Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XIII

Antsy awoke to a hammering on the wall of their room. ‘Up and on your feet,’ someone growled. ‘Let’s go.’ The feeble yellow light of a lamp glowed through the burlap hanging. He sat up, stretched, and set to pulling on his gear. He and Corien stepped out first to give Orchid more privacy to squat over the chamber pot.

The motley crew in their mismatched armour, men mostly, all chuckled at the loud hiss of the liquid stream against metal that came echoing out from behind the hanging. In charge of this detachment was the fellow boasting the huge thick beard tied off in tails and the tattered dirty jupon over the banded iron hauberk, its heraldry rendered murky and indistinguishable. When Orchid stepped out he gestured impatiently. ‘This way.’

They were led through narrower and narrower private passages — what might have once been a large private dwelling — to a guarded room where tables stood crowded by scrolls and vellum sheets held down by countless statues of animals real and fantastic, some carved from semi-precious stone, others cast in silver and gold. Light was provided by a large candelabra so low it threatened to ignite the many sheets. A fat man sat with his boots up on one of the tables, leaning back, studying a document.

But what really caught Antsy’s attention was the wonderful scent of fresh fruit and cooked meat. His stomach lurched and grumbled and his mouth, dry for days, now flooded.

‘Prisoners, sir,’ their captor grunted.

The man did not look up from the document. ‘Very good, Lieutenant.’

The lieutenant promptly slouched into a chair, one of slung cured leather over carved dark wood that itself looked like a work of art. He helped himself to a cut-crystal jug of red wine, pouring it into a cup that appeared to have been carved from jade. He waved away the guards.

The man tossed down the sheet. He was unshaven, his face glistening in the candlelight. His hair hung in a tangled mess around a bald dome. He rubbed his sunken red-ringed eyes with a pudgy hand thick with gem-studded rings. He blinked at them. ‘A Darujhistan dandy, a Malazan deserter, and some rich merchant’s plaything. How can any of you be of use to me?’

‘Torbal Loat,’ Antsy blurted, the name suddenly coming to him.

The man cocked one bloodshot eye. ‘Met before, have we?’

‘This fellow carved out quite the territory for himself up north during the wars,’ Antsy told Corien and Orchid.

‘Before you Malazans drove me out.’

Antsy raised his hands. ‘Hey, I chucked that in. No percentage there.’

The man merely grunted. He raised his chin to Corien. ‘You can use a blade, I assume?’

The youth bowed. ‘At your service.’

The lieutenant laughed a harsh bray and raised his glass in salute.

‘And you?’ Torbal demanded of Orchid.

‘She’s a mage of Rashan,’ Antsy said before she could answer.

Torbal’s heavy mouth twisted his irritation. ‘This true? If not, I’ll kill you myself.’

‘I have some small gifts, yes,’ she stammered.

He grunted, unimpressed. ‘Well … it’s the usual deal. You swear to fight for me and you’ll receive your fair share of food and shares in the profits. As you can see, we control the majority of the Spawn. Most of all that is worth anything is with us. Fight well and eventually your original gear will be returned. Though,’ and he glared at Antsy, ‘not all of it. Desertion is of course punishable by immediate execution,’ he added, continuing to give Antsy a hard eye.

‘For a share of the total profits I’m your man,’ Antsy said.

‘As am I,’ Corien added.

‘And I.’

‘Now,’ Torbal began, picking up a star fruit and examining it. ‘Our lookouts report that there was someone else with you … What happened to him?’

Antsy could not take his eyes from the ripe yellow star-shaped fruit. ‘He ran off.’

‘Ran off? You won’t mind then if we have a look for him?’

Antsy kept his face dead straight as he said: ‘No. We don’t mind at all.’

‘Where do you get all this food?’ Corien breathed, his voice thick with longing.

Torbal’s expression said that he was very pleased his little demonstration had had the desired effect. He sat back and took a bite of the fruit. ‘I have contacts with the Confederation boys. For a few trinkets I get regular shipments. My people eat well — remember that.’ He gestured to the lieutenant. ‘Get them rooms.’

The lieutenant pushed himself up. ‘Let’s go.’

He marched them back through the rambling living quarters. Antsy quickly became lost though he was doing his best to keep his bearings; he suspected the man was leading them in circles. Eventually he stopped before a portal covered by a hanging — a hacked portion of a tapestry that must once have been worth a fortune before such desecration. ‘You have a name?’ Antsy asked him.

The man pulled off his helmet and shook out long thick hair around his scarred and pitted face. ‘Otan.’

‘Otan of Genalle?’

‘The same.’

‘You gave us — ah, the Malazans — a lot of trouble.’

‘I still do,’ the man said, eyeing Antsy with obvious distaste. ‘Listen … Torbal says you live for now, but I don’t like you. Spy or deserter, whichever you are, I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Be sure of that.’

‘That’ll keep me warm at night, friend.’

‘We’ll settle this. Don’t worry. We’ll settle up.’ He ambled off, his armour rattling and creaking.

It was a plain living chamber. A side room allowed the option of privacy for Orchid. They remained together in the main room talking in low voices while Corien kept a watch at the hanging.

‘What now?’ Orchid asked. ‘We’re captives.’

‘Are we at the top?’ Antsy asked.

‘No. According to all the descriptions I’ve heard there’s still a way to go.’

‘Thought so.’

‘Why?’

He gestured back the way they’d come. ‘I didn’t think this lot would be in charge.’

‘They have a lot of swords,’ Corien pointed out.

‘Yeah. But they’re fighting someone for control of the rock.’

‘Who?’

Antsy rubbed his slick forehead; his fingers came away greasy and sticky. He sighed. ‘I think maybe Malazans.’

‘Malazans?’ Orchid echoed in disbelief.

‘Yeah.’ Antsy sat on a stone sleeping ledge. ‘I heard that a while back a Malazan man-of-war bulled its way through to here. That would be maybe some two hundred fighting men. That’s why old Otan there’s accusing me of being a spy.’

Corien raised a hand for silence. Someone approached and he opened the hanging. It was a slave, a skinny crippled fellow with one hand and one bandaged eye. He was hugging a platter containing a hunk of cheese, dry hardtack, smoked meat, and a ceramic pot of water.

‘What’s your story, old man?’ Antsy asked him.

The man’s answer was the sad wreckage of a smile. A stream of clear fluid ran down his cheek from under the bandage. ‘Came out to make my fortune. Like a gold rush, everyone said. Jewels to be plucked from the streets of the Spawn.’ With his remaining hand he gestured to himself. ‘But, as I found, riches don’t come cheap.’

‘I hear you, old man. What about weapons?’

‘When there’s an attack.’

Corien swore, then apologized to Orchid.

‘An attack?’ Antsy continued. ‘Who?’

The man shook his battered head. ‘Can’t say. Talk means punishment.’

‘I understand. Thanks for the food.’

The old fellow bowed and padded off into the darkness. Antsy used his short eating knife to cut slices from the lump of cheese. Chewing, he squinted into the dark side room. ‘I think your night vision thing is still working, Orchid.’

‘Me too,’ Corien affirmed.

‘Good,’ she said bleakly.

Antsy turned his squint on her. ‘Could you give us darkness?’

‘There’s plenty of that.’

He cut and handed out slivers of the hard meat. Tasting it he wasn’t sure what it was. Horse? ‘No. Real darkness. The kind that light can’t penetrate — would we still be able to see in that?’

‘I think so, yes. I believe you should.’

‘Good. That might be enough to get us out of here.’

‘Darkness?’ Corien said. ‘We have no weapons.’

‘Then we’ll bash people over the head and take theirs!’ Antsy answered, a touch irritated.

Corien inclined his head. ‘Of course. A sophisticated plan. When?’

Antsy scratched his own thickening beard. ‘Yeah. When. Common wisdom says we should wait a while — look like we’re fitting in. But I can’t shake the feeling that time’s not on our side. This whole rock is unstable. Who knows what might happen to it? Every day we’re stuck here we’re tempting Oponn and I don’t like that.’

‘So … we don’t wait?’

‘No.’ He wrapped the food to pack it away. ‘We go now.’

‘But our supplies. Your munitions!’

‘I’m happier keeping my head, thanks.’

Corien smiled his rueful admiration. ‘You’ve weathered more reversals than we have, Red.’

Antsy shoved the food into a roll of the tattered blankets and tied it off. ‘Aw, Hood. It ain’t Red. It’s Antsy.’

The youth and Orchid shared a glance of suppressed humour. ‘Well,’ Corien said, ‘we knew it wasn’t Red.’

‘So,’ Orchid whispered, facing Antsy. ‘What do we do?’

He moved to the hanging and motioned to Corien. ‘Snuff the light.’

Corien wet his fingers and pinched the wick of twisted hemp. In the bloom of utter dark Antsy waited for his vision to adjust. Eventually the faint blue glow returned and the walls and his companions slowly emerged from the gloom as if wavering into existence. He raised his hands to the Darujhistani aristocrat, who nodded his affirmation.

Orchid came up. ‘Now?’ she whispered.

He motioned a negative. ‘Let’s give it a while. Maybe they’ll think we’re sleeping.’

She was standing so close her thick mane of black hair brushed his ear, sending a shiver down his frame. He suddenly became very aware of the warmth of her body so close. The smell of her sweat was a pleasure to him. It reminded him of some rare spice. He turned his face away, clearing his throat. Ye gods, man. Get a grip.

‘So,’ he began, his voice thick and hoarse, ‘Morn thought you part Andii. What do you think?’

Her dark eyes sought his but he resolutely kept them on the hall. ‘It feels right. I guess I’d never thought about it until he said it. It explains a lot of things.’

He leaned back against the side of the portal. ‘Never thought about it? Who raised you, then?’

‘I grew up in what I know now was some sort of temple, or religious community. The priests and priestesses were my parents and teachers. I never left it. As I grew older I explored a bit and found that the temple was on an island. A very small island. After that I suppose I just contented myself with learning about the world through the stories and texts in the temple. That and my teachers.’

‘Who taught you the Andii tongue, and their letters.’

‘And their literature and legends and mythology.’

‘That didn’t make you wonder?’

She cocked her head aside in the darkness, considering. ‘No. Should it have? I just thought it was normal. I thought everyone learned these things. There was nothing to compare it to. Now, I know that must have been a temple to Elder Dark.’ She shook her head, a regretful smile at her lips. ‘I’m not the first to discover that most of what I’ve been taught was either wrong, irrelevant, or insane.’

Antsy nodded at that. Yeah. Parents and family work their craziness too. Gods, just look at Spindle.

‘There’s more, of course,’ she continued, sounding puzzled. ‘Other strange things that I still can’t understand. I seem to remember …’ She shifted, uneasy.

‘You don’t have to go on,’ Antsy murmured, keeping his gaze fixed on the dark hall. ‘I understand. But maybe I can help you sort through it.’

She let out a steadying breath, her lips clenched, then nodded. ‘I had many teachers. They seemed to come and go.’

‘Uh-huh. And this is strange?’

‘Antsy … They were young when they came and when they left … they were old.’

He forced himself to swallow to wet his suddenly dry throat. ‘Ah. That is strange. You sure …?’

‘Yes. And I seem to remember it happening many times.’

Antsy let out a sound as if thinking that through. Queen release me! When will I learn to keep my damned mouth shut? ‘Well … Andii are long-lived, right? There you go.’ Hood! This ‘child’ is probably more than twice my age! What’s she been learning all that time? ‘Listen. Maybe that’s enough for-’

The jarring clanging of metal on metal blasted through the Spawn’s steady background noise of groans and clatterings. Corien leapt to his feet. Shouts sounded up the hall and quite a few screams as well. A figure stepped into the hall, shouted: ‘C’mon, you lot! It’s the alarm. Let’s go!’

Their watcher. Antsy nodded to Orchid. ‘Put a darkness here in the hall.’

She shut her eyes, murmuring, and all the faint glow of distant lights disappeared. The man peered about, panicked. ‘What in the Abyss …’

Antsy made for him. The fellow heard his approach and went for his sword but he was obviously blind, so Antsy kicked him in the groin then kneed him in the face, shattering the cartilage of his nose and possibly killing him. He took the man’s weapons while he lay stunned.

‘Which way?’ he called to Orchid. She pointed up the other way. He gave the sword to Corien, kept a fighting dirk. ‘I’ll lead. Corien, watch the rear.’

As they traced halls and turned corners, it came to him that Orchid was attempting to lead them round the settlement. He was happy with that because occasional blasts and screams reached them from whatever was going on over at one side of the complex. But as Orchid took longer and longer to choose directions the noise steadily became louder with each length of empty hall or chamber traversed and the yellow glow of lanterns and lamps thickened. By the time she came to a full halt in a narrow chamber whose only other exit was an open portal, he could make out the thumping release of crossbows, the ringing of iron from stone, shouts, and, above all, an argument of some sort between a high strident harridan’s voice and a much lower, deeper and fainter man’s voice.

‘This is not the way!’ the woman screeched.

‘Let us hear what our guide has to say,’ the man murmured.

‘Fire!’ a voice bellowed, Otan’s, then a volley of crossbows released, the bolts clattering from stone.

‘Aiya!’ the woman yelled. ‘Who are these wretches?’

‘Indigenes? Perhaps?’

‘Indigenes? Are you brainless? These are not Andii!’

‘Yet strictly speaking … are they not the new residents here?’

What in the name of Oponn …? Antsy edged forward to peer round the lip of the opening. What was this? The portal gave access to a large hall, what seemed a main boulevard faced by many building fronts carved from the stone of the Spawn. Bodies lay scattered among wreckage across the floor. Lanterns lay fallen, spilled oil burning to send up clouds of black smoke that obscured the high ceiling.

Two figures faced each other in the centre of the hall. One, the old woman, wore an eye-watering costume of all shades of red, complete with a headdress of fluttering crimson ribbons, and what appeared to be carmine gloves on her hands. The other was a short round ball of a man, bland-faced, in layered dark robes, his hands clasped across his broad front as if to hold it in from bursting.

So amazed by these two was Antsy that he failed to notice a third figure scuttling up the hall. The fellow was staring at him, his eyes huge and his mouth open in his own incredulity. ‘Kill that man!’ the skinny youth howled, pointing.

Antsy flinched — and met the glaring eyes of the young thief from Hurly. Great Burn! What was that fool’s name? Jallin! Yes, that’s right.

The lad ran to the squabbling pair, still pointing. ‘Kill him, mistress!’

The woman took a swipe at him that he ducked. ‘Shut up, fool. Does the way go on?’

‘Yes,’ the youth snarled.

Armour clattering announced another file of crossbowmen led by Otan crossing the hall.

Gotta give the man credit for guts.

‘Hesta …’ the fat man murmured.

The woman threw her hands in the air. ‘Oh, cursed gods above! More of them?’

She lowered her arms, palms out. Orchid yanked on the back of Antsy’s armour. ‘Down!’ she hissed. Like an upended forge, flames came billowing up the wide boulevard. Men and women screamed, reduced to dark shapes consumed by the churning yellow and orange.

A furnace’s searing heat crackled at Antsy’s arms, which he had thrown up to protect his head, and then with a redoubled avalanche roar the radiance disappeared, leaving him blinking, momentarily blinded. The cackle of the youth sounded in the sudden silence, followed by a slap that cut it off. ‘Show us!’ the woman commanded.

‘Perhaps they merely wished to talk,’ the man’s voice reached them, retreating.

‘Oh, shut up!’

Antsy dared raise his head. Flames lit a scene out of Hood’s own realm. Burning corpses and furnishings sent smoke curling up into the thickening miasma choking the air. He didn’t like the way it just hung there. No outlet.

Orchid was crushing the burnt ends of her frazzled hair. ‘I’m sorry, Antsy,’ she said, sounding miserable.

‘Sorry for what?’

She raised her soot-smeared chin to the boulevard. ‘That’s the way up.’

Somehow I knew she was going to say that.

Bendan gave his name to everyone in the Malazan camp as ‘Butcher’. His own squad didn’t use it any more now that they’d reached the main rendezvous south-west of Dhavran. They’d used it for a while after that last engagement and during the march, and it had been among the happiest times of his life. It even rivalled the feeling of belonging and safety he’d known among his peers in the mud ways and alleys of Maiten town. He’d revelled in it those few years alongside his brothers and sisters, jumping rival gangs and cleaning out anyone not a local and foolish enough to wander into their territory. He’d felt untouchable then, utterly secure. Wanted and appreciated. Valued, even, it seemed to him now, looking back. He’d gone from worthless to valued. When they’d all been together on the street they could stomp on anyone’s face and no one dared say anything! He remembered how Biter and Short Legs had held one kid down and invited him to lay in. And he’d kicked and kicked on and on until the kid coughed up an explosion of blood and never moved any more. How they’d all laughed! Good times then.

Now when I say ‘Butcher’s the name’ I just get funny looks. Even outright laughs. What’s wrong with everyone? There’s a guy in the 10th named ‘Rabbit.’ What kinda name’s that for a soldier?

His squad spent the days digging a big-arse ditch to surround the new fort. Other squads were dragging logs from the nearest woods, raising a palisade. It was a damned crowded camp: all the remnants of the Second, Fifth and Sixth from Pale all jammed together on one round hilltop surrounded by a deep ditch that put the top of the palisade logs a good three man-heights above the head of any attacker. And on top of that Fist Steppen had them sharpening a forest of stakes to set leaning out like the quills on one of them mythical spiny lizards.

It was gettin’ so troops were starting to call her ‘Scaredy-Step’. Bendan just called her a dumb-arse granma hiding behind her walls when everyone knew the way to win was to go break heads. He had said as much to his squaddies and Corporal Little had come back with some watery talk about how winning was control of ground, not battles. Ground? He understood that. In Maiten town he and his brothers and sisters had had theirs — and defending it meant fighting! You had to be out there every day showing those rivals you were strong and so crazy-arse violent they’d better leave you alone. That he knew and understood.

Then Corporal Little had said something really loopy. She said that the best way to win was not to have to fight at all! How the fuck was that possible? You had to fight to win. You had to tear the head off the other guy — otherwise it was you without a head! He was starting to suspect that maybe Little was some kinda gutless woman hiding behind her fancy book-learned ideas.

Not to mention how she slapped his hand away when he grabbed her tit. Imagine that? Turning him down? Back in Maiten town every girl he cornered went along with it in the end. All it took was a little playful arm-twisting — not like he was gonna really hurt them. This corporal must prefer women, not like a proper gal at all.

Then orders came for a march west. Minimal gear. The squads formed up, including his, thank the gods! And they were off even though it was near dusk. Rumours flew up and down the column as they trotted along. Some of theirs under attack, apparently.

They jogged through half the night until they came over the rise of a gentle valley slope and there before them, under the bright starlight and emerald glare of the Scimitar, churned a horde of horsemen all circling a dark knot.

Sergeant Hektar slapped him on the back as they headed down without a pause. ‘Now there’s action, hey, Butcher?’

‘But look how fucking many there are!’

The big black fellow made a face. ‘Naw — that’s just an advance force. Just a few thousand. Enough for you to butcher, hey?’

‘Well … yeah,’ he answered as they picked up their pace. I suppose so … but why? Just to rescue a few troopers stupid enough to get caught out in the open? What a dumb waste.

‘Ready shields!’ came the order.

Bendan struggled with his big rectangular burden as he trotted along.

‘Form square!’

The column thickened and slowed to a steady march. And just in time, as elements of the cavalry swung off to encircle them.

‘Halt!’

Once the manoeuvring was done Bendan’s squad was far back from the front rank. They would wait for their turn to cycle through to the shield wall. Dust blew up, obscuring his view beyond the square. Riders, men and women — Rhivi, he recognized — circled them, firing their short-bows and hurling javelins.

What’s gotten them all riled up?

Then the frantic call came: ‘Merge! Merge!’ and the square shuddered, shields scraping shields. Everyone shifted position as men and women came surging into the centre, many supporting others or even carrying them over their backs. All grimed and dirt-smeared, battered, and gulping down air.

Useless bastards. Gonna get killed ’cause of you. Hope you’re happy.

Being near the centre he saw the captain commanding the column salute some beat-up burly fellow and heads around him craned, gawking, and people whispered: ‘K’ess.’

‘So who’s this K’ess?’ he asked Bone next to him.

The man gave him one of those funny looks as he struggled to keep his shield overhead. ‘Served on Onearm’s staff. Put in charge of Pale when the Host headed south. Now he’s in charge of this whole mess. Other than the Ambassador, o’ course.’

Shit! And we had to rescue him? Piss-poor start if you ask me.

Orders to reverse sounded and they turned to face the way they’d come. Then started the inevitable grinding march back. Bendan’s squad cycled through to a turn in the shield wall. The Rhivi circled past, whooping and shouting and throwing their slim javelins. He watched from over the lip of his shield, fuming. ‘Why don’t the order come to rush ’em?’ he demanded. ‘We’re just hidin’ here behind our shields like cowards!’

‘Be my guest!’ Bone laughed, and he hawked up a mouthful of all the dust they’d been swallowing.

‘Hey, Tarat!’ Bendan shouted to their squad scout. ‘Them’s your people out there, ain’t they?’

‘Just bone-headed fools tiring their horses for no good reason,’ she commented, sour.

‘Looks like they’re havin’ fun,’ Hektar said, a wide smile on his face.

‘What’re you smiling about?’ Bendan snapped.

The big man turned his bright teeth on him. ‘I’m smilin’ ’cause I see we got nothin’ to worry about from these Rhivi. Another day’s soldierin’ under the belt, lads!’ he added.

Laughter all around answered that.

What was with these fools? Why were they laughing? Couldn’t they see that one of these arrows or javelins could easily take any of them?

The sun was just topping hills to the east when their slogging retreat brought them within sight of the fort. The shield on Bendan’s arm seemed to weigh as much as a horse itself. His arm was screaming and numb all at the same time. Dust coated his mouth and he was stumbling on his feet. Horns sounded then, pealing from behind the palisade as if welcoming the sun, and from all around, amid the fields of tall grass, crossbow ranks rose as if sprouting from the ground. The circling Rhivi flinched aside, their cartwheeling attack broken as wings of the cavalry swung to either side. Orders were shouted and salvos of bolts shot to either side of their square. Men and women in the formation shouted and bashed their shields, sending the Rhivi on.

Bendan rested his bronze-faced shield on the ground. Gods almighty! It was about Burn-damned time. What a useless errand! They’d been safe in the fort — why should they have to stick their necks out for these fools? And all they did was hide behind their shields. They didn’t kick anyone’s head!

New clarion calls sounded from the fort. The men and women around Bendan searched the horizons. Sergeant Hektar, one of the tallest of them all, grunted as he peered to the west.

‘What is it?’ Bendan demanded.

‘Company. They almost succeeded.’

‘Who succeeded? At what? What d’you mean?’

A woman’s voice bellowed astonishingly loud from within the square: ‘To the fort! Double-time! Move out!’

The entire detachment immediately set off, jogging swiftly. Troopers ran carrying others on their backs, or supporting wounded between them.

Then thunder reached Bendan. Thunder on a mostly clear dawn. He squinted back over his shoulder to see a dark tide flowing over the distant hills. A flood that seemed to extend from horizon to horizon. Dead god’s bones! Thousands upon thousands of the bastards!

He heeled and toed it even faster for the cover of the fort.

Krute heard first-hand from many in the guild the doubts raised by the arrival of these Seguleh. Their prowess was said to be unsurpassed. And perhaps it was. But he was now in agreement with Grand Master Seba. The guild in the recent past seemed to have lost its way. They were assassins. Their art was concealment and murder. To have to fight meant one had failed already. Rallick’s unsanctioned storied feats of the past seemed to have convinced some that fighting ability actually had something to do with murdering people. The unromantic and ugly truth was that it really didn’t.

Much as he admired Rallick — and was saddened by his betrayal — he thought the man had done this one disservice to the guild. In his opinion the best assassination was the one no one even suspected. And Rallick had succeeded in that requirement when he hid the act behind the facade of a duel. But most seemed to have misread that moment. Dazzled by the romanticism of the confrontation, they’d taken away the wrong lesson. The real lesson was not his prowess with his chosen weapons, but rather the stratagem of hitting upon one fatal weakness to reach the target, in that case the latter’s overconfidence and bloated pride.

And in this case he believed they’d found the correct weakness as well. Surrounded by these Seguleh the Legate seemed to consider himself invulnerable. He slept entirely unguarded in a small chamber behind the Great Hall, or the ‘throne room’, as it was now officially known. Word from informants within the Wardens was that the Legate had even gone so far as to forbid anyone from entering the throne room at night, Seguleh or otherwise.

Squatting on his haunches on the roof of that selfsame hall, Krute looked to the three guild talents accompanying him as team leader. Hardly qualifying for the title mage, these two lads and one lass did have some small abilities in sensing the presence of Warren magics and powers. They nodded their approval and so Krute signed the all clear to the team assembled on the roof. These six tossed their hair-thin lines down the open windows and rappelled down. They would execute the target within and return in a matter of minutes — should all go as planned.

He glanced back to the three guild talents. The youths exchanged looks. One pressed a hand to the roof. The second raised her face to the gusting warm wind as if sniffing for scent. The third held his hands cupped close to one eye. Krute knew that in his hands the lad held four night bugs, the sort of flying insects that light up. What do they do when a haunt’s around? Dance a jig?

The wind was high this night. Thin feathery clouds did nothing to diminish the combined light from the reborn moon and the Scimitar. Light that was both a blessing and a curse, depending upon when you wanted it, and when you didn’t. He studied the ropes again and saw all still slack. The sight made him uneasy. Should be climbing by now. He signed that he would go to investigate.

Closer, he saw that one of the ropes was now taut. In fact it fairly vibrated under some immense strain. As he watched, it narrowed even further to the thickness of a reed; then, instantly, it was gone. Snapped. He heard a muted thump from below.

Damn the fates! What was it? A hidden guard? Yet no alarm.

He clambered down to the window to peer in. The interior was as black as a cloudy night. But far below, in the shafting silver and jade light, he made out a figure climbing to its feet, cloaked. As he peered down, straining to see, the figure raised its face to him and revealed the bright pale oval of the mask of the Legate.

Krute was a hard man in a hard calling but even he felt a preternatural dread at the sight of that graven half-smile — hinting at so many uncanny secrets — and a hand beckoning him down. He scuttled back up the rope, his flesh cold. Ye gods, spare him … what were they facing here?

Crouched, the wind snapping his cloak, he ran along the centre line back to the jumbled tiled slopes of the Majesty Hall roof. Where not one sign remained of the three guild practitioners.

Togg take it!

Then the instinct of decades of stalking and striking screamed at him and he threw himself flat, rolling.

Twin blades hissed through the air and he stared, astonished, at a young girl snarling down at him, her clothes no more than diaphanous wind-whipped scarves. She raised the blades again only to jerk aside, howling, grasping at a crossbow bolt now standing from her side. She staggered, then tumbled down the sloped tiled roof and disappeared from sight.

A fist at his collar yanked Krute: Rallick. The man threw his crossbow aside, drew his twinned curved blades. ‘She’ll be back — or another. Go now. Run.’ He shouldered Krute back.

‘That’s not Vorcan …’ the assassin managed, still stunned.

‘No. Go on.’ The man pushed him on to the maze of canted roofs. ‘Run.’

Krute needed no further urging.

Rallick slipped into the cover of a gable that offered a view of the throne-room roof and squatted, arms over his knees, curved knives pointed out, ready.

A band of low clouds driven off the lake came wafting across the long scar in the night sky that was the Banner — what he’d once heard Vorcan call the Strangers. In the rippling light the rooftop was empty, then in the next instant a figure stood tall right before him, staff planted and leather shoes poking out from under thick layered robes.

Rallick slowly straightened to stand before the man who had employed him for years, who had healed his broken bones and brought him back from near death. High Alchemist Baruk. He struck a ready stance, blades raised, one foot back. ‘Baruk.’

‘Barukanal, now,’ the man grated. ‘Do not make the mistake of forgetting that.’ His hands were white fists upon the staff. The scars that traced his face like a tangled net darkened now as blood pounded behind the man’s features. The wind snagged his long unbound iron-grey hair. ‘I am sent to find assassins who have made an attempt upon the Legate,’ he said, his voice whip-tight. ‘You haven’t … by any chance … seen them. Have you?’

Rallick edged his weapons down. He cleared his throat and straightened, almost believing himself dreaming. In a voice full of wonder he managed, ‘I saw some men running to the east. They looked suspicious.’

‘Thank you, citizen. Tell me … have you also seen the new construction encircling the hill?’

‘In fact I have.’ Rallick noted with alarm that the flesh upon the man’s face and neck was cracking and smoking along the fault lines of the scars. Baruk’s frame shuddered and he staggered aside as if yanked. He spoke, grinding out every word as if each were a droplet of agony: ‘There is a man in the city, a Malazan … He may have a unique insight into its … peculiar … qualities …’

‘I will ask around,’ Rallick assured him. Then, sheathing his knives, he could not help reaching out to the tortured figure. ‘Baruk … tell me … what can I-’

‘No!’ The staff snapped up and the man staggered backwards. ‘Stay away!’ Turning, he flung himself from the roof, robes flapping, and disappeared.

Rallick leaned over the edge but saw no sign of him. Then, hunching, he ran as fast as he dared across the forest of mismatched tiled roofs.

Moments after Rallick left the roof the wavering commingled olive and silver light of the night revealed another figure that uncurled itself from a window to stand, stretching. The man wore a cloak that shone almost emerald in the light. He tapped one gloved finger to his pursed lips and whispered aloud, ‘Again, some go in … yet none come out. The lesson being …’ he held up his gloved hands and examined them as if the answer were written there, ‘don’t go in.’

He clasped his hands behind his back and set off, whistling soundlessly, tracing more or less the route taken by the ex-assassin.

When Rallick judged it safe to return to the Phoenix Inn he walked straight to the old table and sat facing the door in the seat where Kruppe usually held court. Rather disconcertingly, the empty seat was already warm and he was thinking of shifting to another chair when Sulty thumped down a tankard of beer, gave him a wink, and moved on to serve the rest of the crowd. Rallick pushed back his seat, held the tankard in both hands before him, and studied that crowd.

Guarded optimism he judged the mood. People seemed to think that things would get better now that the Seguleh had arrived to guard the city. Rumours were that the Legate had somehow contracted to have them come. Never mind the utter impossibility of such a notion to anyone who knew the least shred about those people. And to guard the city against whom? The Malazans? They hadn’t the troops to pacify the city in the first place. That left … who? No one he could think of. The city was without threats, as it had been for decades before the arrival of the Seguleh. And so the disconcerting thought: what were they here for?

His roving eye caught a man watching him from the bar. A tall, very dark foreigner, all in green. In a gesture like a mockery of some conspirator, the fellow offered him an exaggerated wink and shifted his gaze to the rear. As usual Rallick chose to reveal no hint of his mood — which was one of extreme annoyance — and he got up to push out through the crowd to the back door.

He waited leaning against a wall, arms crossed, hands on the grips of his knives. The stranger ambled out after a moment, hands clasped behind his back. ‘What do you want?’ Rallick said, trying to keep his voice as flat as possible.

The man held up his gloved hands, a smirk at his lips. ‘Parley, as they say.’

‘Claw?’

The fellow merely shrugged.

‘Say your piece.’

The man waved a hand in an airy manner and Rallick clamped down even harder on his irritation. ‘Oh … a pooling of intelligence and a uniting of efforts.’

‘I’m not with the guild. You got the wrong man.’

A smile from the man — the kind of crazy grin that Rallick had known from some as an affectation of unpredictable menace. But he now saw with a tensing of chilling certainty that from this fellow the pose was utterly genuine. A very dangerous sort — the kind who truly just doesn’t give a damn. ‘The guild, such as it is, doesn’t interest me. But you do.’

‘How so?’

The man leaned up against the opposite alley wall, which put him in the light of the Scimitar. He grimaced and held up a hand in the light. ‘You know, there are those around the world right now who go out at night carrying parasols so that the unnatural light of our Visitor doesn’t reach them. They claim it corrupts all it touches.’

‘Then everything’s corrupted.’

‘Indeed. We are all of us slowly rotting until we fall dead.’

‘Is that your message? Sounds like something from a street prophet of the Broken God.’

The man let his hand fall, frowned his exaggerated thoughtfulness. ‘Indeed? I suppose so. But no. That is not my message. My point is that we have intelligence mentioning “the Eel”. And in that intelligence this very inn features rather prominently. And here you are. What say you to that?’

Great Burn! Does this man think I’m the Eel? No — he must be fishing. Ha! Fishing for the Eel. Have to remember that one. But then if I told him who I thought maybe was the Eel he’d have a good laugh. No — he’s just trying to provoke a reaction.

Rallick turned his face away to study the empty street and the rats waddling down the centre gutter. ‘That’s not much of a point.’ His peripheral vision caught his reward in a first betrayal of temper from the man as his mouth tightened to a slit.

‘You are being deliberately difficult. Well, I blame myself. Ought to have expected it. We are both victims of our calling, yes? Neither of us willing to place our cards on the table. So be it — for now. If you should wish to exchange intelligence, then look to reach me through K’rul’s bar.’

Rallick eyed the man, puzzled. ‘K’rul’s bar? You mean the old temple to K’rul?’

‘Yes. K’rul’s Bar and Temple.’ The man tilted his head in farewell and ambled off up the street.

There he goes. Yet another rat on the street.

There’s a bar at K’rul’s temple? Since when?

A knock brought Barathol to the door. Little Chaur was down for the night and Scillara was in bed, sent off by that one evening pipe she allowed herself to ‘ease the nerves’. He’d taken the pipe from her hand as he did every night, and pulled up the blanket.

He was downstairs making a meal when the knock came. He opened the door to find one of the Majesty Hall clerks, now known as court officials, awaiting him with hands tucked into his robes and an oddly arrogant and impatient angle to his head.

‘What?’ Barathol asked, his own mood not improved by the youth’s superior airs.

‘You are summoned to the installation. Immediately.’

He half turned away. ‘In a minute. I’m just making a meal.’

‘Immediately,’ the young man repeated, emphasizing each syllable. Lifting his head he directed Barathol’s attention to his companions. Barathol peered out to see two Seguleh standing on the road, masked, swords at their hips.

Ah. So that’s how it is. The new cock of the roost. So be it. No business of mine.

He gave the clerk a slow nod. ‘Very well. I’ll get my gear.’

Barathol watched the faces of the passers-by as the little party walked the streets. At first there’d been jubilation. The average citizen now thought himself unassailable. Now, as the Seguleh went abroad to enforce the Legate’s will it seemed to him that a few people had finally — belatedly — begun to wonder. Just who did these swordsmen protect the city from? They limited themselves to guarding within the walls, atop Majesty Hill, and in the throne room itself. Protecting the ruler from … whom? Well, to his mind, from the ruled, of course. Perhaps this mounting suspicion was behind the worried, even pitying, glances that followed him. Could I be next? some seemed to wonder.

The worksite was guarded by four Seguleh. Ducking into the tent Barathol found the two mages already present, awaiting him impatiently. ‘Begin at once,’ the tall one, Barukanal, commanded, motioning to the forge with his staff. Barathol rolled down his sleeves and donned his thick leather apron.

And who were these two anyway? Advisers? Hirelings? Surely not servants, as some believed. Yet why should such obviously powerful mages advise a mere Darujhistani aristocrat, mask or not? Unless, as others hinted, dark pacts were sealed, deals struck, and powers granted. To Barathol’s mind these more ominous speculations ran closer to whatever might be the truth of things.

He took over at the bellows from the worker who was prepping the coals. After pumping, he picked up a bar to stir the bed, testing the heat by holding his hand over the glowing pile.

‘This is your last pour,’ the hunched mage told him from the entrance.

Barathol eyed the man’s warped puzzle-piece face. A warning?

‘I go now to deal with those fools at K’rul’s,’ the hunched one told Barukanal.

‘I will finish things here,’ Barukanal answered.

Barathol straightened from the forge. K’rul’s? The Malazans? How to warn them? And finish things here? What did he mean by that?

Both now watched him, their eyes glittering in the glow of the forge. ‘Get back to work,’ the hunched one, Aman, told him and ducked from the tent.

Barathol reluctantly turned to nurturing the bed. Well, if anyone could handle themselves, it was those Bridgeburners. They hardly needed his help. He thought of that chaotic night not so many months ago. Antsy guiding him and his friend, poor dying Chaur, to that eerie structure on Coll’s estate. Do I not owe him more than I can ever repay?

He turned from the forge, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘I’m going for a bite,’ he announced. ‘The bed needs to heat yet.’

The mage did not move from the entrance. He leaned on his tall warped staff. ‘You will remain until the pour is done. Such are my orders.’

‘There is nothing I can do here for a while.’

A grimace twisted the mage’s face and he said, his voice tight and impatient with something that might have been pain, ‘The blacksmith’s sand awaits. I believe you have a mould to form?’

Barathol regarded the table, turned aside. ‘If I must.’ Well, I tried. After that blast they must know what to expect anyway.

After packing and setting the mould and checking the bed’s heat again, he set the ceramic crucible into the coals and heaped them up around it. The bits and pieces of silver went in next. Barukanal crowded his elbow through the entire process.

As the silver melted Barathol skimmed the slag of impurities from the top. It was hardly demanding work. The mould was uncomplicated, open-faced. Not like a lost-wax pour where so many little things could go wrong.

Outside in the night the picks and shovels had gone silent. The stones were set and ready for their pins.

Once the liquid silver reached the mark scratched into the glowing wall of the crucible, Barathol readied the bars he would use to lift and tilt the vessel. At that moment the mage’s hand shot out like a viper to grasp his wrist. He pulled against the grip but couldn’t free himself. And Barathol was a strong man; among the strongest. Not even Kalam could beat him.

The mage’s other hand came up with a short wicked blade. ‘Blood from the forger of the links,’ he whispered, close. ‘Such will strengthen the circle immeasurably.’

Barathol raised the bars to smash the man across the head but the mage clenched his grip ferociously and he groaned from the agony of the grinding bones. Ye gods, this creature could pinch my hand off like a petal!

The mage slashed the blade across Barathol’s numb wrist then held the wound over the crucible. Drops fell hissing and dancing.

‘Do not be upset,’ the creature murmured. ‘Aman would have taken the offering from your throat.’ He released him and moved to one side. ‘Now pour. Quickly.’

Working his hand, Barathol readied the bars. He pinched the crucible between their jaws. Grunting, he lifted the vessel and swung it to where the moulds waited. He poured until the level of the first swelled just above the lip of the mould, where surface tension kept it from spilling, then moved to the second.

Finished, Barathol set the crucible on its stand to cool and stood back to wipe the sweat from his face. Blood dripped freely from his wrist. He washed his hands in the quenching water.

From where he was bent over the smoking moulds, the mage said, ‘Go now. Do not return. Your work is done.’

Barathol merely grunted. He wrapped his wounded wrist in a rag then pushed his way from the tent. In the trench the final two white stones waited end to end. The tips of the installation coming together to form one perfect infinite circle. Briefly Barathol wondered what this structure might be meant to enclose or foreclose. Was it to keep inviolate what lay within? Or was it to keep ineffective that which lay without?

No matter. It was no longer his concern. If it came to it he could simply do as Scillara suggested and pack up the family to go. He turned away, flexing his wrist. He’d had enough of all this. His concern now was just the small circle of his family.

The uncomfortable echoes within that thought haunted him all the way down the hill.

Lady Envy was with her maid and dressmaker when a servant announced, ‘Someone at the door, m’lady.’

Arms held outstretched, the dressmaker measuring a length of cloth against one, her maid’s hands in her freshly washed hair, Lady Envy stared at the man. ‘Well — answer it, you great oaf!’

The servant bowed from the waist and shuffled backwards, head lowered.

He returned accompanied by three Seguleh.

Lady Envy beamed. She drew her dressing gown tighter about her and shooed away her servants. The three remained immobile, tensed, hands close to their weapons, their attention everywhere but on her. Envy crossed the room, a hand at her lips. ‘How very thoughtful of Lim!’ she exclaimed. ‘Three new ones! The old ones had become rather battered.’

One turned her — her! What a disappointment! — mask to give Envy a superior glance. Haughtiness? Was that haughtiness being turned upon me?

‘We have been warned against you, Envy,’ the Seguleh woman said. ‘Your enchantments hold no more power over us. The Second has knelt and we are bound by links far stronger than any you can forge.’

Envy fiddled at the knot of her gown. ‘What nonsense is this? Links?’

‘Where is he, sorceress?’

Envy seemed to have just discovered her wet hair; she began twining the length. ‘I’m sorry … where is who?’

‘The renegade. We know he is with you. Where is he?’

‘Renegade? Whatever are you-’ But the three turned aside, dismissing her.

Oh really, this is too much!

Thurule had entered. The three fanned out, facing him. The one who had spoken made a small gesture with her left hand, turning it palm up as if in interrogation. Thurule’s masked face seemed to drop ever so slightly. Perhaps it was the light, but it appeared as if his dark eyes behind the mask were blinking rapidly.

‘Choose!’ the woman commanded.

Carefully, Thurule raised a hand to his mask and peeled it away. The face revealed beneath appeared surprisingly youthful. He released the mask to let it fall before him then raised his sandalled foot and pressed down upon it. The mask shattered into powder and painted shards. His own face seemed to splinter in the act.

Ceramic, Envy marvelled. They are ceramic.

The three Seguleh relaxed, hands easing slightly from their weapons. Without a word they turned and left.

Envy crossed her arms and regarded Thurule. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Whatever am I to do with you now?’

‘Whatever you wish,’ the man said, speaking the first words she had heard from him in perhaps a year. He wouldn’t raise his gaze from the fragments littering the polished floor.

She hugged her chilled shoulders. ‘Well … you have rather lost that certain mysterious cachet I kept you for, I must say.’ She bit at a finger with perfect white teeth. ‘I’m going to have to let you go, Thurule.’

The man’s brows clenched as he bowed. ‘I understand. I am unworthy.’

Oh, Dark Mother! Please! She turned away, snapping her fingers. ‘Palley! Where are you? My hair is drying! The court awaits me!’

Her maid rushed back into the room. When Envy glanced back the man was gone. Thank the false gods! Really. How positively embarrassing.

*

Madrun and Lazan Door were tossing dice against the steps of Lady Varada’s estate house when four masked Seguleh entered the compound. The two shared knowing looks as Lazan scooped up the dice.

‘Our taciturn kin approach,’ Madrun rumbled. ‘Perhaps we too should remain silent as well. We could stare at one another till the gods pack up the world and return from whence they came.’

‘And these would yet remain none the wiser,’ Lazan answered. ‘No, reflections of themselves these understand all too well.’ They straightened to meet the arrivals, the giant Madrun in his clashing patchwork clothes looming over all. ‘You are bold burglars, sirs,’ Lazan greeted them.

‘You two are known to us,’ one said. ‘Cause no trouble and you may remain.’

‘This is of no help,’ Madrun complained to Lazar. ‘Trouble has so many facets.’

‘Stand aside. We are here to search the premises.’

‘Does doing our job constitute trouble?’ Lazar enquired, smiling, revealing his silver-tipped gold teeth.

The four spread out. The spokesman stepped forward. Olive green dominated the swirls painted upon his mask. From the pattern Madrun and Lazan Door knew him to be of the Four Hundredth. ‘I shall enter,’ he said calmly. ‘If you interfere my companions will act. Is this clear enough even for you?’

Madrun raised his hand. ‘A moment, please. If you would. Am I to understand, then, that you mean to enter while your companions wait, poised, in case we should attempt to stop you? Is that what you are trying to explain?’

The spokesman remained silent for some time. From behind his mask his gaze stabbed between the two, blazing. He drew breath to speak again, reconsidered, and clamped his jaws against it. His hand went to his sword.

‘Gentlemen and lady …’ a sibilant voice quavered from the doorway, ‘may I direct your attention to what I have here?’

All turned to face the doorway where Studious Lock floated amid his gauzy layers of tattered wrap. He held in one rag-covered hand a glass sphere containing a dark mist. ‘Spores of the Even-tine fungus. Known as the Mind-gnawer among the clans of the northern Odhan. Inhaled, they germinate within, sending fibres stealing up into the brain and releasing pathogens that render the poor victim insane … before killing him … or her. My companions have of course been consuming an inoculating chemical regularly. I myself am immune for reasons I need not expound here.’

Inoculating chemical? Madrun mouthed to Lazan.

‘So, gentlemen … and lady,’ Studlock added, nodding to the female Seguleh, ‘will you enter?’

The spokesman eased his hand from his sword. ‘We shall not press the matter now, Studious. But we shall return.’

‘Please do so. I look forward to expounding on yet another of my preparations. Or, perhaps, remaining silent and exploring the results in dissection. Always most edifying, that.’

The spokesman bowed, keeping his eyes upon Madrun and Lazan, then backed away.

Once the four had left, the gazes of the two guards swung to Studlock. The giant Madrun’s carried a degree of alarm. Lazan’s held grudging approval. ‘Well played,’ he murmured. ‘That orb, I presume, holds nothing of the kind.’

Studious, who had been admiring the object, now blinked at Lazan from behind his gauzy mask. ‘What’s that? Nothing of the kind? Not at all. It holds precisely that.’ And he threw it down to shatter on the steps.

Both guards leapt from the vicinity.

A good five paces off Madrun straightened his waistcoat and the billowing frilled shirt beneath it and cleared his throat. ‘This inoculating chemical you mentioned, Studious. Its efficacy is beyond reproach, yes?’

The castellan was examining the stone steps. ‘What’s that?’ He waved a wrapped hand. ‘Oh, that. There is no known antidote.’

‘No known …’ The gazes of the two guards met across the thirty feet between them. Lazan slapped his hand over his nose and capped teeth.

‘Well, that should be the end of them,’ Studlock announced, satisfied.

‘End of who?’ the giant Madrun fairly squeaked.

The castellan gazed at him, his masked head tilted. ‘Why, the ants of course! What else? Even-tine spores affect only them.’ He floated back inside. ‘Didn’t I say that?’

The two regarded one another for a time in silence. Lazan eased out his long-held breath. He raised a hand and shook it, rattling the dice. ‘The bones didn’t see that,’ he commented.

Madrun nodded in profound agreement. ‘Yes. Spores. Much too small to be seen.’

They took turns keeping watch at the ruined door to the bar. A barrier of a table and heaped chairs blocked it. A few of the regulars had banged on the table to be let in and Picker nearly speared one fellow who refused to believe the bar was actually closed and tried to climb in over the chairs.

Two days after the Seguleh entered town Blend was watching the street from a front window when she called out, ‘Trouble!’

Spindle snatched up his makeshift spear and ran for the front. He peered out between the slats they’d hammered across the window: the hunched mage, Aman, across the way. With him were several Seguleh. Spindle glanced back over his shoulder. The historian sat at his usual place. Picker had run for the rear. The bard was out. ‘Hood. We are so dead,’ he groaned.

He set aside the spear to pick up one of the readied crossbows. Blend did the same. ‘Raise your Warren,’ she told him.

‘My Warren’s no use here.’

Blend sent a scornful look from her window. ‘Your Warren’s never of any damned use. What about your other help?’

He was silent for a time, considering. Blend fired through the window. ‘The next one won’t miss!’ she bellowed. ‘Stay away!’

The mage, or whatever he was, Aman, remained across the street, watching, while the Seguleh advanced. Duiker came to Spindle’s side. ‘I’m unarmed. Perhaps I could talk to them …’

‘You could try,’ Spindle told him; then, to Blend, ‘My other help says we’re not alone here.’ He was forced to fire on an advancing Seguleh. The woman knocked the bolt aside with her blade. Gods damn! From only twenty feet away, too.

‘What are your terms?’ Duiker called from the scorched doorway.

‘Your heads are my terms,’ the mage shouted back.

A scream of surprise and terror sounded from the rear and Blend jumped. Picker? She threw down the crossbow and ran for the door to the pantry and kitchen. Duiker took her place, thrusting with a spear. He drew the haft back, surprised, to examine its cleanly severed end.

As Blend reached the door it was thrust open to reveal a Seguleh. She swung, her blade biting into the man’s chest. He responded by grasping her arm and twisting. She buckled, hissing her pain and leaving the long-knife standing from the man’s leather-armoured chest.

Spindle stared, then sniffed the air. Vinegar? Blades hacked at the wooden slats behind him. ‘Hey — it’s them pickled fellows from downstairs!’

Picker rushed out from behind the preserved Seguleh. She twisted its grip from Blend’s wrist and it moved on, ignoring them. Spindle and Duiker retreated from the front where the living Seguleh were pushing back the barrier. They watched in disbelief as three more of the slow-walking, deliberate creatures emerged from the rear and took up defensive positions with the one Blend had stabbed: two at the front and two others holding the windows. The rest, Spindle assumed, were covering the back. At the entrance the two attacking Seguleh thrust and cut so beautifully he could only watch, awed. But their preserved — undead? — brethren, while slower, possessed the insurmountable advantage of already being dead. And so blades sliced into leathery hardened flesh to no visible effect and the attackers could make no headway.

As the assault wore on it looked to Spindle as if their protectors would be literally hacked to pieces, so he went behind the bar to collect his kitbag. Then he jumped up on to a table in full view of the entrance, pulled out a wrapped object, shook off the layer of insulating cloth and held over his head his last remaining cusser. ‘See this?’ he shouted.

The attacking Seguleh flinched back a step — they indeed recognized what he had.

‘Don’t press me! You come in here, we all go together! Understand?’

‘We won’t just lay down our swords, y’damned fool,’ Picker yelled out of a window.

Dragging uneven steps sounded outside and the bent figure of the mage, Aman, appeared at the doorway. He pushed aside the two attacking Seguleh to study the frozen tableau first through one eye then through the other, much lower one; the Seguleh ready, weapons poised; their preserved undead fellows; Blend and Picker taking advantage of the lull to wind crossbows; Duiker already holding a loaded one; and Spindle, arms upraised.

‘You wouldn’t dare wreck this temple,’ Aman said.

‘Temple?’ Spindle said in disbelief. ‘This is a bar.’

‘A bar. You think this is a bar?’

‘It’s our bar,’ Picker said. ‘So we can blow it up if we want to.’

‘Privilege of ownership,’ Blend added, spitting to one side.

The mage turned to Duiker. ‘And what of you, historian? Are you prepared to die?’

Duiker levelled the crossbow on him. ‘I’ve already died.’

One of the mage’s mismatched eyes twitched and he frowned his acceptance of the point. ‘I see. Well argued. For now, then.’ He waved the Seguleh back.

Once they were up the street Spindle couldn’t help himself and he leaned out of the door to yell: ‘Hey, you Seguleh boys. You heel real well. Do you roll over too?’

It seemed to him that the four with Aman all missed a step with that comment, and their backs straightened. But he couldn’t be sure. He turned to the bar to find their preserved Seguleh guardians shuffling back downstairs. Everyone watched them go then lifted their heads to stare at him.

‘What?’

‘You’re not a proper saboteur, Spin,’ Picker said, and nodded to his hand. ‘Could you put that away now?’

He saw that he was still cradling the cusser in one hand. ‘This?’ He threw it up and caught it again to a collective gust of breaths from the other three. ‘Aw, don’t worry. It’s a dud. Hollow.’

Blend reached up as if to throttle him. ‘Well, you ought to let us know, dammit all to the Abyss!’

‘No. You shouldn’t know. Don’t you see? That would ruin the effect. They have to see the fear in your eyes to know it’s real, right?’

Picker waved him away. ‘Aw, shove it.’

‘Now is the time to gird one’s loins for the labour ahead,’ the diminutive fat man murmured as he walked the mud lane between leaning shacks of waste-wood, felt and cloth. He wiped his gleaming mournful face with a sodden handkerchief. ‘Yes indeed … the time has come to hitch up one’s trousers and be a man! Or is it to pull them down and be a man? I never could get that straight … Oh dear, I really should stop right there!’

He paused at an intersection of two lanes where a dog eyed him, growling. No hordes of unreasonably angry washerwomen armed with dirty laundry! Excellent. And the Maiten in sight where come curling currents from the plain where fates move as they do — forward, misplacing things as they go.

Seven dogs now surrounded him, muzzles down between forelimbs, lips pulled back from broken teeth.

Hoary old ones! Washerwomen preferable to this.

He drew a bone from one loose sleeve. ‘Good doggies!’ He threw. Though not nearly so far as he would have wished. He turned and ran, or jogged, puffing, in the opposite direction.

The next two corners brought him to the hut on the extreme western edge of the shanty town where he stopped, short of breath, and wiped his face.

‘And here he is panting in anticipation,’ the old woman sitting on the threshold observed around the pipe in her mouth.

‘Indeed. Here I am yet again. Your ever hopeful suitor. Slave to your whim. Prostrate in inspiration.’

‘I can smell your inspiration from here,’ she observed, grimacing. ‘You brought offering?’

‘But of course!’ From a sleeve he produced a cloth-wrapped wedge the size of a quarter brick.

The old woman raised her tangled brows, impressed, as she took it. ‘Things are progressing nicely, aren’t they, love?’ She tore a piece and moulded it in one grimed fist, warming and softening it. ‘The circle complete, yes?’ and she eyed him, smirking.

He ducked his head. ‘Ah — yes. Spoke too quickly, Kruppe did. Yet, is it not so? Was Kruppe not quite correct? There! Yes, god-like perspicacity, that.’

‘Back to anticipation, are we?’ the old woman murmured, and she drew long and hard on the pipe. ‘Suggesting … perspiration.’

‘Yes. Well. I am dancing as fast as I can, dearest.’

‘Hmm, dancing,’ she purred, exhaling a great stream of smoke. ‘That’s what I want to see. Won’t you come in?’

‘Gladly. Dogs and washerwomen and whatnot. But before … you have them, yes? Ready?’

She pressed her hands to her wide chest. ‘All hot and ready for you, love.’

The man passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Kruppe is speechless.’

‘For once. Now, come in — and think of Darujhistan.’ And she disappeared within.

Kruppe wiped his slick forehead. ‘Oh, fair city. Dreaming city. The things I do for you!’

Shall we draw a curtain across such a commonplace domestic scene? Modesty would insist. Yet Kruppe found the witch athwart her tattered blankets snoring to beat a storm. Well. Shall vanity be stung to no end? Shall the Eel skulk away, tail between its … whatever? Never! The prize awaits! And he knelt over the insensate woman, reaching for her layered shirts.

To feel eyes upon him. Beady eyes, low to the ground.

He turned to find the dogs watching from the doorway, eager, tongues lolling.

Aiya! Kruppe cannot perform like this! He flapped his hands. ‘Begone! Have you no decency?’

Liquid eyes begged, muzzles nudged forepaws.

Defeated, Kruppe drew yet another bone from within his voluminous sleeve and threw. The dogs spun away, claws kicking up dirt.

‘Now, where were we, my love?’ He wriggled his fingers above her and there from a fold of the shirts peeped the weave of a dirty linen sack.

Aha! And now to pluck this blushing blossom …

Kruppe walked the trash-strewn mud ways of Maiten town, and all was well. He inhaled the scent of the open sewer, the steaming waste, and sighed. He patted his chest where a bag rested still warm from another, far greater and more bountiful nook. All was music to his ears: the fighting dogs, the laundry slapped with alarming force upon the rocks, the fond taunting and rock-throwing of the playful local urchins.

And now for the city! Fair Darujhistan. Ringed round and enclosed. Yet are there not ways around all walls and gates for such as the slippery perspiry Eel!