The air smelled of marble dust and paint. The ceremonial investiture was three days away, when King Ezgara Diskanar in his robes of state would stride down the length of the Royal Colonnade and enter the throne room, his queen a step behind on his left, his son the prince two paces back and immediately behind his father. Or, rather, that was how it should have been.
A trail of servants and guards had led Brys here, following the seemingly random wanderings of Ceda Kuru Qan. The strange emptiness of the Eternal Domicile on this last stretch unnerved the Finadd, his boots echoing on the unadorned flagstones as he entered the reception chamber.
To find the Ceda on his hands and knees directly in front of him.
Kuru Qan was muttering to himself, tracing his fingertips along the joins in the floor. Beside him was a tattered, paint-spattered basket crowded with scribers, brushes and stoppered jars of pigments.
‘Ceda?’
The old man looked up, squinting over the tops of the lenses, the contraption having slid down to the end of his nose. ‘Brys Beddict? I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.’
‘In the throne room. The old throne room, where still resides our king. The surviving battalions and brigades are converging to the defence of Letheras. Things have been rather… hectic’
‘No doubt. Relevant? Significantly so. Indeed, telling. Now, count the flagstones across this chamber. Width, then length, if you will.’
‘What? Ceda, the king is asking for you.’
But Kuru Qan had ceased listening. He had begun crawling about, mumbling, brushing away the grit left behind by the builders.
Brys was motionless for a moment, considering, then he began counting flagstones.
After he was done, he returned to the Ceda’s side. Kuru Qan was simply sitting now, appearing wholly consumed in the cleaning of his lenses. Without looking up, he began speaking, ‘Battalions and brigades. Yes, most certainly. Assembling in the hills surrounding Brans
Keep. Useful? The last of my mages. Tell me the centre flagstone, Brys. Will Merchants’ Battalion remain in the city? I think not. It shall be cast upon those hills. All of it. The centre, Brys Beddict?’
‘The one before you, Ceda.’
‘Ah yes. Good. Very good. And what armies are left to us? How fare the fleets? Oh, the seas are unwelcoming, are they not? Best stay away. Dracons Sea, at the very least, although the protectorates are making noises. Korshenn, Pilott, Descent – they think they see their chance.’
Brys cleared his throat. ‘The Artisan Battalion has left the Manse and is marching to Five Points. Riven Brigade withdrew from Old Katter with minimal losses. Snakebelt Battalion has departed Awl, and the Crimson Rampant Brigade has left Tulamesh – the north coast cities have been yielded. Dresh was taken last night, the garrison slaughtered. Whitefinder Battalion are razing the ground on their retreat from First Reach and should be at Brans Keep soon. Preda Unnutal Hebaz will lead the Merchants’ Battalion from the city in three days’ time. It is anticipated, Ceda, that you will be accompanying her.’
‘Accompanying? Nonsense, I am far too busy. Too busy. So many things left to do. She shall have my mages. Yes, my mages.’
‘There are only fourteen remaining, Ceda.’
‘Fourteen? Relevant? I must needs think on that.’
Brys studied Kuru Qan, his old friend, and struggled against waves of pity. ‘How long, Ceda, do you plan on remaining here, on the floor?’
‘It is no easy thing, Finadd, not at all. I fear I have waited too long as it is. But we shall see.’
‘When can the king expect you?’
‘Alas, we do not know what to expect, do we? Barring a few salient truths so painfully gleaned from the chaos. The Seventh Closure, ah, there is nothing good to this turn of events. You must go, now. Care for your brother, Brys. Care for him.’
‘Which one?’
Kuru Qan was cleaning his lenses again, and made no reply.
Brys swung about and strode towards the doors.
The Ceda spoke behind him. ‘Finadd. Whatever you do, don’t kill him.’
He halted and glanced back. ‘Who?’
‘Don’t kill him. You must not kill him. Now, go. Go, Finadd.’
So many alleys in Letheras never knew the light of day. Narrow, with various balconies, ledges and projections forming makeshift roofs, the corridors beneath were twisted and choked with refuse, a realm of rats, slipper-beetles and spiders. And the occasional undead.
Shurq Elalle stood in the gloom, as she had stood most of the previous night. Waiting. The street beyond had wakened with the day, although the crowds were markedly more furtive and tense than was usual. There had been a riot near the West Gate two nights past, brutally quelled by soldiers of the Merchants’ Battalion. Curfews had been enforced, and it had been finally noted that the low castes seemed to have virtually vanished from the city, cause for confusion and a vague unease.
