Deadhouse Gates

'The Jhag,' Pust hissed from where he knelt a few paces from Mappo and Icarium. 'I saw you crushing him in your arms – is he dead?'



The Trell shook his head. 'Unconscious. I don't think he'll awaken for some time—'



'Then let the Azath take him! Now! We are within Tremorlor. Our need for him has ended!'



'No.'



'Fool!'



A bell clanged somewhere outside. They all looked at each other in disbelief.



'Did we hear that?' Fiddler wondered. 'A merchant's bell?'



'Why a merchant?' Pust growled, eyes darting suspiciously.



But Crokus was nodding. 'A merchant's bell. In Darujhistan, that is.'



The sapper went to the door. From within, the latch moved smoothly under his hand, and he swung the door back.



Thin sheets of tangled root now rose from the yard, towering over the House itself in a clash of angles and planes. Humped earth steamed on all sides. Waiting just outside the arched gate were three huge, ornate carriages, each drawn by nine white horses. A roundish figure stood beneath the arch, wearing silks. The figure raised a hand towards Fiddler and called out in Daru, 'Alas, I can go no farther! I assure you, all is calm out here. I seek the one named Fiddler.'



'Why?' the sapper barked.



'I deliver a gift. Gathered in great haste and at vast expense, I might add. I suggest we complete the transaction as quickly as possible, all things considered.'



Crokus now stood beside Fiddler. The Daru was frowning at the carriages. 'I know the maker of those,' he said quietly. 'Bernuk's, just back of Lakefront. But I've never seen them that big before – gods, I've been away too long.'



Fiddler sighed. 'Darujhistan.'



'I'm certain of it,' Crokus said, shaking his head.



Fiddler stepped outside and studied the surroundings. Things seemed, as the merchant had said, calm. Quiescent. Still uneasy, the sapper made his way down the path. He halted two paces from the archway and eyed the merchant warily.



'Karpolan Demesand, sir, of the Trygalle Trade Guild, and this is a run that I and my shareholders shall never regret, yet hope never to repeat.' The man's exhaustion was very evident, and his silks hung soaked in sweat. He gestured and an armoured woman with a deathly pale face stepped past him, carrying a small crate. Karpolan continued, 'Compliments of a certain mage of the Bridgeburners, who was advised – in timely fashion – of your situation in a general way, by the corporal you share.'



Fiddler accepted the box, now grinning. 'The efforts of this delivery surpass me, sir,' he said.



'Me as well, I assure you. Now we must flee – ah, a rude bluntness – I meant “depart”, of course. We must depart.' He sighed, looking around. 'Forgive me, I am weary, beyond even achieving the expected courtesies of civil discourse.'



'No need for apologies,' Fiddler said. 'While I have no idea how you got here and no idea how you'll get back to Darujhistan, I wish you a safe and swift journey. One last question, however: did the mage say anything about where the contents of this crate came from?'



'Oh, indeed he did, sir. From the Blue City's streets. An obscure reference you are clearly fortunate to understand in an instant, I see.'



'Did the mage give you any warning as to the handling of this package, Karpolan?'



The merchant grimaced. 'He said we were not to jostle too much. However, this last stretch of our journey was somewhat ... rough. I regret to say that some of the crate's contents may well be broken.'



Fiddler smiled. 'I am pleased to inform you that they have survived.'



Karpolan Demesand frowned. 'You have not yet examined the contents – how can you tell?'



'You'll just have to trust me on that one, sir.'



Crokus closed the door once Fiddler had carried the crate inside. The sapper gingerly set the container down and prised open the lid. 'Ah, Quick Ben,' he whispered, eyes scanning the objects nestled within, 'one day I shall raise a temple in your name.' He counted seven cussers, thirteen masonry crackers and four flamers.



'But how did that merchant get here?' Crokus asked. 'From Darujhistan! Hood's breath, Fid!'



'Don't I know it.' He straightened, glanced at the others. 'I'm feeling good, comrades. Very good indeed.'



'Optimism!' Pust snarled in a tone close to bursting with disgust. The High Priest yanked at the wispy remnants of his hair. 'While that foul monkey pisses terror into the lad's lap! Optimism!'