‘Indeed. Well—’
‘Every body in existence, sir, is made up of the same stuff. So small you can’t see except with a special lens but I made me one a those. Tiny, that stuff. I call ‘em bags. And inside each bag there’s a wallet, floating in the middle like. And I figure that in that wallet there’s notes.’
‘I’m sorry, did you say notes?’
A quick nod, a pause to send out a stream of brown juice. ‘With all the details of that body written on ‘em. Whether it’s a dog or a cat or a green-banded nose-worm. Or a person. And things like hair colour and eye colour and other stuff – all written on those notes in that wallet in that bag. They’re instructions, you see, telling the bag what kind of bag it’s supposed to be. Some bags are liver bags, some are skin, some are brain, some are lungs. And it’s the mother and the father that sew up them bags, when they make themselves a baby. They sew ‘em up, you see, with half and half, an’ that’s why brats share looks from both ma and da. Now this ‘ere ox, it’s got bags too that look pretty much the same, so’s I been thinking of sewing its half with a human half – wouldn’t that be something?’
‘Something, good sir, likely to get you run out of the city – if you weren’t stoned to death first.’
The carter scowled. ‘That’s the probbem wi’ the world then, ain’t it? No sense of adventure!’
‘I have a very important meeting.’
Iskaral Pust, still wearing his most ingratiating smile, simply nodded.
Sordiko Qualm sighed. ‘It is official Temple business.’
He nodded again.
‘I do not desire an escort.’
‘You don’t need one, High Priestess,’ said Iskaral Pust.
‘You shall have me!’ And then he tilted his head and licked his lips. ‘Won’t she just! Hee hee! And she’ll see that with me she’ll have more than she ever believed possible! Why, I shall be a giant walking penis!’
‘You already are,’ said Sordiko Qualm.
‘Are? Are what, dearest? We should get going, lest we be late!’
‘Iskaral Pust, I don’t want you with me.’
‘You’re just saying that, but your eyes tell me different.’
‘What’s in my eyes,’ she replied, ‘could see me dangling on High Gallows. Assuming, of course, the entire city does not launch into a spontaneous celebration upon hearing of your painful death, and set me upon a throne of solid gold in acclamation.’
‘What is she going on about? No one knows I’m even here! And why would I want a gold throne? Why would she, when she can have me?’ He licked his lips again, and then revised his smile. ‘Lead on, my love. I promise to be most officious in this official meeting. After all, I am the Magus of the House of Shadow. Not a mere High Priest, but a Towering Priest! A Looming Priest! I shall venture no opinions of whatever, unless invited to, of course. No, I shall be stern and wise and leave all the jabbering to my sweet underling.’ He ducked and added, ‘With whom I shall be underlinging very shortly!’
Her hands twitched oddly, most fetchingly, in fact, and then surrender cascaded in her lovely eyes, thus providing Iskaral Pust with the perfect image to resurrect late at night under his blankets with Mogora snoring through all the spider balls filled with eggs lodged up her nose.
‘You will indeed be silent, Iskaral Pust. The one with whom I must speak does not tolerate fools, and I will make no effort to intercede should you prove fatally obnoxious.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘Then again, I cannot imagine you being anything but obnoxious. Perhaps I should retract my warning, in the hope that you will give such offence as to see you instantly obliterated. Whereupon I can then evict those foul bhokarala and your equally foul wife.’ Sudden surprise. ‘Listen to me! Those thoughts were meant to be private! Yours is a most execrable influence, Iskaral Pust.’
‘Soon we shall be as peas in a pod! Those spiny, sharp pods that stick to everything, especially crotch hair if one is forced to wee in the bushes.’ He reached out for her. ‘Hand in hand gliding down the streets!’
She seemed to recoil, but of course that was only his delicate and fragile self-esteem and its niggling worries, quickly buried beneath the plastering of yet another ingratiating smile on his face.
They escaped the temple through a little used side postern gate, slamming it shut just in time to avoid the squall of bhokarala excitedly pursuing them down the corridor.
Wretched sunshine in the streets, Sordiko Qualm seemingly indifferent to such atmospheric disregard – why, not a single cloud in sight! Worse than Seven Cities, with not a crevasse to be found anywhere.
Miserable crowds to thread through, a sea of ill-tempered faces snapping round at the gentle prod of his elbows and shoulders as he hurried to keep pace with the long-legged High Priestess. ‘Long legs, yes! Ooh. Ooh ooh ooh. Look at them scythe, see the waggle of those delicious—’
‘Quiet!’ she hissed over a shapely shoulder.
‘Shadowthrone understood. Yes he did. He saw the necessity of our meeting, her and me. The consummation of Shadow’s two most perfect mortals. The fated storybook love – the lovely innocent woman – but not too innocent, one hopes – and the stalwart man with his brave smile and warm thews. Er, brave thews and warm smile. Is “thews” even the right word? Muscled arms and such, anyway. Why, I am a mass of muscles, am I not? I can even make my ears flex, when the need presents itself – no point in showing off. She despises the strutting type, being delicate and all.
And soon—’
‘Watch that damned elbow, runt!’
‘And soon the glory will be delivered unto us—’
‘—a damned apology!’
‘What?’
A hulking oaf of a man was forcing himself into Iskaral Pust’s path, his big flat face looking like something one found at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket. ‘I said I expect a damned apology, y’damned toad-faced ferret!’
Iskaral Pust snorted. ‘Oh, look, a hulking oaf of a man with a big flat face looking like something one finds at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket wants me to apologize! And I will, good sir, as soon as you apologize for your oafishness and your bucket-face – in fact, apologize for existing!’
The enormous apish hand that reached for his throat was so apish that it barely possessed a thumb, or so Iskaral Pust would later report to his wide-eyed murmuring audience of bhokarala.
Naturally, he ignored that hand and did some reaching out of his own, straight into the oaf’s crotch, where he squeezed and yanked back and forth and tugged and twisted, even as the brute folded up with a whimper and collapsed like a sack of melons on to the filthy cobbles, where he squirmed most pitifully.
Iskaral Pust stepped over him and hurried to catch up to Sordiko Qualm, who seemed to have increased her pace, her robes veritably flying out behind her.
‘The rudeness of some people!’ Iskaral Pust gasped.
They arrived at the gates of a modest estate close to Hinter’s Tower. The gates were locked and Sordiko Qualm tugged on a braided rope, triggering chiming from somewhere within.
They waited.
Chains rattled on the other side of the gates, and a moment later the solid doors creaked open, streams of rust drifting down from the hinges.
‘Not many visitors, I take it?’
‘From this moment on,’ said Sordiko Qualm, ‘you will be silent, Iskaral Pust.’
‘I will?’
‘You will.’
Whoever had opened the gates seemed to be hiding behind one of them, and the High Priestess strode in without any further ceremony. Iskaral Pust rushed in behind her to avoid being locked out, as both gates immediately began closing. As soon as he was clear he turned to upbraid the rude servant. And saw, working a lever to one side, a Seguleh.
‘Thank you, Thurule,’ said Sordiko. ‘Is the Lady in the garden?’
There was no reply.
The High Priestess nodded and walked on, along a winding path through an overgrown, weedy courtyard, its walls covered in
wisteria in full bloom. Sordiko paused upon seeing a large snake coiled in the sun on the path, then edged carefully round it.
Iskaral crept after her, eyes on the nasty creature as it lifted its wedge-shaped head, tongue flicking out in curiosity or maybe hunger. He hissed at it as he passed and was pleased at its flinch.
The estate’s main house was small, elegant in a vaguely feminine way. Arched pathways went round it on both sides, vine-webbed tunnels blissfully draped in shadows. The High Priestess chose one and continued on towards the back.
As they drew closer they heard the murmur of voices.
The centre of the back garden was marked by a flagstone clearing in which stood a dozen full-sized bronze statues in a circle facing inward. Each statue wept water from its oddly shielded face down into the ringed trough it stood in, where water flowed ankle deep. The statues, Iskaral Pust saw with faint alarm as they drew closer, were of Seguleh, and the water that fell down did so from beneath masks sheathed in moss and verdigris. In the middle of the circle was a thin-legged, quaint table of copper and two chairs.
In the chair facing them sat a man with long grey hair.
There was blood-spatter on his plain shirt. A woman was seated with her back to them. Long, lustrous black hair shimmered, contrasting perfectly with the white linen of her blouse.
Upon seeing Sordiko Qualm and Iskaral Pust the man rose and bowed to his host. ‘Milady, until next time.’
A second, sketchier bow to the High Priestess and Iskaral, and then he was walking past.
Sordiko Qualm entered the circle and positioned herself to the right of the now vacated chair. To Iskaral Pust’s astonishment (and, a moment later, delight) she curtsied before her host. ‘Lady Envy.’
‘Do sit, my love,’ Lady Envy replied. Then, as Iskaral Pust hovered into view, seeing at last her exquisite face, so perfect a match to that lovely hair, and the poise of her, er, pose, there in that spindly chair with her legs crossed revealing the underside of one shapely thigh just begging for a caress, she scowled and said, ‘Perhaps I should get a sandbox installed for your foundling, High Priestess? Somewhere to play and soak up his drool.’
‘We would, alas, have to bury him in it.’
‘Interesting suggestion.’
Thurule then arrived with another chair. The similarity between him and the statues was somewhat disquieting, and Iskaral Pust shivered as he quickly bowed to Lady Envy then perched himself on the chair.
‘Her beauty challenges even that of the High Priestess! Why, imagine the two of them—’
‘Iskaral Pust!’ snapped Sordiko Qualm. ‘I did instruct you to be quiet, did I not?’
‘But I said nothing, my love! Nothing at all!’
‘I am not your love, nor will I ever be.’
He smiled, and then said, ‘I will play these two beauties off one another, driving both to spasms of jealousy with my charm, as it slides so easily from one to the other. Pluck here, brush there! Oh, this will be such a delight!’
‘I am of a mind to kill him,’ said Lady Envy to Sordiko Qualm.
‘Alas, he is the Magus of Shadow.’
‘You cannot be serious!’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Iskaral Pust. ‘She is! Furthermore, it is most propitious that I am here, for I know something you do not!’
‘Oh, goodness,’ sighed Lady Envy. ‘A beautiful morning thus shattered into ruin.’
‘Who was he?’ Iskaral demanded. ‘That man who was here? Who was he?’
‘Why should I tell you that?’
‘In exchange – you satisfy my curiosity and I yours – and so we shall satisfy each other and how do you like that, Sordiko Qualm? Hah!’
Lady Envy rubbed at her temples for a moment, as if overwhelmed, and then said, ‘That was the bard, Fisher kel Tath. A most unusual man. He . . . invites confession. There have been dire events in the city—’
‘None so dire as what I would tell you!’ said Iskaral Pust.
And now Sordiko was rubbing at her own brow.
‘It’s working!’
Lady Envy eyed him. ‘If I grant you this exchange, Magus, will you then restrain yourself, thus permitting the High Priestess and me to conduct our conversation?’
‘My restraint is guaranteed, Lady Envy. Of course, I make this promise only if you do the same.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Lady Envy, I arrived on a ship.’
‘What of it?’
‘A ship owned by a most delicious woman—’
‘Oh, not another one!’ moaned Sordiko Qualm.
‘The poor thing,’ said Lady Envy.
‘Hardly.’ Iskaral Pust leaned back in his chair, tilting it up on its legs so that his view could encompass both women. ‘How I dream of such moments as this! See how they hang on my every word! I have them, I have them!’ ‘What is wrong with this man, High Priestess?’
‘I could not begin to tell you.’
Iskaral Pust examined his hands, his fingernails – but that made him slightly nauseous, since the bhokarala were in the habit of sucking on his fingertips when he slept at night, leaving them permanently wrinkled, mangled and decidedly unpleasant, so he looked away, casually, and found himself staring at Thurule, which wasn’t a good idea either, so, over there, at that flower – safe enough, he supposed – until it was time at last to meet Lady Envy’s extraordinary eyes. ‘Yes,’ he drawled, ‘I see the similarity at last, although you were the victor in the war of perfection. Not by much, but triumphant none the less and for that I can only applaud and admire and all that. In any case, resident even at this very moment, on the ship, in the harbour, is none other than your beloved sister, Spite!’
‘I thought so!’ Lady Envy was suddenly on her feet, trembling in her . . . excitement?
Iskaral Pust sniggered. ‘Yes, I play at this until they play no more, and all truths are revealed, as sensibilities are rocked back and forth, as shock thunders through the cosmos, as the shadows themselves explode into all existence! For am I not the Magus of Shadow? Oh, but I am, I am!’ He then leaned forward with an expression of gravid dismay. ‘Are you not delighted, Lady Envy? Shall I hasten to her to forward your invitation to visit this wondrous garden? Instruct me as your servant, please! Whatever you wish, I will do! Of course I won’t! I’ll do whatever I want to. Let her think otherwise – maybe it’ll bring some colour back to her face, maybe it’ll calm the storm in her eyes, maybe it’ll stop the water in this trough from boiling – impressive detail, by the way, now, what should I say next?’
Sordiko Qualm and Lady Envy never did get to their conversation that day.
Grainy-eyed and exhausted, Cutter went in search of somewhere to eat breakfast. Once his belly was full, he’d head back to the Phoenix Inn and collapse on his bed upstairs. This was the extent of his tactical prowess and even achieving that had been a struggle. He would be the last man to downplay the extraordinary variety of paths a life could take, and there were few blessings he could derive from having come full circle – from his journey and the changes wrought in himself between the Darujhistan of old and this new place – and yet the contrast with the fate that had taken Challice Vidikas had left him numbed, disorientated and feeling lost.
He found an empty table in the half-courtyard restaurant facing Borthen Park, an expensive establishment that reminded him he was fast running out of coin, and sat waiting for one of the servers to take note of him. The staff were Rhivi one and all, three young women dressed in some new obscure fashion characterized by long swishing skirts of linen streaked in indigo dye, and tight black leather vests with nothing underneath. Their hair was bound up in knotted braids, revealing bisected clamshells stitched over their ears. While this latter affectation was quaint the most obvious undesirable effect was that twice one of the servers sauntered past him and did not hear his attempts to accost her. He resolved to stick out a leg the next time, then was shocked at such an ungracious impulse.
At last he caught the attention of one of
them and she approached. ‘A pot of tea, please, and whatever you’re serving for breakfast.’
Seeing his modest attire, she glanced away as she asked, in a bored tone, ‘Fruit breakfast or meat breakfast? Eggs? Bread? Honey? What kind of tea – we have twenty-three varieties.’
He frowned up at her. ‘Er, you decide.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What did you have this morning?’
‘Flatcakes, of course. What I always have.’
‘Do you serve those here?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What kind of tea did you drink?’
‘I didn’t. I drank beer.’
‘Rhivi custom?’
‘No,’ she replied, still looking away, ‘it’s my way of dealing with the excitement of my day.’
‘Gods below, just bring me something. Meat, bread, honey. No fancy rubbish with the tea, either.’
‘Fine,’ she snapped, flouncing off in a billow of skirts.
Cutter squeezed the bridge of his nose in an effort to fend off a burgeoning headache. He didn’t want to think about the night just past, the bell after bell spent in that graveyard, sitting on that stone bench with Challice all too close by his side. Seeing, as the dawn’s light grew, what the handful of years had done to her, the lines of weariness about her eyes, the lines bracketing her mouth, the maturity revealed in a growing heaviness, her curves more pronounced than they had once been. The child he had known was still there, he told himself, beneath all of that. In the occasional gesture, in the hint of a soft laugh at one point. No doubt she saw the same in him – the layers of hardness, the vestiges of loss and pain, the residues of living.
He was not the same man. She was not the same woman. Yet they had sat as if they had once known each other. As if they were old friends. Whatever childish hopes and vain ambitions had sparked the space between them years ago, they were deftly avoided, even as their currents coalesced into something romantic, something oddly nostalgic.
It had been the lively light ever growing in her eyes that most disturbed Cutter, especially since he had felt his own answering pleasure – in the hazy reminiscences they had played with, in the glow lifting between them on that bench that had nothing to do with the rising sun.