Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 9

The time had finally come for her to visit her … well … distant cousins. So far she’d avoided it, staying out of the city and keeping to the hillsides. Her needs were few: a small fire, a blanket against the chill. But she could delay no longer, even though the very idea of such a confrontation troubled her like few others. And so Nightchill steeled herself and walked down into the city of Malaz, heading for the waterfront.

She would have to be very careful; any escalation here could engulf the entire area in a conflagration of power that would scour the island down to the bare bones of its rock. Of course her … cousins had every reason to be suspicious of her approach. Over the ages they’d been attacked countless times by powers seeking the might, and the secrets, that they guarded.

Walking the empty rainy cobbled streets she reflected upon the many theories that had been suggested regarding their mysterious … withdrawal.

Some said they’d foreseen something; some event or arising so terrifying that they determined they needed to prepare for it. Others suggested mere greed: pig-headed hoarding of the most selfish kind. Of the true reason even she, one of their few remaining relations, had no idea.

They had withdrawn, turned within, and now none had any understanding of their motives or goals. For if the Azathani were regarded as strange and alien by the humans they now walked among, the Azath structures constituted an order far beyond even them.

She reached the marker in the physical world that denoted the edge of this one’s chosen influence – a mere low wall of piled fieldstones – and paused, readying herself for the test to come. A test and a trial. For though she might be considered one of the mighty today, who knew how many of her fellows constituted this structure? Two? Or perhaps as many as ten?

She knew that should she be taken she might never escape, even in all remaining time. But she also knew that they took only those whom they deemed potential threats, those who they judged sought to take something from them. Such was not her intention. She wished only to speak with them – should they so choose.

Steeling herself, she pushed open the small gate and entered the unkempt grounds. Far underground – or so it appeared in this physical reality – figures writhed, imprisoned. Many reached out to her, imploring, begging her aid, but she was under no illusion; they sought to take her and restore themselves with her essence.

She walked the clear path to the front entrance and stood upon the wide iron-grey landing of a single broad sheet of slate. Then, respecting the conceit the Azath employed, she knocked upon the door.

Silence. Beyond the sizzling ropes of energy that kept so many enchained within the grounds, and their cries and curses, there rose the beating of the nearby surf, the waves murmuring against the stony shores, and beyond that, eerily, far out to sea past the Straits, came the crackling and booming of mountains of ice.

She shook herself, unsettled by the vision – was this a message from her brethren? Or mere chance? What was she to make of it? She brushed a hand across the thick planks of the door and sensed the guardian just behind, waiting. A mighty one, tensed, eager almost, waiting for her to raise her aspect against the house.

But she declined. She withdrew her hand. Very well. Silent you have been over the ages, and silent you remain. Pursue your own ends and remain suspicious of others. It is earned. So many have sought to rip your secrets and your power from you. I will not.

She waited a moment longer but heard nothing; no one or thing called to her, and so she turned away. Her back prickled all the way back up the walk.

Two figures awaited her outside the gate as she approached. The foremost was a huge bull of a fellow standing with a long spear tall at his side. The second was a short wiry fellow with his gaze all scrunched up, squinting at her.

‘She is not taken,’ this one informed his giant companion, who grunted, crossing his arms.

She opened the gate and faced them, asking calmly, ‘You would dispute my passage?’

The squinting one gave her a hard look out of the side of one bloodshot eye, then started, surprised, and promptly fell to one knee. He pulled his companion down with him by tugging on the man’s trousers. ‘Forgive us, m’lady,’ he murmured.

‘There is nothing to forgive – you are fulfilling your duties. But I am no threat.’

‘As we see.’ He rose, bowing. ‘The House made no move against you…?’ he said, inviting an explanation.

‘I kept to the path and did not stray.’

‘Even so…’

She shrugged. ‘It acts for its own reasons, does it not?’

‘Indeed it does,’ the man agreed, bowing again. ‘Indeed it does.’

* * *

The two men – both known Malazan street toughs – sat propped up against one of the gigantic logs that supported the Twisted’s hull where it squatted on the shore. Cartheron passed a hand before their wild staring eyes and neither reacted. He looked at his brother.

‘What happened?’

Urko rubbed the bristles over his chin and cheeks and let out a long breath. ‘Don’t know. Choss found them this way. I think they tried to do some mischief to the ship last night. Maybe start a fire or something.’

Cartheron leaned down to one and asked loudly, ‘What happened?’

The wild rolling eyes lit for an instant upon his. The man mumbled, half-slurred, ‘The thing … the terrible thing…’

‘That’s all they say,’ Urko grunted, hand at his chin.

‘Hunh. Can they walk?’

‘Dunno.’ Urko grabbed one’s arm and pulled him upright. He stood, weaving only slightly.

‘It…’ the man whispered to Urko, the word fraught with some unknown meaning.

‘Right. The thing.’ He pulled the other upright.

Together the two now peered round, wringing their hands. Their gazes roved upwards and they started, staring. Both pointed up at the hull curving above and both screamed, utterly terrified, ‘The thing!’ And both bolted across the mud and scattered lumber of the strand, climbed the lip of a dilapidated boardwalk, and disappeared.

Cartheron looked at his brother then both examined the Twisted. Cartheron put his fist to his chin. ‘You don’t suppose that little bugger…’

Urko peered up as if searching the ship’s side for any sign of a certain hairy beast, then shook his head. ‘Naw. Couldn’t be.’

Both scratched their chins, then edged away from the rearing hull of the Twisted. Clearing his throat, Cartheron asked, ‘Do we have enough timber for planking?’

‘No.’

‘Enough rope?’

‘Gods, no.’

‘Do we at least have enough canvas?’

‘Course not.’

Cartheron glared at his brother. ‘Then what, pray tell, have we enough of – if anything?’

‘Asses,’ Urko supplied, taking a crisp bite of apple. ‘Got plenty of them. Up to our asses in asses.’

‘No kidding,’ Cartheron muttered beneath his breath. ‘Okay. So, why the shortage? Is it money?’

Urko shook his head, chewing. ‘Naw. It’s Mock – he’s claimed everything for the refitting of his boats.’

Cartheron kicked up a clot of mud. ‘Hood take it. Fine. I guess we’ll just have to fall back on the usual.’

His brother sighed. ‘Right. We steal it.’

A new figure came heading over from the boardwalk and it took a moment for Cartheron to recognize the man: the marine from the Avarice, Dujek. He motioned to his brother to indicate that the man was a friend. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he called to Dujek, ‘whatever it is.’

Dujek gave an answering grin. ‘How can you say that? The kid looks just like you!’

Urko elbowed him. ‘Quick work.’

Cartheron gave him a glare. ‘Very funny. Dujek, Urko.’ Both nodded. ‘What can I do for ya?’

The marine rubbed a hand over his prematurely retreating hair, clearly a touch uncomfortable. ‘Well, it ain’t me. It’s this new captain, Hess. He’s hoppin’ mad. Wants you on the Avarice.’

‘He’s got plenty of hands. What does he need with me?’

‘Don’t know. But he’s in a temper.’

Cartheron looked to the sky. ‘For the love of Poliel…’

‘I thought you resigned that berth,’ Urko said. ‘We’ve got the Twisted.’

Cartheron scratched his head, thinking. ‘Surly says we need the prize shares. The Twisted’s going nowhere right now.’

‘But with—’ His brother stopped himself, eyeing Dujek.

The marine took the hint and touched his brow. ‘See you on the Avarice?’

Cartheron gave the man a nod. ‘Yeah. See you there.’

The burly marine headed off; Cartheron turned to his brother. ‘So?’

‘Well, with the jokers gone we can push off, right?’

The jokers – their erstwhile bosses. It had been more than a fortnight now with no reappearance. It was looking as though Surly was right; they’d failed in whatever scheme they’d been attempting. He nodded again. ‘So?’

‘So, me ’n’ the crew, we’ve been talking. We think Falari’s the answer.’

‘I think you’ll find that the Falarans pretty much have that sewn up.’

‘We Napans can hold our own against them Falaran sailors!’

Cartheron raised his hands in surrender. ‘Yes, yes. I mean, you know what everyone says – that the Falarans have Mael himself in their pocket. That no invasion of the peninsula has ever succeeded.’

His brother had spotted a stone in the mud and picked it up, and was now rubbing it, squinting at it through one eye. ‘Well … it won’t be no invasion. We’d just sneak in, all quiet like.’

Cartheron threw up his hands. ‘Fine. Whatever. It’s a thought. But in the meantime we need to get the Twisted fitted. Okay? So get on it. I have to go.’ Urko popped the stone into his mouth and rolled it around there, then pulled it out and squinted at it anew. Cartheron felt his habitual impatience with his brother souring his stomach like acid. ‘Right?’ he asked.

Urko peered up, blinking. ‘Yeah. Fine.’ He waved him away.

Cartheron stormed off. Gonna drive me to drink, he is.

* * *

He found the Avarice a storm of activity, the deck piled high with lumber and nearly all hands busy helping the ship’s full-time carpenter. Cartheron gritted his teeth, thinking what they could accomplish on the Twisted with a tenth of the equipment. He searched among the crew for the captain only to find him in his cabin, his booted feet up on a table. He saluted. ‘Reporting for duty.’

Hess set down his glass of wine and looked him up and down, smoothing his long moustache. ‘About damned time. The Avarice is your vessel, understood? I want you here sunup till sundown.’

‘You have plenty of crew. I don’t see what I—’

‘Look over the rudder.’

‘I’m sure the ship’s carpenter is more familiar—’

‘Hold yourself available for consultation, steersman.’

Cartheron clenched his lips against any comment, gave a curt nod. ‘Very well, captain.’

Hess waved him off. ‘You have your duties, sailor.’

Cartheron headed out to find Keren, the ship’s carpenter.

Keren, known affectionately among all the crews as Fat Keren, as she possessed fine curves that all the male and some of the female sailors appreciated, was a damned fine carpenter. She just shook her head, hands on her wide hips. ‘Got all the help I need, Cartheron.’

‘And the rudder?’

‘Wood’s fine. Joins and tendons are tight. Tiller’s worn but strong. All fine. Got worse problems elsewhere,’ and she nodded aloft to the shrouds.

‘Then why…’

Keren peered about right and left, then lowered her voice, ‘Tryin’ get your goat, is all.’

‘Why?’

‘Got the confidence of the crew, don’t ya? Something he ain’t got. Can’t have any rivals, hey?’

Cartheron just looked to the sky. ‘Oh, for the love of Beru.’

She gave a broad wink. ‘Hey – light duties. What’s to complain?’

He sighed. ‘Right. Thanks, Keren,’ and he wandered off.

* * *

After two days of slouching about on the Avarice with no assigned duties, he went back to see Hess. He was left waiting all afternoon until the captain emerged from his cabin. Cartheron saluted, and Hess eyed him, his displeasure obvious. ‘What is it, sailor?’

‘Duties all completed, captain. Permission to see to private obligations.’

‘Permission denied, sailor.’

Cartheron refused to stand down. ‘May I ask why, captain?’

Hess turned away. ‘You serve at my pleasure, sailor. That should be clear.’

Cartheron closed his eyes, thinking, Oh, to the Abyss with Surly’s command to keep the post. ‘Then as a free raider I resign my berth.’

Hess stopped short; he turned round and closed, staring down at him – Cartheron was not a particularly tall man. ‘You resign,’ he said. Behind his moustache a one-sided smile climbed his lips. ‘Is that so. Good. I’ve been hoping you’d do that. Resignation accepted.’ He pointed to the side. ‘Now get your damned Napan ass off my ship.’

‘Gladly.’ Cartheron headed for the gangway. On his way he caught sight of Dujek, who was frowning and rubbing the back of his neck.

Now for Surly.

* * *

The woman to whom he had sworn his unswerving loyalty was furious. She paced the rough planks of the common room floor, jabbed a finger into her palm with each point: ‘You know we’re in dire need of funds and you quit the Avarice?’ The finger jabbed and Cartheron winced. ‘We’ve sunk everything we have into the Twisted!’ Jab, wince.

‘Sunk is right,’ muttered Grinner from where he sat on a stool next to the door. The finger swung to him. ‘Shut the Abyss up or you’re next.’ Grinner looked to the street, whistling silently. Across the room Tocaras fought to stifle a laugh.

‘Surly…’ Cartheron began, trying to keep his voice as reasonable as he could.

‘Quiet. I’m not finished. You know I was counting on the shares from your position on the Avarice.’

‘Yes, but—’

The door opened and Shrift rushed in. ‘There’s a gang hanging around the Front Street cloth warehouse…’ Her voice dropped away as she took in the thick atmosphere of the room.

Surly rounded on her. ‘So? Take care of it.’

Shrift’s dark brows rose. ‘Okaaay.’ She cuffed Grinner and he grunted, straightening. He checked his belted knives, and the two bowed out.

Surly swung her attention back to Cartheron and set her fists on her narrow hips. She studied him, her eyes slit, and he knew her well enough to wonder: What’s she thinking now?

‘You’ve left me no choice,’ she said, nodding to herself as though she had reached some sort of decision. ‘We’ll have to do it.’

‘Ah … do what?’

‘Take the Twisted out.’

Choss, who had been silently taking all this in at the bar, nearly fell off his stool. ‘You’re joking! It isn’t ready.’

She gave him a scowl. ‘What can be ready for the raid?’

‘You mean the one in two weeks? The secret one that the whole island knows about?’

Surly just stared. ‘Yes. That one.’

He steadied himself on the stool, considering. ‘Well … if I focused on the hull I could finish there – but that’s all! The canvas is all old, the lines are worn and rotten in places, and of course the—’

She raised a hand to silence the litany. ‘It’ll float. Fine.’

‘I wouldn’t trust the rigging even in a moderate blow.’

‘We’ll manage.’ She turned on Cartheron. ‘There. We’re going.’

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Mock won’t allow it.’

She returned to her pacing. ‘What can he do? We’re free raiders like everyone else. The vessel is ours. He can’t stop us.’

Cartheron went to the bar to pour himself a tankard of weak beer and sent Choss a glare. The man scratched his chin for a moment, thinking. ‘We don’t have the crew,’ he produced.

‘Send out the word.’

‘None will join with us Napans,’ said Cartheron.

‘Do it anyway.’

Choss gave Cartheron a shrug. Cartheron sighed, turned to put his back to the bar, and sipped his beer. ‘Fine. We’ll put out the word.’

Surly gave a curt nod and stopped pacing. She brushed her hands together. ‘Very well. I guess we’re done.’ She pointed to Choss. ‘What’re you doing here? Get to work.’

Tocaras let out a muffled laugh; Choss straightened from his stool and regarded him. ‘What’re you laughing at? You’re comin’ with me.’

Tocaras stood as well. ‘Did I tell you I hate the sea?’

‘Every damned day.’ Choss looked to Cartheron. ‘You too. Finish your beer.’

‘Hey! I just finished a full day on the Avarice.’

‘In which you did fuck all.’ Choss motioned him onward. ‘Now c’mon. It’s time to do some actual work.’

Cartheron downed his beer and wiped his mouth. ‘Wonderful. I hate this job.’

* * *

By Dancer’s reckoning it had been close to a month and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps enough was enough. The lad was wasting away before his eyes and there hadn’t been much of him to begin with. He looked parched and pinched and wrinkled and that wasn’t just the glamour of his frail oldster façade: he was beginning to fit the part.

As he limped back to the cave from yet another exhausting day breaking rock in the mines Dancer wondered what he could do: pull him along on a kind of sledge? Carry him? Make that mage, Hairlock, share the carrying? Maybe the Falari had a donkey or a mule up there with them. That would solve the problem. He’d have to ask around.

He pulled aside the tattered cloth hanging and froze, staring: Kellanved’s ledge was empty.

Those Hood-damned sons-a-bitches.

Though ragged from the day’s work, he headed for the dirt ramp that led up to ground level. Even before he reached the top he started yelling: ‘Where is he! What’ve you done with him, damn you!’

The Falari guards stared down at him, appearing rather confused.

‘Where’s Puller?’ Dancer yelled. ‘Get Puller!’

The guards exchanged looks, then one laughed. ‘You don’t go round demanding things, y’damned fool.’

‘Fine, then,’ Dancer snarled under his breath. ‘I’ll just come up there, shall I?’

‘Wait!’ a gruff voice shouted behind and he turned; it was Hairlock puffing up after him. ‘What’re you doing?’

A crossbow bolt slammed into the dirt between Dancer and Hairlock. Both slowly raised their gazes to the top of the ramp. Puller was there, flanked by two female Falari guards, both holding crossbows.

‘Now let’s just calm down here,’ Puller called out. He pointed at Dancer. ‘You. What’s this all about, then?’

‘My friend – the one I came in with – the mage taken by Otataral – he’s gone!’

‘Well, it’s about time,’ Puller said. ‘You tellin’ me that feller was still alive?’

Dancer cut a hand through the air. ‘No. I mean, yes, he was. But he’s gone now. Disappeared. What have you done with him!’

Puller raised his open hands. ‘Hey, we ain’t touched no rotten body, I can tell you that.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘Damned if I know.’ Puller waved them away. ‘Now fuck off. Both a’ ya.’

Hairlock urged Dancer back down the ramp. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, lad. Don’t you worry. I’ll ask around.’

A crowd of inmates had gathered at the foot of the ramp. Just before they reached them, Dancer slipped an arm around Hairlock’s neck and jabbed a thumb deep into his neck, up against his carotid artery. His mouth next to the man’s ear, he whispered, ‘Did you take him?’

‘No,’ the man gasped, his eyes bulging and his face reddening to deep crimson. Please … he mouthed, his breath gone.

The crowd parted and Eth’en now stood before them. ‘He may still be here,’ the old scholar said. Dancer released Hairlock, who collapsed to the earth, gasping for breath, hands at his neck.

‘Show me,’ he said.

Eth’en led him back to his dwelling. Hairlock followed, limping, massaging his neck. ‘I still sense him,’ Eth’en explained.

‘Through the Otataral?’ Hairlock growled, his voice even more hoarse. ‘That’s impossible.’

Eth’en glanced back to him. ‘You know only of the refined finished product. It does suppress magic. But here we move through the raw ore. It is different. It can do other things. It can … transform … change those who would dare manipulate the Warrens in its presence. We Spiritwalkers have been experimenting with this for ages.’

Hairlock grunted, impressed. ‘Well … he ain’t no Spiritwalker.’

‘Exactly. It is possible that he has set out on such a journey completely unprepared, unguided, and only now is beginning to master this new path.’

Dancer thrust aside the rotten cloth hanging revealing the empty ledge. He felt strangely disappointed, as if he’d fully expected to see the fool sitting up and laughing at them. ‘He’s still not here.’

‘Yet I sense his life force, his spirit. He is not dead. I am certain of it.’

Dancer faced him; his fists yearned to grip cold sharp iron. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We wait. If he masters his new … condition … he should return soon.’

Dancer stared off across the empty main pit, the purpling night sky above. Scarves of sand blew through the heated air, rising, as if the naked earth was exhaling. ‘I’ve waited too long as it is.’

‘Just a few more days, I should think.’

After a time he gave a curt bob of assent. ‘Very well. A few days.’ He regarded Hairlock critically. ‘You say you know where the boats are?’ The squat mage nodded. ‘They’d better be there – for your sake.’

Hairlock swallowed, wincing.

* * *

Three days later something woke Dancer from a restless sleep; he quickly glanced to Kellanved’s ledge but it was still empty so he laid his head back down. He wondered, then, what had disturbed him.

Sands hissed, shifting and blowing. The hanging billowed and snapped in a sudden gust. Dancer leapt to his feet and pulled it aside; the night was thick with billowing dust – he couldn’t even see across the pit.

So. It must be now. He looked to the empty ledge: Sorry, friend, but this is too good to pass up.

He drew on the leather straps of two skins of water he’d been saving and set out across the wide pit. He tied a rag over his nose and mouth as he went.

Inmates were out running about in some sort of panic, staring at the churning sands. Dancer grasped the arm of one, yelling, ‘What is it? Why are you out?’

‘Can’t you sense it?’ the oldster answered. ‘This is no normal storm!’

I’ve heard that before, Dancer thought, and he peered about. Kellanved! Yet where? Should I return to the cave?

Hairlock emerged from the swirling umber sands. ‘No time like the present, lad!’ he shouted above the howling winds.

Dancer waved him close. ‘Yes, I know. Find Eth’en!’

The mage’s wide thick mouth turned down even more than usual, dismissive. ‘Faugh! Never mind him! Now’s our chance.’

Dancer shook his head. ‘This storm. I think it’s him.’

‘Him who?’

Dancer started off for his alcove. Hairlock followed; they found Eth’en there. Even as Dancer closed, the old scholar was nodding.

‘It is him,’ he called.

Dancer swept an arm to the cave. ‘But he’s not here!’

Eth’en pointed to the ramp. ‘Up there, to the south. That is the focus of the disturbance.’ Dancer moved to go but the Spiritwalker touched his arm and leaned in close. ‘You must remove him!’ he shouted. ‘It seems this land does not like what your friend is becoming. The entire island will rise against him!’

‘Becoming? What do you mean?’

Eth’en waved them off. ‘I do not know. Something more – if he lives.’

‘Come with us!’

‘No. I must remain. But thanks. Now go!’

Hairlock was already halfway up the ramp. Dancer nodded farewell to the Spiritwalker and followed, all the while keeping an eye out for any guards, but none emerged from the billowing eddies of sands. They hurried to the gate in the palisade and Dancer set to unlatching the fat crossbar. He succeeded in releasing one of the tall leaves and pulled, and the two men slid out. ‘Which way?’ the mage shouted.

Dancer peered round, his gaze shielded from the scouring winds. ‘I don’t know!’ Then he heard something: distorted yells and the thump of crossbows releasing. He pointed the way.

They came upon the rear of a skirmish line of guards spread out across the grounds south of the encampment. They appeared to be stalking something, half with swords bared, half firing crossbows into the skirling storm of dust and golden sands.

Dancer snatched up a rock and struck down the nearest while the burly mage took another from behind and wrenched his neck clear round. Dancer took up the guard’s cheap shortsword and charged down the line; Hairlock advanced on the next, his arms out like an experienced grappler.

Dancer did not know how many of them he struck down but eventually a shout went up – some sort of recall – and the guards backed away, giving ground. He let them go, regretting that he hadn’t come across Puller.

He set to searching, shielding his gaze against the stinging sands. After a time he spotted a dark blotch against the umber and sere rocky ground. It was Kellanved, his black vest and shirtings tattered and torn, smeared in ashes and dirt. He turned him over, searched his face. He still wore the aspect of a grey-haired ancient.

‘Kellanved!’

The lad appeared to be awake but was staring off at nothing. Yet he frowned then, and blinked, as if troubled, or searching after something. ‘Yes,’ he half-mouthed, and nodded. ‘Kellanved … now.’

Hairlock appeared from the blowing sands, bloodied and bruised, his hands caked in sand that clung wet and dripping with blood. ‘Let’s go,’ he growled.

‘Lower your Warren!’ Dancer shouted to Kellanved.

‘I don’t think I can,’ the lad answered, sounding genuinely bewildered – and even a touch frightened.

‘Dammit to Hood!’ Dancer picked him up and ran.

They jogged. Hairlock covered the rear, giving directions. The storm seemed to lose strength over time as Kellanved was now deliberately trying to limit his own power, but it did not entirely fall away, and it appeared to be moving with them.

The desert coast came into view, the ocean sparkling beneath the night sky, which, bizarrely, stretched clear and bright with stars. Hairlock pointed to the west and led them through the night to a narrow cove where, at a heap of rock, he began digging in the sand. Dancer set Kellanved down and joined in.

After some searching, Hairlock exposed the tall prow of a buried boat, very narrow, constructed of horizontal planks, with a single step for a mast, which itself was missing. They found paddles buried within and eventually they had it empty enough to yank it free of its pit.

Kellanved then called from the night, ‘Ah … I seem to be in trouble…’

Hairlock started dragging the boat down to the strand while Dancer staggered, exhausted, over to where Kellanved lay.

He found the mage half sunk in the sand. ‘What in the Abyss…?’ He threw himself down and frantically started digging.

‘It has me,’ Kellanved hissed in pain.

‘What does? Some thing?’

‘No. The island. It’s what it does.’

‘Quit babbling – we’ll have you out.’ He dug down deep, then pulled, but couldn’t get him free.

‘Pull!’ Kellanved gasped. ‘It has me!’

Realizing that something very terrifying was happening to his friend, Dancer slipped his arms under the lad’s, adjusted his footing, and yanked, straightening his legs with all his might.

Kellanved yelled his pain, writhing and puffing.

They fell backwards, Kellanved on top.

Hairlock appeared, peering down at them, frowning his impatience. ‘Let’s go,’ he urged. ‘This is no time to be lying about.’

Both Dancer and Kellanved nodded. Dancer helped his friend limp down to the surf and the waiting boat.

* * *

They paddled all night and through the next day. After that they took turns. By day the sun pounded down mercilessly. Dancer’s lips cracked so severely he could taste his blood with every swallow. Hairlock sweated so badly he was the first to faint from dehydration. Kellanved simply sat back with his shirt held up over his head, dozing. Dancer tried to follow his example but kept starting awake as the narrow boat rocked in the waves.

He lost count of the days after seven – or perhaps eight, he wasn’t certain. In any case one day he found himself blinking up at a new face: a concerned fellow, deeply tanned, with a scraggy beard, peering down at him. Moisture wet his lips and he swallowed, grateful if pained by its passage down his throat.

When he next awoke he saw that he was aboard a fishing vessel, along with Kellanved and Hairlock. One of the crew passed by and handed him a waterskin. He took it with a nod of gratitude.

‘Who are you?’ the fellow asked in an odd accent.

‘Our ship went down,’ Dancer said, his voice hardly recognizable even to himself, so hoarse was it.

‘Is that so?’ the fellow said, nodding sagely. ‘And you three such obvious sailors.’

‘Where do you sail from?’ Dancer asked – eager to change the subject.

‘Delanss. In the Falari archipelago.’

‘We will pay for passage.’

The fellow gave a small motion as if to say: It’s of no matter. ‘We are all men of the sea here. We understand.’ He patted Dancer’s shoulder. ‘Say no more about it.’

Dancer managed to take his hand and squeeze it. ‘You have our gratitude.’ In answer the fisherman pressed the waterskin into his fingers.

* * *

In the days that followed the seven Falari fishermen were repaid in laughter at the antics of their guests. Over and over the three heaved up buckets of seawater and emptied them over one another – all to the great amusement of the crew. They scoured their skin, their hair, their ears. They scrounged the oldest and most torn clothes the crew could spare and threw their own clothes overboard. Many of the fishermen tapped fingers to their temples and shook their heads, thinking it a shame that the sun had seared their guests’ minds.

After four days of painful scouring, his skin raw and red, his hair hacked short and scraped clean, Dancer took a borrowed knife and sat back against the side, scraping any remaining dirt and grime from beneath his nails. Kellanved was leaning over the side, one nostril blocked, snorting his nose clear. Coughing, he hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat into the waves. ‘Tonight, I think,’ he informed Dancer.

‘Good. We’ve been away too long.’

Hairlock was sitting on a heap of old rope, his rags no more than a tattered shirt and shorts; the squat, burly mage looked like an ogre that had eaten a child and now wore its clothes. He had one foot up across the opposite knee and was scouring the sole with a stone.

‘Tonight,’ Dancer called to him.

The man grunted, scraping his foot, fiercely intent.

‘Come with us, yes?’

The man set his foot down, wincing. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘I have unfinished business in Seven Cities.’

‘People to track down, you mean,’ Dancer clarified.

The mage nodded, quite unconcerned. ‘That’s right.’

‘Well … if we succeed at getting out of here, look us up in Malaz.’

The man’s wide mouth turned down in puzzlement. ‘Where?’

‘Malaz. It’s an island south of Quon Tali.’

Hairlock grunted, unimpressed, and turned to scouring his other foot.

* * *

Later, when the majority of the crew had bedded down among the ropes and duffels and heaped canvas that crowded the open boat, Dancer and Kellanved met Hairlock at the bows. They shook hands with the Seven Cities mage and then Dancer looked at his partner. ‘Well?’

Kellanved let out an anxious breath. ‘Yes. Well, here goes.’

Dancer felt that prickling of his hairs and skin that marked an active Warren. He waved a farewell to the one lone fisherman who was regarding them with his brows clenched in puzzlement where he leaned on the side-mounted tiller … and lost his footing as things changed.

He stumbled among dry dusty ash and dust that rose in clouds into the air about him. Coughing, he waved it away. ‘Kellanved?’

‘Yes.’ The lad sounded very weak.

He found him lying amid the dust, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his head. ‘That really hurt,’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘Too soon?’

A nod. ‘Yes. Too soon.’

‘Sorry.’ Dancer gently lifted him on to his back, his arms hanging down over his shoulders. ‘I’ll carry you, then. Which way?’

Kellanved raised an arm to point and Dancer set off in that direction. ‘Quite comfortable now, are we?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, quite.’

Dancer rolled his eyes to the ash-laden sky. ‘Wonderful.’

* * *

Dassem walked at the very rear of the caravan. He knew many would resent the position, thinking it the worst, the least safe, and the place where one must choke on the kicked-up dust of all ahead. Probably most would feel that way, yet he did not. He was not afraid; he did not yearn for a central position, snug in the middle of the herd and safe from attack. As to the dust – the winds were contrary, blowing mostly across the line of march, and so the nuisance was not constant. And he’d tied a rag across his nose and mouth in any case.

He usually walked next to the horses. If he wanted a break he would sit up on the front of the small cart. Sometimes, when Nara was lucid, they would talk. Small talk, mostly, of the adherents she’d got to know in Heng. Of small kindnesses or stinging injustices; the typical inadvertent or unthinking acts that carry such great weight and importance among youths.

At times the caravan guard, Shear, would pause in her circuits of the straggling line of wagons and carts to walk with him for a time. She would nod and he would nod in return. But not one word had she ever yet spoken to him, and so he’d responded in kind.

It was not until they’d passed the halfway point of the long road south – the first full moon of the march, in fact – that the first incident occurred. On this day the long line of wagons ground to a halt very early. At first he thought of trouble on the road ahead, a broken axle or a lost child perhaps, but then his gaze went to the tall hills to either side, the dense tree cover that ran right down to the rutted dusty traders’ track, and he raised his gaze to the sky, sighing. He walked behind his cart and crossed his arms, waiting.

Shortly thereafter four very ragged individuals, two male and two female, emerged from the brush. One fellow carried a curved blade that was spotted with rust, one woman a long thin rapier; the other two held readied crossbows.

‘Just stand still and no one will get hurt,’ the woman with the rapier told him.

Dassem waited, his arms crossed.

The four kept glancing up the line then back to him, then away towards the lead wagons again. Two were frowning now.

‘You’re wondering where your friends are,’ Dassem said.

‘Shut up!’ the fellow with the crossbow snarled. The heavy weapon was drooping in his thin arms; he looked as if he’d not had a good solid meal in a long time. Of the four only the swordsman wore any armour, and this a hauberk of large overlapping iron scales riveted to thick leather old enough to be an artefact from his grandfather’s hegemony wars, which it probably was.

‘See them?’ the woman with the crossbow asked him.

‘Shut up, Ahla.’

‘I have a feeling that they won’t be showing up,’ Dassem said.

‘Enough from you!’ the crossbowman snarled, his hands tightening on the weapon. Dassem shifted sideways, putting the swordsman between them. Even as the crossbowman swore, Dassem kicked the swordsman backwards into him then shifted sideways again, putting them between him and the woman who was swinging her crossbow over to track him. He twisted the swordsman’s wrist, holding the weapon aside, then snapped up the crossbow to smack the spokesman in the face; he went down mewling in pain.

The woman with the rapier displayed good form; she lunged to impale but he was faster, sidestepping with the swordsman, who was pulling on the blade to release it. Dassem allowed the man to pull but directed the movement upwards, pushing, adding to the force, and the man butted himself in the face with the iron pommel. His knees gave and he went down.

The duellist thrust again and he spun, closing, and took her arm, bending the wrist backwards. Gasping, she released the blade, which he then raised up under her chin. She rose to her toes and he held her before him and marched for the woman with the crossbow. She retreated, searching for a clear shot, but he closed quickly and reached out to swat her trigger bar with his free hand.

The bolt disappeared harmlessly into the brush.

He faced the two women with the rapier and motioned away to the hillside. The women gritted their teeth, furious, but they grasped the arms of their limp compatriots and dragged them off into the bushes.

A few moments later Shear appeared, her small painted half-mask at her face, her swords sheathed at her sides. She halted, frozen for an instant, her hands twitching, then she rested them on her grips. She studied the much trampled dirt and mud of the track. Slowly, her unreadable shielded gaze rose to him.

He gave a small shrug. ‘We are ready to move on, perhaps?’ he asked. She said nothing, her head tilting ever so slightly to one side, and marched off.

It took a while, but eventually the caravan got moving once more.

* * *

Two days later he was walking next to his horses when Shear came down the line of the rumbling carts and wagons. She carried two long staves, one under an arm, the other in a hand. The one in her hand she threw as she came and Dassem caught it.

He sighted down it; fairly straight. He flexed it. Not too dry – still holding a degree of suppleness. It was, not coincidentally, the length of a sword.

As they walked along Shear sighted down her wooden stave then drew out a short knife and started shaving off small strips.

Dassem went to the cart, found a knife, and started on his.

They passed the day shaping the pieces. Neither spoke.

Towards the end of the march Dassem gathered up a handful of sand and used it in his fists to roughen up the grip of his piece. He noticed Shear doing the same with hers.

Then she held it in a two-handed grip, the length of one fist between her hands, and tried a few experimental overhead cuts. She looked at him and he nodded. She gave the smallest slight inclination of agreement then headed off for the front of the caravan.

He spent most of the next day practising with his new training bokken.

That night he crouched next to his small campfire, boiling a pot of pigs’ trotters that a trader’s wife had offered him. He had a few wild potatoes to add and was trimming them when Shear emerged from the dark. She carried only her own wooden bokken, thrust through her belt, and two unlit torches.

He took the pot off the fire, dropped the potatoes in, and set it aside for later, then thrust his bokken through his belt. Next, he looked in on Nara; as usual at this time, she had fallen into that strange spell or suspended state that Hood had set upon her, and so he let the canvas fall and tied it off.

Shear tossed him one of the torches, which he lit from his fire, and they walked off into the woods. And still neither had said a word to the other.

They found a relatively clear meadow among the woods, bright and monochrome silver under the moon. Dassem set his torch at one edge; Shear hers at the other. They then set to sweeping down the taller grasses and weeds. Satisfied, they faced one another and bowed.

Shear struck a ready stance, her body held slightly sideways, her right foot forward; he mirrored her. Watching her, he found the alien conceit of the painted half-mask distracting. He wasn’t used to facing masked opponents; it disguised the eyes. Yet eyes can lie, and so he mentally dismissed the detail.

They touched bokkens, pressing in ever more strongly until the wooden blades slid apart. Dassem adjusted his footing on the dirt and didn’t like what he felt. He raised a hand for a pause. Shear slid backwards out of the kill zone, beyond the length of his weapon. He knelt and tightened the lacing on one moccasin. Shear swished her blade through the grasses, waiting.

Satisfied, he straightened, ready. She began edging in by sliding one foot forward at a time, and then their blades met with a sharp clack that echoed about the meadow. They met again, rebounding with staccato cracks that steadily picked up pace, ever quickening, until the clatter became a noise that rose and fell like a steady waterfall of thrumming.

After this long slow increase of probing – itself a basic testing that nine out of ten of his opponents failed – Dassem slid back and offered a nod of acknowledgement. Instead of answering the nod, Shear snapped her blade in a lightning cut that set him on the back foot and she kept on pressing, forcing him to retreat across his half of the meadow.

Before running up against the brush Dassem managed to circle round until she was the one held against the forest edge. At this she disengaged and offered a small acknowledging nod of her own. Dassem wanted to salute but dared not raise his weapon out of position. He slid backwards to the centre and awaited her there. She followed, swinging her arms, stretching, and rolling her shoulders.

They pressed blades together once more and began again.

Only when the moon set below the tree-line and it became quite dark did Dassem raise a hand to call a halt. It had been his best testing in years and he was sweating, though he was careful to maintain even breaths – as his teacher had lectured him, never allow your opponent to see your breathing change.

Shear straightened, and touched her splintered bokken to her brow. He answered the salute and noticed how sweat gleamed on her bare arms, chin, and neck, although her breaths also appeared completely even.

She tucked the bokken up under an arm, and said, ‘Perhaps next time you’ll really try.’ Then she walked away.

He stood for a time in the quiet of the meadow, surrounded by the trampled flat grasses, the stars gleaming overhead, and he allowed himself one deep breath. The night air chilled his back where his shirt clung to him.

Feeling a faint wind brushing through nearby branches, he cocked his head, thinking, and it occurred to him that, indeed, it had been a long time since he’d actually had to try.

* * *

Lee – whose given name was Leeopo Mulliner, though she’d die before ever revealing that – had a good thing going running Geffen’s street toughs. For five years now she’d worked organizing and managing operations all across this damned dreary island of Malaz.

It had been a sweet arrangement. These stupid sailors went off risking drowning in an accident (something she’d never put herself in the way of) or death in a raid (something else she saw no percentage in), only to bring loot back to Malaz that they exchanged for coin (of which Geffen got his cut) in order to spend it in Geffen’s taverns, brothels, and flop-houses until they found themselves destitute once more and eyeing the sea for yet another raid, whereupon the whole milking operation began again.

A lucrative system for him and for her. Until they showed up. The damned Napans and their cut-throat employer – the one with the old madman in tow. Why in all creation was someone like him wasting his time in the back of beyond on this island when he could be taking fat contracts in Unta or Cawn? It just wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done.

It wasn’t damned fair, that’s what it was.

So now she was standing on the public pier with Gef, waiting for some major player killer from the mainland. A knifer all Gef’s contacts swore by. A hireling whose price would damn well nearly clean them out.

Again, it wasn’t damned fair. But they’d driven them to it. Left them no choice. Whatever would come, it was their damned fault.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, unhappy with the errand, and rubbed her right silver earring. These were the one extravagance she allowed herself: Falari silver crafted into the shape of birds – hummingbirds, in point of fact.

She noted Geffen eyeing her fidgeting, and he gave her a scowl of his own impatience. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘This guy’s top talent. Worked all over – even Genabackis. You heard a’ Genabackis?’

‘No.’

‘Well. Word is he’s also an Adept of Dark. Rashan. So you watch your attitude. Okay?’

She looked away, rolling her eyes to the sky. Whatever. Probably just a fucking waste of time and money.

The tramp two-master nudged the pier. Hands threw lines, and a gangway was wrangled into place. Passengers began disembarking. Lee crossed her arms and let out a long breath. It wasn’t a large crowd this eve, workers and petty merchants mostly. Carrying their bundles and bags, they parted round Gef and her until it seemed that no one was left.

She cast a questioning look to Gef and when she glanced back there he was right before them, making her start slightly, despite her scepticism. Small and skinny he was, almost painfully so; short midnight-black hair standing in all directions; and wearing the typical black trousers and black cotton shirt that were so clichéd they almost made her laugh – until she caught his expression and the sneer in her throat turned to a swallow.

Unnerving, his eyes. Like a reptile’s, watchful yet somehow dead. And a knowing smile, predatory, that seemed to take great pleasure from the shiver that his gaze scraped up her spine. She cleared her throat.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, motioning up the pier.

Geffen looked him up and down, his own scepticism obvious. ‘This is all you got?’

The lad raised a bag he carried in one hand. It was slim, not even long enough to carry a sword. ‘This is all I need.’

Geffen invited him onward. Lee walked alongside.

‘Kinda young to have acquired such a reputation,’ Gef said.

‘Are you reconsidering?’ the lad asked, and his unnerving smile widened as he asked. ‘Because it would upset me to have come all this way for nothing.’

‘No, no. Just … wondering.’

‘Let’s say I earned it.’

‘Sure, sure.’

‘Where?’ Lee asked.

The lazy-lidded eyes shifted to her, looked her up and down with an undisguised contempt that made her clench her fists. ‘Elsewhere.’

‘No kidding. Where elsewhere?’

The smile grew, pulling back from tiny, sharp, white teeth. ‘The Falaran peninsula most recently. I tracked down a fellow there who claimed a very important kill that wasn’t his.’

‘What kill?’

‘A king.’

‘So you killed him because he lied about the kill?’

‘No, I killed him because he lied about who he was.’

They reached the base of the pier and here Geffen halted and set his fists on his hips. He stood blocking the way of an old bearded fellow in worn trousers and jacket, carrying a fishing rod. After a moment Lee recognized the oldster as the mage who had refused to work for them.

‘What’re you doing here?’ Geffen demanded.

The old guy hefted the rod, but his gaze was fixed upon the newcomer. ‘Fishing,’ he said.

‘Kinda late in the day.’

‘You never know.’

Geffen waved him away. He passed them, yet still couldn’t keep his eyes from the lad. For his part, the lad simply smiled back – the smile seeming to hint at some darkly amusing secret known only to the two of them.

They started up the cobbled way to Geffen’s gambling house and tavern. Her steps, she noticed, had sounded from the pier’s planks and now against the stone cobbles – but this lad’s soft dark leather shoes appeared to make no sound at all.

‘Your communication contained the name “Dancer”,’ the fellow said suddenly. ‘I want to know – is that right?’

‘Yeah, that’s the name,’ Geffen told him. ‘Why?’

‘Good.’

Lee showed an arched brow to the crime boss. Fine, be that way.

Geffen cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. ‘You can room at my place. Is that, ah, acceptable?’

‘Certainly,’ the fellow answered, all magnanimous, as if doing them a favour.

Lee clenched her teeth till they ached. ‘So, what d’we call you?’ she asked, rather brusquely.

‘Cowl,’ he said, smiling again. ‘You can call me Cowl.’

Lee let out a snort and looked to the roiling overcast sky. Oh, please! Is that supposed to be scary or something? What a fucking joke.