‘Then what?’
‘The material they were wrapped around was unidentifiable, which, if you think about it, is probably a good thing.’
‘How do we live on this stuff?’
‘A good question, master. It is indeed baffling.’
Tehol studied his servant for a long moment, then he gestured the man away.
Bugg turned right, so Tehol went left. The air was warming, yet still fresh after the rain. Wet dogs nosed the rubbish in the settling puddles. Cats chased the cockroaches that had swarmed up from the drains. A beggar had found a sliver of soap and stood naked beneath a stream of water coming from a cracked eaves trough, working up a murky lather while he sang a lament that had been popular a hundred years ago. Residents had taken advantage of the unexpected downpour, emptying chamber pots from their windows rather than carrying them a few dozen paces to the nearest communal dump-hole. As a result, some of the pools held floating things and the streams in the gutters carried small flyblown islands that collected here and there in buzzing rafts that bled yellowy brown slime.
It was a fine evening in the city of Letheras, Tehol reflected, testing the air a moment before taking a deep breath and releasing it in a contented sigh. He went on down the street until he reached Quillas Canal, then walked along it towards the river. To his right rose a forest of masts from fisherboats moored to wait out the storm. Tarps were being pulled aside, water splashing as the crews bailed feverishly so they could make for open water before the day’s light failed. Near one jetty a half-dozen city guardsmen were fishing a corpse from the murky water, a crowd of onlookers shouting advice as the squad struggled with hook-poles. Above them flapped seagulls.
Tehol came within sight of the old palace, then took a side street away from the canal, proceeding on a winding, confused route until he came to the grounds of the towers. Gathering dusk made the air grainy as Tehol reached the low crumbling wall and stared across the short expanse of broken, uneven yard to the one, battered tower that was clearly different in construction from all the others, being square instead of round.
The strange triangular windows were dark, crowded with dead vines. The inset, black-stained wooden door was shrouded in shadow. Tehol wondered how such a door could have survived – normal wood would have rotted to dust centuries ago.
He could see no-one in the yard. ‘Kettle! Child, are you in there?’
A small bedraggled figure stepped out from behind a tree.
Startled, Tehol said, ‘That was a good trick, lass.’
She approached. ‘There’s an artist. A painter. He comes to paint the tower. He wants to paint me too, but I stay behind trees. It makes him very angry. You are the man who sleeps on the roof of your house. Lots of people try spying on you.’
‘Yes, I know. Shurq tells me you, uh, take care of them.’
‘She said maybe you could help find out who I was.’
He studied her. ‘Have you seen Shurq lately?’
‘Only once. She was all fixed. I barely recognized her.’
‘Well, lass, we could see the same done for you, if you like.’
The grubby, mould-patched face wrinkled into a frown. ‘Why?’
‘Why? To make you less noticeable, I suppose. Wouldn’t you enjoy looking the way Shurq does now?’
‘Enjoy?’
‘Think about it at least?’
‘All right. You look friendly. You look like I could like you. I don’t like many people, but I could like you. Can I call you Father? Shurq is my mother. She isn’t, really, but that’s what I call her. I’m looking for brothers and sisters, too.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Can you help me?’
‘I’ll try, Kettle. Shurq tells me the tower talks to you.’
‘Not words. Just thoughts. Feelings. It’s afraid. There’s someone in the ground who is going to help. Once he gets free, he’ll help us. He’s my uncle. But the bad ones scare me.’
‘The bad ones? Who are they? Are they in the ground, too?’
She nodded.
‘Is there a chance they will get out of the ground before your uncle does?’
‘If they do, they’ll destroy us all. Me, Uncle and the tower. They’ve said so. And that will free all the others.’
‘And are the others bad, too?’
She shrugged. ‘They don’t talk much. Except one. She says she’ll make me an empress. I’d like to be an empress.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t trust that one. Just my opinion, Kettle, but promises like that are suspect.’
‘That’s what Shurq says, too. But she sounds very nice. She wants to give me lots of treats and stuff.’
‘Be careful, lass.’
‘Do you ever dream of dragons, Father?’
‘Dragons?’
Shrugging again, she turned away. ‘It’s getting dark,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I need to kill someone… maybe that artist…’
Turudal Brizad, the consort to Queen Janall, stood leaning against the wall whilst Brys Beddict led his students through the last of the counterattack exercises.
Audiences were not uncommon during his training regime with the king’s own guard, although Brys had been mildly surprised that Turudal was among the various onlookers, most of whom were practitioners with the weapons he used in his instruction. The consort was well known for his indolent ways, a privilege that, in the days of Brys’s grandfather, would not have been tolerated in a young, fit Letherii. Four years of military service beginning in the seventeenth year had been mandatory. In those days there had been external threats aplenty. Bluerose to the north, the independent, unruly city-states of the archipelago in Dracons Sea, and the various tribes on the eastern plain had been pressuring Lether, driven against the outposts by one of the cyclical expansionist regimes of far Kolanse.
Bluerose now paid tribute to King Ezgara Diskanar, the city-states had been crushed, leaving little more than a handful of goat-herders and fisherfolk on the islands, and Kolanse had subsided into isolation following some sort of civil war a few decades past.
It was difficult for Brys to imagine a life possessing virtually no ability to defend itself, at least upon the attainment of adulthood, but Turudal Brizad was such a creature. Indeed, the consort had expressed the opinion that he was but a forerunner, a pioneer of a state of human life wherein soldiering was left to the Indebted and the mentally inadequate. Although Brys had initially scoffed at hearing a recounting of Brizad’s words, his disbelief had begun to waver. The Letherii military was still strong, yet increasingly it was bound to economics. Every campaign was an opportunity for wealth. And, among the civilian population of traders, merchants and all those who served the innumerable needs of civilization, few were bothering with martial training any more. An undercurrent of contempt now coloured their regard of soldiers.
Until they need us, of course. Or they discover a means to profit by our actions.
He completed the exercise, then lingered to see who left the chamber and who remained to practise on their own. Most remained, and Brys was pleased. The two who had left were, he knew, the queen’s spies in the bodyguard. Ironically, everyone else knew that detail as well.
Brys sheathed his sword and strode over to Turudal Brizad. ‘Consort?’
A casual tilt of the head, ‘Finadd.’
‘Have you found yourself at a loose end? I don’t recall ever seeing you here before.’
‘The palace seems strangely empty, don’t you think?’
‘Well,’ Brys ventured, ‘there’s certainly less shouting.’
Turudal Brizad smiled. ‘The prince is young, Finadd. Some exuberance is to be expected. The Chancellor would have a word with you, at your convenience. I understand you are fully recovered from your mysterious ordeal?’
‘The King’s healers were their usual proficient selves, Consort. Thank you for asking. Why does the Chancellor wish to speak with me?’