their table cleared his throat.
Suspecting another idiot, they parted, ready for trouble, but this man was older, thinner, his hair greying and his face weathered by long returns in the sun. He shot furtive glances to either side and bobbed an apology for interrupting.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhear you. You’re Banned? You’ve come from Syke, from Roviarath?”
The last whispering remnant of booze thrilled out of Triqueta’s blood. She was trembling, and had no idea why.
“What’s it to you?” she snapped.
The man glanced round again, then held something out to them.
“I need help. With something. I found this, I...” He swallowed. “I’ve come south, from Teale. I found this on the edges of the town, and I wondered if you knew... if you knew what it was.”
Teale was a small, northern outpost of Fhaveon, the Varchinde’s Lord city. It offered the capital a harbour, trade of fish and shell and salt and scrimshaw. It also supervised the growth of much of Fhaveon’s terhnwood crop - the quintessential trade- and craft-material that provided the plains with everything from tools to weapons to jewellery.
The man held out a terhnwood belt-blade, the resin cracked and the fibrous centre somehow swelling, splitting its way free. The wooden grip was smoothed, the leather sheath rotted and moss-grown, the stitching tearing. As he put it on to the table, Jayr said, “What the rhez happened to that?”
Triqueta blinked at it, trying to focus.
“Please.” The man was self-conscious, as though worried they’d think he was loco, send him packing with a bloody nose. “You said about trading, about Roviarath, and I thought... I thought you might know about terhnwood, about...” He let the request hang. Triqueta and Jayr exchanged a baffled glance. “Please - can you just look at it?” He extended a hand, pushed the thing towards them like an appeal.
Jayr picked it up, turned it over looking for a craftsman’s mark.
Triqueta said, “Where did you - ?”
“I told you: Teale. There’s disease there, the harvest’s been poor, grass and terhnwood both. There were people who went out to the farmlands, to try and help...” The man was shaking. “I found a... a woman. She was asleep, I think. She was all - I don’t know - overgrown, like the roots had pulled her down. She... was carrying that.”
“What?” Triqueta stared at the shuddering man. “What do you mean?”
He shook his head, wrung his hands one over the other.
“I don’t know. I wanted to find someone who’d help me, who’d understand.”
“This is messed right up.” Jayr had taken the little blade from its sheath and was holding it up to the dirty moonlight that filtered through the shutters, turning it this way and that. “You ever seen terhnwood do this?”
The man shrugged, helpless to explain. “I only found it, I don’t know what it means.”
“Nope,” Triqueta said. There was an odd shiver in her skin. She eyed the blade for a moment, then said, with a crawl of nervousness, “It’s craftmarked.”
Jayr glanced at the mark and shook her head. The man looked from one face to the other and shrugged, wordlessly pleading.
“Not a clue,” Jayr said. “But whatever it is, I’m betting Nivvy can tell us the full story.”
* * *
Roderick the Bard had once described Amos to Ecko as the “City of Darkness”.
Hell, every fantasyscape had to have one.
This one, though, wasn’t populated by a load of Gothic architecture and tentacled dominatrices in unlikely armour. Like Vanksraat, like Roviarath, the other cities he’d seen, Amos was a seethe of muck and noise and people and poverty, ludicrously tiny compared to the vast conurbations of home.
Now Ecko was here, though, walking the city’s streets and looking up at her above him, he found that she’d grown and swallowed him whole, sucked him down into the warm and dirty closeness of her belly.
Amos was the closest thing he’d seen to proper urban
Suspecting another idiot, they parted, ready for trouble, but this man was older, thinner, his hair greying and his face weathered by long returns in the sun. He shot furtive glances to either side and bobbed an apology for interrupting.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhear you. You’re Banned? You’ve come from Syke, from Roviarath?”
The last whispering remnant of booze thrilled out of Triqueta’s blood. She was trembling, and had no idea why.
“What’s it to you?” she snapped.
The man glanced round again, then held something out to them.
“I need help. With something. I found this, I...” He swallowed. “I’ve come south, from Teale. I found this on the edges of the town, and I wondered if you knew... if you knew what it was.”
Teale was a small, northern outpost of Fhaveon, the Varchinde’s Lord city. It offered the capital a harbour, trade of fish and shell and salt and scrimshaw. It also supervised the growth of much of Fhaveon’s terhnwood crop - the quintessential trade- and craft-material that provided the plains with everything from tools to weapons to jewellery.
The man held out a terhnwood belt-blade, the resin cracked and the fibrous centre somehow swelling, splitting its way free. The wooden grip was smoothed, the leather sheath rotted and moss-grown, the stitching tearing. As he put it on to the table, Jayr said, “What the rhez happened to that?”
Triqueta blinked at it, trying to focus.
“Please.” The man was self-conscious, as though worried they’d think he was loco, send him packing with a bloody nose. “You said about trading, about Roviarath, and I thought... I thought you might know about terhnwood, about...” He let the request hang. Triqueta and Jayr exchanged a baffled glance. “Please - can you just look at it?” He extended a hand, pushed the thing towards them like an appeal.
Jayr picked it up, turned it over looking for a craftsman’s mark.
Triqueta said, “Where did you - ?”
“I told you: Teale. There’s disease there, the harvest’s been poor, grass and terhnwood both. There were people who went out to the farmlands, to try and help...” The man was shaking. “I found a... a woman. She was asleep, I think. She was all - I don’t know - overgrown, like the roots had pulled her down. She... was carrying that.”
“What?” Triqueta stared at the shuddering man. “What do you mean?”
He shook his head, wrung his hands one over the other.
“I don’t know. I wanted to find someone who’d help me, who’d understand.”
“This is messed right up.” Jayr had taken the little blade from its sheath and was holding it up to the dirty moonlight that filtered through the shutters, turning it this way and that. “You ever seen terhnwood do this?”
The man shrugged, helpless to explain. “I only found it, I don’t know what it means.”
“Nope,” Triqueta said. There was an odd shiver in her skin. She eyed the blade for a moment, then said, with a crawl of nervousness, “It’s craftmarked.”
Jayr glanced at the mark and shook her head. The man looked from one face to the other and shrugged, wordlessly pleading.
“Not a clue,” Jayr said. “But whatever it is, I’m betting Nivvy can tell us the full story.”
* * *
Roderick the Bard had once described Amos to Ecko as the “City of Darkness”.
Hell, every fantasyscape had to have one.
This one, though, wasn’t populated by a load of Gothic architecture and tentacled dominatrices in unlikely armour. Like Vanksraat, like Roviarath, the other cities he’d seen, Amos was a seethe of muck and noise and people and poverty, ludicrously tiny compared to the vast conurbations of home.
Now Ecko was here, though, walking the city’s streets and looking up at her above him, he found that she’d grown and swallowed him whole, sucked him down into the warm and dirty closeness of her belly.
Amos was the closest thing he’d seen to proper urban
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