Picker snorted at that. ‘What do you want?’ She raised her chin in defiance. ‘We’re retired. It’s all official now. On the books.’
The High Mage shook his head, frowning now. ‘I understand your anger and suspicion, Bridgeburner. You have every right to it. All I can say is that I’m sorry for what happened. I regret it greatly.’
‘Sorry?’ Picker echoed, derisive. ‘You’re sorry?’
Tayschrenn glanced over his shoulder. ‘Let’s back up, Kiska.’
In the cellar the three still warily eyed the High Mage. ‘What are you doing here?’ Duiker asked.
The High Mage motioned to the tunnel. ‘I’ve come to attempt something long overdue. Something that should have been done years ago.’
Picker and Blend shared puzzled glances. Duiker eyed the tunnel, then his gaze shifted back to Tayschrenn. He pulled at his black and grey beard. ‘If I’m right in what you’re suggesting, then I think no one has ever been strong enough — or willing enough — to risk it. If you fail you’ll probably be destroyed.’
At that the young woman at Tayschrenn’s side started her surprise and turned a savage glare on him. ‘What’s this?’ she hissed.
The High Mage raised a hand for quiet.
‘No! I’ll not be hushed. You never said anything about this.’
Duiker caught Blend’s eye and motioned to the stairs. She nudged Picker and they started up.
Alone now, Tayschrenn took Kiska’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. But it has to be this way. This is something only I can do.’
Kiska wrenched free of his hands. She stamped the butt of the stave to the cobbled floor in a crashing report. ‘For this I drag you from the ends of the earth? So you can throw your life away on some damned fool attempt — at what?’
The High Mage leaned back against a barrel. He eyed the darkness as if studying something hidden deep within its depths. ‘Think, Kiska. Think of all those who nudged and manipulated and plain lied to bring you and me here to this place at this time.’ He raised a finger, ‘Your Aunt Agayla for one. The Enchantress. That priest of Shadow you mentioned — so Shadowthrone himself schemed for this. Even D’rek has given me her blessing. And so it must be.’
She threw out her arms. ‘Oh, certainly! Better you than they, yes? Why haven’t they stepped up if it is all so vital?’
He pressed his hands together before his lips and studied her over them. ‘It is hard, I know. But right now at this moment all those I just mentioned, and many others, are utterly enmeshed in a struggle that spans the world. All their strength is already committed in a confrontation manifesting across countless fronts. And K’rul may fail. Wounded, poisoned, weakened — the effort may prove beyond her. That we cannot allow to happen.’
‘But why you?’
He crooked a chiding smile. ‘Tell me, Kiska. If Maker were here — what would he do?’
She drew a great shuddering breath, then her shoulders fell. ‘He would do his job,’ she granted, looking away, her lips clenched tight.
‘Very good.’ He crossed to her and touched his lips to her brow. ‘Kiska — you saved me and you have made me whole. For this I will always be grateful.’ He caught her gaze and held it. ‘But now it is your turn. Be whole. Live now not for me or any other. But for yourself.’
Her answer was hardly audible. ‘Yes.’
‘Very good. Farewell. And, my thanks.’ He walked away down the tunnel.
Upstairs Blend gave a great shout of surprise and Picker and Duiker ran up to find the wrecked K’rul’s bar crowded. Antsy and Spindle were there, as was Fisher, plus three huge fellows, shields leaning up against their table, busy emptying tall tankards of ale.
Antsy shouted from the bar, ‘Did you see …’
Picker crossed to the bar and gave a sombre nod. ‘Yeah. We saw ’im.’
‘Just about crapped my pants, I tell you,’ Antsy muttered.
‘I need a drink.’ She fished behind the bar to pull out a bottle, eyed him up and down. ‘So, you’re back. You look awful. No big bags o’ gems?’
He ducked his head, glowering. ‘The go-down, get-rich, comeback plan got upended. Long fucking story. At least I didn’t die.’
Picker snorted a laugh. ‘Same old Antsy. Who’re these huge bastards?’
‘Old friends of Fisher.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Not too pleased to see ’em, though.’
‘No kiddin’?’
Spindle came to the bar and poured a glass from Picker’s bottle.
‘So what was all this trouble in the city anyway?’ Antsy asked him.
‘Long story,’ Spindle grumbled. He leaned back against the bar. ‘Just my stupid luck too. I come here to avoid all the trouble down south, then this happens!’ He studied the glass, took a sip. ‘I’m headin’ back south.’
Careful slow steps sounded from the rear, crackling and shifting through the broken stone and wood. All eyes turned to the noise and conversation died down to a heavy silence.
The young woman came up from below. She wore a once stylish dark shirt under leathers that were tattered, scraped and grimed. Her long black hair hung unwashed and mussed but pretty oval features did much to make up for all that. She held her stave crossways, a touch defensive, and peered around at everyone, her eyes puffy as if she had been crying. She wiped her face. ‘This supposed to be a bar, then?’ she asked of the room in general.
‘Yeah …’ Blend admitted guardedly.
‘Got any wine? I could use a glass.’
Blend nodded. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Who’s the gal?’ Spindle asked, his voice low.
‘She’s a Claw,’ Picker murmured.
Spindle choked on his drink.
*
Studious Lock was in the kitchen experimentally poking at a burlap bag of potatoes and thinking to himself: Dear Unknowable Ancients … They eat these growths? A crash sounded from the main chambers, followed by furniture breaking, gasping, flailing limbs thumping the floor, and a man’s roar of outraged pain.
Guests!
He hurried out. A man — half Andii! — in a torn green shirt, blood-spattered, a blade in each hand, was climbing to his feet among the broken wood of an ornamental table. He drew the back of one hand across his face, leaving a smear of bright fresh blood.
‘You are in need of dressing!’ Studious announced, eager.
Seeing him, the man flinched away, almost falling again. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ He ran off, following a trail of bare bloody footprints that led to stairs to the lower levels.
‘I have unguents!’ Studious called after him.
Then he sniffed the air and his mouth moved in what might be called a smile. Ah! The Mistress’s daughter has returned! Perhaps I should find some pretty live plants and pull them up to kill them. As is the barbaric custom here for celebrations.
The lowest cellar was all one empty roughly octagonal room. At its centre a single figure sat cross-legged. She occupied a series of concentric circles inscribed in the floor, which was dotted with wards and sigils and symbols in languages spoken by no human. Her head was bowed and long black hair hung in a curtain that touched the ground before her.
Taya came down the wide staircase sliding along a wall. She clutched her side, blood a smear down that leg. Her gauzy scarves hung in tatters. She threw herself down before the crouched figure, a hand reaching, entreating.
‘Mother! Protect me!’
The figure’s head rose.
Topper came bounding down the stairs. He caught sight of the two women and stuttered to a halt. He raised his blades out from his sides, head cocked.
The woman within the centre of the wards stood. Chains rattled, running from her wrists to rings set in the floor at her sides. She wrapped a hand round one of these chains and yanked. Metal screeched and the chain snapped. She did the same with the other.
Topper’s brows rose in silent appreciation. A feral smile twisted his lips and he flicked the blades, shaking droplets of blood across the floor.