Deadhouse Landing

The winds began to drop. The choking sand and fine ochre-red dust came sifting down in great long hissing banners. Seven figures emerged from the murk, all with crossbows aimed. The man who had called to Dancer closed, drawing a rag from his face; he was sunburned and grimy, in dusty, scuffed, much-repaired leather armour. Dancer drew two weapons and stood over Kellanved.

‘Alive, eh?’ the newcomer grunted. ‘Might as well finish him. Trust me, it would be a mercy.’

‘What happened?’

The fellow pointed to Kellanved. ‘He’s a mage, hey? Had his Warren raised, right? Any fool knows better than to step on to the Otataral Desert with their Warren up. His mind’s gone now. Best just to slit his throat.’

‘Touch him and I’ll kill you.’

The fellow considered Dancer for a time. ‘Fine. But I ain’t carrying him.’ He gestured. ‘This way.’

Dancer picked Kellanved up in his arms and headed in the indicated direction. The crossbowmen surrounded him while the spokesman followed. ‘Where are we?’ Dancer asked over his shoulder.

‘I done just told you. The Otataral Desert.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Land of the Seven Holy Cities. Hearda that?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’ From what Dancer could remember of the rough geography he had been taught, the lands of the Seven Holy Cities lay far to the north of the Falari archipelago, which itself lay north of Quon Tali. They had somehow wandered – or been brought – very far indeed. He wondered how on earth they would ever return; especially if Kellanved’s mind had been destroyed.

The party crossed several steep dunes, passed between cliffs of bare layered rock, and emerged on to a plateau hardpan. Ahead stood a ragged palisade of standing logs. ‘What’s this?’ Dancer asked, rather disappointed.

‘Welcome to Skullcup mine,’ the guide announced, indicating a heavy gate set in the palisade.

‘Really? What do you mine?’

The fellow’s cracked lips crooked. ‘A rare ore.’

The gate opened and Dancer was escorted through. He saw now that the palisade was huge, encompassing a large open-face pit. Far down at the base of the sloping sides, cave tunnels led off into darkness. Huts and barracks stood between the palisade and the pit edge.

‘Do your friend a favour and leave him here,’ his guide said. ‘We’ll give him a decent burial.’

‘No. What’s your name, anyway?’

‘Call me Puller. Now, put your friend down and hand over all your gear.’

Dancer set Kellanved down and straightened, his hands loose at his sides. ‘And if I don’t?’

Puller glanced to the surrounding crossbowmen. ‘Then we stick you fulla bolts and take it anyway.’

Dancer tilted his head to acknowledge the logic in that. He began unbuckling his baldrics. It broke his heart to have to hand over all his weapons, but he told himself he’d have them all back in a few days – when he escaped.

Having dropped all his own gear, he set to handing over Kellanved’s. The saddlebags were gone already, lost in the storm. The men collected the gear, then Puller motioned him towards a narrow dirt ramp that ran down into the pit below. Dancer picked up Kellanved and headed down.

Before he reached the bottom a crowd had gathered at the base of the ramp. They were a ragged, malnourished bunch of older men and women; Dancer judged that he could take them all down if push came to shove.

One squat, muscular fellow pushed to the front. He jerked a thumb at Kellanved. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Had his Warren up when he landed here.’

Every man and woman facing Dancer winced. This fellow shook his bald sun-darkened head. ‘Best to let him go, lad. Ain’t no hope.’

‘I’ll keep watch over him. If you don’t mind.’

The squat fellow rubbed a hand over his sweaty pate. ‘Well, truth is, we do mind. We’re labour here. Everyone has to make their quota in ore. No quota, no food. Understand?’

‘I’ll make it for both of us.’

The man snorted. ‘No need to ruin your health. He’ll be dead in a few days, I guarantee it. Or he’ll awaken with no mind at all.’

‘That’s my problem.’

The man’s already slit eyes narrowed. ‘See that it remains so. What’s your name?’

‘Dancer.’ The fellow snorted his disbelief. ‘Yours?’

The man gave a hungry, almost brutal grin. ‘Call me Hairlock.’

Dancer glanced at the man’s bald head, and snorted in turn. Then he hefted Kellanved, asking, ‘Is there a hut or a cave we can use?’

The gathered men and women wandered off, too beaten down and starved to manage any sustained curiosity. Hairlock pointed to a wall of the pit where shallow alcoves had been carved from the soft rock, some of which were closed off by hanging flaps of tattered cloth. Dancer cast one last glance back up the ramp, thinking: Sorry, Surly, and made for the line of caves.

*   *   *

Cartheron, Surly, Urko and Shrift stood in a line at the edge of a pier and studied the Twisted. Seeing it up close, Cartheron was even more horrified by the ship’s dilapidated state. Barnacles clung in a thick layer along the waterline.

‘Look at this,’ Urko announced. ‘Proof that shit really does float.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Shrift objected.

‘How so?’