Bottle tried to guess who else would be there. The Adjunct and Lostara Yil, of course, along with Fiddler himself, and Gesler and Stormy. Maybe Keneb-he’d been at the last one, hadn’t he? Hard to remember-most of that night was a blur now. Quick Ben? Probably. Blistig? Well, one sour, miserable bastard might settle things out some. Or just make everything worse. Sinn? Gods forbid.
‘This is a mistake,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Bottle-what’re you sensing? Truth now.’
‘You want the truth? Really?’
‘Bottle.’
‘Fine, I’m too scared to edge out there-this is an old city, Sergeant. There’s… things. Mostly sleeping up until now. I mean, for as long as we’ve been here.’
‘But now they’re awake.’
‘Aye. Noses in the air. This reading, Sergeant, it’s about as bad an idea as voicing a curse in Oponn’s name while sitting in Hood’s lap.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘Can you spike the whole thing, Sergeant? Just say it won’t go, you’re all closed up inside or something?’
‘Not likely. It just… takes over.’
‘And then there’s no stopping it.’
‘No.’
‘Sergeant.’
‘What?’
‘We’re going to be exposed, horribly exposed. Like offering our throats to whoever-and they’re probably not merciful types. So, how do we defend ourselves?’
Fiddler glanced across at him, and then edged closer. Ahead was the HQ-they were running out of time. ‘I can’t do nothing, Bottle. Except take the head off, and with luck some of those nasties will go down with it.’
‘You’re going to be sitting on a cusser, aren’t you?’
Fiddler shifted the leather satchel slung from one shoulder, and that was confirmation enough for Bottle.
‘Sergeant, when we get into the room, let me try one last time to talk her out of it.’
‘Let’s hope she at least holds to the number.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Eleven is bad, twelve is worse. But thirteen would be a disaster. Thirteen’s a bad number for a reading. We don’t want thirteen, anything but-’
‘Lostara said eleven, Sergeant. Eleven.’
‘Aye.’ And Fiddler sighed.
When another knock sounded at the door, Bugg raised a hand. ‘Permit me, please, Acquitor.’ And he rose at her nod and went to let in their new guests.
She heard voices, and looked up to see the Ceda appear with two bedraggled figures: a man, a woman, dressed in rags. They halted just inside the main room and a roiling stink of grime, sweat and alcohol wafted towards Seren Pedac. She struggled against an impulse to recoil as the pungent aroma swept over her. The man grinned with greenish teeth beneath a massive, red-veined, bulbous nose. ‘Greetings, Mahybe! Whachoo got t’drink? Ne’er mind,’ and he flourished a clay flask in one blackened hand. ‘Lovey dear moogins, find us all some cups, willya?’
Bugg was grimacing. ‘Acquitor, these are Ursto Hoobutt and Pinosel.’
‘I don’t need a cup,’ Seren said to the woman who was rummaging through a cupboard.
‘As you like,’ replied Pinosel. ‘But you won’t be no fun at this party. Tha’s typical. Pregnant women ain’t no fun at all-always struttin’ around like a god’s gift. Smug cow-’
‘I don’t need this rubbish. Bugg, get them out of here. Now.’
Ursto walked up to Pinosel and clopped her on the side of the head. ‘Behave, you!’ Then he smiled again at Seren. ‘She’s jealous, y’see. We bin tryin and, uh, tryin. Only, she’s this wrinkled up bag and I ain’t no better. Soft as a teat, I am, and no amount a lust makes no diff’rence. All I do is dribble dribble dribble.’ He winked. ‘O’course, iffin it wuz you now, well-’
Pinosel snorted. ‘Now that’s an invitation that’d make any woman abort. Pregnant or not!’
Seren glared at the Ceda. ‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Acquitor, these two are the remnants of an ancient pantheon, worshipped by the original inhabitants of the settlement buried in the silts beneath Letheras. In fact, Ursto and Pinosel are the first two, the Lord and the Lady of Wine and Beer. They came into being as a consequence of the birth of agriculture. Beer preceded bread as the very first product of domesticated plants. Cleaner than water, and very nutritious. The first making of wine employed wild grapes. These two creations are elemental forces in the history of humanity. Others include such things as animal husbandry, the first tools of stone, bone and antler, the birth of music and dance and the telling of tales. Art, on stone walls and on skin. Crucial, profound moments one and all.’
‘So,’ she asked, ‘what’s happened to them?’
‘Mindful and respectful partaking of their aspects have given way to dissolute, careless excess. Respect for their gifts has vanished, Acquitor. The more sordid the use of those gifts, the more befouled become the gift-givers.’
Ursto belched. ‘We don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Far worse if we wuz outlawed, becuz that’d make us evil and we don’t wanna be evil, do we, sweet porridge?’
‘We’s unber attack alla time,’ snarled Pinosel. ‘Here, les fill these cups. Elder?’
‘Half measure, please,’ said Bugg.
‘Excuse me,’ said Seren Pedac. ‘Ceda, you have just described these two drunks as the earliest gods of all. But Pinosel just called you “Elder”.’
Ursto cackled. ‘Ceda? Mealyoats, y’hear that? Ceda!’ He reeled a step closer to Seren Pedac. ‘O round one, blessed Mahybe, we may be old, me and Pinosel, compared to the likes a you. But against this one ’ere, we’re just babies! Elder, yes, Elder, as in Elder God!’
‘Time to party!’ crowed Pinosel.
Fiddler halted just within the entrance. And stared at the Letherii warrior standing near the huge table. ‘Adjunct, is this one a new invite?’
‘Excuse me, Sergeant?’
He pointed. ‘The King’s Sword, Adjunct. Was he on your list?’
‘No. Nonetheless, he will stay.’
Fiddler turned a bleak look on Bottle, but said nothing.
Bottle scanned the group awaiting them, did a quick head count. ‘Who’s missing?’ he asked.
‘Banaschar,’ Lostara Yil said.
‘He is on his way,’ said the Adjunct.
‘Thirteen,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Gods below. Thirteen.’
Banaschar paused in the alley, lifted his gaze skyward. Faint seepage of light from various buildings and lantern-poled streets, but that did not reach high enough to devour the spray of stars. He so wanted to get out of this city. Find a hilltop in the countryside, soft grass to lie on, wax tablet in his hands. The moon, when it showed, was troubling enough. But that new span of stars made him far more nervous, a swath like sword blades, faintly green, that had risen from the south to slash through the old familiar constellations of Reacher’s Span. He could not be certain, but he thought those swords were getting bigger. Coming closer.
Thirteen in all-at least that was the number he could make out. Perhaps there were more, still too faint to burn through the city’s glow. He suspected the actual number was important. Significant.
Back in Malaz City, the celestial swords would not even be visible, Banaschar surmised. Not yet, anyway.
Swords in the sky, do you seek an earthly throat?
He glanced over at the Errant. If anyone could answer that, it would be this one. This self-proclaimed Master of the Tiles. God of mischance, player of fates. A despicable creature. But no doubt powerful. ‘Something wrong?’ Banaschar asked, for the Errant’s face was ghostly white, slick with sweat.
The one eye fixed his gaze for a moment and then slid away. ‘Your allies do not concern me,’ he said. ‘But another has come, and now awaits us.’
‘Who?’