Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XV

The Passages Orchid led Antsy and Corien through could only in the coarsest sense be named tunnels. As far into the distance as Antsy could see, the naked rock canopy was intricately carved to imitate a wide forest. Branches glittered with precious stones and gems which had been set as if mimicking berries or flowers. They passed rooms where wrecked furniture carved from rare woods lay like abandoned works of sculpture. Such wood alone would make Antsy wealthy beyond measure. That such riches lay about ignored within these upper reaches of the Spawn told Antsy a great deal about the character of those who occupied the place. After different coin, this lot.

Here Morn met them. He emerged from the gloom and waited as they advanced. At his feet lay a pile of equipment: their gear. Antsy belted his sword and long-knife then shouldered his pannier, all the while eyeing the strange entity. He’d even recovered their food bags. ‘Thanks,’ Antsy said, meaning it. The shade had very probably saved their lives.

The ghost bowed to Orchid. ‘I could not have you going hungry.’

‘We’re still for the Gap,’ she warned him, firm.

He gestured ahead, inviting them onward. ‘Of course.’

‘Here is a question for you, Antsy,’ Corien said after a time, his voice low, as they walked along. ‘If we’re supposed to be going to this “Gap”, why are we heading up?’

‘It is the only way,’ Morn answered from the front.

Antsy raised his brows to Corien in silent comment. Damned unnatural hearing on that man. The lad merely hefted the crossbow and offered a shallow bow. ‘Very well. Let us grant that for the moment. Why then didn’t we just turn round? Go out the way we came in?’

‘There would be no boats there,’ Morn answered, unperturbed. ‘Easier now to go onwards.’

‘Well … now, perhaps, but couldn’t we’ve …’ His voice died off as everyone stilled, peering about. A great juddering blow had shaken the artefact beneath their feet. Stone branches snapped, falling to explode into countless shards all about them. In a deafening avalanche of rock and broken furniture and rubbish the entire structure lurched to one side like a ship broadsided by an immense wave. Antsy tottered, side-stepping to hit the trunk of a stone tree. He reached for Orchid but missed as she rolled past. The Spawn lurched back in the opposite direction and Antsy bashed his head on the stone of the tree. Reverberations of calving rock and tons of falling rubble shook and shuddered the caves all around them.

The drunken rocking of the immense artefact eased slowly. A new equilibrium was reached with the floor pitched sideways at a rather uncomfortable angle. Gems, cups, broken shards of rock and other rubbish rolled and slid between their feet to clatter off into the darkness amid the stone tree pillars.

Orchid’s eyes, black and huge in the mage-light, sought and found Antsy’s. ‘The Gap,’ she called to Morn. ‘Where is it?’

The shade led them to a large opening carved to resemble an arch in an arboretum. Orchid stared in silent wonder, obviously awed. She faced Morn. ‘The Processional Way?’

The ghost bowed. ‘Indeed. You are well informed.’

She turned to Antsy and he was rather shaken to see her eyes almost glowing. ‘We are very close.’

‘About time,’ he murmured, clearing his throat. ‘Maybe I should lead now.’ Then he sniffed the air wafting from the broad arched way and cocked his head. Somethin’ there. Somethin’ … He pulled Orchid out of view of the opening. She opened her mouth to speak but all it took was one glance at his face for her to snap it closed. Good. We’re gettin’ tight now.

He signed wait to Corien, then poked his head round the corner to inhale once more. And there it was as before: sweat, oil, stink of clothes and armour too long unwashed. And one other thing: fish sauce. Damned Falaran fish sauce. Once tasted — or smelled — never forgotten. ‘Let go your balls, boys and girls,’ he called. ‘We’ve decided to let you live.’

‘Who’s that pissing uphill there?’ a man called back in Falaran.

‘Antsy. The Second.’

‘What’s a Second loser doing here?’

‘Mustered out last year. Now I got me a backpack so full o’ emeralds and rubies I can’t hardly lift it. Could use a hand.’

‘Put ’em up, lads. Let’s have a look.’

The yellow glow of lanterns bruised Antsy’s eyes and he turned away, wincing. A troop of six Malazan soldiers came down the broad hall; marines. The squattest of them, as broad as a horse, wore a sergeant’s torc. Antsy inclined his head in greeting.

The sergeant rubbed the beard darkening his chin and cheeks while he eyed Antsy up and down. ‘Well, I’ll be damned …’ he breathed. Then he cocked a questioning eye.

Antsy shook a negative. The man blew out a breath and gave a quick nod of assent. ‘So,’ he said, glancing about. ‘You alone?’

‘No.’ He turned and beckoned. ‘Orchid … Corien Lim … Morn.’

The sergeant nodded, then motioned back up the hall. ‘This way.’

As they started off Antsy glanced round to see that once again Morn had disappeared. After a time he asked, ‘What’s the situation?’

‘Damned ugly. Got a damned menagerie o’ mages ’n’ sorcerers ’n’ such all ready to kill one another an’ all jammed together steppin’ on each other’s toes an’ yankin’ each other’s knickers. It’s a wonder any of ’em’s still standing, it is.’

‘How’s your captain holding up?’

The man spat aside. ‘Captain’s dead. Lieutenant’s in charge.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘He’s kept us a seat at the table. But things’re heatin’ up.’ His gaze slid sideways. ‘Could use some help.’

Antsy felt his mouth tighten. ‘Can’t guarantee anything, Sergeant.’ He jerked his head back the way they’d come. ‘And there’s a whole army out there that wants in.’

The man spat again. ‘Faugh! Them! Fucking also-rans. Nothing to worry about there.’

‘And you boys? What do you want?’

‘Us?’ He snorted. ‘Togg’s tits, man. We just want out. Friend … we just want the Abyss outta here.’

The sergeant, Girth, led them to the lieutenant. They found him amidst the Malazan encampment, which occupied a set of rooms off a large high-roofed assembly chamber, like an immense cavern, where numerous halls and stairs led into darkness. Antsy caught a glimpse of the two mages they’d followed standing near the centre of the room, speaking to a striking slim woman dressed in a white silk shirt, tight trousers, and tall leather boots that came up to her knees. With them was their damned guide, the gangly Jallin.

The lieutenant, it turned out, was a very young fellow with the heavy build and curly hair of a north Genabackan. After Girth spoke to him he approached to give Antsy a welcoming nod. ‘A veteran, yes?’ Antsy nodded. ‘Good. Could use your help.’ He looked to Corien. ‘Darujhistani. Trained?’

Corien bowed. ‘Yes.’

‘Very good.’

He bowed to Orchid. ‘You are Dal Honese? A talent, perhaps?’

She waved a hand, embarrassed. ‘Dal Honese? No. But I do have some small skills.’

The lieutenant returned to Antsy. ‘Girth reported another with you. Someone in dark robes.’

‘A mage. He joined us partway up. Comes and goes as he pleases. We are not answerable for him.’

‘Ah. A shame. We could use the help. Welcome, regardless. I am Lieutenant Palal. Hengeth Palal.’

They introduced themselves. Then Antsy said, ‘We’ve come for the Gap. That’s all. We just want to get out of here.’

‘I understand. Truth be told, so do we. Problem is, that lot bar the way.’

Antsy stroked his jaw with the back of his fingers. ‘Block the way? Why’re they doing that?’

The lieutenant crossed his arms. It was clear he was rather overwhelmed, but it was also equally clear that he was aware of it and accepted it. No bluster or denial here, Antsy reflected. Just doing what he can.

‘What are their terms?’ Antsy asked.

‘Terms? Their terms are … frankly insane.’ The young officer shook his head, mystified. ‘I’ve told them again and again — we have no munitions. None at all. We can’t blow their damned door for them.’

Orchid gasped. Or at least Antsy thought she did; he was having trouble hearing over the roaring gathering in his ears. Hands steadied him and above the wind he thought he heard someone laughing. He recognized the mad laughter: it was his own. He was having a good time at his own expense. Forgot your philosophy, Ants. They’ll get ya. In the end they’ll always find a way to get ya.

‘All right?’ Corien asked, his head close. Blinking, Antsy squeezed the youth’s hand. ‘Yeah. Just thrown. That’s all.’

From the centre of the large cavern came the sharp slap of hands clapping. The explosive reports echoed from the walls and distant ceiling. A woman’s voice shouted: ‘A meeting! Everyone! I call a general meeting! Now!’

Palal uncrossed his arms, sighing. ‘Well, best see what the witch wants.’ He raised his chin, calling, ‘Sergeant. See to their billeting.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Girth closed, flanked by troopers. Antsy glared.

‘Thanks a lot!’

He shrugged his wide humped shoulders. ‘Sorry. Got over forty men and women who want out of this trap. That’s all I answer to. Maybe your friends can help.’

‘They’re dead.’

‘Hasn’t stopped others.’

‘Yeah, well. That’s the deal.’

The man spat again. ‘Too bad. Now, let’s take a walk, all of us. Nice an’ quiet.’

‘Him too!’ the woman yelled again, pointing from the distance. ‘The newcomer. The soldier. That one too!’

While he was sick inside Antsy made a point of arching a brow at the sergeant. ‘Gotta go. Things to do.’

Girth snorted. ‘Out of the frying pan, friend. Out of the pan.’

As Antsy walked away the man called: ‘We’ll just look after your friends here, right?’

Antsy raised a hand over his shoulder in a gesture that needed no explanation.

The ‘meeting’ was one of the oddest gatherings of fearsome individuals Antsy had ever attended. And that included a few command gatherings of Malazan Imperial mages and Claws. He took his place next to Lieutenant Palal. Opposite waited the tall slim woman who had called the meeting. Her complexion was olive-hued and her hair dark and straight, pinned up in a complex design. Her dark eyes watched Antsy with a look that seemed to enjoy his discomfort. The large loose circle also included the carmine-wearing old woman and her fat companion, together with Jallin, who glared his hatred. Antsy noted that the fat fellow seemed to spend most of his time with his gaze narrowed on the tall woman.

To one side waited the armoured figure of the blond-haired mercenary who had preceded them on to the Spawn. He was flanked by two of his men. All still carried canvas covers over their shields. Antsy wondered if these might be members of the Grey Swords. Yet they carried no symbols of the Wolves of Winter, nor any other god that he could recognize.

An old man, his thin hair a mussed cloud around his uneven skull, came shuffling up on his slippered feet. Also emerging from the gloom came the slim dark form of Malakai.

Antsy could not believe he was seeing him again. He thought the man dead, or long escaped from the Spawn. ‘Look what turned up,’ he drawled, giving him a hard stare.

The thief bowed, one brow quirked. ‘So you made it. Congratulations. I am very surprised.’

‘No thanks to you, you Hood-damned piece of-’

‘So you two know each other,’ the tall woman cut in, loud and firm. ‘How nice. Yet introductions are in order, I imagine.’

‘We are not yet all gathered,’ the old fellow observed in a quavering breathless wheeze.

‘Did someone call a meeting?’ a man’s voice enquired from the dark. ‘Is attendance mandatory?’ The owner of the smooth voice came forward: a man dressed in expensive silks over a fine blackened mail coat that hung to his shins. His midnight hair was slicked back and a goatee beard and moustache framed his mouth. A wide heavy two-handed sword hung at his side.

The tall woman, Antsy noted, eyed this well-dressed fellow with obvious distaste.

‘Introductions?’ the old woman squawked. She tossed her head, her ribbons rustling. ‘There need not be any introductions. I do not want introductions. Damn all of you. I care nothing for you.’

‘Quite,’ the fat fellow at her side supplied, like a punctuation ending her rant.

‘Thank you, Hesta and Ogule.’

‘Ogule Tolo Thermalamerkanerat,’ the fat fellow corrected. ‘Do please get it right. You know our dialect, Seris.’

The tall woman, Seris, smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Yes. Ogule.’

‘Hemberghin,’ the old man sneezed at Antsy.

Antsy leaned down to him. ‘What was that? Hemdergin?’

‘Hemper!’ the old man repeated angrily. ‘Hemper. Hemper Grin!’

Antsy flinched away from the spray of spittle. He wiped his sleeve. ‘Right. Hemper.’

The elegant fellow inclined his head to Antsy in an ironic salute. ‘Bauchelain.’ He gestured vaguely to his rear. ‘My companion, Korbal Broach, is, ah, currently … preoccupied.’

It may have been the poor light, but it appeared to Antsy as if at the man’s words everyone present turned a shade more pale. He cleared his throat in an effort to find his voice. ‘Ah, Antsy. Antsy’s the name.’

All this time Jallin had been whispering fiercely and pulling on the old woman’s rags. Whispering and pointing. She cuffed him now and shot out a withered crooked finger. ‘What is in your bag, soldier?’

‘To the Paths of the Dead with you, y’ damned hag.’

The woman jerked so sharply the ribbons hanging from her hair snapped like whips. Her eyes widened in disbelief then slitted almost closed. A sort of creamy smile came to her wrinkled lips. ‘So … you wish to challenge old Hesta, do you? Scream very prettily as you burn I think you will …’

‘Hesta …’ Seris warned. ‘Soldier. We know you carry munitions.’

Antsy glanced to Malakai. ‘How in the name of all the forgotten gods would you know that?’

The woman brought her long-fingered hands together to her lips then let out a loud breath as if exhausted. ‘Soldier. All of us here are close to many very great powers. Many of us have seen in the deck what you carry. We have terms to offer you for their use. For example — there are very many people here who wish to leave this crippled artefact. We will allow that … once our terms are met.’

‘What’s the job?’

Seris smiled behind her clasped hands. ‘This way, if you please.’ She led him across the wide assembly hall. The gang of mages followed. The one who gave his name as Bauchelain sauntered along last. Many of the others cast nervous glances back to the man.

A large scene of pastoral life decorated the polished floor they crossed. Hills, streams and mountains, all done in a mosaic of coloured stones. Antsy thought it odd that such a scene should be executed here within the heart of the Moon’s Spawn. It seemed all too … mundane.

Midway across they came to a large circular opening flush in the floor like a well or a pool. Antsy peered down only to throw himself backwards, his heart hammering. The opening sank bottomless into utter night and a cool breeze wafted up. The wind carried with it the distant lap and murmur of the sea.

They came to wide curving stairs cut from black glittering stone that led up to a tall set of double doors. The doors were cut from the same black stone, but set in panels of gold, bronze and silver. Similar vignettes of woods and fields decorated the panels. Scenes of some sort of homeland, Antsy wondered? Somehow it struck him as odd that the Tiste should possess any sort of homeland. They seemed to have simply appeared from the sky. But of course they had to have originated from somewhere.

‘These doors are barred to us,’ Seris announced, slapping a hand to a silver panel. ‘We cannot broach them. Do so, soldier, and you will save the lives of your fellows — plus many more.’

Antsy nodded towards the doors. ‘What’s inside?’

‘That is none of your business!’ Hesta snarled.

‘Indeed,’ Ogule agreed.

‘Something its master thought destroyed,’ said old Hemper, with a wheezing laugh.

‘The dream of night unending,’ Malakai provided as if quoting a line.

‘What lies within, soldier,’ said Bauchelain, drawn close now, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze in the distance over Antsy’s head, ‘is nothing less than the Throne of Night.’

Bendan forced down a leather-like string of old horsemeat and helped it along with another mouthful of water. At least they had that: all the drink they needed thanks to the well the saboteur lads and lasses had dug almost overnight. But that was all they had. Most of the biscuits and beans went up with the wagons during the fire attacks. There was no firewood left to cook with anyway. Just dried horse and bits and pieces left now. He wiped one soot-blackened hand on his thigh only for it to come away just as dirty as before. Nothing to wash with neither.

The gaminess of the cut almost made him throw it down. Almost. Growing up as he had, any meat was frankly a rare treat. One of the attractions of joining up was that the army ate a damned sight better than he ever did. Because of this he wasn’t feeling the pain that a lot of men and women around him were. Soft, those ones. Not used to punchin’ new holes in their belts. Or suckin’ on leather.

Looked to him like Hektar was wrong and these Rhivi were just gonna starve them out. It burned his butt and wasn’t what he thought soldiering was all about. But there you go. More and more he was coming round to the view that it really was all more about manoeuvring and positioning than any of this dirty hand-to-hand stuff.

He glanced aside to Corporal Little where she dozed, her shield angled over her face for shade from the low sun. He frankly could not figure her out; nor any of these damned soldiers. It was plain as day that she didn’t think much of him, yet time and again it was her shield that took an arrow meant for him; and time and again she offered advice and tricks on how to handle himself in the ranks. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever known before. He’d felt as if he was part of a family in his gang in their quarter of Maiten town — but that had been nothing like this. There, it had all been about clawing and snarling one’s way up to top dog. It was all about who could face down who. The top dogs swaggered it and did as they pleased to whoever they pleased. The little dogs got kicked. Or worse. That was life as he knew it. Abyss, life in the entire world for all he knew.

But not here. Here in the squads nobody seemed to be a big dog. There was no facing down. The nobodies, the new hands, once they got bloodied and proved their grit, people helped them out. For the first time in his life he didn’t know where he stood. He’d always had to know that. Get your head bit off otherwise.

Not like they was all holdin’ hands and slappin’ each other’s backs or shit like that neither. Not like family — or at least what he’d heard family was supposed to be like. In his case he was damned relieved this wasn’t like family. Worst beatings he ever got were from his da and older brothers. Till one day the old man staggered inside shit drunk and they all piled on with boards and sticks. Never was the same afterwards. Couldn’t move the one side of his mouth nor that arm. Lost all his fire that night and nobody paid him no attention after that. And his sister, she run off. Got tired of his older brothers selling her for drinks and hits of durhang. So, no, he was damned glad this was no Hood-taken family.

Murmuring brought Bendan’s attention to the camp. People were rousing themselves to join the posted squads on the walls. Something was up. He got to his feet and kicked Little then headed for the wall. Sergeant Hektar’s towering figure was easy to spot. He pushed his way to the man’s side. ‘What is it?’

The big Dal Hon looked even more pleased than usual. He raised his chin to the Rhivi encampment. ‘Look there. See those new boys an’ girls come to play?’

Bendan squinted. Luckily the day was waning and the sun was more or less behind them, descending now towards the uneven lines of the distant Moranth mountains. All he could see were crowds of Rhivi and horses. ‘No. I don’t really have good eyes, have to say.’ Then the milling mounts and crowding Rhivi parted for a moment and he caught a glimpse of slim figures, lightly armoured, their faces covered or hooded. ‘Who’s that?’

Hektar seemed to make a great show of smiling even more broadly. ‘Looks like you’re in luck, lad. Gonna have a lesson in butchery from the pros. Them’s Seguleh. And it looks like they’re workin’ with the Rhivi.’

Seguleh? He thought back to Tarat’s claim. Togg damn! In the flesh. But … holy fuck! ‘Is it true that three of them beat the entire Pannion army?’

Hektar gave a farting noise. ‘Chasing off a scared-arsed peasant horde without training or spine is one thing. Facing a solid shield wall of iron veterans is another.’ Raising his voice he called: ‘Ain’t that right, lads and lasses?’

‘Aye!’ came answering shouts.

Hektar leaned his thick forearms on the blackened logs. ‘You just stay down behind your shield and use short quick thrusts and you’ll be right fine, lad. Keep your head low. Let ’em run around and jump up and down all they want.’ And he winked.

Despite the growing dread clawing at his stomach Bendan almost laughed aloud at the advice.

Tserig did not know what the new Warleader Jiwan meant when he’d hinted at promised aid from his ally, this so-called ‘Legate’. And so, even though pointedly no invitation had been extended to him, when the flurry of activity arose in camp he readied himself and strode out to join the reception. He knew his ears and eyes were not what they once had been (though bless the Great Mother not his prang!) but it seemed to him as he made his way through the press that all was not as expected. The young bloods were subdued, not joyous with anticipated victory. Emerging into the Circle of Welcoming he was surprised to find just three individuals facing the Warlord.

He squinted anew then rocked backwards on his staff. Great Mother! Aid? This is the aid the creature parading as the Legate offers? No, not aid. This is the fist unveiled. The ancient curse. The Faceless Warriors. Fear them, Jiwan. Fear them!

There were two Seguleh in their leather armour. One’s mask was a kaleidoscope of colours all swirling in a complicated design; the other’s was all pale white, marred only by two dark smudges, one on each cheek, as if placed there by a swipe of a forefinger. Tserig’s hands grew sweaty upon his staff. Burn look away! The Third. The Third of the Seguleh!

Yet the last of the group troubled Tserig even more. He knew what it was, that bent and broken being, twisted under harrowing punishments inflicted by his master. One of the Twelve. The demon slaves of the Tyrant Kings. Which of them it was made no difference. They were all the same in serving their masters’ will.

Jiwan was on his feet, his bearing far less certain than when he had faced Brood. But then he did not know all the old stories about Caladan. The most ancient tales. And Brood had been an ally of many years, seemingly harmless. Jiwan had grown up knowing him as if he were no more than an uncle. He did not seem to grasp the true danger he represented. Indeed, no one in this age seemed to understand that. Unlike himself, old Tserig, hoarder of the old knowledge.

‘The invaders will be dealt with, yes,’ the demon mage was saying. ‘They will be swept from the field. But first,’ and it raised a gnarled hand to Jiwan, ‘I need to know your answer to our offer.’

The Warleader of the Rhivi cocked his head, puzzled. ‘Offer? What offer is that?’

‘Why, the offer of his protection, of course! My master, the Legate of Darujhistan, has graciously extended to you the guarding hand of his shelter and countenance. You will be as safe as a child in the arms of its parent under his warding, I assure you of that.’

Jiwan drew himself up straighter. He was obviously attempting to keep his face neutral, but it betrayed too much of his distaste. ‘We Rhivi are a free people. This alliance is one of mutual defence. Nothing more. Thank the Legate for his concern. We have no need of his guardianship.’

The mage stroked his long chin as if puzzled. ‘Do you not wish to be safe and secure? To be strong? So many in these days of trouble argue for a strong hand guiding their community, their city, their lands, or province. Within the encircling arms of the Legate you will find that. It is easy. One merely need yield all troubling matters of governance to him. He will take care of you. As a father.’

The Warleader was now nodding. He appeared saddened. ‘Aman, I hear your words and I thank you. I believe you have just handed me a great lesson. For among us Rhivi there was one who could very easily have claimed such a role. But he possessed the wisdom, the true generosity of soul, to stand aside when we chafed under his hand. Sadly, I do not believe we will ever find another to match him. And were he here now I believe I would offer him my apology.’

The demon mage, Aman, dropped his hand from his chin. ‘You are right, Warleader. That is sad. For you have chosen defiance. And for that there can be only one answer.’ He looked to the Seguleh Third. The Third shifted forward, and as he did so something blurred between him and the Warleader and Jiwan’s face became confused, then emptied of all emotion as if drained. Then his head slid off his neck as his body toppled.

Screaming rent the air all around. Warriors lunged, drawing weapons. The Seguleh stood back to back, their swords a blur, as Rhivi warriors, men and women, tumbled aside missing hands, arms, throats and stomachs. Roaring with immense laughter, Aman ignored the many blades that rebounded from his form beneath his rags. He reached out to grasp wrists to snap them, clenched throats to squeeze pulping bursts of blood and flesh.

All this Tserig watched, motionless, horror-struck. Ancient gods known and forgotten, deliver us. It has begun anew. The iron fist of the Tyrant reborn. Shall we be once more slave for a thousand years? No!

More warriors closed, meaning to bring down these three murderers, only to fall to the near-invisible blades or the gore-smeared hands of the mage. Tserig threw down his staff to raise his arms high. ‘Sons and daughters of the plains!’ he bellowed. ‘Flee! Now! Ignore this filth! Flee these lands now. An ancient curse has arisen! North! Flee north!’

Aman closed upon him. ‘Shut up, old man!’ He brought a fist smashing down, breaking Tserig’s skull and snapping the frail vertebrae of his neck. He fell instantly dead.

From the palisade wall of Fort Step, which for some reason unknown to Fist Steppen it had come to be named, she and Fist K’ess watched while the meeting of allies that promised to sweep them from the plain all went horribly wrong.

‘Looks like a falling out,’ Steppen said, her propensity for understatement intact.

‘Don’t it though,’ K’ess echoed. Then he gestured aside. ‘Look at that. An encirclement.’

Steppen squinted into the lengthening shadows. There, among the tall grass, individual figures had arisen in a broad ring surrounding the Rhivi camp. One every few tens of paces. While they watched, the figures closed in, tightening the circle.

‘Gods-damned slaughter,’ K’ess murmured. ‘Their first mistake.’

‘They think they don’t need them.’

The Fists met each other’s gaze. K’ess cocked a brow. Steppen gave one quick nod that bulged her double chin. K’ess leaned over the catwalk. ‘Captain Fal-ej!’

‘Aye?’

‘An immediate withdrawal west! Over the wall! Lightest pack. Three days’ water.’

‘Aye, sir!’

Both Fists returned to gauging the fighting. Rhivi riders, alone and in packs, thundered off through the encirclement, riding north for the lake. Many fell, but the majority bulled through. Presumably those survivors wouldn’t stop for anything.

‘Four squads should remain on the walls till everyone’s gone,’ K’ess said. ‘I’ll stay with them.’

‘I believe you held the rear-guard last,’ Steppen pointed out. ‘It’s my turn.’

K’ess looked the rather dumpy woman up and down. ‘You sure you’re up to it?’

Steppen merely looked to the sky. ‘These recruits don’t know what a hard march is. Not like the run to Evinor. Time they learned.’

K’ess cast an eye over the fort. ‘A shame, really. Well built.’

‘Have to have a word with the engineers. I was really looking for something roomier.’

The distant scream of a dying horse pierced the din of battle, making Steppen wince. She faced the east. ‘Run, you poor bastards,’ she murmured. ‘Flee. Just mount up and ride.’

K’ess squeezed her shoulder. ‘Oponn’s favour.’ He turned and left her.

‘Toren,’ she called, using his first name, and he paused on his way down.

‘Yes?’

‘Give them something to remember,’ she said, smiling. ‘Show them what they’ve taken on, yes?

Fist K’ess inclined his head in agreement. ‘Somewhere narrow, Argell. I will see you there.’ He offered a brief salute and bounded down the stairs. Steppen turned to the east again and the screams drifting across with the wind. Gods. So it’s true. All that she’d heard. These Seguleh. A few hundreds against some thirty thousand and it’s a rout.

Facing the gathering twilight she whispered: ‘Yes, Toren. We’ll meet again there.’

Crouched in the tall grass, Captain Fal-ej scanned a landscape painted an unnatural watery green. Like the bottom of the sea, she thought to herself. Almost beautiful. To either side sergeants awaited her command to fire. Damn the man. Where was he? This bravado could cost them an experienced commander. Not to mention she hadn’t yet told him all that she wanted to.

Then movement among the grass and the Fist came running up the slope. Fal-ej signed for a stand-down. She rose to meet him. ‘We’re on the move,’ she called rather angrily. ‘Where’s Fist Steppen?’

‘Holding the fort.’

She stared past K’ess to the distant structure. ‘That’s-’

‘Yes,’ K’ess cut in. ‘She’s buying us time. Now let’s go. Double-time.’

Fal-ej backed away, signing a withdrawal to the sergeants. K’ess kept going. ‘No rear guard or outliers, Captain,’ he called. ‘Just a rear watch.’

‘Aye,’ she answered. She raised her arm in the air to inscribe the circular pull out sign.

When dawn came Fist Steppen found herself looking out at an encirclement of Seguleh. Crows and other scavenging birds wheeled in the brightening eastern sky, or hopped obscenely among the distant trampled grass. The Seguleh facing her showed no wounds, though blood splashed some. One stepped forward insolently close given the fifteen crossbows covering him. His mask was a dizzying swirled design.

‘You are surrounded,’ he called. ‘You do not possess sufficient forces to defend your walls. Throw down your weapons and you will be allowed to live.’

‘Let us discuss terms,’ Steppen answered, a hand tight on the adzed log before her. ‘What assurances can you provide of our fair treatment? I request a third-party negotiator.’

The Seguleh gave an odd cutting motion with his hand. ‘We will not allow you to delay. You are not important.’

‘Not important? You mean you would just pass us by?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. Well. In that case.’ She pointed. ‘Kill that man.’

Fifteen crossbows fired. The Seguleh twisted and ducked. Only two bolts struck him: one high in the leg, the other slashing the flesh of his left arm. The Seguleh charged the walls. Using their hands and feet they climbed the log palisade. Troopers backed away, dropping their crossbows as there was no time to reload. Steppen drew her slim blade. At least we wounded one of them, she told herself as the first appeared atop the walls. She swung but he dropped below the blade. Another jumped cat-like over the top to land with her sword already drawn. Steppen swung and the woman seemed to parry and counter all in the same fluid motion. Her blade slid easily through Steppen’s leather armour to slash across her front, eviscerating her. The Fist tried one last attack but was off balance from the severing of so many muscle groups and she could not regain her footing. She fell off the catwalk to land in a wet tangled heap. As she lay in the dirt staring at the bark of the palisade logs her last thought was: Not that much of a damned delay …

Torvald Nom did not spend too long in his cell. Just two meal periods later the door ratcheted and opened to reveal a Silver flanked by two Black. Torvald’s first thought was that this was the same Silver. Then he realized that he really couldn’t tell at all. He wished he’d spent more time memorizing the engraving on his driver’s armour. But he’d been rather busy trying not to throw up at the time. He slowly climbed to his feet and gave a shallow bow. ‘Welcome. If I’d known you were coming I would have saved some of my food.’

‘Torvald Nom of Nom,’ the Silver said, and he recognized her voice, ‘word has come from our Blue cousins affirming your story. Your credentials from the Darujhistan Council have also been deemed adequate. Our apologies.’

Torvald gave another brief bow. He suspected that this was all the contrition he was going to see. ‘I am glad.’ Gods! ‘I am glad.’ How banal! Shouldn’t I say something profound like: ‘Let this meeting usher in a new age of accord between our two peoples.’ Something puffed up and self-important like that?

The Silver motioned him out. ‘This way, please.’

As they walked the stone passages Torvald glanced sideways at his guide. He drew a long breath and straightened his shirts and cloak. ‘So … what is your name? If I may enquire.’

‘Galene.’

‘Galene? Galene. Well, where are we going? What’s happening?’

‘There are disturbing movements of forces in the foothills.’ She paused for a time as if sorting through her words. ‘I have been chosen to act as your guide.’

And you’re thrilled no end. Well, we all have our rows to hoe. ‘Disturbing movements? You mean the Rhivi?’

‘No. I do not mean the northern tribals.’

‘No? Then … the Malazans?’

‘No. Not the Malazans.’

Tor frowned at the maddening woman. ‘Well … then who?’ She ushered him into a stone circular staircase that they climbed single-file, he second. ‘Well?’

‘Your Darujhistani army has been summoned, Nom of Nom.’

‘Army? Darujhistan has never had an army.’

They emerged on to another of the tower roofs. Here rank after rank of quorl awaited, wings setting up a roar of commingled thrumming. The wind buffeted him. Most, he saw, carried two Moranth: a driver and a passenger. As he watched, stunned, waves of the quorl took off in file after file, peeling away in flights. From other towers more arose until the sky was darkened by their fragile silhouettes sweeping overhead like a tide rushing down a valley. An army — so swift!

‘Who?’ he shouted to Galene. ‘Who is it?’

‘Our old enemy,’ she answered, icy fury in her voice. ‘The ones who drove us from the plains. Who exiled us to these mountain tops ages ago.’ She thrust a finger at him. ‘Your murdering Seguleh.’

Just inside the unlocked gate of the Eldra Iron Mongers, Barathol cast about for someone, anyone, to greet him. It was illegal to be out this late; the Legate had lowered a curfew that was enforced by the Seguleh. And never had Barathol heard of a curfew so scrupulously respected.

The works were silent. For months now no black choking smoke had swirled about this end of the city and the waters of the bay lapped almost clear. He was of a mind to turn round — curfew breaking compounded by trespassing — when he spotted the odd little fellow himself, arms clasped behind his back, closely studying a workbench of abandoned tools. He came up behind and was about to speak when Kruppe asked: ‘Was the carriage ride diverting?’

‘Kruppe — I don’t know what you call a carriage, but I don’t call a cart pulled by an ass a carriage. I could have walked faster.’

The little man’s chin pulled in, aghast. ‘What! Why, the lad assured me it was a carriage. Most replete.’

‘Would that be the same lad who was hitting the ass to keep it going?’

‘I wouldn’t know, was it? And you do mean the ass pulling the cart, yes?’

Barathol pulled a hand down his jowls and chin while he studied the bland-faced fellow. He appeared completely forthright. ‘I’m going now.’ He turned to leave.

‘No, no, no!’ Kruppe dodged around him. ‘It must be you. Please. A simple job. Delicate and … ah, tricky, yes. But perfect for you.’

‘Kruppe — I’m no master craftsman. I’m just an average smith. You don’t want me. And I have to say I’m starting to wonder about this villa of yours.’

‘Why, I am assured it is most exquisite! Airy. Charming. With enormous … character.’

‘Sounds like an old shack missing a wall.’

Kruppe froze, surprised. ‘You’ve seen it?’

Barathol started off again. ‘Like I said, I’m heading home.’ Rattling at the gate stopped him. The tall iron-barred doors had been closed and someone was approaching. It was hard to see in the eerie jade-hued light but the man appeared to be a tramp or a beggar. His clothes hung tattered and blackened. His hair was a wild nest and his face and hands glistened, soot-smeared and sweaty. He was rubbing his hands in a rag that was even dirtier.

The derelict stopped before them. He eyed Barathol up and down, said to Kruppe, ‘Is this your smith?’

‘’Tis he.’

‘I know all the smiths in the city. This one’s new to me.’

‘He’s a smith of foreign extraction.’

A smile shone bright against the man’s grimed face. ‘Just as I am.’ He pointed. ‘This way.’

As they walked Barathol peered about the quiet ghostly yard and open silent sheds. ‘There may be guards …’

‘No guards,’ said the tramp. ‘Just me — the owner.’

Barathol stopped dead. ‘You are Humble Measure?’

‘In the flesh.’

Barathol turned to Kruppe, his gaze narrowing. ‘What’s going on here?’

Humble waved the rag at Kruppe. ‘This man has contracted for some work. Welcome income.’ He opened his arms wide to encompass his yards. ‘There has been a temporary slowdown in production.’

‘Fabrication,’ Kruppe said. ‘A delicate job.’

‘Indeed,’ Humble Measure agreed. He motioned Barathol onward. ‘Let me tell you a story — if I may. There once was a man who was frightened. He was afraid of the rule of oppressive overlords, of marauding armies, of murderers, of bloody-handed thieves. In short, of almost everything. To defend against them and to be strong he decided to build thick walls of stone all about him. He shackled himself to these walls so that he could not be dragged off. He barred the window with thick iron rods. He secured the door with locks and crossbars and swallowed the keys. Then, one day, peering terrified from between the bars he realized that in his extraordinary efforts to be protected and unassailable he had built for himself something else entirely.’

‘A prison.’

‘Exactly so. In his efforts to be free of oppression he had enslaved himself.’

They had entered one of the larger worksheds. Humble led him to a metal bench cluttered with metal forging tools, tongs, hammers, and pinchers. Nearby, one of the immense furnaces glowed, crackling and hissing. A wide stone box sat upon the bench.

‘Never touch with your naked hand what lies within,’ Kruppe warned.

Humble Measure raised a pair of fine pinchers. ‘I will assist.’

Barathol waved to him. ‘You do it. You’re the master smith.’

‘It requires your, ah, intent,’ Kruppe said.

‘Mine? What for?’

The little man peered to the vaulted roof as if searching for the right words. ‘For a certain quality of circularity.’

‘What?’

‘Just that.’

Barathol eyed the two as if judging their sanity — which seemed utterly lacking. ‘Just what is the job?’

‘Inlay,’ Humble said.

‘We do not possess the, ah, resources to unmake what lies within that box,’ Kruppe explained. ‘But perhaps you can soften it enough for a fine bit of inlay.’

Barathol grunted. Inlay. Well … that didn’t seem so unreasonable.

Kruppe entwined his pudgy fingers over his stomach. ‘Very good. I’ll leave you two to your trade secrets.’ He suddenly thrust a finger into the air. ‘But remember! The finished product must be dipped in bee’s wax! That is most imperative.’

Humble waved him off. ‘Yes, yes. We know our trade. Now be gone.’

‘Be gone? I’ll have you know, sir, that Kruppe was about to go! Kruppe will not be hurried or rushed off. No unseemly haste for the timely Kruppe.’

‘Shall we open the box now?’ Humble asked Barathol.

‘Kruppe is leaving — farewell!’

As they descended the foothills, the Dwelling Plain lay before them, dun and ochre, shimmering in the day’s heat, and Yusek cursed the sight of it. She could not believe that here she was yet again setting out across its damned dust-choked hills and draws. How many times had she sworn, and to how many gods and demons, that once she escaped she would never set foot upon it again?

The master of the monastery led the way. Sall followed, then she, and Lo came last. The master carried a sword on his back, wrapped and tightly tied in cloth. Other than this he was unarmed. Yusek still did not know what to call him. When Sall had asked what name they should use in addressing him he’d been silent for a very long time before drawing a ragged breath and saying in a hoarse voice, ‘Grief.’

Yet neither Seguleh chose to call him that. When they needed to gain his attention they simply said, ‘Seventh.’

One day as they descended towards the plain the Seventh halted, peering to the north. Everyone stopped as well and Yusek squinted, but she saw nothing. ‘Large numbers on the move,’ the Seventh said. ‘Possibly armies.’ He started off again but Sall remained still.

‘Our brothers and sisters may be involved,’ the youth said.

‘That does not concern us,’ the Seventh replied harshly. ‘Our purpose lies in Darujhistan. And we must hurry. Things move apace.’

‘We should not turn from them.’

The Seventh faced him squarely now. He drew a hard breath. ‘Tell me, do you think I want to go to this cursed city? It’s the last place I would ever want to go. But I am going — because you came to me. So the least you can damned well do is accompany me.’

The ferocity of the man’s words almost drove Yusek back a step. Sall merely inclined his head in acquiescence. Though he did murmur, ‘My apologies, Seventh.’

The man looked away, blinking. He threw himself further down the trail. ‘Let’s move.’

For her part Yusek couldn’t believe she was actually going to Darujhistan. Never did she dream she would see the great city. City of Blue Flames. Wealthiest city on all the continent, from Evinor in the north to Elingarth in the south. It was said you could find for sale there cloth so sheer it was like the kiss of water. And rare fruits and birds to eat. Like duck. She’d never had roasted duck. She’d heard it called succulent. Now there was a word for food. Succulent. She’d like all her food to be succulent. And she’d bathe in hot water in a tub with scented soap. She’d heard of that too. Now that, as far as she could imagine, must be the height of luxury.

Eating duck in a tub. Now there’s luxury for you.

And Sall here. Well, she’ll talk him out of wearing that stupid mask. And with him at her back there’ll be no stopping them. They’ll waylay all those rich fat merchants. She’ll become so famous even bearded Orbern squatting in his fort in the woods will hear of her. Yes, that sounded like a plan to her. And you had to have a plan — that much she knew. You don’t get anywhere without a plan.

The two figures walking down the street of the bakers in the Gadrobi district cut a colourful, if jarring, picture. One was unusually tall and dressed as if he had rolled in the cast-off scraps behind a tailor’s shop. The other wore drab threadbare rags, was bald, and had a face that glimmered as if speckled in metal paint. And when this one smiled at those passing in the streets, they flinched away.

They strode nonchalantly, apparently pointing out the sights to one another. They might have been on a stroll to find an inn to pass the evening. They came abreast of a sad figure crouched down on his haunches against a wall, head bowed, and the shorter of the figures nudged his companion and they swung to stand either side of the hunched beggar. There they slid down the wall to sit as bookends.

‘All is not as desolate as it seems,’ the larger, bushy-haired one sighed, his gaze scanning the street.

‘The sting fades and new horizons show themselves,’ the other confirmed.

The larger cocked his head. ‘Think of it as rigidity sacrificed for an infinity of possibility …’

‘Well said,’ his companion agreed. ‘You are your own man now. You may do as you choose.’

The one between them tentatively raised his head. His long untrimmed hair hung down over his eyes. ‘Actions not dedicated to a higher purpose are meaningless,’ he countered as if reciting a text.

The two exchanged glances over his head.

‘Then select a purpose,’ the thin bald one suggested, smiling and flashing gold-capped teeth.

‘Such as?’

The big one waved expansively. ‘Well … such as ours, perhaps.’

‘And that is?’

Smiling, the thin one clasped the fellow’s shoulder. ‘That our every action, our very appearance, be a constant denunciation and thumb in the eye to our brethren. Now …’ he and his companion hooked arms through the young man’s, ‘let us continue this discussion in more convivial surroundings.’

‘I suggest Magajal’s place,’ the big one rumbled as they set off.

The bright metal glimmering on the bald one’s face was in fact gold thread stitching. It wrinkled as he frowned. ‘She waters her wine to excess. No. Dinner first at the Terrace overlooking the lake. We will consider later diversions over the meal.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Come, friend,’ the bald one encouraged. ‘Let this day be the first in an open-ended garden of companionship, adventure and extravagance.’

Spindle watched the street through the slats nailed over the window of K’rul’s bar then sat back in his chair, crossbow on his lap. ‘Looks quiet,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Maybe they’ve given up on us as not worth the candle.’

‘Whistling in the dark,’ Picker grumbled from the bar. She cocked an eye to the bard Fisher at the end of the counter, where he was scratching on a sheet of vellum. She drew two tankards of beer and slid down to him, peered uncomprehending at the marks squiggled on the sheet. ‘Whatcha writin’?’

‘An epic poem.’ He lifted one of the tankards, saluted her, and drank.

Leaning forward on her elbows, she narrowed her gaze as if struck by a sudden new thought. ‘Why’re you here anyway?’

‘I like a quiet place to compose.’

She chuckled. ‘That’s a good one.’ Then she frowned. ‘Wait a minute …’ She had opened her mouth to say more when a loud groaning stilled everyone. It seemed to be coming from the walls themselves, as if the building were twisting, or being squeezed.

Spindle jumped to his feet, clutching his crossbow. ‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t fucking know,’ Picker growled as she eased her way from behind the bar, long-knives out. ‘Blend!’

‘Clear,’ came the answer from the rear.

‘Sounded like it came from below,’ Fisher said.

Picker nodded her agreement. ‘Let’s have a look. Spin, check the cellar.’

‘What? Why do I have to check the cellar?’

‘’Cause I say so, that’s why! Now go.’

Grumbling, Spindle tramped for the stairs.

After Spindle disappeared a sudden explosive crack of wood made everyone flinch. ‘Upstairs,’ Picker grunted and headed up. Fisher’s hand strayed to his longsword.

‘This epic poem of yours,’ Duiker whispered into the heavy silence, ‘what’s it about?’

‘The Elder Gods.’

Picker came back down, wonder on her face. She motioned upstairs. ‘Timbers split in the roof and walls. Main load-bearing ones too.’

Spindle emerged looking pale and ill. Speechless, he indicated his boots. Black fluid, crusted and gummy like old blood, caked them. His feet had left a bloody smeared trail on the dirty stone floor. ‘The cellar,’ he managed, his voice choked. ‘Awash. Somethin’s goin’ on, Pick. Somethin’ terrible.’

Duiker turned his head to study the foreign bard straight on. ‘This poem … How’s it going?’

Fisher let out a taut breath. ‘I think I’m nearing the end.’