office.
'He doesn't keep much actual coin here,' Harlest said. 'Mostly writs of holding. He spreads his wealth around to protect it.'
'Very wise. Where is his seal?'
'On the desk.'
'Very unwise. Do me a favour and start collecting those writs.' She walked over to the desk and gathered up the heavy, ornate seal and the thick sheets of wax piled beside it. 'This wax is an exclusive colour?'
'Oh yes. He paid plenty for that.' Harlest had gone to a wall and was removing a large tapestry behind which was an inset cabinet. He disengaged a number of tripwires, then swung open the small door. Within were stacks of scrolls and a small jewelled box.
'What's in the box?' Shurq asked.
Harlest lifted it out and tossed it to Shurq. 'His cash. Like I said, he never keeps much around.'
She examined the clasp. Satisfied that it wasn't booby-trapped, she slid it to one side and tipped back the lid. 'Not much? Harlest, this is full of diamonds.'
The man, his arms loaded with scrolls, walked over. 'It is?'
'He's called in a few of his holdings, I think.'
'He must have. I wonder why?'
'To use it,' she replied, 'for something very expensive. Oh well, he'll just have to go without.'
'Gerun will be so angry,' Harlest said, shaking his head. 'He will go mad. He'll start hunting us down, and he won't stop until he finds us.'
'And then what? Torture? We don't feel pain. Kill us? We're already dead—'
'He'll take his money back—'
'He can't if it doesn't exist any more.'
Harlest frowned.
Smiling, Shurq closed the box and reset the clasp. 'It's not like you and I have any use for it, is it? No, this is the equivalent of tossing Gerun off the balcony or down the stairs, only financially rather than physically.'
'Well, he is my brother.'
'Who murdered you and wouldn't even leave it at that.'
'That's true.'
'So, we're heading out via the balcony. I have a companion who is about to begin another diversion. Are you with me, Harlest?'
'Can I still get the fangs?'
'I promise.'
'Okay, let's go.'
It was nearing dawn, and the ground steamed. Kettle sat on a humped root and watched a single trailing leg slowly edge its way into the mulch. The man had lost a boot in the struggle, and she watched his toes twitch a moment before they were swallowed up in the dark earth.
He'd fought hard, but with his lower jaw torn off and his throat filling with blood, it hadn't lasted long. Kettle licked her fingers.
It was good that the tree was still hungry.
The bad ones had begun a hunt beneath the ground, clawing and slithering and killing whatever was weak. Soon there would be a handful left, but these would be the worst ones. And then they would come out.
She was not looking forward to that. And this night, she'd had a hard time finding a victim in the streets, someone with unpleasant thoughts who was where he didn't belong for reasons that weren't nice.
It had been getting harder, she realized. She leaned back and pushed her stained fingers through her filthy hair, wondering where all the criminals and spies had disappeared to. It was strange, and troubling.
And her friend, the one buried beneath the oldest tree, he'd told her he was trapped. He couldn't go any further, even with her assistance. But help was on the way, although he wasn't certain it would arrive in time.
She thought about that man, Tehol, who had come by last night to talk. He seemed nice enough. She hoped he would visit again. Maybe he'd know what to do – she swung round on the root and stared up at the square tower – yes, maybe he'd know what to do, now that the tower was dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Faded sails ride the horizon
So far and far away to dwindle
The dire script
Writ on that proven canvas.
I know the words belong to me
They belong to me
These tracks left by the beast
Of my presence
Then, before and now, later
And all the moments between
Those distant sails driven
Hard on senseless winds
That even now circle
My stone-hearted self
The grit of tears I never shed
Biting my eyes.
Faded sails hovering as if lifted
Above the world's curved line
And I am lost and lost to answer
If they approach or flee
Approach or flee unbidden times
In that belly swollen
With unheard screams so far
And far and so far and away.
This Blind
Longing Isbarath (of the Shore)
Drawn to the shoreline, as if among the host of unwritten truths in a mortal soul could be found a recognition of what it meant to stand on