Dancer looked to the thick, soot-blackened log rafters above. ‘Change its damned name, would you?’
A crashing footfall announced the entry of the giant, blade readied. Kellanved froze, gaping up at it, as did the nacht in his hands, its arms wrapped round his neck. It seemed to Dancer that both wore the exact same expression of stunned consternation.
The armoured colossus lowered its blade, its shoulders falling, as if in disappointment, then it turned and trudged away down the hall.
Carefully extricating himself from the creature, losing little pawfuls of hair, Kellanved set the beast down on a nearby table. He brushed his hands together. ‘There! Now that that’s settled…’
Dancer threw out his arms. ‘What? What’s settled?’
The little mage just shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’ He peered about the room. ‘Now let’s have a look round.’
‘We are in this house thing then?’ Kellanved nodded absently. ‘I thought it was supposed to be hard to enter.’
‘Oh, it is, I assure you.’
‘But we got in without much trouble.’
Kellanved made a tsking noise. ‘Really? Not much trouble? I’ll have you know the route I brought us on couldn’t be duplicated by anyone alive. We sneaked in, my friend. If you try to force your way in, then yes, it is frankly impossible. But if you come sidling up through darkness and shadow, shift through a number of Warrens and Realms, edging up closer and closer each time, pretending to be part of the darkness, sorting and searching, until, finally, the planes overlap … so to speak…’
Dancer eyed him sidelong. ‘If you say so.’
The mage fiddled with his newly reappeared walking stick, peering about, not meeting Dancer’s steady gaze.
‘Or … it just let us in.’
‘That would rather take away from the magnificence of my achievement, don’t you think?’
Dancer crossed his arms. ‘What did you say to that hound, anyway?’
Kellanved sent him a look, one brow raised. ‘What? Ah! I merely told her that if they cast their lots in with me they would see a great deal of action.’ He waved Dancer onward. ‘You see, it struck me that they must be truly bored sniffing among the sands and ruins and ghosts. With me they’re sure to get out much more.’
Dancer let out a long breath, ruefully shaking his head. ‘In other words, you cut a deal.’
The little mage’s face twisted up, pained. ‘Really, Dancer. Words do mean something, you know. You should take more care in your, ah, casting.’
But Dancer would not stop shaking his head. ‘No. I’m spot on. Don’t you see it? We’re the hounds in this scenario. The House cut us a deal.’
Kellanved had his arms out as if bewildered. ‘I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about. It was only through my pure genius and profound insight into the mysteries of Warren manipulation that I was able to penetrate the hidden interstices, aporia, and lacunae of this structure’s thaumaturgical defences.’
Dancer waved him silent and headed up the hall. ‘Save it for the histories.’
Falling into step with him, Kellanved raised a finger into the air. ‘Histories! Now there’s an idea.’
*
Four days after the night of the Shadow Storm – as everyone was calling it – Tocaras waved Cartheron to the front door of Smiley’s. He gestured outside. ‘Someone here about hiring on.’
Cartheron nodded; he was about to set out for the waterfont anyway. He opened the door to see a tall and lean young Dal Hon lad standing before a small two-wheeled cart; the kind wharf stevedores use to haul awkward loads. It held what looked like a big roll of blankets.
The lad bowed from his waist with an odd sort of formality and stiffness. ‘You work for a mage and his partner? The one who recently had dealings with the place called the Deadhouse?’
Cartheron nodded, rather intrigued. ‘Yes?’
‘I wish to offer my services – in return for a favour.’
‘Well … they’re not here right now…’
‘They have entered that place, as some of the locals say?’
Cartheron nodded again. ‘We think so…’
The lad gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. I will wait. But first I have an errand to run. Is there by chance a temple to Hood within this town?’
Cartheron rubbed his chin, rather bemused. ‘Well … there’s a quarter where you can find all kindsa altars and such, down the way, but maybe not a temple.’
The lad peered down the street. ‘Very good. My name is Dassem, by the way.’
‘Cartheron Crust.’
The fellow took up the long handles of the two-wheeled cart and headed on down the street. Cartheron watched him for a moment, rubbing his chin, still bemused.
The door opened behind him and Hawl peered out, blinking and wincing in the morning light – she still hadn’t fully recovered from whatever trauma had been inflicted on her that night.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, a strange sort of urgency in her tone.
‘Don’t know. Some Dal Hon named Dassem who wants to talk to Kellanved.’
She stared after him, then turned back to the common room, calling, ‘Grinner! Follow that Dal Hon with the cart.’
Grinner rose from his table and ducked out past them. ‘Right.’
Cartheron nodded his farewell to Hawl and ambled off for another day’s work refitting the Twisted.
*
That night, when Cartheron returned to Smiley’s, he was rather surprised to find the Dal Hon fellow sitting at a table in the corner of the common room. He crossed over to where Shrift, Grinner and Nedurian held a table on the opposite side of the room. The rest of the place was empty but for three regulars – drunken sailors all.
He sat down and nodded over to their visitor. He asked, low, ‘So what’s the story on this guy?’
Grinner just shrugged. ‘He pulls his cart over the altar quarters, talks to some people, then drags it to an old place built of fieldstones on the edge of town. There, some old guy comes out and actually bows to our boy here! He puts his bundle inside, leaves his cart there, and comes back here. Been here all day.’
Cartheron grunted, losing interest.
‘How’re the repairs coming?’ Shrift asked.
‘Faster if you’d help out.’
The swordswoman shivered her revulsion. ‘I ain’t goin’ near that thing.’
‘You’ll have to eventually.’
She looked away. ‘I know, I know.’
‘So what now?’ Grinner asked, sending a meaningful glance to their guest.
Cartheron decided he had to eat, even if his brother was cooking. He stood, saying, ‘Nothing. Just keep working,’ and headed for the kitchen.
*
After searching the ‘house’ – which proved remarkably pedestrian in its empty dust-filled chambers and closets – Kellanved headed for the font door. Here, the giant set of oddly designed armour of interlocking iron plates, complete with full helm, stood in an alcove. Rather like a museum display.
Kellanved regarded the thing for some time, peering up, while Dancer waited, impatient. The mage reached out with his walking stick and tapped the battered chestplate. It did not ring hollow; rather, it thumped densely.