Ian Esslemont - Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

‘Yes, master?’

He waved the flask to the surroundings. ‘… what have you done to the place?’

The brightening light cascading in through the windows woke Envy. A hand went to her forehead and, pressing there, she groaned. She rose unsteadily to her feet and staggered to a window. There she tensed, straightening, and glared about.

‘No …’ she breathed. She gripped the sill, cracking its stone under her nails. ‘ No! ’

She threw herself back from the window as if to dash from the room, but halfway across she raised both hands and came to a halt. She spent some time adjusting her dress and hair, then let out a long, calming breath. ‘Very well. What’s done is done. Can’t be helped. It has all been rather a disappointment, after all.’ She set her hands on her hips. ‘Yes. Not what I’d hoped at all. Not at all. Perhaps a change in scenery.’ She tapped a finger to her pursed lips. Her arched brows rose as an idea struck. ‘Yes … perhaps the Empire. Hmm. They may be sophisticated enough …’

She waved a hand as if dismissing the rooms, Majesty Hall, the entire city, and walked out.

Across the city a burly foreigner drove a wagon into the yard of the Eldra Iron Mongers and shut the gates behind him. The master of the works himself, Humble Measure, met him as he brought the wagon to a halt before one of the cavernous shops.

Barathol dropped the reins, peered down at Humble. ‘Ready?’

Humble Measure raised a long-handled pair of iron tongs. ‘Ready.’

They went to the rear of the wagon and lowered the gate. A metal casket filled the bed. Barathol grabbed hold of a rope handle and yanked it out. It fell with a crash amid the black clinker and slag. He looked to Humble again. ‘Furnace ready?’

‘Iron’s roiling white hot.’

‘All right. Let’s get it done.’

Humble set the tongs on the lid and took the other handle. Together they carried the casket into the shop, where an orange and yellow glow flickered and smoke once more billowed out to hang over the city.

Afterwards, as they walked back to the wagon, Humble Measure wiped his blackened hands on a filthy rag. ‘Until next time, then.’

Barathol gave a harsh laugh. ‘I know what you mean — but let’s hope not, yes?’

‘Yes. Quite. Twins favour you, then.’

Barathol nodded and shook the reins.

Humble Measure watched the man go. Yes , he agreed: let us hope there will be no further call . Yet in the meantime one must remain vigilant. He had his cause now. He’d been misguided before. Sought answers in the wrong directions. But now he understood. And he would apply all his resources just as ruthlessly as before. He knew where the true threats lay now and he would keep watch.

He would await the slips of paper inscribed with the broken circle.

For Torvald the farewells had been swift and without ceremony. The quorls arrived to pick up the survivors of the Moranth assault group and they had flown off, swooping to the east around the city. Galene left last. As if in salute she offered the slightest tilt of her engraved helm. He answered with his best awkward effort at a formal bow.

He stood for a time watching them disappear into the sun’s glare. A mannered cough brought him round to see a young Darujhistani aristocrat in much-damaged finery. ‘Yes?’

The lad bowed. ‘I understand you are the new Councillor Nom.’

‘I am.’

‘Permit me to introduce myself — my name is Corien. Corien Lim.’

Torvald could not keep his brows from rising. ‘Ah … I see. Well … I am sorry for your loss.’

The lad bowed again. He rubbed at his grimed nose, grimacing. ‘You are most courteous, sir. I take this liberty because given the circumstances I believe we may be seeing much more of each other.’

Torvald had no idea what to say to that so he nodded sagely. ‘Really. That is … most interesting.’

The Lim scion bowed again, taking his leave. ‘Until then, sir.’

Torvald turned on to a path down the hill. He walked in silence, deep in puzzled thought. Had he just received his first overture of recognition from an aristocrat — a possible future councillor? If so, things were looking up for Torvald Nom. Then he recalled what lay ahead and he lost even that thin shred of optimism: homecoming awaited.

What should it be this time? Pirates? Invasions? Slavers? Stomach troubles?

As he walked the district he passed patches of fire damage. A few city blocks had burned but overall the harm was not nearly so terrible as he had feared. And everywhere, on every corner, lay pots in heaps, abandoned or broken. Some still held water — no doubt drawn from wells, troughs, and even the lake itself.

He frowned, eyeing them: something familiar about those pots.

He paused before the door to his own house. Once more wiped his hands on the thighs of his trousers. As he reached for the handle the door was yanked inward. Tiserra stood in the threshold. She cocked an eye.

‘Greetings, fair wife!’ He moved to step in but she blocked the way.

‘And what was it this time?’ she demanded.

‘Ah! Well …’ Torvald pulled a hand down his unshaven cheek. ‘You may not believe this, good wife … but I was sent on a secret diplomatic mission to the north, only to be kidnapped by Moranth. And in negotiation with them, I managed to save the city!’

‘Oh, really? You saved the city, did you?’

He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘Gods’ own truth! That’s exactly what happened. If I may come in I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Indeed?’ She edged slightly to one side. ‘I can’t wait to hear. Does it bear upon this non-paying job of yours?’

He slid in around her. ‘Ah … odd you should mention that. In fact it does.’

She shut the door and brushed drying clay from her hands. ‘Well then. It’s a good thing that I’m owed for a great many pots.’

Councillor Coll walked the empty rooms of his manor house. Reaching the wide base of the ornate curved staircase he paused to rest a hand on the balustrade. After a time he set a booted foot on the first stair. Jaws tight, he leaned forward until he had to raise his rear foot to place it upon the second. He eased a breath out between clenched teeth, then continued on.

The bedroom door was open. He entered to stand by the low dresser. Thick curtains hung closed before the terrace doors, holding the room in a dim murky light. The air smelled of dust and stale perfume. He crossed to the curtains and parted them. A shaft of light played across the room: dust motes spun and danced.

He yanked the thick cloths to the sides and then pulled the double doors open. A gust of wind sent the dust swirling from the bedcovers. Taking a deep breath of the air, he turned to the door. Passing the dresser cluttered with its tiny glass bottles he ran a finger through the thick grey layer upon it. He examined his finger, then dusted his hands together and left.

Outside, his carriage-driver asked, ‘Destination, Councillor?’

‘Destination?’ Coll answered, outraged. ‘Why, Majesty Hall of course!’

The carriage-driver rolled his eyes to the sky as he gave the reins a tug.

Far outside Darujhistan, on the western edge of Maiten town, an old woman staggered from her straw-roofed shack. She held her head, groaning and blinking in the light. She wrenched at her great mane of matted frizzy hair to examine a handful. She let out a great yelp of horror and batted at the curled mass, raising a cloud of dust and dirt.

Then she worked her mouth as if having tasted something vile. She spat in the street, wiped her mouth and grimaced her disgust. She caught sight now of her mud-caked tatters of skirts and grabbed fists of them, twisting them back and forth. ‘May the gods die of crotch-rot! What’s happened to my dress?’