Blood and Bone

CHAPTER II

The first significant attack upon the army came on the fourth night of the march through the border region of jagged limestone mounts, sheer cliffs and sudden precipitous sinkholes, the Gangreks. Golan had fallen asleep at his travelling desk. Long into the night he’d been reading U-Pre’s disheartening progress reports while the candles burned out one by one around him. Screams and shouts from the edge of camp snapped his head from among the sheets of cheap pressed fibre pages. The candles had all guttered out. Wrapping his robes about himself, he stepped out of the tent and met the messenger sent to bring him word of the disturbance. He waved the man silent and set off.

His yakshaka bodyguard fell in about him, swords drawn, and Golan sourly reflected that this was hardly where their swords were needed. Still, they were not to be blamed. It was not their job to patrol the camp perimeter. He found most of the troops and labourers up and awake. They murmured among themselves and strained to peer to the south. The whispers died away as Golan and his escort passed. He felt the pressure of countless eyes following him from the dark, all glittering as they reflected the dancing flames of the camp torches. He recognized the gathering panic fed by the darkness and their destination — a smothering animal coiling itself about everyone.

The south was a trampled battleground of torn tents, overturned carts, slaughtered men and animals. The butchery appeared indiscriminate, savage. Corpses lay where they had fallen, sprawled, revealing hideous wounds, and Golan gritted his teeth. Where was U-Pre? He expected better than this of the man. Droplets of blood and other fluids spattered the grasses and slashed canvas. Here and there limbs lay completely torn from torsos. He studied the corpse of a labourer eviscerated by a ragged gash across his stomach. Blue and pink-veined intestines lay thrown like uncoiled rope. Someone wearing sandals had walked across them. As reported: a fanged monstrosity emerging from the forest to rend men limb from limb. What else but an opening move from Ardata?

He sighed, and, chilled by the cool night air, slid his hands up the wide silk sleeves of his robe. Thankfully, a cordon of troopers had been organized and these, with spears sideways, held back the curious.

Yet even so, stamped on the faces of those survivors, in their wide staring eyes and sweaty pallid features, lay their obvious terror and near panic. Must separate these from the rest; such fear is contagious and grows in the recounting.

Walking unconcerned through the muck and steaming spilled viscera came the equally fearsome apparition of the Isturé Skinner himself. His ankle-length armoured coat glimmered like mail, though Golan knew it was actually constructed of smooth interlocking scales. As he stepped over the sprawled corpses his coat dragged across staring faces and slashed wet torsos. It shone enamelled black except where spattered fresh gore painted it a deep crimson.

‘And where were you and your people during the attack?’ Golan demanded.

‘Elsewhere,’ the foreigner responded, unconcerned. He clasped his gauntleted hands behind his back to study the field of dead. Golan strove to shrug off a feeling of unease at such a blasé attitude to this bloody business. ‘Well … now that you are here it is time you were useful.’

The foreigner, so tall as to literally tower over Golan, cocked a blond brow. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Track down this servant of Ardata. Slaughter it.’

In a scratching of scales Skinner crossed his armoured arms. ‘It is hardly a servant of Ardata.’

Golan waved a hand, forgetting momentarily that he wasn’t carrying his rod or fly-whisk. ‘What more evidence is necessary? It is a monster! It attacked us! We are entering Ardata’s demesnes!’

‘I would suggest that what we have entered is this thing’s hunting grounds.’

Golan eyed the man more narrowly. ‘Regardless. You have pledged certain obligations to the Circle of Masters.’

The foreign giant waved a hand in its banded, articulating gauntlet. ‘Yes, yes. You have in me a partner for the campaign.’

‘Very good. Your first task awaits.’

Turning heavily away, the foreigner murmured, ‘For all the good it will do …’

Golan followed his retreat to the dark forest verge. All the good? Well, yes, Ardata’s servants are no doubt many. But that is your half of the bargain, foreigner. The throne of Ardata’s lands could hardly be won so easily. And if you should destroy each other in the process … well … Golan shrugged, then waved away a swarm of flies drawn by the spilt warm fluids.

In the woods Mara awaited Skinner. With her stood Shijel and Black the Lesser, younger brother of Black the Greater, who had remained with K’azz. ‘Well?’ she demanded as her commander appeared.

Skinner gave a slow shrug of disgust. ‘Our noble ally wants it killed.’

‘Ridiculous! In a few days we’ll be out of its territory.’

‘Regardless …’

Mara kicked the ground. ‘Damned useless …’

‘Who’s coming?’ Black asked.

Skinner studied them. ‘We should do it. Mara, tell Jacinth she’s in charge until we return.’

‘Very good.’

‘The trail?’ Skinner asked Shijel.

‘A blind tinker could follow it.’

‘So be it. Let us track it down. I’d like to be back by dawn.’

Shijel did the tracking. He wore light leathers and gloves on his hands, which were never far from the silver-wire-wrapped grips of his twin longswords. The trail, obvious even to Mara, led them on. The nightly rains returned, thick and warm. Mara’s robes became a heavy encumbrance that she cursed as she stumbled over roots and through clinging mud. The possibility of returning by dawn slowly slid away as they failed to reach the creature’s lair until a feathering of pink touched the eastern sky. The four gathered short of a jungle-choked opening in a tall cliff face and Mara cursed again. ‘Could go on for ever,’ she muttered, keeping her voice low.

Their commander pulled on one of the hanging vines as if testing its strength. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I do miss Cowl.’

Mara flinched at that mention of her old superior, now dead. ‘Meaning what?’ she demanded.

Skinner turned to her, frowned his puzzlement, and then nodded his understanding. ‘Ah. No slight intended.’ He drew on his helm. ‘I simply meant that I could just have sent him in and wouldn’t have to go myself.’ He waved them on.

Mara followed, stepping awkwardly over rotting logs and fallen rock. Well, there was that, she admitted. Cowl would actually have gone in alone. And no doubt Skinner did miss his old partner in scheming. Together they’d proved a formidable team. Always it had been just the two of them hammering out stratagems and tactics. Now that Cowl was gone Skinner was well and truly utterly alone. And it seemed to her that the man was even less human because of it.

She knew this cave was just one of the countless sinkholes and caverns that riddled this mountain border region. Over the millennia rains had rotted the limestone into a maze of grottoes and extended underground tunnels where one could suddenly find oneself exposed in open sunlight yet lost hundreds of feet below the surface. Some argued this was the true face of Ardata’s realm. As if she were some sort of queen of the underworld. But Mara knew this to be false. The Night-Queen’s demesne was open countryside. Yet likewise over the millennia, her presence had altered the entire jungle until it too resembled this border region where the unmindful traveller could suddenly find himself wandering half immersed in a Warren-like realm: the legendary enchanted forest of Himatan.

They pushed through the hanging leaves and vines then paused to allow their vision to adjust, and to become used to the stink that suddenly assaulted them: the overwhelming miasma of the layered urine and guano of untold thousands of bats.

‘You have the sense of this thing?’ Skinner asked Mara.

‘Yes. Downward and to the right.’

‘Very good.’

Shijel led. Mara summoned her Warren to improve her vision. The swordsman was on his way across the main section of the cave when she sensed a shimmering of power there on the floor — which to her vision seemed almost to seethe. ‘Halt!’

Everyone froze. ‘Well?’ Skinner murmured.

‘The floor of the cave. Something strange there …’ Mara summoned greater light, then selected a stone that she tossed on to the oddly shifting floor. The stone disappeared as if dropped into water. The surface burst into a flurry of hissing and writhing. It seemed to boil, revealing a soup of vermin: centipedes, ivory-hued roaches, white beetles and pale maggots. Amid the slurry of legs and chitinous slithering bodies lay bones. The skeletal remains of animals. And of humans.

‘Strip you of flesh in an instant,’ Mara commented.

Shijel peered back at her, unconvinced. ‘They’re just insects.’

‘There is power there.’

‘D’ivers?’ Skinner asked sharply.

Mara cocked her head, studying the pool more closely. ‘Not as such. No. They are … enchanted, I suppose one might call it.’

A disgusted sigh escaped Skinner. ‘Himatan already …’

Mara nodded. ‘Under here, yes.’

‘No wonder the thing fled this way. Very well …’ Skinner gestured to Black the Lesser. ‘You lead. Mara, follow closely.’

Black unslung his broad shield and drew his heavy bastard sword. Mara fell in behind him, directing him to keep to the walls and to watch his step. They descended in this order for some time; Skinner bringing up the rear, perhaps as a precaution against their quarry’s attacking from behind. The route Mara dictated narrowed and they slogged on through knee-high frigid water. From somewhere nearby came the echoing roar of a falls.

Mara sensed it as it happened: she opened her mouth to shout a warning even as a shape lunged from the dark water to latch itself upon Black and the two went down in a twisting heap. From the slashing water rose the monstrosity to launch itself upon her. She had an instant’s impression of a glistening armoured torso like that of a lizard, sleek furred arms ending in long talons, and a humanoid face distorted by an oversized mouth of needle-like teeth. Two swords thrust over her shoulders impaling the creature in its lunge and it shrieked, twisting aside to disappear once more beneath the water. Black emerged, gasping and chuffing. His right shoulder was a bloody mess. He cradled the arm. Mara nodded her thanks to Shijel, just behind her.

‘It went for you,’ he said.

‘It knows who’s sensing it,’ Skinner rumbled. ‘I believe you wounded it, Shijel. Mara — is it far?’

Still shaken, she jerked her head. ‘No. Not far.’

‘Very good. Black, fall in behind Mara. You lead, Shijel.’

They found it close to an underground waterfall. It lay up against rocks, half in the water. Blood smeared its chest and naked torso. Its dark eyes glittered full of intelligence and awareness, watching them as they approached, so Mara addressed it: ‘Why did you attack us?’

Its half-human face wrinkled up, either in pain or annoyance. ‘Why?’ it growled. ‘Stupid question, Witch.’ It gestured a clawed hand to Skinner. ‘You are a fool to return, Betrayer. She will not be so patient with you a second time.’

‘We shall see,’ he answered from within his helm.

‘Again I ask,’ Mara said, ‘why attack? You are no match for us.’

It bared its teeth in something like a hungry grin. ‘No. But our mistress has spoken. You are no longer welcome and I honour our mistress. You …’ it gestured again to Skinner, weakly, ‘Himatan shall swallow you.’

Mara frowned, troubled by what seemed a prophecy, and she crouched before it. ‘What do you-’

The heavy mottled blade of Skinner’s sword thrust past her, impaling the creature. Mara flinched aside. ‘Damn the Dark Deceiver, Skinner! There was something there …’

‘Well,’ the giant observed as he shook the dark blood from his blade, ‘there’s nothing there now.’ He turned away. ‘Bring the body. The damned Thaumaturg might yet demand proof.’

At the cave entrance Skinner paused, raising a gauntleted hand to sign a halt. He regarded the wide cave floor, now as still as any placid pool. He then went to the body, which Shijel and Black had dragged all the way. Grunting with the effort, he gathered up the muscular corpse and heaved the carcass overhead and out on to the floor. As it flew Mara flinched to hear it give vent to one sudden despairing shriek, cut off as it disappeared beneath the surface. The pool of vermin foamed to life in a great boiling froth of maggots, beetles, writhing larvae and ghost-white centipedes.

Mara turned away, nauseated. Skinner watched for a time, motionless, then headed for the surface. Passing Mara, he observed, ‘You were right — stripped in an instant.’

* * *

Saeng woke up feeling worse than she had in a very long time. She was shivering cold and her clothes hung sodden and chilled. Her hair was a clinging damp mess, her nose was running and her back hurt. Early morning light shone down through the thick canopy in isolated shafts of gold. She stretched, grimacing, and felt at her back; she’d slept curled up on a nest of leaves and humus piled in a nook between the immense roots of a tualang tree. Her umbrella stood open over her, its handle jammed into a gap between the vines that choked the trunk. Hanu stood to one side, his back to her.

Standing, Saeng adjusted her shirt and skirts and brushed ineffectually at her matted hair. She pulled the umbrella free and closed it. Hanu turned to her.

‘Thanks,’ she said, indicating the umbrella. He nodded within his helm, which glittered with its inlaid jade and lapis lazuli mosaic. A suspicion struck her. ‘You stood there all through the night?’ Again he nodded. That struck her as inhuman, which made her rub her arms and look away, an ache clenching her chest. ‘Don’t you need to sleep … any more?’

‘Little,’ he signed.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t.’

Deciding not to pursue that any further, she scanned the jungle. ‘Hear anything in the night?’

‘Many things come.’

‘What’s that? Many things? What?’

‘Night animals. Wild pigs. Monkeys. A fire cat hunting. Ghosts.’

‘Ghosts? What did they look like?’

‘Dancing balls white light.’

‘Oh, them.’ Wanderers. Spirits doomed to search eternally for some lost or stolen thing. People greedy in life. Sometimes, though, she knew it could have been a sad affair with one hunting a lost love. ‘Any hint of the Thaumaturgs?’

‘No. But close. Must move.’

‘Yes. But first we must eat.’ She sat on a root and dug in her cloth shoulder bag. ‘We have rice for two or three days only. After that, fruit and anything we can catch, I suppose.’ She held up a ball of rice. He worked at his helm to open it. Saeng studied her brother as he popped the rice ball into his mouth and chewed, his gaze searching the woods. So much a figure from her youth. How she could still see the smiling child in his face. Oh, Hanu … what have they done to you?

‘More?’ she asked.

‘No.’ He closed his helm.

No more? For such a large fellow it seemed to her that he ate like a mouse. She packed up the bags and wraps and they set off.

Pushing through the wet leaves she was sodden again almost immediately. She brushed at her skirts in irritation. Hanu, leading, did what he could to break trail. Towards midday the clouds began thickening as the evening rain gathered itself. They exited the tall old forest to enter a broad meadow of dense grass stands reaching higher than either of them.

‘An old rice field,’ Saeng said, wonder in her voice. ‘We must be close to Pra Thaeng, or Pra Dan.’

Hanu signed for silence, now tensed. He motioned Saeng back and drew his long broad blade. She at least knew enough not to say a thing, and backed away quickly. She then heard it: something large approaching, shouldering its way through the thick stands. Great Demon-King! Not another yakshaka! I must help. She summoned her power from within.

An immense monster suddenly crashed through the stand immediately before Hanu, who went down beneath its charging mass. Saeng had a glimpse of a dirty white juggernaut, beady fear-maddened rolling eyes and a curve of flashing horn, then it was gone.

She ran to Hanu and threw herself down at his side. Her brother was climbing to his feet, rather unsteady, giving vent to a strange noise. She helped him stand and realized that the sound he was making was laughter distorted by his helm. She let go her own worry and laughed as well.

‘More scared us,’ he signed.

Saeng nodded, smiling. Yes. A great white rhino — more scared than we. She shook her head, almost silly with relief. ‘Just having lunch, then we come along.’ She invited Hanu on. ‘Some sort of a lesson there.’

They found a path through the fields and glimpsed in the distance the steep thatched roofs of the village houses, tendrils of white smoke rising. Hanu stopped here and motioned aside to the thick grasses. Saeng frowned for a moment, then comprehension dawned and she nodded her fierce agreement, waving him into hiding. She continued on alone. The quiet and stillness of the village struck her immediately. Where was everyone? Surely the Thaumaturgs hadn’t swept through already …

Someone stepped out of a hut ahead. He was dressed as a peasant: a colourful wrap over his head against the sun, a loose blue shirt of coarse material, short pants tight at the calves, and barefoot. But the broad curved blade thrust into his waist sash was most unpeasant-like. He froze, seemingly quite as startled as she. Then a very savage grin climbed his unshaven face and he advanced, swaggering.

‘Where have you been hiding, pretty bird?’ he called.

Saeng’s first reaction was to flee, and she did back away a few steps.

‘No running!’ he shouted. ‘We have everyone. Don’t want them to get hurt, do you?’

Saeng stilled and was surprised to find a calm resolve take hold of her. ‘No,’ she answered, firmly, ‘I do not.’

The fellow rested a hand on his sword grip. ‘Good. Come along then.’

As she walked next to him she asked, ‘You are bounty men collecting people for the army?’

He eyed her, his gaze evaluating. ‘That’s right. Coin for every hale man and woman.’

‘Labourers?’

The man shrugged his indifference. ‘Labourers, workers, haulers, spear-carriers, shovel-carriers, cooks, launderers, carpenters. Or …’ and he looked her up and down, ‘other services.’

He brought her to the temple, the main structure of any village. Here more armed men and women guarded the villagers who knelt in the dirt of the central square. He led her up to another armed fellow, this one quite young, in a long hauberk of overlapping leather scales set with blackened iron rivets that hung to his knees. With this presumed leader stood an old woman, possibly the head of the village.

The leader eyed Saeng then turned an angry glare on the old woman. ‘You gave me your word there was no one else!’ The old woman merely hung her head.

‘I’m not from here,’ Saeng called.

The leader turned his attention to her. ‘What is your name?’

‘Ahn.’

He snorted his disbelief. ‘Well …’ gave her a long lazy-eyed study, ‘the name doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Saeng saw how he eyed her long unbound hair. ‘You’re unmarried.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why so old yet unmarried? What’s wrong with you, Ahn?’

Stung, she raked a clawed hand at his face but he flinched aside, catching her wrist. ‘Now I see why,’ he laughed. ‘Too much of a temper. Well … we’ll see about that.’

She wrenched her hand free — or he allowed her to. ‘What are you going to do?’

He ignored her, gestured to one of his men. ‘Have them prepare a meal for us.’

‘Yes, Kenjak.’

Saeng stared anew at the fellow — hardly older than she. ‘Kenjak Ashevajak? The Bandit Lord?’

He smiled, clearly very pleased. ‘Ah! Heard of me, have you?’

Saeng looked away, damning herself for the outburst. ‘I have heard stories.’

He brushed errant strands of her hair from her shoulder. ‘You can tell me them all — tonight.’ She slapped his hand aside but he walked off, laughing.

Saeng caught a pitying look from the old woman. ‘I’m sorry, child,’ she murmured. ‘There is no succour here.’

‘I’m no child,’ Saeng growled, pulling at her tangled hair. She eyed the surrounding huts and fields. Hanu, wherever you are, stay hidden! I’ll handle this.

Under the watch of the bandits the villagers prepared a meal first for them, then for the roped gang of captives squatting in the square. Kenjak had Saeng sit next to him in the largest of the village huts. He offered her food pinched in his fingers, which she refused, much to his amusement.

As the evening darkened and the rains began, the young man turned to her again. He leaned back on an arm, saying, ‘So … tell me these stories,’ and he chewed on coconut meat, watching her steadily.

‘I could tell you what I have heard of your past …’ she began, slowly, ‘or I could tell you your future.’

The bandit leader stopped tossing pieces of dried coconut into his mouth. The talk around the low table among the man’s lieutenants died away. His gaze narrowed and Saeng was shaken to see for the first time true cruelty in someone’s eyes. ‘You are a witch?’ he asked, his voice flat.

She shrugged. ‘I have some small talents.’

Kenjak peered around the table, a mocking smile now on his lips. ‘This one claims to be a witch,’ he said, chuckling. ‘She is trying to scare us, I think.’ The gathered men and women eyed one another, laughing uneasily. ‘Go ahead. Read my future. Don’t you need a chicken? Or prayer sticks, perhaps?’

‘No. Nothing like that. I simply need to concentrate on the night.’

‘Be my guest, little witch.’

Saeng settled herself and stared out the door to the dark where the captives still squatted, hunched and wretched, in the now drumming rain. Peripherally, she saw the bandits’ hands sliding across their laps to the wood and bone grips of knives in their sashes. Kenjak, next to her, had not moved and she realized that they were now locked in a game neither could back away from: he displaying his fearlessness and she — to his mind — attempting to terrify everyone. She had no doubt he was not bluffing; he would kill her if he so chose. But what he did not understand was that she was not bluffing, either.

Saeng now attempted something she’d never dared before, and reached out to her brother. ‘Hanu,’ she called through the arts taught her by the shades. ‘Do you hear me?’

‘Saeng? Is that you?’ came his astonished reply.

‘Yes. Do not show yourself! Leave this to me.’

‘I am watching. If anyone-’

‘No! They mustn’t see you.’

‘Well?’ Kenjak urged. ‘We’re waiting.’

‘I see your death,’ she announced, proud of the steadiness of her voice.

‘I am grey-haired and between the legs of my favourite concubine, no doubt.’

Saeng tilted her head, squinting into the night. ‘No. You-’ She broke off then, her voice catching in surprise as an image did suddenly come to her. Kenjak in darkness, a cave, or underground, the mark of death upon him. ‘Fear the underground, Kenjak. You will die there.’

For an instant the man’s face drained of all blood. He leaped to his feet, drawing his knife. ‘Who told you this, whore?’

Screams sounded from the darkness and the hissing curtains of rain. Kenjak waved out two of his men then returned his attention to her.

Saeng knew what lay behind the screams. She had sensed them gathering: the Nak-ta. ‘Go away!’ she ordered.

‘You summoned us …’ came the cold reply.

‘I did not!’

‘The violence of your thoughts did. We come to serve. Give them to us …’

‘Look!’ one of the bandits called, pointing to her. Saeng looked down at herself. Blue ghost-flame flickered upon her lap and arms. ‘Kill her!’ the man shouted, terrified.

Kenjak thrust. But it seemed to Saeng that she merely touched his arm and he flew in an eruption of the ghost-flame to crash into a wall. The table, everyone else, all were flung backwards to strike the walls in a storm of writhing fire that lashed about her while she stared, dumbfounded, at her flaming hands.

Everyone scrambled for the door and windows, crying and screaming their terror.

‘They are ours!’ came the savage cry of bloodlust from the gathered Nak-ta.

‘Touch them not!’ Saeng demanded. ‘Obey me!’

She felt a slow reluctant acquiescence chill her. ‘We … obey.’ Beneath the admission she sensed the unspoken for now …

Heavy steps announced Hanu’s arrival into the swirling storm of blue flame. Stooping, he scooped her into his arms.

‘I told you to stay away.’

‘I guess your methods are just too subtle for me.’

She almost laughed but sudden exhaustion settled her head against his chest instead. He carried her out into the rain, past the gaping captives struggling with their bonds, tramping on into the dark woods, pausing only to open the umbrella above her.

Dimly, as she rocked into sleep, she was aware that her brother was walking past and through the flickering pale flames that were the assembled restless ghosts and spirits of the land — none of which he seemed able to see.

* * *

During their voyage west Shimmer came to the opinion that K’azz was avoiding her. It took almost an entire day to finally catch the man leaning against the ship’s side. An achievement on his part, considering the restricted size of the vessel. She rested her weight on her forearms next to him while the blustery contrary winds of this stretch of frigid ocean lashed their hair and clothes. Among the rigging the sailors shouted back and forth in a constant panic to trim the canvas.

‘A stormy crossing,’ she offered her commander.

His gaze on the white-capped waves, the man nodded his assent. ‘I’m told it is the steep temperature change from the ice fields to the warm coastal waters.’

‘Jacuruku is warm then?’

‘Yes, just as all the stories say. Like Seven Cities, but with a long season of rains.’ The man raised his chin to the western sky. ‘Which we’re entering now.’

Shimmer glanced up past the foredeck. A front of dark clouds marred the horizon. ‘Dangerous?’

‘Just unrelenting.’

‘And these Dolmens? What of them?’

K’azz’s tanned leathery features clenched and his pale gaze returned to the waves. ‘Yes? What of them?’

‘What is there?’

Her commander brushed his hands on the cracked paint of the rail. Shimmer felt a chill as, for an instant, the slim hands appeared skeletal. ‘A wild power that mustn’t be disturbed. That is all anyone need know.’

‘How do we know Ardata isn’t lying about all this?’

‘She would not lie about that.’ He leaned more of his weight upon the rail. ‘Not that.’

But you are, my commander. Lies of omission. What more might this Ardata be lying about? ‘You were at these Dolmens, weren’t you?’

The memory of something that might have been pain furrowed the man’s brows and he lowered his gaze. ‘Yes.’

‘So … what did you learn?’

He laid a hand on her arm in a gentle touch. ‘That that is enough to know. Do not worry yourself, Shimmer.’ And he gave her what he must have imagined was an encouraging smile but struck her as a death’s head stretching of skin across his jaws. He walked away, leaving her at the ship’s side.

Rutana joined her where she stood peering after the man. ‘You and he,’ the witch began, tentatively, ‘you are lovers?’ Utterly taken aback, Shimmer slowly turned her head to meet the woman’s frank direct gaze. Her thick mane of kinked black hair blew about her face, the amulets and charms tinkling.

‘No.’

She nodded. ‘Ah.’

Shimmer could not help herself: into the long silence that followed she had to ask, ‘Why?’

‘My mistress is … interested in him.’

‘The way she was interested in Skinner?’

A savage scowl twisted the witch’s face and her eyes blazed almost amber. ‘Her offer was genuine! He betrayed her.’

‘And what was the offer?’

The scowl slid into dismissive scorn. ‘That would hardly be your business, would it?’

Shimmer stared, quite bemused by the vehemence of her reaction. Before she could frame a reply a panicked shout sounded from the lookout high on the main mast: ‘Sea serpent!’

Shimmer scanned the waves. Her brother Avowed boiled up from below, barefoot, yet readying crossbows and bows.

‘Where ’bout?’ the pilot called.

‘Off the larboard bow!’

Shimmer pushed her way closer to the bow. Searching among the tall waves she spotted a great ship-like girth, snowy pale and stunningly huge, mounting just beneath the surface. Calls went up as others saw it as well.

Cole lowered his cocked crossbow, taking aim.

A thick arm swatted the weapon up and it discharged into the straining shrouds.

Amatt and Turgal turned on the hulking Nagal, who described a slow arc, facing all in turn.

‘Hold!’ K’azz ordered. He pushed his way to Nagal. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘Isturé fools!’ Rutana called from the side. ‘Would you anger our sea-guardians?’

Shimmer exchanged wondering looks with Cole, Lor and Gwynn. ‘Guardians?’

‘Lower your weapons,’ K’azz ordered. Turgal and Amatt reluctantly lowered their bows. Rutana sounded a high cackling laugh into the silence. She was leaning over the side as if meaning to embrace the great beast, clapping her hands and gesturing to the water, perhaps inscribing something. Shimmer edged her way to her.

‘What is this?’ she demanded.

Straightening, Rutana laughed her savage glee, revealing her oddly needle-like sharp teeth. ‘Our sea-guardians. Servants of our mistress. Just as Nagal and I are so honoured.’

‘They serve Ardata?’

The witch peered up at her slyly. ‘They answer her call. They obey her commands. Is this service, or is it … worship? Who is to say?’ And she laughed again, brushing past.

Shimmer remained at the ship’s side, as did all the Avowed. Out among the waves immense girths broached the waves, humped and glistening and mottled and as broad as the flanks of whales.

Cole murmured, ‘In Seven Cities those are called dhenrabi. Any one of them could crush this ship.’

‘Then let’s be glad they’re on our side,’ Shimmer answered, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

Cole’s answering look told her that he fully understood her message.

Three days later they sighted land. The shore, if it could be called that, lay invisible beneath a thick forest of tangled trees, the roots of which stood from the water like a crazy maze of spider’s legs.

‘This is Ardata’s land?’ Shimmer asked Rutana.

‘The border of it.’

‘Where do we put in? Is there a port?’

Again the witch gave the knowing superior smile that so annoyed Shimmer. ‘No port, Isturé. We travel upriver.’

‘I see. So, the settlement is inland.’

The woman turned away, smiling still. ‘Settlement? Yes, far inland.’

This half-admission troubled Shimmer like few other things on the voyage. While she scanned the swamp-edged jungle, the ship’s pilot pushed the stern-mounted tiller to swing the vessel aside and they struck a course following the coastline south. As the day waned it became obvious that they skirted an immense delta of twisting channels. Some coursed a mere few paces wide, while others passed as open and broad as rivers in themselves. All debouched a murky ochre water to churn and swirl with the darker iron-blue of the sea. Towards evening they came abreast of what Shimmer imagined must be the main channel. So wide was it that she could hardly see the opposite shore. The low tangled jungle edge stretched up the river’s length. Large dun-hued birds scudded over the muddy water; their harsh calls sounded a cacophony of noise. Shimmer saw no signs of settlement, or even of any human occupation.

The order went out to drop anchor. Lor came to Shimmer’s side. She gestured to the nearby swampy shore. ‘Look there. See those?’

Shimmer squinted, not sure what she was looking for. Already in the deepening light the tangled depths of the forest were impenetrable to her vision. ‘What?’

‘Standing from the water.’

‘Oh.’ What she took to be dead stumps resolved into carved wood signs, or totems. They stood at odd angles, rotting and grey with age. All were carved in fantastic shapes, half animal, half human. A snake-human, a half-leopard. Staring closer now, she noted tufted round objects hanging from them, and it took her a time to recognize them as human heads in various stages of decay.

Peering around she found Rutana and crossed to her side. ‘What are those?’ she asked, gesturing to the shore.

The woman glanced over, her gaze half-lidded, disinterested. ‘Hmm?’

‘Those carvings.’

‘Ah.’ The sharp-toothed smile returned. ‘Warnings against trespassers. Bandits and pirates.’

‘Pirates?’ Shimmer waved a hand to the shore. ‘There’s nothing here …’

‘They go upriver to raid for captives. And perhaps they are drawn by the old stories and legends.’

Shimmer nodded. Ah yes. Legendary Jacuruku. The great city in the jungle. Jakal Viharn. City of gold. Paved in jewels. Immortality and inestimable magical powers to be won. She leaned against the side. ‘Those are just stories.’

‘Yes, but as with all such legends there resides a kernel of truth in it. Jakal Viharn is real, and it is a very magical place. It is simply … very hard to find.’

‘But you can bring us to it.’

‘Yes. Nagal and I are your guides.’

‘And without you — we would never find it.’

The witch shrugged. ‘It would be most difficult. Yet you Isturé are perhaps resourceful enough …’

‘As Skinner was?’

Rutana’s face closed up once more, her mouth snapping tight. Walking away she said over her shoulder: ‘Tomorrow we start upriver. Prepare yourself for such a journey as you have never known. We enter the world of my mistress’s dreams.’

* * *

The assembled army of tribes that was the Adwami’s raid into Thaumaturg lands made very little headway. Oh, Prince Jatal could admit that the noble cavalry of each house made a pretty enough pageant charging back and forth along the order of march, their polished spearheads gleaming and the colourful tassels of their long caparisons kicking up and whipping as they flew past. But when the dust settled from all that patrician display, the main body of infantry with its carts and wagons of materiel trudged along in a disordered and rather neglected mess. Only the intervention of the Warleader and his officers kept the columns moving along: disentangling a crossing of columns here, or settling an order of march there.

And judging from the old man’s stinging rebukes and even saltier language, the outland general was rapidly loosing his patience with it all.

To Prince Jatal’s disgust the traditional scheming and internecine jockeying that was the curse of the clans of the Adwami began even as the army took its first steps into the maze of bone-dry canyons and buttes: the Saar would not ride alongside the Awamir; the Salil refused its posting and instead filed up next to the Vehajarwi; while he, it had to be admitted, nearly trampled several minor families as he manoeuvred his forces to claim the head of the main column. Of course, as the largest of the contingents present, such placement was his by right in any case.

The Warleader and his mercenary army, some two thousand strong, rode as well. Such was the first of the foreigner’s requirements, and fulfilled readily enough as the Adwami counted their wealth in horses — all held against restitution from his twentieth share, of course. The infantry column marked the main body of the army. The mounted noble Adwami contingents surrounded this, riding dispersed, scouting and screening.

Jatal and his fifty loyal retainer knights had the van. As they walked their mounts through the stony valleys and washes — sodden at night but bone dry by midday — representatives of the various families joined him under pretexts of social calls and honouring distant blood-ties. Ganell was of course the first, thundering up on his huge black stallion. The man was nursing a blistering headache which did his notorious temper no favours.

‘I cannot believe these Saar fools are with us!’ he announced, wincing, and holding up a fold of his robes to shade his head.

‘The Warleader welcomes all who would contribute.’

The man’s mouth worked behind his great full beard. ‘Well … I’d best not catch sight of them after the fighting is done, I swear to that by the Demon-King!’

True to the lessons of the many tutors his father had inflicted upon him, Jatal decided to remain the diplomat. ‘We shall see if they honour their commitments.’

‘Ha! That will be a first. Well … I’ll be there to urge them along with the flat of my blade. I swear to that as well!’ And he kicked his mount onward. ‘Fare thee well, O great Prince!’ he laughed as he rode off.

Representatives of Lesser families came and went, joining him at the van for a time. Families his had allied with during various vendettas and feuds of the past. All pledged their support against the certain treachery to come. Jatal thanked them and pledged his own of course, as honour required, but inwardly he could only sigh as he imagined the very same assurances being offered to Sher’ Tal, Horsemaster of the Saar, or Princess Andanii.

As the day waned he became impatient with the army’s slow progress — so contrary to their lofty aim of a lightning-quick raid. How typical of any concerted effort from the Adwami! When the order went out from the Warleader for a cease to the day’s ride, Jatal could contain himself no longer. He turned to Gorot, his grizzled veteran master-at-arms. ‘I will scout ahead,’ he said, and kicked his mount onward even as the first objections sounded from the man.

He rode hard at first in order to put as much room as possible between himself and the encampment with its great swarm of Adwami warriors. As evening came he continued at a more leisurely pace. The route he chose was one of the most direct; it had no doubt already been scouted by the foremost outriders, but that was no concern. The excuse alone was enough to quit the column with its dust and endless bickering and childish rivalries and ages-old grudges. These last months the lurid emerald arc of the Scimitar brightening across the sky had made such night travel far less of a danger for horse and rider. However, to Jatal’s mind the benefit of the greater light was offset by the confusing twin shadows as the moon’s silver light warred with the Scimitar’s jade. He eventually gave up and found a narrow gully in which to throw down his blankets and hobble his mount. He rolled up in the blankets and went to sleep.

In the morning he awoke to an enormous passing of gas from someone. He pulled down his blanket, blinking in the light, to see the hulking shape of the Warleader’s second, Scarza, sitting opposite. The man had a cactus leaf in one hand and had frozen in the act of eating it.

‘Sorry,’ the fellow said, and took a bite of the thorny green bud. ‘Strange diet lately.’

‘They say eating charcoal helps,’ Jatal offered.

The man raised one tangled bushy brow. ‘Really? Chewing on a burnt stick? You’re having me on.’

‘Not at all. Our old healers swear by it.’

‘Old healers? Why, the force of my eruptions alone would slay them.’

Jatal cocked his head, considering. ‘Well … I’ll just have to take your word for that.’

‘You are wise to do so.’

Surprising himself, Jatal found that he was warming to this hulking lieutenant. ‘The Warleader sent you after me?’

‘Yes. He is understandably concerned regarding the safety of a prince of the Hafinaj.’

Sitting up, Jatal rested his arms on his knees. ‘Let me tell you about the so-called princes of the Hafinaj …’ He stirred the embers of the fire. ‘First, there are over twenty of us. Sons of wives and of concubines. I am nearly the youngest. Among all the Adwami, princes number as many, and are as common as, grains of sand.’

Scarza grunted his understanding, appearing even more broad and stump-like sitting hunched as he was. ‘Good. Then you won’t be expecting me to make you tea or any damned thing like that.’

Jatal grinned and blew on the fire. ‘No. I prefer to prepare my own tea — just as I like it. And you?’ He studied the fellow: his dark cast, the wide face, prominent canines — almost like tusks — heavy brows and thick pelt-like brown hair. ‘You are of the Trell, or legendary Thelomen kind?’

‘Legendary here only, Prince. As I understand, your ancestors killed them all.’

Jatal set his small bronze pot on the fire. ‘The Demon-King was responsible for that. And the gods dealt with him for it.’

‘Cursed to wander eternally.’

‘Yes. And his kingdom swallowed in a rain of fire.’

Scarza eased himself down further into the sands. ‘I don’t know … wandering eternally doesn’t sound like much of a punishment to me.’ And he laid an arm over his eyes.

Jatal fixed his tea and chewed on a stale flatbread. After his tea he cleaned the tiny thimble-cup and went to see to his toilet. Returning to their camp it occurred to him that the only horse present was his, Ash, named for his colour. Having readied the mount for the day’s ride he stood over the apparently sleeping half-breed. ‘Scarza … you have no horse?’

‘No.’

‘Then … how do you propose to keep up?’

‘I can keep up with any horse over the day. Especially in country as rough as this.’

‘So … I should simply go on ahead?’

Arm still over his eyes the half-giant answered: ‘Aye. I’ll find you. And must I point out just how easy it is to spot you, mister not so discreet at scouting. What with you riding a horse and all.’

Jatal smiled. ‘If I wished to go on more circumspectly, I could simply send him back.’

Scarza moved his arm to blink up, puzzled. ‘Send him back? How?’

‘I would merely tell Ash to return to his friends and relatives among the Hafinaj.’

Scarza eyed the horse, impressed. ‘Truly? What talented animals. Myself, I’ve never seen their use. Eat far too much, as, now that I think of it, has been said of me.’

Jatal mounted, chuckling. He nodded his farewell. ‘Until later, then.’

‘Yes. Until later, Jatal, prince of the Hafinaj.’

The canyon lands took all of the next day to cross. Swift scouts of various families came and went, saluting him. Not one subject of the Thaumaturgs, guard or picket, was evident among the draws and cliffs. As Jatal expected. For these subjects were farmers all, none rich enough to own a horse, even if their Thaumaturg masters allowed it. Late in the day he crested a shallow rise to look down on the vista of the broad plateau of channelled rivers and farmlands of the southern Thaumaturg lands. A land, if poor in portable riches, at least rich in population and fertility. To the north clouds gathered and the slanting darkness spoke of rain approaching.

Studying the countryside, Jatal nearly fell from Ash’s back when a woman’s voice called out, laughing: ‘Hail, Jatal, prince of the Hafinaj!’

He flinched and turned to see Princess Andanii come walking her horse. ‘What in the name of the ancients are you doing here?’

‘Same as you,’ she laughed. ‘Scouting a best approach for our army.’

‘This is no pleasure outing, my princess.’

She lost her smile and her eyes narrowed to slits in sudden anger. ‘I had hoped for better coming from you, Prince Jatal.’

He raised his hands in surrender. ‘My apologies. I am aware that you have gone on raids and bloodied your sword. It is just … this will be different.’

‘It will be the same. Only differing in scale.’

He tilted his head in acceptance. ‘Let us hope. Yet I have my reservations.’

As she drew close he dismounted so as not to tower over her. For while they might carry titles of equality among the Adwami, Jatal knew of their differing status: he was one prince of many, and the least, while she was the one and only princess of the Vehajarwi.

Close to her now, and they all alone — a scandalous breach of decorum — Jatal could not help but notice the heady smell of her sweat mixed with jasmine perfume, her proud chin, and the dark eyes which held the teasing knowledge that she too understood the complexities of their … predicament.

‘I have heard much of you, Prince Jatal,’ she said, the teasing even more pronounced.

‘And I of you, Princess.’

She laughed. ‘How I bedevil my father and am the weeping shame of my family, no doubt.’

‘Not at all. I hear how every family envies the Vehajarwi for the strength, bravery and beauty of its daughters.’

Now she laughed in earnest, waggling a finger. ‘I was warned against you. They say you are so learned and cunning you could talk a lizard out of its tail.’

‘Yet I doubt anyone could outwit you, Princess.’

‘Poet and diplomat they say, as well. Is it true you had outlander tutors?’

He bowed. ‘Yes. Travellers and castaways from other lands. As a lesser son, it was the wish of my father that I gather knowledge to serve as adviser to my elder brothers.’

‘As if they would listen to any younger brother — hmm?’

Jatal cocked a brow. No one had ever put it quite so bluntly to him before. ‘Well … yes. There is that.’

‘I do apologize, Jatal. But I’ve met some of them. And so, as I said … I am very glad you were sent.’

Jatal had to clear his throat. ‘Princess … you honour me to no end. And perhaps you had best ride back before we are seen.’

Andanii swept her arms out wide and turned full circle. ‘But why, after I have gone to such trouble to meet you alone?’ And she laughed again, a hand at her mouth. ‘If only you could see your face right now!’

For his part Jatal was struggling to think. Trouble? To meet him? Whatever for? What could she want? Were they not enemies? The Vehajarwi were the only extended clan that could rival his. For generations they had taken opposing sides in all the standing vendettas and feuds. ‘I am sorry, Princess,’ he finally managed, ‘but you have the advantage of me.’

Eyes downcast, Andanii brushed a hand through the leaves of a nearby sapling. ‘You or I could never truly meet or talk there within the column, could we? We are both bound by tradition and history and the confines of our roles. I watched while the cringing Lesser families approached you swearing their loyalty. I know because they came to me as well. As if they could make a gift of what is owed to us in any case!’

Jatal disagreed with the sentiment but nodded his understanding anyway. ‘It is an old story.’

‘Exactly! I almost cry my frustration to think of it!’ She stopped then, as if reconsidering saying more, and instead mounted her handsome pale mare. ‘All I ask, Jatal, is that when this tradition-breaking raid is done and the rewards apportioned, you consider what more could be yours — should you and I agree to put aside even more of the traditions that have hobbled our two families.’ And before he could close his gaping mouth she snapped her reins to urge her mount into motion. His parting vision was of one last look backwards, her hair streaming about her face like a scarf, and the teasing smile once more at her lips.

Jatal stood immobile for a very long time indeed. A scattering of sand announced a spiny lizard scampering over one of his boots. He’d heard the foreign word ‘poleaxed’ and now he believed he finally understood. What Andanii proposed — proposed! — amounted to nothing less than the union of their two families. A union through their betrothal.

Now a strange dizziness assaulted him, and not just from the consideration of her obvious charms. Should they succeed in such a plan all the Adwami lands would be theirs. Only the total combined forces of all the rest of the families could possibly oppose them. And knowing the Adwami as he did, the possibility of such a grand alliance was virtually nil. As his foreign tutors had taught him of realpolitik: in such cases what usually happens is that a third of the remaining families will come out against, justly fearing the looming hegemony; another third will temporize, waiting to see which side appears to be gaining the upper hand; while the remaining third will overtly oppose yet at the same time send secret envoys pledging their loyalty in return for positions of preference in the coming hegemony. Apparently, such a sad tally was how things shook themselves out everywhere, not just among the patchwork of traditional hatreds, alliances and ongoing feuds that was Adwami politics.

He mounted absentmindedly, almost blind to his immediate surroundings, and urged Ash back south. As the shadows gathered among the walls of the canyons around him a further insight from Andanii’s words struck him like a wash of cold rain.

His brothers. She said she’d met a few and was glad he’d been sent.

Meaning … what? That he was unlike them.

Meaning that … she might have made the same proposal to one or more of them.

And they had turned her down.

He reeled in his saddle then, fighting the revolted convulsion of his stomach. Gods of our ancestors! Was that the way of it? Who was in the right? Were his elder brothers correct to have spurned her as an enemy? Was he the weak-willed puppet to deliver the Hafinaj into the hands of the Vehajarwi?

Or was it the reverse? They the mulish slaves to tradition, blind to daring new opportunities?

Ash, his favourite, sensed his inattention and slowed to a halt. Jatal pressed a sleeve against his chilled sweaty brow. Ye gods … that is the problem, isn’t it? How can one ever be certain which is the case?

* * *

In the dim light of the morning Murk warmed his aching bones at one of the driftwood fires the mercenary troops had thrown together. From his years of travel with an army it occurred to him that these warm lands always had the coldest nights. That just wasn’t fair at all. A passing mercenary pressed a stoneware mug of steaming tea into his hand and this small act confirmed his suspicions regarding this band: imperial veterans all, cashiered or deserted. The experienced troopers always took care of the mage cadre. That, he realized, was his and Sour’s position once again. Back to their second career. Such regard came with obligations, though. Always an even trade. Maybe this lot were Fourth or Eighth Army. If they’d been Fifth he’d know them. Or they’d know him.

Sour appeared, groaning and snuffling. Another mug of tea appeared for him. Their employer walked up soon after. To Murk’s satisfaction she looked rather less elegantly made up today. Her long dark hair was braided and pulled back tight. And she now wore a much more functional leather gambeson. Her tall leather boots had lost their polish. The labours of yesterday also showed in the dark circles under her eyes, her lined brow and her squinting pinched expression.

With typical imperiousness she curtly waved them to her.

‘Bad feelings ’bout this,’ Sour murmured under his breath.

‘You know,’ Murk answered, suddenly sick of his friend’s constant single note, ‘one of these days — why don’t you try surprising me?’

That silenced the squat bandy-legged fellow for a time. Until he rubbed dirty fingers on his brow leaving a long soot smear and cocked his head, puzzled. ‘Like how?’

Yusen joined them, and again Murk had to suppress an urge to salute. The captain wore an iron helmet complete with nasal bar and a long blackened camail that hung to his shoulders. A banded iron hauberk, mail skirting and greaves completed his gear. The shaded pale eyes holding on Spite did not appear pleased. She nodded to him and he raised a hand in the Malazan sign: move out.

The troopers all about grunted, rising, and heaved up their packs of gear. Murk noted that almost all were accoutred as heavy infantry, with large shields, short thrusting weapons and crossbows. They appeared to move together as an experienced unit. A mercenary troop of cashiered vets all from the same division? What was the likelihood of that?

Their employer motioned for him and Sour to accompany her.

‘What’s up, Miss Spite?’ Sour asked.

Her smoky gaze slid sideways to the poor fellow and Murk winced at the heat of that glare.

‘It’s what’s down, actually.’

‘Oh?’ Murk asked, as if disinterested. ‘What?’

‘Us.’

Sour’s face wrinkled up all puzzled once more. Then he scowled. ‘I don’t like the-’

Murk threw up a hand for silence. ‘We didn’t sign up for some sort of tomb robbery.’

The dismissive gaze shifted to him and Murk was startled to glimpse for an instant how the pupils churned like liquid magma only to flit to black once again in a blink. ‘You signed up with me, little man, and that is that.’ She smiled a straight savage slash. ‘You do as I say or I’ll hunt you down and slit you open like a pig, yes?’

He inclined his head in acceptance of the warning. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Sour shot him his I told you so look.

As they tramped between the rows of stone pillars, the barrier Spite raised yesterday hove into view flickering and shimmering ahead. Sour’s gaze moved significantly to the mercenaries following along. Murk knew the Warren-laid barrier of wards and snares was invisible to them and that without warning they would walk right into it: to their deaths if Spite had woven it so. Of course, she wouldn’t have brought them all this distance only to slay them, but still he couldn’t help holding his breath and stiffening as they all passed through the barrier. Within lay the inner ring of the standing dolmens and the flat central plaza of featureless white sand and gravel.

She turned to Yusen. ‘Start your soldiers digging around the bases of these pillars.’ He nodded and went to organize his troop. ‘You two. You’re with me.’

‘Yes, your Spitefulness,’ Sour answered.

Her response was a humourless predatory smile. She led them aside then snapped out an arm to indicate the plain of coarse sands. ‘You two are supposed to be thieves — find me a way into that.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Murk answered before his partner could come out with something else.

She stalked off. Murk sat himself down against a dolmen. Sour took another one, grumbling under his breath. ‘Knew we shouldn’t a taken the damned job.’

‘Kind of late now, mister prescient.’

‘You want my help or not?’

‘You know the drill.’

Sour kept grumbling but crossed his legs and rested his arms on his lap, squinting his eyes closed. Murk drove himself to likewise relax, though it was a forced sort of poise, the kind that usually accompanied the tension of battle. ‘Forced calm’, the magery schools called it. An acquired skill necessary for any battle mage. When his mind had stilled sufficiently he summoned his Warren and opened his eyes to regard the location through Meanas.

And almost walked away right then and there.

‘Queen’s tits!’ Sour grunted next to him.

Murk growled his awed assent. Before them the inner circular plaza of sand was not the flat calm it appeared in the mundane world. The pit, for it was a pit — a hole that opened on to the bottomless Abyss itself — roiled and stirred, agitated by something contained within. But that was as nothing compared to the storm of Warren-energies that lanced and flickered about the construct in a near-constant release of deadly charges. Coiled lightning-like ropes sizzled and whipped, anchored from each and every standing dolmen, and converged on whatever lay ensnared, imprisoned, at the very centre.

‘Do you know what this is …’ Sour murmured beneath his breath as if afraid to mention it aloud even here within a Warren.

‘Yes.’ Neither of them had ever seen one, of course. But among mages they were legendary. What they were looking at was a Chaining. A prison constructed by an assemblage of the world’s most powerful practitioners of any one age: Ascendants, mages, some say even gods themselves. All to contain the various scattered fragments of the Shattered God — not coincidentally also known as the Chained God.

‘We ain’t up to this,’ Sour hissed, and for once Murk heartily agreed. ‘We are pissing in too many ponds.’

‘Yeah … I get it.’

‘Gonna get our-’

‘Yes! All right! Trying to think here.’ Could just sneak in and out. No need to broadcast. These constructs ain’t made to keep things out. Rather the reverse, in actual fact. ‘What does the queen of soothsayers say?’

‘Doesn’t like me being here.’

‘That’s it? Nothing stronger?’

Vexation glowed from the presence of his partner. ‘What’d you mean? We’re all free to do as we choose! None of us is slaves. What about Ammanas?’

‘Same,’ Murk answered, his thoughts elsewhere. ‘Could put the boot to this right now if he wanted … so, either he approves, or, like you said … we really are free to choose …’

‘I think your boy just plans for everything,’ Sour grumbled, ‘that’s what I think.’

‘As if yours doesn’t.’

‘I think she just makes it her business to know the players and follows the odds.’

‘That doesn’t sound so reverent.’

‘She never asked for no worship.’

Murk grunted his assent then cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s enough hemming and hawing, don’t you think?’

Sour stood, stretching. ‘Yeah, s’pose so …’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Following the paths of Shadow, Murk stepped into the construct. As was their usual arrangement, his partner monitored his progress by way of the Warren of Thyr. Murk carefully edged between the twisting coiled power ‘chains’ where they spread to be anchored at each dolmen. Touching one, he knew, would diffuse him into nothingness. He walked a full circuit of the construct.

For an instant he froze as a new vision out of Meanas superimposed itself upon the scene before him: that of another, similar construct, its enormous fetters lying shattered before dissolving to be swept away as if by some unseen wind. It took a moment for him to gather his composure after that, but eventually he managed to calm his pulse enough to continue on.

He returned to Sour and the two shared a nod of understanding. They lowered their Warrens and went to find Spite.

She was squatting, her back to them, next to a pit dug around one of the dolmens. Murk heard a whimper from Sour where he stood with his knuckles jammed into his mouth. Murk resisted elbowing the man: the sweeping double curve presented was breathtaking.

She straightened, facing them, brushing the sand from her hands. ‘Well?’

‘You can get in,’ Murk said, ‘but can you get out?’

‘You leave that to me.’

‘What’s with the digging?’

‘Have to break the bindings.’

Murk shook a negative. ‘No. It’s suspended over the Abyss. Break the bonds and it’s lost for ever.’

The rumbling growl that escaped Spite did not sound human. Murk felt the tiny hairs of his forearms straightening in atavistic fear.

‘It’s like one of them trick musical instruments,’ Sour said.

Both Murk and Spite eyed the squat fellow with his matted unwashed hair, scrunched-up frog-face, and one squinted eye higher than the other. ‘A what?’ Murk asked.

‘A conun-drum,’ he said with a grin.

Murk stared anew, studying the man. By all the gods … sometimes I wonder, I really do.

Spite’s eyes seethed now, almost roiling with a deep crimson glow as she regarded the plaza. ‘What if we left two in place? I might manage against two.’

Murk tilted his head, considering. ‘Maybe. Opposite tendrils.’

‘Yes, good. Can you break the bonds?’

‘Have to give a look. Sour here might be better at that than I.’

Her scepticism couldn’t have been more obvious. ‘Really? Well, get to it.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

After Spite stalked off Yusen approached. ‘What’s the word?’

‘Sour and I are gonna give the dolmens a poke.’ The man’s frowned disapproval vexed Murk. ‘What did you expect? You took the job.’

‘I’ll earn my pay, mage. Don’t have to like it.’

‘Yeah, well, life’s tough all over.’

A ghost of a smile flitted across the officer’s face. ‘That’s my line.’ He gestured to nearby troopers. ‘Ostler, Tanner, Dee … you’re with these two.’

That’s better. We ain’t dead yet.

* * *

The view from one of the windows of the Dead House offered a prospect on the harbour and the dark waters of Malaz Bay beyond. Osserc preferred this view. Such a preference was, he could admit, all too human of him. He had slipped now into his elder, slimmer version of the Tiste form. He allowed himself such an indulgence, for, having succeeded in one long-blunted ambition, that of penetrating the Azath, he now felt another all too human emotion … that of a vague troubling dissatisfaction.

He let out a long breath, sending cobwebs fluttering across the glazing. Now he must face the mountain of smugness waiting downstairs and sit himself before him and endure the predictable ritual of the petitioner before the possessor.

It was, to be frank, all too exquisitely distasteful. And he would rather die. Almost.

His mouth hardening, he turned. Enough. The inevitable awaits, as it so prosaically does. And he would face it. Was that not his strength? Accepting what must come — what cannot be avoided? So he had thought … once.

The stairs creaked beneath his feet. In the main hall the only source of light was a fire burning in a stone hearth at one end. At the long battered main table waited the House’s current … what? Resident? Custodian? Curator? Curse? Or just plain servant? He did not know, not having been accepted among the Azath in the usual manner. As was his manner. Not the usual, that is.

All the appearance was, of course, an illusion — only the inner essence being real. He regarded the fellow hunched at the table, amber firelight flickering from coarse iron-grey hair, lined green-tinged skin and prominent thrusting tusks. A Jaghut, and not just any Jaghut. Gothos himself, hoary old teller of tales and self-appointed judge of all. Once known, appropriately enough, as the Lord of Hate.

He sat opposite. The figure did not stir, though Osserc glimpsed the shimmer of light within the eyes hidden by their cascade of wiry hair. Osserc crossed his legs, set one hand atop the other on one knee, and exhaled a long tired breath.

The two regarded one another in silence for some time after that exhalation. The fire continued to burn, though neither stirred to feed it. At length Osserc inhaled through his nose and plucked a bit of dust from his trousers. ‘Is this all there is, then,’ he offered as a statement. ‘Disappointing.’

Gothos’ habitual sour expression deepened even further. ‘You disappoint me. How conceited to think that existence should arrange itself merely to be interesting to you.’

Osserc clenched his teeth so tightly he heard them creak. After a time he managed to loosen his jaws enough to grate his answer. ‘Such was not my expectation, I assure you. Yet still. One must admit to the … mundaneness of it.’

Now the wide hunched shoulders fell even further and Gothos slouched back against the high-backed chair. He shook his head in exaggerated frustration. ‘The mere fact that you sought does not somehow call into being that which you sought. Or imply that there should be anything to seek at all. Typical backwards thinking.’ A clawed hand rose to wave as if dispersing smoke or fumes. ‘Positing a question does not magically create an answer.’

Lips tight, Osserc snapped his gaze to the murky ceiling. His entwined clenched fingers shook until they became numb. Eventually he mastered himself enough to clear his throat and say, slow and thick, ‘You try my patience, Gothos.’

Now a one-sided smile crept up the Jaghut’s lips and the hidden gaze seemed to sharpen. ‘Really? I rather hoped to break it.’

‘Break it? Or exhaust it?’

A slow shrug of the shoulders. ‘The choice is yours — as the way out is through me.’

‘Through you? You mean that to leave I must twist your arm, or some such childishness?’

Gothos inspected the blackened nails of one hand, each broken and striated. ‘If that is the best you can think of … but I’d rather hoped for more from you. But be that as it may. The way is open. You may go whenever you should choose. As has been the case since you entered, of course. However …’ and he shrugged again.

Osserc’s answering smile was as brittle as old dead branches. ‘I see. I may go … but without any answers.’ Gothos merely stared back. Osserc settled into his chair. Once more he eased his hands one on the top of the other over his crossed legs. ‘I understand. We must face one another until you relinquish what you know. Very well. You were foolish to enter into this with me, Gothos. The will of any other you would crush. But not mine.’

To this Gothos, as was his wont, gave no answer.

The fire continued to burn though neither stirred to feed it.

* * *

The great lumbering beast that was the army of the Thaumaturgs lurched onward, threading east through the jagged mounts that stood like rotten bones from the forest canopy, and Cohort Leader Pon-lor watched it go.

After the ordered columns of soldiers came the roped human chains of bearers, their feet great lumps of black mud, hunched almost double beneath their massive loads, hands clutching the cloth bindings that supported the fat baskets and boxes and ran round as tumplines to their heads. Then came the supply train of carts and further bearers and labourers, all conveying the necessary materiel and services of an army on the march in hostile territory: the small portable smithies, the various messes, the infirmaries, and behind them yet more tramping bearers bringing along even further materiel and supplies. With this sauntering mass came a second army — the camp followers. Wives and husbands and children of officers and soldiers, and surgeons and clerks and tradesmen. Plus their mistresses and prostitutes. And their soothsayers, petty traders and merchants, unsanctioned private healers, minor apothecaries, arrack and palm-wine tappers, professional gamblers, singers, dancers and thieves.

Last to disappear up the broad mud-churned track to be swallowed into the jungle’s hanging fat leaves went the great groaning siege wains, oxen-pulled, their tall wheels of solid wood levered along by hunched slaves and labourers, mud-smeared, straining and chanting in unison.

For the first time in his life Pon-lor was left entirely in charge. It struck him as exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Exhilarating to finally be out from the suffocating fist of his superiors; to have the opportunity to prove his competence or perhaps, more important, his reliability. Terrifying for the now very real prospect of failure and disappointing said superiors.

He drew his robes about himself and nodded to Overseer Tun to see to the arrangement of his troops. The overseer bowed in his iron-studded leather armour and set to kicking and cajoling the soldiers into column. Pon-lor took his place at the centre of the column. The train of his troops’ bearers followed at the rear beneath their loads of equipment and supplies.

For three days they backtracked the route the army had hacked through the jungle. The way was a mire of trampled paths. They filed through abandoned villages where all was ghostly quiet but for the calls of birds and the hooting of monkeys, the inhabitants having fled with food and valuables to avoid confiscation and impressment.

On the third day word came to him from Overseer Tun at the van: a civilian had approached wishing to speak to him and was being brought. Pon-lor cast about and spotted the impressive broad trunk of an ancient kapok tree from which vines hung like a collection of ropes and whose roots gripped the jungle floor like the fists of giants. He chose to receive the fellow while standing beneath it, his men arrayed around him.

Tun pushed the fellow down on to his knees and he bowed, head lowered, arms straight forward in obeisance. ‘What is your name, peasant?’ Pon-lor asked.

‘Jak, Great Lord Thaumaturg.’

‘And you would speak with me?’

‘Yes, Great Lord.’

‘You realize that if you are wasting my time you will be killed.’

‘Yes, Lord Thaumaturg.’

Pon-lor was intrigued to see that this pronouncement had not evoked the usual shudder and tightness of voice that it did from other peasants. He stepped closer and saw that the fellow was young, probably new to his twenties — much like himself. He also noted that the man’s shirt and trousers betrayed the wear pattern of having lain under armour; that the man’s belt was scraped where a sheath would hang; and that his hair was pressed and rubbed away in places as if habitually beneath a helmet.

‘You are a deserter.’

This evoked a satisfying squirm and abject writhing in the rotting humus and mud. ‘No, m’lord. A private guard and bounty man.’

‘You have papers?’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

The man reached for his neck but Tun slapped the hand away and yanked free the pouch that hung there, snapping its leather thong. He knelt, proffering it in both hands. Pon-lor opened the pouch and studied the cheap reed-paper certificates. Water-smeared and half rotten, they might have been valid, years ago. He handed the documents to Tun. ‘These have long expired. Private guard, you say? For whom?’

‘Khun-Sen, lord.’

Pon-lor was quite surprised. ‘Khun-Sen? The warlord? He is still alive?’

‘Yes, lord.’

The news seemed hard to credit; that old general had been exiled in his grandfather’s time. Some sort of political falling-out among the Circle of Masters. He’d fled to the border region and claimed an outpost in the mountains. ‘You are far from Chanar Keep and Sen has no business interfering in Thaumaturg lands.’

‘He does not seek any influence, m’lord.’

‘Yet here you are — with a band of men, no doubt. Taking advantage of the army’s passage to raid a few villages?’

‘No, lord. We are collecting recruits for the army.’

‘To sell to the army, you mean. Very well. Have you a message from Sen?’

‘No, lord. But-’

‘No? No message? Then you are wasting my time.’ He waved for Tun to take the man away. ‘This one will now follow all those whom he has sent ahead into the ranks, Overseer. No doubt they will be pleased to see him.’

‘Yes, lord.’ Tun yanked the man up by his shirt.

‘We were attacked by a witch!’ the fellow gasped, now upright and glaring furiously. ‘A servant of the Night-Queen.’ Remembering his place he quickly lowered his gaze.

Pon-lor stepped even closer to peer down at the much shorter young man. A witch. So that’s what this is all about. They have some poor village woman they hope to sell as a witch. He made a show of sighing his utter lack of interest and clasped his hands at his back. ‘Believe me, fool. If you had met a servant of the demoness you would be either dead or insane. I do not have the time for a court of inquiry. You’ll just have to let the old woman go back to selling her moss-unguents and d’bayang tea.’ He waved to Tun, who smacked the pommel of his sword across the man’s head, sending him face first into the mud.

He stopped short as the fellow spoke from the muck. His voice was slow and tight with suppressed rage. ‘You will be interested in this witch, I think … Magister.’ Pon-lor turned: the man was actually levering himself up to his hands and knees. Tun stood over him, sword raised, a brow cocking a question.

Pon-lor raised a hand for a halt. ‘Very well. You wish me to ask … why?’

‘Because this one,’ the man coughed and brought his hand away from his head, red and wet with blood, ‘has enslaved a yakshaka soldier.’

After a long pause Pon-lor said, ‘That is impossible.’ Tun swung the sword up to finish the man but another curt sign halted the execution. ‘You realize that if you cannot support this claim you will be slain?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘And so what happened?’

The man straightened, wincing and touching gingerly at his head. ‘The witch escaped us through the use of her arts and her yakshaka guard.’

‘I see. She escaped you. How unfortunate. Is it too much to expect that you can produce witnesses to these events?’

‘There are witnesses, Magister. I can lead you to where it happened.’

‘Very well. You will do so. And if I find that you have lied I will have you beheaded. Is that understood?’

The man bowed even lower. ‘Yes, m’lord.’

Pon-lor turned away. Tun grabbed the fellow’s arm and pulled him aside. The man kept glancing back, his gaze hardly that of a browbeaten peasant or servant, but Pon-lor did not notice. He was barely aware of his surroundings, hands clasped behind his back as he walked. His thoughts were a roil of unease. The yakshaka captured? How unlikely. Yet, if this so-called witch should succeed in fetching it to the Demon-Queen’s court, all the alchemical secrets and rituals of their creation could be penetrated. This was the most deadly threat the Circle had faced in generations. If it should be true … Ancient Ones, let it not be true.

As he was being pulled along, Kenjak kept his head low and worked hard to keep the satisfied smirk from his mouth. Yet he could not help sneaking quick glances to the retreating back of this young Thaumaturg mage. He’d given his name as Jak, the true nickname of his youth, but until most recently he’d been known as Kenjak Ashevajak, the ‘Bandit Lord’ of the borderlands. At least until a damned witch showed up and destroyed his authority and scattered his men to the seven winds. But he would have her head and a fat bounty for it. And this upstart Thaumaturg would not come between him and any bounty. He did not fear the yakshaka: he could easily outrun those lumbering elephants. This was his gods-sent chance to avenge the insults his family had so long suffered at the hands of these self-appointed nobles and rulers. And if the witch were to die along the way, well, no matter. Imagine what the demoness Queen of the Night herself would pay for a trussed-up yakshaka warrior.