‘What in the Abyss is that?’ Skintick asked.
‘Looks K’Chain Che’Malle,’ Kallor said. ‘But they would offer up no gods, dy shy;ing or otherwise. Now I am curious,’ and so saying he bared his teeth in a smile not directed at anyone present — which was, Nimander decided, a good thing.
‘Aranatha says the entire city is sanctified.’
Kallor glanced over. ‘I once attempted that for an entire empire.’
Skintick snorted. ‘With you as the focus of worship?’
‘Of course.’
‘And it failed?’
Kallor shrugged. ‘Everything fails, eventually.’ And he set out for a closer examination of the ruined machine.
‘Even conversation,’ muttered Skintick. ‘Should we follow him?’
Nimander shook his head. ‘Leave him. If the city is a temple, then there must be an altar — presumably somewhere in the middle.’
‘Nimander, we could well be doing everything they want us to do, especially by bringing Clip to that altar. I think we should find an inn, somewhere to rest up. We can then reconnoitre and see what awaits us.’
He thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Good idea. Lead the way, Skin, see what you can find.’
They continued on down the main street leading from the gate. The tenements looked lifeless, the shops on the ground level empty, abandoned. Glyphs covered every wall and door, spread out from every shuttered window to as far as a hand could reach if someone was leaning out. The writing seemed to record a frenzy of revelation, or madness, or both.
A half-dozen buildings along, Skintick found an inn, closed up like everything else, but he dismounted and approached the courtyard gates. A push swung them wide and Skintick looked back with a smile.
The wagon’s hubs squealed in well-worn grooves in the frame of the gate as Nenanda guided it in. The compound beyond was barely large enough to accommodate a single carriage on its circular lane that went past, first, the stables, and then the front three-stepped entrance to the hostelry. A partly subterranean doorway to the left of the main doors probably led into the taproom. In the centre of the round was a stone-lined well — stuffed solid with bloating corpses.
Skintick’s smile faded upon seeing this detail. Dead maggots ringed the well. ‘Let’s hope,’ he said to Nimander, ‘there’s another pump inside. . drawing from a different source.’
Nenanda had set the brake and he now dropped down, eyeing the bodies. ‘Pre shy;vious guests?’
‘It’s what happens when you don’t pay up.’
Nimander dismounted and shot Skintick a warning look, but his cousin did not notice — or chose not to, for he then continued, ‘Or all the beds were taken. Or some prohibition against drinking anything but kelyk — it clearly doesn’t pay to complain.’
‘Enough,’ said Nimander. ‘Nenanda, can you check the stables — see if there’s feed and clean water. Skintick, let’s you and I head inside.’
A spacious, well-furnished foyer greeted them, with a booth immediately to the right, bridged by a polished counter. The narrow panel door set in its back wall was shut. To the left was a two-sided cloakroom and beside that the sunken entranceway into the taproom. A corridor was directly ahead, leading to rooms, and a steep staircase climbed to the next level where, presumably, more rooms could be found. Heaped on the floor at the foot of the stairs was bedding, most of it rather darkly stained.
‘They stripped the rooms,’ observed Skintick. ‘That was considerate.’
‘You suspect they’ve prepared this place for us?’
‘With bodies in the well and ichor-stained sheets? Probably. It’s reasonable that we would stay on the main street leading in, and this was the first inn we’d reach.’ He paused, looking round. ‘Obviously, there are many ways of readying for guests. Who can fathom human cultures, anyway?’
Outside, Nenanda and the others were unpacking the wagon.
Nimander walked to the taproom entrance and ducked to look inside. Dark, the air thick with the pungent, bittersweet scent of kelyk. He could hear Skintick making his way up the stairs, decided to leave him to it. One step down, on to the sawdust floor. The tables and chairs had all been pushed to one side in a haphazard pile. In the open space left behind the floor was thick with stains and coagulated clumps that reminded Nimander of dung in a stall. Not dung, however he knew that.
He explored behind the bar and found rows of dusty clay bottles and jugs, wine and ale. The beakers that had contained kelyk were scattered on the floor, some of them broken, others still weeping dark fluid.
The outer door swung open and Nenanda stepped inside, one hand on the grip of his sword. A quick look round, then he met Nimander’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Was you I heard, I guess.’
‘The stables?’
