Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XII

Coll walked the empty unlit rooms of his manor house, gloriously drunk. He carried a cut crystal decanter loosely in one hand. It was late in the night, long past the mid-hour, and he was waiting to be killed.

How better, it was his considered opinion, to die than carefree and thus beyond the reach of all pain? For it had always been care that brought him pain. He stopped, weaving, before one particular stretch of empty whitewashed wall. He knew what used to hang here … during that all too short anomaly in his life he knew as happiness.

He wiped a sleeve across his face, sloshing wine. Damn her. Damn him! He’d been such a fool! And paying for it all his life. Was it pride? Masochism? That he cannot forget, cannot let go? He let his arms fall. Well, perhaps that was just the way he was.

He lurched on, inspecting the main-floor rooms. But not upstairs. No, not there! Never there! He leaned against the long formal dining table, pulled the sweaty linen shirt from his chest. Humid tonight. Warm. The summer doldrums when tempers are short and passions run hot.

He could have remarried. Plucked some daughter of a rich merchant house, or respected artisan. Someone grateful enough, or hungry enough, for a noble family name. And yet … he would always wonder: what’s she doing now?

He raised the decanter for a drink. And any smirk or whisper among the young bloods! Gods, he could see the contempt in their eyes now! What could they be insinuating? Did they know something he did not? Eventually, he knew, it would’ve ended in a humiliating mismatch on the duelling grounds.

At least this is private. The blade across the throat or through the back. Quiet and without witnesses. Much better than a ring of uncaring faces. Some shred of dignity may be kept …

Gods. Who am I kidding?

He slammed down the decanter, slumped into a chair. Was that it, then, that kept me alone all these years? Fear? Fear that I could never trust again and would thus make some good woman’s life a misery? Fear of my own weakness? Was that pathetic … or just sadly accurate?

He blinked in the greenish light of the night sky streaming in from the colonnaded walk that led to the rear grounds. Someone stood there, cloaked, tall. Their chosen blade. Fanderay’s tits, they wasted no time about it.

He threw his arms out wide. ‘Here I am, friend. May I call you friend? We are about to share an intimate moment — surely that permits me to call you friend.’ He reached for a tall wine glass, raised it. ‘Drink? No, I suppose not. Well, I believe I will.’ He poured a full glass.

The man walked to the other end of the long table, regarded him from the darkness within his deep hood. Coll raised a hand for silence. ‘I know, I know. Quite the sight. In the old days I understand just a note was enough. Something like “save us the trouble”. We live in a decaying age, so they say.’ He emptied the entire glass in one long pull.

The man closed further, coming up along one side of the table. He ran a gloved hand over the smooth polished surface as he came. Coll eyed him all the way, swallowed his mouthful. ‘Liquid courage, some would say, hey? But no — not in my case. I have courage. What I need is liquid numbness. Liquid oblivion.’

The figure raised a hand to his hood while the other slipped within his cloak. ‘What you need,’ the man growled, throwing back his hood, ‘is balls.’

Coll yelped and flinched backwards so hard he upended the chair and fell rolling. He came up clutching at his chest. ‘Gods, Rallick! Don’t do that!’ He righted the chair. ‘I thought you were … you know …’ He froze, then straightened to eye his friend. ‘You’re not … are you?’

Rallick selected a plum from the table, sat. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Well … is there … someone?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ He took a bite of the fruit, threw a leg up on the table. ‘But I suspect not.’

Coll sat. ‘You suspect not? Why?’

Rallick chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. ‘Because you’re old and ineffectual. Useless. Unimportant. Marginalized and sidelined …’

Coll had raised a hand. ‘I get it. Many thanks.’

‘Well, isn’t that just what you’ve been moping around these rooms about?’

Coll would not meet his friend’s gaze.

Rallick sighed. ‘Isn’t it about time you married someone? Sired another generation to carry on the family name? It’s your duty, isn’t it?’

Coll sat back, waving a hand. ‘I know, I know. But what if she …’

‘I assume you’ll choose more wisely this time. And in any case, so what? Life’s a throw of the bones. Nothing’s guaranteed.’

‘How reassuring. And you are here because …?’

Rallick finished the plum. ‘I’m under a death sentence from the guild.’

Coll stared from under his brows. ‘And you come here.’ He gestured angrily to the grounds. ‘What if they’re following you? You’ve led them here! They could be coming any moment!’

Rallick held up his hands. ‘I thought you were expecting them.’

Letting out a long breath Coll leaned forward over the table to massage his temples. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want that thing up on Majesty Hill gone.’

The fingers stilled. He sat back, eyed his friend anew. ‘What’s this? A civic conscience? Rather belated.’

The lines around the lean man’s mouth deepened as his jaws tightened. ‘Think. Who have we done work for all these years?’

‘Baruk. But Baruk has been taken — or has fallen, or failed. There’s nothing we can do.’

‘Then it falls to us. We are all that’s left. Us and Kruppe.’

‘Gods!’ Coll looked to the ceiling. ‘You almost had me, Rallick. Then you had to go and mention that greasy thief.’ He waved to the grounds. ‘Where is he? Have you seen him? The man’s halfway to Nathilog by now.’

‘No, he’s not. He’s in hiding. I’m seeing his hand in things more and more.’ The man looked down, frowning. ‘I wonder now if all along I was nothing more than his hand and ear in the guild. As Murillio was among the aristocracy, and young Crokus may have been on the streets. While you were a potential hand and ear in the Council.’

‘Happenstance only, friend. You’re looking backwards and inventing patterns. You give him too much credit. I grant you he’s some sort of talent — but he uses it to do nothing more than fill his stomach.’

‘Does he? I heard he faced down the Warlord.’

Coll frowned, uneasy. He reached for the decanter then thought better of it. ‘Brood just sort of … missed him.’

‘Exactly. I’m thinking no one has ever managed to get a firm grip on that fellow. Including us.’

Coll knit his fingers across his gut. ‘So? You have a point?’

‘We should stay in this card game. Play the waiting hand. They want you out, yes? Well, all the more reason to remain.’

Platitudes. A tyrant is closing his fist on the city and this man offers me platitudes. He raised his gaze to the immense inverted mountain that was the chandelier hanging, unlit, above the table. She always liked that monstrous thing. Gods, how I loathe it. He lowered his eyes to the man opposite. The harsh monochrome light painted the angular face in even sharper planes of light and dark. The man is serious. A serious Rallick should not be discounted.

He took a deep breath that swelled his stomach against his entwined fingers, let it out. Beyond the walls, from the neglected estate grounds, the crickets continued their songs to the night. He cocked his head, thinking. ‘Is the guild under their control?’

‘No. I believe not. In fact, I believe they may have just reopened their contract against the Legate.’

Coll sat up, amazed. ‘What? Why didn’t you say so, man?’

‘Because I believe they will fail as they did before.’

‘Anyone can be killed,’ Coll mused. ‘If recent events in the city have taught us anything they have taught us that. It’s just a matter of finding the right way.’

Rallick swung his leg down, stood. ‘Very good. I’ll shadow the guild. You shadow the Council.’

‘It’s no longer a Council,’ Coll said, sour. ‘It’s become a court of sycophants and hangers-on.’

‘One more thing,’ Rallick said.

Coll peered up, brows raised. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you have an extra room? I need a place to sleep.’

Coll fought down a near-hysterical laugh. ‘Here? Gods, man, this is the first place they’ll look for you.’

‘No. You’re still a Council member. They won’t move against you unless they’re offered a contract.’

‘How can you be so sure they won’t act anyway — unilaterally, so to speak?’

Rallick smiled humourlessly and Coll reflected that even the man’s smiles resembled the unsheathing of a knife. ‘Guild rules,’ he said.

Across the clear summer night sky the long trailing banner of the Scimitar arced high while the moon cast its cold, emerald-tinged light upon the empty Dwelling Plain. A lone figure, dark cloak blowing in the weak wind, walked the dry eroded hills. His features were night dark, his hair touched with silver. He wore fine dark gloves and upon the breast of his dark green silk shirt rode a single visible piece of jewellery: an upright bird’s foot claw worked in silver, clutching an orb. The Imperial Sceptre of the Malazans.

Topper had only been to Darujhistan a few times. Personally, he did not understand its prominence. He thought it too vulnerable, relying as it did on such distant market gardens and fields to feed its populace. Yet he did detect among the dunes and wind-swept hills straight lines and foundations which hinted that things had not always been this way. Logic, however, rarely guided such choices. History and precedent ruled. His names for such forces in human activity were laziness and inertia.

He came across yet another wind-eaten ring of an abandoned well, and dutifully he knelt to examine the stones. Nothing here. That report had better be accurate or he’d have the head of that useless mage for wasting his night. He moved on.

Frankly, nothing of what he’d found here interested him over much. He was glad of the recent carnage to the south. In his opinion such disarray and expending of resources opened the way for Malazan expansion. So too here in Darujhistan. Anomander gone. The Spawn ruined. In all, things could not have worked out better for the Throne.

What worried him was his absence from Unta. Who knew what idiocy Mallick might be initiating? Like that adventurism in Korel. It had better work out, or the regional governors might start to wonder if perhaps they’d made a mistake in backing the man …

He reached another dry well and knelt to examine it. This time he grunted his satisfaction and turned his attention to the lock blocking its top. Under his touch it opened easily. He threw aside the wooden lid and jumped in. A hand lightly touching the side slowed his descent. As the bottom approached he spread his feet to either side and stopped himself. Here he noted the faintest remnant glimmers of ancient wards and Warren magics. To his eye the work appeared to bear the touch of an Elder’s or Other’s hand. In either case, not plain human Warren manipulation. This fitted with what he knew of what he faced.

All was simply more intelligence to help him build the profile that would guide him in his own possible action against this Legate. If it should come to that.

And he rather hoped it would. For it would allow him to indulge in a bit of personal vindication. For the description of this young female servant — the filmy white clothes, the bangles and long hair — resembled someone else. Someone he hoped to have the excuse to confront.

He launched himself into the slim tunnel and pushed himself along on elbows and knees to where it emptied into a larger chamber. Here he dusted himself off then peered about. Empty. Side vaults empty as well. He examined the skulls decorating the floor, the empty stone plinth. Then he found the one occupied side vault. Here he paused for a long time.

The lingering magery flickering about this corpse interested him the most. He rested his hands on the stone ledge the carcass lay upon to lean closely over the remains. Why had this one alone resisted, or failed, reconstitution and escape? It seemed a puzzle. A trap within a trap within a trap. Subtle weavings. Yet who was trapping whom? And could he be certain? According to those cretin marines there could be only one witness. Only one individual emerged from the well before this masked creature appeared. The one others called scholar, a small-time potterer here among the ruins.

He leaned back, brushed his fingertip across his lips. As before: one set apart. Why? There must be some significance. He simply couldn’t get a tight enough grip upon it yet. The lineaments of the castings held a cold sharp edge. They whispered of non-human origins. Not Tiste — he knew his own. Certainly not K’Chain nor Forkrul. That left Jaghut. So, the legends of the ancient Jaghut Tyrants. Returned? Didn’t the Finnest house finish that?

Reason enough for any other to be wary.

He brushed his gloved hands together, climbed from the narrow alcove. Too many players for things to be straightforward and clear. Have to watch and wait.

At least until the inevitable frantic recall to the capital comes.

While the cargo scow was slow, it made steady progress all through the day and on through the night and so far sooner than Torvald expected they drew up next to the sagging dilapidated pier at Dhavran. His travelling companions, he knew, would be disembarking here. He was saddened to see them go. They’d been extraordinarily informative regarding the political situation among the Free Cities and the Malazans to the north. From hints and details he gathered that the big fellow, Cal, had once been some sort of military commander far in the north.

In the dawn’s light, alongside all the other passengers preparing to leave, the two put together their meagre travelling gear. At the rail Torvald waited to say his farewells. Sailors readied the gangway.

‘Sorry to say goodbye,’ he told the old man, Tserig.

The fellow glanced up to his huge companion, who peered down at Torvald from amid his wild mane of blowing hair and beard, a half-smile at his lips, and rumbled, ‘Haven’t you been listening? You’re coming with us.’

Torvald blinked. For an instant he had a flashback to another of his travelling companions, one similarly large and abstruse. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘There is no longer at Pale anything of any relevance to your master in Darujhistan. Here at Dhavran, however, will soon arrive something of great significance.’

‘And that is?’

‘The Rhivi nation is invading the south, meaning to crush the Malazans. Don’t you think you should discuss the matter with them? You are, I gather, a duly appointed city councillor, yes?’

Torvald coughed to clear his throat. ‘You are not serious, I hope?’

‘Very serious.’

Tserig gummed his nearly toothless mouth, nodding his agreement. ‘We are here to try to talk them out of it.’

The gangway slammed down, rattling the dock. The crowd on the deck hefted their bags and rolls while babies cried, pigs squealed, and caged fowl gobbled. Torvald shouldered his own bag. ‘Well … I suppose I ought to accompany you, then.’

‘Very good,’ Cal said. ‘They should be here shortly.’

They waited until all the other departing passengers had shuffled down the gangway. Tor watched families reunited amid hugs and tears; travelling petty traders set down their wares and immediately start haggling; and local merchants fussed over the unloading of ordered goods. This was the stuff of normal life — the daily round of trying to build a better future. This was what people wanted. Really, in the final accounting, they just wanted to be left alone to get on with things.

Once the way was clear they hefted their bags and tramped down the planking. Tor noted that it bowed alarmingly beneath Cal’s weight.

They set up camp close to the muddy riverside where a meagre bridge made a crossing. Here they waited. ‘It will only be a few days,’ Tserig assured Torvald. In the meantime Torvald questioned Cal. It turned out the man knew an incredible amount regarding general history and politics. Torvald, who had been away from the region for some time, suddenly found himself very well informed.

Just a few days later the first of the Rhivi outriders arrived at the broad shallow valley that this creek, the Red, meandered through. Cal, Tserig and Torvald went to meet them at the bridge.

The riders trotted up to the bridge, dismounted. Cal awaited them with his hands tucked into the wide leather belt of his travel-stained trousers. Old Tserig leaned on a large walking stick. Torvald stood just behind. He keenly felt that he was intruding.

The two outriders knelt before Cal. ‘Warlord,’ they said.

Torvald slapped a hand to his mouth. Great gods! Warlord? Cal — Caladan — Caladan Brood! He heard a roaring in his ears and his vision darkened, narrowing to a tunnel. The old man grasped his arm with a grip like the snaring of a root, steadying him. The riders bowed to Tserig as well, murmuring, ‘Elder.’

‘I would treat with Jiwan,’ Caladan said. ‘If he will receive my words.’

‘We will carry your message.’

‘One more thing.’ The Warlord motioned aside to Torvald. ‘I also have with me an emissary from the ruling council of Darujhistan, Torvald Nom. He too would speak with Jiwan.’

The two bowed again, then returned to their mounts. Caladan watched them go. After a time he turned to Torvald. ‘We should have an answer soon enough.’

Tor struggled to find his voice. ‘Why … why didn’t you tell me …?’

‘I could hardly announce it there on that boat, could I?’

‘Well … I suppose not. But … why aren’t you …’ Tor swallowed, realizing his indelicacy, and finished lamely, ‘you know.’

‘With them?’ the big man supplied, arching a bushy brow. ‘I argued against any further war but I was outvoted. The young bloods want to prove themselves. And being the aggressive faction — they won the day.’ His hands knotted at his belt. ‘At least that is how it had better have been. Otherwise …’ He shook the great mane about his head and gestured to the creek. ‘In the meantime let’s try and catch some fish.’

In the end, it was Tserig who caught them. Wading along the shore, robes pulled high up over his skinny shanks, he scared two whiskered bottom-feeders into the shallows and Torvald scooped them up. They skewered them over flames, and after the meal, the noise of hooves announced the approach of riders. Rising, Caladan pulled his hands through his thick beard then wiped them on his trousers. Torvald helped Tserig to his feet. ‘My thanks,’ the man murmured. ‘My joints are not what they used to be. Though I’ll have you know my prick is just fine.’

Torvald clamped his teeth together against a choking laugh. ‘That … is … encouraging news, Elder.’

The old man gummed his mouth, nodding. ‘It should be!’

The riders were Rhivi warriors finely accoutred in mail and enamelled leather armour with skirtings that hung down the sides of their mounts. Torvald recognized these men and women as the cream of the Rhivi’s leading clans. The foremost rider drew off his helmet to nod to Caladan. His thin beard was braided, as was his long black hair.

‘Warlord. To what do we owe this honour … again?’

‘Jiwan. I am here to ask you one last time to put down the spear. No good will come of it, only suffering and tears. Think of your people — the lives that will be lost.’

The young commander nodded thoughtfully, frowning. ‘I hear your words, Warlord, and I honour you for your past leadership and wisdom. But these words are not those of a war leader. They are the words of an old man who has lost a great friend. A mourning elder who looks at life only to see death. Such a dark vision must not guide a people. We who see life, who look ahead to the future, we must lead. And so, Caladan … I ask that you stand aside.’

‘Pretty words, Jiwan,’ Brood answered, unruffled by the young man’s dismissal. ‘I see now how you turned the heads of the Circle of Elders. But I do not think I will stand aside. I think I will block this bridge to you and all those foolish enough to follow anyone hypocritical — or inexperienced — enough to speak of life while going to war.’

Torvald’s mood had fallen from uncomfortable to distinctly exposed here on the open bridge as more and more of the Rhivi cavalry, mixed medium and light, came trotting down the shallow valley. He felt like an interloper among the negotiations of a war leader who had dominated the north for decades, and had led the resistance there against the invading Malazans. Now to be dismissed in such an ignoble and off-handed manner! It grated against his instincts. To so blindly dismiss the hard-learned wisdom of centuries!

The young war leader’s gaze now found Torvald. He raised his chin. ‘You are this Darujhistani emissary, Torvald, Nom of Nom?’

Torvald bowed from the waist. ‘I am he.’

‘What think you of this man’s position here?’

‘I think it … rather unassailable.’

A scornful smile drew back the youth’s lips. ‘Strange words from an emissary of Darujhistan when all the others are so eager for Malazan blood.’

‘What’s that?’ Caladan growled, his voice suddenly low and menacing.

The war leader seemed to believe he had scored a point and he nodded his assurances. ‘Oh, yes. The city is with us. We have the fullest intelligence from them. For example, the remnant fleeing just before us number less than twelve hundreds, while our numbers swell with every passing day. Soon we shall reach thirty thousands! And your Legate, Nom of Nom, promises aid during the engagement. Obviously he too recognizes the threat these Malazans pose.’ Jiwan sat up taller in his saddle. He raised his voice to be heard by the surrounding riders. ‘Now is our chance to rid our lands of the invader! They are weak. Leaderless. Few in number. Now is our best chance and perhaps our only chance! We must strike now! While we are assembled! The gods have handed us this opportunity. We must not let it slip away out of fear.’

‘Your words lack respect!’ Tserig called suddenly. ‘They displease the ancestors.’ The Elder pointed to Caladan. ‘This man sheltered Silverfox the Liberator! The gift of the Mhybe!’

The war leader bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘True. But where is the miraculous Silverfox now?’ He turned in his saddle to shout: ‘She has abandoned us!’

‘Enough!’ Caladan bellowed. So strong was the yell that Torvald felt the bridge judder beneath his feet. ‘Enough talk. Jiwan, this bridge is closed to you.’

Exaggerated regret drew the war leader’s mouth down. He shook his head. ‘Caladan, it is sad to see you reduced to such petty gestures.’ He pointed to the shallow waterway. ‘You accomplish nothing. We will merely ride through the creek.’

Caladan crossed his arms. ‘You are welcome to do so. You are much overdue, I think, for getting muddy.’

Jiwan merely clamped his lips shut. Yanking on his reins he waved for the cavalry to go round. Torvald watched while the columns passed to either side of the bridge. Some refused to acknowledge the Warlord or glance his way, while the lingering eyes of others held sadness, regret, and even guilt.

It was many hours before the last of the riders passed. Above, the mottled moon and the Scimitar cast bright competing shadows while threads of clouds passed between them. Caladan finally let out a long breath. ‘A large force,’ he admitted. ‘Every clan represented.’

‘They smell blood,’ Tserig agreed.

‘Malazan blood.’

‘What will you do now?’ Torvald asked.

The huge man uncrossed his arms and shifted his stance. The logs of the bridge creaked beneath their feet. ‘I warned your Legate not to interfere in this. But he has defied me. Whipped the Rhivi on to the Malazans. All Jiwan sees is the glory of being the war leader who defeats the Malazans. He doesn’t see that Rhivi blood is simply ridding this creature of his enemies for him.’

‘I’ll go back, then,’ Torvald said, certain of what he should do. ‘Speak against this.’

The man’s tangled brows rose. ‘Great Burn, no, lad. You’ll be killed out of hand. No. I’m going. I intend to take this Legate by the neck and let him know of my displeasure.’

Suddenly Torvald felt rather afraid for his city. There were stories of this man — this Ascendant — levelling mountains in the north. ‘You won’t …’ he began, only to pause as he realized he wasn’t sure what he intended to say. Won’t destroy the city?

The man smiled his reassurance. ‘Only this Legate troubles me. I am sorry, Torvald Nom, but all is not as you think in your home. I suspect something is controlling Lim, or he has struck a bargain where he should not have.’

Something strange going on? What is strange about Lim’s having resurrected an ancient reviled title? Or started wearing a gold mask? There is nothing strange in that.

‘Tserig,’ Caladan continued, ‘would you re-join Jiwan’s forces? If things go badly there will be a need for your voice.’

‘I understand, Warlord.’

Caladan regarded Torvald, stroked his beard. ‘Perhaps if you accompanied me you would be safe enough.’

Tor thought about the offer but realized that there might be something else he could do. Something perhaps only he could do. ‘No.’

Caladan stopped to turn, frowning. ‘No?’

‘No. The Moranth withdrew when they sensed something was happening. And here we are in the shadows of their mountains. I’ll … I’ll go to them.’

‘Torvald Nom, that is an extraordinary offer. But no one has ever succeeded in reaching them in their mountain strongholds. They speak to no one. I’ve heard that only the Emperor and Dancer ever managed to sneak into Cloud Forest.’

‘They will speak to me.’

The Ascendant eyed him while he pulled at his beard. He was obviously curious as to the source of Torvald’s certainty, but refrained from challenging it. He grunted instead, nodding. ‘Very well. I wish there was some help I could offer.’

‘Well — I could use a horse.’

The big man smiled behind his beard. His gaze shifted to the south where a galaxy of campfires now lit the plain. ‘I think I might be able to produce one.’

Leoman sat with his arms draped over his folded knees. He watched the titanic shadow of Maker high against the horizon where the giant continued his labour while the stars wheeled and the waves of glimmering Vitr worked their eternal erosion.

He sighed and glanced over to where Kiska stood high on the strand, facing the Sea of Vitr. Day after day she stood in plain view of Tayschrenn, or Thenaj, and his cohort of helpers while they carried out their rescue mission of dragging unfortunates from the burning energies of creation and destruction. Her goal, he believed he understood, was that somehow, eventually, the sight of her would trigger some memory within the archmagus and the man would come to his senses.

He thought it a forlorn hope. He stretched then sat back, his elbows in the black sand. Was he losing weight? Wasting away? Would he fade to a haunt doomed to wander the shores of creation wringing his hands or searching for a black button he’d dropped?

Kiska nudged his leg — he’d been wool-gathering. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. She peered down at him, then away, screwing up her eyes. ‘You don’t have to stay,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘True.’

‘You should go. There’s no need for you to be here.’

‘One does not return empty-handed to the Queen of Dreams.’

‘She’s not vindictive.’

He snorted. ‘This is all assuming we can return.’

‘She wouldn’t have sent us to our deaths.’

‘She said she couldn’t see beyond Chaos.’

Kiska set her hands on her hips. ‘Well … so, you’re just going to lie around watching?’

He peered about as if searching for something else, then returned his gaze to her. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Well … you’re making me uncomfortable.’

‘Oh — I’m making you uncomfortable?’

‘Yes! So go away.’

He pointed one sandalled foot to the beach. ‘I’m sure our friends feel the same way.’

‘That’s different.’

‘It is? Shall we ask them?’

Kiska’s lips tightened to almost nothing. ‘They won’t talk to me.’

Fine lips they are for kissing. Too bad there’s been precious little of that. Now there’s a reason to go back. He squinted up at her. ‘That’s because you’re making them uncomfortable.’

She waved curtly, dismissing him — ‘Gods, I don’t know why I bother’ — and marched away.

Well … that didn’t work. What now? Bash her on the head and drag her back to the Enchantress? Here you are, Your Ladyship — one troublesome agent returned safe and sound. Are we even now?

He eased back into studying the horizon. Time for that yet. Best wait a touch longer. See if she works this out of her system all on her own. As he’d learned from experience — it’s always easiest simply to set out the bait and wait for them to come to you.

The old witch who lived at the very western edge of the shanty town that itself clung to the western edge of Darujhistan seemed to spend all her time whittling. That and incessantly humming and chanting to herself. People whose errands happened to bring them wandering by sometimes considered telling the hag to shut up. But, after reconsidering, none ever did so. It was after all asking for trouble to insult a witch.

This afternoon, as the sun descended to the west, where just visible was the top of the great hump of the tomb of the Andii prince — uncharacteristically unlooted as yet, as, again, it would be asking for trouble to attempt to rob the tomb of the Son of Darkness — this afternoon the witch’s head snapped up from her sticks and she stuffed them away into the folds of her layered shirts. She stood, peering narrowly to the south. Out came her pipe in one hand and in her other a pinch of mud or gum that she rolled between grimy thumb and forefinger.

She brought the lump up to her eyes, squinting. Brought it even closer, so close that her thumb touched the bridge of her nose and her eyes crossed. Then she grunted, satisfied, and jammed the lump into the pipe. This she lit, puffing, before returning to studying the south, an arm tucked under the one holding the pipe. Passers-by noted her attention and stopped to look as well. But, seeing nothing but the dusty hills of the Dwelling Plain, they shook their heads at the woman’s craziness and moved on.

‘Almost,’ the woman muttered aloud as if conversing with someone. She blew twin plumes of smoke from her nostrils. ‘Almost.’

Barathol was in the back, building a crib. Little Chaur, he’d noticed, was now as long as the basket he currently slept in. It was late afternoon and the work was going slowly; he kept forgetting where he was in the process — which piece to cut and how long to make it. He was, frankly, dead on his feet. His hands were clumsy crude gloves, his thoughts glacial.

Glancing up he noticed Scillara at the back door, watching, arms crossed over her broad chest. ‘Asleep then?’ he said.

‘Aye. A feed and a nap — practising being a regular man, he is.’

‘Our needs are simple.’

‘Bar …’ she began slowly.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m … sorry. I was — I am — angry that you took that work. I’m scared that …’

He set down his handsaw. ‘Yes?’

She raised her eyes to the darkening sky as if not believing what she was about to confess. ‘I’m scared. Scared that I’m going to lose you.’

He sat back, resting his hands on his thighs, and gave her a crooked smile. ‘You’ll never lose me so long as you have Chaur, yes?’

‘I’m sorry, Bar. All I see is a lump of need that looks at me with hungry eyes. I don’t like that look, Bar.’

‘In time then, Scil. As he grows you’ll see more and more of you and me in him.’

She was looking to the north, picking at the cracked wood of the jamb. ‘I don’t know. It’s you I chose — not him. Maybe … maybe we should go. Leave tonight while we can.’

‘There’s work for me here. Enough for us to get by on.’

‘And this other work? When will it finish?’

‘Soon. Very soon. They’re almost done now.’

She watched him carefully, as if studying him. ‘What’ve they got you doing up there anyway?’

‘Nothing important, Scil. Nothing important.’

Grisp Falaunt was lord of one row of turnips. That and a shack that really wasn’t a shack being as it was more of a lean-to of broken lumber and canvas cobbled from the remains of what once was a shack. But from the shade of his wholly-owned domicile he could look south to the shimmering images of orchards, fields and groves covering the hills of the Dwelling Plain. All that had almost been — and rightfully ought to have been — his. For in the absence of all other claims was he not the lord and master of all the vast plain? Who could dispute that? Why, none, o’ course.

Again he reached down next to his chair, where his hand encountered nothing, and he growled and adjusted the cactus spine held between his teeth from one side to the other. Damned trespassing devil-dogs. Broke his fine cabin and burst the heart of his last loyal friend, fine Scamper, buried now among the turnips.

Ought to fence his property. That’s what he ought to do. Then them fancy nobles in Darujhistan would come a callin’. Why, then-

Grisp leaned forward, the front legs of his chair thumping in the dust. What in the name o’ dried-up Burn was that? More trespassers?

A file of men had emerged from a gulch, or draw, or gully, or whatever it was you called a damned depression out there on the plain. A great cloud of dust was following them. In fact, they was running like the very devil-dogs was after them.

And they was headed right for him.

Or not. Maybe not quite right for him. More like … His slit gaze shifted aslant to his last remaining row of turnips. The spine clamped between his lips stood straight up. Oh no.

Hood’s bones! They was headed for his turnip plantation!

Chair thrown aside numb bare feet tangling with staked rope ties of canvas roof much cursing and flailing to stand bony chest thrown out athwart limp brown leaves defiant!

The jogging twin files of men and women — masked, for all sakes! — parted to either side, their sandalled feet trampling the row into flattened dirt and bruised turnip flesh.

Upraised fists fell. Screwed-up features twisted into puzzlement, then despair.

Grisp landed on the tattered rear of his trousers while the yellow ochre dust of the Dwelling Plain blew about him. There, between his feet, brown leaves intact, lay his last undamaged turnip.

‘Fair enough,’ he croaked, waving the dust from his face. ‘This time, Scamper m’boy. This time I mean it. Time for action. Time for pullin’ up stakes and movin’ on. Fer …’ He eyed the limp bug-gnawed specimen before him and slumped even further into the dry dirt. ‘Aw, t’Hood with it.’

Not long after that, the guards of Cutter Road Gate, newly reconstructed, let go of the robes of the dealer in rare woods from the plains of Lamatath as the alarm from the watchtower sent up its strident warning. Both peered down the length of Cutter Lake Road over the heads of the crowd of farmers and petty traders held up behind the tottering wagon of the dealer in rare woods.

The elder guard noticed that the wagon was blocking the gate. ‘Get moving, you damned fool!’ he bellowed at the man. The other guard, staring south, mouthed something like ‘Ghak!’

Ghak? the elder wondered, then an arm slammed him backwards into the wall of the gatehouse and he slid down the gritty stones, dazed and breathless, while a file of men and women jogged by, hands resting near the grips of sheathed swords as they passed without so much as a glance down.

After the last of the file had gone the man pulled himself up, wincing and gasping and rubbing his chest. Masks, he wondered? Why in Beru’s name were they wearin’ masks? He and his partner shared helpless stricken looks across the wagon. The dealer leaned to one side to spit a stream of thick brown fluid across the dusty road.

‘You all are in big trouble now,’ he commented with great satisfaction, and flicked the reins.

On a street in the Gadrobi district a boy coming into adolescence ran up to a heavyset woman standing in the entranceway to the open hall of a school of swordsmanship. ‘Masked men!’ he cried excitedly, his eyes shining. ‘Masked men running through the streets!’

‘What’s that?’ the woman answered sharply.

‘Some say Seguleh!’ He waved her out. ‘Come.’

‘Inside,’ she demanded.

‘But …’

‘Harllo …’

His shoulders slumped and he brushed in past her. ‘Yes, Mother.’

The woman slowly closed the door on people running past, on yells sounding from the distance. Inside, she lowered a heavy bar across the door then pulled a crossbow from where it hung on the wall. She flexed its band, testing it, and nodded.

Sulty handed out the plates of hot goat skewers on couscous then paused, tilting her head — marching feet, double-time. Been a long time since she’d heard that sound. Her gaze caught Scurve at the bar and he shrugged; evidently he knew nothing of it.

Moments later a man ducked inside, breathless, red-faced. ‘Seguleh!’ he shouted. ‘On the Way!’

As one the patrons surged to their feet to charge the door.

‘You ain’t paid!’ Jess bellowed. Then the two women were left alone in the room amid fallen chairs and steaming food. Sulty blew hair from her face. Jess motioned the others outside. ‘Might as well have a look.’

They joined the crowd eyeing the distant Second Tier Way. But there was nothing to see. Whoever, or whatever, had passed, and only the witnesses remained. The patrons gathered round those who claimed to have seen. The women rubbed their aching chapped hands in their aprons, shrugged, and went back inside.

It had nothing to do with them.

In the common room, Sulty eyed the table with its steaming plates and skewers and wondered — hadn’t there been five?

The clerk posted at the gate to the Way of Justice heard the marching echoing up the walls enclosing the Way. Puzzled, he picked up his scrolls and stepped outside. No notice of procession had been filed for this day. Who were these fools?

A double file of men and women came jogging round a corner and the clerk stared, squinting. Great Fanderay … were they … Before he could complete his thought they sped past to either side, leather jerkins stained wet with sweat, limbs glistening, eyes hidden behind masks riveted straight ahead.

One by one the scrolls slid from the clerk’s hands. Kicked and trampled, they flew, wind-caught, to flutter over the wall of the Second Tier, wafting towards the glimmering waters of Lake Azur.

After the last had passed the clerk quickly finished his sums and came to an astounding number that kept him from discovering his empty hands. Five hundred. Great Ancient Mother of the Hearth! Surely they cannot be real!

He crossed to one of the city Wardens who guarded the Way. The man was staring off up the rising cobbled path, a gourd of water half-raised to his mouth. ‘Do something,’ the clerk demanded.

The man swallowed, his face as pale as the finest vellum. ‘Do what?’

‘Warn them! Warn the Council!’

The man slammed the wooden stopper home. ‘I’ll just trot along behind, shall I?’

The clerk raised his hands to shake a finger, then realized. He started, gaping. ‘Great Mother of Pain!’ He threw himself to the stone lip of the wall to peer over and down. ‘I’m ruined!’

‘You’re ruined?’ The guard flicked the truncheon at his side and snorted. ‘I think we’re all fucking ruined.’

The journey had been a strange experience in double vision for Jan. All the landmarks, major features and place names remained as handed down through the ancient lays and stories of his people. And yet all was different. Gone were the orchards, groves and fields of the verdant Dwelling Plain. All was dust and desolation. The great network of irrigation canals and the artificial lakes sand-choked and buried; the many brick towers, the leagues of urban dwelling, all gnawed to the barest foundations and scatterings of eroded sun-dried brick. A population collapse — just as described in the catastrophe of their exile.

And the city itself, fair white-walled Darujhistan. White-walled no more. Oh, it appeared large and wealthy enough. But gone were the soaring towers of translucent white stone so clear one could see the sun through their walls. Gone the great Orb of the King, the Circle of Pure Justice. All destroyed in the Great Shattering and Fall.

Many of the inhabitants carried weapons, as well. There appeared to have been a proliferation of those willing to place themselves under the judgement of the sword. But that could wait. Ahead lay the Throne and the one who sent out the call. What would it be? The fulfilment of the long-held dream of his people? It seemed unreal that this should be achieved, now, in his lifetime. The last First had never spoken of it, had always deflected Jan’s probes. It was this uncharacteristic reluctance that troubled him now as he jogged up the Way of Justice. Such guardedness had all been too much for one Second, the one whose name had been stricken. Slaves to tradition, he had denounced them, as he threw away his sword.

And it was said the man had subsequently taken up a sword in the service of true slavery. But such were tales outside the testing circle and thus beneath attending.

In any case, they would soon know. Jan led the way. He hardly noticed the figures he brushed aside as he entered the Hall of Majesty. The body of their handed-down songs and stories contained many descriptions of the approach to the Throne, although it took a moment to sort through the subsequent alterations and additions to the rambling complex. That done, Jan directed those of the Fiftieth to guard the path, then walked up to the tall panelled doors — not even noting the two guards who stood ashen-faced to either side — and pushed them open.

It was dusk now, and the golden light of the sunset shone almost straight across the Great Hall, illuminating the gathered crowd in flames of argent. Jan paused, disconcerted to find a sea of plain golden masks directed his way. Though not all, he noted, wore them. And among those who did some now fell limp to crash to the floor.

He ignored them all as beneath his direct attention and strode for the Throne. His escort, the Twenty, followed him in. The crowd parted like torn cloth. Two of those insensate were dragged across the floor to clear the way.

The one on the throne rose to meet him.

He wore the template upon which all these others were obviously patterned. Jan recognized the power and authority radiating from it as if from the sun itself — but it was not the mask he had come all this way to meet. Halting, he met the man with his own masked head slightly inclined, eyes a shade downcast: the posture of uncertainty regarding rank.

The masked figure gestured, arms open, his thick burgundy robes wide.

‘Greetings, loyal children.’ A voice spoke from one side, quavering and breathless, almost choking. ‘You have answered the call of your master. Soon all shall be restored to what it was. The Circle of Perfect Rulership is near completion.’

The golden Father? First guide me! Was this the source of your silence? Ancestors forgive me … which do I choose? The knee or the blade? Which will it be? All now are watching, waiting upon me, the Second, to show the way. And yet … there it is. For am I not Second? And did not the last First ever instruct — the Second has but one task.

The Second follows.

And so he knelt before their ancient master reborn, his mask bent to the floor. And, leathers shifting and hissing, all the Twenty knelt in turn.

In the crowd yet another of those assembled crashed to the floor.