‘Time to party!’ crowed Pinosel.
Fiddler halted just within the entrance. And stared at the Letherii warrior standing near the huge table. ‘Adjunct, is this one a new invite?’
‘Excuse me, Sergeant?’
He pointed. ‘The King’s Sword, Adjunct. Was he on your list?’
‘No. Nonetheless, he will stay.’
Fiddler turned a bleak look on Bottle, but said nothing.
Bottle scanned the group awaiting them, did a quick head count. ‘Who’s missing?’ he asked.
‘Banaschar,’ Lostara Yil said.
‘He is on his way,’ said the Adjunct.
‘Thirteen,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Gods below. Thirteen .’
Banaschar paused in the alley, lifted his gaze skyward. Faint seepage of light from various buildings and lantern-poled streets, but that did not reach high enough to devour the spray of stars. He so wanted to get out of this city. Find a hilltop in the countryside, soft grass to lie on, wax tablet in his hands. The moon, when it showed, was troubling enough. But that new span of stars made him far more nervous, a swath like sword blades, faintly green, that had risen from the south to slash through the old familiar constellations of Reacher’s Span. He could not be certain, but he thought those swords were getting bigger. Coming closer.
Thirteen in all-at least that was the number he could make out. Perhaps there were more, still too faint to burn through the city’s glow. He suspected the actual number was important. Significant.
Back in Malaz City, the celestial swords would not even be visible, Banaschar surmised. Not yet, anyway.
Swords in the sky, do you seek an earthly throat?
He glanced over at the Errant. If anyone could answer that, it would be this one. This self-proclaimed Master of the Tiles. God of mischance, player of fates. A despicable creature. But no doubt powerful. ‘Something wrong?’ Banaschar asked, for the Errant’s face was ghostly white, slick with sweat.
The one eye fixed his gaze for a moment and then slid away. ‘Your allies do not concern me,’ he said. ‘But another has come, and now awaits us.’
‘Who?’
The Errant grimaced. ‘Change of plans. You go in ahead of me. I will await the full awakening of this Deck.’
‘We agreed you would simply stop it before it can begin. That was all.’
‘I cannot. Not now.’
‘You assured me there would be no violence this night.’
‘And that would have been true,’ the god replied.
‘But now someone stands in your way. You have been outmanoeuvred, Errant.’
A flash of anger in the god’s lone eye. ‘Not for long.’
‘I will accept no innocent blood spilled-not my comrades’. Take down your enemy if you like, but no one else, do you understand me?’
The Errant bared his teeth. ‘Then just keep them out of my way.’
After a moment, Banaschar resumed his journey, emerging along one side of the building and then walking towards the entrance. Ten paces away he halted once more, for a final few mouthfuls of wine, before continuing on.
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‘Time to party!’ crowed Pinosel.
Fiddler halted just within the entrance. And stared at the Letherii warrior standing near the huge table. ‘Adjunct, is this one a new invite?’
‘Excuse me, Sergeant?’
He pointed. ‘The King’s Sword, Adjunct. Was he on your list?’
‘No. Nonetheless, he will stay.’
Fiddler turned a bleak look on Bottle, but said nothing.
Bottle scanned the group awaiting them, did a quick head count. ‘Who’s missing?’ he asked.
‘Banaschar,’ Lostara Yil said.
‘He is on his way,’ said the Adjunct.
‘Thirteen,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Gods below. Thirteen .’
Banaschar paused in the alley, lifted his gaze skyward. Faint seepage of light from various buildings and lantern-poled streets, but that did not reach high enough to devour the spray of stars. He so wanted to get out of this city. Find a hilltop in the countryside, soft grass to lie on, wax tablet in his hands. The moon, when it showed, was troubling enough. But that new span of stars made him far more nervous, a swath like sword blades, faintly green, that had risen from the south to slash through the old familiar constellations of Reacher’s Span. He could not be certain, but he thought those swords were getting bigger. Coming closer.
Thirteen in all-at least that was the number he could make out. Perhaps there were more, still too faint to burn through the city’s glow. He suspected the actual number was important. Significant.
Back in Malaz City, the celestial swords would not even be visible, Banaschar surmised. Not yet, anyway.
Swords in the sky, do you seek an earthly throat?
He glanced over at the Errant. If anyone could answer that, it would be this one. This self-proclaimed Master of the Tiles. God of mischance, player of fates. A despicable creature. But no doubt powerful. ‘Something wrong?’ Banaschar asked, for the Errant’s face was ghostly white, slick with sweat.
The one eye fixed his gaze for a moment and then slid away. ‘Your allies do not concern me,’ he said. ‘But another has come, and now awaits us.’
‘Who?’
The Errant grimaced. ‘Change of plans. You go in ahead of me. I will await the full awakening of this Deck.’
‘We agreed you would simply stop it before it can begin. That was all.’
‘I cannot. Not now.’
‘You assured me there would be no violence this night.’
‘And that would have been true,’ the god replied.
‘But now someone stands in your way. You have been outmanoeuvred, Errant.’
A flash of anger in the god’s lone eye. ‘Not for long.’
‘I will accept no innocent blood spilled-not my comrades’. Take down your enemy if you like, but no one else, do you understand me?’
The Errant bared his teeth. ‘Then just keep them out of my way.’
After a moment, Banaschar resumed his journey, emerging along one side of the building and then walking towards the entrance. Ten paces away he halted once more, for a final few mouthfuls of wine, before continuing on.
But that’s the problem with the Bonehunters, isn’t it?
Nobody can keep them out of anyone’s way.
Standing motionless in the shadows of the alley-after the ex-priest had gone inside-waited the Errant.
The thirteenth player in this night’s game.
Had he known that-had he been able to pierce the fog now thickening within that dread chamber and so make full count of those present-he would have turned round, discarding all his plans. No, he would have run for the hills.
Instead, the god waited, with murder in his heart.
As the city’s sand clocks and banded wicks-insensate and indifferent to aught but the inevitable progression of time-approached the sounding of the bells.
To announce the arrival of midnight.
Chapter Two
Do not come here old friend
If you bring bad weather
I was down where the river ran
Running no more
Recall that span of bridge?
Gone now the fragments grey
And scattered on the sand
Nothing to cross
You can walk the water’s flow
Wending slow into the basin
And find the last place where
Weather goes to die
If I see you hove into view
I’ll know your resurrection’s come
In tears rising to drown my feet
In darkening sky
You walk like a man burned blind
Groping hands out to the sides
I’d guide you but this river
Will not wait
Rushing me to the swallowing sea