First Sword recovered her after Hood was done using her, and brought her here, it seems.'
'Before breaking his vow to Hood-'
'Aye, before Dassem cursed the god he once served.'
'That was years ago, Apsalar,' Fiddler said.
'I know.'
They were silent, all studying the frail young woman lying at the foot of the stairs. Mappo shifted Icarium's weight in his arms, as if uneasy with the echo he knew he had become, even though it was understood that he would not do with his burden what Dassem Ultor had done.
Apsalar straightened and cast her eyes up the staircase. 'If Dancer's memory serves, the portal awaits.'
Fiddler swung to the others. 'Mappo? You will join us?'
'Aye, though perhaps not all the way — assuming there's a means to leave that warren when one so chooses-'
'Quite an assumption,' the sapper said.
The Trell simply shrugged.
'Iskaral Pust?'
'Oh, aye. Of course, of course! Why not, why ever not? To walk the maze back out? Insanity! Iskaral Pust is anything but insane, as you all well know. Aye, I shall accompany you.. and silently add to naught but myself: perhaps an opportunity for betrayal will yet arise! Betray what? Betray whom? Does it matter? It is not the goal that brings pleasure, but the journey taken to achieve it!'
Fiddler met Crokus's sharp gaze. 'Watch him,' he said.
'I shall.'
The sapper then glanced down to Moby. The familiar squatted by the doorway, quietly playing with its own tail. 'How does one say goodbye to a bhok'aral?'
'With a boot in the backside, how else?' Pust offered.
'Care to try that with this one?' Fiddler asked.
The High Priest scowled, made no move.
'He was out there when we travelled the storms, wasn't he?' Crokus said, approaching the tiny wizened creature. 'Recall those battles we could not see? He was protecting us … all along.'
'Aye,' the sapper said.
'Ulterior motives!' Pust hissed.
'Nonetheless.'
'Gods, he'll be lonely!' Crokus gathered the bhok'aral into his arms. There was no shame to the tears in the lad's eyes.
Blinking, Fiddler turned away, grimacing as he studied the staircase. 'It'll do you no good to draw it out, Crokus,' he said.
'I'll find a way to visit,' the Daru whispered.
'Think on what you see, Crokus,' Apsalar said. 'He looks content enough. As for being alone, how do you know that will be the case? There are other Houses, other guardians …'
The lad nodded. Slowly he released his grip on the familiar and set it down. 'With luck, there won't be any crockery lying around.'
'What?'
Crokus smiled. 'Moby always had bad luck around crockery, or should I say it the other way around?' He rested a hand on the creature's blunt, hairless head, then rose. 'Let's go.'
The bhok'aral watched the group ascend the stairs. A moment later there was a midnight flash from above, and they were gone. The creature listened carefully, cocking its tiny head, but there was no more sound from the chamber above.
It sat unmoving for a few more minutes, idly plucking at its own tail, then swung about and scampered into the hallway, coming to a stop before the suit of armour.
The massive, closed great helm tilted with a soft creak, and a ragged voice came from it. 'I am pleased my solitude is at an end, little one. Tremorlor welcomes you with all its heart … even if you have made a mess on the hallway floor.'