A massive shape shuffled to one side near the far wall. ‘Don’t hurt me. I’m not going back. They’re killing everyone.’
Bugg sighed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
The shape seemed to break apart, and the manservant saw motion, fanning out. At least six new, smaller forms, each low and long. The gleam of reptilian eyes fixed on him from all along the back wall.
‘So that is why you chose this temple,’ Bugg said. ‘Alas, your worshippers are long gone.’
‘You may think so.’ A half-dozen voices now, a whispered chorus. ‘But you are wrong.’
‘Why did you kill that mortal?’
‘He was blocking the doorway.’
‘So, now that you’re here…’
‘I will wait.’
Bugg considered this, and the implications inherent in that statement. He slowly frowned. ‘Very well. But no more killing. Stay in here.’
‘I will agree to that. For now.’
‘Until what you’re waiting for… arrives.’
‘Yes. Then we shall hunt.’
Bugg turned away. ‘That’s what you think,’ he said under his breath.
He reappeared outside the temple. Studied the five terrified faces in the gloom. ‘Spread the word that no-one is to enter that temple.’
‘That’s it? What about the guards? The mages? What about Strong Rall?’
‘Well, if you’re interested in vengeance, I suggest you find a few thousand friends first. There will be a reckoning, eventually.’
The look-out snorted. ‘The Waiting Man wants us to wait.’
Bugg shrugged. ‘The best I can do. To oust this beast, the Ceda himself would have to come down here.’
‘So send for him!’
‘I’m afraid I don’t possess that sort of clout. Go home, all of you.’
Bugg moved past them and made his way down the alley. Things were getting decidedly complicated. And that was never good. He wondered how many more creatures were escaping the barrows. From the Pack’s words, not many. Which was a relief.
Even so, he decided, he’d better see for himself. The rendezvous awaiting him would have to wait a little longer. That would likely earn him an earful, but it couldn’t be helped. The Seventh Closure was shaping up to be eventful. He wondered if that prophecy, of empire reborn, was in some way linked to the death of the Azath tower. He hoped not.
The night was surprisingly quiet. The usual crowds that appeared once the day’s heat was past were virtually absent as Bugg made his way down the length of Quillas Canal. He came within sight of the Eternal Domicile. Well, he reminded himself, at least that had been a success.
The Royal Engineer, aptly named Grum, had been a reluctant, envious deliverer of a royal contract, specifying Bugg’s Construction to assume control of shoring up the compromised wings of the new palace. He had been even less pleased when Bugg ordered the old crews to vacate, taking their equipment with them. Bugg had then spent most of the following day wading flooded tunnels, just to get a feel of the magnitude of the task ahead.
True to Tehol’s prediction, Bugg’s modest company was climbing in the Tolls, frighteningly fast. Since the list of shares was sealed, Bugg had managed to sell four thousand and twenty-two per cent of shares, and still hold a controlling interest. Of course, he’d be headlining the Drownings if the deceit was ever discovered. ‘But I’m prepared to take that risk,’ Tehol had said with a broad smile. Funny man, his master.
Nearing the old palace, then into the wending alleyways and forgotten streets behind it. This part of the city seemed virtually lifeless, no-one venturing outside. Stray dogs paused in their scavenging to watch him pass. Rats scurried from his path.
He reached the wall of the square tower, walked along it until he was at the gateway. A pause, during which he wilfully suppressed his nervousness at entering the grounds. The Azath was dead, after all. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he strode forward.
The barrows to either side were strangely crumpled, but he could see no gaping holes. Yet. He left the path. Insects crunched or squirmed underfoot. The tufts of grass looked macerated and were crawling with life.
Bugg arrived at one barrow where the near side was gone, in its place a black pit across which was the toppled bole of a dead tree. There was the sound of scrabbling from within.
Then Kettle clambered into view. Clumps of white worms writhed in her straggly, matted hair, rode seething on her shoulders. She pulled herself up using a branch of the tree, then paused to brush the worms off, the gesture dainty and oddly affecting. ‘It’s gone,’ she said. ‘Uncle Bugg, this one’s gone.’