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Authors: Ian C. Esslemont
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your mother.’
The girl’s coquettish gaze hardened. ‘Never mention her to me, Aman.’ She peered up from half-lidded eyes. ‘Anyone, you say? But not you, of course.’
Aman shook a bent finger. ‘You
are
learning.’
She made a face, then indicated the carved fragment. ‘Is this thing really as valuable as you say?’
He raised it between them, his gaze holding her eyes. ‘Ahh … beautiful, yes? Slender, striking. A magnificent specimen. On the outside. But within, flawed. Worthless. A piece of useless trash.’ He crushed it in his hand.
The girl flinched away as if slapped, bumping something in the dark. Her full lips tightened to a pale slash and a molten light blazed within her eyes. The man studied her quite calmly, his head cocked, fingertips lightly touching together. The golden light faded from her eyes as she stood quivering in suppressed rage. She drew a snarling breath and raised her chin in defiance. ‘You are
quite
finished, I hope?’
He bowed. ‘Quite.’
‘And what is this monstrosity?’ she demanded, waving at the tall figure she’d struck.
Aman raised the lamp, revealing an armoured statue. The light reflected green and blue from an inlay of semi-precious stones. ‘Magnificent, is it not? From distant Jacuruku. One of their stone soldiers.’
She peered closer in an almost professional evaluation. ‘An automaton?’
‘Not …
quite
.’ He set the lamp on the counter. ‘In any case, m’lady, since you have returned, I suggest you make yourself useful and shadow our friend. Nothing untoward must happen to him. Be ready to intervene. He is close, Taya. Very close.’
‘Why him? Why don’t you go down?’
The man did nothing to hide the condescension in his answering chuckle. ‘My dear. You are most diverting. The countless protections, wards and conditions imposed by my erstwhile allies are most exacting. Almost without openings. Only those who do not seek may pass. They must be innocent of bloodshed, possess no lust for personal gain … the conditions go on and on. Mammotlian contrived them. And so, since Mammotlian, a scholar, built the tomb, perhaps only a fellow like-minded spirit may possess the instincts to follow. If you see my reasoning.’
‘And should he fail – like all the others?’
A crooked shrug from the man. ‘Well, they’re nearly out of floor space down there, aren’t they?’
Her eyes constricted to slits and she tilted her head, unsure of his meaning.
On the street of the whitesmiths in the Gadrobi district, Barathol Mekhar inspected his latest consignment of iron ore. It was of unusually good quality. There was a useful variation of softness and brittleness within the clumps. He closed the box and went to the forge, held a hand over the bed of coals. Still needed more time. He left the shop to cross a small open court to the rear of his row-house. Dusting his hands, he climbed the narrow stairs to his rooms above. Dawn was just brightening the sky outside the shuttered windows. For a time he stood next to the bed where his wife Scillara still slept. Then he went to the other side of the bed to the tiny crib fashioned by his own hands. Kneeling, he studied the infant within, curled and plump.
Never had he imagined such a treasure would be his. It seemed too defenceless for the world. Too tenuous. Its fragility terrified him. He feared even to touch it with his coarse blackened hands. He did however gently ease one into the crib to let the child’s quick hot breath warm those fingers.
Smiling, he rose to see Scillara watching him. ‘Not run off yet, I see,’ she said, stretching.
‘Not yet.’
‘Not even with a squalling brat and a fat wife?’
‘I guess I must have done something terrible in a prior life.’
‘Musta been pretty damned awful.’ She looked about as if searching for something. ‘Gods, I miss my pipe.’
‘You’ll live.’
She pointed to the door. ‘Throw me my gown. Don’t you have work to do? Money to
The girl’s coquettish gaze hardened. ‘Never mention her to me, Aman.’ She peered up from half-lidded eyes. ‘Anyone, you say? But not you, of course.’
Aman shook a bent finger. ‘You
are
learning.’
She made a face, then indicated the carved fragment. ‘Is this thing really as valuable as you say?’
He raised it between them, his gaze holding her eyes. ‘Ahh … beautiful, yes? Slender, striking. A magnificent specimen. On the outside. But within, flawed. Worthless. A piece of useless trash.’ He crushed it in his hand.
The girl flinched away as if slapped, bumping something in the dark. Her full lips tightened to a pale slash and a molten light blazed within her eyes. The man studied her quite calmly, his head cocked, fingertips lightly touching together. The golden light faded from her eyes as she stood quivering in suppressed rage. She drew a snarling breath and raised her chin in defiance. ‘You are
quite
finished, I hope?’
He bowed. ‘Quite.’
‘And what is this monstrosity?’ she demanded, waving at the tall figure she’d struck.
Aman raised the lamp, revealing an armoured statue. The light reflected green and blue from an inlay of semi-precious stones. ‘Magnificent, is it not? From distant Jacuruku. One of their stone soldiers.’
She peered closer in an almost professional evaluation. ‘An automaton?’
‘Not …
quite
.’ He set the lamp on the counter. ‘In any case, m’lady, since you have returned, I suggest you make yourself useful and shadow our friend. Nothing untoward must happen to him. Be ready to intervene. He is close, Taya. Very close.’
‘Why him? Why don’t you go down?’
The man did nothing to hide the condescension in his answering chuckle. ‘My dear. You are most diverting. The countless protections, wards and conditions imposed by my erstwhile allies are most exacting. Almost without openings. Only those who do not seek may pass. They must be innocent of bloodshed, possess no lust for personal gain … the conditions go on and on. Mammotlian contrived them. And so, since Mammotlian, a scholar, built the tomb, perhaps only a fellow like-minded spirit may possess the instincts to follow. If you see my reasoning.’
‘And should he fail – like all the others?’
A crooked shrug from the man. ‘Well, they’re nearly out of floor space down there, aren’t they?’
Her eyes constricted to slits and she tilted her head, unsure of his meaning.
On the street of the whitesmiths in the Gadrobi district, Barathol Mekhar inspected his latest consignment of iron ore. It was of unusually good quality. There was a useful variation of softness and brittleness within the clumps. He closed the box and went to the forge, held a hand over the bed of coals. Still needed more time. He left the shop to cross a small open court to the rear of his row-house. Dusting his hands, he climbed the narrow stairs to his rooms above. Dawn was just brightening the sky outside the shuttered windows. For a time he stood next to the bed where his wife Scillara still slept. Then he went to the other side of the bed to the tiny crib fashioned by his own hands. Kneeling, he studied the infant within, curled and plump.
Never had he imagined such a treasure would be his. It seemed too defenceless for the world. Too tenuous. Its fragility terrified him. He feared even to touch it with his coarse blackened hands. He did however gently ease one into the crib to let the child’s quick hot breath warm those fingers.
Smiling, he rose to see Scillara watching him. ‘Not run off yet, I see,’ she said, stretching.
‘Not yet.’
‘Not even with a squalling brat and a fat wife?’
‘I guess I must have done something terrible in a prior life.’
‘Musta been pretty damned awful.’ She looked about as if searching for something. ‘Gods, I miss my pipe.’
‘You’ll live.’
She pointed to the door. ‘Throw me my gown. Don’t you have work to do? Money to
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