Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 4

Despite housing close to a thousand acolytes and priests, the Great Hall of the Temple of D’rek on the island of Kartool was its characteristic silent self. And because Tayschrenn hated noise and its attendant commotion and disruption more than anything, he valued this calm and quiet devotion to duty very highly.

He was therefore quite annoyed when a murmuring buzz of whispers arose among the acolytes; it irked him so much that he opened his eyes and raised his head from where it rested upon the tips of his fingers to glance about for the source of the disturbance, frowning.

Silla, his neighbour at table, nudged him, whispering, ‘There he is. The Invigilator, Tallow. Arrived last night. They say he hails from the Seven Cities region.’

Tayschrenn looked to the entrance. A priest in black robes trimmed with red was making his way up the central aisle to the top table. Tayschrenn’s first impression was one of blunt raw power. Squat, bull-necked, his shaved bullet-head sun-darkened; the man fairly oozed authority and might.

He rested his chin on his fists, his elbows on the table. ‘What is he doing here?’ he mused.

Silla offered a knowing chuckle. ‘Come to take the masters to task, they say. Talk is they’ve been lax.’

Tayschrenn studied the girl; like everyone’s, her brows and scalp were shaved, and, like him, she wore the loose dark robes of a full priest. He frowned anew. ‘According to whom?’

She gestured vaguely. ‘Well, that is the word in the study halls. Really, Tay, you should socialize more. Listen to what people are saying.’

‘If they ever said anything worthwhile, I would.’

She raised one hairless brow. ‘Well, thank you so much.’

The Invigilator took his place at the top table and the acolytes returned to their meals. The visiting authority, however, did not eat; his dark glittering eyes scanned the broad hall. His gaze met Tayschrenn’s, and the priest was impressed by the prowess he sensed within this new master, far eclipsing that of the brethren at table with him.

Yet he did not immediately lower his gaze in deference, and chose instead to study that dense aura. For a fleeting instant he sensed within its heart a strange coloration that he’d detected in none other.

The Invigilator broke the connection, looking away to join his neighbour in low conversation. Frowning, Tayschrenn once more lowered his brow to his fingertips, thinking.

The quiet bass resounding of a gong signalled the end of the assigned mealtime and Tayschrenn glanced at his still full bowl. Somehow, he could not bring himself to eat. The crude physicality of the act nauseated him. It was of the flesh; all that he sought so dearly to slough from him and leave behind.

A group of acolytes stopped by the table, greeting Silla. ‘Come to the common room, yes? We have free time.’

Silla extended a hand in invitation to Tayschrenn. ‘Coming?’

‘No, thank you.’

A younger male student made a face. ‘Not the golden boy. Too good for us, no doubt.’

Tayschrenn looked at the lad, who was a few years behind him in his studies. He shook his head. ‘No. It is just that I have no interest in what you spend your time talking about: your joking exchanges, your veiled flirting, your predictable teasing and meaningless gossip. It is all completely trivial and boring.’

The shocked expressions among the group surprised him. Silla urged them to go on ahead, saying, ‘I’ll catch up.’ She glared down at her neighbour. ‘It’s called making friends, Tay.’

‘None in that group are interested in establishing true friendships. They just seek to fill their empty hours with diversions and amusing nothings. I see no reason to try to entertain them, and nor do I find them in the least entertaining.’

Silla tilted her head, studying him as if seeing him anew. ‘Tay … sometimes…’ She sighed. ‘I believe it’s also called having fun. You might want to try it sometime.’

‘As I said. I do not find it fun. In fact, I find it rather painful.’

She raised her gaze to the ceiling in despair. ‘Dear D’rek! Why do I and Koarsden even try? Stew in your own juice, then; I’m off.’

Alone, he set his chin in his fists once more. Stewing? There were many mysteries among the disciplines of higher Warren manipulation that constantly preoccupied him, and now he was presented with this strange new coloration that the Invigilator had brought with him … was it a by-product of initiation into the higher cult echelons? A mystery he was not yet qualified to know? Yet he’d detected none of it among the temple’s older priests.

And was all this stewing? He wasn’t quite certain.

Perhaps he should take a walk. Walking always helped him think.

He pushed up from the table and set off for the deeper halls of the temple; wandering these solitary paths always eased his mind. Once or twice he believed he’d even found solace there in the darkness and felt all about him, for a privileged moment, the deep slow reverberating heartbeat of the Worm of Autumn itself.

* * *

The next morning Tayschrenn was meditating. He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of his cell, his hands up the wide sleeves of his robes for warmth. The only light came from a single narrow opening far up in one wall, through which wan daylight filtered down like a thin mist.

The frail wooden door was shut. Only now, in private, did he dare fully explore the furthest boundaries of his researches into the Warrens. For through his probings – and extraordinary endurance and prowess – he had advanced far into strange regions where Warren boundaries and definitions appeared to merge and meld. Here Thyr and Telas seemed to come together and touch upon even more fundamental, complex and distant realms that he recognized as not of human origin.

And Thyr, it appeared, was the best starting point for such researches. Unfortunately, Thyr was forbidden, as a tool of the meddling enchantress, the Queen of Dreams.

A knock brought his head up. He withdrew from his Warren, cleared his throat to wet it and answered, rather irritated, ‘Yes?’

A female acolyte spoke outside. ‘You are summoned to the side of Ithell.’

‘Very well.’ He rose, rubbed feeling back into his legs, and headed for the quarters of the high priest, Demidrek Ithell.

He found the door open. The smoke of burning fragrant wood and incense wafted out in thick tendrils and scarves, but could not overcome the far more powerful and clinging miasma of long rotten flesh. The outer chamber was crowded by the usual cadre of healers, Dragons Deck readers, and other such consulting prestidigitators, some from lands very distant indeed. These Tayschrenn considered little more than minor talents, if not outright charlatans. But they were a comfort to the Demidrek in his illness and dotage, and so he simply ignored their presence.

He moved to pass through to the inner audience chamber, but before he could do so a woman caught his sleeve, her long sharp nails penetrating the weave of his robes to clench his upper arm. ‘Tayschrenn, yes?’ she said in accented Talian.

He frowned down at the short, dark-haired woman. ‘Yes.’

‘We should discuss the enhancing potential of certain drugs in Warren exploration.’

I would rather have iron spikes driven into my eyes, woman. Or, more accurately, into yours. ‘Thank you – but I am awaited within.’

Leaning closer, she whispered, ‘The Invigilator also waits within, and there is something about him that troubles me. You have seen it too, yes?’

‘What is your name?’

‘Lady Batevari, from far Darujhistan.’

He removed her clawed hand. ‘Well, Lady. Your insights are interesting. Perhaps we could discuss them sometime in the future. Thank you.’

Her answering glare was ferocious. She tossed her head. ‘Or perhaps not – as I do not appreciate having my time or effort wasted.’

He offered a thin smile as he turned away, dismissing her. Ancient Ones! The lesser the skill, the greater the arrogance.

The bedchamber was even more crowded than the outer room, as all the Demidrek’s staff and assistants were gathered round his bed. A number had to shuffle aside to allow Tayschrenn to approach. On the opposite side stood the Invigilator, his bronzed, sweaty face floating in the murk like an oval mask.

One of the aides bent down to whisper in the Demidrek’s ear. It had been more than a month since Tayschrenn had last seen Ithell, and he was shocked by the man’s decline. He lay buried under the rich bedding. His arms resembled bones wrapped in parchment – the veins distended, a deep blue, near to black. The man’s head seemed already a fleshless skull, the cheeks withered and sunken, the eyes bruised dark pits.

One emaciated arm rose and beckoned Tayschrenn closer. Obediently, he leaned over the bed, though the churning stink of rotting flesh was a near physical barrier. ‘Tay,’ the Demidrek’s voice came as the barest of sour breaths, ‘this is Invigilator Tallow. He has been sent to oversee the transition.’ Tayschrenn inclined his head to the Invigilator. ‘You will offer him every assistance.’

Tayschrenn nodded. ‘Of course. But there will be no need. D’rek has more work for you, I am sure.’

Ithell’s lips pulled back in a wry smile that resembled a death’s rictus. He patted Tayschrenn’s arm, his hand a bundle of hot dry bones. The arm fell and an exhalation rippled the ancient’s chest, revealing the effort that just that small gesture took.

Tayschrenn straightened from what he was certain was a deathbed. The Invigilator, Tallow, gestured to the open door and he nodded in response. The two eased their way through the crush of gathered brothers and sisters come to pray for the Demidrek’s soul.

In the main room Tayschrenn was quite amused to see the Darujhistani seeress, Batevari, pull away from the Invigilator as if the man carried some plague. Tallow ignored the woman; he gestured Tayschrenn forward. The priest dipped his head in assent and preceded him out into the hall.

For a time the two walked side by side down the darkened stone tunnel, hands clasped at their backs. Once they had some measure of privacy, the Invigilator cleared his throat.

‘It is an honour to meet you, young Tayschrenn. Tales of your prowess and early accomplishments have reached even unto the synod.’

‘The honour is all mine, Invigilator.’

‘Ithill himself plucked you from the streets, I understand. Yes?’

‘Indeed.’

‘You grew up in the temple compound, then. A very strange upbringing for a child. I heard that your mastery of Telas exceeded the cult’s teachers before you were ten. Is this so?’

‘I have been self-directed in my studies for some time now.’

‘You have, I understand, served as Ithill’s secretary. Relieving him of the burden of administrative duties.’

‘Indeed.’

‘The committee of transition may call upon you, then.’

‘I would serve however I may.’

Tallow stopped. ‘Of the many qualified to take over the mantle of Demidrek,’ he asked, ‘to whom do you think the position ought to go?’

Tayschrenn shrugged. ‘It is not for me to choose.’

The Invigilator stepped closer and Tayschrenn found himself pressed up against the cold damp wall. He was suddenly aware of how intimidating a physical presence the heavy-set, frowning man projected. ‘Of course not. However … if you had to?’

‘It would not be proper for me to name anyone.’

The man snorted. ‘Because your name is among the candidates.’ The man’s thick fleshy lips drew down even further. ‘Do not think me a fool, young Tayschrenn. You may have squirmed and politicked your way into the confidence of a doddering old man, but you carry no such favour with me. If I detect any evidence of efforts to influence or intimidate the committee I will not hesitate to act. Do I make myself clear?’

At that moment Tayschrenn held in his head the image of Koarsden howling in laughter at the idea of his ever conniving with or ‘politicking’ anyone. Yet all that was swept aside when he glimpsed once more in this man’s theurgic aura something strange. A tinge he’d not witnessed in any other’s – almost a discoloured moiling of power. So faint was it, and buried so deep within the core of the man’s projecting energies, that he half imagined he’d mistaken it.

Forgetting everything, even their discussion, he frowned, quite puzzled, and searched for it once again.

Tallow’s own gaze narrowed then and he pushed Tayschrenn away, adjusting his robes. He snapped, ‘I will tolerate no interference,’ and stalked away up the tunnel.

Tayschrenn watched him go; from this distance could not detect anything odd. Perhaps he had imagined it. In any case, it was clear that the Invigilator did not want him interfering in the process of transition – though what form the other man imagined his interference might take he had no idea.

* * *

Dassem kicked the burning wrack from the doorway of the mausoleum, ducking, as he did so, the heaved cow manure, rocks, and burning brands. The besieging crowd shouted curses, waved fists, spat and damned him.

It was halfway through yet another night of attacks. He kept his face impassive as he nudged a flaming torch from the tossed broken wood. At least, he reflected, oil was expensive and rare. Otherwise he could find himself in a conflagration.

A louder note entered the shouted cursing – one of fear and surprise – and Dassem squinted through the smoke, ducking more rocks. He was certain it was no adherent of Hood, as he’d forbidden any street battles.

A huge dark silhouette reared above the crowd and people ran, shouting in sudden panic. As Dassem watched, the giant figure of Koroll, a city mage, swung his tall staff sideways, cutting a great swath through the crowd.

‘Disperse!’ the newcomer bellowed. ‘By order of the Protectress!’

The ring of protesters scattered in all directions and quite quickly the Thelomen giant was alone among the wreckage and abandoned crackling torches. Alone but for a smaller version who came stepping over the guttering brands and kicking through the broken crates and rubbish. Ho.

There was something about this particular mage that disturbed Dassem more than any other. Hood, he sensed, did not approve of this one. Ho shook his head, his arms crossed. ‘You’re causing a disturbance, swordsman.’

‘I am but a peaceful worshipper.’

‘Your presence is a lightning rod for rage. Nothing generates fear and panic like a plague – and you’re seen as its very author!’

‘It is everywhere, you know that.’

Ho was shaking his head. ‘Yes, yes. But tell that to someone who’s just lost a loved one.’

Dassem rested a hand on the grip of his sword. ‘Is this an eviction notice?’

‘It is a summons. Shalmanat wishes to see you.’

He glanced back to the mausoleum. ‘I cannot leave the temple unguarded.’

‘Koroll will keep watch.’ Ho turned to the Thelomen giant, peering up. ‘Is that not so?’

Beneath the tangled forest of knotted and matted hair a wide grin split the giant’s craggy tattooed features. ‘I will indeed. Fear not, Hood’s Mortal Sword.’

Dassem frowned, wondering whether to bother disputing the assumption that he was afraid, but the Thelomen’s grin was so open and honest he chose not to argue. He inclined his head instead, in gratitude. ‘My thanks.’

Ho swept an arm, inviting him onward. ‘The Protectress awaits.’

With Ho at his side Dassem passed through gates and checkpoints unimpeded. The armies of Itko Kan had withdrawn long ago, and no outside threat currently menaced the city, but Shalmanat was maintaining strict martial law until all the damage from the recent siege could be repaired; it was not incidental that it also helped to maintain order in the face of the plague.

Dassem was surprised by the summons. Since crushing the army of Chulalorn the Third, the Protectress had been a virtual recluse. Few, if any, save her servants the city mages, had even seen her. Some claimed that she’d died in the firestorm she’d summoned and that the city mages were colluding to hide the fact. Others whispered that she was now horribly disfigured.

Ho led him to the main audience hall where Shalmanat had formerly heard petitions and dispensed justice – the city mages handled such duties now. It was dark and empty, only a few lamps burning in wall sconces. Ho stopped at the doors, gesturing for Dassem to go on without him. ‘She would see you alone.’

Dassem paused. ‘I am armed.’

Ho nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘You have not asked for my weapon.’

Ho lifted his chin to indicate the far end of the hall. ‘She said you would never surrender it.’

Dassem shifted his shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘That is true.’

‘Very well then.’

‘You would allow this?’

Ho nodded, indicating an appreciation of Dassem’s point. He crossed his thick wrestler’s arms. ‘You claim to be Hood’s Mortal Sword. Well, let me just say that should you strike Shalmanat down now it would merely prove that you most certainly are not.’ And he smiled, motioning him forward.

Dassem wanted to strike that self-satisfied smile from the man’s face, but had to content himself with shutting the door on him instead. He walked up the long hall of polished marble flags to the dais where Shalmanat waited, wrapped in a white cloth that shimmered in the half-light.

At the foot of the steps he knelt to one knee. ‘Protectress.’ Raising his head, he saw her answering nod.

‘Mortal Sword. You honour me.’

‘Not at all. I am your servant.’

‘The reverse, I assure you. I sit before you as petitioner.’

He could not keep the reflexive wince from his features, his hands tightening to fists. ‘Please. Protectress … do not do this.’

‘I must. It is my duty. My city is threatened. I must do all in my power to avert this threat.’

He shook his head, gently. ‘Please…’

Struggling, she tried to rise from the white marble throne. His breath caught as the wrap of silk slid free and revealed her bent form, all bones and strange angles. With her good arm she reached behind the throne to grasp a cane and with its aid she managed to get to her feet, but she remained hunched, as if crippled or ill.

Dassem’s own heart laboured with her as she fought to descend from the dais.

‘I have given my beauty. My youth. My grace, all in defence of this city, Sword,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘What more would you force from me?’

He could not stop shaking his head. ‘Please … do not do this.’ She stood before him, tense from the effort, and it was all he could do not to fall at her feet. ‘Please.’

‘I beg you, Sword of Hood. Spare my city. Intercede with your god.’

‘You do not understand … I cannot.’

‘No? You demand more? It is true then, what they say – that one must give up one’s humanity to become a mortal sword?’

She struggled to lower herself before him and this he could not endure; gently, he took her frail body in his arms and returned her to the dais. ‘Is there nothing that can be done for you? No High Denul healings?’

‘You know this was sacrifice,’ she murmured. ‘You understand sacrifice. It cannot be taken back – so do not change the subject.’

His voice almost cracked as he managed, ‘I have no control over him.’ He raised the wrap to hide her disfigurements, tucking her in. ‘I am his servant, not the reverse.’

‘Like me,’ she answered. ‘I serve the city. Then you must ask yourself, Sword. What price are you prepared to pay?’

He bowed his head to her. ‘Like you. Any.’

She glanced to the far doors. ‘Go then, damn you. The price you pay I fear will be no less.’

He bowed once more, honouring her, then backed away down the hall. Closing the door behind him, he turned to Ho, who stood waiting. ‘She will have to show herself eventually.’

Ho nodded. ‘I know. At Burn’s Festival, perhaps. High at a parapet, possibly.’

‘Do not underestimate these people. They will still want her, despite this.’

‘I know – but she will not have it.’ Ho turned to leave and for a time the two walked side by side in silence.

‘Know you why she summoned me?’ Dassem asked at length.

Ho nodded once more. ‘Yes.’

‘And you know my answer?’

‘Yes.’

‘And…?’

The burly mage shrugged as they walked the empty streets. ‘The effort had to be made. More important,’ watching Dassem sidelong, ‘what will you do now?’

Dassem chose to echo the mage’s shrug. ‘I serve. It is up to Hood.’

The city mage lowered his gaze, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. In silence, he walked Dassem through the streets to his temple-mausoleum, where Koroll lumbered to his feet from the threshold. The giant bowed his head. ‘Sword.’

Ho moved on, but the giant paused, glancing back to the open stone portal of the mausoleum. ‘I wish you luck, Sword,’ he said, his voice low, and then he shambled off.

Dassem watched them go, then entered.

Nara lay where he had left her, and he knelt at her side. The fresh sheet he’d laid upon her was already soaked through across her chest, stomach and thighs. He dipped a cloth into a bowl of sweet water, squeezed it, and substituted it for the one on her brow – so warm to his palm. ‘You spoke with Koroll?’ he asked.

‘We spoke,’ she answered, swallowing. Beads of sweat ran from her temples into her gleaming wet hair. ‘He said he’d met other mortal swords and that he thinks quite highly of you.’

Dassem allowed himself a quiet laugh. ‘An unusual point of view.’ He took up a crust of bread and dipped it in a cold broth, then brought it to her cracked lips.

She grimaced and turned her head away.

‘You must eat.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped.

‘Sorry?’

‘I know this is very … hard for you.’

He snorted his disagreement. ‘I am not the one suffering here. You are.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Not at all. You are ill – you will recover. That is all there is.’ She clenched her lips, saying no more. ‘Sleep,’ he told her, and rose.

He retreated to the very rear of the mausoleum, where the stone sarcophagus, the unofficial altar, resided. He eased himself down before it, cross-legged, hands on his thighs, and sat for some time, motionless.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as dawn’s pink and gold light slid in through the doorway, his hands clenched into tight white fists.

* * *

After four more days at sea, the Honest Avarice dropped anchor in Malaz harbour. Cartheron expected that all those vessels that had survived the ambush would have arrived before them and so he scanned the harbour with a gauging eye. Losses, it appeared, were severest among the lighter class of vessels, the shallow-water sloops and galleys. All three of Mock’s men-o-war had fought their way free, though the Intolerant and the Insufferable looked to have taken terrible punishment from the ambush, scoured by flame damage, sails all down for repairs, spars and railings shattered.

A launch approached. It bore the freebooter admiral himself, plus four of his picked captains. A rope ladder was lowered and he climbed aboard. He peered round at the damage the Avarice had suffered, then frowned, confused. ‘Bezil?’ he asked of the crew in general.

‘Fallen,’ one answered.

Mock nodded. He tapped his fingers on the silver pommel of the filigreed duelling sabre he always carried. ‘Who captained?’

Several of the crew motioned to Cartheron where he leaned on the stern-deck railing. Mock beckoned him down.

‘And you are?’

‘Cartheron, admiral. Cartheron Crust.’

‘You are not first mate. Nor quartermaster.’

‘Common seaman, sir.’

‘Took command in the fight, sir,’ a sailor said. ‘Steered us free.’

Mock nodded again, stroking his goatee. ‘And took your time returning my ship. Thought perhaps the Avarice had gone a-roving.’

Cartheron indicated the thin crew. ‘We were short on hands and sail and the sea was against us.’

Mock considered, eyeing the crew. After a moment, perhaps taking in the mood of the Avarice’s hands, he laughed, cuffing Cartheron’s shoulder. ‘Well done. You acted as any crewman ought. You have my gratitude.’ He turned to one of his captains. ‘Hess – take command.’

Hess bowed. ‘As you order, sir.’

Cartheron noted a number of frowns and some grumbling among the crew. Dujek spoke up. ‘A promotion, perhaps, admiral? For service.’

Mock turned to him. ‘You desire a promotion?’

Dujek laughed and ran a hand over his scalp. ‘Not for me, admiral. I’m no sailor. For the Napan. He saved the Avarice.’

‘All the crew did their part, I’m sure.’

‘A’ course. I’m just sayin’…’

Mock returned his attention to Cartheron, now openly appraising. One of his captains leaned close, whispering, and he snapped, irritated. ‘What? Speak up, man.’

This captain brushed his moustache – a long thick one similar in style to Mock’s own. He indicated Cartheron. ‘This one’s part of that Napan crew causing all the trouble in town. There’s fights every night with Geffen’s people.’

Cartheron started. Trouble? What’s Sureth started?

Mock scowled anew. ‘And what is that to me, pray tell?’

The captain raised his brows, rather nonplussed. ‘Well … I was just saying.’

Mock eyed Cartheron. ‘Steersman, then. Well done, sailor.’

Cartheron bowed his head, accepting the promotion. A number of the crew raised a huzza in approval. Mock waved a negligent hand. ‘Yes, yes. Dismissed.’

A launch took those on leave to shore. The first rotation included Cartheron and the man who had spoken up for him, Dujek. On the pier, curious, Cartheron asked, ‘If you’re no sailor, then what are you?’

The man’s laugh was large and full-bellied. ‘A fool, perhaps?’ Cartheron smiled. ‘Naw. A fighting man all my life. Soldier, mercenary, bodyguard, hiresword … marine, now.’

Cartheron nodded. ‘Ah. See you when we’re recalled, then.’

The marine saluted his farewell, laughing. ‘Not too soon, I hope!’

Cartheron smiled again. ‘True enough, friend. True enough.’ He shouldered his kitbag and headed up the pier. As he neared the block containing the bar, Smiley’s, he noticed a large number of toughs lounging about the street corners. Many nudged their companions and pointed him out. Gods, what trouble has Sureth – Surly – got into now?

Turning a corner, he found himself confronted by a gang of the ruffians. Damn – I’m not ready for this. They were showing no weapons, but he was certain they were armed. All he carried was his sailor’s knife.

He dropped his kitbag to free his hands. ‘What is it? Like to talk, but I’m late for a drink.’

‘You Napans need to get your blue arses out of town,’ one fellow drawled.

Cartheron shrugged. ‘Fine by me. Buy us a berth.’

Another snarled, ‘Let’s just teach this one a—’ He shut his mouth. As one, the gang backed away. Though a touch mystified, Cartheron drew his sailor’s knife and crouched into a fighting stance; he knew something was going on behind him, but daren’t turn his back on the gang in front.

He felt a presence at his shoulder and glanced over. A youth now stood at his side, though he’d had no inkling at all of anyone’s approach. The lad was of middling height, very lean, with short dark hair. His hands rested crossed at his chest, inside his loose cloak.

‘Who’re you?’ Cartheron demanded.

‘One of your employers.’

‘That would be old Jeregal.’

‘Sold out and moved to warmer climes.’

The ruffians continued backing away. One pointed, mouthing, Later. Cartheron found himself alone with the newcomer among the wet cobbles and stained stone walls. He straightened, tucked his knife back into his belt. ‘It appears they don’t like you.’

The youth nodded. ‘They’ve learned.’ He gestured down the street. ‘I’m here to escort you in.’

Escort? What in Mael’s mercy is going on? He eyed the lad and the fellow nodded his understanding. ‘Surly will explain,’ he said.

Ahead, the shop-front of Smiley’s was a battered, boarded-up derelict-looking mess of broken glass and strewn garbage. ‘What’s this?’

‘An effort to put us out of business.’

‘Urko’s cooking must’ve got worse.’

A reluctant smile climbed the youth’s thin lips and he inclined his head. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’

Cartheron pushed open the heavy door, noting at the same time the fresh blade hacks and burn scars that now marred its iron-bound planks. He found the common room empty but for members of the crew: Grinner, Amiss, and Lady Sureth, who was leaning up against the bar.

He turned to the lad, but he was gone. Frowning, he pulled the door shut behind him then crossed to Surly. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We’re embroiled in another war,’ she supplied laconically. ‘You been paid?’

‘Not yet. A war? What kind of war?’

‘The protection and extortion kind. Get paid – we need the money.’

He glanced about the empty common room. ‘I’ll say. Met a kid claiming to be one of our bosses.’

‘He is.’

‘Who are the rest?’

‘One. Claims to be a mage. An obvious lunatic.’

‘Great. Guess I’d better get my pay.’

‘Yes. But not now. Got a job for you.’

‘Do I have time to eat?’

Surly gestured to the kitchens. ‘Help yourself.’

He ducked through to the kitchen area and found his brother leaning over a stone oven. ‘Progress?’ he called.

Urko glanced at him from under frowning brows. He straightened, crossed his thick arms over his stained apron. ‘Damned scones won’t rise.’

Cartheron leaned back against a stone-topped counter. ‘Maybe it’s your age. You know, as you get older…’

‘Very funny.’ Urko took a cast-iron skillet from a hook, held it in his hands. ‘There’s fighting almost every night ’gainst Geffen’s boys ’n’ girls and Sur— Surly won’t let me out!’

‘Geffen? We don’t have the personnel for that.’

‘Tell that to those two crazies. They’ve taken him on and we’re in the middle.’

‘That’s stupid. Why did Surly go along with that?’

Urko hefted the heavy skillet. ‘The deal is they get us a ship.’

‘A ship.’ Cartheron leaned forward. ‘When all the ships and crews are controlled by Mock? That’s horseshit. This is a bad deal.’

His brother grasped the pan and the handle of the skillet. His thick forearms flexed, cabling. ‘I’ll say,’ he exhaled, hissing. ‘She keeps me cooped up in here when I could tear down that fucker’s entire building.’ The blackened iron creaked, screeching, and the skillet folded completely in half. He tossed the wrecked object aside then stood looking rather embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’

‘Still,’ Cartheron observed, peering about the kitchen, ‘you got a nice set-up here. Indoor oven, enclosed fire pit.’

His brother brightened, nodding. ‘That’s true. Beats having to go outside in the damned rain.’ Then he scowled, suddenly suspicious. He jabbed a meaty finger into Cartheron’s chest. ‘Don’t you try to pacify me.’

Cartheron raised his hands. ‘Wouldn’t dare. Listen, I’ll have a word, okay?’

Urko grunted his agreement. He lifted the lid from a large blackened kettle that hung over the fire. Steam billowed out. ‘You do that.’

* * *

After a bowl of watery soup Cartheron went to find Surly. Their best mage, Hawl, was currently guarding the door. The woman was no beauty, with wide lumpy features and a thick build, yet she and Grinner somehow maintained a relationship that satisfied them both. ‘Surly?’ he asked her.

She raised her gaze to the ceiling. He nodded and headed for the stairs. Surly had taken the largest room on the second floor as her private quarters. Approaching the door he heard the shush of quick steps and the thump of blows. He was not alarmed; he knew the sound of her training.

He knocked and waited. After a few moments the door opened a crack and Lady Sureth peered out, her hair and light Napan-blue features gleaming with sweat, her taut chest rising and falling beneath a damp shirt.

Seeing him, she turned away, leaving the door open.

He entered, shutting the door behind him. Inside, the room stood nearly empty but for a thick training pillar at its centre, the hard blackwood beaten, scuffed and dented. The only hint that anyone lived here was bedding kicked up against one wall. Surly had returned to the tall training piece and was practising knife-hand strikes.

‘I’ve been promoted to steersman,’ he said.

‘Good. We can use the money.’

He leaned back against a wall. ‘I’ll say. No one’s downstairs.’

She glanced at him, her eyes gauging. Years of working together allowed her to ask directly: ‘What is it?’

‘Urko wants to know why we haven’t torn Geffen’s house down around him. I take it that’s because you’re trying for something a little more subtle.’

She switched to alternating right and left kicks at head height. Her bare feet snapped up with blurring speed, yet such was her control that each touched with the lightest of taps. ‘We don’t want Mock’s attention,’ she explained. ‘We don’t want these damned Malazans uniting against us. And … I’m waiting for a ship.’

He nodded to himself. ‘Met one of these would-be bosses. Is he why you’re training so hard?’

She cast him a dark look over one shoulder. ‘Get better armed. You’re on babysitting duty.’

He grimaced. ‘Managed the soup, but I’ll eat elsewhere if that’s okay. Wait, babysitting? What do you mean?’

‘Our employer who claims to be a mage has a habit of wandering off. We have to keep an eye on him.’

Cartheron straightened. ‘Is he for real? Or is he just all talk?’

Surly paused in her strikes. He noticed her hands, loose at her sides, all red and bloodied. She tilted her head, considering. ‘You know, I really have no idea. But if he can’t deliver then we fall back to the old plan.’

He nodded. ‘Grab the shop title and buy a ship.’

She sucked the blood from the side of one hand, studied the wound. ‘He has a fortnight. Dismissed.’

Cartheron saluted. ‘Aye, aye.’

* * *

He sat with Grinner and Hawl in the common room and caught up with the news. Back with his old friends he found himself once more being called Crust rather than Cartheron, while his brother was just plain Urko. He didn’t know when or why it started, but it was probably simply easier to bellow ‘Crust’ in storms and battle. He learned that they’d gained control of a few warehouses and shop-fronts and that the main work was in protecting these from being raided or burned to the ground.

‘There’s not enough of us,’ he complained to Hawl.

‘Tell us about it,’ she grunted, slumped in her chair.

He needn’t have said anything. Her exhaustion showed in her dark sunken eyes and lank unwashed hair. Her hands, cracked and red-raw, restlessly tapped at the table and he watched them for a time, thinking, Is that nerves? ‘Any local talent to worry about?’ he asked.

That elicited a snort of disgust. ‘No and yes. Geffen has no one – but there are some damned terrifying powers here on the island. They’re not involved, but I can feel them none the less. My back won’t stop itching.’

Grinner reached out and took her hands in one of his, stilling them. Hawl let out a long breath, her shoulders easing.

‘And our mage employer? Is he for real?’

She nodded. ‘Oh yes. He has access to something all right. Just what that is I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s damned grating. I’ve felt his raised aspect a few times and let me tell you – for a mage it’s like having needles hammered into your skull. It just ain’t right. I even had a nosebleed one time.’

Cartheron picked up a fist of bread and tapped it to the table. Rock hard. He nodded to Hawl. ‘Okay. What about Amaron and Noc? Any word?’

‘Still in the grass,’ Grinner answered in his soft voice – so jarring from someone so scarred and savage-looking. He looked to Hawl. ‘But I don’t think they’re gonna find any support left on the island. I think the powers that be all consider it a done deal.’

Hawl nodded her sour agreement, and Cartheron had to go along with their assessment. Sureth could not hope for any funds or support from that quarter.

Grinner tilted his head and murmured, ‘Speaking of our employer…’

Cartheron turned. A little gnome-like fellow had descended the stairs and was now on his way to the door. Dal Hon dark he was, wrinkled and grey-haired, though quite spritely in his quick walk, and dressed all in black, swinging a short walking stick.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Cartheron called.

As if caught in some criminal act, the fellow froze in mid-step. He looked over, his grey caterpillar brows rising, ‘Why … out for some fresh night air. Constitutional. Health. All that.’

Cartheron turned away. ‘Not tonight. Tonight we sit tight. Night fogs are bad for your health, in any case.’

The next sound Cartheron heard was the heavy door creaking shut. Grinner, opposite, raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re up, Crust.’

Cartheron raised his gaze to the heavy, soot-blackened beams of the ceiling. ‘Oh, for the love of all the sea gods…’ He threw himself from the table, taking the fist of hard bread with him. Maybe he could bean a would-be attacker with it. At the door he snatched up a sheathed sword.

Outside, he would have lost the fellow in the gathering evening scarves of fog but for the tapping of his walking stick on the cobbles. He found him standing in front of a public shrine, leaning on the walking stick in quiet regard. He pointed to the shrine. ‘And this is?’

Cartheron studied the statue. It was the stone figure of a woman crudely carved from the local granite. She stood with bare arms upraised, a large seashell in one hand, the other empty. Old faded scarves and garlands graced her shoulders while stubs of candles, burned incense, and other offerings littered the statue’s base. He knew the figure well. She was missing the set of scales that she was supposed to hold in her right hand – corroded away, or taken, perhaps. With those scales she judged the worthiness of those at sea, and the likelihood of their return.

‘Lady Nerrus. Goddess of the Shores. Calmer of storms and a patron goddess of sailors and fishers. Sister to Beru, Lord of Storms.’

The stick tapped again – perhaps his habit while in thought. ‘This island has given much to the sea,’ the old man mused.

‘Yes – as has Nap.’

‘Sea power,’ the fellow half-murmured to himself; then, suddenly, he was off again and Cartheron was left standing alone with no idea in which direction he’d gone. He squinted into the mists, panicked; how could he have lost the bugger?

The tapping of the stick once more alerted him to the fellow’s location – far down the street towards the waterfront. Cartheron hurried after him, wondering how the old codger could have got so far ahead.

He reached the wharves and peered right and left in a panic. Surly would have his balls … Then he saw him next to a pile of crates and bales, talking to a gang of labourers.

Cartheron came to his side in time to hear him saying, ‘What ship, then, would you never serve on?’

The men and women were eyeing him as if he were a lunatic. One rose from lounging on the bales and confronted him. ‘What do you mean, y’damned Dal Hon fool?’

Cartheron stepped up between them. ‘Forgive my friend – he doesn’t get out much.’

‘I’ll say. Who in Hood’s name does he think he is?’

‘Just a harmless old fool.’

A female stevedore gestured aside, observing, ‘Well, your fool friend’s wandered off.’

Cartheron turned, cursing. The mage – if indeed he was a mage – was now further along the wharf talking to a gang of kids. He jogged over to him and arrived just as a young lad was saying with a shrug, ‘Sure, there’re unpopular captains.’

Wu laughed indulgently and held up a copper Talian coin. ‘Ship, I meant. Sailors are a superstitious lot. Worse even than soldiers. There must be an unlucky ship.’

A girl pushed forward. ‘Oh, you mean the Twisted. No one will sign with it.’ She reached for the coin but Wu pulled his hand away.

‘And where is this unfortunate vessel? Is it with us now?’

The girl sneered her scorn. ‘Didn’t I just say no one would sign? Sure it’s here. Where it’s been f’r years!’ She pointed down the wharf.

Wu tossed her the coin. ‘My thanks.’

One lad, who had been watching the mage with a strange intensity, now pointed. ‘Ain’t you the one who entered the Deadhouse yard?’

Wu nodded. ‘Yes indeed.’

The gang of waterfront youths all stilled, their eyes growing huge. ‘Well,’ the lad continued, ‘how’d you escape?’

Cartheron was aware then of a thickening of the evening murk about them. It was a sudden darkening, like the eclipses he’d known over the years. Shadows seemed to have gathered about them, especially the old man, who now appeared enveloped in a deepening shade. And out of the obscuring darkness he heard an eerie hollow voice whisper: ‘Who said I did?’

The gang of youths gaped as one, then broke, scattering in all directions. He and his employer were suddenly alone and the darkness faded away – just as an eclipse might. Cartheron was then unsettled by a high childish giggle from the old Dal Hon mage. He composed himself to demand, ‘And what was that all about? Scaring children?’

The old man fluttered a hand to wave aside his disapproval. ‘Casting seeds, my friend. Merely casting seeds.’ Then he was off again down the length of the wharf. Cartheron looked to the darkening half-overcast sky and followed, a hand on his cutlass.

The mage was standing among a tall collection of cargo and supplies in barrels and crates. As Cartheron approached he pointed the walking stick to the very far end of the wharf, where a lone vessel lay berthed, far from any of its fellows, as if the bearer of some sort of contagion. ‘The Twisted,’ Wu informed him.

Cartheron eyed the vessel. Narrow and high, three-masted; a modified coaster rig. Probably carrying mixed square and lanteen. Potentially fast, but also very obviously poorly maintained for some time. Wood at the railing was greying, paint was worn from the sides, which were stained by run-off from the fittings. The running rig hung loose, the ratlines torn in places. The hull was no doubt badly in need of scraping, if not rotten.

‘It’s a derelict hulk,’ he told Wu, sneering.

‘It has acquired that terrible affliction – the reputation of a cursed vessel. Everyone says so.’

Cartheron knew the damned fellow had deliberately piqued his interest but couldn’t help following along and asking, ‘Cursed? How?’

The little fellow fluttered a hand once more. ‘Oh, a few unfortunate deaths during its last voyages. And a long failure in bringing in any prizes.’ The mage flashed a crooked grin that he then forced from his lips, clearing his throat. ‘Recently, however, it has been acquiring an even worse reputation.’

Cartheron wearily prompted him once again. ‘Which is?’

‘That it is haunted.’ The fellow glanced about the shadowed alleyway between piled cargo and nodded to himself in a satisfied manner. ‘And so … I must get to work.’ To Cartheron’s immense surprise – and unease – he began to fade away. ‘Don’t stay up for me.’ And he was gone.

Cartheron cursed and searched among the barrels but could find no sign of the fellow. Surly would kill him for losing the codger! He turned to the ship, the Twisted, where it lay at berth. Well, at least he knew where he was – or claimed to be. He backed away into the narrow alley to sit on a barrel and crossed his arms, waiting and watching.

Some time later he started awake, disorientated, then remembered where he was and why, and sat back. It was night and something had woken him. He peered round but saw nothing strange in the darkness. At least the fogs were gone, he noted, now that the evening airs had stopped churning. The Twisted lay motionless – but not abandoned; its stern lantern was lit and a faint gold glow shone from one cabin’s porthole.

A yell sounded then – an involuntary shout of surprise and alarm – and boots stomped along the wharf. A figure stormed past his hiding-place. All Cartheron had was a glimpse of an older gentleman, grey-bearded, his face as pale as snow, his eyes wild.

He sat back and eyed the Twisted, thinking. Did he really want to … No, he decided that he would definitely prefer not. And anyway, if this mage was as billed then he didn’t seem to be in any danger of being clubbed by Geffen’s men. He straightened, stretching, and headed back to Smiley’s.

He had to take a few detours to avoid gangs of brawlers lounging at street corners near the bar, but eventually managed to slide in the front door. The place was empty but for members of the crew.

At the door, Shrift asked, ‘Where’s our would-be employer?’

‘Working … I think.’

She was tall, a swordswoman who favoured heavy leather armour in battle, and now wore tanned hunting leathers. She sat back, crossing her arms. ‘Doin’ what?’

Cartheron eyed her. ‘You scared of ghosts?’

The swordswoman scowled at such an idiotic question. ‘Course. Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Then you don’t want to know what he’s doing.’

‘Is he really some kinda mage?’

‘I think so.’ In fact, he now wondered whether the fellow was of the worst kind. That the old man truly was a mage seemed to trouble the swordswoman, so Cartheron added, ‘At least he’s on our side.’

Shrift didn’t appear relieved. She slapped her side where her weapon usually rode. ‘I don’t understand why we don’t just storm over there and put everyone to the sword.’

‘Because then it would be war between us ’n’ all the locals – and guess who would win?’ Her tight mouth worked as she ground her teeth, but she subsided and leaned back on her stool. ‘Slow and steady,’ he told her, passing on.

He took a seat next to the fireplace and set to work building up the fire against the relentless damp. That accomplished, he leaned back to study his fellow crew on watch – Shrift and their tall lean archer, Tocaras. Neither looked happy sitting and staring out at the mist-cloaked streets.

Garrison duty, he reflected. Not our strength. No fighting man or woman’s, frankly. Surly would have to be careful. Loyalty was one thing, but frustration and a perceived lack of success or advancement could erode even the strongest allegiance. Something had to give. And while he had complete confidence it wouldn’t be any of them, still, he prayed, and hoped.