Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER X

The first vessel leaving Darujhistan’s harbour that morning was an old merchantman ferrying passengers and freight westward around the lakeshore. Upon sighting the ancient ship, its paint sun-faded to a uniform pale grey, sails patched and threadbare, sides battered and scraped to naked slivers, Torvald halted on the wharf. Passengers brushed past laden with rolled reed mats and bags of possessions. Some drove young sucklings ahead of them. Just about all carried fowl gobbling inside cages woven of reed and green branches.

He turned on one of the city Wardens sent to escort him to the docks. ‘This is supposed to be a diplomatic mission,’ he hissed, struggling to keep his voice low. ‘I can’t go on this tub!’

One of the guards tucked a folded pinch of leaves into a cheek and leaned against piled crates. ‘It’s a secret mission, Councillor,’ he drawled.

Torvald tried his best superior glare but the fellow was clearly indifferent. ‘If it’s so secret then how come you know about it? And don’t call me Councillor.’

A lazy roll of the shoulders from the man. ‘Orders.’

Torvald began to wonder just what those orders were. See him from the city even if it means throwing him from the docks, perhaps. He picked up his heavy travelling bag and slipped its strap over a shoulder. ‘Fine. Secret. Tell your superiors you saw me off then,’ he said, and headed up the gangway.

The small deck was crammed with goods. Pigs squealed, terrified, sheep bawled, and caged birds gabbled. All this did nothing for the state of the decking. The only available space was a suspiciously clear arc surrounding two figures sitting against the side close to the bow. Torvald could well understand the avoidance: one of them was a giant of a fellow with a massive tangle of hair and beard all unkempt together like a great mane of dirty blond and grey. His shoulders were titanic, his upper arms as massive as Torvald’s own thighs, and his chest swept out like a barrel. Torvald thought him perhaps a travelling strongman. The fellow next to him was a skinny Rhivi tribesman elder looking particularly frail in such company. To Torvald the two would have appeared a far more intimidating pair if the big fellow hadn’t been so clearly absorbed in studying the city, laid out pink and golden in the dawn’s light, climbing in cliff ridge over cliff ridge to Majesty Hill beyond. The old fellow was clearly sick as a dog, bleary-eyed and pale.

But then Torvald had travelled for a time in the company of someone who could arguably be named the most intimidating figure these lands had ever met. He dropped his bag and leaned up against the side. ‘Not going to try your luck?’ he said to the big fellow.

The man’s gaze swung to him and Torvald suppressed a flinch when he saw the bestial eyes, the irises oddly shaped, and felt the plain sheer weight of the man’s regard. The fellow cocked one thick brow, rumbled, ‘How’s that?’

Torvald found his throat suddenly dry. ‘The city … they’re always hungry for new acts.’

‘Acts?’ the man slowly enunciated, his voice hardening.

‘You know … bending bars, breaking chains.’

Both brows rose as comprehension dawned and the fellow eased back, relaxing. ‘Ah. No.’ He crooked a small nostalgic smile. ‘Been a lot of years since I’ve had to do any of that.’

Somehow, Torvald felt immense relief. ‘I’m sorry — I thought …’

The man raised a gnarled hand to forestall any further explanation. ‘I understand.’ The fierce eyes looked him up and down. ‘What are you doing on a tub like this?’

My point exactly. Torvald offered an indifferent shrug. ‘First boat leaving.’

‘And far from the fastest,’ the man rumbled.

Unformed suspicions writhed anew in Torvald’s stomach and he glanced over to see the two city Wardens, who, grinning, offered lazy waves of farewell.

Gods curse the Legate!

The gangway scraped up and wharf hands threw off the lines. Two of the crew pushed off with poles while others set the single lateen-rigged sail. The menagerie of animals squealed and voided anew.

Torvald threw himself down against the side, rested his arms on his knees. Burn’s love. Did I just sell myself on to a slow boat to nowhere for the price of a bright certificate and an empty fancy title? He pressed his hands to his head.

Lim has just rid himself of an irritating new councillor.

‘Love or coin?’ A quavering thin voice spoke up.

Torvald raised his head to see the Rhivi elder studying him from around the great bulk of his companion. ‘I’m sorry …?’

‘Your reasons for travel — if you would speak of them. In my experience a man travels for one of two reasons. A powerful husband or a powerful debt.’

Torvald snorted a self-mocking laugh. ‘No. Nothing so romantic. Just a plain old powerful political rival.’

The big fellow now eyed him sidelong, his gaze narrow. ‘Really?’ he rumbled.

The lazy silt-laden stream that ran into Lake Azur at Dhavran hardly deserved a name. Some called it the Red, others the Muddy. In any case, it was a barrier of a sort. Over the years a crossing had been constructed of stones and garbage capped by a simple bridge of laid logs packed with dirt. Fist K’ess eyed the mud-choked channel and thought it the most pathetic crossing he’d ever seen.

‘Do we defend here?’ Captain Fal-ej asked. Her tone more than made clear her own disenchantment.

K’ess adjusted his seat astride his mount. He’d been too long out of the saddle and his thighs were scraped raw. For a time he eyed the troops marching on to the short causeway. Not enough to make a stand. And Dhavran? This collection of mud and wood huts doesn’t boast one defensible position.

He sipped some water from a skin hung on his saddle then sucked his teeth. At first he’d considered heading west into the Moranth mountains to wait things out there. But then a rider had arrived from Captain Goyan’s contingent: they were moving on. And why? Word had come from the Fifth. Fist Steppen moving north. Rendezvous south of Dhavran.

All very well and good. Altogether they might field close to ten thousand. Every remaining Malazan trooper south of Cat. Enough for him to finally unclench his anxious buttocks for a moment or two.

But before he could allow himself that one moment of relaxation reports arrived from loyal Barghast scouts in the eastward foothills of the Tahlyn range: a large force moving west. Rhivi tribals, apparently. Some three days out and moving far faster than they.

It was a race he knew he wouldn’t win. Thus the hope of contesting the crossing here at Dhavran. And thus his disappointment.

He straightened in his stirrups for a moment to adjust the sweaty leathers beneath his mail skirting. He eyed Fal-ej while she watched the troops march. Her helmet hung from her pommel and she’d wrapped a scarf around her head in the style of her homeland, Seven Cities. A handsome woman. Damned smart. But a touch sharp-edged. Haughty, some of the officers thought her, he knew. But not he. Good wide hips on her too. Fit for throwing out sons, as his ma would’ve said. Woman like that ought to have someone to hold on to.

‘Sir?’ she said. Her gaze had moved to him, questioning.

He cleared his throat. ‘We keep going. Double-time. This place is too wretched.’

She nodded her curt assent, relieved. ‘Yes, Fist.’

K’ess plucked at the gauntlets he held in one hand. ‘Fal-ej …’ he began.

‘Yes, Fist?’ she answered quickly.

He slapped the gauntlets to his armoured thigh. ‘Nothing. It’s not important.’ He waved towards the stream. ‘Keep the sappers on that ramshackle excuse for a bridge. The last thing we need is for it to fall apart under us.’

Fal-ej saluted, kneed her mount into motion. ‘Yes, Fist.’

He watched her go, frowning at himself. Now’s not the time — what with a horde of Rhivi closing in on us. He sighed.

Captain Fal-ej urged her mount down the stream’s oversized channel more savagely than she intended. Remember your priorities, woman, she castigated herself. By the Seven False Gods, what’s gotten into you? Hanging about like a mare in heat. It must be offensive to the man.

She pulled up next to a bridge picket, demanded, ‘Where are the damned saboteurs, trooper?’

The man saluted twice for good measure. He pointed vaguely down towards the stream. ‘Thought I saw them headin’ off that way, Captain, sir …’

Fal-ej yanked the reins over, kneed the mount onward. Has the responsibility of every soldier on his shoulders, woman! Not likely to allow himself to be distracted — and hardly by a figure such as yourself! Calluses on your cheeks from the helmet. Stink of sweat always on you. Arms like some blacksmith’s!

Cresting a grassed sandbar she spotted the crew squatting around a campfire, gutted fish on sticks over the flames. She slapped her mount down towards the stream and pulled up, kicking mud over them. ‘What is this?’

The marine sergeant, a great fat woman, merely peered up unperturbed. ‘Just havin’ a bite, Cap’n.’

‘You were ordered to keep an eye on the bridge.’

‘Bridge is good as beer, Cap’n. Nothin’ there to break. Just big ol’ logs.’

Fal-ej glared down at them. ‘Well … just the same, stay on it! Something might give.’

The sergeant rubbed a large black mole on one cheek, considering. ‘Such as …?’

Fal-ej threw her arms out wide. ‘How in the name of Ehrlitan should I know! I’m not the engineer. Now get going!’

Frowning her agreement, the sergeant motioned to a trooper. ‘Whitey, take your team over.’

‘Aw, c’mon, Sarge. Fish is almost ready.’

The sergeant’s voice took on an edge. ‘Get going … now.’

‘Fine!’ The man straightened to slap dirt off his hide trousers, motioned his team up. The sergeant turned to the captain, cocked a brow and saluted.

Fal-ej answered the salute and yanked her mount round. ‘Thank you, sergeant.’ She rode off kicking up more mud.

‘What’s gotten under her saddle?’ a trooper muttered. ‘Martinet bitch.’

‘Naw,’ the sergeant said as she watched the woman go, a hand shading her gaze. ‘Ain’t nothing a good humping wouldn’t cure.’

‘Sarge!’ one trooper groaned. ‘Do you have to?’

‘That’s your answer for everything,’ another complained.

The sergeant turned, rubbing her hands together. ‘Yes indeed — too bad none of you poor excuses are up to it.’

‘Oh, don’t go on about the damned Moranth. We don’t believe none o’ those stories.’

‘Now don’t go and just kill everyone, okay!’ Yusek snarled over her shoulder as they struggled up the narrow mountain trail.

‘You exaggerate,’ Sall answered calmly.

‘No, I do not fucking exaggerate! Someone raises a cooking ladle your way and you two butcher two hundred! Try to show a little respect. This is some kinda monastery or something.’

‘If they are unarmed they have nothing to fear from us.’

She snorted her scorn. Pausing, she glanced further down to distant Lo making his way up after them. No sign of sweat or labour on either of them! No shortage of breath. Yusek, for her part, felt light-headed and nauseous with the height. Gods. Never been this high before. They say the air is poisonous up here. Kill you as sure as a blade to the heart.

Swallowing to wet her rasping throat she glanced ahead to the monastery walls of heaped cobbles. Tattered prayer flags snapped in the cold wind. White tendrils of smoke blew here and there from cook-fires. Overhead a clear, painfully bright blue sky domed the world. Beautiful, in its way, but for a faint green blemish across its vault — the Scimitar of a god’s vengeance, some named that banner.

A monk, or acolyte, or whatever you would call him, met them at the stone arch that was the compound’s entrance. Yusek took the shaven-headed slim figure for a boy until she spoke, revealing her sex. ‘Enter, please, the adytum. We offer food, shelter, and peace for contemplation to all who would enter.’

‘Adytum?’ Yusek repeated. ‘Is that the place’s name?’

‘The adytum is a location. The most sacred place. The inner shrine of worship for our faith.’

‘What faith is that?’

‘Dessembrae.’ And the woman gestured aside, inviting. Nor did she blink in the face of the two masked Seguleh.

Yusek urged Sall forward. ‘Well? Go on!’

By his hesitation the young man appeared almost embarrassed. ‘There is a proper time for everything,’ he told Yusek aside; then, to the acolyte: ‘Thank you. We would rest. And any hot food you may spare would be welcome.’

The acolyte showed them to a simple hut of piled stone cobbles, almost like a cell. A fire already burned in its small central hearth. Smoke drifted up to the ceiling hole. A black iron pot was heating over the low flames. The young acolyte — no older than I am, Yusek reflected — in her loose shirt over trousers of plain cloth and bare feet, stopped at the threshold. ‘You would prefer separate quarters?’ she asked Yusek, who nodded. ‘This way.’

The hut she showed Yusek was no different from the other. ‘Listen,’ Yusek told her, lowering her voice, ‘those two are Seguleh.’

‘I have heard of them.’

‘Yeah. Well, they’re here to kill someone. You have to warn him — tell him to get out of here.’

‘They’ve come to kill someone? I doubt that very much.’

Yusek found herself clenching her teeth. ‘You don’t understand-’

The young woman held up a hand. ‘Your concern does you credit. But there is no need for worry. The man you speak of has no interest in their challenges. They will leave empty-handed.’

Yusek wanted to grab the girl’s shoulder and shake her. You little fool! You have no idea what you are facing here! But the girl studied her, calm, uninflected, and something in that steady regard made Yusek uneasy. As if she’s looking through me … like I’m a ghost or something.

The girl bowed. ‘If that is all.’

‘Yeah … I suppose so.’

The girl withdrew. Yusek sat on the cot, unrolled the bedding of thick woven blankets provided against the cold. In truth she was exhausted, which surprised her. Hardly a full day’s journey since their last camp, she freezing her butt off, complaining the entire time, and those two maintaining their infuriating silence — not even telling her to shut the Abyss up.

She lay down, threw an arm across her eyes. Well, she was free of them. She’d brought them to the monastery and now her obligation was over. She’d take off tomorrow and leave these pathetic empty wastes behind. Maybe she’d head on north to Mengal. Who knew, maybe she’d take a ship to some rich distant land like Quon Tali or Seven Cities.

She fell asleep dreaming of that. Of getting away, far away.

When she started awake the light coming in through the shutters over the single tiny window held the pink of dawn. Normally she never woke up this early but normally she never fell asleep in the afternoon. Groaning, she stretched her stiff frozen limbs, then dropped to her knees before the hearth to tease the fire back to life. After a hot cup of tea she felt alive enough to head out.

When she opened the door the first thing that struck her was the silence. She’d grown used to the forest with its constant background noise of the wind through the branches, the trunks groaning as they flexed. Here there was only the low moan of the wind over stone, the faint snap of the prayer flags. She found herself almost trying to soften the fall of her moccasins on the stone-flagged walk. Almost. Then she shook off the spell and went to find something to eat.

To her chagrin she found everyone up already. What is it with these people that they get up so early? It’s inhuman. A group of the monks, or priests, were out on a central field of sand, weaving through some sort of exercise or devotional movements. She watched for a time: the practice held a kind of flowing beauty. It seemed almost hypnotic. But she was hungry and so she turned away to find someone to ask for directions to a kitchen or mess.

Later, chewing on a hot flatbread, she wandered back out to the central open field to see Sall and Lo watching the monks, who were now engaged in some sort of paired physical training of throws and falls.

Aha, she thought. This is more like it. She stepped up to Sall. ‘Going to talk to me? Or am I a nobody now?’

Standing arms crossed, the youth did not shift his gaze from the monks. ‘I will speak to you … for the time being.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. What now? What will you two do?’

‘Lo will challenge the — the man here.’

Yusek gave an exaggerated nod. She too watched the monks. ‘So which one’s he?’

A heavy breath raised Sall’s shoulders. ‘That is the problem. He will not identify himself. Nor will anyone else do so.’ His voice took on an almost puzzled edge: ‘They are simply ignoring us.’

Yusek choked on her bread. Gulping, she managed to swallow, then broke out in a laugh that left her almost helpless. She bent forward, resting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. She straightened, wiping her cheeks. Sall was regarding her from behind his mask, his dark brown eyes uncomfortable. She took a steadying breath. ‘Aii-ya. So … how does it feel to be on the receiving end, hey?’

The lad had the grace to lower his gaze. Again a great breath raised his chest behind his crossed arms. ‘It is most … frustrating,’ he admitted.

Yusek gave a satisfied: ‘It most certainly is.’

The lad returned to watching the monks go through their regimen of exercise and training. Yusek sat on the stone kerb surrounding the practice field. Need five days’ rations for a start. I wonder if there’s any dried meat in the larder here. Probably not. This lot do not look like the hunter type.

And she’d be on her own again. Target of any arsehole who thought he could twist her arm …

It occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t be in such an all-fire hurry to get away.

Sall straightened then and Yusek peered up. Sticks were being brought out: wooden swords. Oh-ho. Things are getting interesting now.

The monks paired off, one practice sword per pair, attacker and defender. While Yusek watched, the swordsmen cut and thrust and the defenders threw them like dolls, or bent them to their knees, sword-arm twisted.

Ridiculous! Any real swordsman would cut an unarmed man or woman to pieces. Sall must be laughing inside — or groaning.

She gave a glance and saw him turn his masked face to Lo. Something imperceptible to her passed between them, and the lad unclasped his cloak. He laid it on the stone flags then placed his sheathed swords on top of the cloth and walked out on to the sands. Yusek shifted to look at Lo and jumped to find him next to her. It gave her the creeps how he did that.

The monks all stopped their exercises to watch while Sall approached the nearest pair. Bowing, he held out a hand for the wooden sword. The acolyte turned a glance to the monk leading the practice, a wiry petite woman. She nodded and the acolyte handed over the sword.

Sall faced his partner. He bowed then struck a ready stance, left foot shifting back behind him. Yusek rose to her feet. The acolyte, even younger than Sall, brought his empty hands up between them, one above the other, elbows bent.

Sall struck then, but not as Yusek had seen before. Slowly, gently, he brought the wooden blade down in an exaggerated overhead drop cut. The youth shifted inwards underneath the cut, somehow hooked Sall’s arms, and bent, pulling the swordsman over his shoulder and throwing him to the ground. But Sall rolled easily and came to his feet once more.

The two faced off once again. This time Sall swung a horizontal slash. The youth side-stepped, took the Seguleh’s arm, and somehow led him in a spinning dance then let go and sent him flying out over the sands. The performance would have appeared laughably false had not Yusek known that Sall was in no way cooperating. Next, Sall mimed a slow two-handed thrust. The youth stepped aside of the move, somehow pushing Sall to send him tumbling aside.

Lo stood silent at Yusek’s side.

Sall rose to brush the dust from his shoulders. He bowed again and the two paired off once more. This time he raised his sword high above his head, the blade vertical. He held it there for a time, motionless, then brought it down in a slow angled strike. The youth again stepped in close, but Sall now side-stepped himself, bringing the sword around for another sweep. The youth pursued and now the two circled faster and faster, swords arcing and the youth’s arms twisting as if attempting to ensnare his opponent’s. The nearest monks scrambled backwards out of the way of the match as it spun seemingly out of control.

The silence of it was the most eerie thing to Yusek. All she could hear was the snap and flutter of the monk’s sleeves and the hiss of the wooden sword. Neither man gasped or yelled or snarled. Even their feet shifted noiselessly over the sands. At first she’d thought this some sort of a duel, but she saw now that it was more of a sparring match — the exchange of known moves and countermoves, each now faster than the last, each testing the other.

Finally, at some signal or agreement between the two, they spun apart to face one another.

Amazingly, neither betrayed the least hint of exertion. Neither’s chest rose more than before; neither breathed loudly at all.

Both bowed. Sall now stepped up, his blade held low at his side, his right leg back. The monk matched his step. Swiftly, Sall thrust the wooden sword through his belt and faced the youth with his hands at his sides.

The youth’s large brown eyes shifted to the woman leading the practice; she gave another small nod. The youth raised his hands again, ready.

This time when Sall moved Yusek missed it. So too did his partner. One moment Sall stood with his hands at his sides, empty. The next he held the blade one-handed against the youth’s neck.

A soft grunt escaped Lo.

The young acolyte’s eyes grew huge and after taking a moment to digest what had just happened he bowed to Sall.

So ends the lesson.

But apparently not. For the woman who had been leading the practice now approached Sall. She bowed and waved in an unmistakable try that with me gesture.

The woman, Yusek noted with interest, was no taller or heavier than herself. Her hair was cut short and her bare arms were extraordinarily lean and muscled. Sall’s mask turned towards Lo, who, his arms across his chest, gave a small flick of one hand. Sall bowed to the woman, accepting.

The two faced off. Sall pushed the wooden sword through his belt once more. The woman struck a ready pose exactly like that of her student. The acolytes stood frozen, silent, and their watchful intensity reminded Yusek of the Seguleh themselves.

Sall shifted his sandalled feet in the sand a few times, as if unhappy with his stance, then stilled. This time Yusek almost caught it. One moment Sall was motionless. Then, in the next, he was off his feet describing an arc through the air over the back of the spinning woman, who had thrown him flying high to land in a great swath of bursting sand.

Sall sprang to his feet, sword still in hand, and to Yusek every line of his body shouted of his utter astonishment.

A clenched hiss sounded from Lo and the man walked away.

Yusek looked to Sall; the youth’s masked face followed Lo’s retreat, then fell. Yusek did not need to see his expression to recognize the crushing shame that hunched his form. Bowing, he handed over the sword, then walked off in the opposite direction. Yusek followed.

She found him sitting on a ledge on the very lip of the cliff the monastery occupied. Before his feet the mountain swept down thousands of feet into misted emptiness. Yusek sat next to him. The frigid cutting wind buffeted both of them. Yusek’s cloak snapped.

She was not used to such dizzying heights and a sickening vertigo gripped her as she clutched the stone she sat upon. ‘Not that bad, is it?’ she offered, trying to make light of things.

After a time the Seguleh youth let out a long, pained breath. ‘You do not understand, Yusek.’

‘Try me.’

‘I lost. I have shamed Lo. I can no longer be considered among the Agatii.’

‘The Agatii?’

‘The Honoured Thousand. The select warriors of the Seguleh.’

‘So? Have to turn in your mask or some such thing?’

At least he snorted a weak laugh at that. ‘No. But … I will have to repaint it.’

‘Well, so what? I mean, it’s not like it was deliberate, or some kind of crime, or something.’

The lad sighed, his breath almost cracking in its suppressed emotion. ‘You don’t understand, Yusek. Lo is Eighth! He sits with Jan among the ruling Ten, the Eldrii.’ He clenched his hands, held them where the mask curved to expose the mouth. ‘But one other thing … he is my father.’

Yusek stared, speechless. Ye Gods … the poor kid. What a burden! That’s just fucking cruel, that’s what that is.

She selected a small stone, tossed it over the edge. She watched its stomach-turning descent for an instant then glanced away, her throat burning. She swallowed sour bile. ‘Listen, Sall — so what if some woman beat you in some match. Who the fuck cares? C’mon, she wasn’t even armed!’

The lad turned to study her directly through his mask. His brown eyes appeared even more pained. ‘Exactly, Yusek. She wasn’t even armed.’

‘Well … so what? Big deal. It wasn’t for real. You weren’t prepared for it, were you?’ She nudged his shoulder. ‘It’s a valuable lesson, right? Listen. I was thinking. When I head out I want to be able to handle myself better … won’t you teach me a few moves?’ She nudged him again. ‘Hey? What do you say?’

If anything his masked head hung even lower. ‘I’m not worthy of teaching anyone anything, Yusek. Ask that woman.’

‘Well, I’m asking you. C’mon. You know more than I do about it all, right?’

‘It would be improper …’

‘Never mind that. Just the basics, hey?’

‘Not right now.’

‘Naw … tomorrow, hey?’

He let out another long-suffering breath. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

‘Yeah. All right. Tomorrow.’ She stood, brushed the dust off her bottom, and left him to sit alone for a time. Poor bastard. Obviously thinks the world of his father. And to think she’d travelled with them all these days and hadn’t even the first suspicion they were father and son! What an odd people.

Personally, Krute of Talient did not want to honour yet another request from this particular client, but the communication had percolated up through standard channels thereby ensuring that enough of the guild knew of it to make it impossible for him to simply ignore it. Of course as Parish Master of the Gadrobi district he had a measure of influence on which contracts to pursue — but it was a short-lived master who neglected the fundamental truth that, in the end, everyone was only in it for the treasure.

And so come the mid-night he found himself stepping carefully through the empty and eerily quiet yards of the Eldra Iron Mongers. It was an unnatural sensation; to his memory the works had never been still. The Legate, however, had commandeered all labour for his city works projects, leaving Humble Measure with no one to run his forges, furnaces and mine.

All very deliberate and calculated, of course, as a sort of unannounced war had broken out between the two: the successful political protege and his former patron and sponsor. And this kind of falling-out always generated the most vicious and wilful vendettas. His boots loud on the scattered gravel as he peered around at the dark sheds and silent furnaces, it occurred to Krute that his reservations might all be for naught; surely even this man’s legendary wealth must be exhausted by now. There could be no way the man could offer enough to tempt the guild anew. In point of fact, he wouldn’t be all that surprised to turn a corner in one of these cavernous warehouses and find the man hanging from a rafter.

No such easy resolution confronted him, however, when he pushed aside a great slab-like door to enter a silent smelting shed. The tang of smoke still clung to everything and he fancied he could still feel a residual heat leaking out of the great furnaces.

Undisguised steps sounded from the front of the shed and Krute turned to see the proprietor, Humble Measure himself, at the door. The closing of his works had obviously not been kind to him. His hair was unkempt and soot marred his face. The black of the soot cast the whites of his eyes into a bright, almost fevered, glow. His clothes were likewise askew, torn and soot-blackened. It appeared as if the man was attempting the impossible, and frankly insane, task of single-handedly keeping the works going.

Krute inclined his head in greeting. ‘Humble Measure.’

‘Parish Master. I was beginning to suspect that the guild had lost its edge.’

‘Whosoever has the coin gets our blades,’ Krute observed, congratulating himself on that pointed reminder.

‘Of course. That is as it should be.’ The man drew a cloth from a shirt pocket and wiped his hands. Krute noted with growing unease that the cloth was just as blackened as the man’s hands. Humble waved him forward. ‘This way, Master.’ As they walked, the ironmonger talked. ‘It strikes me that you assassins represent the exchange of business reduced to its purest form. What say you, Master?’

Krute shrugged. ‘Hadn’t really given it much thought.’ Gabble on, man. I’m really not interested in what crazy things you have to say.

‘You do not care who you kill, or for what hidden purpose, or to what consequences. You are merely paid money to do something, and so you do it. Rather like a prostitute, yes?’

Krute frowned, eyeing the man sidelong. ‘What’re you gettin’ at?’

‘I mean that questions of morality or ethics, honour or principles — all are irrelevant, yes?’

Krute hunched his shoulders. ‘Not all principles …’

The man flashed him a smile bright against his grimed face. ‘Of course. The principle of greed and profit remains paramount. Utterly uninhibited, in fact.’

He led Krute to a dilapidated manor house, pushed open the front door. ‘Let me provide an example, if I may.’ At the back of the house the ironmonger unlocked a trap door, revealing stone steps leading down. ‘Let us say there exists a city occupying a marshy lowland. The inhabitants of this urban centre are cursed by a wasting disease carried by flies that multiply like … well, like flies, within the swamps. Then, let us suppose that a learned man studies the situation and proposes a solution to said curse: move the city to the hills nearby where the scouring winds will keep the flies at bay.’

They reached a stone-walled cellar. Here Humble lit a lantern and led the way to an arched portal sealed by an iron-barred gate, which he unlocked. ‘An excavation for a wine cellar here revealed much more,’ he explained, pointing to a hole in the floor where a ladder led on down. ‘Now, the leaders of this fair — but cursed — city, landowners all, were naturally horrified by the idea of all their property becoming worthless and so they hired local assassins to put an end to such unwelcome talk.’

Stepping down off the ladder Krute was astonished to find himself in a corridor of brick lined by niches. ‘Burial catacombs,’ Humble told him, leaning close. ‘They date back thousands of years.’ He motioned onward. ‘This way, if you please. These killers, now, all local, were themselves victims of this wasting disease, with milky eyes and withered limbs. And all had lost sisters, brothers and parents to the fevers. But — and here is where the tale demonstrates the perversity of humanity — they accepted the contract to kill this scholar.’ The ironmonger turned to Krute. ‘Is that not, well, so sadly predictable?’

The assassin rubbed the back of a hand against his jaw. Won’t this man ever shut up? ‘Sounds like waters too deep for me, sir.’

‘Are they?’ the man asked, his eyes bright in the gloom. Then he shrugged. ‘Perhaps so.’ He waved a hand. ‘Well, just ten years later the city was an abandoned fever-infested field of ruins in any case.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Ah!’ Humble got to his knees and began pulling bricks from the wall. Slowly, brick by brick, a small opening was revealed. He invited Krute to slither in. For a moment Krute wondered whether the man intended to kill him, or bury him alive, or some such thing. But he knew the guild would avenge his death and he also knew that Humble was aware of this. Nevertheless, he decided some measure of caution was called for and so he motioned Humble ahead.

‘After you.’

A shrug. ‘If you wish.’

Within, the darkness hinted at a larger room, perhaps a burial chamber. Humble edged inwards, lantern pushed along ahead. Krute followed. What he saw took his breath away. A sea of gold reflected the already golden flame. Stacks of bars set out in rows crammed the tomb. A fortune countless leaps beyond any of Krute’s imaginings.

‘Poured by myself and a few trusted aides in the very works above our heads,’ Humble murmured with a touch of pride. ‘All of this is yours should you succeed in the contract.’

‘And that contract?’ Krute asked, distracted. He didn’t move his gaze from the neatly heaped bars. Take twenty men all day to move this mountain …

‘The contract, and my point, is that I still want the Legate’s head. Even if his improvements or plans for the city are somehow in alignment with my own, they are not what I planned and so I want his head.’

Krute’s nod was one of slow deliberate agreement. Vindictiveness. You can always count on that. The guild practically survives on it. He thought of Vorcan now standing behind the Legate. No doubt she means to retake the guild — then there will be a harrowing! ‘The man has powerful allies …’

‘Thus this astonishing price.’

Krute rubbed his stubbled cheek once more, swallowed hard. ‘Speaking for the guild, ironmonger, we agree to try again. But it will take some time to prepare.’

‘I understand. Time you have. This chamber will remain sealed until you succeed. And should we both die in what comes — it will remain sealed for ever.’

‘We have an agreement then, Humble Measure.’

On a rooftop across the broad avenue facing the main doors of the Eldra Iron Mongers, Rallick Nom lay prone, chin resting on a fist, crossbow cradled in an elbow. He’d watched while Krute entered the closed and now quiet works, and he kept watch until, many hours later, the man exited as well.

So, Humble Measure wasn’t a man to abandon a task half finished. Rallick could tell from the character of his old friend’s thoughtful and distracted walk that he was already planning ahead, considering the coming job.

What to do? Too late to kill the client now. An agreement’s already been struck. The guild will follow through regardless. A matter of reputation. And I’m in the crosshairs. Have to find a place to lie low; somewhere no one’s going to come hunting. And there’s only one place comes to mind … Hope he won’t object to house guests.

Rallick pushed himself backwards along the slate-shake roof.

A knock at the door to his offices drew Ambassador Aragan out of his thoughts as he stood at the window overlooking the city. He’d been thinking of the troubling lack of word from the north — it wasn’t like K’ess to be out of touch for this long. Nor had word come from the south, either, for that matter. It was oddly as if events outside the city were somehow unreal, or suspended in time. A bizarre sensation.

He turned at the knock, growling, ‘Yes?’

A trooper, one of his personal guard, opened the door. ‘Trouble downstairs, sir.’

Coming down, Aragan found a city Warden in the open doorway, the rest of his detachment waiting outside. His own guard was ranged across the bottom of the stairs, tensed, awaiting his command.

‘Ambassador Aragan,’ the city Warden officer called, ‘you are summoned to an audience with the Legate.’

At least this Legate sent an escort of twenty … Anything less would have been an insult.

‘Stand down ranks,’ he ordered. Passing the sergeant, he murmured, ‘Remain until I return.’

‘Sir.’

Aragan stopped before the Warden, gestured to invite the man outside. ‘After you.’

The man’s gaze slid over the solid front of Malazan veterans and his lips compressed. He backed up then aside to allow Aragan to exit. The detachment formed up to either side of the ambassador and the officer waved a hand. They marched off, heading, Aragan knew, for Majesty Hill.

Along the way, the only thing of interest Aragan noted was the scar of recent construction that marred the grounds atop the hill. A broad trench had been dug up and back-filled. It cut through crushed gravel walkways, ornamental hedges and beds of flowering perennials. He only caught a glimpse as they passed, but it appeared to describe an immense arc heading off round the buildings. Some sort of defensive installation? Pits?

Then he was hurried along through the interminable stone halls of the complex. To his surprise and growing discomfort, he was not escorted as he’d expected straight to Council. Rather, he was taken into older dusty halls where they met almost no one save for the odd harried-looking clerk. Was he to be imprisoned? Questioned?

The way led to what he recognized from formal gatherings as the Great Hall. The largest of the surviving ancient wings of Majesty Hall. Guards pushed open one of the immense copper and bronze panelled doors and Aragan was escorted in.

The long hall was, for the most part, empty. The only light entered in long shafts from openings high up where the pale marble of the walls met the arched roof. A small scattering of people waited at the far end, where one fellow sat on a large seat, or throne, of white stone blocks: the Legate. As Aragan had heard rumoured, the man had indeed taken to wearing a gold mask. However, a few of the gathered coterie also sported gold masks — slim things that encircled their eyes and covered only the upper half of their faces.

The escort stopped Aragan directly before what he guessed he ought to consider a ‘throne’. He crossed his arms, waiting. In time the Legate ceased his low conversation with an old man — a rather jarring figure in his old tattered clothes amid the glittering finery and riches on display among the coterie. This fellow stepped forward, hunched, hands clasped to his chest as if hugging himself.

‘Ambassador Aragan,’ he began, almost cringing, ‘I speak for the Legate.’

Aragan ignored the ridiculous figure and addressed the Legate. ‘You speak to the Imperium when you speak to me … You should show proper respect.’

The old man glanced backwards to the Legate — like a dog to its master, Aragan thought. ‘Invaders, thieves and murderers deserve no respect,’ he said, gulping as if in horror of what he’d just announced.

‘Darujhistan was more than eager to cooperate with us in the crushing of the Pannions,’ Aragan observed as drily as he could manage given his growing anger.

‘Self-interest guided us both in that,’ the old man said. ‘Now, that same self-interest should guide your diminished forces north to Cat in a withdrawal and complete abandonment of the lands of South Genabackis.’

‘That is your demand?’

‘Such is our generous offer.’

Aragan couldn’t help himself; he had to drawl, ‘Or what?’

The figure on the throne gave one lazy flick of a hand. ‘Or they will be annihilated,’ the old man said, disbelief in his hoarse voice.

A number of the gathered crowd hissed their anxiety at that announcement; clearly it was far beyond anything they anticipated. All faces, masked and otherwise, now turned to study Aragan. He squinted his scepticism and opened his hands. ‘With what? By whom? You have no army worth the name.’

‘We need no army,’ said the old man, rubbing his chest. ‘We merely speak for all the peoples of the south. It is they who will throw off your foreign yoke.’

‘Or trade a new one for an old one, I suspect,’ Aragan answered, now eyeing the masked figure with new suspicion.

‘We merely advise and guide … just as a caring parent wishes the best for his children.’

Aragan cocked a brow. ‘What?’ Where did that come from?

One of the masked followers — a tall fellow with a great mane of salted hair — motioned curtly then, and the spokesman bowed. ‘The audience is at an end. You have our terms. Follow them or many will die.’

The Wardens urged Aragan back. He retreated, eyeing the masked Legate who sat so immobile on his throne. Was that even the Lim in truth, he wondered. Yet he’d recognized a number of councillors among the crowd. They would know him. Surely they would not put up with some impostor.

His thoughts elsewhere, Aragan allowed himself to be ushered out and back down Majesty Hill. So, it was all out in the open now. War had been declared. Yet a war against what, or whom? He felt as if he was facing a ghost, a shadow. Who is our enemy? This masked would-be king? If Darujhistan wants a king in all but name then that is up to them — we never controlled the city.

But if the army is attacked … well, that is another matter entirely.

Back in the manor house Aragan entered his offices to find the emissary from the Imperial Throne sitting on his couch, legs outstretched, waiting for him.

In the plain light of day he saw more clearly whom he faced: the tall thin frame, the oddly shaped eyes, silvered hair. So this was Topper — true to his descriptions. The once and returned Clawmaster.

‘You witnessed?’ Aragan grunted, and headed to a sideboard to pour a drink.

‘From a distance, yes.’

‘A distance?’

‘There are some very powerful magi gathered together on that hilltop.’

Aragan gulped down his drink, studied the lanky, unnerving man. ‘Too much for you?’

A thin humourless smile. ‘Let’s just say it would be counterproductive for me to tip my hand as yet.’ The man’s gaze roved about the room as if uninterested in him. ‘And what ridiculous demands were made?’

‘Very ridiculous ones. We’re to withdraw to the north. Relinquish all territory south of Cat.’

‘Including Pale?’

A sombre nod from Aragan. ‘Yes. Including Pale.’

‘That would not go down well.’

‘No. I imagine it wouldn’t.’

The man cocked his head like a grackle, watching him. ‘And what would you recommend?’

It occurred to Aragan that he was angry. He felt insulted. As if he, and by extension the entire Empire which he represented, had been accorded none of the respect they warranted. He sucked his teeth then finished the last few drops of the rare Moranth liqueur. ‘It seems to me that so far whatever it is that now squats on Majesty Hill has done all the pushing. It’s long past time someone pushed back.’

The thin slash of a smile drew up, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Mallick chose well in you, I think, Ambassador Aragan.’

‘Most of my promotions were under Laseen.’

The smile faltered and the man sat up, leaning forward. The mention of the former Empress seemed to have stung him. Ah yes, Aragan realized. His failure in averting her assassination. ‘Yes. A lesson there for all of us.’

‘Lesson?’ Somehow Aragan could not help probing; it pleased him to be able to penetrate the fellow’s irritating manner.

Elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose, the master assassin said, ‘That in our line of work we all die alone, Ambassador.’

Aragan didn’t know whether to laugh or snort his scorn. What the devil did he mean by that? What line of work? He served the Throne.

Topper stood. ‘I will begin making my arrangements, then.’

‘You’ve located our assets?’

‘Oh yes. And it’s time I paid a visit. They will be none too pleased.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘See to our regular forces, Ambassador. Leave the rest to me.’

Aragan nodded. ‘Very good. May Oponn favour you, Clawmaster.’

A clench of pain crossed Topper’s face. ‘Let’s leave those two out of this, shall we?’

‘I’m tellin’ ya it’s some kinda foundation … but for what I got no idea.’ Spindle sat back in his chair and frowned his confusion. ‘Seems too flimsy for a wall.’

At the table Picker sent a glance to the historian, Duiker. The man was unaware of her regard, his thoughts obviously distant as he pursued the problem. Good. May it rouse the man even further. ‘Guards?’ she asked Spindle.

‘Hardly any. City Wardens, that’s it.’ The mage drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Naw, it’s them mages you gotta watch for. Plenty scary, them. Remind me of the Old Guard cadre, Hairlock and Sister Chill.’ He rubbed a hand over his greasy shirt. ‘You know, I swear one had me cold to rights. But damned if he didn’t let me go.’

‘Which?’ the old man asked.

‘The tall one — scholarly look to him.’

The historian grunted, returned to studying the tabletop.

‘There’s more than them to worry about,’ the bard, Fisher, said from the bar.

Picker cocked a brow. ‘Oh?’

‘Sadly, Envy supports this Legate.’

Blend, behind the bar, let out a long drawn-out ‘Damn …’ The front door opened and a customer entered. Blend sent a cursory glance over then froze, her eyes bulging. ‘Look out!’ she bellowed and disappeared behind the bar.

Fisher just stared his puzzlement.

Picker knocked over the table to duck behind. Spindle threw himself into a booth. The historian remained in his chair. He eyed the newcomer first with surprise, then distaste. He raised a hand for a halt. ‘He came in the front door, Blend,’ he called.

Blend straightened from behind the bar, a cocked crossbow trained on the man at the door. ‘You’ve got some nerve showing yourself here, y’damned snake.’

The tall fellow held up both gloved hands. ‘Now, now. I come in peace.’

Spindle emerged, hand on the shortsword at his side. ‘What d’ya want?’

‘Just a chat. Let us sit down together over drinks. Reminisce and tell lies of the old days.’

‘I’d rather fall into a privy,’ Picker said, standing, twin long-knives out.

‘Who’s this?’ Fisher asked Blend.

‘Topper. Clawmaster. The Empire’s found us.’

Topper looked to the ceiling. ‘We never lost track of you, Blend.’

‘Everyone relax,’ Duiker said. ‘If Mallick wanted your heads he wouldn’t send this one.’

Topper squinted, edging forward. ‘Do my eyes deceive me? Not Imperial Historian Duiker?’

‘Ex.’

Blend raised her crossbow, pulled out the bolt. Picker sheathed her long-knives and righted the table. ‘What’re you after?’ she grumbled.

‘We have a common enemy.’

Blend, Picker and Spindle shared quick looks, then Picker snorted, ‘No, we don’t.’

Topper pulled a chair to the table. He undid his dark green silk-lined cloak and hung it over the back, then sat. The shirt beneath was a fine satiny forest green. He drew off his gloves and peered round innocently at everyone. ‘A drink, perhaps?’

Blend drew a pint from the bar and ambled over. ‘Whatever you’re sellin’ we don’t want any,’ she growled.

The Clawmaster took the earthenware pint and sipped. He made a face. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ Spindle started up from the table and Picker flinched. Topper raised a placating hand. ‘A joke.’

Spindle’s mocking smile was sickly. ‘Very funny.’

Duiker eyed the Clawmaster, his lined face stony behind his grey beard. He steepled his hands on the table. ‘What is your proposal? And bear in mind — these soldiers are retired.’

Topper hooked an arm over the top of his chair. He turned the pint in circles before him. ‘Retired? Is that what you call it? According to the lists you are all deserters. Except for our honoured historian here.’

‘Not according to us,’ Picker ground out.

‘Dujek told us-’ began Spindle.

‘He was not in a position to offer anything,’ Topper interrupted.

‘Don’t push that line,’ Blend warned from where she now stood behind Topper’s chair. ‘That dog won’t hunt.’

Topper gave a small shrug. ‘Fair enough. I understand you’ve already accepted a contract to collect intelligence. What would it take for you to sign on for something a little more … direct?’

‘As free agents?’ Picker said.

‘Yes. Free agents.’

Picker opened her mouth to name something, a price perhaps, but Duiker took hold of her arm, silencing her. He whispered into her ear and her tangled brows rose. She cuffed the old man’s shoulder. ‘Our price, Clawmaster, is the formal decommissioning of the Bridgeburners.’

Topper’s slit gaze glanced aside to the historian and his lips pursed. After turning the mug in circles on the rough slats of the table he gave a slow nod. ‘Agreed. It will be arranged.’

‘And the job?’ Spindle asked nervously.

An easy shrug from the slouched Clawmaster. ‘Well … it seems for reasons known only to himself this Legate wants a wall built … Therefore, we should do our best to interfere with that.’ His gaze rose to Spindle. ‘I take it you have munitions?’ The saboteur-trained mage gave a jerked nod. ‘Excellent. Then you lot can do what you’re best at.’

‘And you?’ Blend demanded, her chin stuck out.

‘I’ll provide cover in case there are any … complications.’

Picker snorted. ‘Somehow I’m not so relieved by that.’

The Clawmaster laid his hands flat on the table. His smile was now supremely assured. ‘You should be.’

At their servants’ table in the kitchens of the Lim estate, Leff let out a long loud sigh. Scorch, opposite, roused himself, blinking. ‘You say somethin’?’

Leff shook his head. He tucked his hands up under his arms, sighed again. ‘You know, Scorch, I don’t think anyone’s comin’ back. I’m gettin’ the distinct feeling that we’ve been handed our hats.’

Scorch’s puzzled frown deepened even further. ‘Howzat? Hats? I ain’t got no hat.’

Leff glared his disapproval. ‘It’s an expression, man. Means we’re fired.’

Scorch goggled at his partner. ‘What? Fired? We ain’t even been paid yet!’

Now Leff banged his chair forward, gaping. ‘Ain’t been paid yet? How can that be? You’re supposed to be in charge of all that.’

Scorch’s consternation creased his forehead until his brows met between his small darting eyes. ‘I thought you were supposed to be handlin’ that.’

Leff pressed a hand to his brow. ‘I distinctly remember me saying that you should do it.’

‘Oh. Well, we could take it up with the boss. What’s ’is name — Ebbin.’

Now Leff’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment. ‘The scholar? What in the Queen’s name does he have to do with any of this?’

‘He’s with the Legate. I seen him.’

Leff dropped his hand, amazed. ‘Burn protect us! Why didn’t you say so?’

‘You didn’t say it was important.’

Leff pushed himself up from the table, stretched his numb legs, wincing. ‘Gods, man. You have to learn to think for yourself! I can’t be expected to keep doin’ all the thinking for us.’

Scorch hung his head. ‘Sorry, Leff.’

‘Well, I should think so!’

City Wardens stopped them at the gate to the Way of Justice leading up Majesty Hill. The two Wardens gripped their wood truncheons. ‘You’re carrying weapons,’ one called, accusing.

Leff and Scorch glanced to their peace-strapped swords, the crossbows over their shoulders. ‘Looks like it,’ Leff answered and attempted to brush past. The thick wooden portal was closed, however, and he pushed against it to no effect. ‘Open up,’ he shouted. ‘Official business.’

The two Wardens shared smirks. ‘Official? You two?’

‘Go squat your official business off in the bushes,’ the other suggested.

Scorch drew himself up, offended. ‘I’ll have you know we’re all certified, listed and official. I’d go ahead ’n’ check if I were you. Otherwise could be consequences.’

‘That’s right,’ Leff put in, though with much less certainty. ‘Consequences.’

One of the Wardens banged his truncheon on the rough timbers of the door. A small communicating slit opened. ‘Names?’ someone demanded from behind the slit.

‘Leff and Scorch,’ Leff shouted, mouth to the slit.

‘All right, all right!’ the hidden clerk grumbled. ‘You don’t have to shout.’

One Warden leaned against the door, arms crossed, shaking his head. Leff adjusted the weight of the crossbow against his shoulder. Scorch dug a finger into his ear and twisted it round.

The heavy door slid backwards and the Warden almost fell with it. He jerked, wildly surprised, and received a superior look from Leff as the latter pushed through. Scorch ambled after, crossbow held behind his neck, arms draped over it. ‘Consequences,’ he murmured, and winked.

As they wandered their slow way up the twisting path Leff rubbed his unshaven jaw, casting narrowed wondering glances Scorch’s way. Finally an idea occurred to him and he gave an exaggerated knowing nod, saying, ‘Ah! I get it now … good ol’ Captain Soen. Ever conscientious, that one. Good guess, Scorch.’

Scorch’s permanent scowl of resentful confusion took on an even greater perplexity. ‘What’re you talking about? I just said that, that’s all. Sounded like the kinda thing important persons say.’

Leff used his crossbow to brush aside a clerk who was waving papers at him. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Scorch. I really do.’

But his partner was ambling down another hall. ‘Got us in, didn’t it?’

Eventually, after being shooed out of a number of chambers and offices, they found the guarded doors to the Great Hall. Leff approached the city Wardens, and as one opened his mouth to challenge them, bellowed: ‘Message for Captain Soen!’ The Warden snapped his mouth shut and exchanged an uncertain glance with his fellow. Leff pushed open the small clerk’s door and strode in.

‘Message for Captain Soen!’ Scorch echoed as he stepped through.

‘You don’t have to say it again!’ Leff hissed, pushing him aside.

Scorch pushed back and Leff nearly dropped his crossbow. ‘I got us in, didn’t I!’

‘We’re already …’ Leff tailed off, feeling the weight of numerous eyes. He turned.

A great crowd of nobles and councillors filled the length of the Great Hall. All were dressed in rich finery. Many wore masks, as was traditional for the various city religious ceremonies and fetes. Leff bowed, cuffing Scorch, who bowed as well. Dismissing them, the many eyes turned away. Leff scanned the crowd. ‘There he is.’

‘Who?’

‘Soen, dammit! Who else? C’mon.’

They tramped forward. The clank and clatter of their weaponry almost drowned out the low murmured conversations. A figure sat motionless on a raised seat of white stone at the far end of the hall. Before Scorch and Leff were halfway across Soen intercepted them, a sharp grip on the forearm of each. He steered them aside into the shadows of a colonnaded walk along one wall of the hall.

‘What in the name of the Queen of Mysteries are you two doing here?’ he hissed, furious.

Scorch looked to Leff. Leff saluted. ‘Reporting in, sir.’

The big man’s salted brows clenched. ‘What? Reporting? Why?’

A panicked look gripped Leff’s lined features, as if he’d reached the end of his gambit and hadn’t realized more might be required. ‘Ah … reporting that the manor house is all secure, sir!’

‘What? Secure? Who gives a-’ The captain bit back his rising voice, peered round, anxious. ‘You two are fired,’ he said, his voice low and fierce. ‘Get out of here and never come back.’

‘Fired?’ Scorch echoed, outraged. ‘What for? Guild rules-’

‘Guild rules require justification, I know. Deserting your post. How’s that?’

The two shared a pained look. Leff pulled at his lower lip. ‘Well … I suppose that would kinda do it.’

‘It most certainly does. Pay can be collected at the guild office. Now leave — or must I escort you out?’ The captain didn’t wait for an answer but beckoned others of Lim’s private guard over.

‘Wait!’ a voice called. Captain Soen turned and immediately bowed to one knee. ‘Sir.’

Scorch and Leff were astonished to see their old employer, the scholar Ebbin. Something like wonder was on the man’s face as he gazed upon them. ‘I … know … you,’ he breathed, as if awed by the realization.

Leff knuckled his brow. ‘Yes, sir. Been working for you for some time now, sir.’

The old man’s gaze seemed to wander as he stood, brows furrowed in concentration. ‘Yes. I remember. I … remember you.’ He glanced to the captain. ‘These men work for me, Soen. They are my guards.’

The captain’s brows climbed almost all the way up to the rim of his helmet. He shot a glance to the immobile and silent figure on the throne, blew out a breath. ‘Well … if you say so … sir.’

‘They may remain.’

Soen was obviously still very confused, but as a good private soldier he accepted his employer’s dictates — no matter how stupid in his estimation. He saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

Leff saluted too. Then he cuffed Scorch, who also saluted.

But the scholar had wandered off. He’d pulled out a cloth and was wiping his sweaty strained face, the other hand rubbing his chest. Captain Soen scowled down at the pair; then he nodded to himself. ‘I see it now. Friends in high places. Looks like I’m stuck with you.’ He eyed them up and down again, his disgust increasing. ‘At least get yourselves cleaned up.’

Scorch straightened, outraged. ‘I washed just a few weeks ago!’

‘Your clothes and armour, man! Clean them up.’

Leff saluted. ‘Yessir. Right away, sir.’

The captain just shook his head, jerked a thumb to another of his guards. ‘Willa here will kit you out. Come back when you’re presentable.’

‘Yes, sir! With pleasure, sir!’

Soen answered with a gesture that was half salute, half dismissive wave. ‘Whatever. Get out of here — now.’

They travelled at night once they entered the desolate hills of the Dwelling Plain. Despite this, and all Fist Steppen’s many precautions in water conservation, they still lost irreplaceable mounts and dray animals. Even a few men and women collapsed under the unrelenting pace. Some died; others recuperated in the wagons trailing the column.

That pace was nightmare for Bendan. Never having had cause to walk for longer than one bell — what in Fanderay’s name for? There was never any need — he couldn’t believe what was being demanded of them. What in all the Lost Lands could be so important? He managed to keep up, but barely. He walked in a daze and knew he’d be no use in a fight. Not that there’d been any raids. But still, he felt defenceless, hardly able to stand.

This day their scout, a Rhivi exile named Tarat — word was the young woman had killed a relative — raised her hand and crouched, studying the dry dusty ground. Sergeant Hektar joined her, and, bored, Bendan staggered over.

‘What is it?’ the giant Dal Hon rumbled.

‘The column has crossed this trail,’ she answered, a hand indicating a line northward.

‘So?’

‘It’s like nothing I have ever seen before.’

‘So?’

The girl blew out a breath and pushed the unruly kinked hair from her freckled face. ‘Malazan. I know every spoor on the face of these lands. If I see something new it is a strange matter. Still … this trail reminds me of something. Something from an old story …’

Bendan simply took the opportunity for a breather; and he didn’t mind standing looking down at the tribal girl, either. Fine haunches she had. Too bad she also had a knife for anyone who got too close. He pulled out his skin of water and took a pull. He was about to take another when Hektar pushed the skin down.

‘That’s enough, trooper. You know the water rules.’

‘I know I’m damned thirsty.’

‘You’ll be even more thirsty two days from now when you run out.’

Both of them jumped when the Rhivi girl let out a shout of alarm and scrambled back from the trail as if it was a snake that had reared at her. ‘What is it?’ Hektar demanded.

Tarat’s gaze swung to them, her eyes huge with wonder. ‘I have to speak to the commander.’

Almost the entire column had passed now. Hektar drew off his helmet to wipe his dark sweaty face. ‘She’s with the van …’ he began.

‘I must. Immediately.’

Hektar sighed his disgust. He wiped the leather liner inside the helmet then pulled it on again. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

‘I’ll tell Little,’ Bendan said.

‘No — you’re comin’ with us. Let’s go.’

‘What for? You got her. You don’t need me.’

‘You seen it too. Now c’mon.’

‘Aw, for Hood’s sake …’ But the big sergeant crooked a finger and started after the scout. Bendan dragged himself along behind.

The van was a damned long way ahead. First, they were all mounted, something which irked Bendan no end. Why should they be mounted when the rest of them had to plod along? And second, they were all so much cleaner and better accoutred than he. Something that also never failed to stir his resentment. Why should they wear such superior armour — cuirasses of hammered iron and banded hauberks — when all he wore was a hauberk of boiled leather faced with ring mail, with mailed sleeves? It was his general view that anyone with better equipment than his, or with greater wealth, just didn’t deserve it.

In response to a signal from the sergeant a messenger rode over, spoke to him briefly, then wheeled off to take his request to the Fist. Shortly thereafter a small mounted body broke off from the van to return to them. It was Fist Steppen, accompanied by a small guard and her inner staff. They parted around the three waiting troopers. Sergeant Hektar saluted the dumpy sunburned woman in her sweat-stained riding trousers and loose shirting. The skin of her forehead was angry-red and peeling.

‘Fist Steppen.’

‘You have a report?’

Hektar gestured to Tarat. ‘Our Rhivi scout has news.’

Tarat saluted, quite smartly. Steppen nodded to her. ‘The trail the column passed just back-’ the girl began, but was interrupted.

‘We all saw it,’ an officer put in. ‘A band marching double-file, north. Bandits, perhaps.’

Tarat’s hand snapped closed on the bone-handled knife at her side and she glared at the man.

Steppen raised a hand for silence. ‘Continue,’ she said to Tarat.

The girl did so, but still glared murder at the officer. ‘No bandits — or even soldiers — have the discipline to maintain such a straight trail. Look to our own meandering track if you don’t believe me. Men and women pause to adjust gear, to relieve themselves, to remove stones from their sandals. Only one people are capable of moving across the land in this manner. It is said they can march for four days and nights without a single pause.’

‘It is said?’ Steppen asked, cocking her head.

Tarat lost her glare, removed her hand from her blade. ‘In our stories, Fist. Among us Rhivi are told stories of these people. Most speak darkly of them.’

‘And they are?’

Tarat was clearly unwilling to say just who she was talking about, but asked directly she hunched slightly, as if expecting scorn, and said, ‘The Seguleh.’

Bendan laughed out loud. Hektar glared for him to shut up but he couldn’t help it. The Fist arched a brow. ‘You have something to add, trooper? I see you too are a local. What is your opinion?’

He waved a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just … the Seguleh? Scary stories for children only, ma’am.’

‘I assure you they are quite real.’

‘Oh yes. Real enough. Down south. I’d say they’re damned good all right — damned good at puffing up their reputation, if you follow me, ma’am.’

Leather creaked as the Fist leaned forward on to her pommel. ‘You are from Darujhistan, yes?’

‘Yes, m’am.’

‘And the opinion you express regarding these people … this would be typical of the city, would it?’

‘Oh, yes. Just a lot of tall tales.’

‘I see. Thank you. Very informative.’ She turned to Tarat. ‘Thank you for your report. That is all.’

The troop edged their mounts aside and cantered off to return to the van. Tarat whirled to face Bendan. ‘Laugh at me again and I’ll slit you open like a weasel. Yes?’

Bendan held out his arms. ‘Yeah. Fine. Whatever.’

The tribal girl stalked away on those fine haunches.

Gods! So damned prickly!