‘Don’t want to be in the room when it opens, do we?’
‘Well, no. I suppose not. But there has to be an easier way …’
Spindle paused in the act of tying off the weight so that he could pull another cord and release it to swing free, striking the end of the bar as it swung. He glared his annoyance. ‘You tellin’ me my trade?’
Duiker raised his hands. ‘No, no. It just seems rather … intricate.’
‘It’ll work, I’m pretty sure. The point is, I can pull the cord from the door and we’ll be outside when it happens.’
Duiker decided that perhaps it would be best if he said nothing more. Spindle waved him from the room, played out the cord until he stood outside with the door open a slit, then gave Duiker the high sign. He shouted, ‘Munitions!’ pulled the cord and slammed the door, throwing himself down on the hall floor next to Duiker.
The sound of the weight hitting the iron bar, a crash, and the metallic ringing of the bar hitting the stone floor reached them almost simultaneously. Spindle raised a hand for a pause, waited, then carefully climbed to his feet. He edged to the door, drew a breath, and glanced back to Duiker. The historian waved him on. Shrugging, he swung open the door. They both peered in. The top of the amphora was no longer visible above the table.
Spindle cuffed Duiker’s shoulder. ‘Ha! Knew it would work. What did I say?’
Indeed, the neck had snapped right off. Duiker was rather impressed; he hadn’t thought the weight would strike the bar. Spindle held a hand over the open amphora neck then sniffed his palm. He wrinkled his nose: ‘Sour. Acidic.’ Duiker went to find a clean pot.
Spindle edged over the amphora while Duiker held the container ready. Clear liquid poured out, smelling strongly acidic. Duiker set the pot down on the table then held one chip over it. ‘Ready?’ he said. Spindle nodded. Duiker dropped it and jumped backwards.
The reaction was, even by saboteur standards, impressive.
Spindle was leaning out of the open window; the stink in the room was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. ‘What now?’ he asked Duiker, who was pacing. ‘Can’t lug that through the streets. Might get stopped by the Wardens, or the masked boys.’
Duiker stood still. He tapped his thumb to his lips as he thought. ‘Might have an answer there. Any more chips?’
‘One or two.’
‘Get our friend.’
Spindle went to the hall and tapped a chip to a wall, calling, ‘Here, boy!’ He whistled and tsked. A crimson head poked round a corner, one red eye cocked.
Duiker knelt, hands on knees, to address the demon. ‘Tell me, friend. Does your master have a wine cellar?’
As the afternoon waned Spindle and Duiker walked through the city streets burdened by wooden crates of wine bottles. It was slow going. Duiker was an old man who’d been through a lot. This was more physical activity than he’d had in over a year. Spindle was patient; he knew what the man had experienced. Frankly it was a miracle the fellow was still able to function. In fact, Duiker might not be aware of it, but Spindle admired him no end. It seemed to him that they just didn’t make them that tough any more. And while the message that had sent them on this errand might have been delivered to him, Spindle was of the opinion that it had really been meant for the Imperial Historian. He was the one who possessed the knowledge that had gotten them this far.
But it was his show from this point onward.
As the afternoon edged into a warm humid evening they reached the alley at the back of K’rul’s bar. They stacked the crates in the kitchen and then, completely drained, staggered upstairs to rest.
The Great Hall of Darujhistan glittered with the silken finery of the city’s female aristocracy vying to display the most intricate and, to Lady Envy’s eyes, most cumbersome and uncomfortable dresses. Jewellery was heaped upon jewellery in a — really, quite vulgar — draping of necklaces, brooches, tiaras, bracelets and jewelled sashes.
It was all rather sadly disappointing. Not at all what she’d hoped it would be.
No one here appeared sophisticated enough to appreciate the fine subtleties she brought to the court in her exquisitely understated dress and cut of hair. It was dispiriting. Even here parochialism reigned. These young beauties of the noble families: what did they know of true elegance and natural grace? Nothing at all! Empty-headed adornments, they!
She’d tried engaging the Legate in conversation. ‘Legate’ indeed! How amusing. But only the sweaty little fellow would answer. It was almost embarrassing.
Then that young upstart approached her. Here! In front of everyone! Mortifying!
‘You are Lady Envy,’ she said, and she curtsied in her floating dancing scarves prettily enough.
‘And you are Vorcan’s daughter.’
‘I am.’
‘You … dance, I take it?’
A smile, revealing small sharp teeth. ‘And much more.’
‘I’m sure …’
‘Had you met my mother?’
‘No. But I was a great admirer of hers.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘She knew her place.’
The smile disappeared into a straight colourless slit pulled back over teeth. ‘Careful. This court tolerates you now but that may change.’
‘I’d rather thought it was the other way round, myself.’
A confused clenching of the eyes as the girl tried to work out Envy’s meaning.
Oh, please! Mother Dark deliver me … Envy simply walked away.
Bored. I am bored. So utterly bored!
West of the Maiten River Ambassador Aragan called a halt to any further advance and ordered K’ess to dig a defensive line against any possible attack. Darujhistan’s sapphire glow was just visible yet strangely dim, muted, and Aragan wondered if perhaps smoke obscured it. Here they would wait while their temporary allies, the Moranth, proceeded with their plans.
Negotiations had been nerve-racking to say the least. The Moranth wanted to end things with a finality that was terrifying; and Aragan was hard pressed to blame them. His heart also went out to this Councillor Nom. The poor fellow, having to stand by while the fate of his city was debated by outsiders.
After much back and forth, with Mallick himself speaking through the Sceptre, an accord was reached, backed up by Malazan assurances. This was as far as they would go while the Moranth launched the fought-for compromise. But if this first gambit failed, the Moranth were firm, they would unleash a full assault. Then would come the firestorm. A city consumed. Y’Ghatan all over again.
Aragan prayed to all the Elder Gods it would not come to that. And he pondered yet again on the question that so tormented him: what would he do? If the fires should start — what would he do? Order the troops in to help the citizenry escape, thus endangering them? Or merely stand by and watch while countless thousands were consumed in flames? How could he live with himself then? How could any of them?
Just inland from Lake Azur, in his tent next to the barrow of the Son of Darkness, Caladan Brood, the Warlord, pushed aside the cloth flap of his tent to face the darkening evening. He frowned, revealing even more of his prominent canines, and sniffed the air. His glance went to the west, then over to the city, and a low growl sounded deep within his throat.
He ducked back within to put on his leathers and strap on his hammer.
Can’t let what I think’s in the air happen. No. Enough is enough. Not after all we’ve fought for. Have to put an end to it before it all gets out of hand. And frankly, better if I take the blame than anyone else.
South of the city, heading up what was named Cutter Lake Road, Yusek gaped at every building they passed. Two storeys! Almost every building has two storeys! It’s incredible. Already they’d passed more shops and inns and stables than she’d ever imagined — and they’d not even reached the city walls!