Cartheron nodded; he was about to set out for the waterfont anyway. He opened the door to see a tall and lean young Dal Hon lad standing before a small two-wheeled cart; the kind wharf stevedores use to haul awkward loads. It held what looked like a big roll of blankets.
The lad bowed from his waist with an odd sort of formality and stiffness. ‘You work for a mage and his partner? The one who recently had dealings with the place called the Deadhouse?’
Cartheron nodded, rather intrigued. ‘Yes?’
‘I wish to offer my services – in return for a favour.’
‘Well … they’re not here right now…’
‘They have entered that place, as some of the locals say?’
Cartheron nodded again. ‘We think so…’
The lad gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. I will wait. But first I have an errand to run. Is there by chance a temple to Hood within this town?’
Cartheron rubbed his chin, rather bemused. ‘Well … there’s a quarter where you can find all kindsa altars and such, down the way, but maybe not a temple.’
The lad peered down the street. ‘Very good. My name is Dassem, by the way.’
‘Cartheron Crust.’
The fellow took up the long handles of the two-wheeled cart and headed on down the street. Cartheron watched him for a moment, rubbing his chin, still bemused.
The door opened behind him and Hawl peered out, blinking and wincing in the morning light – she still hadn’t fully recovered from whatever trauma had been inflicted on her that night.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, a strange sort of urgency in her tone.
‘Don’t know. Some Dal Hon named Dassem who wants to talk to Kellanved.’
She stared after him, then turned back to the common room, calling, ‘Grinner! Follow that Dal Hon with the cart.’
Grinner rose from his table and ducked out past them. ‘Right.’
Cartheron nodded his farewell to Hawl and ambled off for another day’s work refitting the Twisted.
* * *
That night, when Cartheron returned to Smiley’s, he was rather surprised to find the Dal Hon fellow sitting at a table in the corner of the common room. He crossed over to where Shrift, Grinner and Nedurian held a table on the opposite side of the room. The rest of the place was empty but for three regulars – drunken sailors all.
He sat down and nodded over to their visitor. He asked, low, ‘So what’s the story on this guy?’
Grinner just shrugged. ‘He pulls his cart over the altar quarters, talks to some people, then drags it to an old place built of field-stones on the edge of town. There, some old guy comes out and actually bows to our boy here! He puts his bundle inside, leaves his cart there, and comes back here. Been here all day.’
Cartheron grunted, losing interest.
‘How’re the repairs coming?’ Shrift asked.
‘Faster if you’d help out.’
The swordswoman shivered her revulsion. ‘I ain’t goin’ near that thing.’
‘You’ll have to eventually.’
She looked away. ‘I know, I know.’
‘So what now?’ Grinner asked, sending a meaningful glance to their guest.
Cartheron decided he had to eat, even if his brother was cooking. He stood, saying, ‘Nothing. Just keep working,’ and headed for the kitchen.
* * *
After searching the ‘house’ – which proved remarkably pedestrian in its empty dust-filled chambers and closets – Kellanved headed for the font door. Here, the giant set of oddly designed armour of interlocking iron plates, complete with full helm, stood in an alcove. Rather like a museum display.
Kellanved regarded the thing for some time, peering up, while Dancer waited, impatient. The mage reached out with his walking stick and tapped the battered chestplate. It did not ring hollow; rather, it thumped densely.
The giant’s helm grated as it lowered its head to peer at him.
Kellanved hurriedly yanked away the walking stick. ‘Your pardon.’ He wriggled his fingers towards the front door. ‘I was just wondering … if we leave … if we can leave … will we be able to return?’
The helm rose as the giant seemed to dismiss them.
Dancer and Kellanved exchanged glances and the mage shrugged. ‘Well, only one way to find out, yes?’
Dancer raised a hand. ‘Wait. Are you saying you brought us in here fully aware of the possibility that we may never – ever – leave again? Prisoners for the rest of our lives?’
Kellanved backed away towards the door. He fluttered his hands. ‘Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
Unbelievable! Dancer reached to catch the fellow by his wide collar, but at that moment Kellanved lifted the latch behind him, pushed open the door, and tumbled out on to the broad slate landing. Dancer strode forward, meaning to throttle him where he lay. One step took him across the threshold, and the door slammed shut behind his back, battering him on to his stomach. He scrambled quickly to his feet and stood over Kellanved, furious. ‘You could’ve told me!’
The mage was peering up the walkway. He pointed. ‘Not in front of the neighbours.’
Dancer looked up, blinking at the bright daylight: a few kids on the street stood frozen, gaping at them, as did pedestrians in the small crossroads further away. He pulled Kellanved to his feet. ‘You’re lucky.’
The mage straightened his worn and tattered shirt, vest, and jacket. ‘There. You see? No problem at all.’ And he started up the walkway, swinging his stick, and humming to himself.
Dancer could only shake his head. Unbelievable. Completely unbelievable.
* * *
When they entered Smiley’s everyone jumped. The Napans, plus others who must be local hires, even exchanged nervous glances. Dancer peered round, a touch perplexed. ‘What is it?’
Grinner, clearing his throat, was the first to sit down again. ‘Nothing,’ he said, but he kept eyeing them sidelong. An old veteran with him, possibly Talian by his greying straight black hair, approached and bowed to Kellanved.
‘Magister, I am Nedurian – I have enlisted with your representative, Surly.’
Kellanved fluttered his fingers in response. ‘Very good. We need more talents. Especially ex-legion.’
The fellow looked a touch startled, but bowed again, returning to his table.
Surly emerged from the kitchen. She stood regarding them for some time with her arms crossed, as if to say, Well well, look who’s come dragging themselves back.
She approached, her lips twisted in disapproval, and Dancer almost felt contrite – as if he’d been out on a bender. She looked them up and down, said, ‘Some show twelve days ago.’
Dancer’s brows rose. Twelve days? Ye gods. Much longer than I thought.
‘Thank you,’ Kellanved said smugly, and Dancer wanted to hit him. The mage started for the stairs, walking stick tapping the stone floor. ‘I’ll be in my office if you wish to talk.’
Dancer watched him go. Hiding in your office, you mean. He faced Surly, but frowned then, and glanced to a figure sitting far to the back. Having his attention, the figure stood, and Dancer could not believe whom he was seeing.
The man approached and Dancer looked him up and down. ‘What in the name of all the gods are you doing here?’
It was their righteous friend from Li Heng, Dassem, and he glanced to the stairs. ‘I have business to discuss with your partner.’
‘With us, you mean.’
The man took a steadying breath, and seeing that gesture Dancer understood just how extraordinarily important the business was to him. ‘With the two of you, then. In private.’
Dancer nodded. ‘Very well.’ He gestured Dassem to the stairs. ‘Let’s talk.’ He nodded to Surly, Later, but as she watched them go she was scowling her dissatisfaction even more.
When they entered the office, Kellanved was standing at the window, rocking back and forth on his heels. He turned when Dancer shut the door, and nodded to Dassem. ‘What brings you to Malaz Island? Changed your mind?’