Midnight tides

‘Is all that relevant? Only partly, I admit. As I must perforce admit to many things, I admit to that. There are natural progressions that, when unveiled, are profoundly exemplary of the sheer vastness of antiquity. Beyond even the age of the existence of people, this world is very, very old, Brys Beddict.’ Kuru Qan gestured.

Brys looked down to where he had indicated, and saw the tile of the Dolmen. The carved and painted image depicted a single, tilted monolith half-buried in lifeless clay. The sky behind it was colourless and devoid of features.

‘Even seas are born only to one day die,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘Yet the land clings to its memory, and all that it has endured is clawed onto its visage. Conversely, at the very depths of the deepest ocean, you will find the traces of when it stood above the waves. It is this knowledge that we shall use, Brys.’

‘Nifadas was rather vague as to my task, Ceda. I am to awaken Mael, presumably to apprise the Elder god that it is being manipulated. But I am not a worshipper, nor is there a single Letherii who would claim otherwise for him or herself – why would Mael listen to me?’

‘I have no idea, Brys. You shall have to improvise.’

‘And if this god is truly and absolutely fallen, until it is little more than a mindless beast, then what?’

Kuru Qan blinked behind the lenses, and said nothing.

Brys shifted uneasily. ‘If my mind is all that shall make the journey, how will I appear to myself? Can I carry weapons?’

‘How you manifest your defences is entirely up to you, Finadd. Clearly, I anticipate you will find yourself as you are now. Armed and armoured. All conceit, of course, but that is not relevant. Shall we begin?’

‘Very well.’

Kuru Qan stepped forward, one arm snapping out to grasp Brys by his weapons harness. A savage, surprisingly powerful tug pitched him forward, headlong over the edge of the disc. Shouting in alarm, he flailed about, then plummeted down towards the tile of the Dolmen.

‘Even in the noblest of ventures, there’s the occasional stumble.’

Bugg’s eyes were flat, his lined face expressionless, as he stared steadily at Tehol without speaking.

‘Besides, it’s only a small failing, all things considered. As for myself, why, I am happy enough. Truly. Yours is the perfectly understandable disappointment and, dare I say it, a modest battering of confidence, that comes with an effort poorly conceived. No fault in the deed itself, I assure you.’ As proof he did a slow turn in front of his manservant. ‘See? The legs are indeed of matching length. I shall remain warm, no matter how cool the nights become. Granted, we don’t have cool nights. Sultry is best we can manage, I’ll grant you, but what’s a little sweat between… uh… the legs?’

‘That shade of grey and that tone of yellow are the worst combination I have ever attempted, master,’ Bugg said. ‘I grow nauseous just looking at you.’

‘But what has that to do with the trousers?’

‘Very little, admittedly. My concern is with principles, of course.’

‘Can’t argue with that. Now, tell me of the day’s doings, and hurry up, I’ve a midnight date with a dead woman.’

‘The extent of your desperation, master, never fails to astonish me.’

‘Did our favourite money-lender commit suicide as woefully anticipated?’

‘With nary a hitch.’

‘Barring the one by which he purportedly hung himself?’

‘As you say, but that was before fire tragically swept through his premises.’

‘And any word on Finadd Gerun Eberict’s reaction to all this?’

‘Decidedly despondent, master.’

‘But not unduly suspicious?’

‘Who can say? His agents have made inquiries, but more directly towards a search for a hidden cache of winnings, an attempt to recoup the loss and such. No such fortune, however, has surfaced.’

‘And it had better not. Eberict needs to swallow the loss entire, not that it was in truth a loss, only a denial of increased fortune. His primary investments remain intact, after all. Now, stop blathering, Bugg. I need to do some thinking.’ Tehol hitched up his trousers, wincing at Bugg’s sudden frown. ‘Must be losing weight,’ he muttered, then began pacing.

Four steps brought him to the roof’s edge. He wheeled and faced Bugg. ‘What’s that you’re wearing?’

‘It’s the latest fashion among masons and such.’

‘The Dusty Few.’

‘Exactly.’

‘A wide leather belt with plenty of loops and pouches.’

Bugg nodded.

‘Presumably,’ Tehol continued, ‘there are supposed to be tools and assorted instruments in those loops and pouches. Things a mason might use.’

‘Well, I run the company. I don’t use those things.’

‘But you need the belt.’

‘If I’m to be taken seriously, master, yes.’

‘Oh yes, that is important, isn’t it? Duly noted in expenses, I presume?’

‘Of course. That and the wooden hat.’

‘You mean one of those red bowl-shaped things?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why aren’t you wearing it?’

‘I’m not working right now. Not as sole proprietor of Bugg’s Construction, anyway.’

‘Yet you’ve got the belt.’