Orb Sceptre Throne by Ian C. Esslemont

Author:Ian C. Esslemont
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy, Azizex666, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9780765329998
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2012-02-20T05:00:00+00:00

*

‘I’m tellin’ ya it’s some kinda foundation … but for what I got no idea.’ Spindle sat back in his chair and frowned his confusion. ‘Seems too flimsy for a wall.’

At the table Picker sent a glance to the historian, Duiker. The man was unaware of her regard, his thoughts obviously distant as he pursued the problem. Good. May it rouse the man even further. ‘Guards?’ she asked Spindle.

‘Hardly any. City Wardens, that’s it.’ The mage drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Naw, it’s them mages you gotta watch for. Plenty scary, them. Remind me of the Old Guard cadre, Hairlock and Sister Chill.’ He rubbed a hand over his greasy shirt. ‘You know, I swear one had me cold to rights. But damned if he didn’t let me go.’

‘Which?’ the old man asked.

‘The tall one – scholarly look to him.’

The historian grunted, returned to studying the tabletop.

‘There’s more than them to worry about,’ the bard, Fisher, said from the bar.

Picker cocked a brow. ‘Oh?’

‘Sadly, Envy supports this Legate.’

Blend, behind the bar, let out a long drawn-out ‘Damn …’ The front door opened and a customer entered. Blend sent a cursory glance over then froze, her eyes bulging. ‘Look out!’ she bellowed and disappeared behind the bar.

Fisher just stared his puzzlement.

Picker knocked over the table to duck behind. Spindle threw himself into a booth. The historian remained in his chair. He eyed the newcomer first with surprise, then distaste. He raised a hand for a halt. ‘He came in the front door, Blend,’ he called.

Blend straightened from behind the bar, a cocked crossbow trained on the man at the door. ‘You’ve got some nerve showing yourself here, y’damned snake.’

The tall fellow held up both gloved hands. ‘Now, now. I come in peace.’

Spindle emerged, hand on the shortsword at his side. ‘What d’ya want?’

‘Just a chat. Let us sit down together over drinks. Reminisce and tell lies of the old days.’

‘I’d rather fall into a privy,’ Picker said, standing, twin long-knives out.

‘Who’s this?’ Fisher asked Blend.

‘Topper. Clawmaster. The Empire’s found us.’

Topper looked to the ceiling. ‘We never lost track of you, Blend.’

‘Everyone relax,’ Duiker said. ‘If Mallick wanted your heads he wouldn’t send this one.’

Topper squinted, edging forward. ‘Do my eyes deceive me? Not Imperial Historian Duiker?’

‘Ex.’

Blend raised her crossbow, pulled out the bolt. Picker sheathed her long-knives and righted the table. ‘What’re you after?’ she grumbled.

‘We have a common enemy.’

Blend, Picker and Spindle shared quick looks, then Picker snorted, ‘No, we don’t.’

Topper pulled a chair to the table. He undid his dark green silk-lined cloak and hung it over the back, then sat. The shirt beneath was a fine satiny forest green. He drew off his gloves and peered round innocently at everyone. ‘A drink, perhaps?’

Blend drew a pint from the bar and ambled over. ‘Whatever you’re sellin’ we don’t want any,’ she growled.

The Clawmaster took the earthenware pint and sipped. He made a face. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ Spindle started up from the table and Picker flinched. Topper raised a placating hand.

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