Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 20

Surly faced Kellanved and Dancer on board their cargo boat and gestured upriver. ‘I’m told that a few turns through those wooded shores and we should see the walls. So, let me reiterate.’ She raised a finger to Kellanved. ‘If this goes south – if you fail to deliver – I’m ordering a full retreat and I will happily leave you two swinging in the wind. Is that clear?’

The Dal Hon mage waggled a hand to dismiss her concerns. ‘Do not worry yourself, my dear.’

Dancer gave her a nod of understanding.

They tacked upriver further and eventually the walls of the Outer Round of Li Heng hove into view above the treetops. For his part Dancer could hardly look at them – this was the last city of Quon Tali he wished to return to. A crowd of archers manned the walls over the river gate, which was closed, blocking their advance.

Kellanved looked to Hairlock and Calot, then motioned to the walls.

The bald Hairlock raised his hands, gesturing. Above the walls the archers suddenly turned to face one another and began loosing their arrows point-blank. The burly mage chuckled to himself as they fell one after the other. He next made a puppeteer-like motion with his hands, as if pulling unseen strings, and the remaining guards flung themselves off the tall parapets to their deaths.

Dancer winced. He caught Kellanved’s eye, and the dark-hued mage motioned to the grinning Hairlock. ‘That’s quite enough, thank you.’

The squat mage’s frog-like mouth turned down and he lowered his hands. ‘Fine. We’re pretty much done, anyway.’

‘Trouble,’ Calot announced, pointing.

A Dal Hon woman with a huge mane of kinky black hair now stood at the shore; she pointed to their lead boat and the deck beneath Dancer suddenly bucked. But Calot snarled under his breath, gesturing, and the vessel levelled. ‘Damn she’s strong,’ he gasped, straining.

‘Keep her busy,’ Kellanved told him. He motioned ahead to the closed river gate. ‘Nightchill, if you would be so kind?’

Leaning against the side, Nightchill raised her eyes to the sky in disgust. ‘I told you – I’m not one of your hirelings.’

‘Just the gate. A mere architectural feature now cleared of any people. This is all I ask.’

‘All?’

‘Yes. All. I swear.’

The woman sighed and straightened. ‘Very well.’ She reached out and clawed at the gate, as if she would draw it towards her.

Dust appeared, bursting from the blocks of the stone arch above the gate, and a high keening screech of tortured metal reached Dancer. Even as he watched, the entire arch, including the gate, came tilting towards them, tumbling, fracturing, to crash down into the river with a gigantic blast of water. Spray showered the boat as it rocked and bucked over the resulting wave.

Kellanved had a handkerchief out and was mopping his face. ‘Thank you so very much, m’lady.’

Nightchill leaned back against the side of the boat, looking away, as if to ignore him.

Kellanved tapped his walking stick in one palm, clearing his throat. ‘Ah, yes, well …’ He turned to Dancer. ‘Now then, you and I have an errand to run.’

Surly stepped up, ‘What’s this? You’re not taking off, are you?’

‘Regrettably, yes. Unavoidable.’ He urged Surly away. ‘Go and establish your foothold here in the Outer Round. We are off to move against the Five.’

‘We don’t have the troops!’ she snarled, but Dancer was no longer listening as the world darkened around him and he recognized a shift through Shadow. The darkness faded and with the slightest half-step he recognized where he now stood – in the catacombs beneath Heng. He even knew where: in the precincts of the mage Ho. ‘What are we doing here?’ he asked Kellanved, keeping his voice low.

The mage was tapping his walking stick to his lips now, squinting at the many cell doors lining the hall. ‘Now, which ones were they … ah! Here we are.’ He rapped on a thick door.

‘Lar!’ came a yell from the cell beyond, startling Dancer. ‘Lar, Lar, Lar!’

Kellanved nodded to himself. ‘Yes. These three here, if you would, Dancer.’

A touch anxious, Dancer unlatched the three doors then stood, hands on weapons, waiting. Three men poked their heads out to peer round, then stepped out, and he was astonished to see three near identical individuals, all clearly brothers to the mage Ho – save that each was even shabbier, in dirty torn clothes.

Kellanved waved them to him. ‘Your freedom, friends,’ he announced, ‘for one small errand.’ The three exchanged eager glances, and Dancer was a touch unnerved by their strange, empty half-smiles and wild eyes. ‘Your brother,’ Kellanved continued. ‘Find him and bring him to me. I would have a word with him.’

The three grinned even more broadly, nudging one another, and tramped off with a lumbering, flat-footed stride. Dancer watched them go, then turned to Kellanved. ‘So, that’s Ho, then?’

The mage nodded. ‘Yes. And my, ah, agents tell me Koroll is no longer in the city.’ Dancer raised a brow – apparently one or more of Kellanved’s young lads and lasses had actually returned to Heng to spy for him. Courageous, that. ‘The rest of the Five alone are not a worry. That leaves Shalmanat.’

Dancer had to steady himself. Ah. This was where things were going to get … difficult. The mage peered round the tunnel and shook his head. ‘No. Not the right place.’ He gestured, and darkness enveloped Dancer once more.

When the shadows dispersed he found himself atop one of the ring-walls of Heng, the Inner Precinct wall surrounding the palace and the tall towering spire itself. He looked to the short hunched mage. ‘You’re getting much better at this.’

Kellanved dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘My thanks.’ Letting out a long hard breath, he tapped his walking stick to the flagstones of the walk and announced, ‘Tem Benasto, Bonecaster of the T’lan Imass! I call you! Come. It is I – occupant of the throne.’

Dancer whipped out his blades, peering round. ‘Don’t compel them!’ he warned Kellanved.

‘I’m not compelling them – I’m just calling them … Ah!’

Dust swirled about the mage as if in a whirlwind. When Dancer’s vision returned there stood not just Tem Benasto in his huge hunting cat headdress, but the other Bonecasters of the Logros clan, along with the sword-bearing Onos T’oolan.

Hengan guards who had been closing upon them halted, jaws agape, and began scrambling away. Dancer ignored them for now.

‘You summon us away from our work gathering our brothers and sisters?’ Tem demanded. ‘Here? To what purpose? You waste our time.’

The mage raised his hands. ‘Please! Hear me out. An enemy is near.’

‘Enemy?’ Onos T’oolan grated breathlessly, his fleshless hand moving to the wrapped grip of his flint blade. ‘We care nothing for your pathetic scramblings for power. I consider this call … unworthy.’

Dancer half drew his heaviest parrying blades, leaning forward.

‘No, no,’ Kellanved pleaded. ‘Really. A true enemy. I swear.’

Tem Benasto extended a withered hand to Onos T’oolan to check him. ‘Speak,’ he told Kellanved.

‘Here,’ Kellanved stressed, ‘in this very city. I have seen him with my own eyes in the flesh. Not longer than one year ago … a Jaghut!’

T’oolan’s blade whipped free of his belt in a motion too swift for Dancer to follow. ‘What!’

Tem Benasto pointed a bony finger at the Dal Hon mage. ‘This is impossible. We ourselves cleansed these lands many ages ago. No Jaghut remain on this continent.’ He tilted his head sideways, as if confused by the little Dal Hon mage. ‘You do understand that if you are lying you will be judged … unworthy.’

Kellanved rubbed his neck, then dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘None the less, I saw what I saw.’ He opened his arms. ‘Prove me wrong.’

Tem Benasto turned his wide cat-jaw headdress to his brethren. ‘Summon our brothers and sisters and search the city.’

*

Silk and Smokey had taken up post at the Eastern Inner river gate when a wash of major sorcery made them both stagger. Moments later a rumbling came and dust rose over the Outer Round river gate.

‘What in the name of the Nine was that?’ Silk demanded.

Smokey was rubbing his forehead and wincing. ‘Don’t know. But – damn.’

‘This is no two-bit raid,’ Silk growled.

‘The Cawnese did warn us that it looked as though that Dal Hon runt was bringing mages.’

Silk nodded at that. Yes. But he’d been expecting a few ship’s mages, or a drunken hedge wizard – not this. He backed away from the wall, thinking, Hood take it, if they got through I know where they will be headed. And that damned assassin is with them …

He turned and ran for the nearest stairs.

‘What about the defence, man!’ Smokey yelled after him. ‘The walls!’

But in Silk’s eyes there was only one thing worth defending.

He found the palace in a panic. Functionaries and servants ran every which way. He grabbed one’s arm, demanding, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Creatures!’ the woman gasped. ‘The dead walk!’

Silk curled a lip. ‘Really? Did you see these?’

‘Well, no. But everyone’s saying—’

Snarling, he released her. He knew it; that damned Dal Hon sneak was up to something.

He pushed further into the complex. Curiously, just where he’d expect to see barricades or wall-to-wall palace guards, he found none. Yet neither was there blood, or corpses, or the ruin of battle. It was as if everyone had simply upped and run away. It troubled him greatly, but he made for the central cynosure, hoping to find Shalmanat.

Heaving open the door of the domed inner sanctum, he froze, absolutely shocked as he faced the backs of four individuals who, frankly, fitted perfectly the description he’d been given of dead walking. Without a pause he threw out his hands and gave them every ounce of summoned Warren power he possessed.

The conflagration of energies left the floor glowing and crackling and through the smoke he saw Shalmanat limping away through a distant door. Of the interlopers nothing remained, just smoke and charred ash.

He hurried forward only to be yanked backwards off his feet and lifted by an iron-hard grip at his neck. He was turned to stare into a face that was, frankly, death incarnate: dried, aged flesh stretched over bone, dark empty eye-pits and bared tannin-stained teeth. And round this head, the opened fleshless skull of a wolf, jaws agape.

‘Do not interfere,’ the apparition told him, and he was unceremoniously flung aside through the air to land tumbling.

Blinking, dazed, he squinted while the things seemed to disintegrate into dust before his very eyes. He blinked again. Dust. Dust? And bones? The Army of Dust and Bone?

So – they were here for her. Well, not without a fight. He clambered to his feet and staggered after Shalmanat. The door opened on to a narrow hall that led to the spire. Here he started up the circular staircase. He lost his breath about halfway but grimly carried on, teeth clenched, gasping in air.

He gained the top landing to find himself once more facing the rear of the four members of the Army of Dust and Bone. Two turned to face him, bony hands going to the grips of flint weapons thrust through twisted hide belts.

‘Leave her alone!’ he demanded. Shalmanat stood at the balcony of the spire, her chin raised, defiant. The wolf-headdress creature turned at his call. ‘She is not your enemy,’ Silk told it.

‘No. This is why she still lives.’

‘Then what do you want!’ Silk yelled.

Wolf-headdress raised a pole-thin arm of dried flesh over bone to her. ‘We are displeased to find one of her kind ruling here over you humans. This is distasteful to us.’

‘She has been our benefactor!’

‘None the less.’ The creature faced Shalmanat. ‘Liosan calls. It is time for you to return to your kind.’

Shalmanat shook her head, pushed her wind-tossed thin white hair from her tear-stained face. ‘No. You don’t understand. They would not have me.’

The creature drew a flint dagger. ‘Choose. Return to your kind … or face us.’

She snarled then, straightening. ‘Damn you pitiless Imass!’ And, grasping the ledge, she rolled herself over the top to disappear, her white linen shirt and trousers snapping in the wind.

Silk lunged forward, ‘No!’

He half leaned over the ledge, only to be blinded by a great flash of light from below, and he turned away, blinking. ‘What have you done?’

‘She chose wisely,’ the Imass said.

And with that the four suddenly dispersed into dust that quickly blew away. Silk slid down the wall of the balcony to hunch, head in hands, somehow still unable to understand. Was she gone? Really truly gone?

What ever would he do now?

Resistance in Li Heng collapsed as the account spread of witnesses seeing monstrous creatures flinging the Protectress to her death from the top of the spire. This, plus the apparent routing of the Cabal of Five, completely ended the hostilities.

Kellanved and Dancer entered the central palace unopposed.

They found it a littered mess vacant of all functionaries, guards and servants. Kellanved peered round at the overturned furniture and scattered scrolls and vellum sheets, then eyed Dancer. ‘Not the welcome I was expecting.’

Dancer suddenly pushed his companion back as dust gathered before them in a thickening gyre to coalesce into the forms of three T’lan Imass: Ay Estos in his wolf headdress, Tem Benasto in his sabre-toothed cat skull and the lean figure of Onos T’oolan. Tem Benasto grasped the leather-wrapped grip of the flint dagger at his waist. ‘You lied. No Jaghut can be found here. Only one woman of the Tiste Liosan – whom we dealt with.’

Kellanved spread his hands wide. ‘But I assure you—’

‘Too late,’ Ay Estos answered, like a sentence.

The Bonecasters nodded to T’oolan and he clasped a hand to the grip of his long two-handed flint blade. ‘You have been judged unworthy,’ Onos announced.

Dancer stepped between them, his blades drawn. He eyed the creature, saying, ‘First let’s see how we compare—’

A new shape appeared then: Ulpan Nodosha in his headdress of a gigantic cave bear. He raised a hand for a halt. ‘Vestiges of Omtose Phellack have been detected.’

T’oolan’s weapon fairly flew up and he spun. ‘What?’

Dancer saw then the speed of this Imass swordsman, and despaired. He knew nothing like it, save for the Dal Hon half-breed, Dassem.

‘Impossible,’ Tem answered. ‘We ourselves cleansed this land millennia ago.’

Ulpan Nodosha gave a nod of his gigantic bear skull headdress. ‘None the less. Along the river. And very recent.’

Tem turned to regard Kellanved. ‘This is … troubling. If true, you were right to bring it to our attention. We must pursue this.’

And with that all four sloughed away into dust. Kellanved waved his hands. ‘Wait! Are you going? Really going?’ He looked to Dancer and threw his hands in the air. ‘A little consideration – that’s all I ask!’

For his part Dancer resisted rubbing his neck in relief. That had been far too close. Fortunately, the little Dal Hon mage had been on top of things, but what of next time? If there ever was one, which, if he had any say, would be never.

Kellanved gestured aside with his walking stick. ‘Ah, here we are.’

Dancer glanced over and flinched, as there stood Ho. But it was not Ho, for that mage never possessed such an empty half-grin. It was one of the doppelgangers he and Kellanved had released. The quadruplet urged them to him, his grin twitching, and disappeared into a side room.

‘This way,’ Kellanved invited, and followed. Within, they found all four identical burly men. Three held the fourth subdued: one with a headlock, the others on each arm. The constrained one grunted, struggling and glaring. Kellanved approached and nodded to him. ‘Ho. You worried me the most. How was I to get the better of one such as you?’ He gestured to the other three. ‘Thankfully, you yourself provided the means.

‘Wrap him in chains,’ he told them, ‘and take him to the waterfront. A riverboat is waiting to take him to Cawn. There, a Napan vessel is provisioned and waiting for a long journey. A journey all the way to the lands of the Seven Cities.’

Ho, the cords of his neck straining, his lips drawn back, cut in: ‘Idiot! No prison can hold me.’

‘Oh, but this one can, I assure you. It is a prison perfectly suited for one such as you.’ He nodded to the three and, grinning, they proceeded to drag their brother away. ‘But watch out for the dust,’ Kellanved called after them. ‘It is a very dusty place.’

The Dal Hon mage offered Dancer a smug smile and motioned him onward. ‘There we are. The Protectress dealt with, as you heard. All that remains is to take possession.’

Dancer was not so sanguine. ‘I doubt anything could be as all settled as that.’

Kellanved headed out to the main hall, waving Dancer’s reservations aside. ‘You’ll see!’

The long hall led to the formal throne room where Shalmanat used to receive petitions and lower judgements. Here, Kellanved pointed to a robed functionary running past. ‘You there! Come here!’

The man gaped, scrolls and vellum sheets clasped to his breast. ‘Don’t kill me, m’lord!’ he pleaded.

‘Nothing of the sort, I assure you,’ the mage said soothingly. ‘Gather the court, please. These are my orders, yes?’

The fellow nodded jerkily. ‘The court, my lord?’

‘Yes. All those who wish to witness the change of rulership here in Heng. All interested parties. Yes?’

The palace clerk kept nodding. ‘Very good. Yes, m’lord. At once. As you order.’

‘Excellent.’ Kellanved bade him go with little shooing gestures of his hands. The fellow ran, sheets flying.

‘And what will this accomplish?’ Dancer asked, brows arched.

‘Witnesses, my friend. Vital.’ He raised a crooked thin finger. ‘Nothing happens unless it is witnessed.’

*

When Heboric arrived in Li Heng he immediately asked about the location of the main temple to Fener. Not surprisingly, it was located in the main garrison of the city, Fener being not only the Boar of Summer, but one of the acknowledged gods of war. Entering, he was surprised to find himself rather quickly assuming the role of High Priest of the temple, as none of the local adherents wore blessings of the boar beyond small tattoos upon their cheeks and wrists.

As such, he was entitled to attend court here in Li Heng, which he did at the earliest opportunity. Yet it was a disappointment; the legendary Protectress did not appear. The mundane dispensing of justice fell that day to some overly groomed mage who Heboric was surprised to discover was the moderately famous mage of Telas, Smokey.

He turned instead to questioning the gathered court of wealthy merchants, high functionaries, nobles, and other such flunkeys and hangers-on. Eventually he found what he was searching for: a self-important sycophant eager to prove how close he was to power by voicing all the many secrets he was privy to.

‘The Protectress is not in attendance?’ he asked the fat fellow.

The hanger-on laughed indulgently. And, glancing left and right, leaned closer. ‘I happen to know for a fact that she is unable to.’

Heboric made appreciative noises, ‘Indeed … And why would this be?’

The man nodded as if in secret accord with him. ‘Well, Brother Fener, you are new here, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the Five have things in hand – let us just say that, yes?’

Heboric raised his brows, impressed. ‘You are implying …’

The man peered right and left once more, and winked. ‘Let us just say that I am now in such a position that no action is taken at all by the Cabal of Five without my consultation, yes?’ And he patted Heboric on the arm, conspiratorially.

For his part, Heboric struggled to make sense of what the fellow was insinuating. That he was, or was not, currently consulted? He decided that unctuous buttering-up would smooth over any confusion and so he made more rapt noises, adding, ‘Indeed!’

The court hanger-on nodded profoundly. ‘Indeed. You are obviously incredibly observant yourself. I can tell, as I myself possess an acuity that is uncanny.’

‘Amazing!’

‘Absolutely. Believe me. This so-called “retreat” by the Protectress is a completely false cover-up. The Five now rule in all but name. Take it from me, for I am never wrong.’ And raising a fat finger in emphasis, the fellow strode off.

Heboric was left blinking in a fog of confusion, until, with some mental effort, he managed to dismiss ninety per cent of the blowhard verbiage to distil the conclusion that plots and rumours were now rife here in the power vacuum of the court of Heng.

Familiarizing himself with the city, walking the rounds, he found very little to worry him regarding the purported rampant cult activity. True, the cult of the Protectress was on display in shrines and votary offerings at crossroads and marketplaces, but as a scholar of religion and history he understood that such was the normal ferment of beliefs and competing factions. Time would be the test here. And it would be interesting to find out if any of these new creeds or personalities would ever actually amount to anything.

A week later he was attending to the dutiful in the temple when a guard entered and ordered everyone to post. Heboric stepped out on to the main training grounds to find guards rushing about and reinforcements being assembled. He set off to find a ranking officer to question.

He found a lieutenant of the garrison attached to the palace across the grounds. This woman inclined her helmeted head to him in respect. ‘Priest,’ she greeted him.

‘What is all the activity?’

‘A raid. A rider arrived yesterday from Cawn, warning us. The pirate ruler of Malaz heading upriver. We were ready for a minor raid, but things are heating up. Seems they came ready to take on the Five.’

Heboric nodded. ‘Ah. So a mage battle.’

‘Unfortunately for the rest of us, yes. Now, if you would excuse me?’

He bowed. ‘Of course.’ The officer jogged off.

As priest of one of the gods of war, Heboric chose to walk the walls of the palace grounds to witness this attack. Hengan guards came to ask his blessing, which he gave freely as he sought out a position from which to see the action. Eastward, apparently.

Reaching a viewpoint on a corner barbican of the palace walls, he leaned on the stone crenel and peered out along the Idryn. He saw nothing in particular, save for thick traffic on the roads, a great many citizens rushing this way and that in panic and confusion. Some smoke and dust in the air over the city far to the east.

The raid, such as it was, didn’t seem to have penetrated very far into the city proper. The Five must have repelled these pirate adventurers. Still, he remained for a few hours as noon approached, and then, to his surprise, the Boar suddenly came to him.

It was as if a shadow of the beast himself reared up over him; the hair of his neck and arms bristled just as any boar’s would. He raised his nose to scent the air as the shadow-boar did over him and what it sensed made it chuff and stiffen. The power of the Boar burst upon him then, as an aura, sizzling the air, and his head turned to the inner palace walls within the compound, and what he saw there through Fener’s eyes staggered him.

Lean and ragged shapes stood the walls, some wearing archaic headdresses and tattered hide cloaks. Yet through Fener’s senses Heboric saw them for what they were: entities fairly blazing with power, and he recognized them from ancient accounts: the undying army of the Imass themselves, and even the Boar within him was staggered.

He understood now why he was here. This was far more epochal than the mere transfer of authority from one ruler to another. An ancient and implacable power had been raised anew and nothing would be the same again.

He headed for the palace. Had these Elders now taken charge?

The court was a mass of panicked functionaries, bureaucrats, merchants and city aristocrats, all jostling and exchanging whispered news – awaiting their fates, in fact. Later that afternoon the doors opened and in came a short, wizened Dal Hon elder with a walking stick, accompanied by a lean youth and a Napan woman. These three walked to the front and the Dal Hon seated himself on the formal throne of Heng, flanked by the other two.

The elder raised his hands for silence. ‘Calm yourselves, please, citizens of Heng. Nothing shall change. All shall remain as before. The Protectress may be gone, but you have a new Protector.’ The ancient pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Myself.’

‘And you are?’ some brave soul shouted from the crowd.

The ancient appeared quite startled. He planted his walking stick between his feet, announcing, ‘I am Kellanved, ruler of the isles of Malaz and Nap – and the ruling authority over the city state of Cawn, and now of Li Heng also.’

Heboric squinted – the fellow might look old, but he appeared startlingly quick and vigorous for one of such apparent age. He had to wonder: was this the one responsible for the summoning of the Elders?

This ‘Kellanved’ now stroked his chin. ‘And thinking on that …’ he turned to the blue-hued Napan woman with him, ‘does that not make me emperor? After the Talian hegemony? Ruler of more than one kingship?’

The woman’s lips tightened, and she murmured from the side of her mouth, ‘Now is not the time …’

The fellow banged his walking stick to the flagged floor. ‘Now is absolutely the appropriate time! This is momentous! It must be witnessed!’ He scanned the court, peering all around. ‘Is there no historian present? None qualified to record these events for posterity? For the ages to follow?’

Heboric looked about him, as did the hunched Dal Hon elder upon the throne. No one stirred to raise a hand, and so, driven by the demands and dictates of his training as scholar and historian, Heboric very slowly, reluctantly, lifted his arm into the air.

The ancient, Kellanved, perked up. ‘Ah!’ He pointed his walking stick. ‘Here we are. Fener is with us! Welcome, priest. Please approach.’

Heboric edged his way through the crowd to reach the fore. The elder urged him even closer. Hesitantly, he advanced, but quite warily, as the slim fellow on the elder’s right now leaned forward, hand on a dagger, and he knew that one false motion, one shift too close, and that weapon would be lodged in his throat. ‘Yes m’lor – that is, your excellency?’

The elder’s brows climbed in appreciation of this address, and he shifted to look to the woman. ‘There! You see? Our priest of Fener understands. ‘So … am I not entitled to style myself emperor after the historical precedents?’

Heboric bowed his head. ‘Indeed. If one is the ruler of more than one kingdom, principate, or protectorate, then one may claim the title emperor or empress.’

The elder opened his arms wide. ‘There we have it. Emperor Kellanved.’

The Napan woman, Heboric noted, looked to the ceiling at this announcement. But he was obliged to continue. ‘However, after these ancient precedents, the date of assumption of said emperor or empress must be set at their birth.’ He raised his gaze to address the fellow directly. ‘Therefore – may I enquire as to the year you were born?’

The Dal Hon ancient snorted at this, glancing about rather as if he’d been cornered. He gestured peremptorily. ‘What a ridiculous request! As if I can remember! And who knows which dating system to follow?’

‘Nevertheless …?’

The elder huffed, puffing and shifting uncomfortably on the throne. ‘Whatever! Very well. The fifth year of the rule of Gorashel of the Eastern Dal Hon savannas – if you must!’

It just so happened that Heboric had been briefed on all the dynasties of the continent. He eyed the wrinkled elder and could not help but raise a brow in scepticism. ‘Are you saying that you are less than twenty years old?’

The presumed ancient gaped at him, astonished, only to recover quickly and wave a hand in dismissal. ‘That is not what I meant at all! Absurd! No – what I meant was one hundred years prior to that year, of course!’

He may have been mistaken, but the slim youth with him, presumably the purported assassin Heboric had heard of, covered his mouth, perhaps to disguise a smirk.

‘That was not what you said,’ Heboric persisted.

Now the grey-haired Dal Hon mage urged him closer, leaning in, and whispered, ‘Very well – what say you we split the difference? Seventy? Yes? Can you work with that?’

Heboric could not drop his lifted brow. ‘I’m sorry, but I heard what I heard.’

The presumed elder threw himself back into the throne, gesturing aside. ‘Guards! Take this fool away! He is wilfully misinterpreting my meaning.’

The only guards present were Malazan troops. These respectfully motioned Heboric away, he being a priest of Fener after all.

‘Find a deep cell!’ Kellanved shouted after them. ‘Where he may reconsider his wilfulness, and recant his errors.’ Addressing the gathered court, the wizened Dal Hon announced, ‘Seventy! Did you hear that? The official imperial count shall be seventy years! So begins the rule of Emperor Kellanved! Now, any other historians or scholars present? Anyone?’

On his way out of the throne room with the guards, Heboric was hardly surprised when no one else spoke up.

*

Close to the river gate of the Inner Round, Smokey dug through the wreckage of the raiders’ passage, heaving aside planks, a shattered cart, dust and rubble of broken rock to pull a woman from beneath the heap. Dust sifted from her thick mane of wild kinky hair as she staggered upright, clutching his arm. ‘I was doing fine,’ she insisted, ‘until that Kartoolian waded in.’

Smokey nodded, guiding her to the gates. ‘They came with more than five.’

‘And Shalmanat?’

‘Stories are the T’lan Imass themselves returned to murder her.’

Mara spat blood and grit from her mouth. ‘The T’lan Imass, in truth? Hard to believe. So this dark wizard cut a deal with these Elders?’

‘So it would seem.’

She touched gingerly at a bleeding cut along her scalp. ‘Fucking bastard!’

‘We’re all that’s left,’ Smokey said.

‘Silk?’

‘Probably cut down by the Imass – he was with her.’

‘Ho?’

‘Witnesses say he was dragged down by replicas of him. Sounds unbelievable, but there you are.’

She held her head. ‘None of this makes any sense! Why here? Why now?’

He shrugged as he dragged her along through the ruined gate. ‘Had to strike somewhere, I suppose. As good a place as any. Now we have to go before those mages return looking for you.’

‘Did you see that gargoyle Hairlock among them?’

Smokey scowled his disgust. ‘Wanted from coast to coast, that one.’

She limped along, blinking, perhaps trying to focus her eyes. ‘Find a cart or a mule – I can’t walk. That Kartoolian is a powerful bastard.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll find something.’

‘Then what?’

‘Don’t know. Wasn’t joking earlier when I said I was thinking of joining the Crimson Guard.’

Mara laughed her scorn at that. Laughed, then held her head, groaning.

*

Silk didn’t remember descending the tower and making his way out of the palace. Everything seemed blacked out, an unreal blur, but now that he was at the waterfront he realized that he was about to be captured. These raider mages, their Warrens raised and sizzling, were still hunting for the last remnants of the Five, himself included.

Frankly, he didn’t care what happened to him any more. It was all over. But the idea of submitting to these murderers repulsed him. He kept ducking away, moving on, and his retreat brought him to the wharves and piers crowded by the invaders’ riverboats. Here Silk spotted one of the hunting mages, a squat and hairless nut-brown fellow, his Warren a bright aura about him, scanning the crowds of milling citizenry, and he jumped down to a lower floating dock where a mass of men stood jammed together, their clothes just as dirty and torn as his own. A fat fellow armed with a truncheon pushed through the crowd to wave him off.

‘You’re not allowed here!’

Hand at his side, Silk turned his cupped palm to show his coin-purse. The fellow’s thick black brows narrowed as he peered right and left, then he brushed past Silk, taking it. ‘Name?’ he demanded.

‘Yusen,’ Silk offered, borrowing a friend’s name.

The fellow pointed his truncheon. ‘Get in line … Yusen.’

The line filled a long twisting gangway up on to one of the larger riverboats – a trireme galley. Here armed sailors pushed the file of men down into the narrow alleys of its rowing benches. Silk held back, alarmed, but he could not resist the long line of men behind him, pushing him forward, and so eventually he ended up next to an empty berth and his companions gestured forcefully that he should sit on the filthy bench.

The last thing he wanted to do at this point was bring any attention to himself and so he complied, all the while straining for a glimpse of the pier through the oar-port, searching for his pursuers. He spotted the squat, scowling fellow now talking with another mage, this one tall and lean, in dark severe robes, his raised aura particularly intense. He hunched back down among the ranks of rowers.

‘This is a Cawnese vessel, yes?’ he asked the fellow next to him.

‘A privateer vessel,’ was the answer. ‘Under hire.’

Silk studied the interior once more, a touch confused. ‘We are not fettered?’

His companion on the bench appeared quite startled. ‘Of course not. We made our agreements, signed our papers.’

‘Papers? Agreement?’

His companion looked him up and down. ‘Are you all right? Did you take a fall?’

Silk touched his head to find there dried crusted blood. He didn’t remember falling, but he must have at some point, probably on the stairs. ‘It’s nothing. Please – papers, you say?’

‘Yes. Service to cover your debts in Cawn, of course.’

Silk stared, though somehow he managed not to gape. ‘So,’ he said, nodding, ‘this vessel is contracted to the Cawnese.’

‘Oh, no,’ the fellow answered. ‘It’s not. It’s contracted to the Malazans. You are in their service now.’

This time Silk did gape. Then he burst out with a high laugh. Somewhere the gods were holding their stomachs in hilarity; they had done their job and completely and utterly destroyed the complacent, prideful, comfortable and recently getting fat Silk. He was frankly almost in awe of their thoroughness – right down to the poetic end.

He just laughed, and kept laughing, chuckling on and on and shaking his head, until the point when all those around him exchanged knowing looks and touched fingers to their temples in pity.