A woman was staggering from the water. Tall, black-skinned, naked, long red hair.
And the Meckros turned round, strode away.
‘You bastard-’
The Crippled God replied in mock consternation, Is this not what you want? Is she too tall for you? Her eyes too strange? Withal, I do not understand …
‘How could you have done this? Take possession, you said. It’s all you know, isn’t it? Possession. Things to be used. People. Lives.’
She needs your help, Withal. She is lost, alarmed by the Nachts. Slow to recall her flesh.
‘Later. Leave me alone, now. Leave us both alone.’
A soft laugh, then a cough. As you wish. Disappointing, this lack of gratitude .
‘Go to the Abyss.’
No reply.
Withal entered the hut, stood facing the cot for a time, until he was certain that the Crippled God was not lurking somewhere in his skull. Then he lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head.
He hated religion. Detested gods. But the nest was empty. The nest needed tearing apart. Rebuilding.
The Meckros had a host of gods for the choosing. But one was older than all the others, and that one belonged to the sea.
Withal began to pray.
In Mael’s name.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
None had seen the like. Chorum’s Mill was a Marvel of invention. Wheels upon wheels, Granite and interlocking gears, axles and Spokes and rims of iron, a machine that climbed From that fast river three full levels and ground The finest flour Lether had ever seen – Some say it was the rain, the deluge that filled The water’s course through the mill’s stony toes. Some say it was the sheer complexity that was The cause of it all, the conceit of a mortal man’s Vision. Some say it was the Errant’s nudge, fickle And wayward that voiced the sudden roar that dawn, The explosions of stone and the shrieks of iron, And the vast wheels breaking free and bursting Through the thick walls, and the washing women Downstream the foam at their thighs looked up To see their granite doom rolling down – Not a wrinkle left, not a stain survived, and old Misker, perched on Ribble the Mule, well the mule Knew its place as it bolted and leapt head-first Down the well, but poor old Misker hugged the Draw pail on its rope and so swung clear, to Skin his knees on the round’s cobbles and swear Loud, the boisterous breath preceding the fateful Descent of toothy death the gear wheel, tall as any Man but far taller than Misker (even perched on His mule) and that would not be hard once it was Done with him, why the rat – oh, did I forget to Mention the rat?
Excerpt from The Rat’s Tail (the cause of it all) Chant Prip
STUMBLING IN THE GLOOM, THE DRUNK HAD FALLEN INTO THE CANAL. Tehol had mostly lost sight of him from his position at the edge of the roof, but he could hear splashing and curses, and the scrabbling against the rings set in the stone wall.
Sighing, Tehol glanced over at the nameless guard Brys had sent. Or one of them, at least. The three brothers looked pretty much identical, and none had given their names. Nothing outward or obvious to impress or inspire fear. And, by the unwavering cast of their lipless, eye-slitted expressions, sadly unqualified as welcome company.
‘Can your friends tell you apart?’ Tehol enquired, then frowned. ‘What a strange question to ask of a man. But you must be used to strange questions, since people will assume you were somewhere when you weren’t, or, rather, not you, but the other yous, each of whom could be anywhere. It now occurs to me that saying nothing is a fine method for dealing with such confusion, to which each of you have agreed to as the proper response, unless you are the same amongst yourselves, in which case it was a silent agreement. Always the best kind.’
The drunk, far below, was climbing from the canal, swearing in more languages than Tehol believed existed. ‘Will you listen to that? Atrocious. To hear such no doubt foul words uttered with such vehemence – hold on, that’s no drunk, that my manservant!’ Tehol waved and shouted, ‘Bugg! What are you doing down there? Is this what I pay you for?’
The sodden manservant was looking upward, and he yelled something back that Tehol could not make out. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘You – don’t – pay – me!’
‘Oh, tell everyone, why don’t you!’
Tehol watched as Bugg made his way to the bridge and crossed, then disappeared from view behind the nearby buildings. ‘How embarrassing. Time’s come for a serious talk with dear old Bugg.’
Sounds from below, more cursing. Then creaking from the ladder.
Bugg’s mud-smeared head and face rose into view.
‘Now,’ Tehol said, hands on hips, ‘I’m sure I sent you off to do something important, and what do you do? Go falling into the canal. Was that on the list of tasks? I think not.’