Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XIV

Jan had grown up knowing an old saying among the seguleh: certainty is the spine of the blade. And he accepted this, making it part of his own bones. For were they not the sword of truth? The anvil of its testing? Yet nothing since the Call was as he thought it would be. Nothing in the shining glory of service to the First in their songs and stories had prepared him for the truth to be found here, in their original home, Darujhistan.

Doubts assailed the others. That much was obvious. Therefore the duty was upon him to shoulder the weight of those doubts. To take them all upon himself and show there need be no concern. For was he not the Second? Did not all their eyes turn to him for guidance, for assurance? Let the purity of the cut lie in the steadiness of the blade.

So shall it be. Let it not be said that the Second bent from his responsibilities.

Only the First can call. And they answered. What need be complicated in that? And what do they find but the ancient mask that is a circle of gold? As storied and as fearsome as in their legends of old. What can he do but obey?

Why, then, this need to dwell upon any of this at all?

Perhaps because they were warriors. Not guards. Not warders of people or of the peace. The transition was easily accomplished; these local authorities, these Wardens, acquiesced immediately. Challenges were minimal. Only two deaths. One, a local simpleton, the other far too stubborn to pass by unanswered.

Now, perhaps now, began the truly difficult part as mundane daily trivia intruded upon their purpose.

Such as now, confronted by these two shabby would-be guards in the hands of Palla, Sixth, here in the court. Jan signed to Ira, Twentieth, who demanded: ‘Why have you returned? The hired guards have all been dismissed.’

One knuckled his dirty sweaty brow. ‘Your pardons, sirs and madams. We’ve not been let go that we know of.’

Jan tilted his head and Ira continued, ‘The orders were given. All have been notified.’

The man saluted once more. ‘That’s all as you say for sure, sirs and madams. Me ’n’ Leff here, we don’t dispute any of that.’

‘Then what is your claim?’ Ira demanded.

Jan gave Palla a sign and she released them. They straightened their armour.

‘Well, ma’am,’ began the spokesman — though not necessarily the lower of the pair. Frankly, between these two, any gradation at all was difficult to tell. ‘It’s just that we’re not your usual run o’ the mill Majesty Hall guards. No, sir …’

‘They work for me,’ breathed a weak voice.

Jan peered at the bedraggled figure of the Mouthpiece of the Legate. He inclined his head in respect. ‘This is so?’ he asked. ‘They answer to you?’

The man’s eyes darted, haunted and bloodshot; his features had sunk to a sweaty pasty pallor. Clearly this fellow found his duties far outmatched the strength of his nerves. Jan’s gaze shifted to the masked Legate, motionless on his throne. He appeared unaware. Yet always he demonstrated preternatural knowledge of all that went on around him. And this man spoke his will. Jan wondered at such an unlikely choice. However, again, it was not for him to wonder.

‘Yes,’ the man affirmed, a new certainty entering his quavering voice. ‘I remember them. I hired them.’

Jan signed his assent. ‘Very well. It shall be as you say.’ He turned away, dismissing them from his thoughts. He scanned the court, searching for potential dangers or threats and found only one. The sorceress, Envy, with her flowing green dress and curled oiled hair. How he longed to part her head from her body for the debasement she brought to his brother and two followers. But she was an honoured guest of the Legate and so must he swallow her presence.

Oh, certainly some members here of the court obviously longed to challenge the Legate. Their posture, breaths and sweat shouted it — especially one older ex-soldier councillor who looked as though he might have been a potential threat, a decade ago. And hints had come to him of assassination attempts, which the Legate and his pet mages handled.

All very well. So why then this unease? This discomfort? Perhaps it is the loss of Cant. I miss its green mountain slopes. Peace of mind slipped away with it beyond the horizon. Soon Gall will sense this and he will challenge. Then there will be a new Second and all of this will no longer be my concern. I almost welcome it. Is this what cowardice feels like?

The Legate stood then and descended the throne of pale white stone. He gestured and Jan moved to join him. The members of the court, masked councillors, their wives and masked mistresses, aristocrats and wealthy merchants, all parted at his approach. He stopped before the Legate and inclined his masked head in obeisance.

‘Second.’ The Mouthpiece had come to his side. ‘Our enemies await to the west. You Seguleh are my blade and anvil. Crush them and Darujhistan shall rule all these lands unrivalled, as before.’

‘I understand, Legate. These invading Malazans shall be removed from our shores.’

The Legate gestured impatiently. Though the beaten gold features could not change, cast for ever into their secretive half-smile, the shifting light and shadow enlivened the lips and empty eyes with expression. Now they appeared angered.

‘The invaders are but a nuisance. They mean nothing. No. I speak of the true threat. This city’s eternal enemy … the Moranth.’ The Mouthpiece let out a strangled gasp as he spoke these words and clamped a hand to his mouth as if he were about to be sick.

Jan dared glance up more fully, as if he could discern some intent from the golden oval before him. ‘The Moranth, Legate? I do not understand.’

‘Always they forestalled us,’ the Mouthpiece began again, his voice ghostly faint. ‘They alone defied us when all others fell. Now we shall finish them.’

‘The Moranth wars ended a millennium ago.’

‘With the fall of the last of the Tyrants and the breaking of the Circle, yes.’ The oval turned to address Jan more directly. ‘Now that Darujhistan arises renewed we must answer that crime against us, yes?’

And what could Jan do but bow when commanded by his First? For the gold mask was the legendary progenitor, the Father of them all. Attack the Moranth? Bring them low? An entire people? Was this what we were forged to accomplish? Our noble purpose?

And you in your cracked wooden mask who told me so little. Was this the burden you sought to spare me? Well do I understand it now. No wonder we hide our faces.

That burden is shame.

Captain Dreshen found Ambassador Aragan in the stables, currying the two remaining horses. Catching his breath he reported: ‘Sir! The majority of the Seguleh have marched from the city.’

Aragan straightened to peer over the back of the black bay, Doan, his favourite. He rested his hands there, a brush in each. ‘Out of the city?’ His gaze slitted. ‘Which way?’

Dreshen nodded their shared understanding. ‘West.’

‘Dead Hood’s own grin. We have to warn them.’

‘The mounts won’t make it all the way.’

‘No.’ Aragan wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘A boat. Fastest one we can find. Then we’ll ride.’

‘Yes. And … can we count on reinforcements?’

‘No. No reinforcements. No recruits. Nothing. Everything’s been committed to another theatre.’

Dreshen could not believe it. ‘But what of our gains here?’

Aragan threw a blanket over Doan’s back. ‘Seems Unta considers us overextended. And I have to say I’m inclined to agree.’ He eyed Dreshen up and down. ‘Now get the Sceptre and our armour, Captain. In that order.’

The Untan nobleman drew himself up straight, grinning and saluting. ‘Aye, sir. With pleasure.’

The two horsemen rode to the waterfront. Large bundles lay tied behind the cantles of their saddles. They led their mounts down to the private wharves. Here a grossly exaggerated price was paid in rare silver councils for immediate passage west. A gangway was readied and the mounts were guided down on to the deck of the low, sleek vessel. Hands threw off lines and picked up oars. The vessel made its slow way out of the harbour to the larger bay, where the freshening wind caught the sails. The pilot threw the side rudder over and they churned a course along the coast to the west.

The Great Barrow of the Son of Darkness, Lord of Moon’s Spawn, Anomander Rake, now rose almost within sight of the ever-creeping edge of the Maiten shanty town. Here a bear of a man sat in the grass and eyed the late afternoon glow of distant Darujhistan.

The lake air had cooled his temper, and now he recognized his vow to squeeze some sense into this creature who paraded as the Legate as foolish and unrealistic in the extreme. What was he to do? Use the hammer there? In the city? Kill tens of thousands? No. And this Legate knew it. So what was he to do?

For the first time in many years no responsibilities weighed upon his shoulders. No cause to champion. He turned back to the barrow. Nearby, the pilgrims and worshippers who congregated here were erecting a tent for him. He hadn’t asked. But they knew him as the one who had raised the barrow and so he shared in their worship and regard.

He was not unaccustomed to it. All who worshipped Burn knew him as her champion. Caladan Brood, Warlord of the north. Yet war was far from his chosen vocation. Oh, he revelled in the individual challenge. Wrestling and trials of strength and skill. But war? Organized slaughter? No. That was the field of cold-hearted weighers of options such as Kallor. Or the opposite, those who inspired from all-embracing hearts, such as Dujek.

And what of him? Did he have this quality? He supposed he did, but in another way. Like Anomander, he inspired by example.

So he would wait. As before, eventually someone would be needed to settle things one way or the other. That was what he did best. Have the last word. The final say. The finishing blow.

The merest nudge of Sall’s hand sent Yusek sprawling to the beaten dirt of the practice yard.

‘You were off-balance again.’

She looked up at the kaleidoscope pattern of his mask, the amused brown eyes behind, and knocked aside his proffered hand. ‘So I noticed. I was leaning forward because I was trying to hit you. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ She jumped up to face him.

‘Do not sacrifice form for a possible hit. When you lean forward you bring your head closer. Not a good idea.’

‘But what if I hit?’

A wave in the Seguleh hand-talk dismissed the idea. ‘What if you miss?’

Fine. Be that way. Yusek struck a ready pose, sword before her in both hands, tip held steady angled outwards at a height about level with her nose. At first she’d resisted his insistence that she use a two-handed sword grip, arguing that daggers were quicker. But Sall had been unmoved. He pointed out that most of her opponents would be larger than her and so she would need the added leverage.

When she’d grudgingly agreed, saying it would help ‘muscle them back’, he’d shaken his head yet again.

‘No muscles.’

‘What do you mean, no muscles? Everyone knows that’s what you do in a fight — you smash the other guy down.’

‘No. Do not strain. Do not tense until the last instant. Let the blade fall on its own. Let its weight do the work.’

It all sounded crazy to her. But she’d seen the lad cut through all the most fearsome, and big, hulking swordsmen she’d known, so fair enough.

Now, he circled her yet again, studying her stance. He crouched before her, tilting his masked head. ‘You have the same problem I used to have. Your stance is too long — always too eager to rush in, yes?’

‘That’s how you finish it. Bring it to them.’

Sall gave a sad shake of his head. He unwound a leather strip from his sash and knotted it round one of her ankles. ‘What’s this? Tying me up?’ He paused, but only for an instant, then waved her other foot closer. She edged it inwards.

‘Closer yet.’

She gritted her teeth but complied. He tied the length tight, straightened. ‘Very good. This distance will allow you to recover more quickly in either direction. I want you to pace the length of the field in the high angle cut with each step, yes?’

‘Fine.’

‘Begin.’

She stepped, swinging, and almost fell as her extended foot was yanked short. She turned to stare at him, appalled. Was I that unbalanced? He urged her onward.

Fine. Just dandy. She concentrated on her stride and started again. The shorter stance felt uncomfortable and awkward. But then, she’d been standing however she damned well pleased all this time. No one had ever shown her any technique. She must have all kinds of bad habits.

The wind was cold but she was sweating now as she paced up and down the length of the sand and gravel practice yard. On the far side of the field the priests were out doing their forms, which Sall explained were some sort of moving meditations. It made no sense to her. She found a rhythm, cutting side to side as she stepped, turning, and cutting again. Her arms burned. Holding an iron bar out from your body all day built up endurance and strength. Now, when she picked up her old fighting dirks, the heaviest she could find, they were like hollow sticks in her hands. And it seemed to her that with the slightest shift of her two-handed grip she could move the tip of the sword even faster than she could weave her daggers.

Leverage, Sall called that. The sword was a lever, he’d said. A lever for the application or redirection of force. Nothing more mystical than that.

When the sun set behind the western coastal peaks the air chilled quickly. Yusek dropped down next to Sall, exhausted, her shirt wet with sweat.

‘Your determination is commendable.’

‘Well, I have a lot of catching up to do, don’t I?’ She nudged him with a shoulder. ‘I could really use a back rub too …’

But Sall’s attention was on his father Lo, who had spent these last days doing nothing more than watching the various priests at their practice and exercises. Now he had climbed to his feet, his gaze fixed. Sall stood as well.

Lo began making his way through the kneeling ranks of priests, none of whom moved. Sall edged forward also.

Of all the lousy timing. ‘What is it?’ Yusek asked, now a touch worried. Gods, not like at Dernan’s! Please no. Sall signed for silence. Silence! It’s always silence with these two. That’s their answer for everything. Don’t they see that silence answers nothing?

Lo stopped near the middle of the assembled priests. He stood before one fellow, salt-and-pepper hair cut short, features very dark, but calm, eyes downcast. Sall, Yusek noticed, was fairly quivering so tense was he. She also climbed to her feet.

Then Lo’s blade was out, the tip extending close to the forehead of the kneeling man. The surrounding priests coolly shifted aside, not one saying a word. Great Burn! What was this? What was going on? ‘Sall …’ He signed again for silence, gesturing her aside.

Lo adjusted his grip on the sword, struck a ready stance, and for the first time Yusek heard words pass through his mask. ‘I challenge you.’

The kneeling man said nothing. He did not move. He did not even look up.

Yusek’s breath caught as Lo’s blade flew up and he let go a heart-stopping yell, swinging for the man’s neck. She jerked her head aside; she could not help it. When she opened her eyes Lo stood frozen, his blade pressed against the man’s neck. The man himself appeared to have not flinched one hair’s breadth.

She and Sall ran up through the motionless priests. The man slowly raised his eyes. In the darkening afternoon light they appeared to carry the depths of the ocean within them. He mouthed one word: No.

Lo stepped back, sheathing his blade. Then he turned and walked away. Sall stood for a time staring down at the kneeling man, then he followed his father. Yusek remained. The priests merely returned to their duties, sweeping the compound, chopping wood, readying the evening meal. While Yusek watched, a bead of blood ran from the cut across the side of the man’s neck.

Shaken, she retreated to her hut. So that was him? The slayer of the Son of Darkness? How could that be? He looked like nothing to her. No bluster, no show. It was contrary to everything she’d seen among Orbern’s gang, or Dernan’s. Just a man past middle age. Impossible to pick out of a crowd. Yet Lo had somehow managed. Just by watching. Obviously there was much more here than she could see.

She filled a bowl at the kitchens then sought out Sall. She found him sitting before his room. She sat next to him, tore off a pinch from her flatbread and dipped it into the stew. ‘Now what?’ she asked, chewing.

He seemed to have been studying his open empty hands on his lap. ‘We leave. No one can be compelled to accept a challenge. My father could now claim Seventh should he choose to do so. I don’t believe he will, however. Not like this.’

‘Going to talk to him?’

‘Who?’

‘Who? Him of course. Ask him why he’s here. What he’s doing. Maybe you’d learn something.’

Sall made a gesture of helplessness. ‘There is no need. He has made his position clear.’

Yusek studied Sall for a time as if attempting to peer past his mask. Then she gave a disgusted grunt. ‘Gods … how you fellows manage is a mystery to me. How do you fucking accomplish anything? Aren’t you the least bit curious?’

He gave a cutting sign with his hand. ‘If he wanted to speak, he would do so.’

‘Oh? He’d just go on like you blabbermouths?’ She stood. ‘Well, I’m going to talk to him. Even if you won’t.’

‘Yusek …’

She paused, looking down. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

Grunting again, she left. Can’t fucking believe this crap. Should I tuck them in, too? Maybe this wasn’t all so different from the bluster and chest-thumping she’d seen at Orbern’s. Posturing. Maybe it was all just posturing taken so far no one could back down any more — even if they wanted to.

She wondered. She really wondered.

The fellow was still kneeling in the same place. Looking west into the darkening mauve and deep blood-red of the fading sunset. Above, blotting out any stars that might’ve been visible, arced the jade curve of the Scimitar.

She sat next to him, dipped her bread, and tore off a bite with her teeth. ‘So …’ She chewed and swallowed. ‘As good as any place to hide, I suppose.’

His gaze slid round to her. He let out a long breath. Like I’m the pebble in the shoe, she thought.

‘They send you?’

‘No, they fucking well didn’t send me. You’re the man of the world, right? You should know they wouldn’t do something like that.’

His mouth quirked up and he let go something that might’ve been a rueful snort. His gaze slid back to the west. ‘Lectured by a child. Serves me right. Well, yes. That was unfair of me. They wouldn’t do something like that. I’m just tired. Tired of it all.’

‘Tired of what?’

He raised his chin to the west, to the sunset and the Scimitar. ‘Choices are being made even as we speak. Important choices that will affect all of us. I refuse to be part of it. I’m tired of being used.’ His voice fell and it seemed to Yusek that he wasn’t talking to her any longer. Perhaps he’d never really been talking to her at all. ‘I did what I thought was right. Damn them all, I don’t even know what the right choice is any more. I don’t even know if one exists. Everything I do is used.’

‘If everything you do is used one way or the other then why worry about it? There’s nothing you can do about all that. That’s beyond your control, right?’ The man’s gaze slowly edged back to her. ‘I mean, who cares about them? They can all take a flying leap into the Abyss, right? You can only do what you think is right, yes?’

One dark brow arched up. ‘That’s one way of looking at things. Maybe you should get some sleep. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.’

Now who’s tucking who in?

‘Right.’ She stood. ‘I heard them say you killed the Lord of Moon’s Spawn. But I don’t think that’s right. I mean, he’s an Ascendant, right? Immortal. You can’t just kill someone like that.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, that’s just what I think.’

The man’s gaze followed her as she crossed the moonlit central field and remained fixed for some time where she disappeared amid the stone huts. Then his eyes slowly swung back to the west, the night sky, and the Scimitar above. He felt it there, in the west. Tugging at him. It was happening again. Another gathering.

He felt its call because he was close himself. Close, if not already there. But fighting. Refusing. As he told the girl: it was a choice awaiting him. It seemed that no matter which way he turned, there it was, inevitable.

If only he knew which would be for the best. Yet perhaps it wasn’t a question of choice. Perhaps it had always been merely about doing. Perhaps that was the better way of thinking of things.

He could not be sure and that doubt was a torment. Because he didn’t think much of his choices so far.

In the morning Yusek stepped out chilled and wrapped in her blanket to see the man still there, still kneeling, the pink and amber sun’s rays painting his back.

Now that just ain’t human.

She shuffled to the kitchens for hot tea and a round of fresh bread. She had to jostle elbows and push herself forward just to swipe that much. These boys and girls might be priests and such, she reflected, but they sure weren’t shy when mealtime came around.

At her hut she packed what few bits and pieces she owned into a roll that she tied off and threw on to her back. Her new sword she belted at her left hip. On the grounds she found Sall and Lo ready to go. The fellow Lo had challenged was there as well.

Sall greeted her. ‘We are leaving.’

She couldn’t help looking to the sky. ‘Yeah. I guessed.’

‘Where will you head?’ he asked.

She shrugged, indifferent. ‘I dunno. Mengal, I guess. Thanks for the lessons.’

He gave a sign she recognized as meant to dismiss the subject. ‘It was nothing. You were a conscientious student. That is all a teacher can ask for.’

She knew Sall to be her age but sometimes he talked so stiffly, like he was some old guy of thirty or something.

The fellow Lo had challenged stepped forward. Sall inclined his head to the man and, incredibly, so did Lo.

So … Lo just indicated that he considers the man higher ranked. Even though the man refused his challenge. He doesn’t want to take the rank that way. Just as Sall said. Hey! I’m starting to understand these crazy people!

But abbreviated bows only seemed to make the man’s already pained face tighten even more. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing,’ he growled, his voice hoarse. ‘But when you get to Cant, give my regards to your Second. I’ve heard good things of him.’

Sall turned his masked face to Lo. Something passed between them. Sall turned back to the man. ‘Slayer of Blacksword, we are not returning to Cant.’

Something almost like panic seemed to claw at the man’s face. ‘You’re not?’ The lines bracketing his eyes and mouth tightened into an angry suspicion. ‘Tell me where you are headed.’

‘We travel to Darujhistan to join our brothers and sisters. The First has called and we have answered.’

Yusek stared. Darujhistan? They’re going to Darujhistan!

The man was shaking his head, appalled. ‘All the scheming gods — you mustn’t go there. Don’t you see?’

‘See … what?’

‘Don’t make yourself a weapon,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Take it from me. Weapons get used.’

Sall tilted his head a fraction. His eyes behind the mask appeared troubled, but he answered, ‘It is our duty. Our defining purpose. It makes us Seguleh.’

The man blinked as if fighting back tears. Every word Sall spoke seemed to strike him like a blow. ‘Gods, you people have backed yourselves up to the very Abyss …’

Lo moved slightly — a motion Yusek would never have caught before, but she understood it now as a gesture of impatience.

Sall said: ‘Thank you for your words, Slayer of Blacksword. But we must go.’

‘I’m going with you,’ the man said.

Even masked, Sall’s shock was obvious. He glanced at Lo, who answered with a gesture Yusek had seen him use in regard to her very often: the It’s her life sign.

‘If you wish,’ Sall said. ‘You are free to travel where you will.’

‘Fine.’ He motioned to the hut dwellings. ‘Just let me pack a few things.’

After the man had gone, Yusek faced Sall. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to Darujhistan!’ And she couldn’t believe it when the answering shift of his shoulders said, How is this is relevant?

‘How come we ain’t shootin’ at ’em?’ Bendan said, chin on his arms as he leaned against the top of the palisade of sharpened logs. He was watching the encircling lines of Rhivi cavalry encamped so close to the hilltop fort he was damned sure he could throw a stone and hit one.

‘Short on crossbow bolts and such, ain’t we?’ Hektar said, strangely cheerful. ‘And they know it.’

‘How do you know they know it?’ Bendan accused.

‘’Cause they’re camped so close — that’s why.’

Bendan returned to glaring at the tribesmen and women. ‘Well, don’t matter. Not like they need to do anything. I mean, we’re trapped, ain’t we? Got nowhere to go. Encircled. Brilliant piece of planning from these Fists, hey?’

The sergeant rubbed a hand over his bald night-dark pate. ‘From the city, aren’t you?’

‘Uh-huh. That’s right. Darujhistan.’ He didn’t bother clarifying that really he was from a rubbish heap next to it. ‘Why?’

‘Well then, you’d know that if we ain’t going anywhere then neither are these fellows. And that’s all to our advantage, isn’t it? We just have to wait them out. They got herds to mind, families, territory to patrol. And they only go to war a few months out of the year. My guess is we’re already far past that season, right?’

Bendan blinked, his mouth open. ‘Yeah. That’s right … damned right.’

Bone joined them on the catwalk behind the palisade. At least, the fellow was the right height for Bone. The man was smeared head to foot in green-grey clay that was drying and cracking even as they watched. The old saboteur winked at Hektar and cracked a smile. Even his teeth were gummed with the clay.

‘You fellers done playing in the mud?’ the sergeant asked.

‘Yeah. We’re all done.’

‘’Bout time. Now go get cleaned up.’

The bemired figure straightened to strike a parade-ground formal salute then grinned, his clay-caked cheeks cracking.

Bendan watched him go. ‘Why’d he have to get so dirty?’

‘All that mud keeps you warm at night. Didn’t you know that, lad?’ Hektar wandered off.

Bendan eyed his retreating back. ‘Yeah — I knew that!’ he called. ‘I know things.’

That night officers went round all the sergeants, whispering to each to rouse his squad. The night outside the tall walls of the palisade was bright with blazing campfires that encircled the fort. Bendan’s squad was one of those positioned at the base of the palisade where they waited, tensed. Others jammed the catwalk, hunched down behind the sharpened log ends, shields at the ready.

One fellow signed from atop the catwalk. ‘Here it comes,’ Hektar murmured. He peered up the lines of squads jamming the camp. ‘Ready shields.’

Bendan gaped at the huge Dal Hon. ‘What? What’s comin’? Ready shields? Why?’

Then a great roar shook the ground from beyond the palisade wall. A rushing and thrumming and hissing that sounded like a hungry beast lunging for them. The night sky blossomed as bright as day as a ring of fire-arrows arced up above the fort as dense as hail.

‘Mother of all the gods!’ was all the time Bendan had before something slammed his shield down on to his head, making him stagger.

‘Don’t look up, you damned fool,’ Little snapped.

Something struck him in the chest, sloshing frigid water all down his front. ‘Take it, quick!’ someone shouted. ‘Let’s go!’

Dazed, he grasped a small wooden barrel and passed it on. Next came a leaky leather bucket already nearly empty. One-handed, Bendan passed it up the line to the squads atop the catwalk, where it was emptied over the timbers and tossed back down. The troopers worked in pairs, one emptying, one holding his shield high over them both.

For what seemed half the night Bendan passed along a bizarre collection of barrels, large and small, leather satchels, earthenware jugs, even leather boots. Most held barely any water at all by the time they reached him, but on they went to contribute to maintaining the palisade wall. Meanwhile, behind him he caught glimpses of flaming tents and the infernos where their remaining wagons and carts had been left to burn. What few horses they’d kept were slaughtered that night — mostly out of mercy, as the encircling fires drove them insane with terror.

Bendan’s squad was relieved before dawn. For cover they hunched under their shields at the base of the palisade. The salvos were nothing like as dense as before, but a steady fall of harassing fire was being maintained. Incredibly Hektar still carried his idiotic bright smile. Bendan was soaked and frozen, his arms and back ached as if mattocked and he hadn’t gotten a wink all night. He wanted to smack the grin from the man’s damned face.

‘What’s to smile about?’ he snarled.

‘Outrun ’em again, didn’t we?’ The man laughed. ‘They thought they’d hit on the answer but ol’ Steppen, she was one step ahead. Ha! Get that? One step.’

‘Yeah. Ha, real funny. Now what?’

The sergeant raised his great rounded shoulders. ‘Whatever. We’re still in here and they’re still out there. That’s all that counts.’ He sat up straighter to yell: ‘Another day’s soldiering and another of the Emperor’s coins, ain’t that right, lads?’ Laughter up and down the walls nearby answered that. ‘Now get some sleep.’

Sleep? How could the man sleep knowing that at any instant thousands of these Rhivi tribals could come storming this pitiful wall? And laughter? How could anyone think this was funny? Still, that laughter … it had been that dark sort that if he’d heard it in a bar would’ve sent him reaching for his knife.

Midway up the scree slope of a mountain shoulder a lone rider halted his mount to swing himself from the saddle. His boots crunching on the bare rocky talus, Torvald Nom eyed the ever-steepening valley side then rested his forehead against the horse’s flank. Shit. Didn’t look quite so precipitous from the foothills. Cursing the fates, he set down his pack, undid the bridle, and unbuckled the girth to let the saddle fall to the ground. He poured out the last of the feed into his hand and let the horse finish it, then gave it a slap and waved it off. He watched it make its way back down the slope, heading for the valley floor, then he shouldered his pack and started up the loose rocks.

The view from the ridge revealed yet another valley in front of him and he let his head hang for a moment. Me and my stupid ideas. Still … He eyed the valley head where the talus gave way to naked rock which sloped back to a higher ridge and beyond that, far beyond that, a snow-capped peak. The Moranth occupy these high mountain valleys? What do they eat? Snow and mist? Ye gods, I’ll starve before reaching them. He started down the slope, sideways, one hand catching at rocks and low, wind-punished brush.

Come dusk he reached the thin creek of melt that ran down the centre of the valley. It was loud amid its rocks and so cold it numbed his hand when he drank from it. He set down his pack and started searching for fuel. Night came swiftly in the upper valleys and he was surprised when the sunlight was cut off so soon in the west. All he had for kindling was dry moss and a few handfuls of duff. He took out his tinderbox and set to work.

The fire he coaxed to life did little to thaw his bones. He huddled over the smoky smudge and thought of home. Tis throwing pots — and not necessarily at him. Warm dinners from her hands. He hadn’t appreciated that as much as he should have. A lot to be said for that. Even more than warm embraces afterwards. Not that he could remember those; still, there must’ve been some, certainly. Once. Consummation of the union and all that. Winking friends and a great deal of liquor. He remembered being terrified that Rallick would show up and shove his knife into his back; which hadn’t exactly helped his performance that night either.

Shivering, he decided he’d had enough of climbing. He could tramp from one end of this mountain range to the other and not turn them up. If they were here it was up to them to come to him. That he’d settle tomorrow. Having reached a decision on the matter, Tor gathered his blanket about himself and lay down to sleep.

In the morning’s chill he shivered awake, stretched, emptied his bladder, and shocked himself with a splash of the frigid meltwater. He prepared for a march, but left one object out of his pack: one of the Moranth Blue globes given to him long ago when, as a much younger man, he’d saved a life. And without expectation of any payment, too. Yet the gift was offered, and it would have been gauche to reject such gratitude, wouldn’t it? At least that had been his thinking at the time.

Now, he hefted the sapphire-blue ovoid and eyed the stream. It was a gamble; possibly a criminal waste. Yet how else to get attention quickly? If they had eyes out watching these high valleys, which he assumed they did.

Very well. Enough dithering. The sun is up, visibility is clear. I may be throwing away a fortune — my nest-egg, so to speak. But here goes.

He threw. The globe splashed into the streaming flow, which was hardly deep enough to cover it, and cracked against the rocks. Tor did not know what to expect, but certainly not the explosive crackling that echoed and re-echoed across the valley.

At the same time, for as far as he could see, all movement in the water suddenly ceased. As did all sound. Leaning closer, he saw that the stream was frozen — frozen solid where it had eddied, splashed and curled. A monstrous icicle that ran the entire length of the valley and on for who knew how far.

Well, that was … impressive. If this didn’t get their attention, then he had no idea what might.

He sat leaning back against his pack and waited. Eventually, running water came trickling down from the heights over and around the streambed and the ice floe that choked it. Eventually, Tor imagined, this unnatural manifestation would melt.

Towards mid-day, when the sun had breasted the opposite valley side, an eerie whirring noise entered the valley. Tor stood. He knew he’d heard that sound before but for the life of him he couldn’t quite place it. He peered about in growing unease. It was a sort of rhythmic humming or thumping, like a horse’s distant gallop, only infinitely faster.

Something roared over his head, fanning up great clouds of dust, and he threw himself to the ground. The sound returned, circling around, and Tor hesitantly climbed to his feet to see one of the monstrous Moranth mounts, their quorl, settling down not far away. Its four wings fluttered in a shimmering rainbow blur. The bulbous faceted eyes regarding him seemed empty of emotion; yet perhaps they were not, as he’d heard that these beasts, like their diminutive dragonfly cousins, were carnivores.

A Moranth dismounted from the intricately carved leather and wood double saddle that hugged the beast’s thorax. Tor was astonished to see that it was a Moranth Silver. He wondered if he should bow. The Silver and the Gold were aristocracy among the Moranth. Few ever saw them.

But he was now an emissary, was he not? If sub-rosa. And so Tor merely inclined his head in greeting. Closer, it was actually rather difficult to look directly at the Silver. Its chitinous armour reflected the light like a perfect mirror. The effect was quite dazzling. Also, engraved swirling patterns covered each plate, adding to the confusion of the shimmering.

‘You are Darujhistani,’ the Silver said in accented Daru. ‘What are you doing here on our border marches?’

‘I come as an emissary of the Legate of Darujhistan.’

That gave the Silver pause. Its armour grated as it looked him up and down. ‘In truth? You come as an emissary of this … Legate. All alone. Carrying stolen Blue alchemicals.’

Tor’s stomach seemed to loosen. ‘Stolen? Accusations? Does this pass as manners among you Moranth? I carry those items as gifts.’ Unless that Blue stole them in the first place …

‘Gifts? From whom? Name him or her.’

Tor forced himself to gesture casually even though he felt as if chunks of the ice from the stream were now slithering down his back. ‘Not for you. I am here to negotiate in the name of the Legate.’

The Silver cocked its helmed head. ‘Negotiate?’ A chuckle escaped it and from its high timbre Tor recognized that he faced a female Moranth.

And that chuckle made him damned uncomfortable. But he’d travelled with far more intimidating presences than this Silver and so he raised his chin. ‘Yes. Negotiate. What of it?’

The Silver answered with a wave of her own while she continued to laugh quietly. ‘Very well. Attend me and we will see what will come of these negotiations.’

She returned to the quorl. Tor threw on his pack and followed. He stepped gingerly around the great shimmering translucent wings to reach the long thorax. The Silver had already mounted. She gestured to the rear saddle seat, pointing. ‘Use the long sheaths here for your feet,’ she shouted over the loud whirring of the twitching wings. ‘Push them down all the way. Wrap these straps around your forearms. Cinch them tight. Then hold these sunken handles here on either side.’

Tor nodded. Right. Push down. His slid his booted foot into the leather sheath. It took his leg up to the knee. He swung his other foot over the beast’s back and down the other sheath. Like stirrups, but with broad boots attached. Sitting, he examined the mishmash of strapping before him. Which ones do I wrap?

He’d opened his mouth to ask when the Silver snapped the jesses and the quorl leapt into the air.

Tor found himself gaping down at the receding valley floor, his arms dangling and flailing. A hard gauntleted fist gathered up a handhold of his cloak at the neck and dragged him upright. The Silver shouted something that was lost amid the roaring hum of the wings and the rushing air. Tor quickly took hold of the handles sunk into the leather of the saddle.

Well, whatever that had been it must have been pretty insulting.

He was immediately frozen in the punishing constant wind. He hunched down behind the cover of the Silver’s back. The wind hurt his eyes, too, so it was through the barest slits that he watched a mountain ridge slip drunkenly beneath them as the quorl arched, turning.

Gods … I’m going to puke all over this Silver’s back. How embarrassing.

At the last instant Tor realized he had to but turn his head and the lashing wind would do the rest. His stomach was almost entirely empty anyway and so the gorge that came rushing up in a gagging acid heave hardly amounted to anything. As they swung over the next valley Tor sensed more than heard the Silver’s continuing laughter.

Here Tor was surprised to see square fields of green and the shimmering of irrigation canals. The Silver guided her quorl over a walled settlement that hugged the naked rock of the valley head. Beneath him Moranth of every hue went about their work. Tor marvelled. Never had he heard of such a thing. No traveller that he knew of had ever penetrated the Moranth’s borders.

The quorl began to circle in an ever narrowing spiral that brought them alighting on the broad flat roof of a tower. The Silver dismounted. Tor struggled to free his legs, feeling stiff and queasy with what seemed a curious analogue to seasickness. After much yanking he managed to release himself and staggered free of the quorl. A detachment of Moranth Black had climbed the rooftop. Tor shouldered his pack, eyeing them. The Silver gestured to the Black guards, speaking in the Moranth tongue. The Black encircled him. One motioned for him to drop his gear. Tor looked at the Silver. ‘What’s this?’

She was already on her way to the rooftop trapdoor and stairs down. ‘You are to be imprisoned as a spy and a thief,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘What?’

The Black gestured again, insistent.

Tor waved the Black guard aside. ‘I’ll have you know I am an emissary!’ he called as she disappeared down the stairs.

The Black reached for Tor’s pack. Tor shook his finger in a negative. ‘I am under the protection of the Legate.’ The guard motioned to his fellow on Tor’s left and involuntarily Tor glanced over.

Something smashed into his head from the right and his legs lost all strength. He toppled to the flags of the roof, his last thought a self-recriminatory oldest damned cheap trick around.

When Aman led her to his old shop Taya nearly deserted him at the door. ‘What are we doing here? Give me one minute and I’ll have all those soldiers’ heads.’

The mage was fiddling with the door’s many locks. ‘No, no, my dear. K’rul is not to be underestimated. There is a chance she may get hold of you.’ He shot her a hard glance. ‘Then we’d all be at risk.’

She accepted the warning with a simmering growl. ‘Fine. So what are we — oh, just force it!’

Aman looked up, horrified. ‘Certainly not!’ He opened the last lock. ‘That would invite thieves.’

Inside, the wreckage hadn’t changed. Their steps crushed the scattered litter. ‘Now what?’ she sighed.

‘K’rul and her adherents have obviously planned ahead. What could possibly fend off Seguleh? Why, undead Seguleh, of course!’ He stroked his uneven chin. ‘Quite the poetic solution when one considers it.’

Taya fanned the dusty stale air. ‘Yes, yes. There is a point? Or has your head finally cracked under all this pressure?’

He raised one gnarled and bent finger. ‘Ah, but I’ve been planning too.’ He crossed to where the huge statue glimmered in the shadows, dominating the room like a gigantic squat pillar. He peered up at it admiringly, perhaps the way one might admire a tall son. ‘What can beat down all obstacles before it, never resting, never relenting? An automaton, yes?’

Taya eyed it doubtfully. ‘I thought you said they weren’t automatons.’

Irritation twisted half Aman’s mismatched face. ‘Normally, yes. However, I’ve been making certain … ah … innovations.’ He patted the statue’s chest where the mosaic of inset precious stones flashed. ‘This one is my own project. And now it is time to set it into motion.’ He hobbled to the rear of the shop.

Taya heard pots thumping, then a rhythmic grinding of mortar and pestle. She blew out a breath and looked to the cobwebbed ceiling. Hoary ancients! I cannot believe I am wasting my time here!

‘I do not understand why Father tolerates this feud of yours,’ she called.

‘Hmmm?’

‘Just ignore them!’ she shouted. ‘Leave them barricaded in that heap of stones.’

‘The Warrens are a standing threat to us, my dear. Surely that must be obvious, even to you.’

She scowled, not liking the sound of that. He emerged carrying shallow ceramic bowls containing powders, which he lined up on the counter. She watched while he upended a tall earthenware jug over the statue, straining to reach its shoulders. Some sort of thick milk-like substance dribbled down its arms and front. Taya almost asked what it was, only to reconsider at the last instant. She decided she didn’t want to know.

‘How long is this going to take?’

‘Long?’ he murmured, distracted, as he rubbed the sticky liquid into the statue’s torso and arms. ‘Oh, quite some time. Quite some time.’

‘Well … I’m going.’

He turned, blinking at her. ‘Really? I thought you’d be interested.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

He picked up one of the shallow ceramic bowls and dipped a finger into the powder, sighed. ‘Let it not be said I did not try … I apologize, then, for attempting to further your education. There is no need for you to remain.’

‘Thank you. I will be at court.’

‘Of course you will,’ he murmured as she yanked open the door.

Barathol had been napping in the afternoon heat when he awoke to see Scillara standing over him. ‘That greasy fat fellow is here to see you.’

‘Fat fellow?’

‘That shabby one who warms a chair at the Phoenix Inn. Count your fingers when you’re done talking with that one, I say.’

He rose, stretching. Joints popped. He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘A breastfeeding mother is the most sensual sight to a father.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘So you keep sayin’.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Sure it is.’ She pushed him to the rear door of the row-house. ‘Try to get some more work. We’re not living off the fat of the hog here.’

He found the man sitting at their small table, the chair pushed far back to make room for his round stomach. ‘Make yourself at home,’ Barathol said.

‘Why, thank you! I shall and did. I could not help but also notice that your pantry possesses remarkable potential for filling … When might this be accomplished? Soon, I hope?’

Barathol pulled out their one other chair and sat heavily. He considered for a moment and then said, ‘I do the cooking here.’

‘Excellent! Then I certainly am speaking to the most important person here. I would like eggs. Poached. And a roasted bird, preferably plucked beforehand. Or a roasted bird still containing its eggs. Whichever is quicker, speed being the operational consideration here. Efficiency.’ He rested his pudgy hands on his stomach, grimacing.

Barathol crossed his arms, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. They reached halfway across the narrow main floor. ‘I cook over the forge I built in the yard.’

The eager moon-round face fell. ‘Oh dear. How unappetizing.’ A hand flew to his mouth. ‘I can’t believe that word passed my lips. You say you actually cook over the fire? How primal. No wonder you are favoured by Burn.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing. You wouldn’t have something, though, would you?’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Just a smidgen of a biscuit or a cut of lamb? Roasted, on a stick? A kebab? Yes, a kebab would be nice. Forge-roasted, perhaps?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Aiya! You are merciless! Is Kruppe to perish? Very well! You win, O ruthless bargainer. You may have the villa.’

Barathol frowned. ‘The what?’

‘Why, the villa outside the city. Cliff-top, with a view over Lake Azur, of course.’

‘A villa? What for?’

‘Dear Soliel! Isn’t that enough?’ The man pressed his hands to his straining waistcoat. ‘I swear I have diminished. In the name of all that is civilized, relent!’

Barathol studied the sweaty, rotund figure. His black hair was so lacquered it looked like no more than a layer of pitch paint slathered across his head. Delicate curls descended on to his forehead but these too were pasted down as if glued. The man’s arsenic-white pallor was almost shocking in its contrast. While he watched, the fellow wiped his heavy jowls with a handkerchief so grey and grimed it seemed to do nothing more than reapply the shine of oil.

‘Is there anyone at all like you, Kruppe?’ he murmured wonderingly.

‘What?’ The fellow sat up straighter. The curve of his stomach pressed against the table. ‘Another Kruppe? Why, such excess of excellence would contravene fundamental laws of creation. Or would that rather be a case of excellent excess? Nay, sir! Think of the poor ladies alone. Imagine what it would do to their respiration. They would not know which way to turn.’

‘Quite,’ Barathol agreed sotto voce.

‘No, such dreams will have to wait. Yet what comportment such a one would possess. What elan. It would be a rare privilege to meet such a one, yes? Although …’ He tapped a short pudgy finger to his lips, his gaze distant. ‘How infuriating this paragon would be in his habit of always being right. His insufferable good looks. His intellect and generosity! No! I would hate him immediately and scheme for his downfall, of course.’

Blinking, the little man regarded Barathol anew. ‘Is that squash? I swear I smell yellow squash. Sliced thinly and roasted over a high open heat. Such as that which may be possessed by a forge. For example.’

Barathol shook his head. ‘No. No squash.’

‘May the gods forgive such ruthlessness. The very thought. No squash indeed. Very well.’ He pushed up his loose frilled sleeves and set his hands flat on the table. ‘The villa, a nursemaid, housekeeper, groom and valet. And that is my final offer.’ The handkerchief dabbed at mouth and brows and the fellow deflated, limp, in his chair as if utterly spent, eyes shut, arms dangling loose.

Barathol cleared his throat. He didn’t know whether to laugh or throw the man out. He took a long breath. ‘For what, Kruppe?’

One eye cracked open. ‘Why, for forging something, of course. Really, if I wanted shoes I would have gone next door.’

Barathol cocked his head. ‘I do shoes, Kruppe. That’s mostly what I do these days. Used to do swords but fashions change. Had to move to smaller premises. You want a dent beaten out of a pot? I’m your man. You want fine expert work? Try the guild.’

Kruppe sat up, straightened his crimson waistcoat. ‘I remove my own dents, thank you very much. And I do not understand why anyone would wear iron shoes. Fashion does drive us to awkward choices, however, does it not? I will send a carriage. In the meantime, here are some papers that have recently come into my care.’ He laid a folded packet on the table. ‘Now I must take this opportunity to escape before even greater demands are made, terms raised, or outrageous conditions imposed — squash or no squash! Good day!’ He threw his chin high and marched out.

Barathol eyed the packet for some time before letting out another breath and uncrossing his arms. He broke the wax seal and scanned the papers. He couldn’t read them but they certainly looked official. They might be a title. Or a bordello’s taxation report. He couldn’t tell. He’d have to take them to the scribe on the corner who wrote letters for everyone in the neighbourhood.

He tapped them against the table and eyed the door to the rear yard. He’d have to be damned quiet about it. He slipped the papers into his shirt.

So it had come to this. All her struggle. Her long journey. Failure. Abject loathsome failure once again. She leaned on her staff and ran a hand through her sweaty hair, squinting in the constant stabbing glare of the quicksilver Vitr sea. Twice with the same man. That had got to be some kind of record. She’d let down Agayla — not to mention the Enchantress. And what trouble might come of that? She dreaded to think of the possible consequences.

Yet further options existed. More extreme alternatives. Tayschrenn didn’t even seem to remember he was a mage and so he would pose no trouble. The only hurdle would be the man’s shadow, Korus. And she and Leoman together might be able to handle him. That left those countless little wretches, and for her there lay the problem. They would surely crowd to his defence and she would be forced to strike them down.

And that she could not bring herself to do. It would be like attacking children. She just couldn’t imagine it. Gods! Defeated by my own principles. Well, perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing after all. The Queen of Dreams could hardly fault her for that. She tapped the butt of the staff in the black sands, then swung it up over her shoulders and went to find Leoman.

He was asleep, curled up on his side. Just like a boy. How does he do that? Sleep so soundly? It’s like he’s at peace. An idea that jarred against what she knew of the man. She tapped his foot and he jerked, then stretched and blinked up at her. ‘Yes?’

‘All right. You win.’

He leaned up on one elbow and arched a brow. ‘Win? Me?’

‘Yes. There’s no point in staying. We should go.’

He stood and brushed at his clothes, picked up his armour, threw his belted morningstars over a shoulder. ‘So. You’re going,’ he said.

‘Me? What do you mean me?’ She motioned to the shore. ‘Might as well say goodbye.’

‘Yes.’

On the way to the sea Leoman said, ‘You know, I find it very relaxing here. Restful. It reminds me of the deep desert. I always felt comfortable there. It was just the people who occupied it I objected to.’

The moment they drew close to where Tayschrenn stood at the shore, the tribe of shambling malformed creatures he’d rescued from the Vitr gathered around protectively. Giant Korus strode to intercept them on its odd backward-bending legs.

‘What do you intend?’ it demanded.

‘We’ve come to say goodbye,’ Kiska answered. ‘We’re going.’

‘Goodbye? Farewell? You are leaving?’

‘Yes.’

The creature’s finger-long fangs grated like knives as it seemed to consider such a thing. It glanced over to where Tayschrenn was approaching from the glimmering surf. ‘Very well. But I will be watching.’ It lumbered aside.

‘What is it?’ the ex-mage called. ‘I asked you to trouble us no more.’

Kiska bowed. ‘Yes. Just come to say farewell. We are leaving.’

‘I see.’ He pushed back his long grey-shot hair, crossed his arms. It seemed to Kiska that he did appear younger. The harsh lines about his mouth and eyes had eased; gone was the watchfulness and guarded wariness from his gaze. Reborn in truth?

‘Safe journey then,’ he said. ‘I bear you no ill will.’

‘Yes. But perhaps some time from now-’

He’d raised a forestalling hand. ‘No. I will never return to that. Tell whoever sent you to leave me alone.’

‘Yes.’ Kiska struggled against the tightness in her chest. ‘There is just this. I understand this is yours.’ She held out the crumpled stick and cloth remains of their guide.

He took it into his palm and studied the dry bundle of litter. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know exactly — but I was told it belongs to you.’

‘I don’t want …’ His voice fell away as he seemed to lose his concentration.

Korus leaned close, looming over them all. ‘Thenaj — what is this thing? Throw it away!’

But the man’s hands clenched into fists around it, his body convulsing. He would have crashed to the sands but for the creatures easing him down. He curled into a straining knot, shuddering and twitching.

A huge fist closed about Kiska’s cloak and armour from the rear, lifting her from her feet. ‘What is this?’ Korus boomed. ‘What have you done to him?’

Leoman’s gear fell to the sands as he grasped the demon’s arm. ‘We know nothing of this!’ he yelled.

Kiska stared, horrified. Gods! Have I killed him? Was this the Enchantress’s scheme all along?

Then Tayschrenn screamed. He threw his head back and howled his agony. His back arched as if it would snap. He screamed until his breath failed and he fell limp, immobile.

Kiska did not even struggle as the hand swept her spinning through the air. She crashed into the shingle and tumbled over and over, gouging a trail. Then Leoman was there wiping the sand from her face. ‘Are you all right, girl? Speak to me.’

‘I killed him,’ she moaned. ‘Me! It was to be me all along.’

‘We don’t know …’

A large shadow covered them and a voice snarled, ‘Take them to the caves!’