Reaper's Gale

‘You sure it’s not the. other way round? What does he do with all that coin they’ve leveraged into their hands? Bury it in the back yard? They don’t even have a back yard. Ormly, we’re talking tons of coinage here.’ She waved a-hand about. ‘Could fill this crypt twenty times over. Now, sure, there’re other crypts under the city, but we know them all. I’ve sent runners to every one of them, but they’re empty, the dust underfoot not disturbed in years. We’ve sent rats into every fissure, every crevasse, every crack. Nothing.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Gone. As if into thin air. And not just in this city, either.’

‘So maybe Tehol’s found a hiding place we ain’t looked at yet. Something both clever and idiotic, like you said.’

‘I thought of that, Ormly. Trust me when I tell you, it’s all gone.’

His scowl suddenly cleared and he reached for a refill of the wine. ‘I figured it out. It’s all dumped into the river. Simple. Easy.’

‘Except that Tehol insists it can be recovered-to flood the market, if the Consign financiers panic and start minting more than the usual quota. And even that quota is proving inflationary, since there’s no recycling of old coins taking place. There’s no return for recasting. I hear even the Imperial Treasury is hurting. Tehol says he can dump it all back onto the streets, at a moment’s notice.’

‘Maybe he’s lying.’

‘Maybe he isn’t.’

‘Maybe I’ll have that last hog ear.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Fine. We got another problem. Tensions are high between the Edur and the Patriotists-and the Chancellor and his army of thugs and spies. Blood was spilled.’

‘Not surprising,’ Rucket replied. ‘It was bound to happen. And don’t think the financial strain has nothing to do with it.’

‘If it does it’s only indirectly,’ Ormly said. ‘No, this clash was, I think, personal.’

‘Can we make use of it?’

‘Ah, finally we can discuss something and actually get somewhere.’

‘You’re just jealous of Tehol Beddict.’

‘So what if I am. Forget it. Let’s make plans.’

Sighing, Rucket gestured to one of her servants. ‘Bring us another bottle, Unn.’

Ormly’s brow lifted, and, as the huge man shambled off into a side chamber, he leaned closer. ‘Unn? The one who…?’

‘Murdered Gerun Eberict? Indeed, the very man. With his own two hands, Ormly. His own two hands.’ Then she smiled. ‘And those hands, well, murdering isn’t the only thing they’re good at.’

‘I knew it! It is all you ever think about!’

She settled back in her chair. Make them feel clever. The only sure way to keep the peace.

Beneath the city of Letheras was a massive core of ice. A fist of Omtose Phellack, clutching in its implacable grip an ancient spirit. Lured, then trapped by a startling alliance of Ceda Kuru Qan, a Jaghut sorceress and an Elder God. For the Errant, it was a struggle to appreciate that conjoining, no matter how advantageous the consequence. A spirit imprisoned, until such time as that hoary ritual weakened-or, more likely, was shattered in wilful malice. So, though temporary-and what truly wasn’t?-it had prevented death and destruction on a colossal scale. All very well.

Kuru Qan treating with a Jaghut sorceress-surprising but not disturbing. No, it was Mael’s involvement that gnawed ceaselessly in the Errant’s thoughts.

An Elder God. But not K’rul, not Draconus, not Kilmandaros. No, this was the one Elder God who never got involved. Mael’s curse was everyone else’s blessing. So what changed? What forced the old bastard’s hand, enough so that he forged alliances, that he unleashed his power in the streets of the city, that he emerged onto a remote island and battered a broken god senseless?

Friendship towards a pathetic, mortal?

And what, dear Mael, do you now plan to do about all those worshippers? The ones so abusing your indifference? They are legion and their hands drip blood in your name. Does this please you? From them, after all, you acquire power. Enough to drown this entire realm.

War among the gods, but was the battle line so simply drawn as it seemed? The Errant was no longer sure.

He stood in solid rock, within reach of the enormous knot of ice. He could smell it, that gelid ancient sorcery that belonged to another era. The spirit imprisoned within it, frozen in the act of rising through a fetid lake, was a seething storm of helpless rage, blurred and indistinct at its centre. One of Mael’s own kin, the Errant suspected, like a piece torn free only to suffer a geas of the Crippled God. Entirely unaware-so far-of the terrible fissures spread like crazed webs through that ice, fissures even now working their way inwards.

Shattered indeed. With intent? No, not this time, but in imagining a place of permanence they chose in error. And no, they could not have known. This… nudge… not mine. Just… dread circumstance.

Does Mael know? Abyss take me, 1 need to speak to him-ah, how 1 recoil at the notion! How much longer can I delay? What rotted commodity would my silence purchase? What meagre reward my warning?