Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 3

Nedurian was fishing, as usual. His line hung straight down from the high wharf to the water. But for most of the morning he’d been far away, thinking of his last great duel – his dusk to dawn battle against the witch Jadeen in south Itko Kan. Because they were both Adepts of Rashan, the Warren of Dark, it had been a war of subtlety, countermoves, bluffs and feints, all woven in multiple layers … like a duel fought through folded night itself.

In the end, neither had managed to land a decisive blow. But he’d marked her, and she – and he touched a finger to the jagged scar that bisected his face – had marked him.

But he was in the twilight of his years, after all. In his youth she’d never have even got close. Or so you tell yourself, old man, he thought, snorting.

Shade where none should be brought him back to himself, and he peered up, blinking, at a scowling giant of a fellow standing over him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, then shifted his attention to his line and gave it a shake.

‘Geffen wants to see ya.’

Geffen, the blackmarketeer and enforcer who pretty much ran the island – under the auspices of Mock, of course.

‘I don’t owe him one damned copper sliver.’

‘If you did, I wouldn’t be asking so damned nice an’ all.’

Nedurian considered. So far, he’d managed to stay clear of all the local gambling, loansharking, boozing and drug pits. His one weakness was women. And considering that he’d just been daydreaming about one of the most lethal females he’d known, perhaps it had been too long.

Not that he was sure he could perform anyway; it’d been a damned long time … ‘What is it?’

The fellow’s scowl of distaste deepened even further. ‘Like Gef tells me. Just come along.’

‘And if I tell you to go take a long walk on this short pier?’

The fellow snapped his fingers and four more toughs came slouching up the faded wooden slats. Nedurian knew he could handle them, of course. Easily. But then there’d be four more, and so on, and then he’d no longer be retired, would he? Sighing, he rose, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and gathered up his line.

* * *

The brawlers escorted him to Geffen’s gambling house where it stood close to the waterfront. Its sign was that of a golden gyrfalcon – a play on the man’s nickname. Of course, the place was nothing special compared to similar establishments on the mainland. Downright coarse and shabby, really, but enough to part these common raiders from their loot and shares.

He was guided up stairs to offices above. The first room held seven guards, and, after having his small belt-dagger taken away here, he was led further in. It seemed to him that Geffen, a cutthroat nasty enough to rise to the top of an island of cutthroats, was scared.

Within, the man himself stood leaning against a broad heavy table next to the room’s one window. Two personal bodyguards stood at the door. One of these shut it on the rest of the lower-ranked toughs. These two then stood close to either side of Nedurian while their employer, Geffen, looked him up and down. He in turn studied the other man: lean – almost fevered lean – greying hair pulled back in a queue, face scarred by a multitude of small cuts. A knife-fighter of particularly grisly repute. And an experienced seagoing raider, as everyone on this cursed island was.

Geffen, meanwhile, was shaking his head. ‘You don’t look like much. But there’re people who say you’re a mage to be reckoned with.’

‘People should keep their damned mouths shut.’

This brought a thin smile to the man’s lips. He gestured to the table. ‘Like you to take a look at something for me.’

‘We haven’t discussed my consulting fee yet.’

Geffen just gave a look that seemed to say Now, now. He flicked a leather wrap aside from something on the table. Nedurian crossed over, peered down. It was a dagger.

He leaned his hands on the table – careful to keep them far from the weapon – and bent closer. ‘Nothing special. Typical knife.’

‘Been trying to backtrack the last person to hold that,’ Geffen said while Nedurian studied the blade. ‘Half the island’s wax-witches, sea-soothers, and warlocks have shambled through here for a peek. They all did the same thing: took one look, went pale as ghosts, turned and walked away.’

Nedurian stroked his chin. ‘Really? I don’t see anything unusual.’

‘Take your time.’

It wasn’t his speciality, but he raised his Warren for a look. He passed his hands over the blade, sensing for anything, and felt it immediately. This weapon had been exposed to powerful magics some time in the recent past. The lingering energies were clear. The aura, however, was also very odd. Like no Warren he’d ever seen before, in fact.

‘Strange…’ he murmured.

‘A coupla’ warlocks said that too,’ Geffen offered. ‘Before they bit their lips and fled.’

Nedurian frowned. He refined his probing, dug deeper in the lineaments of the traces, struggling to examine their character.

He found that it was something he had seen before. He’d encountered brief hints of it a few times, and always indirectly and cloaked. Most powerfully, though, a very long time ago.

It had been in his youth. He’d been newly appointed battle-magus commander attached to the Talian Eleventh Iron Legion then. One of the youngest ever. They’d been charged with pacifying the northern tribes of the forests on the border of Lake Ero and there they had met the gathered enemy. Late in the battle, down out of the Fenn Range came the wild-haired shaman who’d been stirring them all up, the Seti, the Fenn giants, the western Wickan tribals.

All the front line warlocks had fallen to the strange new Warren this fellow had thrown himself into with utter madness and abandon. Nedurian would never forget that terrifying battle. The moon itself seemed to darken at the wild man’s command. The right flank collapsed when monstrous howling beasts came rampaging across the blasted and flattened forest. It was all he could do to deflect one of them at a distance.

That dawn the Eleventh retreated, ravaged and clawed. But not defeated. For along with all their many victims the daemons had consumed the shaman also, and soon enough the tribes fell back to bickering and raiding one another.

During the storms of black flame and attacks of rippling darkness that he and the shaman had exchanged, he’d glimpsed the character of that Warren and realized its name. It was a discipline mentioned in teachings, but which no sane practitioner ever pursued because of its wildly unstable, fractured, and unpredictable nature: the Warren of Shadow. Also called Meanas.

He returned his hands to the table and rested a good deal of his weight on them, thinking.

‘The others went pale,’ Geffen offered. ‘But you just flushed all dark. What is it?’

‘How did you come across this?’

Geffen pushed himself from the table. ‘Ah.’ He waved the two guards from the room. They hesitated, unwilling.

‘You sure?’ one grumbled.

‘Yes I’m fucking sure! Now go!’

Both shot Nedurian murderous glares, but they stepped out and pulled the door shut behind them. Geffen poured himself a drink, then held out the ceramic decanter. ‘Want some?’

‘What is it?’

‘Rice liquor from Itko Kan.’

‘No thanks.’ He scanned the various decanters and found what looked like red wine. He poured a glass and sipped – it was a passable Untan blend.

Geffen was now at his desk, idly poking through the mess of parchment sheets heaped there. He cleared his throat, saying, ‘I woke up a few days ago with that thrust through the headboard of my bed. No one else knows it happened. Not even my guards.’

Nedurian blew out a breath. ‘I see. So, a message.’

Geffen turned on him. ‘Yes, a godsdamned message! But I’m not gonna roll over! I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, but if he wants a fight I’ll give it to him. Starting from now you’re on the payroll. I want a secure perimeter and constant monitoring. We’ll catch the bastard next time.’

Nedurian set down the wine. ‘No.’

‘What d’you mean, no?’

‘Not for hire.’

Geffen frowned down at him. ‘You scared of what you found on that blade? Well, don’t be. Be more scared of me right now.’

‘You’re already embroiled in one fight, it seems. Don’t start another.’

The tall wiry fellow eyed him sideways, then leaned back, crossing his arms. ‘I see you still got a few teeth left in that scarred wolf’s head of yours. Good for you.’ He raised his chin, calling, ‘Okay! C’mon back in!’

The door slammed open and the two bodyguards stepped in. Geffen threw a small pouch on to the table. ‘Your fee. I might have work for you ahead.’

Nedurian eyed the pouch, then shrugged his shoulders and took it. ‘You know where to find me.’ He strolled out as casually as his prickling back would let him, and once on the street started deeper into town, circling a few blocks to make certain he wasn’t being followed – not that he thought he would be – before heading for Agayla’s.

She ran a modest spice shop in one of a long lane of anonymous terraced houses. Its sign was a strung sheaf of twigs, plus fresh garlands of various dried plants hung all over the thick oak door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The shop-front was a counter behind which stood rows of shelving choked by glass jars and wooden boxes. Standing rows of tiny wooden drawers covered the walls. Hanging down from the low rafters, and obscuring everything like a bizarre upturned forest, reached dried bunches of various plants, flowers, and woven braids of grasses.

From the room beyond came the rhythmic shush of a hand-worked loom. Nedurian cleared his throat. ‘Agayla?’

The loom quietened. He could hear the woman’s long skirts brushing the wooden floor as she approached. She entered, adjusting the tie of her thick bunched hair and pulling the mane forward over one shoulder as she came. He himself had seen near to two hundred years, but he knew he was the youngest of striplings compared to this sorceress. He inclined his head in greeting. ‘Agayla.’

She reached out across the counter to take his hands; hers were warm, dry, and hard. ‘Nedurian. What can I do for you?’

‘I bring … disturbing news.’

She released his hands. ‘I see … well, come in.’ She lifted a portion of the counter for him and retreated to the rear. He followed. In the back room she motioned to a chair along one wall next to a small table. A massive homemade loom filled almost the entire room. She sat at the intricate mechanism of wooden slats and strung thread and pushed the sleeves of her dress up over her lean arms, then depressed the wide foot pedal. The twin leaves of strung thread spread apart with a loud shush.

He watched her work for a time, admiring the economy of her movements, the play of the musculature of her arms, and her swift nimble fingers.

‘What is the news?’ she asked.

‘I’m fairly certain that someone’s meddling in Meanas here on the island.’

The loom slapped to a halt. She held the shuttle in one fist, glaring his way. ‘That’s what’s been bothering me of late! I knew there was something…’ She tossed the shuttle through the weave, shaking her head. ‘On this island, of all places. The fool.’ She raised her gaze to a narrow window high on one wall; her arms, hands and feet worked automatically for a while, shifting and plucking, as she cast her awareness elsewhere.

Eventually, her gaze shifted to him, sidelong. ‘He’s a sly one,’ she murmured in grudging appreciation.

‘I agree. I couldn’t get a fix on him.’

‘Perhaps he just wants to be left alone.’

‘Sadly not. Worse is, he’s making a play for Geffen’s job.’

Agayla threw herself entirely from the loom to press her hands to her thighs in frustration. ‘Blood and tar! That’s the last thing we need right now. War for control of the streets.’

‘Is there any chance Mock—’

‘Mock cares nothing for whoever runs things in town so long as he gets his cut.’

‘Thought so.’

She sighed, then returned her attention to her work. ‘Well, we’ll just have to keep an eye on things. If it gets out of hand, we’ll put an end to it.’

He blew out a long breath. Oh-kayyy … ‘And who is this “we”?’

‘Obo and I.’

The name rocked Nedurian. She can reach through to Obo? Belatedly, he realized that his name wasn’t on her list. I don’t even rate a mention in that company.

‘In the meantime you’ll sniff round, yes? See if you can pin down our foolish friend.’

He nodded his assent.

Agayla returned to work and he returned to watching her. It occurred to him that the finished portion of this particular piece – carpet or tapestry, call it what you will – was very short indeed. He asked, ‘Is this a new work?’

She nodded absently. ‘Yes.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘As always – what is to come.’

From the assurance of that simple comment he felt again the preternatural shiver that this woman raised on the nape of his neck. While no Ascendant herself, she was a potent agent to powers, said to be favoured not only by the Enchantress, but by Jhess the Weaver as well. Powers that he, even as an Adept, could only sense distantly.

He studied the colours of the thread gathered in a basket next to the loom: deep aquamarine blue, blood carmines, gleaming night-black, pewter greys, and sunset purples.

‘The future looks dark,’ he said.

Agayla merely pursed her thin lips colourless and bent to her work.

* * *

To Cartheron, everything on board the Honest Avarice was slack-ass and sloppy. But then, it was a Malazan raider. Not a Napan one. Twin-masted, the fore raked far forward, lean-beamed and shallow-draughted, she was damned fast; that he had to admit. But still … not Napan.

It was the night watch and they were anchored in a tiny cove on the Vorian coast. He kept to the stern deck, rearward of the mast. Here at least he had some peace; forward, it was another situation altogether. Constant elbows and thumps that had to be endured with gritted teeth. ‘Watch it, Napan,’ was the sneering refrain, or, ‘Don’t you Napans know how to sail?’

All this despite the fact that the ship’s officers damn well knew he was here because of his unparalleled knowledge of the south coast. Well, expecting any fairness in the world was something he’d given up on as a child.

Even worse, this cove had been one of his family’s favourite hiding-holes for generations, and now he had been forced to share it with these wretched Malazans. The western arm of the headland curved well over, its shore more than deep enough for this shallow corsair.

And not even one word of thanks from the captain, Bezil, a Bloorian renegade who seemed to think he was some sort of nobleman. Just a grunt, as of a job done to minimal satisfaction.

How he wished he could’ve swept over this ship with his old crew! But Lady Sureth, or Surly, as she called herself now, was right. Where would they find safe habourage? Certainly not on Nap, nor then Malaz. And they were wanted all along the coast. Set off for parts unknown? A deep-water journey across Reacher’s Sea for the Seven Cities region, Genabackis, or legendary Jacuruku? Where they wouldn’t know the shallows or the shoals?

No. Best to establish a base. Some safe harbour where they could refit and repair, resupply and even recruit. But it was galling. So damned galling having to stomach these puffed-up raiders. None of whom could stand against even the worst Napan crew, in his view.

Footsteps, and Griff, the old steersman, joined him at the rail. The wizened wiry fellow boasted so many tattoos on his bald scalp that it was now as blue as Cartheron’s own native hue. He was puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe, and he offered a nod of recognition that Cartheron answered with relief – some wisdom had been knocked into this one’s skull, at least.

‘Fine cosy berth you found for us,’ Griff said round the stem of his pipe.

‘Thank you.’

‘Not long now.’

Cartheron nodded at that; the convoy was in fact overdue.

‘Still … strange,’ the taciturn fellow added in a billow of smoke.

Cartheron nodded again. It was odd that knowledge of the convoy should have been so widespread. ‘Word sometimes gets out,’ he murmured.

The steersman offered a noncommittal grunt. In the silence, waves slapped the planks of the vessel and cordage creaked overhead as the vessel rocked. Out beyond the cove in the open waters a storm was rising beneath fat clouds.

‘What happened there on Nap anyway?’ the old sailor asked.

Cartheron felt his back tense and his hands tighten on the wooden rail. He forced a shrug. ‘Tarel usurped the throne.’

‘Ah. And that princess. What of her?’

He let out a long hard breath. ‘Died that night.’

‘Found yourself on the losing side, hey?’

Cartheron didn’t answer. He leaned more of his weight on the rail.

‘Faugh,’ the old sailor grunted. ‘Land and politics – curse ’em both to Oponn. Leave it all behind, son. Best to be at sea in the clean air.’

‘I hear you there, old-timer.’

The steersman regarded the dark foam-capped open waters beyond. ‘A high sea.’

‘Indeed. They may have lain up.’

‘Too dangerous, I’d wager. The Vorians wouldn’t allow a prize like that to pass.’

A cold chilling rain now came pelting down and Cartheron nodded his agreement with the old man’s assessment. ‘Probably running on a few scraps of cloth.’

Griff grunted.

‘And the men-o-war?’ Cartheron asked.

‘Out in deeper waters, waiting.’

‘Waiting to drive them towards the shore – and our waiting arms, hey?’

Griff eyed him, puzzled. ‘Thought you knew the plan.’

‘Bezil tells me nothing.’

Griff snorted a great cloud of smoke. ‘Hunh! Too many years fighting you Napans, I suppose.’

‘Probably thinks I’m a spy.’

‘As they say: blood and tribe first. All others are enemy.’

Cartheron shook his head at the narrow-mindedness of it and rested his elbows on the railing.

Griff had returned to eyeing the rough moonlit whitecaps and now he stiffened, straining. ‘See that, lad?’

Cartheron squinted. After a few moments he glimpsed it as well: a long thin dark line amid the waves, rising and falling. ‘A longboat.’

‘Scouting the shore.’

‘Looking to pull in?’

The old man shook his tattooed bald head. ‘No. Scouting the route. The cargo vessels should be following along.’ He waved one of the night crew to him. ‘Wake the captain. Silence rules, yes?’

The sailor nodded and padded off on bare feet.

Cartheron kept watch while the Honest Avarice came to life around him. All was readied in utter dark and silence. Though light and slim, the corsair packed an inordinately large crew of marines-cum-sailors. They were, in fact, its only cargo. Everyone fought; no one held back. Even Cartheron was expected to join in, though a hated Napan.

They lined the side, watching, while one by one, then in twos, the convoy of cargo vessels came plodding past like fat slow oxen, each showing minimal canvas to the intensifying storm.

Cartheron had to admire the skill of their navigators. To continue the run in such a blow; still, what options did they have, after all? And no doubt they’d made this trip many times before.

Lightning now joined in, the rain driving. In the brilliant flashes Cartheron glimpsed the vessels lit in silhouette. Amid their wide round contours he saw a new shape lancing through the waves and showing near full sail – lean and tall, like a scimitar, he recognized one of Mock’s men-o-war.

Around him, the crew sent up a great bloodthirsty cheer.

‘At ’em!’ someone yelled.

Then came Bezil’s great bellow. ‘Not yet! Wait for them to scatter! But,’ he added, ‘ready poles and sweeps!’

The crew jumped to the ready. Griff untied the tiller-arm. Cartheron helped him with it and the old man nodded his thanks.

With the sweeps working, and crewmen pushing off rocks, the Honest Avarice headed out into the centre of the cove’s mouth. Now came the tricky, and potentially deadly, manoeuvre of turning and catching the driving wind without forcing the vessel on to the waiting rocks.

Griff’s gaze was fixed on the foremast. There hands waited, gripping lines, their eyes on the old man. Glancing to the shore, he nodded, and the hands yanked the lines. The lateen fores’l rose and Griff fought to throw the rudder. The bows heaved over, the ship leaping and yawing. Then the old man’s feet slipped on the wet deck and he stumbled. Startled, Cartheron caught the tiller, but in that instant the ship’s prow swung dangerously towards shore. Cartheron slammed the arm over; the old man’s timing would have been perfect, but now they were too far behind in the arc of their turn.

Sailors yelled their alarm; Bezil came storming up to the stern deck, glaring rage at Cartheron. Yet even he was not foolish enough to interfere as the sleek corsair yawed over, timbers groaning, and the wet rocks of the shore slid past seemingly within arm’s reach.

They passed the small headland – all hands bracing for that terrifying judder and squeal of timber over rock – and slid onward, scudding the coast. Bezil relaxed, letting go of the hilt of his sword, but still glared just as murderously.

‘Damned Napan! Trying to get us killed?’

Griff rose unsteadily, holding his head. ‘No, captain. The lad saved us.’

‘Saved us? Blasted near sank us!’ Bezil jabbed a finger at Griff. ‘Get us out to sea.’

‘Have to gain some room and headway before we can turn into the wind.’

Bezil waved him on. ‘Yes, yes. Just get it done.’ He turned on Cartheron. ‘You – stop interfering and ready your weapons. You’re with the boarding crew.’

Cartheron gingerly relinquished the arm to Griff. ‘Aye … captain.’

Bezil stamped off. The old man offered Cartheron a look of commiseration; the Napan could only shrug.

Griff singled out their target among the line of sluggish merchantmen and came closing in on the vessel from behind. Cartheron watched the action from among the assembled boarding crew. He caught intermittent glimpses of other lean wolf raiders darting in now upon the convoy. Jagged tongues of lightning lit Mock’s three men-o-war out among the heaving waves as they engaged the escort of five barques.

The Honest Avarice was close enough now to steal the wind from their quarry and the vessel lost nearly all headway, rocking unsteadily in the rough contrary waves. Cartheron carried twinned long-knives, both broad parrying daggers, more blades at the rear of his belt, and two on a baldric across his chest. He was ready for a fight, but still he hoped to see the white flag climb the mainmast ahead. As a Napan privateer himself, he knew raiders could be notoriously murderous when their quarry failed to submit. It was perhaps their strongest weapon: fear and savagery at sea.

Ahead, on the taller deck of the merchantman, Cartheron glimpsed sailors readying for boarding. So, it would be a fight. Perhaps they counted on the rough sea to make a difference in the engagement.

Now that the Honest Avarice was almost upon their quarry, Bezil called out, ‘Ready grapnels!’

As they came alongside, crewmen threw line after line across the slim gap. ‘Heave!’ went the call. Lines went round bollards and even the masts as sailors pulled to bring them in closer. Some snapped under the strain. The sea churned between the vessels, shooting upwards and spraying all. Sailors on board the merchantman took pot shots with crossbows, but with both vessels rising and falling most went astray.

Now came the hard part. To his credit, Bezil set one booted foot up on the rail, a line in his hand. ‘Up and at ’em!’ he bellowed, and started climbing.

With an animal roar that momentarily drowned out the sea, the near-entire crew of the Honest Avarice followed.

Sailors on the merchantman now chopped frantically at the lines above. Cartheron surged up hand over hand, desperate to make it before his was cut.

He made the railing and rolled over to land on the rain-slick deck. The sailors had retreated from the side and gathered together round the companionways and cargo hatches, swords and knives readied.

‘Yield!’ Orwen, Bezil’s first mate, shouted.

‘Come and die, Malazan scum!’ someone answered from among the crew.

Cartheron thought it damned odd that they should retreat from the side and be ready to fight on though clearly outnumbered. Usually most crews submitted rather than be slaughtered wholesale. But Orwen waved the Malazans forward, charging, and calling, ‘At ’em!’

Cartheron surged forward with the rest. He engaged a fellow armed with a shortsword, parried, edged the blade over, and thrust, only to feel his long-knife skitter, rebounding. Armour? There beneath the man’s torn shirt gleamed iron. A cuirass! What in the Lad’s name …

He shifted backwards, disengaging. Bloody Abyss …

Yells of surprise and alarm from the cargo hatches. ‘Soldiers!’ someone screamed.

The sailors laughed, parting, and from behind them surged forward armoured troopers bearing bucklers and helms who immediately began slashing on all sides.

Cartheron retreated frantically for the rail, parrying for his life. Chaos erupted as the soldiers broke out to take the deck. He caught sight of Bezil falling, run through. ‘Trap!’ the man bellowed, then gasped, ‘Retreat.’

Cartheron locked blades with one soldier and kicked him backwards. Turning, he took hold of a line, waved all nearby to follow, and leapt overboard. He descended hand over hand until the knotted line shook, then suddenly he was falling with it.

The sea took him like a blow to the stomach. A shockingly cold punch, yet he held on to the line, and even continued to climb – though now through churning frigid darkness.

A trough in the waves allowed him one quick breath. He now hung suspended low from the side of the Honest Avarice. It had broken free of the merchantman, trailing countless lines, but wallowing without headway. Cartheron forced his numb hands and arms to move. A peak washed over him, tugging at him, but at last he reached the rail to roll over on to the slick deck.

Dazed, he glanced about at the chaos around him. Oil flames burned in the rain amidships. What few hands remained fought the canvas to keep the ship upright in the storm. He staggered to the stern, found Griff pinned upright to the tiller-arm, shot through by crossbow bolts, yet somehow still alive.

‘I’ll get us home, old man,’ Cartheron whispered as he hugged the fellow to heave the rudder over.

‘Closer to the wind,’ the old man told him in a gasp, and he flashed bloodied teeth in a death’s grin. ‘She can take it.’

‘Closer it is.’ Cartheron looked to the canvas. ‘Don’t reef the mains’l!’ he bellowed. ‘Keep her taut!’

‘Aye, aye,’ came the faint wind-whipped answering call.

The continued ferocity of the lightning storm lit the men-o-war. They were surrounded now by merchantmen, like wolves amid a pack of leaping hounds. Cartheron frankly thought them lost until a lightning strike came sizzling down to blast right through one of the merchantmen, which burst into an expanding cloud of shattered timbers and flame.

He blinked, shielding his eyes from the conflagration.

Hugged to his chest, Griff chuckled, almost inaudibly. ‘That’s our lass,’ he murmured, grinning through the blood.

‘Who?’ Another lightning strike blasted yet another vessel, leaving behind an after-image in Cartheron’s vision of light escaping through every seam in its side before the timbers flew apart. ‘Who?’

‘Our Tattersail…’ The man’s head sank to his chest. ‘She’ll see them through…’

‘That’s one ferocious battle-mage you have there, old-timer … Griff?’

Cartheron peered at him; the man now hung limp, pinned to the arm. Yet Cartheron did not relinquish his grip, legs braced, a hand either side of the corpse.

A bloody marine bearing a number of slashes climbed to the stern deck. Leaning close, he yelled above the storm, ‘Fire’s out! We’re hands short and you’re taking us into deeper waters?’

Cartheron recognized the burly squat fellow from among the boarding crew. ‘You fought your way clear of the trap?’

‘Aye.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Call me Dujek.’

‘Very well, Dujek. Lay on more canvas. I plan to get us home.’

The fellow roared a laugh. ‘Might as well. I counted us dead a while back.’ He stamped down to the midship deck, bellowing, ‘Tighten the fores’l! Watch the sheets!’

Cartheron kept his weight on the tiller-arm and Griff’s cooling body. The Honest Avarice responded like a leaping colt. They sped past a caravel closing to cut them off, its decks teeming with soldiers who shot salvo after salvo of arrows after them, all of which flew wide in the raging winds. Steadying the arm, Cartheron sent them deeper into the teeth of the storm.

* * *

At dusk, Dancer took to the streets to find Wu. He hadn’t seen him all that day, which was quite unusual lately. It was overcast, as he was finding drearily normal for the island – even in the summer.

He was no mage and so couldn’t track the fellow down, or sense his direction, or anything preternatural such as that. However, as they’d become partners he’d come to know him quite well – perhaps better than he’d prefer – and one thing he’d noticed was that when out for walks the mage had a strange affinity for a certain quarter of the old town, just behind the waterfront. He set out to survey that quarter and sure enough, he soon found him – standing right out in the open too, like a damned bloody fool. A troop of scruffy kids were watching from a little way down the cobbled street.

He had his walking stick out before him, hands planted on it as he rocked back and forth on his heels before the overgrown iron gate of an old house that commanded an unusually large area of wild and tangled grounds. Dancer came up beside him, hissed, ‘You’re in the damned open.’

The short fellow’s brows rose and he peered up, blinking, as if coming back to himself from far away. ‘Ah! Dancer. Excellent.’ He pointed the stick at the house. ‘There it is.’

Dancer paid the place scant attention, saying, ‘You need to stay under cover.’

‘They’re hunting you, not me.’

‘Don’t be so certain. I still say that calling card was a mistake.’

‘We can’t go killing everyone.’ He made shooing gestures with a hand. ‘We need little people to order about. How can I delegate if there’s no one to delegate to?’

‘He’s not the type to work for anyone.’

‘We had to make the offer. Let it not be said that we did not observe the civilities. And in any case, he works for Mock, doesn’t he?’

Dancer gritted his teeth. ‘Well, sort of. He’s on his guard now, that’s for sure.’

‘No matter.’ He indicated the house again. ‘I’ve found it.’

Dancer couldn’t keep the irritation from his face and voice as he snapped, ‘Found what?’

‘The centre of the nest of power on this island.’ His expression clouded. ‘That is, if nests have centres … anyway, this house. Tell me … what do you see?’

Dancer cast the building a quick glance. ‘Just a decrepit old stone house. It looks abandoned … but,’ and he frowned, suddenly uneasy, ‘it’s not.’

‘No? It’s not? What do you sense?’

‘As if someone’s in there. Watching us.’

Wu was nodding to himself. ‘Good. You are no mage, but your training has heightened your senses. You can tell this place shouldn’t be meddled with.’

‘It makes me feel … tense. Nervous.’

‘That is an aura it is projecting. Camouflage. It does not want anyone approaching.’

‘You talk as though it’s alive.’

‘Some scholars claim it is – in a manner perhaps incomprehensible to us.’

Dancer crossed his arms, scanned the surrounding dark streets, half obscured by the misting rain; the urchins were whispering among themselves, and staring. He felt even more exposed and uncomfortable. ‘Hunh. So, why the interest?’

Wu said, with a strange grimness, ‘I intend to gain entry to that structure.’

Dancer snorted a laugh. ‘I’ve been getting into buildings all my life.’

‘Not like this you haven’t.’

‘Well, you have ruined the sneaking-in approach – standing out here like some kind of frightened tinker.’

Wu raised a finger. ‘True enough,’ and he pushed open the wrought-iron gate, which squealed loudly. Down the street the street-urchins let out audible gasps of awe.

Dancer wanted to slap his brow. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed. Strangely, he felt like an urchin himself, prodding some unfamiliar slumbering beast.

Wu waved him onward. ‘Come. We’ll knock. Simple process of elimination, yes?’

Dancer edged forward on to the walk of laid flags, all wet and overgrown by moss and lichens. Why was he following this fool into yet another uncertain situation? Could he not let him get the better of him? Was it rivalry? No. He took hold of the heaviest blades at his baldrics. Reluctantly, he was coming to the realization that he actually felt quite protective of the helpless fellow; as one must watch out for a halfwit younger brother.

Ahead, Wu was apparently approaching the front door with complete nonchalance; he was tapping his walking stick, humming tunelessly. The walk curved around mounds that dotted the large overgrown grounds. Squat, dead or near-dead trees brooded over these mounds, their branches empty of all leaves, black and gleaming wet. A low wall of heaped fieldstones enclosed the property.

Wu used the metal head of his walking stick to rap on the stout door.

Dancer stood behind, scanning the rear and the grounds. Something about the forsaken unkempt yard troubled him more than the house itself.

‘Hello?’ Wu called. ‘Anyone there?’ He reached out to take hold of the wrought-iron latch and pulled, to no effect.

Silence from the house, while the rain hissed and the sea, not so distant, rolled against the rocky shore and the city wharves. The impression the place gave Dancer was of a hunched brooding bulk. It was constructed of dressed stones, two-storeyed, with one side slightly taller in what might be a tower of sorts, but all that seemed a façade for something else, something deeper. For example, a few small deeply seated windows dotted the structure, but the glass was faceted and smoky, as if merely ornamental. The only analogue he could come up with was a cenotaph, or a monument, constructed of solid stone and built to resemble a manor house, yet empty.

Dancer wiped cold rain from his brow. ‘Let’s go. No one’s home.’

‘Someone is home,’ Wu insisted. ‘They’re just ignoring us.’ He stepped back from the wide slab of iron-blue slate that was the house’s landing and shook his fist. ‘Fine! I will be back! And you won’t ignore me then – I swear!’

He turned to Dancer and adjusted his dripping wet coat. ‘Let’s go.’

‘So long as you’re done yelling at an empty house.’

Wu pointed both forefingers in emphasis, ‘I am far from done, my friend!’ He stamped off down the walk.

‘Hey, mister!’ a kid yelled from the street. The street-urchins now lined the fieldstone wall. Some were short enough to lean their elbows on it.

Wu halted. ‘What?’

‘Step out on to the grounds,’ the tallest of them called, while his peers chortled and covered their mouths. The younger ones froze at this suggestion, their eyes huge.

‘The grounds? Whatever for?’

Dancer waved an arm. ‘Get lost, you damned brats.’

‘G’wan,’ the lad called, ‘we double-dare you.’

Wu looked to the overcast sky in exasperation. ‘Fine.’ He stepped out among the dead knee-high grasses and weeds. ‘There. You happy now?’

‘Wow, he actually is that stupid,’ the lad whispered to his friends in wonderment.

Dancer waved Wu onward. ‘Stop showing off.’ He started for the gate.

A slithering, hissing noise among the weeds spun Dancer round. Wu had heard it also, and was scanning the dense matted bracken, looking puzzled. All at once something yanked the mage off his feet and he sprawled, his arms flailing.

The kids stared, jaws agape, then all screamed and scattered into the dark.

Dancer was in the air, blades already out. He fell slashing only to find tough dry roots wrapped about Wu’s ankle. He sawed them, but as soon as one parted two or three more took its place. Wu fumbled at the vines as well, but Dancer slapped his hands away and continued slashing even as both men were violently yanked through thorny brittle brush. He cast a quick glance ahead to see that they were being pulled directly towards the nearest mound – and that its heaped earth was steaming and roiling. Thicker roots now came snaking out of the dirt.

‘Do your stuff,’ he told Wu.

‘Well,’ the mage said, his voice tight with pain. ‘This is rather embarrassing.’

Another yank and they slid forward until Wu’s booted foot was up against the side of the mound. Dancer sawed and slashed frantically. ‘Do something!’ he yelled.

‘Can’t. Shadows won’t fool this…’ The mage suddenly raised his head in obvious inspiration. He raised a finger.

Dancer pointed a blade. ‘No! Don’t you dare!’

Wu’s foot sank into the steaming earth up to his shin. Fatter roots now emerged to twine round his thigh. Dancer noticed, distractedly, that no vines or roots were pulling at him.

‘The only chance, I’m afraid.’

‘No, not yet. We’ll think of something.’

‘Can’t be helped…’

‘No! Don’t you fucking dare!’

Cold darkness swept over him and he shuddered. What seemed like a storm of murk came whipping all about him and either it lifted him, or the earth fell, but he found himself falling in darkness. He hit hard, the breath punched from him, and rolled in dusty sandy earth.

He leapt to his feet, blades readied, turned a full circle. They were in some sort of desert and it was deep twilight. But then, it seemed to always be dusk in Shadow. He spotted Wu a short way off and stamped over to him.

‘I can’t believe you stranded us in Shadow again!’

Wu was holding his leg; his boot and trouser leg had been torn clean off. ‘Well, it worked. Remember that. I think my ankle’s broken.’

‘Well, I’m not carrying you.’

Wu glanced about almost contentedly. ‘Fine. I’ll just rest here until my ankle’s healed.’

Dancer pressed the cold pommels of his daggers to his brow and gave vent, stamping back and forth and kicking at the dust. ‘Arghh! Goddammit!’ He sheathed the blades savagely in his baldrics. ‘Okay! Which way?’

Wu pointed, squinting. ‘What is that?’

Dancer looked far off where the terrain climbed, but then realized that the mage meant closer in: there, a small dark object appeared to be hanging in the air. He wondered if it was a bird – but a bird that did not move? ‘Don’t know.’

‘Let’s have a look.’

Dancer took hold of Wu’s arm, grumbling, ‘Famous last words.’

He lifted the skinny fellow on to his back. He was a very light load. The dusty ground was quite flat, except where outcroppings of bulbous rocks rose suddenly, almost like islands.

‘Those are old coral reefs,’ Wu announced as they passed more of the curving buttes. Dancer grunted his disinterest.

Coming close to the object – or, rather, the ground beneath it – Dancer slowed his pace, staring. He set Wu down, hardly able to take his eyes from the thing.

Finally, Wu announced, rather nonplussed, ‘It’s a boat.’

Dancer nodded his agreement; it was indeed a boat. Round, or basket-shaped. A line descended from it to a net that hung just above them.

‘I wonder what would happen if we—’

‘No,’ Dancer snapped. ‘You’ve been caught once today. Isn’t that enough?’

While they stood watching, the boat rocked and the line began to rise, taking the net with it. Once the net was pulled up out of sight, a paddle appeared and the unseen occupant slowly headed off.

Dancer scratched his head. ‘Fishing in air?’

Hopping on one foot, Wu pointed ahead to where the ground rose. ‘Not necessarily. See how we’re in a broad deep valley here?’ Dancer nodded. ‘It could be that to our fisherman friend there’s a lake here – like two different moments in time overlapping. Sort of like layers.’

Dancer grunted his understanding. ‘But … why?’

Wu limped off with the aid of his stick. ‘Perhaps it is a characteristic of Shadow. Many scholars agree that the realm, or dimension, or place – call it what you will – is shattered. Broken. Perhaps this is a consequence. Shards of moments overlapping. In any case,’ and he pointed again, ‘let’s say hello to the locals, shall we?’

Dancer strolled, keeping pace. ‘Too dangerous. We should just return.’

‘Oh, come now. We’re here anyway…’

Dancer took a deep steadying breath, said through clenched teeth, ‘We need to get back.’

‘Won’t take but a moment.’

‘The last time didn’t go so smoothly…’

Wu raised a finger. ‘Ah! But did you notice our transition in?’

‘Yeah. We fell about a fathom.’

The Dal Hon mage looked crestfallen, his tangled brows crimping. ‘I meant how easy it was. Progress! No ritual or preparation. We’re getting to know each other better.’

‘We?’

‘Shadow and I.’

Dancer just rolled his eyes skyward. Then he noted drily, ‘Your ankle seems to have recovered rather quickly.’

Wu paused, his shoulders hunching. ‘Ah … yes. My amazing powers of recuperation, obviously.’

Dancer could not help but look to the sky once again.

They climbed a series of sloping hills. As they plodded along Dancer tried to put himself into the strange mindset that Wu was prattling on about. After thinking about it for a while he found he could picture that they were currently climbing what the locals would think of as the gradient of a lake, or an inland sea.

Where the ground levelled out they found a camp of domed huts built of bent branches and rough hides. Boats of similar construction, but inverted, lined what Dancer imagined would be the shore. The locals, however, made him flinch to a halt and snatch at his weapons.

Daemons, they appeared to him: inhumanly tall, insectile, with black spiny fur and large faceted eyes. Wu, however, hobbled right up to the nearest. Dancer hissed warnings at him and tried to head him off, but he took no notice.

‘Greetings,’ he said. The local didn’t seem to hear him, or simply ignored him as it squatted on its thin limbs, busy trimming branches. ‘Hello?’ he tried again. Now the creature raised his, or her, head. ‘Could you tell us where we are?’

The local stood. Peering about wildly, it backed away, then ran deeper into the camp. Dancer approached Wu, weapons drawn. ‘We should leave while we can.’

Wu raised one hand for patience then set both on his walking stick and rocked on his heels, waiting. Dancer found himself wondering whether it was the real stick, or just another shadow-copy, and decided that it really didn’t matter. He now understood that looking for anything like the ‘truth’ was the wrong approach to take with the mage. And he wasn’t sure that it really mattered to him any more, either.

The first local returned, but with an even larger one in tow. They were deep in animated discussion and Dancer didn’t recognize anything of the language. Finally, the bigger one waved a chitinous limb, perhaps for silence, as he, or she, scanned the area.

‘Can you even see me?’ Wu tried.

The creature cocked its head, made further complicated gestures. The numerous pincers at its mouth worked and to his amazement, and unease, Dancer heard, ‘Are there ghosts with us this day?’

Wu caught Dancer’s eye. Ghosts, he mouthed.

‘There are indeed,’ he said.

The local spoke to its companion then returned its attention to Wu. ‘Why are you here? Do you seek vengeance? Do you require propitiation?’

Wu’s interest was visibly piqued as his brows rose. ‘Propitiation? What form would that take? Bright shiny stones perhaps?’

‘No. That I should cut myself to release blood for you. Or vomit food.’

Wu’s face wrinkled. ‘Never mind the propitiation. We are just travelling through and would question you about yourselves and this region.’

‘Ah. I am brood-mother Xethel. We are the—’ What followed was a series of noises that Dancer couldn’t possibly recreate. Wu flinched. ‘We live here by the lake and fish and hunt. The world was created in such a way for us and we are content.’

Dancer peered at the desert that now surrounded him and arched a brow in silent commentary.

‘Have you no enemies, then?’ Wu asked.

‘Well, there are the—’ Xethel let loose another stream of high-pitched whistles and clacks. ‘But they are far away. You may know them by the name they call themselves, the Tiste Edur.’

‘We do indeed know of them,’ Wu answered. ‘They claim this land as their own.’

Xethel let loose a series of noises that Dancer guessed might be laughter. ‘No. They are newcomers. This land is ancient and we have been here since it was created. And anyway, the land cannot belong to anyone. Surely it is the other way round? People belong to the land that nurtures them, yes?’

‘I bow to your wisdom,’ Wu answered. Studying his walking stick, he asked, ‘We ghosts are common here, then?’

‘Not so much in the past, but more now.’

Clearly intrigued, Wu answered, wonderingly, ‘Really?’

A noise pulled at Dancer’s awareness and he turned his head, concentrating. After a moment it came again across the dunes and he cursed. It was the distant baying of a hound.

Even Xethel turned her fur-covered head. ‘You are trespassing and have raised the ire of the guardians. You should return to the gate.’

Now Wu’s brows shot up. ‘Gate? There is a gate?’

‘You do not know of it?’ She was backing away, making motions that they should follow.

‘No. We are from … far away.’

‘Then come, quickly.’

The baying was gathering in intensity, and held a new eager note. Dancer took Wu’s arm and helped him along. Xethel led them up a tall dune and there, in the basin beyond, stood a structure very much at odds with its surroundings. Dancer helped Wu jog down the slope, keeping pace with Xethel.

It was a small arch of cut and dressed black basalt – built to endure the ages, obviously, but draped in wind-blown sand and dust now.

Xethel motioned to it. ‘Go.’

Dancer released Wu’s arm. He was no mage, but clearly this construct was no more than an ancient curiosity. He neither sensed nor saw any power or aura about it.

‘It is closed,’ Wu said in disappointment.

An unreadable emotion crossed Xethel’s alien features. ‘Are you blind? It is quite open. Many have used it.’

‘In your time, perhaps.’

Xethel was weaving her long thin fingers together, perhaps in unease. ‘Please do not think badly of me, but I must go.’

‘But I have so many questions,’ Wu said.

Xethel laughed again, though rather nervously this time. ‘Then I name you Amman-an-ash. The One Who Would Know Everything.’ She nodded in Dancer’s direction. ‘And you I name Coth-tel-ish-ath. The One Who Watches and Judges.’

The baying burst so close upon them that even Xethel winced, her bony shoulders hunching. ‘Now,’ Dancer snarled.

But Wu was eyeing the arch, a finger at his lips. ‘Interesting. It looks to have been sealed from this side…’

‘Now!’

The little mage rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, very well.’ He tucked the walking stick under his arm. ‘Let’s see if I can remember…’

Gravel clattered nearby and both men turned their heads. Atop the dune behind them stood a massive canine, nearly the size of a pony. It was short-haired, and dirty cream in hue. It stared down at them with an almost quizzical tilt of its wide head, as if confused as to why they weren’t running.

Wu gaped. The walking stick fell to the dirt. ‘On it,’ he gasped. Dancer faced the creature and drew his heaviest fighting knives, though he had little hope of his chances. Xethel was backing away, peering round frantically, obviously sensing the beast, but not able to see it.

With a chuff like a bull’s cough, the animal charged. Dancer had only one idea. A technique he’d heard of where one leapt over the head of a beast and stabbed downwards. It needed momentum, so he immediately charged as well, pumping his arms, blades held in reverse grip. His footing was poor in the yielding sand, but there was nothing to be done about that. He watched the creature’s head rising and falling as it hurtled towards him, drool flying from its maw and its bright eyes seeming to glow with bloodlust.

His sense of timing told him it was now or die and so he leapt, but everything turned and twisted in a strange way while he was in mid-air and he came down hard on wet sand that shushed beneath him. He gasped for breath. It was dark, and a cold wind was blowing, and on that wind he thought he heard a diminishing howl of daemonic frustration and rage.

He lay peering up at clouds and familiar stars peeping through their ragged gaps. Malaz. Coughing and splashing sounded nearby and he raised his head. Wu was attempting to rise in the surf while the waves splashed up to his chest. He came staggering over to stand brushing at his sodden clothes.

‘There!’ he announced. ‘More reliable, yes?’

‘You? Reliable?’

Wu extended a hand that he took to help pull himself up. Together, they headed for the bar. Water was dripping from Wu’s sleeves and his boot squelched as he walked. ‘You really charged that beast?’ he said.

‘Going to be torn to pieces anyway.’

Wu was nodding, hands now behind his back. ‘True, true. There must be a way, though…’ and he walked on in silent thought.

They pushed open the door to find the bar empty of customers but for three drunks. Surly was at the counter and a few of the Napan hands were cleaning up, sweeping and clearing tables.

‘Where have you been?’ Surly demanded from across the room. ‘And you’re getting the floor wet.’

‘Went for a wash,’ Wu answered.

‘About time,’ one of the Napan bouncers next to the door muttered under his breath. The one called Grinner.

Dancer hid his own grin, while Wu pretended he hadn’t heard. He bustled across the floor, making for the stairs. ‘I’ll be in my office should I be needed.’

‘Needed?’ Surly murmured, leaning up against the counter, her arms crossed.

Following Wu, Dancer had just reached the stairs when the door smashed open and more people came charging in. He spun to see five men and one woman – and he recognized the woman. It was the diminutive, black-haired courier with the silver earrings.

She pointed straight at him, a blade in her gloved fist. ‘Told you it was a small island! Get ’im!’ Her men charged. Dancer whipped his knives from his baldrics and shifted to cover Wu.

In that instant all the Napans moved. Grinner, at the door, lashed out to punch the woman in the side of the head and Dancer saw her eyes roll white as she fell.

Three of the toughs came charging across the room. Two remained at the door. One thrust at Grinner but in such close quarters Grinner caught his arm with one hand, took hold of the man’s belt with the other, lifted him overhead and smashed him down on a table. The other slashed at Choss, who slipped the cut and rammed his elbow into the man’s throat: he fell, clutching his neck.

The lean Napan, Tocaras, swept up a chair and lobbed it at a scar-faced thug, dropping him. Shrift threw a heavy knife, pommel first, that bounced from the skull of another attacker, while Surly, leaping an entire table, struck the last in his side with one extended heel. Dancer heard the man’s ribs breaking as he fell unconscious.

He lowered his blades, blinking in the sudden silence. Damned impressive. Who are these Napans?

The door to the kitchen was thrown open and the gigantic cook, Urko, emerged holding an unconscious man under each arm. ‘What in Mael’s name is going on?’ he demanded.

Surly sent him a hand signal of some kind, said, ‘It’s handled.’

The man grunted, satisfied, then looked perplexed. ‘Well, what do I do with these two?’

From over Dancer’s shoulder, Wu supplied, ‘Just set them out with the rest of the trash.’

Dancer saw the man cast a glance to their hostess, Surly, for confirmation. The woman nodded, and he grunted his compliance. Dancer looked at Wu, but the mage seemed oblivious of the finer points of the exchange; the fellow made little shooing gestures with his hands, said, ‘I’ll leave you to clean up then, shall I, Surly?’

The wiry woman rolled her eyes in disgust. Wu waved Dancer up the stairs. ‘Let us discuss things.’

Dancer clenched his lips against saying anything there in front of everyone, sheathed his blades, and followed.

Inside the office he shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Wu was pacing back and forth tapping the tips of his fingers together, obviously very agitated.

‘Did you see that?’ Dancer demanded.

Wu turned on him, his tiny eyes glittering and bright. ‘Yes! Amazing! I have the best henchmen ever!’

Dancer looked to the ceiling and crossed his arms, sighing. ‘I don’t think they’re your henchmen.’

‘Whatever. Chain of command, Dancer. Chain of command. Now we can set to work.’

‘Work?’

‘Yes. Tackling Geffen, of course. We have the personnel.’

Dancer blew out a breath. This guy’s miles ahead of the cart, let alone the horse. ‘Let’s not rush over any cliff here…’

Looking vexed, Wu sat behind the desk. ‘Then what would you suggest?’

Dancer motioned back behind his shoulder. ‘I’ll have a word.’

Wu raised his brows. ‘Ah. Excellent idea. Take your time. I must think.’

‘About what?’

The little fellow rested his elbows on the desk and set his chin on his fingertips. His eyes almost closed. ‘About gates. And how to open them.’

Dancer pointed a warning. ‘Just don’t make any more trouble for us right now, okay?’

But the mage’s wizened and wrinkled face was already dreamy. Dancer was tempted to give him a cuff and ask whether he’d heard, but shook his head instead.

Noise to his right spun him round, blades whipping free. The shells of nuts lay there on the floor, and more fell as he watched. He raised his gaze to the rafters and there sat the damned nacht, Wu’s pet. He’d wondered where the blasted thing had got to lately.

As he eyed it, the little beast bared its sharp pale fangs at him then set to work gnawing on another walnut. He waved it off – eliciting an answering hiss – and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Downstairs, all the attackers were gone and the mess was being cleaned up. He spotted Surly and deliberately crossed straight to her, pulled up a chair and sat backwards on it, crossing his arms on the back.

She peered down at him for a short moment then nodded and waved off the other Napans, who’d suddenly appeared to crowd close. She sat opposite him and crossed her arms.

‘Want a drink?’ she offered.

He nodded.

Without taking her eyes from him she called out, ‘Our best wine, Hawl. Two glasses.’

A moment later Hawl – burly and heavy-set where Surly was greyhound lean – set down two fine-stemmed glasses and a decanter of wine.

Surly poured, tasted the vintage, then set the glass down. She eyed him, her mouth set straight, thin, and hard. ‘So,’ she began, ‘you’re hijacking.’

‘You questioned the toughs, hey?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where’re they now?’

‘Being thrown off a pier.’

‘What if they don’t swim?’

The woman raised a brow to say she didn’t give a damn. ‘You should’ve approached us,’ she said.

He snorted.

‘I don’t like you bringing trouble here.’

‘Shut up. I’m talking to you – not the reverse.’

The rage that flared in the woman’s eyes was informative. Not used to such a tone, this one.

It took her a while to unclench her teeth and control her breathing, and she remained quite flushed by the outrage that seethed within. She asked, terse, ‘Why then are we even talking?’

‘I have a proposal.’

Her gaze slid past his shoulder and he dared a glance over. Another of the Napan women, Amiss, young, wiry, and full of nervous energy, was peering out of the door. She nodded an all clear. He returned his gaze to Surly. ‘You have perimeter guards out already?’

She gave a brief nod of assent.

‘Good.’ His tone was casual, but again he was impressed. He sipped the wine and nodded to her – at least it was Untan, he could tell that much. ‘Where should I start? Captain, is it?’ She lifted her shoulders, neither assent nor denial. ‘So. A Napan raider crew. Wrecked on Malaz where no one would even cross the street to spit on you. Why not take passage to the mainland and return to Nap? Because you can’t. Wrong side of the recent transition in power, hey?’ Again the woman merely lifted her shoulders. She took a drink and he noted that this time she tossed back the entire glass. ‘The deal is a ship,’ he said.

The woman turned the glass in her hand. ‘We’ll get one,’ she said, her tone low and fierce.

This time he lifted his shoulders. ‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. We promise one.’

‘How can you possibly back up a promise like that?’

‘Because…’ and here he let out a long breath, as he was taking a huge gamble, ‘the owner of this establishment happens to be a damned scary warlock.’

The woman’s brows rose and she leaned forward, utterly incredulous. She raised a finger to point to the ceiling; mouthed silently, What? Him?

Dancer nodded.

She cocked her head, studying him, clearly trying to work out whether he was serious or insane. Finally, she broke out laughing aloud.

He allowed her to have her laugh, and after a time she cleared her throat and said, ‘Bullshit.’

He tilted his head as if to say, Have it your way. ‘What have you to lose? Give us a month and you’ll have a ship.’

The woman was clearly restraining herself from laughing again. ‘And in return? What do you want?’

‘You work for us.’

‘Only if the crew agrees.’

Dancer nodded again. ‘Fair enough. Well…’ He pushed himself from the table. ‘Until then, everything stays the same, yes?’

Surly gave a little snort and shook her head, as if at his audacity, or her own gullibility. Since it wasn’t outright refusal, he took it as agreement and returned upstairs. From where they sat about the room, the gaze of the remaining Napan crew followed him as he went.

Upstairs he found Wu still behind the desk, but leaning back with his feet up and his mouth open, sound asleep and snoring.

Dancer stifled a curse. Yet even as he watched from the door, the nacht creature, now squatting on the desk, pitched a shard of walnut shell towards Wu’s open mouth.

It struck his nose and the little fellow grunted, snorting.

Dancer stepped up and waved the creature from the desk. It leapt to the rafters, chattering and giving vent to what sounded eerily like curses, while Dancer swiped the mage’s feet from the desk.

Wu’s eyes snapped open and he glared about in a momentary panic. Spotting Dancer, he relaxed, then frowned and brushed away the heap of walnut shells from his chest. ‘Yes? What is it? I was thinking.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ He raised a hand, forestalling any answer. ‘New order of business. Get us a ship. Immediately. We need one.’

Wu raised a brow, rather surprised. ‘Really. A ship.’ He leaned back once more, touched his fingertips together over his stomach. ‘Hmm. An interesting challenge, that.’

‘Is that you thinking again?’

Wu cast him a glare. ‘I’ll look into it.’

‘Do so. We have to have one.’

Wu straightened his vest. ‘The things I have to buy just to keep you happy…’