Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 15

Cartheron stood with Choss and Hawl on board the Twisted, awaiting Surly. It had been nearly a week since they’d limped into Malaz harbour, and now their commander wanted a detailed appraisal of the ship’s condition.

The news was grim and Surly, he knew, would not be happy.

He watched from the railing as she marched out on to the pier, accompanied by Urko, Shrift, and ten or so local Malazan toughs – her bodyguard now that they’d hardened their control of the majority of the island’s black market. Also trailing along was this new follower, Nedurian, old and scarred, in plain travel-stained leathers, looking more like a retired fisherman than a veteran mage. Cartheron had to say that he wasn’t certain he trusted the fellow yet.

The toughs remained at the gangway while Surly, Urko, Shrift and the mage came stamping up. On deck, she crossed her arms and faced him; her habitual sour expression demanded, Well? He noticed she favoured her side, where, he understood, Geffen had cut her quite badly before she broke his neck. Local healers had done their work, but these things still smarted, he knew.

Cartheron cleared his throat, glanced to Choss and Hawl. Might as well jump into the depths, he reasoned. ‘We recommend laying up the entire winter season for a proper refit.’

That he’d said the wrong thing was immediately evident in her flat side-to-side denial. ‘Not what I want to hear, Crust. I want off this island.’

‘We need the time,’ Choss put in. ‘We struck two ice floes.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be here all winter.’

‘She won’t be ready,’ Hawl said.

Shrift now waved her impatience, butting in. ‘What’s the problem? We just take another!’ She motioned all about. ‘There’re plenty.’

‘Not like this one,’ Nedurian drawled from where he leaned against the railing outside their circle.

Shrift turned a sneer on the man. For some unknown reason the swordswoman had no time for the mage. ‘Oh? How so?’

By way of answer, the fellow rested his lazy gaze on Hawl. ‘Because she’s ensorcelled. Isn’t that so, Hawl?’

Hawl eyed him in turn, then nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘No other vessel could have made it out of the strait,’ the mage continued. ‘Isn’t that true?’

‘Possibly,’ Hawl granted.

Cartheron was thinking of the Just Cause. They’d lost sight of it soon after entering the Strait of Storms, and after that they had all been too busy fighting the ice buildup and evading the floes to consider its fate. But he still couldn’t let go of his worry – what if it had made it after all? Wouldn’t it be prudent …

He cleared his throat again, saying, ‘Surly might be right. Perhaps we should push off as soon as possible. Finish the repairs elsewhere.’

‘And just where?’ Hawl answered, exasperated. ‘We can’t show our faces anywhere on the mainland.’

‘Kartool?’ Choss offered.

Shrift shuddered and Urko’s blunt face twisted in disgust. ‘Gods, no,’ he rumbled.

‘Further afield,’ Surly said, crossing her arms. ‘We offer our services to one of the Seven Holy Cities. Aren, or Ubaryd.’

‘Got no navies worth the name,’ Urko offered, nodding and scratching his chin.

‘We’d be facing the Falari,’ Hawl warned.

Urko waved one great paw in dismissal. ‘Faugh! We can take them.’

But Surly would not move her steady gaze from Cartheron. He tapped his fingers on the scarred railing. ‘Heard troubling things about that sea cult of theirs. What is it? The … Jhistel? Blood sacrifices.’

Surly’s gaze did not waver. ‘We’ll face that when we must. But right now we’ve hung about too long.’

Cartheron nodded his agreement. Yes. By now Tarel must know they were here, word from the Just Cause or not. He already seemed to have the island in his sights. ‘Yes,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Minimal repairs. Just enough to get us to Seven Cities.’

Choss snorted, commenting under his breath, ‘That’s some journey, I’ll have you know.’

‘Regardless,’ Surly said, and she uncrossed her arms. ‘How long?’ she asked Choss.

Their best boatwright twisted up his features, thinking. ‘Two moons, soonest.’

‘One.’

The man jerked his head as if pained. ‘What?’

‘One,’ she warned, pointing. ‘We’re done. Everyone help out on the repairs,’ and she turned and headed down the gangway, followed by Urko, Shrift and the new mage.

Choss leaned against the railing and looked to Cartheron, shaking his head. ‘Plenty of work ahead for all of us. So where’s your new guy, Dujek, and his tag-along?’

‘Out whipping our Malazan boys and girls into shape.’

Choss raised his chin to the pier. ‘What do you think of the new mage?’

Cartheron considered, lifted his shoulders. ‘Looks like a veteran.’

‘He is,’ Hawl said from behind. Cartheron turned to her; she was eyeing the retreating figures. ‘He has ex-legionnaire written all over him.’

‘Ex-legionnaire?’ Cartheron echoed. ‘As in the Talian iron legions?’ He whistled. ‘We could use him.’

‘If we can trust him.’

‘Trust him? What do you mean?’

But the heavy mage simply hugged her broad chest and tilted her head in thought. ‘Don’t know. Got a funny feeling on the ship just then with everyone … Keep an eye on him, Crust.’

Cartheron nodded his full agreement. ‘If you say so, Hawl.’

* * *

The caravan was encamped a day’s journey from Fedal, a southern Itko Kan city, and termination point of the main north–south overland trade route. At the sprawling caravanserai grounds – a broad meadow of trampled grass – fires were lit against the dark and animals were being brushed, fed, and cared for.

As was usual, Dassem went for a long walk through the night. This time, however, he was alone. Shear no longer even spoke to him, save to lower her masked head to him in passing as if she were his subordinate, which, he knew she now believed herself to be.

It was autumn; the grass was dry and brittle and snagged at his trousers. There was an early chill to the air; he’d overheard some merchants attribute this to the Sea of Storms just to their south.

He paused in the dark to look skyward. Old familiar stars glowed above the southern horizon. The constellations of his youth: the Spear, the Cart, the Sky Mother.

Tomorrow they would part. He would carry on to the coast to take a ship out to Malaz Island, which he’d heard described uninvitingly as cold, rainy, and dreary. While she, he understood, would return to her island home far away.

He ran a hand through the tall, sharp-edged grasses. Should he simply allow that to happen? Shouldn’t he return, ask her to accompany him and Nara? Why not?

After standing silent for a time he let out a long slow breath. No; Hood had not taken his eye from him. He was certain of that. The Grey Walker held some special fate in store for him. Some stern lesson for his defiance.

He would not embroil her in that.

Yet shouldn’t that be her choice? He could warn her of the dangers and let her choose …

He half turned back to the distant flickering fires of the encampment, then quickly sank to his haunches amid the tall sighing grasses.

Weapon oil and sweat.

Then, the brush of ring-mail, and the faint click of a crossbow setting.

He reached down to his waist only to remember that he’d left his sword behind.

And is Hood laughing now. Mortal Sword indeed! Ha!

He lay still, listening. From what he could piece together it sounded as if a wide, staggered picket line just passed his position, closing on the caravanserai. Crouched still, he padded along behind the nearest of the individuals. To his benefit it was a dark night, and none of the figures carried any source of light – no doubt being guided by the fires of the camp. He took the man from the rear, clamped his hands round his neck just long enough for unconsciousness, then lowered him into the grasses. What he found, a ragged patched hauberk over a stained old Kanian uniform, confirmed his suspicion: outlaws, or renegades.

Through this gap in the picket he hurried inward, still crouched for a time, and jogged for camp.

The main body of the outlaws entered the caravanserai even as he closed. Panicked shouts arose but thankfully no screams or clash of blades – yet.

He pushed through the milling families and groggy fretful merchants to a position across a fire from where Shear stood with Horst Grethall. The fat-bellied caravan-master had his arms in the air and was shouting for calm.

Shear, of course, spotted him amid the flickering shadows. In the firelight her mask seemed to swim with a kaleidoscope of rich colours. Her blade was not drawn, as yet. A hand low at her side gave a slight flat wave – wait.

‘No need for any violence, Luel,’ Horst was saying to one of the outlaws. ‘You’ll have your payment.’

‘Tithe,’ the man clarified, rather archly. He wore a faded officer’s surcoat over a hauberk of scale. He was bearded, and his hair was long and bedraggled, suggesting he’d been camping in the field for a great many months. ‘Our legal due for keeping the roads safe here, so close to the Dal Hon border.’

‘Safe from whom?’ Horst grumbled under his breath.

The former officer chose magnanimously to ignore the complaint. He gestured to his men and women, all probably his own troops, and they set to searching the wagons.

Dassem’s hands clenched as bolts of cloth, blankets, baskets and cooking utensils came crashing out of the wagons amid protests and shouts.

‘You are searching all the wagons and carts?’ he called to the retired – or cashiered – officer.

Luel turned his way, searched the dim firelight. ‘All must contribute to the tithe.’ He squinted, frowning. ‘And you are…?’

Dassem started for his cart.

‘Stop that man!’ Luel bellowed.

Dassem threw down a number of the outlaw soldiers nearby but had to halt as numerous crossbows were levelled against him. He stood, waiting, while Luel marched up to study him closely.

Face to face, Luel said, ‘You are in an awful hurry to reach your goods, my friend.’

Dassem said nothing, fists clenched. His gaze was fixed into the darkness where his cart lay.

‘Forgot to hide something, perhaps? Some gold or silver maybe?’ Luel looked him up and down. ‘You don’t look wealthy, but perhaps it’s all hidden away in your wagon or among your rags, hey?’

Dassem studied the seven glinting crossbow quarrels arrayed before him, with more behind, no doubt. He damned this man for taking what looked like his entire command with him from the Kanian fold.

A bellow arose from the dark, a shout of open terror. ‘Plague!’

Dassem looked to the night sky and mouthed a silent curse.

One of the ex-soldiers came running to Luel, pointing a shaking finger back into the darkness. ‘A cart,’ he gasped, ‘a girl – plague!’

‘It is not plague,’ Dassem announced to everyone.

Luel’s gaze narrowed in suspicion. ‘What’s this? You bring a sick family member south with you?’

Horst now pushed forward, saying, outraged, ‘You told me she was old and infirm!’

‘She is not sick,’ Dassem repeated, stubbornly, but sounding unconvincing even to himself.

‘I’ve seen plague,’ the outlaw told Luel, ‘and she has it.’ He slapped his hands to his mouth, saying, ‘Gods! There must have been sickly vapours in there and they touched me!’

Luel nodded to the fellow. ‘Burn it.’

‘No!’ Dassem lurched forward, then spun as a crossbow bolt gouged his left side, passing on into the darkness.

He stilled, hunched in pain, a hand pressed to his side, panting. Luel watched him warily, then waved his man onward. ‘Go on. Burn it.’

Dassem reached out to Horst. ‘Think, man. How could she be a carrier? Has anyone got sick? Have I?’ But the fat caravan-master just backed away, shaking his head.

The outlaw jogged off. Dassem watched him disappear between the wagons, and steeled himself to follow though it meant a suicidal charge through a hail of crossbow bolts.

Even as he tensed for the leap, a great flash erupted from the nearby fire, blinding him and bringing cries of surprise and shock from everyone. A hand took his arm and he did not fight as he recognized the touch.

‘This way,’ Shear whispered, dragging him along by the elbow.

He wiped at his tearing eyes. ‘What was that? Are you a mage?’

‘No. It is a chemical made by a people north of my homeland. They trade small pinches of it.’

‘That was a pinch?’

She pushed him up against a wagon. ‘Do you begin all your fights unarmed?’

‘Well – it was a spur of the moment thing.’ He blinked repeatedly, struggling to regain his vision. ‘Lead me to the northernmost part of the clearing.’

Shouts and panic now filled the air as the caravan merchants and families sought to flee. Luel’s command-voice rose over the tumult: ‘Find them and kill them!’

Shear took his arm and thrust a weapon into his hand. He hefted it and was appalled by its balance. ‘What is this?’

She was pulling him along. ‘A sword. I took it from one of the outlaws.’

‘It is wretched.’

‘So throw it away and request something more suitable.’

Shapes moved now in his vision; families dashing about in the dark. Shear moved suddenly and a body fell to the dirt, writhing and gurgling.

He wiped at his face. ‘My apologies. It is a fine blade.’

They hurried onward; he could see almost well enough now to make his own way. ‘You believe me, then?’ he asked as they threaded between wagons. ‘This isn’t the plague.’

‘If it was the plague, she’d be dead by now. As would you.’

‘Exactly. Then why all this?’

‘Fear is fear. It has no logic.’

He could make out the cart; men and women were gathered there, carrying torches. They’d pulled it clear and were throwing dry wood and brush up against its sides.

Despite the searing pain at his side, he clamped both hands on to the weapon, hissing, ‘Hood witness,’ and charged.

Together they cleared the area around the cart very quickly. Then by mutual nods they separated, he going to the left, she the right, and worked their way southward through the caravanserai slaying every outlaw they met.

After the fifteenth, he began to feel sorry for these common soldiers, renegade or not, and switched to incapacitating cuts across the face, weapon arm, side, or neck. Some of these would bleed out, he knew, but others would have the option of limping away.

He found Luel in the south-west corner, behind a semicircle of defending crossbowers, double-ranked. Some sort of word, or battle instinct, must have warned him of what was coming and he was retreating behind his surviving men and women. They were pacing backwards, kneeling, firing into the dark, switching ranks and reloading – all in sequence.

Crouched in the grasses, Dassem admired their precision and discipline.

Shear joined him and together they followed, hunched, parting the grass with their blades to study the formation for an opening.

‘Perhaps we shall have to let them go,’ Shear offered.

‘We have to end this or they will return.’ He peered back towards the camp, thinking. ‘A moment,’ he said, and jogged off.

In the camp he found what he sought: a family of Seti tribal descent, refugees of some feud or blood-crime. He approached the aged grandfather guarding their felt-covered cart and nodded a greeting. The man held a wicked recurve bow low before him, an arrow nocked. A tall spear, adorned with wolf-tails, leaned up against the cart next to him.

Dassem motioned to the weapon. ‘May I borrow your fine spear?’

The fellow reached over and held it out. ‘An honour, Sword of Death.’

Dassem shook his head. ‘No longer.’

‘I saw what I saw. And I heard the stories from Heng.’

Dassem merely held the weapon out, horizontal, and inclined his head in thanks. Then he jogged back westward to Shear’s position in the dark.

He approached, hunched low, spear level with the ground. The stamp of horses’ hooves reached him, together with mild nickering and the jangle of tack. Shear was behind low brush and she gestured ahead. She whispered, ‘They are collecting the horses.’

Dassem took a quick glance; the outlaws were gathering the beasts together, yet a solid picket of crossbowers still kept watch. Again Dassem regretted that such a competent commander should have left the Kanian fold.

He waited, crouched upon his haunches, weapon readied at his shoulder, for the moment he wanted, and eventually it came.

Luel appeared, swinging up on to his mount. He pointed about with his sword, giving orders. Dassem backed up three paces, then rose to his full height and extended his arm backwards. Shear opened her mouth to say something, but closed it without speaking, obviously not wishing to distract him.

He charged, thrusting his arm forward, hopping with the release. Shear rose to her feet, her masked face tracing the night sky as she followed the weapon’s high arcing flight. Shouts arose in the camp – they’d been seen.

Atop his mount, Luel turned their way, pointing his sword.

As if by magic the spear sprouted from his lower torso and he grunted with the impact. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. He clutched at the thick haft then slid backwards off the horse.

Alarm erupted in the camp. The crossbow ranks scattered, running to any nearby mounts, throwing themselves into the saddles, and kicking them into a gallop. In an instant all had fled the clearing. Shear and Dassem waited until the dust settled, then advanced.

They found the outlaw commander lying on his back, still alive and conscious, a bloodied hand on the haft standing straight above him. The man’s dark eyes tracked Dassem as he closed to crouch next to him. Shear kept watch.

Luel licked his bloodied lips and whispered, ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Dassem Ultor.’

An explosion of laughter sprayed blood all over the man’s beard and chest. He bared his reddened teeth in a grin. ‘Should’ve guessed. I was at Heng. I heard Hood’s Sword was there.’

Dassem nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

The commander gave a weak shrug. ‘No matter. You now bring death to the south.’

‘That is not my intent.’

The man’s hand fell from the haft. ‘Yet … it follows … you…’

Dassem closed the man’s staring eyes, rose, and faced Shear. Blood spattered her trousers, shirt and mask from the battle.

‘I am thinking you are no longer welcome among the caravan,’ she said.

‘And neither are you, no doubt. I am sorry.’

She waved that aside. ‘No matter. I was planning to return to my people anyway.’

He nodded. ‘I will collect our horses and go.’

‘I will keep them all from bothering you in the meantime.’

‘My thanks.’ He reached out. ‘Shear…’

She remained erect, hands at her sides. ‘Yes?’

He let go a long breath, let the hand fall. ‘Fare you well.’

She inclined her masked head slightly. ‘You too, Sword of Hood.’ She turned and jogged off.

He allowed her time to speak to Horst, then went to find his horses.

* * *

It was far from winter proper, yet a chill wind from the south sent shivers up Cartheron’s back where he sat on a heap of rope inspecting the tackle of the running rigging taken from the mizzen mast. Most was far older and more worn than he would’ve liked; however, given the shortage of equipment, they had to make do.

They hadn’t the time to haul the Twisted up so Choss was in charge of repairs and caulking below decks while he handled everything aloft. It was painful to him to have to pass sub-par blocks and frayed line, yet on Mock’s orders no vendor on the island would sell them one nail or a single yard of canvas, even under the table. Still, they had managed to appropriate a few supplies.

It was dark, but they were working in shifts through the night by torch and lantern light, and had even taken to sleeping in the hammocks in the crew’s quarters before the mast. They had to make do with what they could scrounge, or steal, and that was Grinner’s area. Already he’d come through with some new line, lumber of questionable provenance, and fresh pitch.

Though they had been working like this for days, Cartheron still found it difficult to sleep given the occasional sightings of the ship’s unofficial mascot, the strange nacht creature. That thing made him uneasy still, while Shift flatly refused to bed down on the vessel at all.

Surly, for her part, remained ensconced in Smiley’s with her bodyguard, rarely showing herself. Running everything, collecting money, and no doubt impatiently awaiting the day of their departure.

He sat back and set his hands on his thighs, stretching his back and neck; but that was unfair. Her security was paramount to him as well, even though Geffen’s organization, now under a lieutenant of his, was lying low, focused on regaining its strength. And as for Mock with his council of captains, the man had had no reported sober day in weeks. And the local merchants, wisely perhaps, took their lead from the council.

He stilled, then, noticing that the chill wind was no longer blowing in off the bay, but luffing his shirt from the front. He peered up, puzzled, and was surprised to see thick dark clouds massing over the island. A blaze of sheet lightning made him flinch and blink and he rose, peering to the south. The deep purple night sky was clear there, which was odd, given that most storms rolled over them out of the south.

A thick mist was now even rising off the icy waters and climbing the wharves. He backed away to the cargo hatch and called down, ‘Hawl. Better get up here.’

Their mage was already on her way up the steep stairs. She went straight to the side and peered up the shore into town.

‘What is it?’ Cartheron asked.

She turned to him, frowning her worry. ‘Shadow…’

‘Truly?’ He eyed the mist-shrouded streets. ‘You think, maybe … it’s our boy?’

A curse of alarm sounded from below and a short hairy shape burst from the companionway, swung over the side, and went loping up the pier to disappear into the swirling fog.

Hawl merely raised a brow in comment and Cartheron nodded. ‘We have to warn Surly. I’ll go.’

‘Not alone.’ Hawl leaned over the cargo hatch. ‘Urko! You still down there?’

‘Yeah?’ came an answering bellow.

She pointed a warning finger at Cartheron. ‘You take your brother.’

* * *

Grinner, Nedurian found, played a mean game of troughs. They sat before one of the two ground floor windows of Smiley’s. Nedurian had played a lifetime, campaigning all across Quon east to west, and now in the unlikely figure of this burly, scarred knife-fighter he’d found a fellow adherent as steeped in the game’s strategy as he.

He rolled again and considered his moves while Grinner chewed a thumbnail and eyed the board. When he hadn’t moved for some time the Napan peered up at him, frowning. ‘What is it?’

But Nedurian wasn’t listening. For some time a vague worry had been tugging at him despite his submersion in the game, and only now had it finally surfaced in a prickling all up and down his arms and the stirring of the small hairs of his neck.

He rose from the table, jostling it and upsetting the stones. Grinner pulled away, his hands going to the yellowed horn knife grips standing from his vest. ‘What is it?’

Mist shrouded the street outside beneath dark bunched clouds. Even as Nedurian watched, touching his Warren, shadows cast across the shrouds of fog seemed to shift and twist all of their own accord. He went for the door.

‘What is it?’ Grinner repeated.

Nedurian paused. ‘Some sort of magery.’ Pointing at Grinner, he warned him, ‘Stay indoors!’ and rushed out. He made for Agayla’s; if anyone would be familiar with such a manifestation it would be she.

Oddly enough, though the woman’s shop was only a few streets away, he almost became lost amid cobbled ways he didn’t recognize. He stopped to strengthen his touch upon Rashan. Immediately, the town seemed to snap back into place all about him. He raced on.

Eventually, after a number of turns that proved inexplicably wrong, he stumbled upon her shop only to find her out in the street already, a silk shawl about her shoulders, glowering at the overcast night sky.

‘Is it one of the island’s Shadow Moons?’ he asked, a touch out of breath.

‘No. It resembles a Shadow Moon, but none has been presaged for years yet. This is worse. Some fool is opening a gateway between Shadow and here. And I think I know who.’

‘Ah. Our peculiar visitor.’

‘Yes. And he is a greater fool than I suspected. Doesn’t he understand that anything can come through?’

This gave Nedurian pause. ‘Anything?’ he repeated, almost in disbelief.

She nodded, furious. ‘Anything. We must be ready to defend the city.’

Nedurian ran a hand over his unshaven cheeks. Ye gods, this was not what he’d signed up for.

Civilians were crowding the street now, peering about in wonderment. Agayla waved them away. ‘Hide indoors. It is a … a Shadow Storm. Lock your doors!’ She imperiously waved him away as well. ‘Send everyone indoors.’

He inclined his head in acquiescence – as one could only do when Agayla used that tone – and jogged off, shouting as he went, ‘Lock your doors! A Shadow Storm!’

* * *

High above Malaz City, Tattersail sat at table with Mock and a few of his favourite captains. Untan distilled grain liquor had flowed freely and the captains were trading banter and jokes with the admiral while Tattersail played with her knife and napkin.

Mock laughed roguishly at the jokes, sending winks to her across the table, but she was not amused by what she saw as these followers’ transparent efforts at ingratiation and toadying. Mock, of course, was enjoying all the attention.

‘Still no word from your sources on Nap?’ Captain Hess asked, hooking an arm over the back of his tall chair.

‘None,’ Mock answered. ‘Do not worry. They were savaged just as badly.’ He eyed Tattersail directly across the full length of the table. ‘Some warn of a follow-up invasion or attack, but I discount it utterly.’

Tattersail looked away, her grip on the silver knife tightening.

‘Who will be the new flank admiral, then, Mock?’ another asked, rather drunkenly.

The admiral raised his brows in exaggeration. ‘This is true. We’ve lost Casson, haven’t we?’

‘Who, then?’ the captain, Renish, pressed on, and Tattersail saw in his narrowed gaze that perhaps the man was not so drunk as he pretended.

Mock just smiled in his carefree manner, and, leaning forward conspiratorially, answered, ‘Oh, someone at this table, no doubt.’

The seven captains eyed one another then, leaning away from their neighbours and glowering into their cups. Tattersail looked to the soot-blackened rafters far above. Gods! So predictable. Mock playing them against each other. As he had for years.

Her gaze chanced upon Agayla’s dark tapestry and she dropped her knife with a loud clang. So dark!

The captains all stopped talking, eyeing her. Mock lifted his brows. ‘Are you all right, dearest? Too much to drink, perhaps?’ He elbowed Hess on his right, and all seven captains chuckled on cue.

She passed a shaky hand across her face, swallowing to calm herself. ‘I’m fine. Something … something has disagreed with me. I think I will take some air.’

Mock half rose from his seat, bowing. ‘Of course, dearest. Do take care, though. It looks like rain.’

She stood from the table and all the captains rose as well, bowing. She returned the civility and made for the main terrace, where she slammed the heavy iron-bound door behind her and stared out over the city, a hand going to her throat. Ancient Ones! No wonder I’ve been so jittery.

There, low over the city, a massive cyclone of energy gyred amid churning midnight clouds and flitting shadows. Meanas! But who? How?

She ran for Rampart Way – the nearest route down to the city below. Soon, however, she had to hike up the long dress Mock had asked her to put on for dinner. She cursed it, finally tearing off its lowest section and continuing on.

The dry, dusty words of one of the texts on Warren magics regarding such manifestations marched through her mind as she went:

Clouds, mists, or storms are a common by-product of the massive differentials in pressures, humidities, and temperatures when sufficiently large portals or gates between Realms are generated. Should such a differential prove large enough, the energies generated may induce a storm as destructive as any legendary Maelstrom.

Agayla would know what to do.

* * *

She had spent her time on the south coast facing the cold grey waters of the Strait of Storms. These entities known as the Stormriders were an interesting phenomenon. One she’d never had the inclination or opportunity to investigate before. Clearly, they represented a lingering ancient intrusion into the region. But just from where, she couldn’t say. It would take generations of observation to know for certain, of course, but it appeared to her that their presence was slowly fading upon the world, grafting of an alien order as it was.

The flash of sheet lightning from behind threw her shadow far out before her, and Sister of Cold Nights straightened, lifting her head. Was that …

She turned to regard a dense mass of clouds slowly building over the island north of her, and nodded. At last. Perhaps my time here has not been wasted after all.

She started for the city.

* * *

Cartheron set a hand on his brother’s arm, holding him back from a side street. ‘I’m not so sure.’

Urko shook off his hand. ‘We just head up this way to the square. The one with the broken statue.’

Cartheron squinted into the dense banners of hanging mist. ‘Like that last turn?’

Urko huffed, crossing his thick arms. ‘Hunh! One mistake! I’m telling you – this town is not this big!’

‘I agree.’

It was strange; the moment they’d left the waterfront behind and walked up between the warehouses it was as if they’d entered another city. The narrow meandering streets were familiar, but not quite right. Same with the shop-fronts.

His brother spun then, crouching. ‘Did you hear that?’

Cartheron squinted into the miasma. ‘What?’

‘Sounded like … claws scratching over stone.’

‘A lost dog?’

‘Damned big one,’ Urko muttered.

Indeed, a looming dark shadow was now moving behind the shifting curtains of mist. One impossibly large. A trick of this strange light, Cartheron told himself. No beast could be that large. Probably just as high as his knees – not damned near the size of a bull. Just a distorted shadow.

A low growling rumble reached them then, as of rocks being ground together. The very cobbles beneath their feet vibrated with it. The brothers shared a glance: run or freeze?

Cartheron slowly reached down and drew his boot knife. The tiny weapon looked comical compared to the monster that was edging in upon them. That was, if the shadows, and their fears, were not playing tricks upon them.

A long, broad muzzle parted the vapours. It was fully as tall as their own heads. Lips drew back snarling from wet gums, and slit eyes glared an eerie near-black before them. A heady waft of desert scent, like spice, nearly made Cartheron dizzy.

Before he could act, his brother leapt upon the beast, wrapping an arm about its neck, bellowing, ‘Run!’

But Cartheron did not run: he stared, frozen, while his brother tightened the crook of his elbow upon the beast’s throat and its eyes widened in something almost like surprise – if such a creature could be capable of such an emotion.

It reared, snarling, and threw itself against the wall next to them. Both it and his brother gave animal grunts as bricks crunched and wood splintered. It staggered off, attempting to shake this impudent fool from its back, but Cartheron knew that nothing short of decapitation would ease his brother’s arms once he’d clamped them round anything.

They disappeared into the mist, the hound rearing and snarling, Urko half hopping, half dragging his feet. Cartheron moved to follow, but stopped – there was no way he would ever find them. He swore then he would honour his brother’s damned fool move by beating this confounding miasma. He would escape it. Standing there, his back pressed against chill damp stone, he decided that perhaps the way to beat it was to remain still; it may be that some logic or pattern would emerge amid the confusing chiaroscuro.

Just as at sea when caught amid thick fog. You didn’t look, you listened. And so he closed his eyes, listening to the night.

* * *

Nedurian soon found that he no longer had to warn the citizens of Malaz against entering the streets. It appeared they were quite familiar with these uncanny happenings: doors were slammed and barred and heavy shutters banged shut over windows. In no time he was alone in a tiny mist-laden square, and only then did it occur to him that he had no idea exactly where he was.

A low rumbling reached him then, as of a beast the size of a bull exhaling, and he thought, Well, perhaps not so alone …

He raised his Rashan Warren to its sizzling heights about him and waited, motionless, in a pool of absolute dark. Whatever this was, it ought to pass him by.

Instead, however, twin pinpoints of a sullen bluish glow emerged from the dark, closing, growing in brilliance, and he realized with a renewed prickling of his skin that he was being stalked through the paths of his own Warren of Night.

He shifted, then, blindly – a very dangerous move as one cannot predict just where one might emerge – and found himself in a new, equally unfamiliar cobbled way. Quickly, he crossed the street to put his back to a stone wall and tried to still his hammering heart. He had never seen that before. Some creature able to follow spoors through Warrens? Gods! No one would ever be able to escape such a—

He stared with mounting panic at the spot where he had emerged, for there, from the shifting shadows, a monstrous paw and forelimb was emerging, followed by a long greying muzzle and twin blazing sky-blue eyes that peered right and left, scanning the street.

Nedurian slowly reached over to a door next to him, offered up a silent prayer to Apsalar, Lady of Thieves, and tried to lift the latch – it rose, and he ducked into a shop-front stuffed with household goods manufactured of tin: a tinsmith’s. From a rear workroom he heard someone weeping in terror.

It occurred to him then to wonder why the creature had singled him out, and he realized that it must be one, or both, of two factors: he had been outside, and he possessed a raised Warren. Reluctantly, he understood what he must do, though it scraped against the grain of decades of habit. He let his Warren fall away, then froze, almost not breathing, listening to the night.

Outside, claws grated against the stone cobbles of the narrow street. He swallowed and fought the mad urge to flee. No running – they are hunters.

A great bull-bellows of an exhalation rattled the door and sent up a massive cloud of dust from the gap beneath. The air became redolent with a sweet spicy scent, as of mace, or anise seed. The frantic need to run made his legs quiver, but he fought it, though he expected at any instant the beast to crash through the flimsy barrier.

A last reverberating snort and the claws grated once more, swiftly, as the monster ran off – called perhaps by some other scent or spoor.

He let out a long hard breath, sagging in exhaustion and relief. He reached clumsily for the door. Ancient gods! I am definitely too old for this.

* * *

Tattersail passed through the streets of the high manor district then descended into the thick fogs that cloaked Malaz City proper. The haze was so dense she had to raise her Thyr Warren to its highest extent just to penetrate the coils and hanging curtains.

In the apparent quiet she began to wonder what she was doing here and just what it was she hoped to accomplish. Clearly, some sort of manifestation was taking shape in the city, but what? And what could she hope to contribute?

Perhaps it was one of the legendary Shadow Moons, though she understood such arrivals were always known long beforehand. Agayla spoke of them as highly regulated and predictable, like eclipses.

She turned a corner in the merchants’ quarter and came face to face with several men loading goods into a wagon drawn up before an open shop-front. She stared and they froze, arms full of bolts of cloth, baskets and kegs.

One tossed his armload into the wagon and turned to his fellows. ‘Well, well, mates. Look what we have here.’

‘What are you doing…’ she breathed in complete disbelief.

The one who had spoken hiked up his trousers and gestured to her, grinning. ‘Some sort of social affair, is it?’

Looking down, she realized how absurd she must appear wandering the streets in a full evening gown, and that tattered and torn. Then she blinked, frowning – what she looked like was completely irrelevant! ‘Run, now,’ she told them.

They chuckled together, two circling behind her. ‘First give us a kiss, lass,’ the spokesman urged. ‘Just a kiss, Miss High-and-mighty…’

The two horses at the wagon nickered then and reared in alarm, their sides quivering. The fellow glanced at them, scowling. ‘See what’s spooked the damned horses, Gravin.’

One of the men crossed to the horses, but before he could grasp the throat-latch of the nearest the animals reared again, chuffing in open terror, and bolted down the street. Kegs and crates crashed to the cobbles from the open rear as the wagon clattered into the mist.

Their leader looked to the clouds. ‘Oh, for the love of Oponn!’ He waved his fellows away. ‘Well? Go get it, dammit!’

They jogged off, leaving her alone with two; the leader and one other. They moved towards her and she retreated, coming up against a cold stone wall. Her Warren sizzled in her hands, yet she found she could do nothing; she realized that she’d never before tried to use it face to face against another human being.

‘Don’t make me hurt you…’ she breathed, her voice tight with fear.

They laughed – either in ignorance of her powers, or lacking true insight into her character.

‘Missy,’ said the leader, all hungry smile, hands reaching, ‘you ain’t gonna hurt—’

Many things happened all at once, then. A monstrous shape pounced from the fog, teeth tore and ripped, the men screamed – or tried to; it was more like a bursting of fluids and gore from their mouths – and she screamed, her Warren burst to life in a colossal eruption of power and light, and she was flung backwards, smashing her head against stone in an even brighter flare of brilliance. She knew nothing more.

* * *

Eyes on the wet cobbles, Cartheron heard, and did his best to follow, reassuringly human footsteps. A couple, walking calmly and with purpose through this nightmare; who they were he had no idea, but at least they weren’t afraid.

That, he realized, should either reassure him or terrify him.

Presently, the footsteps stopped. He went forward a few more paces then halted as well, and slowly raised his gaze to find two figures eyeing him from up a narrow alleyway. A pair as unalike as any two people could be: one scrawny, short, and greying; the other huge, almost impossibly massive, rather like a walking dolmen, and carrying a long-hafted halberd over one shoulder with a blade large enough to behead a horse.

The scrawny older one pointed a warning finger. ‘You should not be out this night.’

Cartheron smiled mirthlessly. ‘I cottoned on to that. So what’re you two doing out?’

He had recognized them now. The oldster and his buddy were regulars at Coop’s Hanged Man inn, though never had he seen them so … sober. Even now he could make out the sickeningly sweet fumes of absinthe wafting from one or both of them.

‘We have an errand,’ the scrawny one said.

‘Yes? And you are?’ Cartheron asked.

‘Faro,’ said the oldster, and he nodded to his towering companion, ‘Trenech.’

Trenech, it seemed, was a man of few words. He remained silent, twisting his head, constantly searching the night.

‘I’m—’

‘We know who you are,’ Faro cut in.

Cartheron blinked. ‘Oh?’

‘You work for the interloper.’

‘The … interloper?’

‘Your employer. This mage of Shadow.’

‘Ah … yes.’

‘He has meddled with the House already. I warn you – we will brook no more interference.’

Cartheron was frowning in such confusion he could feel his brows hurting. He cleared his throat, ‘Ah … as you say…’

Faro grunted, somehow satisfied.

From the mid-distance a hound’s great baying howl broke upon them. Cartheron flinched and spun to scan the obscuring murk and rippling shadows.

‘Perhaps you’d best come with us,’ Faro said. ‘You should be safe. Perhaps you can talk some sense into your patron.’

Cartheron turned back, his brows now raised very high indeed. ‘My patron? Talk to him?’

Faro and his companion set off once more and Cartheron followed. ‘Yes,’ Faro said. ‘Because he is approaching. And we believe that his goal is the House.’

House? Cartheron asked himself as he followed along. What in the name of Mael are they talking about? He squinted into the murk. And Urko – don’t you get yourself killed, damn you!

* * *

Nedurian slammed shut the door to Smiley’s and leaned against it, panting his relief. Next to the entrance, Grinner relaxed down into his seat, easing his knives back into their leather sheaths.

He wiped the cold clammy mist from his face, and let out a long breath, his hands still shaking. Too long since I’ve walked an open battlefield of magery – a damned free-for-all of colliding Warrens, Realms, and rampaging monsters.

Surly came out from behind the bar. ‘Well? What’s going on?’

He motioned for a moment to catch his breath, then said, ‘Looks like your employer is making a show.’

She sent a scowling glance to a darkened window. ‘All this?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded curtly. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

He gaped at her, let out a near-nervous laugh. ‘You don’t quite understand…’

She pulled on a jacket; Grinner stood, as did Tocaras and Shrift at their table. Nearer the back, the two local hires, Dujek and Jack, stood up as well.

Surly waved them down. ‘You lot guard the place. Grinner, you’re with me.’ She motioned Nedurian onward. ‘Let’s go.’

He pulled a hand down his face, let out another long breath. Well, in for a penny, in for a crown.

* * *

Crossing a stone bridge over one of the channels of a thin sluggish river that ran through the city, Sister of Cold Nights was rather surprised to see a great hulking fellow dragging himself up the dressed stonework side of the channel. He was sodden, and chuffing and puffing to himself as he climbed. On such a night as this? Curious, she went down to see who it was.

He was quite astonished when she reached down and pulled him up with one hand. He straightened, wiped at his mud-smeared jerkin and trousers. He was obviously of Napan descent, with the blue tinge to his skin. ‘Thankee, ma’am. Name’s Urko.’

‘Nightchill.’ She walked on and he trailed along with her. ‘Not a night to be out,’ she continued. ‘There are things in this storm.’

‘I know.’ He raised his wide knotted hands. ‘I nearly had one. Another minute and I’d have throttled it, I’m sure. But we fell into the river and I had to let go.’

She eyed him. ‘Really? You had to?’

He grimaced, ran a hand over his crew-cut pate. ‘Can’t swim.’

‘Ah.’ She wondered if he was referring to one of the hounds, or some other fiend out of Shadow. She knew it was possible to destroy them – if one were potent enough. It was rare these days that anything could impress her; yet this one’s feat, if true, was worthy of it.

She crossed streets and squares, always directing herself towards the nexus of power manifesting in the town. Eventually, she reached it, or as close as she could come in the normal mundane world. She faced a small square, a crossroads, really, graced by a small stone drinking fountain, fed, no doubt, by spring water channelled in from higher on the island.

Facing the small square, one block over, as she suspected, squatted the structure the locals called the Deadhouse.

Here also were gathered the night’s witnesses.

Seeing these people through the murk, Urko, at her side, grunted his recognition. He bowed his farewell to her, and jogged off to join a group of his fellow Napans, together with a mage she knew to be a compatriot of Agayla’s.

And speaking of the servant of the Weaver and an eye of the Enchantress, she too stood to one side. She went to join her and nodded a greeting, to which Agayla merely scowled. ‘What do you want here, Elder?’

‘I am merely curious.’

Agayla snorted her scepticism.

‘And our friend Obo?’

Agayla snorted once again. ‘Only the submersion of the entire island would bring him out.’

While they watched, the churning and spinning tatters of murk and shadow coalesced, rather like a sort of funnel cloud, while two shapes took on solidity and form within. The display of power was of interest to Sister of Cold Nights, as she saw demonstrated a mastery of Meanas. But she sensed far more – something she hadn’t witnessed in ages – the lineaments of an Elder Realm thought lost. Ancient Kurald Emurlahn.

This, itself, was of great note generally as well as to her personally, as it touched directly upon her purposes. Great interest generally, as was affirmed by another figure she glimpsed watching from Shadow itself – no doubt invisible to all else present. Lean and tall, in weathered time-gnawed armour, his face a dried leather mien of bared yellow teeth.

She quickly glanced away. Edgewalker, guardian of Shadow.

The gyre of raw potency tightened and darkened. Energies crackled and snapped about it. It looked as if it consisted of a great mass of shadows all flowing into it from every nook and cranny of the city, and, perhaps, even beyond; mayhap the entire island. Thus it deepened and intensified, until not even her senses could penetrate the dense liquid gloom of dusk at its centre.

The concentration of power amassed impressed even her.

Then, with a boom as of a release of tension, or energies, that struck everyone as a physical blow to the chest, the pressure and ‘presence’ of a gateway passed and the gusting contrary winds began to ease. The shadows drifted away, revealing two figures in the square who had not been present earlier, the two whom she knew from Heng: the short mage of Meanas, and the slim knife-fighter with whom she had spoken before.

Sister of Cold Nights glanced over to where Edgewalker had been watching, fully expecting to see him gone. But he was not; he remained still, and appeared even more intent as he stared across the square. He even carried his sheathed sword in his bony hands now, as if ready to draw. She followed his gaze and had to tense. Four creatures of ancient legend were now edging forward into the square, muzzles low, ears down, clearly stalking the two at the centre. The Hounds of Shadow.

Everyone gathered about the side streets and alleyways backed away as the creatures slid forward on their forepaws, while the slim one, Dancer, shifted to guard the mage’s back, drawing his knives.

She applauded such bravery, but it was useless. There was nothing they could do, nor could, or would, anyone interfere; those beasts could tear anyone and anything apart. Even Azathani had died in their maws.

Agayla, she noticed, had edged closer to her side. Wisely, she had yet to raise her Warren.

‘Can you dismiss them?’ Agayla whispered.

She shook her head.

Agayla crossed her arms. ‘The fools. All that effort just to be torn to bits like all the others before them.’

But Sister of Cold Nights glanced aside to where Edgewalker still watched, intent, almost … concerned? ‘Perhaps not,’ she answered.

The beasts closed from all sides. The largest was mostly grey, though with a white stomach. Female, her blue eyes shone like sapphires, and it appeared as if she limped from some battle. Another bore a darker grey pelt – an offspring? – and his eyes were mismatched, one being a similar blue, the other a golden yellow. The third’s pelt was all a scarred and tangled dirty yellow, its eyes dark, near black, while the last was a black so dark as to appear blue. Its eyes shone a rather alarming blood red.

Dancer said something over his shoulder to his companion then, which Sister of Cold Nights made out as, ‘Now would be a good time…’

She could not help but smile at this last bit of bravado before the end. At least these two wouldn’t shame themselves before being torn in two.

And yet … she kept a sidelong eye on Edgewalker. The ancient – some said the creator of Shadow itself – watched intently, a hand on his weapon’s grip, the other on the sheath, as if ready to draw and stride forward.

Strange, that. He’d never interfered before. Not once, when so many had fallen attempting to master Shadow.

A whisper came to her then. A story she’d heard long ago from a fellow Azathani. That Edgewalker had tired of his guardianship and had been searching for a worthy inheritor all this time.

She eyed the little mage now, wondering; could it really be?

The Dal Hon ancient – though not really an ancient, she saw, as her vision could penetrate his glamour – now fiddled with his fingers at his chest. It was as if he were playing a child’s game of cat’s cradle, but with nothing visible between his fingers save shadows. And to her increasing disbelief, ropes and tangled knots of said shadows now came slithering out of the deeper pools of murk about and lashed themselves tight round the legs of the four beasts.

She would have been dismissive of such efforts were they plain Meanas workings alone, but these carried the unmistakable essence of Elder Kurald Emurlahn; somehow, this mage has mastered both and now had at his command two sources of power to draw upon.

Yet even such unprecedented might was not enough. The eldritch beasts fought and yanked despite their countless bonds, still drawing ever closer to the two men. The potency being brought into existence in the square raised a pressure in the air, making it hard to draw breath. The very stones of the street cracked and burst, heaving and grinding. The rising intensity of the unveiling reminded her of exchanges she’d witnessed long ago, when Elders fought without any regard for the calamities they unleashed.

Even Agayla winced, a hand going to her chest as she panted for breath. Across the way, the old mage she’d met on the dock fainted but was held up by a Napan with him.

Still these ancient monsters could not be brought to the ground. Each struggled onward, wrapped in twisting cords of shadow, snarling and slathering, utterly intent upon tearing these two trespassers to bloody shreds. The little black-skinned mage at the centre of the storm now leaned forward, hands lowering, as if he were pushing something down into the ground before him, straining with redoubled effort.

A new, third source of power broke upon everyone like a striking waterfall and Agayla grunted at the shock of it. Sister of Cold Nights, however, recognized the source of this new puissance being drawn by the mage and was outraged.

She knew its colourings, its flavour – name it what you will – and she could not believe it. How can he touch this? She knew very well that that particular Wound had been sealed away. Forbidden. Unbroachable. She knew this because it was she and her brothers Draconus and K’rul who had sealed it away ages ago. All to heal the ancient crimes of the so-called High King. How could this one have possibly penetrated their wardings? Then she understood, and crossed her arms, almost snarling herself.

Shadow. Of course. Broken, it leaks everywhere and into everything. Is this your insight, little man?

Then she paused, wondering. Did you see this, K’rul? Is this why you sent me this way? Perhaps so. And so she eased her shoulders. It was not for her to interfere. Events must unfold. Only then, K’rul had warned, could she reach her goal.

The fearsome potency now bearing down upon the four hounds would have crushed buildings. Two collapsed amid their ropes and fetters of knotted shadow. The muzzles of these quickly became lashed in their magical bonds and they were yanked to their sides where they lay panting, eyes rolling.

As for the largest, the one mostly grey, with a white stomach, her eyes seemed to shine like blue stars now, and she stood quivering in a raging fury, upright, refusing to kneel. The mage’s partner, the lean one who moved so gracefully, approached, and raised a knife for the kill.

Yet at the last moment the mage stayed his partner’s arm. Instead, he brought his head next to the hound’s, despite the snarling lips and gnashing fangs, and appeared to whisper something into the matriarch’s ear. Those ears fell then, the muscular shoulders hunching. And the mage backed away, gesturing. The countless fetters and chains of twisted shadow fell away like smoke and the hounds rose.

The tall matriarch shook herself, chuffing; then, with window-rattling howls, the four bounded off in all directions, growling and snarling their enraged frustration.

Sister of Cold Nights let out her breath, whispering to herself, ‘Not since Dissim’belackiss…’

‘What was that?’ Agayla asked from her side, glaring, and wiping blood dripping from her nose.

‘Nothing. Interesting times, yes?’

‘Who is that little shit?’ she growled. ‘That was far more than Warren magics.’

‘Yes, it was. The Enchantress is sure to be interested.’

‘She knows already,’ Agayla answered, daubing at her nose.

Of course. T’riss watching through her eyes.

In the square, the pair now walked to the two guardians at the gate to the Deadhouse. The mage and the short guardian whom she knew as Faro spoke together. She ached to hear their conversation, but thought it unseemly go to running across the square. So she walked – determinedly. Agayla accompanied her.

By time they reached the gate, the pair had entered the grounds and were approaching the House. For an instant a terrifying dread clutched her chest – Ancients, they are not going to assail the House? The entire city could be in danger.

But no such confrontation arose. To her eyes the two merely seemed to dissolve into the shadows and disappear as they neared the threshold.

Agayla clutched at her sleeve. ‘What was that? Did they enter? What did you see?’

‘I know not.’

Agayla growled wordlessly, yanked her grip free. ‘Don’t play the enigmatic Elder with me! What did you see?’

‘What you saw. They disappeared.’ She nodded to the guardians who were standing before the small garden gate, barring their way. ‘You allowed them entrance?’

Faro nodded while his fellow held his huge halberd at the ready. ‘Indeed.’

‘Why?’ Agayla snapped.

‘They correctly intuited the limits of our purpose.’

‘Which is?’

To this Faro said nothing. Not used to such open defiance, Agayla actually growled just as the hounds had.

‘You are unfamiliar with the House?’ Sister of Cold Nights asked her.

‘Yes,’ she grunted, reluctant to admit her lack of knowledge. ‘The Enchantress warned me to stay away from it.’

T’riss would know. ‘Wise of her.’ She gestured to the guardians. ‘These two are charged not with keeping things out of the grounds. They are charged with keeping things in.’

Faro inclined his head in agreement.

‘And did those two enter the House?’

To this Faro merely shrugged. ‘I care not.’

Agayla snarled anew, but Sister of Cold Nights bowed her farewell. ‘We will learn no more here.’ She turned away; the Napans were retreating, the large one, Urko, carrying their unconscious mage.

‘Interesting times,’ she repeated to Agayla, and, inclining her head in farewell, walked off. She heard Agayla’s heeled boots cracking against the cobbles as she stormed away in the other direction.

Lastly, she scanned the murk for any sign of the one some named the guardian of Shadow, Edgewalker. But he had departed as well.

* * *

Tattersail awoke to the splitting agony of a headache such as she’d never before experienced. Blinking, she peered about; she lay in the street, sodden from mist and dew, and no sign of the storm remained. It was just before the dawn.

Groaning, she pushed herself upright. Her glance happened to skitter across the gory wreckage of two bodies down the street – each now supporting several seabirds and stray dogs – and, gagging, she staggered off.

She touched the back of her head and felt a crust of dried blood there. Gods, she’d hit her head hard. What a headache! How many bricks had fallen on her, anyway? She even had dried scabs from a nosebleed.

Nursing her head, she carried on through the Manor House district and up Rampart Way to the Hold. Here, the sleepy predawn guards let her in with a nod – as a mage she was expected to be coming and going at all hours.

She climbed the stairs to the top floor and eased open the bedroom door so as not to wake Mock. She pulled the ruined dress over her head and dropped it to the floor, then soaked a cloth in a basin of water and wiped the dried blood from her face. Mock, hidden beneath the thick blankets, stirred then. She crossed to the large four-poster and drew back the covers.

It was not Mock in the bed; it was her maidservant, Viv. And she was wearing only a thin singlet.

The girl blinked sleepily, stared, then gaped. Her face went as white as the sheets heaped about her.

She threw herself forward to wrap her arms round a stunned Tattersail, sobbing. ‘Don’t blast me into nothingness! He made me do it! Threatened to sell me into slavery to the Dal Hon if I didn’t! Please.’

Tattersail pulled at the girl’s arms, trying to extricate herself. All she could manage were single soothing words such as, ‘Quiet. Yes. Fine.’

The side door to the wash chamber opened and Mock walked in, fiddling with his untucked shirtings. ‘Get a move on…’ he began, and then he looked up. His brows rose, then he suddenly, inexplicably, laughed. He waved to the bed. ‘She was scared by the storm so I let her sleep here, that is all. Nothing more, dearest.’

Viv gaped anew, making choking noises. Her face blazed a red to match her hair. Tattersail gestured for her to leave, and after one look up at her mistress she gathered together a handful of the sheets and scuttled off.

Mock went to a sideboard and poured a glass of wine. ‘Please, dearest. It looks bad, yes. But what would I want with another, really, when I have you?’

She just shook her head – her aching, pulsing, reverberating head. ‘I’ve been a fool, Mock. But I’m not that much of one.’

He leaned back against the table, opened his arms. ‘Please! That girl? A dalliance. Nothing more. Nothing serious. Really.’ And he tossed back the wine, but she noticed his hand shaking.

She realized with a shock that right now he was very scared of her. She merely shook her head. She simply felt tired. So very tired of it all. ‘I’m not going to do anything, Mock. We’re just finished.’

She went to an armoire, dug around and found a travelling bag. Into this went shirts and trousers and skirts and her Deck of Dragons. While she packed Mock kept speaking, but she ignored him.

‘What do you mean, finished?’ he was saying. ‘You would throw away being a marquessa for this? Show some judgement, child. Some sense of proportion. Really. I do think it is time that you grew up. We make a great team shipboard, we really do. But, fine, if we don’t get along in private that need not be a problem. We need not share a room. You can have the pick of any you should choose – benefits of being a marquessa, yes? Or even a queen.’

She was pushing her toiletries into the bag when he made this last comment and she had to stop herself from raising her Warren to show him what she thought of that loathsome idea.

When she reached the door he finally lost his temper. ‘Fine!’ he yelled. ‘You’ll never be anyone! You lack the backbone. Go back to your farm or your fisher parents or whatever! You’ll be a nobody!’

She paused at the door, eyed him, standing flushed and dishevelled. ‘I’d rather be what you call a nobody than contaminated by this.’

Walking away, she heard the glass burst against the door.

* * *

Later, in town, she knocked on another door. A sturdy one of thick oaken blanks, a garland of rare herbs strung across its front, fragrant and colourful.

The door opened and she stared into the face of her old patron and teacher, Agayla. The woman looked to be sharing the same headache Tattersail still nursed. She appeared pale, her eyes red and sunken, her hair rather frazzled and unkempt. But she opened her arms wide and gave her visitor a warm hug, drawing her within.

The shop looked just as it had before. As if no time had passed at all, and Tattersail cleared her throat. ‘I’ve been a—’

Agayla raised a hand for silence. ‘No need,’ she murmured. ‘Would you like some tea?’

Tattersail felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from her and she dared an attempt at a smile. ‘Thank you. That would be … yes. Thank you.’

Over tea – Agayla’s wonderful reviving herbal tea – the older woman eyed her as if attempting to take her measure. ‘What did you make of the storm?’ she asked, perhaps trying for neutral conversation.

Tattersail laughed weakly. ‘I was unconscious almost all night. I fell and hit my head.’

‘Ah.’ Agayla nodded. ‘So what do you plan now? As I said, there are schools in Kan that would take you in an instant. I will write a letter.’

Tattersail shook her head. ‘No.’

Agayla raised a brow. ‘Really? No?’

‘No. I was wondering about those old-style mage academies in Tali. Are any of those still taking students?’

Agayla sat back. She raised her gaze to the ceiling, which was cluttered with sheaves of hanging drying herbs and clusters of leaves and bundled desiccated flowers. ‘Old imperial style battle-magics? Really? Obsolete, I should think.’

But Tattersail was nodding. ‘That’s the training I want.’

Her slim, bird-like mentor studied her tea. ‘It just so happens that two such academies still exist. They are small, however. Without prestige among the courts…’

‘I don’t care about that. I want that training.’

Agayla finished the tea. ‘Well, if that is what you want, I will write you a letter of introduction, of course. You can take the first ship out to the mainland.’

Tattersail fought to suppress a blush of shame. After the things I said to this woman … She felt her eyes becoming hot and tearing up. Nothing had worked out as she wished. Everything was so ruined …

Agayla watched her silently for a time, then said, gently, ‘Sometimes it is okay just to cry.’