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.’