Queek placed the manticore skull upon the floor in front of him and stepped around it, acknowledging his minions by turning to face them. Without greetings or preamble, he went to the heart of the matter. ‘A grey seer! What is the meaning of this? Did Queek not squeak-tell Lord Gnawdwell about the grey ones’ interfering ways? Did either of you know that the fifth clawpack is led by a horned one?’
Grotoose looked Queek in the eyes and bared his fangs. ‘I not know,’ he said. ‘My Moulder-brothers tell me nothing. Big secret.’
Gritch drummed his nervous, twitchy fingers against themselves, scratched his whiskers, and looked at his shuffling feet.
‘Gritch? Speak-squeak,’ coaxed Queek.
‘Yes, yes-yes. I knew. Not for certain, O terrible one,’ he said, looking up quickly. ‘I hear rumours, I hear whispers. I wait-wait to tell Queek, when next we met.’
‘You come see Queek earlier next time!’
‘We meet-greet now,’ said Gritch with a shrug.
With a swift flick of his wrist, Queek sent Dwarf Gouger to split the manticore skull before him.
‘Ska!’ shouted Queek.
‘Yes, great one,’ said Ska from the mouth of the tunnel.
‘Fetch Skrikk! Queek want to know what he has to say about this. One look from Queek’s eye and he squirt musk and tell all!’
‘Yes, great one.’
‘And send for Clan Skryre tinker-rats. Time for them to report to Queek. Much-much needs finishing before great signal.’
Queek snarled. He hated all this, hated, hated, hated.
‘Queek want to bury Dwarf Gouger in beard-thing’s head!’ he said.
‘Patience!’ said Ikit Scratch. ‘Soon the time come for death-slay and end of all dwarfs.’
Queek tittered. ‘Yes-yes. You right. You clever warlord. But not so clever to kill Queek! Now be quiet, others here.’
Grotoose gave Queek a concerned look. His tail twitched. ‘My lord?’
‘Nothing! Nothing squeaking for your ears, beastmaster. No! You return to your beasts, Grotoose,’ snapped the Headtaker. ‘Gritch tell Queek everything he knows about this. This is the Council’s doing. But,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘was Gnawdwell the paw behind it? That is the big question.’ He let this last statement hang a moment, knowing full well it would reach eager ears. If they thought the rat was out of the bag, then his opponents might panic. Gritch’s face stayed studiously neutral. ‘Tell Queek about Kranskritt. Squeak-tell me everything.’
Kranskritt leaned hard against the burrow wall, his head pounding to the merciless beat of his heart. Every sphincter he had twitched, threatening to flood his robes with urine and musk. He shook all over and his paw-pads sweated. The potion was wearing off. Soothgnawer had warned him that the after-effects were unpleasant. Naturally, he expected the verminlord to lie to him, or not tell him the whole truth at least, but in this one thing he had been truthful – the sensations of withdrawal were awful.
It was horrible down there in the Trench. He hated being at the bottom of the pit. Every sleep he had he was woken by the screams of half-mad Clan Moulder-things. Every time it happened he thought they were coming from him. He was too hot and shook, as if all the fear he should have felt while under the potion’s influence were merely delayed, and afflicted him all at once.
With palsied hands he pulled a soft man-skin pouch from under his robes, fished out a piece of dully glowing warpstone and nibbled at it. A surge of wellbeing coursed through him, driven on by his racing heart. Frantically, he dabbed at the crumbs on his front and licked them from his fingers.
Kranskritt closed his eyes and pressed his back and palms against the cool rock, letting the rush of the warpstone chase away his discomfort. He stayed like that until his heart slowed and his glands gave one last twitch. Feeling weak but better, he staggered the remaining way into his burrow, using the wall as a support.
Crates and boxes, some opened and their contents half spilling into the room, filled his chambers. He had not known how much to bring, not knowing how long he would be in the City of Pillars. In the end, he had packed everything, worried he might leave something important behind. But the crammed state of his burrow meant he couldn’t lay a paw on anything, and it made him anxious.
He sought a reason other than his own weakness – or Queek, for he was so frightened of him he didn’t want to think about it – for his disquiet.
‘Soothgnawer, yes-yes. He is too strong!’ chittered Kranskritt. ‘It is him! So tricksy and sneaky. Never a straight word for poor, honest Kranskritt.’
He paced back and forth. ‘A binding, a binding. That must be it. Make him my servant, not the other way around. I am too strong for him!’ he snickered. ‘Guards!’ he called. An unacceptable number of heartbeats later, three mangy stormvermin sloped into the room. Kranskritt missed the elite white-fur guard that usually accompanied seers of his rank, but all that had gone with Kritislik’s death and Clan Scruten’s disgrace. At least these, being of Clan Gritus, were unlikely to betray him to Queek and Clan Mors.
Probably.
‘Clear the floor,’ he squeaked imperiously. ‘Make me a space! And carefully! No more breakages.’
The stormvermin rolled their eyes but did as they were bid, working until the floor was clear and the crates were stacked more or less safely along the burrow walls. Kranskritt dismissed the stormvermin and hunted about for his warpstone stylus. He couldn’t find it. Forgetting his admonishment to the guards, he lost his temper and upended three crates before he seized upon it with a screech of triumph.
‘Now,’ he said, kicking packing straw and broken possessions to the edge of the room. ‘Where to begin?’
Kranskritt spent a happy bell scuttling around his chamber, sketching out his circle in chalk then filling in the design with his stylus. Where the lines met, they glowed with the non-light of warpstone. The atmosphere of the room changed, growing pregnant with power. And then he was interrupted.
‘Greetings, Grey Seer Kranskritt, O most wise and malign. I gather-bring news of the Headtaker.’
Turning from the writhing runes he was scratching into the chamber floor, Kranskritt glowered at his messenger.
Bowing profusely, the skaven gave his report to the floor, not daring to look upon the seer. ‘A boulder trap missed Queek. Three of his Red Guard were smashed-slain, but the Headtaker leapt aside.’
Kranskritt’s muzzle twitched. ‘He will know it was a set-trap, yes-yes,’ said the grey seer. ‘Who will he suspect-blame? Tell me who has he questioned about my presence?’
‘Grotoose of Clan Moulder, Gritch of Clan Eshin and Warlord Skrikk, my lord,’ responded the messenger without raising his eyes.
‘Hmmm, but not Gnarlfang?’ said the grey seer, musing to himself. ‘Strange-odd. Send Gritch to me immediately.’
Twitching his head to listen, Kranskritt waited until the sound of the messenger’s footsteps had receded before returning to his circle.
‘Your circle will not work,’ said a whisper from the shadows. ‘You are inscribing it wrong.’
Kranskritt froze. ‘Why don’t we tell-explain to the Headtaker that it is not us? Clearly he will come after me soon,’ said Kranskritt to the darkness.
A soft and altogether evil laughter filled the room, a sound as palatable as nails scratching on polished slate. ‘Of course he suspects you, but it would be no good to tell him that the one behind the attempts is Lord Gnawdwell. He suspects this to be the case, but he would not believe you. And yes, his agents are already on their way.’