Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER VIII

In the morning Brood pushed aside the heavy cloth flap of his tent to find the Rhivi warriors in the process of breaking camp. He frowned then, feeling a chill premonition, and crossed to where one of the Elders stood wrapped in a blanket warming himself at a fire. It was one of the more amiable of them, Tserig, called the Toothless. The Warlord inclined his head in greeting. ‘Word from the north?’

Looking unhappy, the old man gave a shallow bow. ‘Yes, Great One. A rider came in the night. The Malazans are in disarray. They have been driven from Pale and are retreating to the southwest.’ He shrugged, apologetic. ‘The circle of war leaders decided to act.’

Without consulting me. ‘I see. Since when did the Rhivi chase after war?’

The old man seemed to consider one answer but clamped his lips tight against it. He adjusted the folds of the horse blanket, indicated the embers dying before him. ‘War is like a grass fire, Great One, is it not? Once sparked it cannot be controlled. It will burn and burn until it has consumed everything it can reach.’

‘Its fuel is blood, Tserig.’

A gloomy nod of agreement. ‘I know, Ancient One. I was against it. But I am old — and toothless.’

Brood smiled his appreciation. ‘And so your reward is to be the one who has to break the news that my, ah, leadership is no longer required.’

The old man offered another half-bow. ‘I am sorry, Warlord … perhaps they merely did not wish to disturb you in your mourning.’

‘That’s putting about as pretty a face on it as anyone can manage.’ He eyed the embers for a time, rubbed a forefinger along his jaw. Tserig, he noted, was cringing away and Brood realized the old man must think he was scowling his displeasure at him, so he turned to face the west.

‘What will you do now, Great One?’ the old man ventured after a time.

Around them the last of the burdened asses, carts, travois and herded bhederin made their way north, following the track through the Gadrobi hills. Riders bowed to Brood as they passed, or saluted, raising spears and loosing their war calls. ‘If the Mhybe was still with us, or Silverfox, none of this would be happening …’ he murmured, but distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere.

‘I agree, Warlord. But they are gone from us. The Mhybe was given her great reward. And Silverfox has departed. Gone to another land, some say.’ Like Brood, the old man did not mention the other who was gone from them as well.

The Warlord cleared his throat, profoundly uncomfortable. How to broach this without insulting this man, his people, and all they have sacrificed these last years?

‘Would you share the morning tea with me, Warlord?’ Tserig said suddenly, his gaze oddly gentle, as if he were addressing a youth rather than someone incalculably older than he.

‘Yes. Thank you, Tserig. I would welcome that.’

The old man motioned aside to an attendant, who hurried to ready the tall bronze pot and the tiny thimble-sized cups, and the two stood in silence waiting for the leaves to steep. Both watched the ragged columns of the Rhivi snaking their way north through a cut in the hills. Behind them Tserig’s servants struck his tent.

‘You’ll make much better time now with the herds returned to the north,’ Brood observed.

‘Yes. Mostly it is those fearful of the Malazans, or anxious to prove themselves as warriors, who have remained. Is it any wonder then that they should have found their excuse? And Jiwan had at his service a most convincing weapon.’

‘And what is that?’

‘An earnest belief in his cause.’

Brood found himself again appreciating the old man. He allowed himself a grin.

A servant handed each a tiny bronze cup then poured tea in long hissing streams from the slim pot. Tserig raised his cup to the Warlord. ‘To wise counsel.’

‘Wise counsel.’

The old man smacked his lips, sucking in the tea. ‘I ask then, again. What will you do?’

Brood grimaced his awkwardness. He looked off to the west. ‘I’ve become convinced that we shouldn’t confront these Malazans any longer. It will be a disaster for the Rhivi, in the long run.’

Distaste wrinkled Tserig’s pursed lips. ‘Yet they hem us in on all sides. Trespass across our lands. Kill all the animals they find. They are like a plague. Are we to abandon our way of life?’

‘Tserig,’ Brood’s voice was low and hoarse with emotion, ‘that will happen anyway. It is inevitable. Question is, then, how best to mitigate the damage of it all? The answer is ugly and brutal, but it is plain … You get better terms in a peace treaty than you get when you’re conquered — which is to say, no terms whatsoever.’

That stung the old man’s pride and he straightened, offended. ‘You question our spirit!’

The Warlord raised a placating hand. ‘No. Never that. I am not talking about the brief season of war … I am talking about the generations that follow.’

Tserig’s gaze sank to the fire. His face was pained as if he were studying such a future within the dying embers. ‘Treaties,’ he finally spat. ‘Never honoured by the powerful. I place no faith in such agreements.’

‘They will be honoured,’ Brood grated, ‘if I witness them.’

Tserig’s greying brows rose as he considered this, then he bowed his head almost in salute. ‘I accept your plan, Warlord, as the best course for my people. How then do we proceed?’

Brood, who had been eyeing the west before, raised his chin to the distant horizon, the brown hills, and Lake Azur beyond. ‘Have you ever been on a boat, Tserig?’

The old man shuddered. ‘Ancient hearth-goddess, no. My feet have never left touch with our Mother.’

The Warlord’s beast-like eyes swung to him, held steady.

Tserig hunched beneath the weight of that gaze, gummed his lips. ‘Please … Great One. Have mercy on an old man.’

In Darujhistan’s guild hall of guards, sentinels, wardens and gate-men, Captain Soen of the Legate’s bodyguard looked these two most recent applicants up and down and didn’t bother hiding his disgust. Clothes no better than rags, dirt-smeared faces, cracked sandals. Not even a scrap of armour or a weapon showing anywhere. Must have pawned the lot to buy booze. And must be alive with fleas. Trake’s tail, I’m here to hire guards — not beggars.

‘Names?’ he demanded, and grimaced as a wafting hint of their stink reached him.

‘Scorch, sir,’ said one.

‘Leff.’

‘You’re in the lists, I assume?’

The two appeared to pale where they stood before him. They exchanged terrified glances. ‘Ah, beggin’ yer pardon,’ said the one who had given his name as Scorch, ‘but did you say list, sir?’

Soen rolled his eyes. ‘Gods, man. Yes. The lists. The record of all certified members in good standing with the guild in the city!’ At their expressions of complete blankness the captain leaned forward to explain, more slowly, ‘Your references.’

The one named Leff made a great show of understanding, nodding vigorously. ‘Oh sure, Cap’n, sir. O’ course.’

His friend goggled what resembled complete surprise. Un-convinced, but required to be thorough, Soen walked over to the record keeper where he sat in the rear of the hall. ‘Scorch and Leff,’ he said.

The clerk immediately began scrolling through a long rolled sheet, winding the document down and down. ‘Now there’s a list,’ one of these new applicants murmured to his companion.

After searching for a time the clerk appeared to have found his place, for he stopped and began to read. His brows shot up and he went back to the beginning once again. His brows continued to rise, almost touching his slicked-flat hair. He looked up, amazement plain on his face. ‘Their references are impeccable!’

Soen, who had leaned his elbows on the counter, flinched straight. ‘What?’

‘These two are in excellent standing.’

‘Let me see that.’ He reached for the scroll.

The clerk backed away, hugging the roll to his chest. ‘This is proprietary information, I’ll have you know! Try that again and you’ll be blacklisted.’

Soen turned on the two applicants, who stood shifting from foot to foot like eunuchs in a brothel. Gods. Guild rules are that I have to hire them now. Damn their stranglehold. He marched up to them, as close as their stink would allow. ‘Okay. Your references are in order. Fine.’ He held up a finger. ‘But before I see you tomorrow you’d better be cleaned up and fit for duty — or I’ll have some ex-Urdomen I know scrub you all over with rayskin brushes. How would you like that?’

The one who had given his name as Scorch raised a hand.

‘Yes? What?’

‘Ah … does this mean we’re hired, Captain, sir?’

‘Does this …’ Soen dragged a hand down his face, took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Yes,’ he hissed, ‘you’re hired. Report to the Legate’s manor tomorrow.’ He eyed them up and down once more. ‘Mind you,’ and he raised a warning finger, ‘you two report to the servants’ gate — is that understood?’

Scorch nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, sir. Understood.’ He saluted multiple times.

Soen waved a dismissal and stalked off, muttering. Elder gods, look away! How standards have fallen from the old days. Damned embarrassing it is. Still, these two could free up a couple of good men I could use elsewhere …

Once the Captain was gone Leff cuffed Scorch. ‘There! Y’see? Wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘I thought I said we should try here.’

Leff appeared not to have heard. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

Leff made a great show of looking to the sky. ‘Well, you heard the Captain! It’s as obvious as Moon’s Spawn in full-on daylight, o’ course.’

‘What is?’

‘Where we have t’go!’

‘An’ that’s …’

‘To the lake, man!’

Scorch’s permanent scowl of uncertainty deepened into stunned incomprehension. ‘The lake?’

Leff sighed his impatience. ‘Yes! Can’t you hear? The man told us to get cleaned up. So it’s a wash in the lake for us.’ He stomped out.

Scorch was slow to follow. He scratched the thick grime caking one cheek, muttering, bemused, ‘People do that? They wash? In the lake …?’

Yusek guided her two charges north up the slopes of the coastal Mengal range. She was aware that these peaks were also known as the Mountains of Rain and she mused, bitterly, that they were damned well living up to that title. This wide pass in particular led all the way to the coast. Her leathers were rotting off her; the skin of her toes was peeling off like bark; and she had a constant racking cough, spitting up great wads of thick green catarrh.

She took out her frustrations on the two Seguleh. Their silence and impenetrable calm only sharpened her tongue. Think they’re so damned superior. Nothing more than smug arseholes is what they are!

This day she was off ahead alone, if only to give herself a break from her constant snarling and sniping. She studied the lower slopes where the banners of sinking mist were burning away, leaving shallow rivulets and gullies that would eventually come together to form the headwaters of the Maiten River.

She glanced back and her shoulders fell as she saw that the two had stopped far back up the rocky path and were awaiting her return in their typical complete silence. Brainless idiots! Could at least give me a shout. Retracing her steps, she found them standing where a major fork led off into the higher slopes.

‘What, dammit?’ she demanded, rubbing the wet mist from her cheeks and shuddering with cold.

The one called Sall gestured up the other trail. ‘It occurs to us that you are leading far to the east when we wish to go north. This trail appears to lead north.’

Yusek gave a curt wave gesturing them on. ‘Well, go ahead, by the Queen’s tits! What do you need me for then? I’ll just go my own damned way, shall I?’

Deep within the shadows of his hood, Sall’s masked face revealed no emotion. It did look as if he frowned, though, as he squinted up the rocky trail. ‘This will not get us north?’

‘Look. You took me on to guide you, right? Well, that’s what I’m doing. Guiding. I don’t go telling you how to be all stiff as a board, okay? So don’t question my choices. It just so happens that we have to swing around easterly here for a few days to avoid the valleys just north of us.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why must we avoid the valleys to the north?’

Yusek snarled her annoyance, coughed, and spat. Throughout all this the third member of the party, Lo, remained his usual silent self. Only his hood shifted as he glanced behind from time to time, watching, always scanning about. ‘Listen,’ she began again after clearing her raw throat, ‘Dernan the Wolf controls these valleys. My old boss is a pup compared to him. He might squeeze a few coins where he can from travellers, but Dernan wipes out entire caravans. He even beat back soldiers from Kurl sent to smoke him out.’ She shook her head and hugged herself against the chill, shuddering. ‘No. We go round.’

Lo’s hood dipped then as he spoke close to Sall and the lad gave one quick nod. ‘Presumably this Dernan has shelter of some sort. A building or retreat. You are ill. In need of warmth, dry clothes. We will go north.’

Yusek gaped her disbelief. ‘What? Go north? Are you fucking stupid or something? Haven’t you listened to a word I said? Dernan will kill us for the gear on our backs. Or maybe just sell us as slaves down south.’ Panting, her chest aching, she glared from one to the other. Both remained unmoved, mute in the drifting rain like grey ghosts. Drops pattered on them and a hidden stream hissed down a nearby cliff. Fucking foreigners! Don’t know a damned thing! Gonna get me killed.

She cursed them, waved them to the Abyss, and turned away. ‘I’m not going-’ She froze as cold iron suddenly lay against her neck.

‘Do not worry, Yusek. You will not be harmed.’ The blade tapped her in a signal to turn round. She faced him. From behind the mask his mild brown eyes, though guarded, seemed to hold amusement. ‘You can hardly guide us if you are dead, yes?’

Two days later, deep within the thick woods of the valley, next to a small stream, Sall and Lo froze in their steps and Yusek’s heart sank. Gods spare us! She gripped her long-knife under her sodden cloak and crouched, seeking cover among the moss-grown wet boulders.

‘Don’t move!’ a harsh voice bellowed from the woods. ‘You’re covered and surrounded!’

Peering over a rock, she watched a number of men and women closing in among the trees. They wore battered mismatched armour like the tattered remnants of some defeated mercenary army. Two had beads upon her over the stocks of crossbows. An army! An entire fucking army!

The voice called out again: ‘Hands out! That’s right. Don’t move.’

She glanced back to see Lo and Sall standing motionless in their loose cloaks, hoods up, hands held out a slight distance from their sides. Men and women, crossbows raised, took up positions while others approached, swords drawn.

‘Hand over your weapons,’ the hidden voice ordered.

Sall and Lo remained immobile, hands at their sides.

‘Drop them, or we fill you full of quarrels. Now.’

The two shared a glance then reached under their cloaks to produce their swords, still sheathed, offering them one-handed. Yusek dropped her long-knife. A scraggy-bearded fellow came scrambling down to her.

Two of Dernan’s soldiers — and she was quite sure these must be they — warily approached Lo and Sall. A woman reached out a free hand to take Sall’s sword, her own blade held ready to stab. She wore torn hunting leathers and tall moccasins that came up to her knees. A great fat fellow in a banded hauberk too small for him came swaggering up to Lo and reached out to snatch his sword.

Then a number of things seemed to happen all on their own. The woman reaching out to Sall tottered to her side. The wide fellow in front of Lo now had a blade thrusting out from his back. Crossbows thumped, firing, and bolts hissed but Sall simply seemed to roll aside and the missiles snapped past. He disappeared among the trees. Crossbow bolts hammered into the fellow standing before Lo but somehow the great wide bulk of him didn’t fall. Lo even seemed to be manoeuvring him, turning this way and that, intercepting the missiles. Everyone was shouting; the bearded one in front of Yusek was watching all this, mouth agape. Then he turned to her. ‘A mask? Is that guy wearing a Hood-damned mask?’

She tried to dodge past him but he smacked her back down among the rocks. Her right hand found a stone and she swung, catching him on the side of his head, making him stagger. She dodged again but somehow he tripped her up. Standing over her he touched a hand to the blood streaming down his temple and into his beard. He gave her a gap-toothed grin. ‘I’m gonna tear you from crotch to gullet for that.’ He drew back his blade for a thrust.

A shadow arose behind the man and something hummed in the air, and then his head flew from its neck. The corpse tottered forward to fall gushing a great hot flow over Yusek, who screamed and screamed. All she remembered after that was scrambling on all fours for the stream, crying, utterly revolted, desperate to clean herself. The blood stained the icy water red.

When she stood, water dripping from her, it was silent. Only the stream hissed and gurgled around her. The woods were dark and still. She struggled over the slick wet rocks out of the water. Bodies lay everywhere. The amount of blood and fluids was terrifying, as were the wounds: many men were decapitated. Movement caught her eye and she glimpsed Lo throwing on his cloak. He appeared to be wearing beneath it some sort of light leather gambeson, possibly sewn with blued iron rings.

Sall appeared. His cloak was open as well, revealing nothing more than a plain shirt and sashed wide trousers. His sword was sheathed and he was escorting one of Dernan’s people, a woman. Her long sandy hair was a tangled mess but she appeared unharmed.

‘Did you …’ Yusek began, but could only motion to the dead man who had threatened her.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, thanks. Who’s this? A prisoner?’

He cocked his head, considering. ‘I suppose you could say that.’ Then he walked off, leaving the two of them together. Yusek eyed the woman; she couldn’t take her stunned gaze from the Seguleh. Disgusted, Yusek went to find her knife. The woman followed.

‘How is it you’re still alive?’ Yusek asked.

‘I’ve spent time on the south shore — I threw down my blade. I’ve never heard of them this far north.’

‘So you gave up? Just like that?’ The woman wore a long coat of scaled leather armour, was tall and rangy. She appeared competent.

Her awed gaze shifted to Yusek. ‘You travel with them and you say that?’

Yusek felt her face flushing. ‘It’s different, okay? They — they hired me to guide them.’

‘Hired …’ the woman echoed, clearly sceptical. She gazed off to the north and her brow clenched in pain as she seemed to contemplate what was to come. ‘Gods, girl … why didn’t you take them round?’

Yusek thrust herself close. ‘Listen,’ she hissed. ‘I tried, all right? Now we’re stuck with it, ain’t we.’

‘Find a way. All this blood … it is on your head.’

‘No, it Hood well isn’t!’

Lo and Sall approached.

‘What do you want here?’ the woman demanded.

Neither answered. Sall cocked his hooded head to Yusek. She eyed them in return, uncertain of their silence.

‘Well?’ the woman asked her.

She hugged herself, shuddering with the cold. ‘There’s a path I know west of here. It’s a short cut. We should take it.’ She thought she glimpsed Sall’s eyes wrinkle, perhaps in a small smile.

‘We go north,’ he said.

‘North? Why?’ Yusek stepped closer, almost reached out to the youth’s arm. ‘Look at all this. We should go round.’

The hooded head shook a negative. ‘They shouldn’t have challenged.’

‘Challenged?’ the woman spat suddenly. ‘No one here knows anything of your ways. How can you hold them responsible?’

Sall’s hood did not shift from Yusek as the youth said mildly, ‘So among you here in the north it is customary to murder travellers? People should be allowed to do so at will?’

‘We didn’t — that is …’ The woman fell silent, turning away.

Despite her dread of more bloodshed, Yusek had to give this one to Sall. His point, though, gave her an idea. ‘You want to go north, hey? To this monastery? Well, how will chasing some feud help that?’

The youth was still for a time, then he stepped over to Lo, who had kept his usual distance. The two conversed very briefly. Lo made a cutting hand gesture and Sall bowed. He returned to them. ‘The challenge stands — and must be answered.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ the woman burst out. ‘More bloodshed? And for what?’ She pointed at Lo. ‘Now I understand your reputation. Seguleh. No better than butchers! You enjoy it!’

‘We are the test of the sword!’ Sall answered hotly. ‘Those who choose to pursue the path of the sword should be prepared to be challenged. And if they should fall’ — he turned away — ‘they have no grounds for complaint.’

‘I understand,’ Yusek breathed in wonder. Something in that outburst spoke directly to her heart.

The woman eyed her warily. ‘You have been too long among them,’ she said, then bent to begin rooting through the clothes of one of her dead companions.

Yusek followed the woman as she went from corpse to corpse, taking a pouch here, a ring there. On an impulse Yusek collected a longsword and sheath from one body. ‘What is your name?’ she finally asked, breaking the long silence between them.

‘You can call me Lorkal,’ she said, not looking up from her grisly work. ‘You?’

‘Yusek.’

‘Where are you from then?’

‘My family’s from around Bastion.’

Lorkal stilled. She peered up, wonder in her eyes. ‘Were you …’

‘No. We fled.’

The woman grunted her understanding. She would have spoken, but Sall approached.

‘We must move on,’ he said to Yusek, ignoring Lorkal. ‘Tell the woman to journey ahead and contact Dernan. We have a message for him. We are not bloodthirsty. We have decided that if he will provide us with food and shelter we will not trouble him.’

Lorkal straightened from a body to face Sall. ‘No,’ she said, loudly and firmly.

Sall’s hood did not turn from Yusek. He was silent for a time; a deep breath raised and lowered his shoulders. ‘Tell the woman it would be best if she complied …’

‘Or what? You’ll cut off my head?’ Lorkal held out her open hands. ‘I’m unarmed. What does your precious path of the sword say to that?’

‘Tell the prisoner,’ Sall began again, his voice tight.

But Yusek stepped away, waving to Lorkal. ‘Tell her yourself — she’s right here.’ Lorkal chuckled, shaking her head and grinning. ‘What’s so damned funny?’ Yusek demanded.

‘Speaking to outsiders is your responsibility,’ Sall told her.

‘Speaking to … who? Outsiders? Aren’t I an outsider?’

‘You have entered into patronage with us. You are Eshen-ai. An outsider with countenance.’

‘That means they’re willing to consider you a potential human being. For a while,’ Lorkal explained.

Yusek eyed Sall up and down. ‘Well, thank you so very fucking much!’

Lorkal laughed anew but quietened as Lo approached. These Seguleh seemed to specialize in hiding all hint of their emotions and intent, but it appeared to Yusek that a new tension and discomfort had taken hold of Sall’s stiff posture. He took another long slow breath. ‘Before I departed on this trip,’ he began, ‘my father told me this would be the greatest test I would ever face.’ The hood rose to the sky. ‘I did not believe him at the time. It seemed to me then that no test could be greater than facing the challenges of my brothers and sisters. But I see now that I was wrong. My father was not speaking of the rankings. He was speaking of greater trials. Of challenges to everything I have been taught. I understand this now.’ He pointed to Lorkal. ‘Tell this woman that if she cooperates and speaks to Dernan then there is a chance that further bloodshed can be avoided. However, should she refuse, it is very certain that a great many more lives will be lost.’ And with a small bow of his head for emphasis, he walked away.

Yusek let go a long breath, impressed. Probably the longest speech of his life. She cocked a brow to Lorkal.

The woman was studying the pouches and gold ornaments in her hands. ‘Shit.’

They advanced north up a side-gorge of the valley for a time, until Lo sat down where boulders as large as huts choked the stream. His sitting announced that they would wait there. Saying nothing, Lorkal walked on alone, taking a higher path. Sall crouched down on his haunches where he could keep an eye on the approach up the valley. Yusek came and sat near him, hugging herself for warmth. She felt exhausted yet she could not stop shuddering. Her fingers were numb and blue and she clenched them as hard as she could. What would she do, she wondered, if she were in Lorkal’s position right now?

Would she just keep on walking?

It was one option. Who was to know? Except for you. That was the thing. And she suspected it was somehow similar to this test of the sword Sall mentioned. What would you do when no one would ever know of your actions? The easy thing? Shrink away? Bend? But one shouldn’t bend too much. A sword that bends too easily is useless; yet one that is too rigid will shatter. These Seguleh did not strike her as the type who would bend. What they must watch for, then, was shattering.

She must have drifted off soon after. Dozing, or perhaps sinking into hypothermia, for she thought she heard voices. ‘She won’t last another day,’ one said.

‘There are others with this Dernan,’ said a second, a voice she had never heard before.

‘She has held to our agreement — we can hardly do less,’ said the first.

‘Do not forget she is merely a servant.’

‘How we treat others is the measure of how we should expect to be treated.’

‘Straight from the teaching halls, Sall. Let us hope all such obligations prove as easy to cut.’

She was shaken, gently, but could barely rouse herself. She found Sall’s cloak over her. ‘We’re going,’ Sall said. ‘Lorkal has had time enough.’

Blinking, she waved him off. ‘I’ll stay here,’ she mumbled.

‘If you sleep any longer out here you will never awaken.’

She heard the words but somehow they didn’t mean anything. She shut her eyes. ‘Tired.’

Disjointed images followed. She became aware of being carried. Of crossbows firing and Lo before them, his sword a humming blur. Next she was jarred awake briefly to find herself lying sprawled on the ground while before her Sall and Lo fought side by side facing a score of armed men and women emerging from a steep cliff path. Then, she was carried in Sall’s arms while he stepped over bodies sprawled across the rock steps and, from far ahead, she heard panicked yells and the clash of iron.

She awoke to daylight shining in upon a crude circular dwelling of piled rocks. She was lying among hides and blankets. A low fire in a central hearth sent tendrils of blue smoke up through a hole in a roof of laid branches. Two small figures, a boy and a girl, leapt to their feet from next to the hearth and brought her bread and a bowl. ‘Eat,’ said the girl.

She took the flat unleavened bread, tore off a piece. ‘Where am I?’

‘You see,’ the boy hissed to the girl, ‘she can speak.’

Yusek thought she might know what the lad meant by that. ‘Where am I?’ she repeated.

‘Dernan’s-’ the boy began, then flinched as if terrified. ‘Well, that is … your camp, I guess.’

She eyed them, frowning, while she chewed. ‘What do you mean — mine?’

‘Are you their princess?’ the girl asked, her eyes huge.

Yusek coughed on her bread. She forced it down, her eyes watering. ‘Their what?’

‘Are they your servants? They carried you in. Are they Ascendants? They killed everyone.’

‘Not everyone,’ sneered the boy.

‘Well, not us slaves.’

‘Slaves?’

The light was occluded as someone ducked into the hut. It was an old man, pole slim and dressed in a threadbare linen shirt that hung to his bony shins. He bowed his head to Yusek. ‘You are awake. Excellent.’

‘Who’re you?’

‘Bo’ahl Leth. They call me Bo. You may too.’

‘Bo?’

The man raised his sharp narrow shoulders in a sort of apology. ‘It amused Dernan.’

‘Where’s he?’

‘Dernan?’ Bo raised his greying brows as if he himself could not believe what he was about to say. ‘Well, searching for his head, thanks to your friends.’

A coiled band that Yusek did not even know was wound around her chest loosened. She let out her breath. ‘So — it’s over. They won.’

The man’s expressive face clouded with distaste. ‘Won?’ he repeated. ‘That is a rather coarse way to put it. Many men and women lost their lives yesterday. No one wins when so many die.’

‘Those standing do.’

He regarded her now in disappointment. ‘Ah, I see. My mistake.’

Yusek found that she cared nothing for the old man’s disapproval. She pushed herself to her feet; she was weak and dizzy but she could stand. ‘Where are they?’

‘Keeping watch.’

‘Take me to them,’ she demanded. He gestured to the exit.

Outside lay a circle of stone huts atop a bare hillock surrounded by what appeared to be steep cliffs on most sides. Bo led her up a path. Then Yusek remembered: ‘Lorkal! You know her? Where is she?’

Bo halted and turned back to her, pained. ‘Ah … Lorkal.’ His gaze lowered. ‘Yes, I knew her.’

The band of iron returned to Yusek’s chest. She found it difficult to breathe. ‘Take me to her.’

‘It would do no good …’

Yusek’s jaws clenched. ‘Take me to her.’

He lowered his head. ‘This way.’

The bodies had been collected to one side of the village, next to a rocky field where men and women, all ex-slaves or bondsmen, were at work digging a trench. They paused at Yusek’s approach, peering at her in curiosity. A few bowed. It did not take her long to find Lorkal. Like all the bodies hers had been stripped of arms and armour and wore only a long linen undershirt, stained with blood. Yusek studied the bruising, the cuts, the flesh of the wrists torn and bloodied. Tortured to death.

She turned on the skinny old man. Cold wetness chilled her cheeks. ‘Did you stand by and look on disapprovingly while this happened?’ She was hardly able to grind out the words.

He would not meet her gaze. ‘I’m sorry. Dernan didn’t believe her. Who would have? They never come this far north. What do they want? Why are they here?’

Yusek had knelt at Lorkal’s feet. She adjusted the shirt to cover the woman’s legs. What lesson am I to take from this, Lorkal? Were your actions brave? Stupid? I suppose all that can be said is that you held to your convictions. Perhaps that’s the best that can be said of anyone. Yet now here you are, dead. Am I the coward, then, for always walking away? Well — at least I’m still alive.

She fought down the tightness in her throat. ‘They’re looking for a monastery. One that’s supposed to be north of here.’

The breath hissed from the old man. ‘Gods, no …’

Yusek looked at him sharply. He gripped his neck. Something like panic had entered his eyes. She straightened. ‘You know what they’re looking for.’

‘I … can’t say.’

Yusek found her hand had gone to her long-knife. ‘Can’t? Or won’t?’

His gaze took in her tensed grip. ‘What is your name, child?’

‘Do not call me child.’

He searched her face. ‘No … I suppose not. My mistake again. Would you give me your name?’

‘Yusek.’

He nodded. ‘Come, Yusek. Let us talk.’ He invited her back to the huts. After one last glance at Lorkal, she followed.

‘What do you know of the Ascendants?’ he asked as they walked along, his breath pluming in the frigid early-morning air. They were higher up here and Yusek shuddered anew — her leathers and underclothes were still damp and they were sucking the warmth from her once again.

‘Ascendants?’ she answered, bemused. ‘Just what I’ve heard in stories and such. Why?’

He led her back to the hut she had woken in. The two children jumped away from the hearth, where the plate and bowl now sat empty. He clapped his hands. ‘Go gather a selection of clothes.’ The pair bowed to Yusek and dashed from the hut. He sat next to the hearth, began rebuilding the fire. She sat as well, willing to grant the man a few moments before she left to find Sall.

‘Ascendants,’ he began. ‘I mention them because they are very few and far between, yes? Yet so many must arise in potential or power, only to fall short. We know of how many? The Warlord, the Lord of Moon’s Spawn, one or two others. Why do so few achieve such heights?’

‘What are you? Some kind of scholar?’

A small shrug. ‘Scholarship is a hobby only. I am a mage.’

Yusek stared at him; this was the first man or woman she’d ever met of any self-admitted talent. ‘A mage? Really? Why didn’t you blast Dernan to ash?’

Tolerant amusement twitched his mouth. ‘Mages whose, ah, aspects are useful in warfare or in combat are a very small minority, I assure you.’

Yusek wasn’t sure what to make of him or all this talk. ‘You have a point? Because I’m not in the mood to chat.’

He raised a hand to beg her indulgence. ‘The children are gone to gather you warm clothes. Surely I have until then?’

She merely grunted to urge him on.

‘I believe there are many more Ascendants out there in the world, of course. Most are far less — how shall I put it? — blatant in their activities. Such as the Enchantress, the Queen of Dreams. Now, why should that be among such powerful entities? Anyway, who dare oppose them? Well, each other, of course. I believe Ascendancy is something of a struggle. A constant effort to assert one’s identity. An eternal reinscribing of what one is. And why? Because there are others out there, rivals, all vying for what are, after all, in the end, a very limited set of roles or identities.’

‘The Dragons Deck?’ Yusek said, drawn into the man’s discourse despite her impatience.

Bo nodded, impressed. ‘Yes. I believe the cards serve as one expression of these identities. There are many others, of course. And they are by no means exhaustive either. So too with godhead, I believe.’ He waved a stick as if to encompass the entire lowlands to the east. ‘Look at this ferment over the god of war. Who will it be in the end? Will its face be that of a beast? A wolf? Or some other? Who is to say? Only time will tell. But I digress.’

He set his elbows on his knees, examined the stick. ‘I say all this because there is a small retreat in these mountains. A monastery or sanctuary, call it what you will. Very small, very remote. There, it is rumoured, someone has taken up residence. Someone who may count among those few thrown up every hundred years or so who could achieve Ascendancy. Think of that!’ he breathed, almost in wonder. ‘An Ascendant of our age. Just as the Warlord, Caladan Brood, is of his distant age. A stunning thought.’

‘So where is it?’

‘Ah! Well. We have arrived at the crux of the problem.’ He squeezed the thin stick in his hands. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you.’

Yusek snorted her impatience. ‘You’ll tell them when they get here. Believe me.’

He blinked up at her, calmly. ‘No, I won’t, Yusek. What will they do? Do you think they will torture me the way Dernan did Lorkal?’

The idea disgusted her; as if he’d asked whether she would. He dared ask that after what happened to Lorkal? She stood to wave her dismissal. ‘Fine. We’ll just ask someone else.’ He started to speak but the boy and girl came bustling in carrying armloads of clothing. Bo dusted his hands, bowed to her, and left her to it.

Later she emerged warm and well insulated. Tall hide moccasins, their fleece turned inwards, rose to her knees over leather trousers. She had also put on multiple layers of shirts. Of what armour fit her, the best she could find was a heavy leather gambeson sewn with bands of what looked to be shaved horn and antler. Over that she’d pulled a thick wool cloak. A sheepskin hat and toughened hide gloves finished it all off.

She took a path at random, meaning to track down Sall. As she went she belted on the longsword she’d scavenged, leaving the two knives at her waist as well. Armed to the teeth now, she thought, adjusting the strange new weight on her left hip. Not that it’ll do me any good — don’t know how to use the damned thing.

She found Sall, his hood down, at a high point in the village, keeping watch. ‘Where’s Lo?’

‘On the path.’ Sall gave the slightest inclination of his masked head — the closest he came to pointing. ‘This village possesses an excellent defensive position. The path is its only entrance.’

Not that it did them any good. ‘What now?’

The mask shifted; brown eyes examined her. ‘You are recovered?’

‘A hot meal and I will be.’

‘Very good. Collect supplies and we will depart.’

She turned to go but stopped, thinking of something. ‘You saw Lorkal?’

‘Yes. We saw her.’

‘And — you killed Dernan?’

The mask tilted ever so slightly. The light played over its complex lines. ‘Which one of them was he?’

Great Goddess … Yusek waved it aside. ‘Never mind.’ She went to find Bo.

The mage was speaking to the rag-tag remnants of slaves and bondsmen Dernan had kept: youths, oldsters, a few women fat with child. People probably dragged off from all the caravans and traders he’d slaughtered. Bo appeared to be organizing them into packing everything up.

‘What’s this?’ Yusek asked.

The mage gave her an impatient look. ‘We can hardly just hang about waiting for the next gang of thuggish swordsmen to claim the place. Thanks to your Seguleh we’re utterly defenceless.’

‘Thanks to them you’re free!’

‘Free to be enslaved. Free to starve. Free to be abused or murdered at a whim. Yes. Freedom — rather more complicated in the concrete than the abstract, yes?’

Yusek just curled a lip. ‘Don’t play your word games with me. I’m not interested.’

‘The fate of someone unarmed, or alone, or unprepared, in this lawless wilderness is hardly a game.’

‘Fine. Whatever you say. Listen … I don’t know why I’m doing this because I really don’t give a damn … but take your troop south. You know Orbern’s hold? Orbern-town, he calls it.’

‘Yes? What of it? Why should I deliver these people and myself to yet another murderous petty warlord?’

Yusek exploded in laughter. ‘Old man … calling Orbern a warlord is like calling a grandmother a courtesan. He’s just not the right material. Go to him and say you’re settlers. Settlers come to Orbern-town. I swear, he’ll hug every one of you.’

Bo looked doubtful. ‘You’re quite certain …’

‘Absolutely. Now, we need two packs of supplies ourselves.’

‘I will see to it. We can manage that at least, I suppose. You are determined to head north, even further into the mountains?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’ The man was obviously struggling with something. He raised his face to the snow-clad mounts biting off the northern horizon, sighed, and nodded to himself. ‘Head north-west. Keep going higher, towards the coastal range.’

‘Thank you.’

Bo still appeared troubled. He ran his fingers through his thin beard. ‘Do you know who he is? This man?’

‘No.’

‘You would only know of him in one way, I think.’ He shifted his gaze, studying her. ‘As the slayer of Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon’s Spawn, and Son of Darkness.’

Yusek snorted her denial. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘No. It is he. They are seeking him. And for one purpose only that I can imagine.’

‘What?’

‘To challenge him, of course.’

Jeshin Lim, the Legate, was in special session together with his closest advisers and supporters among the councillors when yet another urgent communication arrived from the north. This newest information of events in Pale sent yet another round of confusion, denials and recriminations through the assembly. Jeshin, for his part, withdrew from the arguments, sitting back and turning in his hands a small curio, a delicate gold mask.

‘M’lord,’ Councillor Yost called, his voice deep and rumbling up from his great bulk. Then, louder, ‘Legate.’

Jeshin peered up, startled. ‘Yes?’

‘M’lord, this latest news is above reproach. A relation of our family who minds our interests there in the city has cultivated long-standing sources-’

‘Your interests,’ another councillor shouted.

Yost continued through gritted teeth: ‘These accounts corroborate earlier rumours. Some impostor is fomenting hostility, perhaps even war, between us.’

‘We cannot be certain,’ Jeshin said, eyeing the gold mask. ‘Who would gain from this?’

Yost swung out his thick arms. ‘Why, any number of parties! Even the Malazans-’

‘The Malazans have apparently been driven from Pale,’ cut in Councillor Berdand. ‘And they fled from here.’ He gave an exaggerated farewell wave. ‘Their star is falling. We have seen the last of those invaders.’

‘Are you drunk and stupid?’ Yost barked.

Berdand leapt from his chair. ‘How dare you! You push your family interests here at this table then insult us?’

Jeshin raised a hand for quiet. ‘Gentlemen! Accord! Obviously we require more complete intelligence. I suggest a — well, not an envoy now, obviously, but something rather more covert. Someone to travel north and ascertain conditions first-hand and report back. I suggest …’ Jeshin eyed Councillor Yost, who shrank an involuntary step backwards under his speculative gaze, a hand going to his throat. ‘What was the name of that new upstart Nom?’

Yost’s wide frame eased in relief. ‘Ah, Tor — something or other, Legate.’

‘Yes. I designate Councillor Nom as emissary of this body to investigate conditions and developments at Pale and its environs.’ Jeshin raised the gold mask to his face and spoke from behind it. ‘He is to travel north at once.’

The assembled councillors shared barely suppressed smiles. Councillor Berdand laughed aloud, saluting Jeshin. ‘Excellent stroke, Legate.’

Torvald sat, head clasped between his hands, at the tiny kitchen table in the cramped main room attempting yet again to dredge up any excuse, no matter what, to rid himself of his appointment to the exalted, but unpaid, position of councillor. Tis had taken the news of its non-compensatory nature with a steely unsurprised silence that only made him feel all the more guilty — though over just what he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t done anything. None of this was his fault.

It was simply an inconvenient circumstance. That was all.

A tentative knock sounded on the door. Torvald frowned; it was late in the evening. Surely not the debt collectors already? How could word have travelled that fast? Since Tis was in her workshop in the rear he unlatched the door and opened it a crack. ‘Yes?’

It was a clerk of the Council escorted by three city Wardens. Torvald opened the door wider. ‘Yes?’

‘Is this …’ the clerk ran her disbelieving eyes over the plain front of the row-house, ‘the residence of Councillor Nom?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I speak to him?’

‘I’m he — that is, he is me, myself.’

The clerk’s brows arched even higher. ‘Indeed. How … refreshingly informal of you, Councillor.’

One day I’ll get the better of one of these bureaucrats, I swear. ‘You have a message?’

‘Indeed.’ She held out a sealed scroll.

Torvald read it by the uncertain light of a torch carried by one of the Wardens. Then he read it again. When he looked up there was an expression upon his face that made the clerk eye him more closely, puzzled.

‘You are quite well, sir?’

Special emissary! Travel to Pale and environs. Report on state of affairs. Torvald restrained himself from hugging the clerk. A gift from the gods! He managed to hold his mouth tight, nodding curtly. ‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you. I will leave at once, of course. The Legate can be assured of my cooperation.’ He moved to close the door but stopped, thinking of something. ‘Ah — there wouldn’t be a travel stipend associated with this position, would there?’

Later, retracing her steps to Majesty Hill to finish her report and retire for the night, it occurred to the clerk that never before had she ever seen any councillor so happy to be sent from the city.

Barathol worked only at night. Long after sunset armoured chests arrived at the tent which housed his makeshift forge now moved to Majesty Hill. The chests contained silver to be melted down and poured into moulds. And not raw silver: finished jewellery, utensils, ornaments and coin. A great deal of silver coin. All destined for the ceramic crucible supplied to him to be heated on the forge.

Once the metal was melted he poured it into sand moulds, two at a time. Plain forms, they were, shaped exactly like the iron pins used to hold stone blocks together. Except these would be of silver and thus far too soft to secure anything. And he’d told them that as well, the two who took over the process once he’d poured. Neither gave a damn what he thought. One was a tall scarred fellow with a great mane of hair and a ferocious hooked nose. The other was some sort of hunchback, or cripple, even worse-looking, all mismatched in his broken features and mangled hands. Both stank like mages to him.

They would curtly gesture him out then work some sort of sorcery over the still soft metal. Later, he would be allowed back into the tent to knock the pins from their black sand moulds and polish them up. Each time he found them inscribed with symbols and script utterly unfamiliar to him. In the morning the men would pack up the finished items and carry them off. He never saw either of them during the daytime excavations.

Shortly after the morning shift began work he would stagger home to get some sleep. Unfortunately for him this was a rather rare commodity. Scillara was disinclined to rise before noon and so he watched little Chaur until she came downstairs. Then he made lunch for them. After that she often had little chores for him; repairing this, or replacing that. Sometimes she went out, leaving him to mind Chaur for the rest of the day.

Then there was dinner to be made.

Often he did not lie down in the cot downstairs until close to dusk. Only a few hours later it would be time to rise to work the night through once again. For Barathol time began to pass in a dazed fog of utter exhaustion. Fortunately, the work was not demanding. He was tempted to sleep in the tent next to the forge but was haunted by what might happen to little Chaur in his absence. Scillara was not cruel; she was simply not interested and he did not hold this against her. It seemed to him that frankly most people by temperament and character should not be thrust into the role of parents. She was simply uncharacteristic in admitting it. He was at a loss to know how to resolve the trap life had set for him. The most attractive answer was to take little Chaur and walk away. He wondered, idly, his mind barely on his work, whether Scillara would even complain.

As the days passed, and his shambling dazed existence extended into a near hallucinogenic stupor, he would take breaks from the heat of the forge to stand outside in the cool night air. Here, he was sure the lack of sleep was affecting his mind, because he was seeing things. Sometimes the night sky would be occluded by the arc of an immense dome that glowed like snow. It would be gone when next he blinked. At other times flames seemed to dance over the entire city. Once he saw the taller of the mages standing out among the salvaged stones. The man was weeping, his hands pressed to his face, his body shuddering in great heaving sobs.

Am I going mad? Perhaps we both are.

A smooth warm hand brushing his cheek brought Lim to consciousness. He smiled, remembering similar nights long ago — then his eyes snapped open.

He stared at Taya crouched on his bed. ‘What in the name of Gedderone are you doing here!’

The girl’s full lips puckered into an exaggerated pout. ‘Don’t you want me, dearest Jeshin?’

‘Well, yes. But — no! You mustn’t … How did you get in here?’

She uncoiled herself from the bed, walked round it. Jeshin could not take his eyes from her. ‘Never mind that, dearest. I am here to congratulate you.’

He rose and threw on a silk dressing gown. He eyed the door to his chamber — closed. ‘Congratulate … me?’ he said as he edged towards the door. A shape emerged from the shadows next to it, a ghostly wavering figure of a man in tattered finery. The spectre raised a finger to its lips for silence.

Jeshin found that his voice had fled.

‘You’ve played your part magnificently, dearest. Even better than we could have hoped. But now …’ She sighed. Jeshin pulled his gaze from the apparition to her. She was shaking her head in mock sadness. ‘Now it is time to move on to the second act.’

Jeshin tried to shout but something had a fist at his throat. He could barely draw breath. Taya was at his side. Her soft lips brushed his cheek. ‘There is someone here I want you to meet,’ she whispered, her voice thick with passion.

Through tears he saw a new figure emerge from the gloom. A man in loose obscuring robes and on his head, bizarrely, an oval mask that shone pale in the starlight like a moon. Terror drove a knife into his heart and he would have collapsed but for Taya supporting him by one arm.

‘You wished to be a great ruler and for Darujhistan to rise anew,’ Taya breathed in his ear. ‘Well, you shall have your wish, my dear! You shall be the most magnificent ruler Darujhistan has ever seen. And under your hand the city will be reborn. All Genabackis shall bow before it, as before.’

She grasped his hair to wrench back his head. His cheeks ran with tears. The figure raised a hand to the mask, lifted it from its head.

When he saw what was revealed beneath Jeshin managed one soul-shattering scream before the suffocating metal was pressed to his face.

Scorch and Leff paused in their card game at a table next to the rear servants’ entrance of Lim manor. Leff cocked his head. ‘Hear that? You hear something?’

Scorch took a stiff sip from a jug of cooking wine, set it down with a grimace of disgust. ‘Hunh?’

‘I said, did you hear something?’

Scorch listened fiercely, cocking his head.

Leff raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Not now! A minute ago — anything?’

Scorch shook a negative. He set a hand on the crossbow leaning against the table. ‘Should we … you know …’

‘Should we what?’

‘I dunno. ’Vestigate?’

Leff examined his cards. Tower, magus, mercenary. It was a good hand. ‘Naw. Not right now.’ He eyed the pot. ‘Raise you ten copper crescents.’

Scorch made a face. ‘I don’t got ten crescents. You cleaned me out.’ He threw down the cards, crossed his arms and eyed the great mound of copper on the table. ‘Where’s all our silver gone, anyway?’

Spindle sat cradling a tankard from the last barrel of beer in K’rul’s bar. The former Imperial historian, Duiker, sat with him. Fisher was at another table, leaning back, tuning a long-necked instrument. Blend and Picker were at the bar, staring at the door as if willing customers to enter.

It seemed to him that he’d done quite enough to answer the Malazans’ request for intelligence. He’d told them all they’d discovered that night out on the Dwelling Plain. He’d even poked around where they were salvaging stone blocks out of the harbour. He saw the scholar there, the one who’d been down the well. He seemed to be working for these scary mages. And weren’t they a hair-raising lot, too. Reminded him of the old gang who used to work for the Empire. It was enough to make his shirt squirm. He wasn’t going to tempt their notice, no sir. Ma told me ’bout mages like that.

Everyone was quiet, as they had been for the last few nights. Even Fisher’s plucking was subdued. Waitin’. Waitin’ for the storm to break. The historian had been frowning at his glass of tea for some time and now he raised one cocked eye to Spindle.

‘Did you get a good look at these stones?’ he asked.

Spindle nodded, frowning thoughtfully. ‘Pretty good. They got masons cleaning them. Chisellin’ off growths and barnacles and such, then polishing them. The stone’s white beneath. Like purest marble.’ He paused, his brows crimping. ‘But not like any marble I ever seen. Not hard white like solid. Kinda clear, smoky almost …’

Everyone flinched at a discordant jangle from the instrument in Fisher’s hands. All eyes turned to the bard, who was watching Spindle, his brows raised. ‘Smoky?’ he repeated. ‘As in see-through, or translucent?’

Spindle nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. That’s it. Like you said, see-through.’

From the bar Picker’s voice sounded, low and warning. ‘What is it, bard?’

Fisher lowered his gaze to the instrument and strummed a few idle bars. ‘Has anyone noticed how among all the towers and buildings and temples here in the city, none uses white stone?’

‘I’m not a damned architect,’ Picker grumbled.

Spindle had noticed, but he’d put it down to some sort of local shortage. ‘Well, those’re building stones awright. And they’re digging a trench there too, come to think of it. A foundation.’

Fisher shrugged, returned to his tuning. ‘It’s a local superstition. White stone’s considered bad luck here — even a symbol of death. It’s only used in sepulchres or mausoleums … And then there are the old songs too …’

The bard’s voice trailed away and no one spoke for a time. Finally Blend ground out from where she leaned against the bar, chin in hands: ‘What songs?’

Fisher shrugged as if uninterested. ‘Oh, just local folk tales, really. Rhymes and sayings.’

Blend shifted to return her attention to the door. Picker, arms crossed, hands tucked up under her armpits, nodded to herself for a time. Spindle took a small sip from his tankard. He watched her over its rim. ‘Like?’ she finally asked, almost resentfully.

‘Well, there’s one titled … “The Throne of White Stone”.’

‘Wonderful,’ Picker snorted.

‘Not our fight,’ Blend muttered, facing the door and hunching her shoulders higher.

‘It exists only in fragments,’ Fisher continued, apparently unaware of their reactions, or unconcerned. ‘It’s very old. Thought to date back to the Daru migrations into the region. It tells of tormented spirits imprisoned in an underworld of white stone ruled by demons and guarded by …’ The bard’s voice trailed away.

‘All right!’ Picker snapped. ‘We get the picture.’

‘Not our fight,’ Blend repeated, her jaw set and eyes fixed on the door.

Neither saw Fisher’s expression turn to one almost of alarm as he sat upright. Spindle noticed the man’s change in mood but didn’t know what to make of it. Duiker’s gaze, however, steady upon the man, narrowed suspiciously.

Much later that night only Fisher and the old Imperial historian remained within the bar’s common room. Fisher, it seemed to Duiker, appeared to be waiting for him to retire for the night. He finished his cold tea and turned a speculative eye on the tall bard, who had appeared preoccupied all evening. Perhaps even worried.

‘I’ve not heard that lay,’ he said.

‘It’s not local,’ Fisher said, his gaze on his hands. ‘It’s a travellers’ tale, told of a distant land.’

‘A land distant from where?’

Fisher offered a wry smile. ‘A land rather distant from here.’

‘And who is it that guards those tormented souls?’

The bard took a troubled breath, glanced down once more. ‘A prison of white stone guarded by … faceless warriors.’ He stood, brushed his trousers. ‘I’m … going for a walk.’

Duiker watched the man go. The lock of the door fell into place behind him. He returned his attention to the empty teacup, its leaves drying on the bottom. He swirled the dregs, studying them. There are patterns here. The trick is in being able to identify them.

Faceless warriors …

Fisher had prepared himself but he could not quell his start when the masked figure of Thurule opened the door to Lady Envy’s manor. ‘I wish to see the Lady,’ he said. ‘I take it she is up.’

Silent, of course, Thurule motioned him in.

Fisher knew he hadn’t given the fellow much thought before, other than that he was Seguleh, and a rarity. Now, however, with fresh suspicions gnawing at his mind, he could not help but distance himself slightly from the man as they walked along. Though he knew that even a Seguleh would find in him a far from easy challenge. The manor house was dark, and, it must be said, still almost entirely unfurnished. Thurule guided him to the rear terrace, where Fisher glimpsed Envy standing at a short brick wall overlooking the unkempt grounds, peering up into the night sky. She was shimmering bright in some sort of glowing sheer pale-green dress.

‘Bored with your simple-minded friends already?’ she said without even turning round.

He noted that she held a drink in one hand, elbow on her hip.

Fisher took a steadying breath. ‘You know what is coming …’ he began, and then a new thought struck him. ‘You’ve known all along … that’s why you’re here.’

She flashed a satisfied smile over her shoulder. ‘A proper court at last. It’s been ages. I’ll finally be able to get a decent wardrobe.’

The callousness, the monumental self-interest, struck him dumb. He realized there was nothing he could possibly say to change her mind. He spoke his anger instead. ‘It does not matter to you then that untold thousands must be ground into the dirt so that you can wear fashionable dresses and attend your damned balls?’

She slowly turned. The smile was still there, but it was as brittle as crystal. An emerald fire simmered in her eyes. ‘Really, Fisher, such hypocrisy. If you cared so much why are you not beating your chest already? There are poor in the city now. There will always be those who rule and those who are ruled.’ She gave the faintest shrug of her bare, shapely shoulders. ‘And come now, be honest. If you could choose, which would you really prefer?’

What he saw saddened him. He’d seen how Anomander’s death had touched her, yet he knew now it registered only because it was personal. Sympathy for any other’s loss or suffering was beyond her. He should have said nothing then, simply left. But his own anger was up — or was it bitterness and disappointment? ‘I would choose rulership that generated wealth rather than that of a parasite sucking blood and contributing nothing. Rather like a leech.’

The thrown glass struck him on the side of his face, shattering. ‘Said the bard — who contributes nothing save hot air! Thurule!’ she called. ‘See this man out. And never admit him again.’

Fisher touched his face where warmth ran down to his neck. His fingers came away wet with blood. Then Thurule was there, silent, one arm indicating the way out. He bowed his exit to Lady Envy though her back was turned.

There is nothing for me here anyway.