Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 19

The next thing Tayschrenn was aware of he was outside in sunlight leaning up against the gritty stone wall of the house while the short mock-elderly Kellanved had a hand on his shoulder and was peering up at him, looking quite concerned.

‘You are all right?’ he asked, frowning.

He blinked, thinking rather panickily, Am I? Am I all right? ‘What … what happened?’

‘You passed out immediately,’ the wizened fellow said. ‘Exhaustion, mental and physical, obviously.’

He straightened to eye the mage of Meanas just as narrowly. ‘Obviously,’ he echoed drily.

The Dal Hon mage brushed his hands together. ‘Good. Well, that’s that. They saw you enter the Azath House and so they think you entombed for ever. And so they have abandoned the chase, hmm? Just don’t raise your Warren any time soon, yes?’

‘Of course.’

The mage took a deep breath and his walking stick appeared in his hand. ‘Well, then. Let us see how things have shaken out, yes?’ and he started down the path.

Ahead, two figures roused themselves to stand barring the way: one short and wiry, the other massive and holding a tall halberd across the gate.

Leading the way, Kellanved paused. ‘What is this?’

The short wiry one pointed a recriminating finger. ‘You are abusing your position,’ he accused. ‘How much more of this coming and going must we endure?’

The mage of Meanas tapped his walking stick to his mouth, striking an exaggerated thinking pose. ‘Well … that depends entirely upon you, don’t you think?’

The short elderly fellow flinched as if struck; clearly he was not used to being spoken to in this manner. ‘Why, you little rat,’ he spluttered. ‘If you think we will tolerate these insults—’

Kellanved pushed ahead between the pair. ‘You’ll just have to, won’t you? The House chooses, not you. So you’ll just have to make the best of it.’ He urged Tayschrenn onward. ‘Come, come.’

Tayschrenn slid forward, uneasily, between the scowling short fellow and the big one whose hands gripped and regripped the long haft of his halberd.

They left them behind, staring after them, glowering pure anger.

‘Who are they?’ Tayschrenn asked.

Kellanved gave a dismissive wave of a hand. ‘Oh, guardians set by Burn to watch over the House. Penance, no doubt, for some ancient crime. Or,’ and he set the silver hound’s head of the walking stick to his mouth, ‘devotional acts, perhaps.’

Tayschrenn arched a brow as he regarded the diminutive mage scuttling along next to him. Clearly, this one had spent a great deal of time poking about into the hidden workings of the powers active in the world. Something he had sorely neglected.

The mage used his walking stick to push open the door to a bar whose hanging tile announced its name to be Smiley’s.

Everyone within swore and jumped to their feet as they entered.

Kellanved bobbed his head. ‘Nice to be appreciated. How long has it been?’

A lean Napan woman at the bar answered, ‘Three days.’

‘Dancer?’ he asked.

‘Recuperating.’

‘Very good.’ He motioned Tayschrenn forward. ‘This way.’ He paused. ‘Ah! Surly, Tayschrenn.’ He pointed about the broad room, picking people out. ‘Urko, Choss, Tocaras, and, ah, others.’

Tayschrenn nodded a greeting, then Kellanved urged him up a stairway. ‘My office,’ he explained. Within, he gestured to a side table. ‘Drink?’

Tayschrenn found a decanter of white wine and poured himself a touch. He crossed to the one window and peered out at grey slate roofs, a cloudy sky, and the iron-grey waters of the bay beyond. He sighed his … discouragement. ‘So – I’m working for a petty criminal.’

Kellanved had eased himself down in a chair behind the expanse of a broad empty desk. His chin barely cleared it and he frowned, studying the bulky piece as if it had unaccountably risen. He raised a finger. ‘Soon to be far less petty.’

A knock, and the door opened to reveal a tall lean fellow who moved stiffly as if feeling recent wounds. Kellanved stood. ‘Ah, Dancer. This is Tayschrenn.’ Dancer nodded and Tayschrenn studied him in turn. Deadly, he decided.

Another knock and in came a broad-shouldered curly-haired man who nodded to Dancer and Kellanved in turn. Kellanved made the introductions.

‘So they were chasing you,’ Dancer said. Tayschrenn inclined his head.

A third knock heralded the Napan woman, Surly. She studied everyone, then shut the door behind her. ‘Thank you for helping,’ she said.

Tayschrenn could read the pain the admission of such a need cost her.

Kellanved set his hands on the desk before him. ‘Good. We are all here. What I want to know is why we are. We should be in the Hold by now.’

Everyone blinked at him, uncertain. The rather hard-bitten-looking woman, Surly, cleared her throat. ‘I do not believe the captains would accept you.’

Kellanved shrugged. ‘They will have no choice.’

‘Good luck,’ Surly answered. ‘But we’re leaving.’

The one called Dancer crossed his arms and leaned up against the desk. ‘Why?’

She laughed. ‘Why? They know we’re here. They won’t give up. We have to go.’ She waved to Kellanved. ‘You can keep the Twisted. It’s more yours than ours. We’ll take some smaller craft tonight and head out. We’re thinking of going north. Serving with the Falari.’

‘No,’ Kellanved said.

She blinked, drawing herself up stiffly. ‘You cannot stop us.’

Kellanved raised his open hands. ‘I know. I cannot compel you. Nor would I want to. What I can do is offer something.’

She eyed him, openly suspicious. ‘What?’

‘Nap.’

Her look changed to one of sceptical evaluation. ‘Really? You think you can offer Nap?’

He nodded, quite serious. The woman’s gaze narrowed, and shifted to the one called Dancer. ‘No one kills Tarel. I forbid it.’

Both Kellanved and Dancer nodded; and Tayschrenn found it humorous that they actually nodded in unison.

‘Agreed,’ said Kellanved.

‘And just how will you perform this miracle?’ Surly asked, cocking a brow.

The hunched little mage tapped his hands on the desk. ‘Tonight we will take the Hold.’

Both her brows rose as she considered this. ‘Ah. I see.’

* * *

Dancer wasn’t ready for another fight so soon. He wasn’t happy with Kellanved’s announcement, but when everyone had been dismissed to organize the move the mage assured him that it wouldn’t come to that.

Dancer took him at his word and went to prepare. He had discarded his old clothes, which had been hacked to rags, and selected a new shirt and trousers. He retied the bindings over the thrust through his thigh, feeling the stitches pulling, and dressed, then drew on his thin armoured vest, his shirt, his baldrics, and a brocaded felt vest over all.

When night came they set out, leaving a skeleton guard at Smiley’s. Since Lee’s defection to Dassem half her crew had come over as well, so they now effectively controlled the entire city. All that was left was the Hold, as Kellanved rightly saw.

All told, they mustered close to fifty foot-soldiers. Jack and Tocaras commanded a contingent of twenty, and Dujek and Choss another. Both of these had set out earlier, overland, to come to the Hold from the rear. The main party, Dassem, Dancer, Kellanved and the mage Tayschrenn, together with Surly, the Napans, and Lee, would climb the twisting Rampart Way. Cartheron alone remained behind, still gravely wounded, and guarded by four trusted local hires.

Dancer winced all the way, favouring his wounded leg. He hoped he wouldn’t have to act later, and with that in mind he pushed ahead to where Dassem led.

‘I’m wounded,’ he whispered as they climbed the broad twisting stairs.

‘I saw.’

‘You’ll have to cover for me.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Good.’ He fell back to Kellanved’s side. The mage was faring no better, puffing and sweating. ‘No wonder the city and the Hold are so divided,’ he huffed, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

‘It’s good for you to get out.’

‘Says who?’

After much twisting and turning back and forth, they reached the top landing and the Hold walls. An arched tunnel led to the first bailey, past which lay an inner bailey and the keep itself. Entrance to the inner bailey was guarded by another stone archway, and here the gatekeeper sat. Torches hissed and snapped along the wall, while a lantern in a sconce next to him provided the only light in the archway.

Kellanved nodded to him. ‘Lubben, I believe?’

The gatekeeper, a hunchback, grinned back. ‘Been wondering when you’d turn up.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Is there some secret password we should know? A key we need? Or perhaps you’d like a bag of coin?’

Though hunched from his twisted back, the fellow was quite sturdy and muscular-looking, with thick arms and thighs. Dancer thought he might prove a dangerous opponent. But he waved aside Kellanved’s suggestions, saying, ‘Nah. Go on through.’

Kellanved peered about, suspicious and rather taken aback. ‘Just like that?’

‘Yeah. Just like that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to see what you’re gonna do.’

Kellanved nodded now, in understanding. ‘Ah! I see. You are a student of the circus of the world.’

The fellow gave a wink, took a silver flask from inside his shirt, and tossed back a mouthful. ‘Good luck,’ he offered.

Kellanved nodded his farewell and pushed open the iron-bound door. The inner bailey was unguarded. Oil lamps flickered next to the door to the main keep. Here, Dassem and Urko took the lead. Dancer took up Kellanved’s left side while Surly fell in behind.

Urko slammed open the door and they marched up the entranceway into the main reception hall. A huge fire burned in a large stone fireplace along the rear wall. Tables were crowded by crews who stared now, suddenly silent. At the high table sat three captains. These three now eyed them, surprised and rather annoyed.

‘So, it is true,’ Kellanved announced loudly. ‘Mock no longer.’

The three captains shared dark knowing grins.

‘Fell drunk from a parapet,’ said one.

‘Threw himself over pining for his sorceress lass,’ said another.

‘We haven’t decided yet,’ explained the third. Then he added, ‘So, what are you doing here, mage? You have the city. The old rules as under Mock remain.’

Kellanved walked forward, out on to the open floor of the wide hall. He tapped the stones with his walking stick as he went, a finger raised as if about to question a point of procedure. ‘Ah! The old rules … about them. I have a question. Is it not Malazan tradition that the strongest captain rules?’

‘That is so,’ answered the bearded one on the right. Renish, Dancer believed was his name. ‘But you are no captain.’

Kellanved gave an exaggerated nod. ‘Ah. But … you see, I believe I am. I have a vessel. The Twisted.’

The middle one laughed his scorn. He bore long moustaches after the style of Mock. Hess, Dancer knew. ‘You may own that scow, but you are no seaman. No mariner!’

The gathered crews all joined in the laughter. Kellanved waited for the noise to die down, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands behind his back. He nodded again. ‘True, true. I am no sailor. However, I do have sailors and captains who serve me. Skilled captains such as Urko, Choss, and Cartheron Crust.’

‘Napans,’ hissed the last captain at the table, scarred and sun-darkened, wearing a sturdy leather jack, long-knives at his waist. Guran.

Kellanved raised his chin. ‘Napan renegades. Wanted outlaws. Thus, dare I say, honorary Malazans?’

Arguments broke out among the company as the gathered raiders and marines set to talking all at once. Guran banged a pewter tankard on the table for silence. Once the babble had settled, he regarded Kellanved. ‘Your point?’ he demanded.

‘Ah! My point. Yes. Well … seeing as I have as many as four or five captains in my service, I suppose that makes me an admiral.’

‘What!’ Guran exploded. The crews surged to their feet in an uproar. Hess and Renish gaped at the mage, astounded by his claim.

Dancer peered round at the chaos and struggled to suppress a smile. Whatever was going to transpire this night he was enjoying this. The odd little fellow nominating himself as admiral.

It took all three captains waving their arms and shouting and banging the table to restore order. Hess, at the centre, now spoke. ‘You are standing for admiral of Malaz, are you?’

Kellanved inclined his head. ‘I am.’

‘You do realize that you must be ready to enforce this claim? That any challenge must be met in combat? Combat with knife or sword – no tricks or damned magery?’

‘Yes.’

‘Combat,’ Hess added, ‘to the death?’

Kellanved waved a hand dismissively. ‘I do.’

The three captains exchanged triumphant glances. Guran stood.

Dancer felt a sudden sinking feeling, as if all their plans had just gone awry. How could the lad hope to fight any of these experienced raiders? Hadn’t he foreseen a challenge?’

Kellanved raised a finger once more. Guran scowled, but nodded, ‘What?’

‘I understand I may nominate a champion – should you agree.’

Guran cast his brother captains another glance of triumph. ‘Wrong.’ He started down from the high table. ‘If you choose to hide behind a champion, then the challenger may select him from among your crew.’

The sturdy fellow rounded the table and set his fists to his waist. He studied all who had come with Kellanved. The crews had remained on their feet as well, and now they set to moving the tables and benches aside, clearing a space.

The captain took his time, eyeing every one of Kellanved’s people. Most he dismissed immediately, such as Dassem and Urko. His gaze lingered for a time on Surly, before moving on to the last of them at the rear, the young woman, Lee.

Dancer snarled inwardly. Stupid traditions! They should just set to knifing everyone! To this end he caught Surly’s eye, and was surprised to see there a similar opinion. But Kellanved obviously knew him too well, because he felt the lad’s hand at his arm, pressing him back.

Guran gestured to Lee, inviting her forward. ‘You, lass. You’ll do. Will you fight for your admiral here?’

‘No!’ Dassem called, stepping up. ‘Not her. I will fight.’

Guran waggled a finger at him. ‘No, boyo. Not you.’ He pointed to Lee. ‘Her.’

Dassem faced her. ‘You need not do this. None will hold you to it.’

Surprising Dancer, the lean young woman looked to Surly, as if seeking permission, and Surly nodded as if granting it. Smiling, she turned to Guran. ‘I accept.’

A wide space had been cleared and everyone edged back towards the walls. Guran drew his long-knives while he started to circle. Dancer fumed inwardly at this development. The man was obviously a veteran of countless knife fights, on land and at sea. How could Kellanved have allowed his claim to come to this? Hadn’t he anticipated such a possibility? Gods, from what he’d heard, Dassem on his own could slaughter everyone in this hall. But then they wouldn’t have Malaz, would they? And they never would. It had to be won over, and that meant bowing to the Malazans’ absurd way of handling command.

But if they failed here – as they did at Heng – he resolved never to let the pint-sized fakir forget it.

Lee circled as well, eyeing her opponent, and Dancer was not encouraged by what he saw. She wore plain loose pantaloons, gathered in at a wide sash, and a loose silk shirt. Guran, on the other hand, wore an armoured and layered leather jack over his shirt. Offhand, he didn’t think much of her chances.

Still, she’d shown an inner steel in their dealings; as when she’d stood up to him. And she’d been hard enough to take over after Geffen died at Surly’s hands.

Guran struck a ready position, both long-knives raised. Lee reached back to her collar with both hands and came away with twinned, extremely long and thin stilettos. Dancer’s brows rose at that – she hadn’t drawn those on him!

And rightly so, he reflected, as they hadn’t been embroiled in a blood-feud at that time.

The circles the two traced tightened with every circuit. They held their blades extended, watching, gauging. Once they were near enough they began feinting and probing. Guran slashed with his heavier weapons and far greater strength; Lee slipped and dodged, never parrying square on, or meeting any attack directly.

Dancer urged her on, nodding. Good! Yes. Keep your distance. Look out – yes.

Guran pressed the attack, confident and dismissive – too much so, as Dancer clearly saw and hoped Lee did as well. Yet the man had survived countless such duels and showed a healthy respect for the woman’s needle-like weapons.

Suddenly they were close; Lee had chosen her moment. Guran slashed and thrust yet she wove and slipped every attack though they now stood toe to toe. Then she spun aside, whipping in a reverse circle, and her blade darted out in a blur like a striking serpent to pass through the man’s neck in a needle thrust. She landed on her knees even as he slashed in return, breaking one of her blades and leaving her open to a follow-up.

The second thrust never came. The man was blinking, a hand at his throat, tottering sideways and stumbling. He fell back against a table, his eyes wide and confused.

Dancer let out a long breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. Lee straightened and flicked the few drops of blood from her remaining stiletto. Guran dropped both his weapons to clutch at his neck. He was staring about wildly, his eyes almost pleading; then he fell to his knees and toppled forward, dead.

In the silence that followed Dancer noted how Lee inclined her head to Surly, and how Surly came out to take her hands and congratulate her.

Kellanved stepped to the centre of the cleared space. He planted his walking stick and regarded the other two captains. ‘Do we have an accord?’ he asked.

Hess and Renish glanced to the crews as if gauging their chances. Kellanved saw it, and he tapped his walking stick on the ground once more. The resounding echoes of that merest touch rattled the windows and forced groans from the blackened timber rafters far above. Dust came sifting down over everyone.

Both captains jerked an assent and Kellanved nodded loftily, satisfied. ‘Excellent. Our business is done, then.’ He waved to the crews. ‘Return to the tables – I’ll not interfere with the festivities.’ He motioned to Hess. ‘Just what is the occasion, anyway?’

Hess drew a shaky hand down his moustaches. He bowed his head. ‘It is one of the festivals of Chem, ah, admiral, sir.’

‘Ah yes! Of course.’ He extended an arm to the stairs. ‘Might we have a tour of the quarters?’

Hess bowed again, inviting him forward. ‘Yes, admiral. This way.’

Kellanved motioned to Tayschrenn. ‘Come. You may find this of interest.’

This new mage – a renegade from Kartool, Dancer understood – looked utterly disdainful, but steeled himself with a breath and followed.

Dancer went to Lee, who was pouring herself a glass of wine. He bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Well done. Very impressive. I’m glad we never had to cross blades.’

She daubed a cloth to her face, nodding. ‘Thank you.’ Her glance, he noticed, was not upon him, but over his shoulder to – he looked – the swordsman Dassem, who had moved to put his back to a wall and was assessing the various exits and blind spots in the chamber.

‘Have you seen him fight?’ she asked.

Rather startled by the question, he frowned, shaking his head. ‘No. Why?’

A secretive smile came to her lips and she gave him a strange look, as if to say, You have no idea.

He wondered, then, what he had missed in her exchanges with Dassem, and, it seemed, with Surly.

He watched Kellanved climbing the stairs with the Kartool mage, Tayschrenn, waving his hands and no doubt spouting the most absurd nonsense. It was no longer just the two of them. Things would be much more complicated now.