Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XI

Barathol had taken to sleeping in his work tent. During the late afternoon he’d drop in on the house to make sure little Chaur was fed and clean. He didn’t blame Scillara for her lack of maternal instincts — he was resigned to it. Perhaps it balanced what he admitted might be his own over-developed nurturing instinct.

This night he was bringing up the heat of the forge, readying for another shift, when he heard a strange sound. It seemed to be coming from the excavation trench. Outside the tent, the work crew was on break and all should have been silent, yet intermittent clanging or thumping reached him. He stepped out into the dig, listening.

He thought it came from the exposed stone blocks themselves. Kneeling, he placed an ear close to the cold smooth stone. Shortly, he heard it: a clanging or banging reverberating down the stones. It sounded as if someone was digging somewhere along the now nearly completed arc of set blocks. He stood to peer about; no one was around. The mages who oversaw the installations never arrived until much later. Frowning, he picked up a crowbar and set off to walk the circuit.

He sensed nothing strange until halfway round the nearly completed circle. Here the arc cut through a patch of woods dense in underbrush, part of an artificial park planted on the hilltop. Damn good cover, it occurred to him, and he immediately ducked down to take advantage. Edging forward, he found another excavation, this one much smaller. A pit had been dug over the arc of the stone ring. Even as he watched, dirt flew up to land in the brush. What in the Twins’ name was this?

Then he sensed someone behind him. He spun, gripping the crowbar horizontally in both hands. Steel rang from the heavy tool and a wide burly figure readied for another thrust. Barathol fell, swinging the crowbar; it glanced from a shin and the figure grunted her — her? — pain, tumbling. As the assassin fell, her foot caught him across the throat. Both rolled in the dirt, gasping. Barathol rose just in time to block another stab then readied the crowbar for a swing but stopped, astonished. His attacker also froze.

‘Barathol?’ she said, amazed.

‘Blend?’

‘What in the Queen’s name’re you doing here?’ she snarled, wincing and holding her shin.

‘What are you marines up to?’ he demanded.

A needle-point pricked his back and a voice whispered from behind, ‘The Legate has declared war on Malaz, friend. Time to choose sides.’

‘Don’t do it, Topper,’ Blend warned.

Topper? Where had he heard that name before?

Blend straightened, tested her weight on her leg. ‘Stand aside, Barathol. This is nothing to do with you.’

‘Barathol?’ said the one named Topper. ‘Mekhar? Kalam’s relation?’

‘Yes.’

The knife point pressed harder for an instant, as if its holder were of a mind to finish him quickly then and there. He wasn’t the type to go quietly and he almost moved rather than just stand and be slaughtered but the thought of little Chaur stopped him and he froze, tensed, his limbs twitching.

‘Don’t,’ Blend urged Topper. ‘He’s a friend.’

The blade withdrew — slightly. ‘Are you, Barathol … a friend?’

‘This is just a job. I have rent to pay. A family to feed. I’m lucky to have any work.’

‘If it’s just a question of coin — you’ll have it.’

‘On your word?’

‘Yes.’

Barathol allowed himself a small shrug. ‘Then I’ll be on my way. This isn’t my business.’

‘Very well. On your way. But I’ll be watching. One word to anyone and you’ll die. Understood?’

‘Yeah. I know the drill.’

The blade pricked him to urge him on. He nodded to Blend and headed off. A few steps later he tossed the crowbar into the woods and continued along the path.

At the trench the work crew had returned to prepping the foundation. Barathol made a show of straightening his trousers as he descended into the trench. He pushed aside the tent flap and ducked in. The tall mage was there waiting for him, staff of old wood in one hand.

‘Where were you?’ he growled.

‘Call of nature.’

‘Took your time.’

‘I’m not eating right these days.’

‘How much do you think I care about the state of your bowels?’

Barathol held a hand over the coals, thrust in a bar to stir them. ‘You asked.’

‘Don’t leave the forge again. We are on a timetable. There can be no delay.’

Over his shoulder Barathol studied the strangely lean angular fellow. ‘Oh? To accomplish what?’

The man’s eyes seemed to flare and he clasped the staff in both hands. The wood creaked in the fierce grip. ‘That is not your concern,’ he ground out.

Barathol shrugged. He gestured to the wood and leather bellows. ‘Work those for me then.’

The mage sneered. The fresh scars on his face twisted in disgust. ‘Find another to do that, imbecile.’

Barathol threw down the bar. ‘Fine. More delay.’

He impressed a worker from the crew to help on the bellows. The entire time, the mage paced the narrow confines of the tent. The work might have gone as usual, but for Barathol it seemed to flow as slowly as the silver melting in the glowing ceramic crucible. He kept suppressing the urge to peer over his shoulder, and he hunched at particularly loud bangs and crashes of dropped equipment in the trench.

All the time, he felt the gaze of the mage on his back like the twin impressions of heated dagger-points. Finally, the work was done. Both moulds were poured, and the mage shouldered him aside to inspect the cooling bars. ‘These appear acceptable,’ he growled, bent over them. A flicked hand dismissed Barathol, who straightened his back with a murmured ‘You’re welcome’.

He pushed aside the heavy canvas flap and stepped out into cool dawn air. He drew a cloth from inside his shirt and wiped his face and hands, then stood still for a moment, enjoying the caress of the wind. Walking up from the trench he paused, glanced back towards the distant woods hidden behind a wing of the rambling complex of Majesty Hall. No alarm as yet. Not even a peep. Reconnoitring? Investigating the stones? Or … no, they wouldn’t dare try that, would they?

Best to be far away in any case.

He headed for a twisting walkway down the hill.

Halfway along the trail he flinched as a boom erupted over the hillside, echoing and rolling into the distance. It sounded eerily like broad sails catching a brisk wind. He turned in time to see a great cloud of dirt and dust billowing up over the tiled rooftops of the various buildings crowding the hilltop. He could even make out the clattering of rocks as they tumbled down the cliffs. Distant shouts and screams sounded. He hung his head. Damn! Now I have to go back for a look — it would be strange if I didn’t.

He turned round to climb the walkway.

City Wardens had already formed a cordon holding everyone back from the crater smoking in the pocket forest. He identified himself as a worker on the installation and so was let through. He found his two bosses — the hunchback and the hooknose, as he thought of them — investigating the site. The hooknose caught sight of him and waved him closer. He edged his way down into the pit. The loose dirt was hot beneath his sandals.

Looking like some sort of scholarly vulture, hooknose rose from studying the arc of exposed blocks. To Barathol the stones looked to be discoloured and scorched, but otherwise intact. The mage eyed him sourly. ‘What is your opinion?’ he asked.

Barathol allowed himself a shrug. ‘Moranth munitions, I imagine.’

Hooknose, ever in an ugly temper, looked to the sky. ‘Obviously, fool! No, the blocks. The links — how are they?’

‘I’ll have to examine them, I suppose.’

‘Well, do so!’ and the man swept aside, curtly waving him forward.

Suppressing his own temper, Barathol knelt next to the course of blocks and began brushing away the dirt. He found the pins and, spitting and wiping, used his shirt-tails to clean them. Leaning close, he studied the silver for cracks, the hair-line skein of shattering, or other surface distortions such as stress from flexing. He studied four in all, two exposed sets, but saw no damage that he could make out. Throughout the entire examination the two mages hovered close, shadowing his every move.

He leaned back, motioning to the exposed course. ‘There’s no damage that I can see. Amazing, that. The blast must have been enormous.’

Over Barathol’s head the two mages shared looks of savage satisfaction. ‘So we conclude as well,’ said the hunchback.

The hooknose waved him away. ‘That is all — you may go.’

He inclined his head then clawed his way up the steep side of the blast pit. The Malazans must have back-filled it to contain the force, he thought to himself. Yet the explosion had failed to mar the stones at all. He could only conclude that the blocks were ensorcelled against such attacks.

News to pass on to the Malazans. But no doubt they’d discover the failure of their opening move soon enough.

*

Blend, Picker and Duiker were playing cards. Or at least pretending to. None seemed to have their mind on the game. Spindle paced, stopping on every lap of the common room to peer out of the window. Fisher was at the bar, plucking out a composition.

‘Do you think he talked?’ Spindle asked of the room in general.

‘Topper’s watching,’ Blend said, irritated.

‘’Cause he might’ve.’

‘Shut up, Spin. We’ll hear all about it.’

Spindle rubbed his shirt. ‘Should’ve gone by now,’ he murmured.

‘Don’t trust your own work?’ Picker asked, cocking an eye.

‘It’s been a while, okay?’

‘Like never.’ Picker smirked at Blend.

‘I’m trained!’

‘So you keep claiming, Spin. So you claim.’

‘Well … I am. Okay?’

Then a sound like a loud booming gust of wind passed over the bar and everyone stilled. The empty bottles on the bar rattled.

Blend and Picker both eased back in their chairs, letting go long breaths. ‘There you go,’ Picker said, lifting a glass. Blend clacked hers with Picker’s and they tossed back the liquor.

Spindle raised his fists. ‘There! I told you. Two cussers! There ain’t nothing left. Ha!’

‘Good job,’ Duiker told Spindle. ‘Now have a seat, will you?’

Spindle pulled up a chair. ‘What are we playing?’

Before mid-day a knock sounded at the door. Spindle pushed himself from the table. ‘That couldn’t be Topper, could it?’ He headed across.

Before Spindle reached the door Picker’s head snapped over and she dropped her cards. ‘Get away from there!’ she shouted.

Spindle turned. ‘What?’

The door burst from its hinges in a blast of light and heat that knocked Spindle flat. Blend and Picker upturned the table, cards flying, and ducked behind, pulling Duiker with them. Fisher leapt over the bar.

Dazed, Spindle raised his head to see the crab-like figure of the hunched mage in his loose layered rags lumbering into the room. The man’s arms hung unnaturally long and the hands seemed grotesquely oversized and warped. He gestured savagely and the table protecting Blend and Picker punched backwards. ‘Too obvious, Bridgeburners!’ he bellowed. ‘Too damned obvious!’

In answer Spindle rolled aside, shouting, ‘Clear!’

Blend and Picker appeared from behind the table, threw in unison.

Twin explosions tore into the mage, lacerating his already tattered clothes. The blast threw him back into a wall. Fisher stood up behind the bar, a crossbow levelled. He fired and the bolt took the invader in the chest. Spindle had crawled to a far corner. Now he stood, reaching for the one munition he always carried for just such an end-game.

An arm in a rich brocaded silk sleeve grasped his arm and twisted it painfully backwards. Spindle looked up into the snarling features of the tall mage. The man shook him like a dog. ‘Do not make me do what I might otherwise avoid doing, Bridgeburner,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. Spindle reached for his shortsword but remembered he wasn’t wearing it. Twins take it! You drop your guard for one moment … ‘Now we shall see — she will not tolerate this insult,’ the man said, scanning the common room.

A girl appeared next to Fisher. She wore the diaphanous scarves and wraps of a courtesan but brandished a wicked slim dagger. The bard smashed the crossbow into her, sending her staggering back. The shocked outrage on her face was almost comical to Spindle. Fisher threw aside the mangled weapon and raised his empty hands.

Great Osserc! The man broke a crossbow over her!

The girl darted in once more. Somehow the bard grasped her wrist. He twisted the arm in a tight circle and Spindle heard the snap of the joint clear across the room. The girl voiced her agony in an inhuman guttural snarl.

Ye gods, who is this man?

Even the fellow holding Spindle by one fist eyed the bard, unease wrinkling his brow.

A shape appeared before the table behind which Blend and Picker were crouching once more and Spindle’s hair shirt writhed with agitation. It was a haunt, a ghost. It snatched them both by the necks. ‘I have them,’ it announced. Duiker rose, slashing with a long-knife, but the blade passed harmlessly through it.

‘Just kill them,’ snarled the one who had taken the crossbow bolt. He straightened, brushing at his smouldering rags, then took hold of the bolt and yanked on it. ‘At least we’ve cleared out this rats’ nest early on.’ He cocked his lopsided head to Fisher. ‘Stand aside, bard. We’ve no quarrel with you.’

‘No quarrel?’ the girl snarled, furious, cradling her broken arm.

Fisher inclined his head in greeting to each. ‘Aman. Barukanal. Hinter.’ He raised a brow to the girl.

‘Your future killer,’ she said, baring her teeth.

Despite Blend’s and Picker’s struggles the revenant maintained his grip. He slammed them into the wall, yet their blows and tearing hands swept through him as if he were smoke. Duiker backed away, calling, ‘Spin!’

Spindle gaped. What? Set my Warren against these mages?

‘Perhaps questions are in order,’ Hinter said.

The stairs leading from the upper floors creaked and everyone stilled. All knew that no one else was present within the old building. All eyes moved to the open portal where the stairs rose. A hunched figure stepped out, cloaked, a large hood down. Her thin hair shone silver. Her face was deeply tanned and weathered. Black glittering eyes settled on Hinter and Spindle was shaken to glimpse their depths.

‘Begone,’ she said, and waved. The shade of Hinter faded away, astonishment on its face. Blend and Picker fell to the floor, gasping in breaths.

The girl backed away towards the door. Aman raised his hands. ‘What can these be to you?’ he demanded as he too edged to the door.

‘They are not important,’ the old woman said, slowly advancing. ‘What is important is that I did not give you leave to enter my house. Therefore, you must go.’

‘Your house?’ Aman said. ‘Not for ages.’

‘Blood has been shed. What has been done is done.’

Aman threw down the crossbow bolt and hurried to the door in his limping shambling gait. He waved to the girl. ‘Come. He must be apprised of this.’

The old woman turned on the one Fisher had named Barukanal. The mage released Spindle’s arm, bowed ever so faintly. ‘Foolish, to make things all so clear.’

‘I am taking no one’s side but my own. And there is nothing any of you can do about it.’

The tall hatchet-faced mage bowed again, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps not us …’ he allowed. He peered down at Spindle. ‘Your gambit of Moranth munitions was inspired, but ineffective. The … structure … is proofed against their alchemy.’ The man glared then, holding Spindle’s gaze, as if meaning to say more.

‘Go,’ the old woman commanded.

The mage winced, the scars across his face rippling. ‘I have no choice but to obey,’ he murmured, his voice thick. Bowing, he backed away to the door.

Picker crowded the smoking doorway after him. ‘And don’t come back!’ she yelled. She turned to the room. ‘Our thanks, old … Where’d she go?’

Spindle looked up from rubbing his numb elbow. Blend was righting the table. She peered about as well. ‘She’s buggered off.’

‘She’s still here,’ Duiker said. Fisher was setting out glasses on the bar, and the historian watched him fill them with Free Cities white wine. ‘This is her house. We can all use a drink, I imagine.’ Everyone took a glass. ‘To our host,’ Duiker announced. ‘K’rul.’

Spindle, who had started drinking already, spluttered his mouthful down his shirtfront. ‘The hoary old one? Not just some city mage who’s taken up residence? He’s a she? Really? Well, why doesn’t she just curse these wretches to the Abyss? Or snap her fingers?’

‘Because she’s under assault everywhere,’ Fisher said. ‘I’d wager her direct influence extends only to these four walls.’

The old historian was nodding. ‘I didn’t like Barukanal’s — Hood, Baruk’s — comment. They’ll send soldiers next. Regular mundane agents.’

Spindle winced. Just us mortals. K’rul wouldn’t be able to help them out then.

‘Or assassins …’ Picker snarled.

Blend slammed down the empty glass. ‘I hope so. I want their blood.’

Spindle peered round. ‘Yeah — and speakin’ of them, just where’s Topper, anyway?’

Blend sneered. ‘The useless blowhard! Looks like four of them is four too many.’

She spent her days turning pots. A fever of work seemed to have taken hold of her. As if Darujhistan suffered from a crushing lack of pots, urns and amphorae that she alone could answer.

And why would there be such a shortage?

Because all the rest are broken.

The malformed mass of clay squashed in Tiserra’s hands and she threw herself back, panting, pushed sweaty hair from her face with a forearm. She stopped working the pedals of the wheel with her bare feet.

A time of great shattering.

She cleaned her hands in a basin of water and walked through the empty house as she dried them. Gone again. She could not stop that niggling question: Fleeing her?

No. He had his life just as she had hers.

She stopped at one particular place in the floor. Kneeling, she tapped, listening. Had he?

She went to her shop to return with a clawed bar. With this she attacked the floorboards, found the dug-out space below. Empty. He’d never taken them with him before.

All those strange Moranth items, gone. Why this time?

She hammered the floorboards back into place, and, standing, pushed up her sleeves. Best get back to work. There will be a great need soon.

They climbed the stairs single file. Antsy led, crossbow freshly reassembled and cocked. Orchid came next, followed by Corien. They made much better time now they all could see. Granted, it was not the clear vision of daylight, but it was far better than total blindness. And Antsy thought his vision was even improving as he got used to discerning the subtle shadings of blues, mauves and deepest near-black.

The majestic circling stairwell ended at a wide arch-roofed hallway. Chandeliers of glowing blue crystals hung at intervals, floating like clouds of fireflies. Trash littered the polished stone floor: shards of smashed vases and pots, ornate alien sculpture and broken stone statuary. Yet there was no cloth, leather or wood. Nor anything of obvious value such as jewellery or gold or silver artwork. In the distance one chandelier had fallen, leaving a patch of darkness and a jumble of the blue crystals bright on the floor like a scattering of coals. There was no sign of Malakai, though Antsy was sure he must be ahead of them.

Again he was surprised by just how empty the place was. Where was everyone? Hundreds must’ve taken boats out over the months. They couldn’t all be dead … could they? The memory of those clawing hands and desperate starved faces in Pearl Town returned and he wanted to spit but he couldn’t draw enough saliva.

‘Anyone?’ Orchid asked, her voice pitched so low as to be almost inaudible.

‘No. But someone may be around.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ Corien said, ‘all the combustibles are gone.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Antsy seconded. ‘Picked clean. Which way?’ he asked Orchid.

She edged further up the hall, stepping carefully over the scattered debris, and sighed, a hand going to her mouth.

‘What is it?’ Antsy asked.

She glanced to him then lowered her gaze, embarrassed. ‘This hall. Beautiful, even yet. The Curtain Hall of the Hunter.’

‘What?’

‘This could be it. One of the Twenty Halls … one for each of their ancient zodiac. Each has its own name, architecture, history. There will be temples, cloisters, living quarters. A lot of rooms.’

‘Fine,’ Antsy cut in. ‘Just which way?’

She turned back, glaring, but sighed again, adjusting her skirts. ‘Straight, for now.’

‘Okay. Take this.’ He handed her the crossbow. It yanked her arms down.

‘I can’t use this. What am I supposed to do?’

‘Fire off a shot at any hostiles.’

‘Oh, certainly.’

Antsy waved Corien to the right then drew his long-knives. Orchid followed, the heavy crossbow braced in both arms. They advanced along one edge of the wide hall. Far ahead awaited a tall set of double doors, ajar. Darkness lay beyond. They passed portals that opened on to smaller side halls and chambers. Some were dark, others were lit by the glowing feline faces that Antsy figured to be stylized representations of the Children of the Night themselves. From his own memories of those faces he was glad none remained on the Spawn.

Short of the tall doors the air currents brought a new draught to his face and he raised his hand for a halt. People. The unmistakable stomach-churning miasma of latrine-stink mixed with sweat and cooking odours. He motioned to a nearby portal and they slipped inside.

Watching intently, he could now see a shifting brightness flickering from the right side of the hall. Firelight, and people moving. And above the constant groans and rumblings that reverberated through the rock around them came the murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of gear.

‘Now what?’ Corien mouthed.

Orchid motioned to the left. Antsy shook his head. She made an impatient face demanding explanation. Antsy leaned close. ‘They’re ignoring it. Therefore, there mustn’t be any route up or down that way. Yes?’ She appeared unconvinced, but subsided. He motioned Corien close. ‘We need to find a way round.’

‘I’ll have a look.’

‘No-’

He stood up but Antsy pulled him back: a bright light was approaching. A man appeared walking up one of the right-hand halls. He was carrying the smallest of lanterns yet to Antsy’s dark-adjusted vision the light seemed as intense as the sun. The man stopped at a side opening, threw something in that clattered amid debris, then set down the lantern and started undoing the ties at the front of his trousers.

Orchid turned her face away.

A stream of urine hissed against the stone floor.

Wonderful. They were skulking in the cesspit.

Finished, the man hawked up a great mouthful of phlegm and spat, then picked up the lantern and headed back up the hall. Embarrassed, Antsy did not look at Orchid when he motioned them across. He chose the darkest of the right-hand halls, hoping that it would perhaps lead to a way round the camp. Once within it was obvious to Antsy that it was indeed dark, even to him. There was no source of the blue night-light in the hall. A side portal beckoned just beyond and he had started towards it, meaning to talk things over with Orchid — perhaps she could provide some sort of light — when he stepped on someone.

The woman shrieked to crack open the very rock and Antsy leapt backwards. ‘Shit!’

Many voices arose around them, clamouring, shouting. Sleeping quarters? They’d stumbled into the fucking sleeping quarters? He waved Orchid and Corien back.

Pounding feet sounded from a number of the side corridors. Antsy pushed Orchid back across the main hall into the maze of left-hand passages. She thrust the crossbow at him and he sheathed his long-knives to take it. ‘What are we doing?’ she hissed.

‘Hiding. Now, c’mon.’

He led them up a side corridor, turned a corner and stopped dead. Now he knew why the left-hand side of the complex was being ignored. The corridor was blocked by heaped rubble. They’d stopped up the route. Hood take it! He motioned for a reverse through another chamber. After just a few further twists and turns, the inhabitants of the encampment yelling and rushing about behind them, they came to yet another blocked doorway. Shit! There’s no other way! He led them back towards the main hall. Have to double back, hope to find a different route.

They came out on to the main hall close to the tall double doors. Antsy stepped out first, crouched, crossbow ready. The hall appeared empty. He listened for a time. All the noise seemed to be coming from elsewhere. He motioned Orchid to him. He didn’t want to have to do it, but back down the main hall was the only exit he could be sure of.

When Corien edged out, sliding along the wall, a lantern was unhooded further down the wide hall and a voice ordered: ‘Halt or we fire!’

He and Corien exchanged despairing glances and it was Orchid who said, ‘The doors …’

Antsy felt his shoulders fall. Burn take it! The very way he was avoiding. He motioned her on. ‘Go.’

‘Fire!’

They ducked. Crossbow bolts slammed into the stone walls around them. It occurred to Antsy that they must be at the very limit of the lantern light. He and Corien backed up, covering Orchid, who ran first through the tall yawning doors. They followed her in and took up positions covering the opening. From the echoing sounds around him he knew the room they’d just entered must be immense but he had no time to think about that just then.

Feet slammed and the light bobbed as lanterns neared. Antsy levelled the crossbow and Corien braced himself, sword and parrying gauche at the ready. But their pursuers did not enter. Instead, the doors began grinding shut. Antsy and Corien exchanged further uncertain looks. What to do?

‘You’ve run to your deaths!’ someone laughed.

‘Fools!’

Antsy dropped the crossbow to grab an edge of one door. ‘What’s in here?’ he yelled.

Laughter answered and a blade chopped at his fingers. He yanked his hands away. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the light.

Antsy stood frozen in the darkness. To one side Corien panted his tension. ‘Orchid?’ he whispered into the black. Even this faint murmur raised echoes from distant walls. A damned large open space here. ‘Orchid?’ Silence.

‘Corien?’ Antsy said.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m coming to you. Don’t move.’ Arms out, Antsy edged his way towards Corien’s loud breathing. His hand brushed a blade and Corien gasped in surprise. ‘It’s me.’

‘Yes. Sorry. Where’s Orchid?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You have the lantern?’

‘Yeah. In my bags. I’ll try and light it.’

‘Okay. I’ll cover you — though I can’t see a thing.’

Antsy knelt and yanked off his bedroll and bags. Rummaging, he found the small metal box then dug out his tinderbox. ‘Pray Oponn’s with us,’ he murmured, and readied the flint and iron.

He tapped down into the gathered tinder and kept at it until a glow betrayed itself. He blew gently, hands cupped. Between blows a tiny flame climbed to life within his hands. He held the wick to the tinder, turning it slightly to catch the fibres. A yellow-orange flame grew to life. Antsy carefully handed the box over to Corien then repacked.

‘Well, at least there’s no wind,’ the lad offered, his smile bright in the strengthening light.

‘Just like a gods-damned mine,’ Antsy grumbled, drawing a single long-knife. He took the lantern. ‘Let’s have a look.’

The weak flickering flame hinted at an immense room. Fat pillars of black stone serried off into the distance. He could just make out an arched ceiling. The polished stone of the floor appeared to be inlaid with what looked like a near infinity of gems. An unguessable fortune — yet none have claimed it.

He didn’t want to find out why but was afraid he was going to anyway.

Carefully advancing, they found Orchid standing motionless at the far end of the chamber. She stood before a chair — a huge seat carved from black stone. Antsy raised the lantern to see her staring upwards, seemingly enraptured.

‘Orchid,’ he whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

Blinking, she glanced at him as if not seeing him then smiled, motioning all about. ‘Isn’t it wondrous?’

‘Orchid,’ he began gently, ‘we can’t see a damned thing.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry …’ She clapped her hands and gave a command, a single word in Tiste Andii. An ice-blue glow arose from the gems at her feet and expanded in all directions. The inset gems blossomed to life all about the huge chamber, on the floor, the pillars, even the ceiling, until it was as if they stood suspended among an infinity of stars.

Antsy and Corien turned full circles, stunned. Antsy blew out the lantern.

‘The Sacristy of Night. Perhaps,’ Orchid supplied.

Most of the lights were mere tiny diamond-like pinpricks. Just like stars at night. But some were large pale-blue balls suspended overhead like moons. The room was now fully lit, but it was the cool silvery light of a full moon on a clear starry night. There was no sign of any sun anywhere in the sky.

‘It is said that this is a representation of what one would have seen from the homeland of the Andii,’ Orchid explained. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know for certain, of course.’

‘And this?’ Antsy motioned to the seat. ‘Is this … some kinda throne? Is this like a throne room?’

‘I don’t think so. More like a temple to Mother Dark, I should think. Sacred-’ She broke off.

Antsy had seen them as well: shapes approaching. Like rippling cloths of pure black darkness. They’d seen one just like them before: the guardian who’d tried to kill them. He moved back to back with Corien. Damn it to Trake! What could they do against these?

One addressed Orchid in a whispered breathless version of Andii. She answered, then translated: ‘They say we are polluting sacred ground and that they will cleanse us.’

‘Ask for the way out and tell them we’ll go right away.’

She spoke again and the same one answered. Orchid translated: ‘It says the way out is the way we came in.’

‘Perhaps there is a back door?’ Corien asked, raising his sword and gauche.

The shapes were crowding very close now, almost a solid sheet of impenetrable black surrounding them. Orchid spoke again and was answered.

‘What did it say?’ Antsy asked.

‘You don’t want to know,’ Orchid said, her hands falling.

‘Try that incantation thing again,’ Antsy told her.

‘That won’t work here. We really are trespassing.’

The scrap of elemental night gestured then, an unmistakable sign of dismissal or end of debate, and Antsy wondered whether munitions would have any effect upon them.

Suddenly a new voice rang out in the Andii tongue, loud and firm. A man stepped through the ring. He was obviously Tiste Andii with his night-black skin, but there were differences from other Andii Antsy had seen. His eyes were the same almond shape but more lifeless-looking, being black on black. His hair was dark as well, and very long. He wore it loose, hanging to his shoulders. His clothes were dark yet rich: a shirt, vest and open robes all of a velvety cloth. He was also rather heavier-set than most Andii Antsy had met.

The man faced an amazed Orchid, looked her up and down, and smiled. ‘I was meditating … saying my goodbyes if you will … when whispers reached me through the night of the True Tongue spoken by a young woman. At first I could not believe it. All were sent away. Yet here you are speaking the Noble Language. I cannot tell you how pleasing it is to me to hear it once more.’ He bowed, smiling even more broadly. ‘Forgive me, but it has been a very long time.’

One of the shades spoke and the man frowned. He gave a curt answer but the shape replied firmly. The man turned from Orchid, crossed his arms. He spoke again, and while his tone seemed light enough Antsy sensed the iron beneath the words. It also seemed suddenly rather cold in the chamber. Antsy edged away from the man and noted that the gems beneath his boots no longer gave off light. It was as if they were dead, or had had all the light sucked from them.

Then, raising the hair on Antsy’s neck, the entire ring of shades bowed to the man, murmuring. Orchid paled, a hand going to her throat as if to cut off what she almost blurted out.

The shades withdrew and the man turned once more to Orchid. ‘My apologies. They have their duties. One mustn’t blame them for being true to their assigned tasks.’

Antsy sheathed his long-knives. ‘Well, thanks for intervening. Do you know if there is another way out of this place? If there is, we’ll be on our way.’

It was as if he’d not spoken at all. The man continued to study Orchid, his chin pinched between his fingers. ‘What is your name, child?’

‘Orchid.’

‘Orchid? In truth? That is an Andii name. Did you know that?’

Orchid’s face darkened even further in a blush. ‘No, sir. That is, no. I did not.’

‘And what’s your name?’ Antsy asked loudly. Corien set a hand on his elbow.

The man’s unnerving black eyes slid to him. ‘You may call me Morn.’

‘Morn? Right. Well, you just point us in the right direction and we’ll leave you in peace.’

The eyes slid back to Orchid. ‘Perhaps you should remain here. You would be safe and welcome.’

If anything the girl paled even more to a sickly near-grey. ‘We must be moving on.’

‘What is it you seek?’

‘The Gap. We just want to get out of here.’

The man frowned almost as if hurt. ‘Really, child? Don’t you wish to remain? To learn more of your inheritance?’

Swaying, she barely whispered, ‘What do you mean?’

Morn spread his arms wide to indicate the entire chamber and perhaps also everything beyond. ‘I mean, Orchid … welcome home, Child of the Night.’

Her eyes rolled up then and she fainted. She would have smacked her head on the stone floor had not Antsy jumped forward to ease her fall.

The place wasn’t so bad, Antsy reflected, once you got used to the wraith-like beasties occasionally wafting forward to look you over — perhaps searching for the best place to bite. In any case in terms of his own personal philosophy he couldn’t complain: he wasn’t dead yet.

He and Corien saw to their weapons and armour. Corien morosely inspected what was left of his brocaded jacket. Orchid walked the chamber hounded by the creature Morn, who seemed determined to persuade her to stay. Antsy hoped she wouldn’t be beaten down, despite the possible truth of this revealed ancestry of hers. Which might or might not even be true. And frankly he had his doubts. He doubted everything until it betrayed him or bit him or tried to kill him — and then he knew he’d been right about it all along.

And the old squadmates called me a pessimist. Given the state of the world I’m the realist!

He and the lad had a few practice sparring matches. Corien was still weak on one side but other than that Antsy knew he faced a duellist vastly more skilled than he. ‘You Darujhistani fellows all seem to be pretty damned good with the sword,’ he told him as they sat resting after a long bout. ‘Why’s that?’

The lad’s shrug said he didn’t rightly know. ‘We have a tradition of swordsmanship that goes back a long way.’

Antsy grunted his understanding. ‘Like where I’m from. We’ve been fighting each other for so long that forming line and taking orders is second nature.’

Corien gave an easy admiring laugh. ‘That’s where we tend to fall short. On that forming line and taking orders part.’

Orchid approached followed by her new shadow. Antsy pulled out a strip of dried meat and cut a bite off, chewing. ‘What’s the verdict?’ he asked around his mouthful.

‘We have to go. This place is still a deathtrap. The longer we remain … well, I’m afraid it will finally get us.’

Antsy shoved home his knife. ‘I’m with you there.’

Morn stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. ‘If you must go, allow me to guide you.’

‘We make for the Gap,’ Orchid warned, firm.

‘If that remains your wish.’

‘Do you know another way out of this place?’ Antsy asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Lead on.’

The shade, or Andii, or whatever he was, bowed. ‘Very good.’

They gathered together their gear. Orchid was also firm about carrying the remaining waterskins and shoulder bags of food and supplies — including Antsy’s pannier. He and Corien tried to talk her out of it but fared no better than Morn had in changing her mind.

When they were ready she gestured Morn to go ahead. Antsy fell in next to her. He had the crossbow readied once more. ‘Will we still be able to see?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good.’ He cleared his throat, eyed Morn where he walked in front of them. ‘So … what do you think about his claim? You bein’ part Andii and that.’

The tall girl bit her lip — she appeared terrified by the idea. ‘I don’t know. Part of me feels that it is right. But … I can’t be sure.’ Her gaze shifted to Morn. ‘Part of the reason I can’t be sure is I don’t know if we can trust this one.’

Prudently, Antsy merely nodded his agreement.

‘He is more than he pretends to be,’ she continued. ‘The shades … maybe I misheard, or mistranslated, but when they bowed … they called him Lord.’

Antsy’s brows rose in appreciation. Really? Some kinda Andii high muckety-muck. Or the ghost of one. Who knew? He joined Orchid in studying the man’s back and wondered: had they just made a bad trade … Malakai for this fellow?

Morn led them through a maze of chambers and halls. What they found cluttering these rooms made Antsy regret his vow not to stop to loot. Obviously no one had ever reached these precincts and the riches revealed made him almost whimper. The collected treasures of uncounted centuries lay sprawled at his feet like the wreckage of a siege. Shattered delicate glass artwork, fragments of precious ceramics, paintings, busts carved in precious stone. Even upended tables and furniture that were themselves beautiful works of art. He winced as his sandalled feet ground priceless fragments into the stone floor.

The deep aquamarine monochrome mage-light made it impossible to distinguish one gem from another, or gold from other metals, but he wasn’t above picking up the odd stone or small piece of metalwork to study it more closely. Ahead, Morn studiously ignored his darting and stooping like a scavenging bird at a battlefield.

‘Look here,’ Orchid murmured, awed. She’d stopped at an immense tapestry that hung fully five paces from floor to ceiling. It was the representation of a city hugging the coast of a lake. Galleys plied the waves. Men and women dressed in unfamiliar archaic costume crowded the waterfront. They were busy at markets, buying and selling fruit, birds, carpets, finely wrought furniture, even horses. One immense pale-blue dome dominated the city’s skyline. Pearl white, Antsy guessed it would be, in the light of day.

‘That is Darujhistan,’ Corien announced, surprised. ‘Or looks like it. You see the dome?’

‘Darujhistan more than two thousand years ago,’ Morn supplied. He had returned to them, utterly silent. ‘During the age of the Tyrant Kings. It is said none could match their mastery of sorcery.’

‘I know of no dome like that,’ Corien said, dubious.

Hands clasped at his back, Morn raised and dropped his shoulders. ‘I understand much was lost during the cataclysm of their fall.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Antsy demanded.

Corien winced and Orchid sent a glare, but the Andii seemed unruffled. ‘It is true. I have been … away … for some time. But I was scrupulous in questioning everyone I met for news. There was little else to do where I’ve been all this time.’

Antsy snorted his scepticism. Morn merely gestured ahead. ‘This way, if you please. There is a light in the next corridor.’

Antsy gaped. ‘What? Why didn’t you say so?’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘And all this time we’ve been-’ He clamped his mouth shut and signed to Corien in the hand signals he’d been teaching the lad. Scout ahead.

Corien nodded, jogged off.

Antsy shouldered his crossbow, gestured that Orchid should stay behind him, and followed.

He found the lad waiting at a corner. Corien pointed ahead and held up one finger. One. A sentry. Antsy motioned him aside, glanced round the corner. One fellow, sheathed swords at his sides, standing straight in the middle of the corridor with a lamp behind, facing their way. Canny, that. Not facing the light.

He raised the crossbow, nodded to Corien, who slowly drew his weapons. He took three short breaths, steadied his arms, then stepped out from the corner, training the crossbow on the man. ‘Don’t move!’ he commanded. ‘You’re covered.’ Corien stepped out with him, weapons bared.

The figure didn’t even flinch; his hands remained at his belt. The head turned slightly and one word was called in some language Antsy didn’t recognize. ‘Don’t move!’ he ordered again. The fellow appeared to be wearing the lightest of armour, leathers only, but also some sort of helmet. He’d made no move to his sheathed weapons.

As they came closer, a gasp sounded from Orchid and Corien straightened, grunting his surprise. His weapons fell slightly. The barbed point of Antsy’s bolt didn’t waver from the man’s chest. ‘Who’re you?’ he challenged.

‘Red …’ Orchid began, a warning in her voice.

The fellow didn’t answer. Closer, he saw in the dim light that the man was in fact a woman, and that she wore a simple small mask that hid the upper half of her face. A mask? Who did she think she was? A fucking robber?

Another fellow came jogging up the corridor and Antsy swung his crossbow. ‘You’re covered!’ he called.

Orchid touched his arm. ‘Red …’

‘Get back, dammit.’

Corien suddenly sheathed his weapons.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Antsy snarled.

‘It’s all right, Red.’

‘What? Tell me why this is all right.’

The newcomer stepped forward, hands at his sides. He too wore some sort of multicoloured mask.

‘No further!’ Antsy barked. ‘Or you are a dead man.’

‘Who are you?’ the man called in oddly accented Daru.

‘Who am I?’ Antsy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘I’m holding the crossbow here! Who are you?’

‘My name is Enoi. Please step forward and let us speak.’

Orchid tightened her grip on his arm. ‘Red. It’s okay. Lower the weapon.’

He spared her one quick glance. ‘Why? Why in the name of dead Hood should I lower my weapon?’

‘They are Seguleh,’ Corien said.

‘Seguleh? Really?’ He’d heard the stories, of course. But he’d never thought he’d ever actually meet one. He lowered the crossbow, slightly, to study them, curious. So, Seguleh are they? Everyone says just three of them defeated the entire Pannion army.

Not true, of course. But it made for a great story around the campfire. When neither went for their weapons Antsy set the crossbow butt to his hip. ‘What do you want?’ he called.

The man, or youth, judging from his clean chin, stepped forward. A multitude of shades swirled across his mask — all variations of blue to Antsy’s mage-sight. ‘You wish to pass through to the upper galleries, yes?’ he said.

‘What of it?’ Antsy said.

The masked face shifted to study Morn. ‘You do not impress us,’ he said. ‘We do not fear ancient shades.’ Morn provided the ghost of a smile. The youth looked back to Antsy. ‘You may pass. All we ask is that you swear a vow to us.’

‘Swear a vow? To you?’ Antsy laughed his disbelief.

‘What is it?’ Orchid asked, very quickly.

‘That should you find one particular object you will relinquish it to us before you leave this rock.’

Antsy laughed again. These fellows were the most naive idiots he’d ever met! ‘And this thing? What is it?’

‘A piece of artwork stolen from my people long ago. It is a legacy of ours. We believe it to be somewhere within the Spawn, as it is our belief that its master, Blacksword, either took it, or acquired it. It is of little monetary value but important to our religion. A plain white mask. Of little value to any but us.’

‘I do so swear,’ Morn said immediately, sounding even more solemn than usual.

‘And I,’ Orchid echoed.

‘I also swear,’ Corien said, enacting a Darujhistani courtier’s bow.

Antsy eyed the lot of them. ‘Just what in the Abyss is going on? Some masked clown walks up, tells you to swear, and you bow to him?’

Orchid glared her fury, urging him to cooperate. He raised a hand. ‘Just a minute. Now, if this thing is so important to you, why aren’t you searching for it yourself?’

The youth drew himself up straight, offended. ‘We do not scramble through ruins like common thieves. Someone has it, or in the course of his or her looting will find it. And when he comes down we will be waiting and he will relinquish it. If he does not, he will be killed.’

Antsy turned to the others, crossbow still resting on his hip. ‘Is it just me or doesn’t that sound like stealing too?’

‘Red …’ Corien warned.

‘No — c’mon.’ He waved to the two Seguleh. ‘Here they are pretending to be so superior to everyone yet what they’re doing is no better than any highwayman threatening travellers in the woods.’

‘Just swear,’ Orchid ground through clenched teeth. ‘You’re being an ass.’

‘No. Let’s hear their answer.’ He turned back to the young Seguleh. ‘What do you say? You’re the ones with the masks, after all.’

The youth glanced back to the short wiry female sentry. She yanked a bag from her belt and tossed to him. He upended it, sending a cascade of gems bouncing and clattering over the stone floor. ‘We’ve been here for some time,’ he said airily. ‘We’ve collected many of these gems for their beauty. Yet whoever brings the mask may have them all.’

Antsy stared at the scattered stones: the dark ones must be rubies, the pale ones possibly sapphires or emeralds. He saw countless pearls as well, white and black. Ye gods! A king’s ransom! With this he could purchase lands, a title. He cleared his throat. ‘Ah … well. Why didn’t you just say so …’

The youth crossed his arms. ‘Few have challenged our terms.’

Orchid jabbed Antsy in the side. ‘Right. Well, fine. I swear too, then.’

Both Seguleh inclined their heads fractionally. ‘We thought so. You may pass.’

Morn led them on. A few turns and lengths of corridors later Antsy noted that all the scattered riches were now gone. These halls had been picked clean.

‘Why didn’t you just swear back there?’ Orchid demanded. ‘What’s it to you? This thing they want has probably just sunk to the bottom by now anyway.’

‘Matter of principle,’ Antsy answered, distracted. The inlay of blue stones and the chandeliers and glowing faces still lit their way, but a side portal ahead remained dark. As if no light could penetrate it. He motioned ahead. ‘You see that?’

Orchid peered and frowned. ‘It’s utterly dark to me — and that’s strange.’

Antsy signed caution to Corien then noted that Morn was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where’s-’

There was a rustle of heavy cloth being thrust aside and blinding yellow lanternlight burst from the opening, dazzling Antsy’s vision. ‘Don’t move!’ a voice bellowed in accented Daru.

Shit! Wincing and blinking, Antsy tried to see through his slitted eyes. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Drop your weapons or die!’

Dammit! He lowered his crossbow, raised a hand. ‘All right!’

‘Hands up!’

‘Yes,’ said Corien.

Antsy could now make out some eight crossbowmen crouched in two ranks within the room, all aiming their weapons at them. He knelt to set down his. Goddamned ambushers!

‘Drop your weapon belts,’ the voice ordered.

Antsy undid his to set it down with its sheathed long-knives and heavy dirk. Corien let his fall as well. A man pushed forward through the crossbowmen. He wore a slashed long jupon over a banded iron hauberk. His sleeves and leggings were mail and a blackened helmet, visor raised, rode high on his full head of dense brown curls. A thick beard was braided and tied off with strips of leather, lace and cloth. Antsy thought there was something vaguely familiar about him.

He hooked his thumbs in his wide belt and looked them over. ‘So who’s in charge of this sorry group?’

‘I am,’ Corien said.

The man shook his head. ‘No, mister fancy-boots. I don’t believe you are. Not that it matters any more. Turn round and put your hands behind your back.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ Antsy said.

‘Oho! I know that accent. A damned Malazan spy!’

Antsy just ground his teeth. Orchid turned round and clenched her hands behind her back. Corien followed suit. Teeth almost cracking, Antsy snarled and lurched round as well.

They were marched through a sprawling, well-lit complex of living quarters, halls, guard chambers and large assemblage rooms. Antsy counted some fifty armed and armoured men and women, though their equipment was all mismatched and ill kept. Looted and scavenged from one dead fortune-hunter after another, no doubt. He wondered, idly, just how many had worn the hacked mail or used the battered blades around him. Also present were obvious slaves: dressed in rags, carrying out errands, fanning fires, cooking, mending. They passed one very pregnant woman cooking at a fire.

The collected loot of an entire section of the Spawn glittered here as well: heaped gold artwork and plates, silver jewellery. Statuettes of semi-precious stone cluttered the corners of rooms; circlets of gems hung at the necks and wrists of almost all. Antsy recognized this for what it was, having seen its like in every war. Call these people what you would — raiders, scavengers, bandits, looters — they were the jackals who gather wherever laws break down, or never reach.

Just as below, in Pearl Town, this lot had simply moved into living quarters now empty of their prior owners. The three of them were pushed into one such narrow cell. Two guards remained at the opening. A simple cloth hanging was yanked across the portal.

‘Are you all right?’ Corien asked Orchid. She nodded, rubbing her wrists. ‘Where’s-’ he began, but Orchid signed for silence. He nodded his understanding.

‘Now what?’ she whispered to Antsy.

He sat on a plain stone ledge that might or might not have been intended as a bed. ‘An interview of a kind, I suppose. They either need us or want us, or not.’

‘If not?’ Corien asked.

Antsy shook his head.

‘Well, shouldn’t we-’

Antsy held up a hand. ‘Sleep, for now. There’s nothing else we can do.’

Disbelieving, Corien looked to Orchid for support but she nodded her agreement. ‘Yes. We need to rest. Who knows how long it’s been — or will be?’

Sighing, Antsy lay back and threw an arm across his eyes.

Malazan spy. He didn’t like the sound of that.