Near the trade door a lantern burned. There was a glow too from the counting house and another from a distant corner. He wondered what was going on over there. Maybe it was a place for the watchmen to take their meals. There was no way of knowing.
He checked for ways to the ground. They were not easy to find. The island of bales he had landed atop was high and flat. His best way down would be to leap from it to the next island which consisted of sacks terraced to just about a man’s height above the ground.
He caught the scurry of rats, and the distant murmur of men’s voices. There was something different and strange about them but he could not put his finger on exactly what.
If he stayed here much longer there was the possibility of his freezing up entirely or losing his nerve and clambering back up the rope. He checked all his weapons were in place and then forced his limbs to move.
The jump from the island of bales to the island of sacking was not far, a mere six feet or so, but the height made it daunting as did the less than firm footing. As he stood upright the bales moved, making him sway slightly.
He tried not to think about the forty-foot drop to hard ground beneath him. He sprang out over the ledge. The force of his leap unbalanced the bale and sent it tumbling downwards. His own nervous momentum sent him sprawling atop the sacks. These too slithered around under his weight.
A cloud of dust rose, tickling his nostrils and the back of his throat, threatening to make him sneeze. He lay atop them, heart pounding, listening to see if anyone had noticed. There were no shouts, no warning cries. The sound of fireworks and music had covered his mistake, or so he hoped. He checked to make sure the line was still in place and was grateful to see that it was.
Now he scampered down the sacks, trying to be quiet, but the grain-filled bags crackled beneath his boots. The noise was just loud enough to set his nerves on edge. When he reached the bottom of the terracing, he halted again and listened, like a deer that hears the howling of wolves.
Once more he appeared to have gone unnoticed. He wondered how much longer his luck could hold then gently lowered himself to the ground.
He heard footsteps coming closer and cursed. Had he been spotted? Was this someone creeping forward to ambush him? If they were trying to be stealthy, they were doing an appallingly bad job. Unless, of course, the walker was meant to distract him while others crept up behind him. Rik fumbled for his knife while he glanced over his shoulder. No one was there.
“Get a move on, Tresh! We’re waiting to win our money back!” The shout came from the far corner of the go-down. Rik realised now what had disturbed him earlier. The accent was that of a hill-man.
“I’ll be right back,” said another voice, obviously drunken, equally obviously belonging to a hill-man. There was the sound of a man making water and a sigh of relief and then the footsteps receded again.
What in the name of the Shadow was going on? Why were there hill-men in the warehouse? For a moment the mad thought raced across Rik’s mind that they were robbing the place too, but he dismissed it after a moment’s consideration. Robbers did not pause to play cards in the commission of their raids. These men sounded quite at home here. There was obviously some connection between the hill-men and the factor.
His plan, such as it was, had already gone awry. He had hoped that Bertragh and his bodyguards would leave and after that the place would be empty save for a watchman or two, and he would get a chance to overpower or elude them and check out the counting house.
He had been far too optimistic. It sounded like these men were planning on staying here for a while. Perhaps the best thing to do was simply to give the whole damn thing up and head back the way he came. If caught, the best he could hope for would be to be handed over to the City Watch and hanged as a thief. He froze and considered what to do next.
He had come this far. He might as well go just a little further. He would check out the counting house. It was just possible the lantern had been left on by accident, and there was no one in the place. If that were so, it would be a Light-blessed opportunity to be about his business.
He stalked forward, heading from aisle to aisle. He paused as another man walked past to relieve himself or perhaps simply to check out some noise. Rik held his breath. The man wore the colours of the Agante. This was getting worse and worse. He remembered what had happened to Vosh only too well.
Slowly, painfully, he crept closer to the door of the counting house. The light was on, but he heard no sound from within. He moved forward towards the door and froze when a voice broke the silence.
“It is what we were seeking. These are Alzibar’s books.” Rik paused. His every instinct screamed for him to leap back into one of the aisles and get out of there. The voice made his flesh crawl. It had a cold inhuman quality to it that yet held a note of evil triumph.
“Good. The Masters of the High Lodge will be pleased, Zarahel.” This voice belonged to Bertragh. Rik paused. It sounded like Bertragh or his companion had deciphered the manuscript fairly quickly. If he waited just a little longer he might get some clue as to exactly what it contained. And what was that about masters?
Another realisation hit him like a hammer-blow. Zarahel was the name of the hill-man prophet the Foragers had been sent to find. What was he doing here? Recovering his books, by the sound of it.
“Let us hope so. We must still get back to the mine and awaken the god. Then let the interlopers tremble.”
“Alzibar claimed no one but an Exalted could work this ritual.”
Zarahel laughed softly. “He would say that. Even if he was a Brother, he was a Terrarch. Men worked such sorcery long before they stole our world. I will need adjuncts but I can perform the ritual. Have no fear.”
“But can you control the god once he is awake?”
“If these books contain the truth, yes.”
“You are gambling your life on that ‘if’.”
“If I am successful we shall be able to sweep the damned demon-loving Terrarchs from these lands. Then Uran Ultar will reward us for keeping the faith.”
“That is not the Brotherhood’s plan,” said Bertragh. There was a sharpness to his voice that he perhaps did not mean to be there. Whatever the one called Zarahel was proposing was at odds with what he expected. “I think that you over-reach yourself.”
“Perhaps, my friend. Perhaps. But think…you are a man as well as a Brother. Do you not dream of being free, of casting off the Terrarch yoke. This is our chance.”
What were they talking about, Rik wondered- did they really think the Old God would reward them? Did these madmen seriously believe they could reawaken Uran Ultar?
He understood now why the sorcerer had been in the mine. It was some sort of entrance to the hell in which the Ultari dwelled. The mage had been trying to make contact with the ancient demon race.
No! He had made contact. He had succeeded in awakening at least one, and it sounded like there were far more where that one had come from. Given how terrible a foe that creature had been, an army would be far, far worse. He realised that in his shock he had stopped paying attention to what Zarahel and the factor were saying. He concentrated once more.
“The stars are almost right for the ritual. If we can get there in time, I can awaken Him — never you mind…”
“You should go at once. Keep in mind the great plan. It is best if we strike once the Terrarchs march into Kharadrea and…”
There were sounds of movement inside the counting house. From the corner of his eye, Rik caught sight of something else. A hill-man stood there watching him. He looked drunk and a little confused. He opened his mouth to shout.
Rik tossed the dagger he held in his hand. It buried itself in the hill-man’s throat. Even as the man fell, Rik sprang forward and caught him. He clamped a hand over the man’s mouth, ripped the dagger free and stabbed again and again. Warm blood covered him. Behind him he heard the door of the counting house begin to open.