Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 5

Tattersail leaned her forearms on the gritty salt-stained stone of a battlement crenel and considered the island’s modest highlands to the north. Her loose hair blew about and she pushed it from her eyes. Overhead, gulls and cormorants hovered in the brisk wind, calling harshly. She watched their easy freedom for a time then lowered her gaze to the dun-brown hillocks of the Flint Plain. North, little more than a day’s journey beyond the last Malazan headland, lay the continent. So close, yet, as they said, so far.

Something needed to be done if she and Mock were to come into their titles. And if he were too … how should she put it … too content, then it must fall to her. The question then, was just what.

And the answer that came to her mind was an old-fashioned expedition. A raid upon the mainland such as used to be organized in Mock’s younger days and before. All in the honoured pirating tradition of Malaz.

That should remind them who controlled the seas, all their valuable shipping, and the entire coastline itself, and who was therefore owed the recognition and respect due to such a power. That would put the fear of gods into those quaking merchants in Cawn, the decadent aristocrats in Unta, and those damned snobbish Kanese.

She pressed a fist to the guano-streaked stone. Done. She’d settle it with Mock tonight.

A throat-clearing behind her brought her attention round to a guard. ‘Yes?’

‘A ship at the harbour mouth, m’lady.’

‘So?’

‘Lubben thought you’d be interested.’

Lubben – the hunchbacked castellan of the Hold. ‘Very well.’

She crossed to the nearest overlook. Guano dotted the ancient stones of the walk and Tattersail found herself hating the damned old heap of rock. How she looked forward to getting off this gods-forsaken backwater for a proper manor in a real city like Unta or Tali!

The vessel was anchored as far out as could be managed. It was long and low, two-masted, tiny in the distance, yet she knew it instantly for what it was without even needing to be sure of its blue-tinted sails. ‘What in all the seas is a Napan ship doing here?’ she asked aloud.

The guard nearby wisely judged her question to be rhetorical. ‘They’ve sent off a launch with a flag of truce,’ he observed.

What was there to talk about, she wondered. ‘Well, Lubben was right. I am interested. Keep an eye on them. Have a party ready as escort. I’ll go tell Mock.’

The guard bowed and she swept off for the main keep.

She found him in their sleeping quarters. Oddly, though it was mid-day, he was in a state of undress, flushed and struggling with the ties of his corset. She hurried over and slapped his hands away to take the ties. ‘What are you doing?’ She yanked, fiercely.

He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘The outfit simply was not right…’ He gasped as the breath was squeezed out of him.

‘So you’ve heard.’

‘Heard what, my love?’ She might have been mistaken, but his voice sounded slightly higher.

‘Napans! Here, in the harbour! It may be an official delegation.’

Mock kept his arms wide while Tattersail tightened the many ties of the corset. He stroked his long moustache, thinking. ‘A delegation … yes. This new king we’ve heard about. Official relations…’ His usually narrowed dark eyes now widened, ‘Or official recognition!’

He took her hands in his, urged her away. ‘Summon that new girl, Viv. You meet them in the audience hall. I must dress properly.’ He walked her to the door.

‘Well, if you think it best.’

‘Very good. This may be our first step towards all that we have wished for, my love.’ He gave her a hurried kiss and shut the door behind her.

As she descended the stairs it occurred to her that the bed was a mess – it hadn’t even been made yet! She would have to have stern words with Viv about that.

* * *

The delegation – and she assumed it was a delegation, as three was rather small for a raiding party – consisted of two men and a woman. One fellow was quite old, the emissary, she assumed, accompanied by two younger armoured guards. All three bore the bluish tinge to their skin that was the mark of natives of their isle. The emissary alone was allowed entrance to the hall.

Tattersail awaited him at the foot of Mock’s raised wooden seat at the head of the top table.

The emissary came walking up. His heels struck loudly on the stone flags. To Tattersail’s eyes the man did not look the part; too short, and pear-shaped. Inwardly she sighed, but they were dealing with Nap, after all. One mustn’t get one’s hopes up too high.

Halting at a respectful distance the emissary bowed, with a rather oily smirk. ‘Admiral Koreth, at your service.’

She answered the bow, thinking that if this rat of a fellow was a real admiral of Nap then the isle must be overrun with them. ‘Welcome, admiral. You honour us. Please accept our hospitality. For too long has our sister island been out of touch.’

The emissary stroked his goatee – which held streaks of grey – and nodded his grave agreement. ‘And whom,’ he began unctuously, ‘do I have the honour of addressing?’

Tattersail struggled to keep her expression pleasant while she mentally berated herself for her awkwardness. ‘My apologies, admiral. I am Tattersail, mistress of the Hold.’

The emissary’s brows rose in appreciation. ‘Ah! The formidable Tattersail. Your prowess is the talk of the entire southern seas.’ And he bowed once more.

It occurred to her that this clearly inoffensive fellow might not have been such a foolish choice after all. ‘You bring word from Tarel, the newly installed king of the Napan Isles?’

He bowed again. ‘Indeed. And are you to speak for Mock, the oh so long-standing Admiral of Malaz?’

Tattersail struggled once more to keep her expression light. Her initial judgement had been the right one. Admiral, is it? Fine. Be that way. No official exchanges with the mistress. She returned his bow. ‘He has been informed of your arrival and will be joining us soon.’

‘Excellent.’ The fellow made a show of studying his surroundings. ‘So this is the Hold’s main hall. It is so very … charmingly rustic.’

Fuck you too, you damned fat prick. She smiled, nodded her agreement. ‘My thanks. That means a great deal, as you in Nap must surely know what you are speaking of.’

The emissary answered her smile in kind.

Tattersail could not help but follow his gaze as he peered about, and the tapestry across the way caught her eye. Agayla’s new work. It was a portrait of the Hold, as seen from sea, at twilight. At least so it first appeared to her. Now, however, as she narrowed her gaze, the landscape seemed to darken. Ragged dark shapes like clouds threatened above. Their obscuring shadows seemed to crawl across the cliffs and the keep’s great seaward walls.

She blinked – the emissary was talking. She smiled, panicking, and coughed against the back of her hand to gain time. Damn Agayla! What does she mean by weaving such an ugly thing! She gestured to a small side entrance. ‘Perhaps I should go and see what matter is delaying Mock.’

Koreth’s bow was so shallow as to hardly be worthy of the name. ‘Indeed,’ he answered thinly.

To her relief, the main doors swung open at that moment and Mock came sweeping in. He was wearing what she called his ‘reckless’ smile and sported his finest loose linen shirt, leather trousers and heeled shoes. He, of course, was armed, with his sabre at his side.

He threw out his arms in welcome, calling, ‘Koreth! Is that you, you dog!’

The emissary bowed low. ‘Admiral.’

Mock took him by the shoulders and looked him up and down. ‘Look at you now. You captained the Steadfast at the siege of Bris, yes?’

The emissary blinked, startled, then flushed, obviously quite pleased. ‘Yes, indeed. Though we saw little action.’

Mock laughed off the answer. ‘You are too modest. That was a Napan victory to boast of!’ He threw himself into his raised seat, slouched, his booted feet out straight before him. ‘What can we in Malaz do for our friends and fellow sailors of Nap?’

Koreth blinked anew, quite thrown, and Tattersail hid a smile; this was the Mock she admired, always manoeuvring.

‘Well…’ the fellow began, perhaps rethinking his tack, ‘King Tarel sends his greetings, of course. It is his hope that our two islands may now begin afresh – without the unfortunate rancour of the past.’

Mock slapped an armrest. ‘I agree! This Tarel is wise indeed. An accord may be in order between him and me!’ He gave Koreth a wink. ‘This would free us up to eye the mainland, hm? Bris may be ripe for yet another sacking, yes?’

Koreth looked rather taken aback by such a direct proposal, but quickly mastered the reaction sufficiently to nod, smiling in apparent welcome of the prospect. ‘A formal accord between us would be an excellent first step, admiral.’

‘Excellent! Wine!’ Mock called. ‘A drink to seal our agreement!’

A young lad entered bearing a silver tray on which were set two tiny cut-crystal glasses and a carafe. Tattersail recognized their finest Grisian crystal, and reflected that it was fortunate they had two of the precious pieces.

Mock stepped down to pour, then raised his glass. ‘To the prospect of a formal peace between Nap and Malaz. Brothers and sisters of the sea!’

Koreth answered the toast, emptying his glass, then carefully returned it to the tray. He cleared his throat. ‘Any attacks, interceptions, or levying of fees on all Napan shipping and vessels should, of course, cease from this point onward.’

Mock returned to his seat, dangling his crystal glass. ‘Of course. Pending ratification of the agreement.’

‘Of course.’

‘And likewise, of course.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Excellent. Then our ships are in line, as they say, yes? Will you not stay for dinner? We must celebrate our agreement!’

Koreth fluttered a hand. ‘Sadly, I must turn down your hospitality, admiral. I must immediately bring this proposal to my king.’

Mock stood, nodding. He cuffed the shorter man’s shoulders. ‘Of course. We do not want any misunderstandings, hey?’

Koreth bowed. ‘Until later, then, admiral.’ He offered Tattersail a bow as well. ‘M’lady.’ Tattersail extended a hand, which he kissed. ‘Admiral.’

The emissary turned as if to go, but Mock spoke. ‘I have one small request to seal our agreement, sir.’

Koreth turned back, tilting his head. ‘Yes?’

‘These letters of accord between our two islands … they should all be headed: From Tarel, King of Nap, by grace of the gods … to Mock, King of Malaz, by grace of the gods.’

The emissary’s eyelids fluttered in astonishment. For a time he was unable to respond, until he gasped, finally, ‘I … shall put this to my king for his consideration, of course.’

‘Excellent!’ Mock answered, and raised a hand in farewell.

Koreth fairly ran from the hall and the doors swung shut.

Once the doors were firmly closed, Mock took Tattersail’s hands and kissed them. ‘We are halfway there, my love!’

But her gaze remained on the doors. ‘You shouldn’t have pushed so hard.’

He laughed and offered a wink. ‘I asked for king but will settle for count.’

‘It all relies upon how much Tarel wants us out of his way – what are his plans? Is he eyeing the mainland?’

Mock shrugged again. ‘A small price to pay to be sure of his flank. His scrawl on a mere piece of paper.’ He snatched up the carafe. ‘We must celebrate this night!’

‘I’ll wait for Tarel’s answer.’

‘Don’t worry. You always worry. But,’ and he brushed her cheek, ‘what would I do without my Tattersail?’ He raised the carafe. ‘Come! Let us celebrate.’

She watched him back away, arms wide, and shook her head – so like an eager boy. So … King of Malaz. That would make her … She lost her own grin. They weren’t married. She would go from mistress of a pirate admiral to mistress of a king.

She felt her jaws tighten. They would have to have a talk, he and she.

* * *

Dancer pushed open the door to the office above Smiley’s common room and paused on the threshold. It was empty – the fool had wandered off again. Where to this time? Back to that eerie house? He strode in, examined the mess of papers on the desk: more of the fellow’s sketches and enigmatic map-like drawings of lines and overlapping circles. The maps reminded him vaguely of astrological charts he’d glimpsed tacked up in the stalls of Dragons Deck readers.

Something crackled under his heeled shoes and he crouched to run a hand over the slats of the floor. Grit of some sort. He examined his hand, rubbing a thumb over the fingers. Sand. Fine sand. And – he sniffed – a faint lingering spice-like scent. Sweet. But with a bite, like mace.

Now he knew where Wu had disappeared to.

The fool. There was a good chance he may never see the lad again.

Someone on the stairs. He stilled. His hands went to the short wooden batons he carried for the moment; he wasn’t killing anyone – yet.

It was the youngest of the Napan crew, the girl named Amiss. She halted in the narrow stairwell. ‘Trouble in town.’

‘All right.’ He straightened, crossed the room and locked the door behind him.

Amiss tried to peer in past him. ‘Where’s … you know … the old man?’

Wu had yet to give his name to anyone, and Dancer suspected why – the vain idiot. ‘He’s off trying to gather more power to himself.’ Which was technically true.

The girl’s dark eyes widened in superstitious dread; Nap, it seemed, produced few mages other than those of Ruse. ‘Oh.’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

She blinked, nodding, and invited him down the stairs. ‘A shipment of liquor got past us and Geffen’s boys are using it to reclaim the concession to the bars in town.’

They reached the common room, which was its typical near-empty self. Dancer set his hands on the batons shoved into his belt. ‘Great. Who’s free tonight?’

‘Just me ’n’ you.’

Not the best combination – two knifers. But that was not strictly true … on this island he was the heavy. He waved her onward. ‘Fine. Let’s go.’

She led the way out on to the night-gleaming wet cobbles. Dancer paced along, hands on his batons. ‘How’d they get hold of the shipment?’

She waved, disgusted. ‘You kidding? Everyone on this island’s a damned smuggler.’

He offered her a grin. ‘Like Nap, I imagine.’

She snorted her agreement. ‘Yeah. I guess so.’

He studied her sidelong: petite, with a pert nose and hair hacked so short it stood on end, like fur. A kid, really. Yet so serious all the time. ‘How long have you been on Surly’s crew?’

She looked quite startled, almost jumping. ‘I’ve always been with m’— that is … a few years.’

It seemed to him that she’d been about to say, “m’lady”. ‘So … she’s Napan aristocracy. I thought so.’

The girl scowled ferociously, her lips clamping tight.

‘Fine. It’s all right.’ He peered about through a night mist that was too thin to be deemed rain. ‘Which way?’

‘They started with the best places and are working their way down the rungs.’ She gestured. ‘Let’s try the waterfront dives.’

They headed down the gentle slope that led to the waterfront. Here all he could hear were the waves striking the shore and the distant creak and groan of the vessels at moorage. Then the light of a swinging lantern in an alley betrayed movement. He pointed Amiss to the roof of the neighbouring building and headed in.

He heard voices raised in argument and came upon the rear of a crowd of Geffen’s thugs gathered at a door harassing a very frightened-looking fat fellow in a stained apron.

‘Take it and pay us later, then,’ a woman said, and he recognized their earringed friend.

The fellow, the proprietor no doubt, was wringing his hands in his apron. ‘I’d really like to, really. But I’m all stocked up, you see. Got no room…’ and he gave a laugh that was like a strangled titter.

‘You’ll take it anyway,’ the woman snarled. ‘Consider it an advance from Geffen. He’ll collect later.’

The innkeeper laughed nervously again, almost wilting in sweat. ‘I would! Really! But there’s no room back here…’

The woman gestured to two of the muscle with her. ‘We’ll make some room.’

The two surged forward, only to rebound from a new figure that had suddenly replaced the fat proprietor in the doorway. This one filled it like a solid wall.

‘Out of the way, y’damned beersot,’ the woman warned.

‘No fighting in the bar,’ the huge fellow rumbled in a voice like a thumped empty barrel. The woman snapped her fingers to urge the toughs forward once more. They straight-armed the huge figure only to rebound again as if having run into brick.

Dancer drew his batons and raised them to rest each on a shoulder. ‘I have room in a warehouse I know,’ he announced.

All heads turned his way. The woman emerged, having pushed her way through the crowd of street muscle. ‘You again,’ she sneered. ‘Look at you – standing there bold as brass all alone. Time you were taught a lesson.’ She snapped her fingers again to urge the hired thugs forward. The gang drew truncheons and other short clubs. Dancer counted twelve and he didn’t wait for them to sort themselves out; he waded in immediately.

He smacked knees then skulls as the owners of the knees sank. He pressed forward, attacking. Incoming blows were blocked and returned with counters to elbows, knees and heads. Anywhere to inflict maximum damage with least effort. The ruffians fell before him while the woman retreated between them, her eyes growing ever more huge. The sharp crack of hardwood on bone echoed in the narrow brick channel of the alley.

The last of the twelve fell from multiple blows to the knees, stomach and skull to sprawl unconscious at the woman’s feet. She stared now at Dancer in open disbelief. Behind him lay a carpet of thugs either out cold or clutching knees and heads and groaning in pain. ‘Why are you here?’ she breathed, awed despite herself. ‘Why is someone like you wasting your time on this wretched island?’

‘That’s my business. Now I suggest your employer catch the next ship out.’

She shook her head. ‘I know him. He won’t.’

‘Then we have a problem.’

Her hand strayed to the knife at her belt and he gave her a warning look; the hand slipped away. ‘Yes,’ she stammered, ‘yes, we do.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Lee.’

‘Lee? Really. Well, my name’s Dancer. And I’m calling your boss out. Either he abandons all claims to any territory here in the city, or I’ll come for him. Is that clear?’

She nodded, her jaws clenched tight.

‘Very good.’ He nodded that she could go. She backed away up a portion of the alley then turned and hurried away into the misting rain.

Dancer turned to the giant who still blocked the back door. ‘What’s your name?’

The man frowned down at him, looking puzzled, then announced, ‘No fighting in the bar.’

Dancer raised a brow; Right. He called loudly through the door, ‘The liquor’s all yours. I’m sure you have room for free casks.’ Then he picked his way between the fallen out on to the main street.

As he left the alley he heard the proprietor asking cautiously, ‘Is it safe?’

Amiss joined him on the street, grinning. ‘You were a big help,’ he complained.

‘They said you were good – but I didn’t know you were that good.’

‘Thanks … I think.’

‘Teach me?’

He eyed her sidelong. ‘Sure. But I don’t think we’ll have the time.’

‘Planning on going somewhere?’

He laughed. ‘I plan on all of us being damned busy.’

The girl was nearly skipping along over the puddles. ‘We’ll see. Maybe this Geffen fellow will finally get the message.’

Dancer had to shake his head. ‘No. I’m gonna have to beat him unconscious and throw him on to a ship.’

‘Why haven’t you yet?’

He wiped the cold mist from his face. ‘Because it’s his organization we have to beat. Otherwise one of his lieutenants will just step up and we’ll get nowhere.’

‘Ah. I see.’

They were nearing Smiley’s and he hurried his pace, pulling her along. If there was going to be an ambush, it would be here.

The door was thrown open and Shrift nodded them in. Dancer relaxed. He inclined his head in farewell to Amiss, then climbed the stairs.

He unlocked the door and checked within. Maybe … But the room was still empty. For a time he stood in the darkness regarding the desk. Wu shouldn’t have gone alone. The damned fool needed him to keep him alive. What could he possibly have been thinking?

He pulled a chair over to the wall next to the door and sat, leaned back on the two rear legs to rest against the wall, and set his hands on the cold hilts of the thin daggers hidden at his waist, which he always kept there – just in case. He sat in silence, regarding the dark room while the rain hissed against the shuttered window, then let out a long breath and closed his eyes.

* * *

Nedurian sat on a bench eating an apple; it was a sunny day and he was enjoying the warmth. The usual old dogs sat about, trading their tired old lies and generally watching what little corner of the world this square in the market quarter of Malaz City offered. He was only half listening – he’d heard all their stories and opinions on everything twenty times over – but when the talk suddenly died down he raised his gaze to see what had arrested their attention and choked on the mouthful of apple. Agayla stood before him, hands on hips. A rich brocaded silk scarf was thrown round her neck, and her long hair blew loose about her like its own black silk banner.

‘There you are!’ she announced as if he were some truant lad. ‘We’re late. Hurry!’ and she marched off, heading for the waterfront.

Quite bewildered, Nedurian rose, apple loose in his hand.

‘One widow not enough for ya, Ned?’ one of the old dogs offered.

Nedurian made a show of running a hand over his unkempt beard, and straightened his frayed collar. ‘Can’t help having what these gals want, boyo.’

The oldster shot a smirk to his companion. ‘Yeah … obedience.’ Both of them cackled, showing a remarkable lack of teeth.

Nedurian raised a warning finger. ‘Careful there. The fish might find you tasty.’

The old fellow waved him away. ‘Ach … they’ve had plenty a chances.’

Ned caught Agayla glaring at him from up the street. He hurried on.

The gallery of old dogs sent him off with hoots of laughter.

Pacing Agayla, he cast her a brief puzzled glance. What could be the trouble? He’d never spoken to her outside her shop – couldn’t even remember seeing her outside her shop. Her pace was quick, and her long straight black hair whipped in the offshore winds.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

She ignored him and so he bit down on any further questions. She was leading the way to the crowded main docks where commercial vessels unloaded cargo and took on passengers for the day’s journey to the mainland.

Here she scanned the crowds, raising herself on the toes of her shoes, biting her lip. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say she was anxious. And anything that would make this woman anxious was way out of his class.

‘I don’t see him,’ she muttered, frustrated. ‘He should be here by now.’

‘Who?’

‘Obo.’

He was rocked, though he managed to stop his mouth from hanging open. Obo! By all the gods and demons above and below. He’d only ever heard that name – and then only whispered by the most accomplished mages. They were going to meet him? Was that what this was about? Somehow he doubted it.

She waved him onward. ‘Well, can’t be helped. We’ll just have to meet her ourselves.’

Ah. A woman. ‘Who?’ he asked. Again she ignored him. He ground his teeth against his annoyance as he followed her to the foot of the pier where the most recent vessel had moored. She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them and pulled back her hair, knotting it through itself, before pushing up her sleeves and crossing her arms once more over her thin breast.

She really is nervous, he realized, rather appalled that anyone or anything could elicit such a reaction in this magus.

‘Who is it?’ he asked out of the side of his mouth.

‘Quiet. Keep your hands empty. And by all the gods, don’t raise your Warren.’

‘What is it?’

She hissed her annoyance. ‘Think of this one as an Ascendant,’ she snarled, tense and angry now.

Nedurian could only raise an eyebrow. Really. An Ascendant. Then why in the Seven Realms were they even standing here?

He watched the crowd of passengers making their way down the pier. None appeared in any way remarkable. As he watched, however, the figure of a woman seemed to single itself out of all the surrounding people, or rather it was as if all the people faded into insignificance next to the weight and power of her presence – all others became somehow indistinct. Ghostly, even.

He’d never have given her another look had not Agayla forewarned him. Wearing old travel-stained leathers, she appeared middle-aged, with plain unhandsome features and her hair short and mussed. A rural farmer’s wife, or rustic trader, one might imagine her. Yet while she brushed shoulders with her fellow passengers, who passed her without notice, to his senses she appeared to be a lodestone of power.

The woman came before them and halted, a small bag of gear at one shoulder. Her dark gaze was all on Agayla, and for once Nedurian did not resent the exclusion. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

‘Agayla.’

The woman’s gaze moved past them and she nodded a greeting. ‘Obo.’

Nedurian glanced behind, startled. There stood a short, gangly, pale old man, bald, with a liver-spotted pate and a wild ring of grey hair about his ears. This was the fierce and terrible Obo? He could’ve passed him on the bench this morning.

The fellow, Obo, sent him a glare, as if to say, What’re you looking at? Nedurian quickly turned back.

‘And what name are you travelling under now?’ Agayla went on.

‘Nightchill.’

‘And what are your intentions? We want no provocations. The Riders have been quiescent of late.’

The woman’s thin lips quirked as if at some hidden joke. ‘Just research,’ she said.

Agayla appeared to have regained her confidence as she was scowling now as usual. ‘I hope so. You understand we’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re here.’

‘Of course.’ The woman tilted her head in farewell and walked on.

Agayla turned to Obo. ‘What could bring her here?’ she hissed, sotto voce.

The fierce and terrible Obo shrugged his bony scarecrow shoulders. ‘Don’t know.’

‘There’s a fellow messing with Meanas here,’ Nedurian offered.

Obo gave him a scornful appraisal up and down. ‘And who’n the Abyss are you?’

* * *

Once he’d made up his mind, it took Dassem three nights of silent vigil at the altar before he mustered the necessary resolve and firmness of mind to clear his throat and speak. It was one of the most difficult decisions of his life to date, and in making it he felt that he’d betrayed everything he had come to believe about himself, and the world about him. Yet the girl was weakening daily; and his equivocation was solving nothing.

‘My lord,’ he began, sitting cross-legged, head bowed, his voice weak and hoarse, ‘it pains me beyond all endurance to say this … but I must ask a boon.’

A long silence in the darkness answered his words. The night seemed to have swallowed them. The air about him turned very cold indeed. Then, a stirring, and a presence, one sour with disapproval, and even a tinge of frustration.

‘Dassem Ultor,’ came the faint breath. ‘You too. And to think I had such great hopes for you.’

‘Please, master. She is an innocent.’

Frustration verging into exasperation. ‘You know that is irrelevant.’

Dassem bowed even further. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. It just slipped out.’

‘Then there is nothing more to discuss.’

He straightened, slightly. ‘Unfortunately – there is.’

The skull on the ancient corpse atop the sarcophagus shifted, turning his way. ‘Oh?’

Dassem straightened his back. ‘Take me.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In her stead. Accept me. A life for a life.’

The skull turned away. ‘I make no deals.’

‘Then you have no Sword. I set it aside from here on.’

A dark laugh answered him. ‘You would not dare.’

He was on his feet in an instant. ‘It is done. In all these years I have made no requests, asked for nothing. Yet now that I ask for one boon you refuse me like a beggar at the door.’

The desiccated corpse edged itself up into a sitting position. ‘You mortals are all beggars before my door.’

Dassem was nodding to himself. ‘I know this. And so I go as a beggar.’

The skeleton hissed in a dry laugh, ‘A rather arrogant beggar – you are nothing without your precious title.’

Dassem turned his back. ‘We are done.’ He threw a few personal items into a shoulder bag, plus two bags of coins – offerings to Hood – then, kneeling, he scooped up the girl in his arms, blankets and all. He headed for the entrance. She nestled against his chest like a hot coal.

‘And where will you go?’ came a thin shout.

He turned. ‘The temple of the Enchantress. Perhaps she will honour my service.’

Sinew creaked as a withered hand gripped the edge of the sarcophagus. ‘Very well. Perhaps there is something…’

He turned at the entrance. ‘Yes?’

‘She is dying, and, as I have made clear, there is nothing I can ever do about that. Yet there is one possibility…’

‘Yes?’

‘There are places where she could be taken. Where she may be laid to await a cure. Places where time passes … differently.’

‘And the nearest?’

‘Nearest? Well, the most accessible stands on an island to the south. The island of Malaz. It is called – and I do not joke – the Deadhouse.’

‘I know you do not joke,’ Dassem muttered. ‘Very well. You pledge to withhold your hand until I should reach this place?’

‘I shall … abide.’

He gave a curt nod. ‘Very good. I leave immediately.’ And he walked out through the gaping entrance.

Silence settled into place over the empty mausoleum. The only sounds were those of far off muted voices and the clatter of a few carts on neighbouring streets.

Then, a long low chuckle softly echoed about the stones. A dried hand of withered ligaments and bare bone rose to make a casting gesture as of tossing a dart into the distance, and the corpse collapsed into a cloud of dust, sinew and rotten cloth.

* * *

A kick woke Rebben to darkness and a godsawful taste in his mouth. He whipped out his knife only to have it slapped from his hand. He squinted, focusing on the fellow who had a handful of his shirt. He pawed at the hand. ‘What in the fucking Abyss?’

The Dal Hon fellow shook him again. ‘This boat leaves now.’

‘No it godsdamned well doesn’t.’

‘Why not?’

The hand released him. He fell back against the riverboat’s side and winced at the stab of pain in his back. ‘Quarantine ’gainst the sickness. The river gates are all closed. No shipping up or down.’

The Dal Hon cursed softly, straightened from looming over him. ‘Dammit … Very well. Sorry to trouble you.’ A heavy coin fell against his chest and he clutched at it, touching his brow.

He waved the fellow off as he lightly stepped up to the dock, then raised the coin to the faint light. Now there’s a turn – being assaulted in the night and handed money instead of having it taken? First time that ever happened to him. He froze upon catching the glint of gold and a stamped design unfamiliar to him. Just how old was this thing, anyway?

* * *

Dassem headed to the southern Outer Round gate, known as the Gate of the Mountains – a reference, perhaps, to distant Kanese highlands far to the south. He cradled Nara tight against his chest, wrapped in her blankets.

When he reached the vicinity of the gate he went to the nearest trading house and banged on the door. Eventually, it opened, and he faced a rotund bearded fellow in a long nightshirt who blinked at him, squinting, ‘What in the Protectress’s name d’you want?’

‘I want transport. A cart or small wagon, preferably covered. And horses.’

The trader smacked his lips, drew a hand down through his thick beard. ‘And this can’t wait till morning?’

‘No it cannot.’

The trader rolled his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Why do I always get the winners? Fine. But let’s see your coin – up front.’

Dassem handed over one of his small coin bags. The trader opened it then held it to the lamp next to the door. His brows shot up almost to his jumbled hair.

‘Whatever you have,’ Dassem said.

The fellow studied him, almost stunned, perhaps looking for fresh blood on him from recent murders, then leaned forward to peer up and down the street as if expecting at any minute the crashing arrival of the city guard. Seeing and hearing nothing, he raised his shoulders in a shrug then stepped out and waved for Dassem to follow. ‘This way.’

They crossed to a corral next door. Here, the trader pointed to a covered cart off in the shadows. Even in the dark, Dassem could see that it was painted a lurid red and gold. ‘What is that?’

‘An old dowager commissioned that for a pilgrimage to all Burn’s holy sites on the road east. To earn merit, and to give thanks for all her grandsons.’

‘So, you cannot sell it?’

‘No. She died the day before she was due to leave. Now I’m stuck with it.’

Dassem studied the eye-wateringly ugly thing, then nodded. ‘It is perfect. I will take it. I’ll want two horses.’

The trader squeezed the leather bag in his grip. ‘One’ll do.’

‘I want two.’

The trader’s jaws worked, and then he sighed. ‘Very well.’

‘And throw in supplies – a cask of water. Forage for the horses.’

The fellow was nodding. ‘I’ll go wake the boys…’

* * *

It was light, but not yet dawn, when a brightly painted cart hauled by two horses came to the recently rebuilt southern Outer Round gate. The guards, half asleep, blinked at the startling sight. One nudged his companion, saying, ‘Hey, Hurst … the carnival in town?’

Hurst rose, groaning and stamping his feet. ‘Sure looks like it, Raf.’ He leaned on the pole of his eight-foot tall halberd, muttered a bored, ‘Gate’s closed.’

The tall, lean Dal Hon leading the horses stepped up. ‘Then open it.’

Hurst turned an amused glance to his companion, sniffed, and spat to the cobbles. ‘Curfew. Order of the Protectress. Move along.’

‘I intend to move along – to the south.’

Hurst cocked a brow. ‘And how’re you gonna do that?’

‘Through this gate.’

The other guard, Raf, took out a pear and bit it; he offered Hurst a wink. Hurst was nodding. ‘All right. An’ just how’re you gonna get through the gate?’

‘You’re going to open it for me.’

Raf snorted a laugh, chewing.

Hurst offered his companion a knowing look, tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Okay … An’ why would I do that?’

The Dal Hon took a long hard breath, raised his own gaze to the purpling sky. ‘Because I’m the Sword of Hood.’

‘Really?’ Hurst said, offering an exaggerated frown. ‘C’n you prove it?’

Now the Dal Hon frowned, puzzled. ‘Prove it? How?’

Hurst shrugged. ‘I don’t know … Kill something, maybe?’

Raf choked on his pear, laughing and snorting; he slapped his thigh, swallowing with difficulty. ‘Kill something,’ he chortled. ‘That’s a good one.’

The Dal Hon lad looked from one to the other and sighed, his shoulders falling. He rubbed his forehead. ‘I see,’ he murmured aloud, as if speaking to himself. ‘My mistake.’ He rummaged at his belt and withdrew a small bag, opened it, and held out two coins that glinted gold in the rising light.

Hurst and his companion crowded forward, studied the coins, then withdrew, heads together. ‘Whaddya think?’ Hurst whispered.

‘Two more.’

Hurst nodded. ‘Right.’ He returned to the lad. ‘Two more.’

Sighing again, the lad pulled out two more coins. Hurst held out his hand and the lad let them fall into his palm. Hurst turned to Raf, but froze suddenly, setting his hands on his hips. ‘Is that a breeze I’m feelin’ there? Did you go ’n’ leave the gate open again? Dammit, man. How many times do I have to tell you? Were you born in a barn or somethin’?’

Raf took one last bite of the pear then threw the core aside. ‘Sorry there, Hurst. Guess I was distracted by the carnival and such – let’s go have a look.’

The guards withdrew into the gate tunnel. Dassem took hold of the jesses of one horse and led it after them. When he reached the outer gate, one side of the huge double doors hung a touch ajar. He pushed the hulking great thing open further and led the cart on. The guards were standing outside.

‘I am the Sword of Hood, you know,’ Dassem told Hurst.

‘Oh, sure. An’ I’m the nephew of Burn.’

Dassem took breath to speak, only to realize that there really wasn’t anything he could possibly say. He shut his mouth and moved on, shaking his head. The wooden wheels of the cart bumped and grated on the uneven cobbles.

Behind, at the gate, he heard Raf complain to his companion, ‘You know, come to think of it, I was born in a barn.’

He turned his attention to the south and the much abused and littered road that led that way – the very road King Chulalorn’s army marched up only to fall back upon last year, leaving behind the wreckage of shattered equipment, abandoned tools and weapons, and broken sandals.

Nara lay within the cart, hidden under its closed top of stiffened canvas, wrapped in blankets. She was still sweaty, but he was no longer worried that she would succumb to the fever, as the Grey Walker himself had assured him that he would withhold his hand until she was delivered to safety. Just what form this safety would take he had no idea. He had only the name.

Deadhouse.