Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XVI

There were times when Kiska was dozing in the cave half asleep in the dim phantom light of night when she thought she heard weeping. The sound came drifting in over the surf, faint, wavering, and she would have dismissed it as a scrap of dream had she not heard it more than once.

The sound grated like a blade down her spine, for she knew who it was. If Tayschrenn was not dead as Leoman insisted, then it could be none other. His mind was gone — or, more accurately, she had destroyed his mind by playing into the hand of the Queen of Dreams.

The scheming bitch. She saw it all now. The elegance. All the hallmarks of her plotting. She, Kiska, naive agent, would find the archmagus and deliver to him the poison supplied by her. And once that happened whatever reaction it was would be unleashed and he would be stricken.

And she the brainless dupe. Gods! Every time her thoughts returned to that she bashed the heels of her hands to her forehead. She would escape from here if only to track the damned Enchantress down.

And Agayla? No — she too must have been ignorant of the Queen’s intent. Must have.

Gods above and below, forgotten and forsworn! When would she ever learn? Never trust anyone. Never. That had been her mistake. She’d trusted and been used. As it is for everyone everywhere. You are no different, woman.

She groaned again and wrapped her head in her arms, pulling it down between her knees.

Further into the cave Leoman stirred. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, child,’ he said. ‘You … we … had no way of knowing.’

‘Shut the Abyss up.’

She heard pebbles striking the wall as he tossed them one by one. ‘It stings now but that will pass. I should know. And it wasn’t even on purpose. So never mind. What’s done is done. There’s no sense worrying about it.’

She raised her head to stare at him, incredulous. ‘Says the man who murdered thousands in a firestorm he deliberately set!’

He shrugged. ‘It was war. I was fighting for my life.’

‘Why should your life be worth more than anyone else’s in that city?’

The man tossed another pebble. ‘It is to me.’

She turned away. ‘Gods. You’re beyond hope.’

‘Just honest.’

From the cave mouth came the dragging uneven footsteps of the rescued creatures. Kiska and Leoman shared a glance. He rose, brushed dirt from the tattered Seven Cities robes he still wore over his mail. Kiska pushed herself to her feet.

‘You may exit,’ came a weak quavering voice. ‘Follow us.’

She ducked from the cave, followed by Leoman. The creatures had hobbled off towards the shore. ‘Come,’ one called.

They descended the strand of black sand. Kiska glanced about, searching for the giant, Korus. He seemed nowhere about. The enormous faint silhouette of Maker was visible, larger than any mountain, labouring somewhere on the distant shoreline.

Then she saw someone at the shore and she froze. Her heart lurched as if it had been hammered. She clamped a hand to her mouth. Him. Standing. Standing. Staring out at the bright Vitr sea. Oh, my Queen — I have wronged you so.

She ran all the way down to him only to stop just short. She reached out as if to touch him but yanked her hand back, afraid she shouldn’t. Or that he might not be there. He turned to her and she flinched, catching her breath. For he was Tayschrenn yet he wasn’t. Gone was the sharp questing gaze that could flense flesh from bone. And gone also was the guarded mien — immobile, almost mask-like. He smiled now, studying her in turn. Yet the sight made her heart ache even more so sad was it, so melancholy.

‘You are … healed?’ she asked, her voice catching.

‘Healed? Yes, Kiska. I am healed.’ He reached out to brush her hair from her face. ‘And harrowed. Cut through to the core.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He invited her to walk with him along the shore. ‘You restored me, Kiska. Though I wonder whether I should thank you for it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I was — am — Thenaj still. Just as I am also Tayschrenn. And I find that I was everything Thenaj loathed. Yet I am both still. And now I must choose who to be.’

‘You are both? Be both then. Who you are.’

Again the wintry smile as he walked, his long thin hair loose. ‘Always the hard choice with you, hey, Kiska? Easier just to deny the one or the other. Blot it out. Pretend it never was … but instead you counsel conciliation. The difficult third path of adaptation and growth.’

He held his long-fingered hands out in front of him, turned them over as if studying them for the first time. ‘So be it. I shall be both — and neither.’

‘And,’ Kiska asked warily, ‘what will you do?’

‘Yes. What to do. I cannot return to the old now that I am not who I was … Yet one possibility does beckon. A possible place for me. One perhaps only I can fill …’

‘And that is?’

He turned to face her, square on. Shook his head. ‘We shall see. I may not be strong enough to take it on. For now it is enough that we will be going. I am finished here.’

‘So — we are leaving? You are coming with me?’

‘Yes.’

Kiska felt as if she had shed ten stone. ‘Thank the gods!’

‘Do not thank them,’ Tayschrenn snapped in a manner something like his old self. ‘Terrible, unforgivable things are stirring and it could be argued that they are to blame. They’ve stuck their hands into the furnace once too many times and now they find they cannot pull them out. So do not thank them. But perhaps we can find it within us to pity them.’

Kiska did not know what to make of that — most of which seemed directed more at himself, in any case. But it wasn’t important. She’d heard the words she’d wanted to hear. He was returning. She had succeeded. Sent on a mission across creation to find someone cast into Chaos — and she had succeeded!

And now she wondered: was that in truth what mattered to her? Was it that which had been gnawing at her all this time? Not concern for Tayschrenn; not fear of her own fate. Was it just that she couldn’t stomach failure? Not a flattering piece of self-revelation.

Perhaps, as Tayschrenn suggested, she should just blot that one out.

He led her back to where Leoman stood waiting, hands on his belt, next to the gathered creatures.

Tayschrenn stopped in front of the man and frowned. ‘Leoman of the Flails. You have some nerve standing here before me.’

The man gave an insouciant shrug. ‘All that is the past.’

The mage’s gaze narrowed, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. ‘Funny you should say that …’

‘Thenaj …’ one of the unformed asked, its thin voice trembling. ‘What is happening?’

‘I am sorry. But — I am leaving.’

‘Leaving? Going?’ The creatures set up a clamour of murmuring and crying.

Then Korus appeared, bounding towards them from among the dunes. ‘What is this!’ it bellowed. ‘You are going?’ Coming close, it dug in its odd clawed feet to halt, kicking up sand. ‘I knew you would betray us! Look at you. I sense it in you — mage. Torturer! Murderer!’

‘That’s not fair!’ Kiska shouted.

‘Look at you … abandoning us. Does your word mean nothing? No — of course it does not, for you have been forsworn all your life!’

Undisguised hurt twisted Tayschrenn’s features. He raised a hand to speak. ‘Please, Korus … my friend …’

‘And what are we to do?’ the giant demon raged on. It thrust a taloned hand to the Vitr. ‘Every day I hear them calling. Our brothers and sisters, dying! Burning into dissolution! What are we to do?’ Kiska was astounded to hear true torment in the demon’s cracking trembling voice.

‘Korus … Korus. Please. Listen to me. Give me your hands.’

The huge beast flinched away. ‘What?’

‘Korus, trust me. I am still the man you knew as Thenaj. Truly. I am. Now give me your hands.’

The high-born demon edged its wide taloned hands closer. Its knife-like fangs ground and scraped at the strain of the gesture. Tayschrenn took the mangled fingers in his. Scar tissue that twisted up Korus’s forearms marked the extent of its past suffering. After a moment Tayschrenn released them. ‘There.’

‘There? What trick is this?’

‘You are now inured to the Vitr, friend. You may enter it as I did. Without fear or effect. You will take my place.’

The demon backed away. It cocked its wide mangy head as if it could not, or would not, believe. ‘How can I …’

Tayschrenn gestured to the Vitr sea. ‘Go ahead. Test it.’

Korus stepped back, still wary. Then it padded down to the waves. It dipped a hand into a glimmering wash of the liquid light and raised it, letting the fluid run from its taloned fingers. Then, peering back at them, it laughed. It threw back its maned head and let go a great shaking roar of laughter. It fell to its knees splashing both hands in the Vitr as if it were no more than a tidal pool. The malformed creatures gathered nearby on the shore. They murmured their amazement while Korus chuckled on and on.

‘That was a great thing,’ Kiska said.

The mage shook his head. ‘Was it? Few who call survive. He will suffer much failure. That will be a torment.’

‘No. His helplessness was his torment.’

‘Helplessness?’ The mage examined his own hands once more. ‘Ah. Helplessness.’

‘And now?’ she asked.

‘Now we will go.’

‘Yes,’ Leoman said. ‘Now you will go.’

‘You?’ Kiska repeated sharply. ‘What do you mean? You said that earlier too.’

The man brushed his moustache, shrugging again. ‘I mean I will be staying, I think.’

‘You? Stay?’ Kiska laughed. ‘That’s absurd.’ She gestured to the desolate shore. ‘There’s nothing here for you.’

‘It’s peaceful, Kiska,’ he answered calmly, completely unruffled by her disparagement. ‘I can sleep here. And to me that means a lot.’

‘I understand,’ Tayschrenn said.

Kiska set her hands on her hips. ‘This is ridiculous.’ She gestured towards Tayschrenn. ‘I just got- You’re coming with us. That’s all there is to it.’

‘No. And who knows … if this place can help our friend here, perhaps it can help me.’

Kiska waved, entreating Tayschrenn to speak. ‘Say something. He can’t stay here all alone!’

The mage cleared his throat, nodding. ‘Maker likes stories. I was always sorry I didn’t have any for him.’

Leoman groomed his moustache again. ‘Oh-ho!’ He smiled behind his hand. ‘Have I got stories for him.’

‘No.’

Tayschrenn took her hand. ‘Come.’

‘No!’

He pulled her along behind like a reluctant child.

‘No — we can’t just leave him here all alone …’

‘He is not alone.’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘He knows what is best for him. Now come. We have far to go.’

‘Fine!’ She twisted her hand free and straightened her shirt. ‘Fine. Leave him exiled, then! For ever!’

Tayschrenn walked on, hands clasped behind his back. ‘He is not exiled. He can leave whenever he wishes. Maker can send him anywhere he chooses.’

‘Oh … well. Why didn’t you say so?’ Kiska ran to catch up. She glanced back, caught Leoman’s eye, and waved farewell.

Leoman answered the wave then turned away, arms crossed, to watch Korus play in the sea. And, to Kiska’s eyes, he did possess the look of a man at peace.

Noise from downstairs woke Scillara. She tensed, listening in the dark. The city had been quiet these last weeks now that the Legate had imposed his curfew. Every sound carried a sudden insistence and stood out as rare and unexpected as … well, as an honest man.

She reached down for the long-knife Barathol kept on the floor under the bed. She’d laughed, of course, as was her way with him — anything to dance away from the grim — for she’d spotted him long ago as one of those who could slide too easily into gloomy brooding.

Up to her to chivvy him along.

Strangely enough, her first thought had been for the babe. Now there’s a shocker. Gettin’ to me after all. Just as Barathol said.

She listened once more: now all she could hear were the babe’s quick wet breaths.

Then it came again. Someone moving about downstairs. As if they had two sticks to steal! As disappointing a break-in as they come. She went quickly to the stairs and edged her way down, blade out in front. Let them chuckle at the fat woman with a knife; she’d had to cut her fair share of men turned ugly with drink and sour tempers.

A light was visible on the main floor. Halfway down the stone stairs she saw Barathol at the rear seeing to the banked fire. She reached up through the trapdoor to slip the blade on to the bedroom floor and went down.

‘Back already?’

He grunted and turned from coaxing the fire going. She was shocked to see that he was sodden through. ‘You’re soaked. Was it raining?’

‘No,’ he croaked, his voice ragged.

She took the sticks and tinder from his shaking hands. ‘I’ll see to it. What happened, then?’ She blew on the embers.

He slumped into a chair. ‘I washed. Washed everything. Dumped water over myself from a cistern.’

‘To hide the smell of the drink?’

Not a glimmer answered that. ‘No. To wash away … something else.’ He held out his hands and turned them over. They shook like leaves. Kneeling, she reached for them but he yanked them away. Even so, she felt their chill. Frozen!

‘A lad came yesterday with a cooked meal for us and a note sayin’ you were working still.’ He looked confused, blinking heavily. Exhausted — what was this job? I’ll have that fat man’s head!

‘Message? I sent no message.’

‘Well. You’re back now. Want to see the little one?’

He straightened, lurching. ‘No! Have to … have to wash first.’

‘Wash?’ She laughed lightly. ‘You’re cleaner than I’ve ever seen you!’

He merely stared at the fire. ‘Heat water. Bring that cake of soap. And our smallest knife. Have to cut my nails. Scour my hands. Before — before I touch anything.’

‘Barathol … you’re clean enough-’

‘No!’ He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. ‘Dammit, woman, just do as I ask for once.’

Scillara backed away. Fine. Just this once then! She went to fill the pot.

*

Chal Grilol had been a woodwright turning out spoked wheels for wagons and chests, benches, just about anything anyone required in the neighbourhood. Then the joint-ache took his hands and he couldn’t hold a tool no more. He couldn’t work so he lost his home; his boys were long gone and the wife was dead so he was out on the street sleeping under a wharf on the waterfront. Tonight he was out fishing off the end of the dock, using a lantern to lure fingerlings.

Then along came this two-wheeled cart pushed backwards up the dock by a shaggy man all dirty and wild-haired and muttering to himself. And while Chal watched, amazed, this burly fellow proceeded to toss tools and bits and pieces from the cart into the lake. He threw hammers as far as he could out into the waves. Wearing thick leather gloves he tossed handfuls of smaller tools like scatterings of stones off the dock. Then he got up on to the cart and kicked over a big anvil that fell with a resounding bang that shook the entire dock from end to end. This he pushed over and over until he tipped it off the end with a huge splash. Last, the gloves themselves followed into the drink.

Dusting his hands, the fellow turned to Chal, still sitting, pole in his hands. He took out a soot-smeared rag and wiped his face and hands then peered down, frowning. ‘You might be thinking to yourself, friend: “That lot could be worth a copper or two.” But don’t consider it.’ He leaned even closer and there was something in his eyes, something wild and terrible. ‘They’re cursed, friend. Touched with a fearsome curse.’ He glanced about as if listening to the night, the water lapping, the boats groaning against their berths. ‘Even now it might not be safe.’ And he patted Chal’s shoulder and started up the dock with his cart. ‘G’night!’

As the creaking of the cartwheels diminished up the waterfront Chal sat listening and it seemed to him that the murmur of the water had taken on a more ominous hollow moaning and that the wheels’ groaning had returned to his ears — this time accompanied by the jangling of metal chain, perhaps from the nearby ships. Pole in one hand and lantern in the other, he ran. His naked feet slapped the grey boards as he went and a cold chill seemed to nip at them with each step.

Spindle was half awake in the bar common room, chin in hands, dredging his brain trying to figure out what that damned alchemist-mage, Baruk, had been trying to tell him. There must be something there. He was sure of it. Why else let him go? Why else hint at … whatever it was he meant? Something was there just beyond his reach; it was driving him crazy.

At the barrier they’d thrown across the door, watching the night-time street, Blend recrossed her legs and tilted back in her chair, her crossbow on her lap. Then the long stone counter of the bar exploded. There was no other word for it. It just burst with an eruption that sent Blend cartwheeling backwards, the crossbow firing, to fall on her back. Spindle fell from his chair and scooted under the table.

Feet thumped and in came Duiker wearing a shirt and trousers, sheathed sword in hand, followed by Picker in a long nightshirt. The bard, Fisher, was out: taking the mood of the city, or some damned thing like that.

‘What happened?’ Picker demanded. Peering up, Spindle thought the woman’s heavy unbound breasts pushed out the nightshirt in a very appealing way.

‘Damned bar cracked,’ Blend said. ‘Spin … Get outta there, Spin. Take a look.’

‘Fell out of my chair, that’s all.’ He straightened, adjusted his shirt. She waved him to the bar.

The stone was cracked clean across. Dust still lingered in the air. ‘More of the same,’ he said. ‘This place is under some kinda pressure. Like it’s bein’ twisted and squeezed. Just like K’rul himself.’

‘Herself,’ Blend corrected. ‘You saw her.’

‘Yeah. But I always thought o’ K’rul as a he.’

‘Always been a she — everyone knows that!’

‘Not as I’d heard.’

‘Doesn’t fucking matter!’ Picker cut in. ‘Get your priorities straight, would you? Spin, we in worse trouble now? Should we cut out?’

He laid a hand on the stone counter and tried to sort through the jangling messages blaring from his Warren. Gods! Like an overturned anthill. Everything’s running all over, frantic, hunting for cover from what they don’t even know. Got the feeling it won’t matter where we go …

‘We should stay,’ Duiker suddenly announced. Everyone looked at the old man.

‘Why?’ Blend demanded.

‘I think it helps. Us, people, being here. I think it helps.’

Blend turned to Spindle. ‘Well?’

He gave a quick jerk of his head. ‘Yeah. Not sure we’d be any safer anywhere else.’

‘Good.’ Blend peered about the place, almost possessive. ‘Don’t want to be run out. Got too much invested here.’ She glared at them. ‘Well, get back to sleep. Excitement’s over.’

Spindle watched Picker head back to the old priest cells. Man, haven’t had a woman in a long time if Picker’s lookin’ good. He rubbed his hand on the smooth cold stone. Stone. The stones. Maybe that was it. Something about the stones. Yes! Had to be it. But what? What about the stones?

He slapped the counter. Queen take it! It was infuriating! He knew there was something there. He just couldn’t reach it. Had to be important. It just had to be.

Jan lay in the quarters that had been set up for the Seguleh among the rambling rooms of Majesty Hall. One of the Hundredth came to let him know that the Legate required him in the Great Hall. He nodded and rose.

Required. Their new status here. Servants. Servants to the Throne. Yet it was not as if this were new. They were merely returning to their original place. Their original role. Was this not all they had yearned for during the long exile? Why then his disquiet, his unease?

Too proud for service? Too arrogant to bend the knee? Was that his trouble?

Perhaps. Yet he could not help suspecting that the cause lay deeper than that. Something more integral, more essential.

He found the Great Hall crowded with councillors, city aristocrats, court functionaries, and general hangers-on such as Lady Envy — many of whom had no actual purpose but who seemed able to behave as if they did. He ignored them all, of course, not being of the sword. Even those who did wear weapons on their hips, such as some of the councillors. He and his brothers and sisters had had to come up with a new category for those individuals: eunuchs who still retained their weapons.

Talk was a low murmur — perhaps so that everyone could eavesdrop on everyone else. Jan walked straight for the throne. Four of the Twenty guarded it. Also present were those two shabby guards. They stood off to one side among the pillars of the colonnade. Right now their crossbows hung at their sides as they ate some sort of steamed buns. It occurred to Jan that they always seemed to be eating.

The Mouthpiece approached, looking as pale and haggard as always. He appeared sick, fevered perhaps, sweaty, a hand constantly at his throat. ‘Second,’ he greeted him. Jan bowed. ‘We have a prisoner. A spy who worked against us. He must be executed.’

Jan gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘Executed? Very well. Let it be done.’

The Mouthpiece wiped his brow, swallowed, and held his stomach, pained. ‘You do not seem to understand. The execution is for you Seguleh to perform. You must see to it.’

Jan faced the gold-masked figure on the throne. ‘There must be some misunderstanding. We are warriors, not headsmen. We do not kill prisoners.’

The gold oval edged his way. It seemed to Jan that the graven half-smile on the lips took on a cold aloofness. ‘You Seguleh have always been my executioners,’ said the Mouthpiece. ‘That is the purpose for which I moulded you. The perfect executioners who slew any and all who opposed me. Now … fulfil your role.’

It was not only the speed of Jan’s reflexes that had raised him to the rank of Second; it was also the quickness of his mind. And so in answer he merely inclined his mask slightly and turned to leave.

Now is not the time, nor the place. Leaping into opposition now would mean confrontation and escalation. Before entering into battle one must consider all the potential outcomes, select the most desirable, then guide the engagement to the achievement of that end.

And what is that end? At this time I have no idea what it might be …

When the city Warden opened the cell door for Jan and two of the Hundredth, the prisoner stood to meet them. He held his head level. His hands were bound behind his back. He was an older, rather overweight, retired city guardsman, now dishevelled from having been searched and mildly beaten.

‘You are charged with conspiring to bring down the rule of the Legate,’ Jan said.

The two of the Hundredth exchanged wondering glances; the prisoner seemed unaware of the extraordinary honour Jan had just accorded him.

The man shrugged as best he could with his hands tightly bound. ‘I am not ashamed. Nor do I deny it. I would do it again. Darujhistan can govern itself without coercion or command.’

‘That would be chaos.’

The ex-guardsman appeared amused. ‘Only to those who do not understand it.’

Jan gave a quick cut of his hand. ‘Hierarchy must be clear.’

‘You of all people I do not expect to understand such things.’

‘Perhaps that is so,’ Jan agreed. ‘I do not pretend to be conversant with all forms of rulership.’

The former guardsman nodded. ‘Ah … I see it now. You speak of rulership. I speak of governance.’

‘I do not see the distinction.’

The ex-guardsman studied Jan closely, as if attempting to peer in behind the mask. What he saw there, or failed to see, appeared to disappoint him. ‘Then that is the gulf between us.’ He tilted his head as if struck by a new thought. ‘Yet you are speaking to me — why?’

‘I am trying to understand.’

This admission rocked the ex-guardsman and his eyes widened as he seemed to appreciate the depth of it. Then his gaze slid to the floor and he let out a heavy breath. ‘If that is so, then I am saddened for you.’

Now Jan was shaken as if struck. I am here to execute this man yet he pities me?

Perhaps alarmed by Jan’s reaction one of the Hundredth stepped forward, gripping her sword. ‘Kneel,’ she commanded. ‘You have been condemned to die.’

Jan snapped out a hand-command. No. ‘This is for me.’

‘You are Second,’ the woman dared breathe, mask held aside.

‘All the more reason it must be me.’ Yes, I am Second. To me must fall this burden. To me must fall the guilt. He slipped a hand to his sword-grip, addressed the ex-guardsman. ‘It will be quick.’

‘For me it will be,’ the man whispered before Jan’s blade flashed one-handed beneath his chin. The knees gave first, seeming to drag the body down. It fell straight, limp, sagging.

Jan regarded the corpse and its last pumping jets of arterial blood as the heart stubbornly laboured on, refusing to admit to the end. He carefully cleaned his blade before resheathing it. The two of the Hundredth stared on, fascinated by the graphic demonstration. Jan motioned them out, rather impatiently, and remained behind. The man was right. For him this had been quick. But I fear I will never put this behind me. I have murdered. To me now falls the guilt for this … and so much more. Oh, First, why did you not speak of this? Was it because your guilt was too great? And yet all that was so long ago. Can’t a people change? Perhaps they can — if those around them will allow it.

Leaving the hall of cells Jan motioned to the prison guards. They passed him, eyes downcast, sliding along the far wall. And where Jan might have once read respect, or due esteem, he now saw only fear. Perhaps even a touch of distaste.

Or was that just himself?

Antsy could no longer hear the muted groaning and crack of rock echoing through the Spawn now that he was chiselling out the stone threshold under the great stone doors concealing what this crazy-eyed gang of witches, priests, mages and mercenaries were convinced was the Throne of Night.

He didn’t think they led to anything remotely like that at all. Maybe the Broom Closet of Dust. Or more likely the Toilet of Crap. But that wasn’t his worry. His job was to open these doors, or no one was going anywhere. Even when he rested, the sharp ringing of iron on iron twanged in his ears, and so it was a shock to glance over and see a set of fine polished leather boots right next to him. He glanced up and saw the armoured and richly attired fellow who he assumed to be a mage, who had given his name as Bauchelain.

‘What do you want?’ Antsy said, rather loudly because of all the ringing.

The man bent down to study him with unsettling intensity. ‘You are close to death,’ he said.

Antsy looked the fellow up and down very pointedly. ‘I sure am.’

He shook his head, chuckling. ‘No, no, no. Not me. Not at the moment, in any case. No, I mean death is watching you. You are of interest to … ah … it.’

‘You mean Hood?’

‘Certainly not. Hood has gone to his oh-so-poetic and appropriate end, has he not? Dying, as he did. Which itself raises all sorts of disturbing chicken-and-egg questions and other philosophical conundrums. No, what I mean is the new manifestation it has fixed on while it flails about trying to find a permanent one — if any. Which brings us back to you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. The current manifestation of death is, again appropriately enough, soldiers. A certain band of soldiers, whose remains, so rumours have it, can be found on this very rock. My companion, Korbal Broach, is very eager to make their acquaintance. Quite keen he is to study them. You wouldn’t happen to know their whereabouts, would you?’

Antsy swallowed hard and said, dead level, ‘I have no idea what yer talking about.’

‘Ah. A shame, that. Well, let’s hope something turns up, yes?’

Antsy said nothing.

A reedy old man’s voice called from the darkness: ‘Master Bauchelain! Our, ah, friend is getting into trouble again!’

The fellow stroked his goatee, looking at the ceiling and sighing. ‘Must go. Korbal’s wandered off. Till later then, yes? Take care.’

Shaken, Antsy returned to his chiselling. Burn’s own blood! Truth be told, he’d come here precisely to make sure nothing like what that creature was hinting at would happen, or had happened. In the back of his mind he’d known the danger existed, what with the Spawn crashing and all. Sure, a bucketful of gems and coin would go a long way. But that was just cream. All along he’d wanted to make sure things were still all squared away and proper. The thought of a broken sealed pit or whatever it was, and people messin’ about with the bones of his brothers and sisters, made him too furious to even think straight-

He left off his chiselling, panting, hands fisted on his thighs. Almost busted a thumb there.

Someone else was standing behind him now: cracked sandals, tattered trouser legs over bony bruised shanks. The lad, Jallin. He leaned down. ‘You’re gonna die, soldier,’ he said, matter of fact. ‘My mistress. The things I seen her do. She’s gonna do for you …’

‘Shut the Abyss up,’ Antsy growled. ‘I’m busy.’

The lad flinched, almost hurt. Then he recovered, grinning toothily. ‘Gonna die,’ he mouthed, backing away.

Shaking his head Antsy returned to his work. Some time later someone banged on the stone flag of the threshold and Antsy whipped round, a curse on his lips. It was the blond-haired mercenary in his plain cloth tabard over mail armour, and canvas-covered round shield. With him were two of his guards. The other two, it seemed, hadn’t made it. ‘What is it?’ Antsy asked, wary.

The man peered at his work from under his tangled brows. ‘You are making a hole, yes? A nest?’

The accent was completely unfamiliar but Antsy nodded. ‘Yeah. Sorta …’

‘How deep?’

‘About the span of a hand. Why?’

‘We will help dig. You go rest. Yes?’

‘You’re not from Elingarth, are you?’

‘No. We are from another land. Far away.’ He motioned to his guards and they held out their hands for the hammer and chisel. Antsy passed them over. The two laid aside their shields and set to work with a vengeance, bashing away. Antsy backed off. He drew out a cloth and wiped his face. ‘Why’re you here?’

‘Same as you, hey? The stories of riches we heard. We were in the south. We had a ship. We were … how you say … taxing shipping, yes? Then we came here.’ He shook his head. ‘Very large mistake. You get us out, we owe you much.’

‘Antsy.’

‘Cull. Cull Heel. Now you go sleep. We dig.’

Antsy kneaded the cloth in his numb aching hands. ‘Well, all right. You come get me in a little while, hey?’

The man waved him off. ‘Yes, yes.’

Antsy walked towards the room off the main chamber that Orchid and Corien had taken. He caught the two mages, the old woman and the fat man, eyeing him all the way across the chamber. He tried his best to ignore them.

Within, Orchid turned quickly on him, asking, ‘How is it going?’

Antsy lay down on a pile of gathered cloaks and odd clothing and threw an arm over his eyes. ‘Damned slow.’

‘They keep coming round — peering at us. Like they’re sizing us up for a meal. Gives me the shivers.’

‘Who does?’

‘All of them.’

‘Orchid,’ Corien warned gently from across the room.

‘What? Oh.’

A light kick woke Antsy and he blinked, squinting in the bluish magelight. It was Corien. The lad waved him up. One of the mercenaries was there; the man gestured him out. After pulling together his gear Antsy followed. Something about the mercenaries struck him then as he walked: they were all damned big fellows, wide and tall, unusually so. And they all had the same broad heavy faces, as if they were related by blood.

The blond man, Cull, motioned to the chiselled-out gap. ‘Good, yes?’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Antsy lay on his stomach to measure the space. Still too tight for his cusser. He pushed himself up to his knees. ‘A touch more yet.’ He reached for the hammer.

‘No, no. We do more. You watch.’

‘It’s all right. I should …’

Cull held up a bloodied hand. ‘No. You need your fingers to get us out, yes? We do this.’

Hunh. How do you like that? He peered around at all the sweaty glistening faces watching from the dark walkways and portals: the tall woman, Seris; the old mage, Hemper; Hesta and Ogule. Typical. They want out but don’t even consider lending a hand. Privileged shits. And as for the Malazans, well, at least they were standing guard down the hall.

While Antsy was crouched, watching the chiselling, Orchid emerged from the dark to come to his side. ‘You should see this,’ she said, sounding unusually subdued.

‘We’re close here, Orchid.’

‘It’ll only take a moment.’

He saw the wonder on her face and grunted. ‘All right. But quick.’

‘This way.’

She led him up an unlit side passage; his mage-sight allowed him to see here away from the lanterns in the main chamber. Through doorways and a short set of stairs down she brought him into another large cavern, this one low-ceilinged and filled with undecorated stone pillars. Crystals glistened on the uneven black rock walls and from where he stood he could see a sort of natural set of terraces descending into the distance. Dirt lay under his feet along with brown withered plant stalks. ‘What’s this?’ he breathed, sharing Orchid’s wonder.

A figure emerged from the gloom: Malakai. He carried a bunch of stalks gathered up in one hand like a bouquet. He sat on the ledge of one of the low terraces, which Antsy now recognized as a kind of planting bed. ‘A garden,’ the man said, inspecting the dead stalks.

Antsy stared, amazed. ‘Not …’

‘Yes,’ Orchid whispered, awed. ‘The legends were true. A garden.’

‘There were flowers here that scholars tell had never seen the sun,’ Malakai said, and he shook his head. ‘Imagine what a single such blossom would have bought. All dead now. This is what Apsalar sought when she came to the Spawn so long ago. The Lady of Thieves came to steal a rose. A black rose. One that poets claimed had been touched by the tears of Mother Dark herself.’ Shrugging, he let the handful of chaff fall. ‘And I sought to best her. To succeed where she had failed.’ He motioned to encompass the wrecked cavern, the spilled soil and overturned beds. ‘So much for my ambitions.’

Antsy kicked at the black dirt underfoot. ‘We still need to get out, Malakai. You can lend a hand.’

The man drew a heavy breath. ‘Yes. Well … we shall see.’

Antsy motioned to Orchid. ‘I have to go,’ he said, low.

She nodded and waved him out.

Back in the main chamber the chiselling had stopped. On the way to the throne-room doors Antsy heard ominous popping and cracking that reverberated up through the stone beneath his feet. Time’s runnin’ out, I swear.

The mercenaries were all crouched inspecting the pocket they’d worked. They were arguing. The blond man, Cull, was cuffing the other two and shouting them down. Antsy picked up his pace.

‘What’s this?’

‘Ah, Malazan. I tell these fools no more. We wait for you.’

Antsy pushed through them — a hard task in that each seemed as solid and immobile as the rock itself — and studied the gap beneath the stone doors. ‘Looks good. Let’s try the fit.’ He swung his pannier forward.

The three mercenaries backed away. Antsy took a moment to study them. ‘Who are you anyway? What do I call you?’

Cull thumped his broad armoured chest. ‘We are the Heels!’

Antsy just stared. Right. The Heels. Okay … He waved them off and returned his attention to the pocket. The fit was too wide in places and too tight in one spot. A last few touches of the chisel fixed that. Stone chips helped keep the cusser in place, then Antsy pulled out a stone of rough unpolished granite. With this he started to abrade the keratin shell of the cusser as close to the top of it as he could reach.

Fiddler and Hedge had perfected this technique — skimming. They used it to time charges. Problem was, he’d never actually had call to do it himself. But they’d all talked it over pretty thoroughly. All the squad saboteurs. Come to think of it — none of them had ever done it themselves neither!

Shit.

He pulled away the granite grinding stone. Well then, he decided. Maybe that’s good enough. Lying on his stomach he turned back to the chamber, yelled: ‘Seris! Get your people ready!’

The tall woman emerged from the gloom. ‘Now? You are prepared?’

‘Yes.’ And he shouted louder. ‘Munitions! Ware!’

He pulled out a small hard case, opened it. Inside rested a glass tube. This he unstoppered, and, reaching awkwardly under the lip of the door’s bottom, let three drops fall into the scar he’d scraped into the shell of the munition.

He pushed himself away as quickly as he could and ran. Across the chamber he spotted Orchid and Corien behind a thick pillar and joined them.

‘How long?’ Corien whispered.

‘Don’t know. Shouldn’t be too-’

The entire structure juddered around them, groaning and snapping in an agony of tortured rock. A stone arch burst overhead, sending shards pattering down. The Spawn began to tilt. Equipment, rubbish and broken rubble slid across the floor. Antsy grabbed hold of the pillar together with Orchid and Corien.

He watched, horrified, as something came tumbling out from the tilting threshold before the doors and rolled down the shallow stairs. The cusser. Sweet Soliel, no!

Even as he stared it bounced once, twice, three times, then slid down the polished smooth stone floor to disappear into the great yawning hole in the middle of the chamber.

Hood’s laughter!

Everyone was screaming and shouting and cursing. A piece of what looked like expensive travelling baggage came sliding out of the darkness to follow the cusser down the well. An old man yelled his despair.

Then the stone of the Spawn kicked Antsy. At least that’s what it felt like. The floor jerked, punishing his ankles and knees. A great gust of air came shooting from the well. It stank of the acrid smoke of expended munitions and was heavy with water vapour.

Ponderously, among bursting and grinding complaints of stone, the Spawn began to tilt back in the opposite direction, righting itself. The old woman, Hesta, came staggering out of the dark. Her ribbons and hair had gone, revealing a wrinkled bald scalp. With her pale head and scrawny body she more than ever resembled a vulture.

‘You fool!’ she shrieked, pointing. ‘You’ve killed us all!’ Wordless with fury, she threw her hands up and howled in a cracking, hoarse voice. Then she swung those hands down to Antsy. ‘Die!’

A wall of blindingly bright flame came billowing and churning across the chamber for him.

A stupid Damn was all he managed as he stood there fully expecting to die.

A hand grasped him by the neck of his leather hauberk and yanked him backwards.

Antsy found himself lying in darkness. Gradually his mage-sight gathered itself and he saw that he was in an entirely different room. This one was long, low-roofed, and contained stone sarcophagi. Sitting on one of those stone coffins was a familiar figure eyeing him and scowling his disapproval. Mallet.

Antsy carefully stood and dusted himself off. He nodded to Mallet. ‘Thanks.’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ the dead squad healer said.

‘That’s what Ferret said.’

‘You should’ve listened to him.’

‘Nobody ever listened to Ferret.’

Mallet nodded. ‘That’s what I said.’

Antsy walked the room, peered at the sarcophagi lined up in double rows. As if marshalled at attention. ‘So this is it, hey?’

The big man shrugged his meaty shoulders — and he was big, just not tall. Squat and solid enough to swing that heavy two-handed weapon of his. ‘Yeah. Last resting place.’

‘I was worried, you know … what with all this, maybe someone had gotten in …’

The healer’s voice was sharp: ‘Think we’d allow that?’

Antsy raised his hands. ‘Hey — you’re dead, right?’

Mallet ran a hand along the dust-laden top of one stone slab. ‘And you ain’t, Antsy. Which is our point. You’re retired. Go back to … wherever it is. Don’t go looking for trouble no more.’

The Spawn rocked about them, stone grinding and moaning. Dust sifted down through the still air of the burial chamber. Antsy snorted, gesturing. ‘Looks like I might as well stay. I’m dead anyway.’

Mallet shook his head. ‘No, you aren’t.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says us. And we can see these things now. Whose end is near. Whose isn’t. We decide. And you know what? None of us ever liked you, Antsy — so you’re just gonna have to kick around for quite a while yet.’

Antsy fell on to one of the sarcophagi as the Spawn rocked around him. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. All that moanin’ all the time about how we’re all gonna die and Hood will get us all in the end. Well, look at you and look at us. You was no fun alive — imagine how you’ll be dead! We’ve about had it, I tell you.’

Antsy straightened to hold his legs wide against the pitching while he cursed under his breath. ‘Fine! To think I was worried ’bout you. You can all rot! Get me outta here.’

‘Done!’ and Mallet gave a backhanded wave. The darkness closed about Antsy and he was gone.

A moment later another figure walked up behind Mallet; this one taller, bearded, wearing a helmet with wide cheek-guards. ‘Think he bought all that?’ he asked.

‘I dunno. I think so. I mixed it up with half-truths. Never could stand his groaning. A bucket of cold water he was all the time.’

‘And none of us had any faults,’ the figure murmured. He waved a goodbye, like a blessing. ‘Go live, Antsy. Sour doomsayer that you are. Sometimes the only thing that gives me grace is the knowledge that some of us are still out there.’

‘We’re going where none will disturb us now,’ Mallet observed.

‘Four fathoms down we will rest.’

Antsy stepped out of darkness into pandemonium. From all sides about the great chamber, from portals, halls and doors, the ragged army of Torbal Loat was pushing in against a cordon of Malazans aided by the foreign mercenaries, Corien, and a few others. Behind Loat’s robber army pressed a further horde of surviving Spawn looters. Even as Antsy watched, more kept arriving to throw their weight against the marines. Crossbows fired indiscriminately. Tossed furniture flew back and forth.

Orchid appeared to take his arm. ‘We thought you were dead!’ she shouted.

‘I ducked.’

‘We’re sinking! Everyone’s gone berserk.’

‘I don’t blame them.’

‘Malazan,’ a strong voice called from the dark.

Antsy glanced over, seeing nothing, but Orchid’s breath caught. ‘Morn.’ She pulled and Antsy allowed himself to be dragged along.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘These are powerful mages. I am but a reflection of a shadow. I dare not show myself yet.’

‘Where is the Gap?’ Orchid demanded.

‘It’s too late for that now. The Gap is submerged. The waters are rising.’

‘Then we’re lost!’

‘No. There is a way out but only you, Orchid, can open it. As the last of the blood here in these halls you are the mistress of the Spawn. Those doors will open for you.’

‘What?’

Antsy’s gaze slitted his suspicion. ‘You mean all along … Then why …’

‘All alternatives had to be exhausted, Malazan. Now they will listen to Orchid. And within, child, the only exit is through Night Imperishable. And only you can open the Path.’

Antsy took hold of Orchid’s arm. ‘Fine. Let’s go. Our thanks, shade. And by the way, my charge … would it have worked?’

The figure of dark shook its hooded head.

Antsy pulled Orchid after him. He muttered as he marched away. ‘Yeah, well. That’s what you think.’

The cordon was shrinking, giving ground before the hundreds pushing in upon it. It looked as though the last stand would take place before the great tall doors of black stone themselves, where the mages had gathered together on the raised steps. With the elegant fellow, Bauchelain, was an ugly squat man, pale and bloated, an idiotic grin on his face. And behind them hunched an old man loaded with baggage — well, perhaps not so old, just looking extremely careworn.

Antsy caught the eye of one of the foreign lads, the Heels, who waved and pushed forward, tossing people from his path to make way for them. Antsy squeezed through with Orchid, nodded his thanks, then ran for the doors.

‘You!’ snarled Hesta, her wig askew.

‘Another time, perhaps,’ her companion, Ogule, murmured. He pointed, and a swath of desperate Spawn fortune-hunters clutched at their throats, gurgling and flailing.

‘Not quite the outcome I foresaw,’ Seris shouted to Antsy over the clash of battle.

‘Let Orchid here try,’ he called to her.

She shook her head. ‘We’ve all tried. Not even those two could manage.’ She gestured to Bauchelain and his obese companion.

‘What’s to lose?’ He helped Orchid forward.

Though obviously sceptical, Seris still helped make room before the doors. Orchid turned to Antsy. ‘What do I-’

‘Just push,’ he told her impatiently.

‘Fine!’ Piqued, she threw her weight against the doors.

They swung open smoothly and silently. The gang of mages, mercenaries and servants half tumbled, tripping over each other, into the throne room.

‘Cover the doors!’ Sergeant Girth bellowed as he brought up the rear with the remaining Malazan marines. Corien and the mercenaries backed them up.

Antsy peered about. It was a smaller chamber. Circular, domed ceiling. He’d never been in a throne room proper so he didn’t know if this was how they were supposed to look. But this one had more of the feel of a shrine. It even had some sort of an inner arc of pillars surrounding … nothing, as far as he could make out.

‘Aiiya!’ Hesta screeched. ‘I see no throne. We are betrayed!’

‘Quiet,’ Seris commanded as she scanned the room. ‘You, Orchid, what now?’

Orchid did not answer. She had crossed to the rear wall behind the arc of slim stone pillars. Antsy went to her. She was studying a painting on the wall: a long broad fresco that ran all round this wide niche. He took her arm. ‘Orchid.’

‘Stunning …’ she breathed, intent.

‘Orchid!’

She turned to him. ‘Just as the legends portray,’ and she gestured to the fresco.

Antsy spared it a glance: a dark outdoor night-time scene under stars. Some sort of lit parade or procession approaching, light shafting in after it.

‘The Great Union.’

‘What?’

‘The marriage of Night and Light.’

Antsy took a step backwards. Fener’s balls! That’s … terrifying.

Further shudders shook the chamber. The reports of falling rock burst from nearby. The floor canted to a slightly sharper angle.

An orange flame-like light burst to life. ‘Attend!’ Hesta yelled. She had raised an arm and her hand was aflame as a burning brand. ‘No more delay. We must escape now! Where is …’ Her voice dwindled away as she stared down.

Antsy pushed forward through the ring of gathered mages. At their feet lay a rectangle flush with the floor at the centre of the pillars. While all the chamber was now lit this rectangle remained as utterly night black as a solid pool of pitch. Oddly enough, though the floor was angled, the surface of the darkness remained flush within its containment.

‘The Throne?’ Ogule offered.

‘Shut up!’ Hesta snapped.

‘Well, a throne,’ Seris murmured.

‘A gate,’ Bauchelain said.

Giggling, the man’s companion, Korbal, Antsy assumed, knelt to thrust an arm in. His pudgy hand met some sort of barrier just beneath the surface of night. He snarled his frustration.

The noise of battle at the door died away and everyone turned to look. ‘What is going on?’ the old mage, Hemper, yelled.

‘They’ve backed off,’ Girth shouted. ‘Someone’s coming. Someone … Sacred shit!’

‘I must open it,’ Orchid said, musing, as if dreaming.

‘Well — do so!’ Hesta screeched.

She knelt and passed a hand over the rectangle. ‘I’m not sure …’ she began, just touching the rippling liquid-like barrier. Then she fell in. Or was grabbed. Or sucked. But she suddenly disappeared without a splash into the murk as if it were a pool of black water. Antsy stared, stunned. Was that supposed to happen?

‘The way appears open,’ Seris remarked.

‘Then now is the time,’ Ogule murmured, and he smiled, dimpling.

A blazing pain lanced Antsy’s back. He clutched there and found the hilt of a dagger. Turning, he saw Jallin dancing away. ‘Gonna die!’ the youth sang as he backed off. Antsy took a step to follow him but something was wrong and he staggered, almost falling.

Behind him chaos erupted. Flames burst to life. Someone shrieked. He heard the old man Hemper bellow: ‘You will not profane it!’

Whadaya know, Antsy thought as the floor came up to hit him, the old guy’s a priest of darkness …

He slid down the canted floor, leaving a slick of gleaming blood behind. He saw Seris, enveloped in black fire, writhing nearby; he saw the weeping servant of Bauchelain struggling to push a huge piece of luggage up the tilted floor to reach the Throne; he saw the Malazans retreating from the door as some half-dozen masked Seguleh pushed through. So that was what Girth had seen …

Corien knelt before him. ‘Antsy! Who …?’ The lad tried to move him but the pain almost blacked him out.

‘No … Go,’ he managed through clenched teeth.

Then Malakai was there. ‘I’m sorry for you, soldier. But Orchid has succeeded. We have our exit. The paths to the Warrens are open now through the Throne.’ He touched Antsy’s shoulder just briefly. ‘And I repay my debts. Farewell.’

Gods take it! Even Malakai thinks I’m done for! How do you like that? Spend my whole life avoiding all the traps the world throws at me and now that death themselves tell me to live — I don’t last five minutes! Fucking comedy, that is. Sink the Spawn with my one munition then get back-stabbed by some skulking alley rat! Gods. Mallet’s gonna be so damned mad at me.

He watched while Malakai helped up the very rat himself, Jallin. As he did so, he even slipped something into the lad’s pack that may have fallen out. Then he climbed lizard-like up the tilting floor to reach the Throne and pulled himself in to disappear without a ripple.

Bastard! I’ll kill him, I swear.

Together Hesta and Ogule managed to overpower Hemper. Some arcane magic from the fat Ogule made the fellow cough up his lungs in a bloody spray of tattered flesh. Seris gathered herself in one snarling feral leap to reach the lip of the Throne and heave herself in.

‘You!’ a Seguleh ordered, pointing at Jallin. ‘You will surrender it now!’

The youth’s eyes grew as huge as saucers and he scrambled to hide behind Hesta and Ogule. The two mages struggled to push him from them. The Seguleh drew their swords in one single hiss, following. The lad dodged behind all the mages to squeeze between the Malazans and disappear. Two Seguleh gave chase.

Antsy watched, hardly able to breathe, while the pale grinning companion of Bauchelain, Korbal, actually approached one of the remaining Seguleh. He laid a hand on his arm and whispered something. A sword flashed and Korbal disappeared with a yelp that transformed into a squawk. A large black crow flew off through the doors.

Having reached the Throne, Bauchelain sighed and allowed himself to slide down the floor. He dusted himself, straightening. ‘Come, Emancipor,’ he called, and set off after his companion. The Malazans parted to allow them to pass.

The mercenary Heels now scrambled to Antsy. The two younger ones tried to lift him but he cried out in agony. He could feel the blade scraping his spine. He fought to hang on to consciousness.

‘I’m sorry,’ someone said, the lad, Corien. A squeeze of his shoulder, then nothing. His last sight was of the Malazans lying flat on the polished floor, which was angled now as steep as a wall, climbing up one another for the Throne. Behind them water now swirled past the doors in a churning gyre of bodies and debris.

Then all was dark and cold.

A hand touched his cheek. He opened his eyes — or regained consciousness. His mage-vision allowed him to see the sideways chamber glowing in a blue so dark as to be almost indistinguishable from black.

Someone was with him. A shape in the night — or a shape of night itself. Her face was black, as were her eyes. Black on black, as if carved from jet.

‘Just you and I, soldier,’ she said.

Good, he said. Or thought he said. They got out.

‘Yes.’

And me?

The shape slid away into the dark as if dissolving. ‘You spoke with a shade,’ the voice said.

Yes.

‘How — how was he?’

How?

‘Yes. He has been … away … for some time. Now he has returned. How did he seem?’

He seemed … sad.

‘Sad?’

Yes. He gave his name as Morn.

‘Morn? He did? Thank you, soldier. For that I bless you. Now, it is time for you to go.’

Go? Right. Face my squad.

‘No. Not to them. Do not be hurt or angry. They were harsh because they feared you might long to join them. They love you, Antsy. They want you to live. For that reason I am here speaking to you. That, and for the child, Orchid.’

Orchid?

‘Yes. You brought her to me. And for that you have my gratitude. Farewell, soldier.’

Frigid waters as dark as night churned round him. Movement then. A hand pushed against the chest of his hauberk. A glimpse of a masked face in the dark swirling waters, then blackness.