“I swear to you, Guildmistress, I have searched diligently, night into day following night, but there is no trace!” the crone stammered, her voice quavering. “No one in all of Yarim knows anything. Outside the Market, not one soul even knew of the tunnel. The destruction must have been the work of evil gods—how else except through the hand of a demon could all that slip be fired into hardened clay, when all your ovens together could not have done it?”
A blur of movement, and Esten’s eyes were locked on the crone’s from a breath away, a gleaming blade at her throat, pressed so lightly and yet so close that tiny droplets of blood were spattering the air with each of the old woman’s nervous tremors.
“You old fool,” Esten growled in a low voice. “Gods? Is that the best that you have for me after all this time?” She lashed out violently, contemptuously, and shoved Mother Julia into the table behind her, causing the old woman to stagger and crumple against the table board with a moan of pain. “There are no gods, Mother Julia, no demons. Certainly a charlatan of your caliber, who finagles idiots out of their precious coin in return for bursts of colored smoke and disembodied voices, must be aware of that, or you’d already be burning in the Vault of the Underworld.”
“No, no,” the woman moaned, struggling to stand but only managing to clutch the table before falling to the dirt floor. “I give homage to the All-God, the Creator who made me.” She made a countersign on her heart and ears, her arms trembling.
Esten exhaled, then strode to where the woman was cowering on the floor, seized her arm, and pushed her into the chair.
“The gods do not make us, Mother Julia; we make the gods. If you understood this, you would be a much more powerful and respected woman, instead of just a pathetic impostor who swindles the naive and vies with Manwyn for the idiot trade.”
At the sound of the Oracle of the Future’s name, the old woman made her countersign again, her eyes wide in terror. “Don’t invoke her,” she whispered. “Please, Guildmistress.”
Esten snorted contemptuously. “Too late to fear that now. Manwyn only sees the Future. She knew what you were going to hear a moment ago before I said it; she can no longer remember it now.” She crouched before the frightened soothsayer, moving slowly, deliberately, like a spider stalking a victim. “All she knows is what lies ahead for you.” She cocked her head to the side, dark eyes gleaming. “Do you think she is afraid on your behalf?”
“Please-”
“Please? You are asking me for favors now?” Esten leaned closer, her limbs moving in a deadly dance. “Did you think your time was infinite, my patience endless? You are an even bigger fool than those pathetic vermin who seek you out for answers to their insignificant questions.” She stopped within a hairs-breadth of the trembling crone, and the glint in her eyes grew harder, like greenware firing in the kiln into bisque.
“I employ you because your network, your leprotic clan, has so many eyes,” she said steadily, her voice low and deadly. “Those hundreds of eyes must all be blind, then, to have been unable to find even one clue in three years, wouldn’t you say, Mother?” A terrifying smile spread slowly over her delicate face. “Perhaps they no longer need the use of those eyes.” She turned to the guild scion. “Dranth, issue an order to the Raven’s Guild: from here forth, any member of this simpleton’s family that they come across is to have its eyes put out immediately, including her wretched grandchildren who prowl the street, spreading filth and breathing the air reserved for others who have some actual worth.”
“Mercy,” the old woman whispered, her arthritic hands clasped in front of her. “Please, Guildmistress, I implore you—
Esten settled back on her haunches and regarded Mother Julia, whose face was gray and covered in beads of sweat.
“Mercy? Well, I suppose I can consider your entreaty, can offer you one last chance to redeem your sorry family. But if I do, and you fail me again, all the world will regard your clan as monsters, because that which is useless on their heads—eyes, ears, and tongue—will be removed from them and cast into the alleys to feed my dogs. Do you understand me, Mother?”
The crone could only bring herself to nod feebly.
“Good.”
From within her garments Esten pulled forth the bundle of rags Slith had given her. With great care she moved the layers aside and revealed the blue-black steel of the whisper-thin disk; it gleamed in the inconstant light of the lantern.
“Do you know what this is?”
Mother Julia shook her head.
Esten exhaled. “Study it well, Mother Julia—use your eyes for what may be the last time. Within one cycle of the moon I want the word spread within your clan alone as far as your miserable influence extends; I want to know what this is. And more importantly, I want to know to whom it belongs. Bring me that information, and I will keep you within my protection. Fail me, and-”
“I will not fail,” the crone said softly. “Thank you, Guildmistress.”
Esten patted the woman’s wrinkled cheek gently. “Good. I know you will not, Mother.” She reached into the folds of cloth that formed the trousers of her garments and pulled forth a gold coin minted with the head of the Lord Cymrian on one side, the crest of the Alliance on the other. “Take this gold crown for your newborn grandson—what was he named?”
“Ignacio.”
“Ignacio—what a lovely name. Give this to Ignacio’s mother for him, please, and extend my warmest wishes to her upon his birth.”
The old woman nodded shakily as two of Esten’s men took her arms and raised her to her feet.
“See to it Mother Julia gets home safely, please,” Esten instructed as they led her to the door. “I would not want anything untoward to befall this dear lady.”
She waited until the door had closed soundly, then sat down before the lantern, watching the watery patterns of light ripple across the smooth surface of the disk and off the razor edges, like bright waves rushing headlong over a shining cliff to a dark sea.
Soon, she thought. ,I will find you soon.
4
Green
Grass Hider, Glade Scryer
Even if he did not have the kingly sense that allowed him to perceive the movements and changes within his mountains, Achmed would still have known that Grunthor had returned to the Cauldron.
Centuries before, in the old life, Achmed had traversed a fjord near the Fiery Rim, a desolate inlet of churning sea currents between towering black basalt cliffs. In the thick woods atop those cliffs, teeming with wildlife but uninhabited by humans, dwelt Firewyrms—giant, chameleon-skinned beasts akin to dragons, which legends claimed were formed from living lava with teeth of brimstone. Dormant much of the time, the serpents, when hunting, prowled through the undergrowth below the forest canopy in relative silence, and yet it was always obvious to him when they were approaching, because the fauna would disappear utterly; the incessant birdsong that rattled over his ultrasensitive skin would suddenly cease, as if the forest was holding its breath, hoping the predators would pass.
It was much the same in Ylorc whenever Grunthor returned.
Achmed had never been able to divine exactly what it was about the Sergeant-Major’s training that enabled him to strike such abject fear into the hearts of the Firbolg soldiers in his command, but whatever it was, it had needed to be applied only once.
From the moment he was sighted, still three or more leagues away, the corridors and mountain passes of Ylorc scrambled to attention, clearing away any tomfoolery in favor of regulation dress and behavior. The Firbolg could sense his approach from great distances, like the birds and creatures of the fjord hiding from the Firewyrms, and, like them, took great pains not to draw his notice.