Since that event, fifteen years past, the derelict building had remained empty, reputedly haunted by the ghosts of outraged proctors and bewildered hall monitors.
The purchase price had been suitably modest.
The upper levels directly above the main assembly hall were structurally compromised, and Bugg’s first task had been to oversee the installation of bracing, before the crews could re-excavate the pit down to the cellar floor. Once that floor was exposed – and the jumble of bones dispatched to the cemetery – shafts were extended straight down, through lenses of clay and sand, to a thick bed of gravel. Cement was poured in and a ring of vertical iron rods put in place, followed by alternating packed gravel and cement for half the depth of the shaft. Limestone pillars, their bases drilled to take the projecting rods, were then lowered. From there on upwards, normal construction practices followed. Columns, buttresses and false arches, all the usual techniques in which Bugg had little interest.
The old school was being transformed into a palatial mansion. Which they would then sell to some rich merchant or noble devoid of taste. Since there were plenty of those, the investment was a sure one.
Bugg spent a short time at the site, surrounded by foremen thrusting scrolls in his face describing countless alterations and specifications requiring approval. A bell passed before he finally managed to file his drawings and escape.
The street that became the road that led to the gravel quarry was a main thoroughfare wending parallel with the canal. It was also one of the oldest tracks in the city. Built along the path of a submerged beach ridge of pebbles and cobbles sealed in clay, the buildings lining it had resisted the sagging decay common to other sections of the city. Two hundred years old, many of them, in a style so far forgotten as to seem foreign.
Scale House was tall and narrow, squeezed between two massive stone edifices, one a temple archive and the other the monolithic heart of the Guild of Street Inspectors. A few generations past, a particularly skilled stone carver had dressed the limestone facade and formal, column-flanked entrance with lovingly rendered rats. In multitudes almost beyond counting. Cavorting rats, dancing rats, fornicating rats. Rats at war, at rest, rats feasting on corpses, swarming feast-laden tabletops amidst sleeping mongrels and drunk servants. Scaly tails formed intricate borders to the scenes, and in some strange way it seemed to Bugg as he climbed the steps that the rats were in motion, at the corner of his vision, moving, writhing, grinning.
He shook off his unease, paused a moment on the landing, then opened the door and strode inside.
‘How many, how bad, how long?’
The desk, solid grey Bluerose marble, almost blocked the entrance to the reception hall, spanning the width of the room barring a narrow space at the far right. The secretary seated behind it had yet to look up from his ledgers. He continued speaking after a moment. ‘Answer those questions, then tell us where and what you’re willing to pay and is this a one-off or are you interested in regular monthly visits? And be advised we’re not accepting contracts at the moment.’
‘No.’
The secretary set down his quill and looked up. Dark, small eyes glittered with suspicion from beneath a single wiry brow. Ink-stained fingers plucked at his nose, which had begun twitching as if the man was about to sneeze. ‘We’re not responsible.’
‘For what?’
‘For anything.’ More tugging at his nose. ‘And we’re not accepting any more petitions, so if you’re here to deliver one you might as well just turn round and leave.’
‘What sort of petition might I want to hand to you?’ Bugg asked.
‘Any sort. Belligerent tenement associations have to wait in line just like everyone else.’
‘I have no petition.’
‘Then we didn’t do it, we were never there, you heard wrong, it was someone else.’
‘I am here on behalf of my master, who wishes to meet with your guild to discuss a contract.’
‘We’re backed up. Not taking any more contracts-’
‘Price is not a consideration,’ Bugg cut in, then smiled, ‘within reasonable limits.’
‘Ah, but then it is a consideration. We may well have unreasonable limits in mind. We often have, you know.’
‘I do not believe my master is interested in rats.’
‘Then he’s insane… but interesting. The board will be in attendance tonight on another matter. Your master will be allotted a short period at the meeting’s end, which I will note in the agenda. Anything else?’
‘No. What time tonight?’
‘Ninth bell, no later. Come late and he will be barred outside the chamber door. Be sure he understands that.’
‘My master is always punctual.’
The secretary made a face. ‘Oh, he’s like that, is he? Poor you. Now, begone. I’m busy.’
Bugg abruptly leaned forward and stabbed two fingers into the secretary’s eyes. There was no resistance. The secretary tilted his head back and scowled.
‘Cute,’ Bugg smiled, stepping back. ‘My compliments to the guild sorceror.’
‘What gave me away?’ the secretary asked as Bugg opened the door.
The manservant glanced back. ‘You are far too rat-like, betraying your creator’s obsession. Even so, the illusion is superb.’
‘I haven’t been found out in decades. Who in the Errant’s name are you?’
‘For that answer,’ Bugg said as he turned away, ‘you’ll need a petition.’
‘Wait! Who’s your master?’
Bugg gave a final wave then shut the door. He descended the steps and swung right. A long walk to the quarries was before him, and, as Tehol had predicted, the day was hot, and growing hotter.
Summoned to join the Ceda in the Cedance, the chamber of the tiles, Brys descended the last few steps to the landing and made his way onto the raised walkway. Kuru Qan was circling the far platform in a distracted manner, muttering under his breath.
‘Ceda,’ Brys called as he approached. ‘You wished to see me?’
‘Unpleasant, Finadd, all very unpleasant. Defying comprehension. I need a clearer mind. In other words, not mine. Perhaps yours. Come here. Listen.’
Brys had never heard the Ceda speak with such fraught dismay. ‘What has happened?’
‘Every Hold, Finadd. Chaos. I have witnessed a transformation. Here, see for yourself. The tile of the Fulcra, the Dolmen. Do you see? A figure huddled at its base. Bound to the menhir with chains. All obscured by smoke, a smoke that numbs my mind. The Dolmen has been usurped.’
Brys stared down at the tile. The figure was ghostly, and his vision blurred the longer he stared at it. ‘By whom?’
‘A stranger. An outsider.’
‘A god?’
Kuru Qan massaged his lined brow with his fingers as he continued pacing. ‘Yes. No. We hold no value in the notion of gods. Upstarts who are as nothing compared to the Holds. Most of them aren’t even real, simply projections of a people’s desires, hopes. Fears. Of course,’ he added, ‘sometimes that’s all that’s needed.’
‘What do you mean?’
Kuru Qan shook his head. ‘And the Azath Hold, this troubles me greatly. The centre tile, the Heartstone, can you sense it? The Azath Heartstone, my friend, has died. The other tiles clustered together around it, at the end, drawing tight as blood gathers in a wounded body. The Tomb is breached. Portal stands unguarded. You must make a journey for me to the square tower, Finadd. And go armed.’
‘What am I to look for?’
‘Anything untoward. Broken ground. But be careful – the dwellers within those tombs are not dead.’
‘Very well.’ Brys scanned the nearest tiles. ‘Is there more?’
Kuru Qan halted, brows lifting. ‘More? Dragon Hold has awakened. Wyval. Blood-Drinker. Gate. Consort. Among the Fulcra, the Errant is now positioned in the centre of things. The Pack draws nearer, and Shapefinder has become a chimera. Ice Hold’s Huntress walks frozen paths. Child and Seed stir to life. The Empty Hold – you can well see – has become obscured. Every tile. A shadow stands behind the Empty Throne. And look, Saviour and Betrayer, they have coalesced. They are one and the same. How is this possible? Wanderer, Mistress, Watcher and Walker, all hidden, blurred by mysterious motion. I am frightened, Finadd.’