Ignorance? How could ignorance be best? Jan’s instincts railed against such a claim. Yet he was raised and trained to obey, and so he had submitted. He was Second. It was his duty. Perhaps it was the old man’s tone that had convinced him. Those words had carried in them a crushing grief, a terrible weight of truth that Jan feared he might not be able to endure.
‘You smell that?’ Picker asked. She looked up from where she sat with her feet on a table in the nearly empty common room of K’rul’s bar, chair pushed back, cleaning her nails with a dagger.
Blend, chin in hand at the bar counter, cocked a brow to Duiker in his customary seat. ‘That a comment?’
Picker wrinkled her nose. ‘No — not you. Somethin’ even worse … Somethin’ I ain’t smelt since …’ The chair banged down and she cursed. ‘That hair-shirted puke is back in town!’
Blend straightened, peered around. ‘No …’ She lunged for the door. ‘Get the back!’
The door opened before Blend reached it. She tried to push it shut on a man with a shock of unkempt salt-and-pepper hair and a weather-darkened grizzled face, wearing a long ragged hair shirt. He managed to squeeze in as she slammed it shut. ‘Good to see you too, Blend,’ he commented, scowling.
Blend flinched away, covering her nose and mouth. ‘Spindle. What in Hood’s dead arse are you doing here?’
Picker ran in from the rear: ‘Back’s locked. There’s no way he can- Oh. Damn.’
A toothy smile from the man. ‘Just like old times.’ He ambled over to sit at Duiker’s table, nodded to the grey-bearded man. ‘Historian. Been a while.’
The old man’s mouth crooked up just a touch. ‘Nothing seems to keep you Bridgeburners down.’
‘Shit floats,’ Picker muttered from the bar on the far side of the room.
‘So how ’bout a drink then?’ Spindle called loudly. ‘’Less you’re just too damned busy with all your customers an’ all.’
‘We’re out,’ Blend said. ‘Have to try somewhere else. Don’t let us stop you.’
Spindle turned in his chair. ‘Out? What kind of bar has no alcohol?’
‘A very grim one,’ Duiker offered so low no one seemed to hear.
‘Hunh.’ The man pulled on his ragged shirt at its neck as if it were uncomfortable, or too tight. ‘Well, I think maybe I can help you out with that.’
Picker and Blend exchanged sceptical glances and said in unison, ‘Oh?’
‘Sure. Got some work kicked my way. You know, paid work for coin. For drink and food. And to pay the rent.’ Spindle studied Blend more closely. ‘Who do you pay rent to here anyway?’
The women shifted their stances, squinting at the walls. ‘Why us?’ Blend asked suddenly and Picker nodded.
‘They just want people they can count on to keep their damned mouths shut.’
‘People have given up on the assassins’ guild, have they?’ Picker commented.
‘If there’s any of them left …’ Blend added, aside.
Spindle rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Not that kinda work!’
‘What in Fener’s prang is it then?’ Blend demanded.
Sitting back, booted feet straight out before him, the veteran clasped his hands over his belt. He smiled lopsidedly in what Picker imagined to be an effort at ingratiation, but which looked more like the leer of a dirty old man. ‘Right up your alley, Blend. Plain ol’ low-profile reconnaissance. Observe and report. Nothin’ more.’
‘How much?’ Picker asked.
‘A gold council per day.’
Blend whistled. ‘Who’s worth that much? Not you, that’s for damned sure.’
Spindle lost his smile. ‘They’re payin’ a lot to make sure the job gets done.’
‘Who’s paying?’ Duiker suddenly asked in a low hoarse voice. ‘Who’s the principal?’
All three regarded the old historian, amazed.
‘Damned straight!’ Blend said.
‘Yeah,’ Picker said. ‘Could be a trap. Fake contract to draw us out.’
Spindle dismissed that with a wave. ‘Ach! You’re soundin’ too much like Antsy.’ He peered around. ‘Where is that lunatic anyway?’
Blend leaned back to set her elbows on the bar. ‘Went south. Said he was … ah, antsy.’ She scowled. ‘Stop changing the subject! Who’s payin’?’
Spindle just waved again. ‘Never you mind. I know. And I know we can trust ’em.’
‘Them?’ Picker said, arching a brow. ‘Who’re them?’
Spindle threw his hands up. ‘All right, all right! Trusting as Jags, you lot are. Okay!’ He leaned forward and tapped the side of his gashed and battered nose. ‘You could say it’s our old employers.’
If Picker had had something in her hands she would’ve thrown it at the man. ‘You great idjit! We’re deserters!’
He produced that knowing smirk once more. ‘Exactly. That makes us free agents, right?’
‘It makes political sense,’ Duiker said, and he brushed a hand across the tabletop. ‘Aragan can’t have the Council accuse him of meddling, or spying.’
Spindle’s brows rose. ‘Aragan? That old dog’s here?’
Blend and Picker both swore aloud. ‘Spindle!’ Blend managed, swallowing more curses. ‘You brick-headed ox! He’s the Oponn-cursed ambassador! You said you knew who you were working for!’
Spindle’s face reddened and he stood, heaving back his chair. ‘Well he hardly stopped me on the damned street, did he!’
The old historian eyed the three veterans glaring each other down across the room. He raised a hand. ‘I’ll mind the shop.’
All three blinked and eased out tensed breaths. Picker gave a curt nod. ‘Okay then.’
‘Where?’ Blend asked.
Spindle was frowning down at the historian. ‘South of the city. The burial fields. People want to know what’s goin’ on there.’
‘Everyone says that’s all tapped out,’ Picker said.
‘The past never goes away — we carry it with us,’ Duiker murmured, as if quoting.
Brows crimped, Spindle scratched a scab on his nose. ‘Yeah. Like the man says.’
Blend was behind the bar. She pulled out a set of scabbarded long-knives wrapped in a belt. ‘We should head out tonight. Before the Ridge Town gate closes.’
A wide sideways grin climbed up Spindle’s mouth. ‘Spot their campfires, hey?’
‘Just like old times.’
They walked the desolate shore of black sands, over coarse volcanic headlands, and along the restless glowing waves of the Sea of Vitr. Beach after beach stretched out in arcs of pulverized glass-like sands.
As they walked one such beach Leoman cleared his throat and motioned to their rear. ‘Do you think he really is what he claims?’
Kiska shrugged her impatience. ‘I don’t even know what it is it claims to be.’
Leoman nodded to that. ‘True enough. Not for the likes of us, perhaps.’ He stretched, easing the muscles of his shoulders and back.
How like a cat, Kiska thought again. With his damned moustache — like whiskers!
‘I had a friend once,’ he said, after a time of walking in silence, ‘who was good at ignoring or putting such questions out of his mind. He simply refused to dwell upon what was out of his control. I always admired that quality in him.’
‘And what came of this admirably reasonable fellow?’ she asked, squinting aside.
The man smiled, brushing his moustache with a finger and thumb. ‘He went off to slay a god.’
Kiska looked to the sky. Oh, Burn deliver me! ‘Are your companions always so extravagant?’
He eyed her sidelong. The edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Strangely enough, yes.’
Kiska had stridden on ahead to where an eroded cliff blocked the way. They would have to climb.
At the top Kiska could see far out over the empty sea of shimmering, shifting light. Nothing marred it. Behind, the shadowy figure of Maker had re-joined the sky. The entity had returned to what Kiska mused must be an infinite labour. Was it some kind of curse? Or a thankless calling nobly pursued?
She turned her attention to the next curve of beach and her breath caught.