Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XVIII

Like small blessings moments of calm occasionally descended unbidden into the punishing windstorm of Ebbin’s thoughts. During these respites he was able, at least briefly, to gather his scattered identity and reconstitute his thoughts.

Sometimes he would find himself in a recurring dream of the gold-masked figure standing at the edge of Majesty Hill overlooking Darujhistan. Either the ancient terror allowed him to join him there in reviewing these memories, or he was simply too insignificant to matter. Each time Ebbin was unwilling to creep up to the overlook, for he knew what would confront him there: the city in flames, screams, mass murder, carnage. The fall of a civilization.

After many of these dreams, or waking nightmares — having wandered here, or been drawn, or allowed to discover him here — Ebbin finally dared speak: ‘Why do you always come here?’

‘Lessons learned,’ the masked and cloaked figure answered.

‘You seek to avoid this.’

‘I seek to avoid a paradox. Escape the inescapable. I wish to complete the circle without suffering its fate.’

‘Each time it has ended this way.’

‘So far.’

‘So many would-be tyrants,’ Ebbin breathed, saddened.

The graven gold face turned his way. ‘Still you do not fully understand.’

Emboldened, Ebbin ventured: ‘What is there to understand? You failed once, you shall fail again.’

‘Once? No, scholar. Evidently the truth is even more difficult for you to swallow than that. In truth, I have failed countless times.’

‘What?’

The taunting secretive curve carved on the lips of the mask seemed to be verging on a full smile. ‘Each time it has been me, scholar. In truth, there has been but one Tyrant.’

The raging winds of Ebbin’s mind crept closer. Walls of impenetrable black closing in. ‘But … that cannot be. What of Raest? What of him?’

‘Ah, yes. Raest. Too crude in his methods. I have refined and perfected his tools. Lessons learned, scholar.’

Ebbin clenched his skull as if to hold it from flying apart. ‘Why tell me this?’

‘Give up, scholar. Yield. There can be but one outcome.’

‘No! Never. I … never.’ And he fled. Hands pressed to his skull, he ran from the ledge and laughter chased him. The laughter melded with the howling of the winds that came sweeping in to toss him, spinning and flying, into countless shattered fragments.

Jan could not get used to being confronted wherever he turned by near replicas of the Legate’s gold mask. The ladies of the court held theirs on long gold stems that they raised to their faces. The men’s rested on the bridges of their noses, held there by fine thread that ran behind their heads.

Part of Jan wished to slap them all off. Just as he still could not help twitching upon meeting so many directly challenging, even haughty, stares from armed men.

These are no longer your people, his inner voice said to him. These are no longer your ways.

Across the court Palla, the Sixth, signed to him: Any word?

None.

It has been long.

The mountains are vast.

The Moranth have never been shy.

True. A tentative throat-clearing at his side. Jan turned, knowing who to expect: the Mouthpiece. ‘Yes?’

‘A word, Second.’

They crossed to the edge of the court where a pillared colonnade stretched all along one wall. It was the favoured locale for much whispering. ‘Yes?’

‘Send a runner to your people in the south. Have them all relocate here to the city.’

Jan’s gaze snapped to the masked figure on his throne, his hands resting lightly atop a white stone armrest to either side. ‘All?’

‘Yes. All. It seems strange notions and distortions have crept into your teachings over the years. It would be best if I took over all future training.’

‘You,’ Jan said, his gaze fixed on the broad oval mask.

‘Yes.’

Jan nearly fainted in the animal urge to draw and slice. No! The burden is yours! Endure! He allowed himself a shuddering intake of breath while his eyes slitted almost closed. ‘Very well,’ he grated through clenched jaws. ‘It shall be as you order.’

‘Of course.’ The Mouthpiece, Jan noted, appeared more sweaty and pallid than ever before.

He turned his back, signing to Palla: We must talk.

At a side entrance he came to the two private guards. Seeing him, they jumped to attention, saluting. ‘Don’t you worry there, sir,’ one said, ‘we’ll keep a watch out. Ain’t that so, Scorch?’ He elbowed his companion.

‘Yessir.’ The other winced, blinking his bloodshot eyes.

Jan swept past without answer. Odd that the Legate should want these two here. But, as he had read, every court has its fools.

He waited in his quarters for Palla to find a moment to excuse herself. Eventually the door quickly opened and was just as swiftly shut. What now? she signed.

‘He would have us all here. All our people.’

‘That cannot be allowed,’ she answered, her mask averted.

‘No. It cannot. We do not belong here.’ Something shook him then. Something arising from the base of his spine and low in his stomach. He shuddered as it clenched his throat and he fought it with hands clamped to his sides. Was this weakness? Is this the gathering wail of despair? ‘I am so sorry.’ The words seemed to escape of their own accord. ‘This is all my doing.’

She drew close, almost raising her mask to gaze up at him. ‘No! You did as any Second would have. The call came and you answered. There is no error in that. It is this place,’ she went on, fierce. ‘Here. Darujhistan. It is no longer worthy of us.’

Jan groaned. Oh, the loftiness of pride! No longer worthy of us? Or are we simply … obsolete?

‘What should we do?’

‘When the others return I will reinstitute the Exile.’

‘Gall will challenge.’

‘That is his right.’

‘We must not allow that. He must be stopped before he can-’

‘Palla! Listen to yourself. And we worry about perversion of our ways?’

She touched his arm, lightly, as if frightened that he would brush her hand aside. ‘But what if he …’

‘What if he wins?’

She whispered a faint ‘Yes’.

He crooked his lips. ‘Is your estimation of my abilities so low?’

She ducked, genuinely hurt, and he winced inwardly. ‘I see how all this weighs upon you,’ she breathed.

He touched her arm. ‘I only jest. If he should best me then he deserves the victory.’

Her grip tightened. ‘Then do not force me to wade through the Fourth and Third to reach him.’

‘I will go peacefully knowing you would avenge me, Palla.’

‘You know,’ she said, after a brief silence, ‘the others will note our absence, and …’

‘… there will be much wagging of tongues in the dormitory.’ He allowed his fingertips to trace a line down her taut arm. ‘Another reason to hope for better times, Palla.’

She returned the gesture, sending a shiver through his flesh. ‘Let us hope, then.’

‘Yes.’ He opened the door. ‘In the meantime …’

Stepping out to the hall she murmured low, ‘We delay.’

Antsy came to, coughing up a great gout of water followed all too swiftly by the contents of his stomach. On his side, his face pressed into dirt, he groaned, his stomach still cramping. A great shout of surprise sounded then and hands grasped at him.

‘You’re alive!’ Orchid cried.

‘We thought you dead,’ Corien said, amazed.

He merely groaned again, dry-heaving. ‘What in the Abyss happened?’ he managed, spitting.

‘You ought to ask these gentlemen,’ Corien said.

Antsy peered up. It was still as dark as the inside of a barrel, but his mage-vision allowed him to see that they occupied what appeared to be a meadow surrounded by a thick forest, its boughs windswept. Starry night arched above, empty of any greenish glow.

With him were Orchid and Corien, yes, but also the three mercenaries, the Heels, and about ten or so Malazan marines including Sergeant Girth. But what captured his attention were the six Seguleh standing about him, water dripping from their leathers.

‘Where’s the Hood-damned menagerie of mages?’

‘All fled as soon as they could,’ said Orchid.

‘Even Malakai?’

Corien nodded. ‘Even him.’

‘Well … how do you like that. Not even a by-your-leave.’ He eyed the Seguleh. ‘Who’s the spokesman here?’

‘I,’ said one.

‘Right.’ He gestured for Corien to help him up. ‘So, what happened?’

‘We returned to the Throne as soon as we were able. You were in our way so we merely pushed you through with us.’

‘Well … my thanks.’

‘We did not intend to save your life — we thought you dead.’

Antsy waved a hand. ‘I said thanks!’ He held his head, grimacing. ‘Leave it at that. Gods.’

He faced Orchid. ‘So. Where are we?’

‘Isn’t that obvious?’ She turned a full circle, arms raised to the night sky. ‘Kurald Galain. Elder Night.’

‘We shouldn’t be here. We have to go. Right away.’

‘And go where?’ Girth demanded, pushing forward blindly. Antsy realized that none of the others could see a thing. ‘Just where would you suggest? And how? And who’s gonna send us? All the mages have scarpered. We’re no better off now than where we were.’

Antsy pointed. ‘We have her.’

The Malazan sergeant peered about. ‘Who?’

‘Orchid — the girl!’ Antsy barked then held his head again, groaning.

Girth pulled at his beard. ‘Fine. So — question still stands. What’s the marching orders?’

‘Well … I don’t know quite yet,’ Antsy admitted. He rubbed his neck, feeling where the dagger had entered, and found only slit cloth and throbbing pain.

‘I would suggest Darujhistan,’ said a new voice, and Orchid gasped.

‘Morn! You escaped.’ She ran to him.

The hooded figure of dark wavered, translucent. ‘I am barely here at all, Orchid,’ he said, his voice hollow. ‘In truth I am very committed elsewhere.’

‘You’re fading!’

‘I’m sorry, child. This sending has done its duty. Now it must disperse. All I can say is that these men ought to go to Darujhistan. You have given me much hope, child. It was a pleasure, this time I spent with you. I found it … renewing.’

‘Don’t go!’

‘I must. I cannot stay. It is too … painful. May Night bless you. Farewell.’

The hooded figure faded away like smoke.

After a moment of silence, Girth complained, ‘Well — that was no damned help. And I still can’t see a Togg-farting thing!’

Antsy went to Orchid’s side, whispered, ‘We should go, lass. These Warrens are dangerous.’

‘I believe it may be too late,’ Corien said, pointing to the woods.

Some sort of party or procession was approaching through the trees. They carried torches on tall poles, but to Antsy’s eyes the torches burned with black flames that gave off black light that seemed to aid his mage-vision. The strange inversion made him dizzy.

The Malazan marines were linking up, he noticed, weapons out, sweeping the blades through what to them must be utter dark. ‘Form circle!’ Antsy barked, and set to helping organize them. When he reached for Cull Heel the man brushed his hand aside, making him jump. ‘You can see?’

‘Aye,’ the man ground out, his narrowed eyes on the approaching party. ‘We can see a little — someone’s coming.’

Antsy had no time to wonder about that at the moment. ‘Form up with the soldiers. Help them out.’

‘Aye.’

Aside, the Seguleh formed their own small circle round one of their number as if to protect him. His mask was mostly pale; only a handful of lines marred it. Three crossed the forehead and three each cheek. One crossed the bridge of the nose. While Antsy studied him the man’s hand strayed to a cloth-wrapped package thrust into his waist sash and rested there for a time as if making sure of it.

Antsy and Corien shifted to stand before Orchid at the centre of the circled marines and Heel mercenaries.

‘That’s close enough,’ Antsy shouted. The party halted. It consisted of a double file of female Tiste Andii. From their flowing dress and rich jewellery he thought them priestesses of some sort. One at the forefront advanced slightly closer. She held high a torch of the liquid pitch light.

‘There is no need for such suspicion,’ she called in accented Talian, perhaps making herself understood through magery.

‘What do you want?’ Antsy called.

She gestured towards him. ‘Our daughter.’

A gasped breath sounded from Orchid. ‘I think that’s up to her,’ Antsy said.

‘Indeed. Then let it be so.’ The Andii woman’s eyes, almost black as the night surrounding them, swept past him. ‘Child,’ she called, ‘we have been bereft, in mourning. For we have lost a Son of Darkness. Yet behold. We rejoice! For just as precious and rare are the Daughters of Tiam!’

Orchid’s weight fell on Antsy, and he grunted. The girl was much more solid than she looked. He clasped her arm. ‘What’s this, lass? What’s she goin’ on about?’

She steadied herself, blinking rapidly, a hand on Antsy’s shoulder. ‘If what she says is true-’

‘It is,’ the Andii woman asserted.

‘-then I am part Andii, yes. But also part — Eleint.’

Antsy jerked away a step. ‘Eleint! But that’s …’

‘Yes,’ the Andii woman shouted. ‘That is so. Child, whoever hid you and protected you all these years has taught you also, I see. Very good. Now join us. It is time to continue your education.’

‘Orchid,’ Corien murmured, ‘you don’t have to go with these witches …’

‘I need to know,’ she answered just as low, fierce. ‘I want to.’

Antsy nodded. ‘’Tis true — we can’t stop you. But what of us?’

She shot him an insulted look. ‘I’m not an utter fool, Bridgeburner.’ She raised her chin to the Andii woman. ‘I have terms!’

They barely made it to shore before the hide boat became too heavy with water to be manoeuvrable. Crouched, Yusek hugged her knees, warming herself, watching the flooded thing slowly drift away. It was no more than an oval rim now, like a squeezed ring laid on the smooth dark surface of the river. She was soaked and shivering but had to admit that she missed the damned thing. Beat walkin’, that was for sure.

The Seventh merely shouldered his meagre roll of gear, waterskin and such, and set off. Sall and Lo followed. Yusek bent her head back to send an entreating look to the sky and all the gods, but bit back any complaint knowing it would be entirely useless. Well, she suddenly realized, seem to have finally understood that lesson at least.

She pulled up her own roll and shoulder bag of wet gear and followed. It was many hours before dawn. She was exhausted. It had been almost impossible to sleep in the damned boat what with the constant bailing and the sloshing water. Now they were expected to march on? What was the rush? It wasn’t like the city was goin’ anywhere.

She pushed herself to reach Sall, and announced: ‘I’m beat! I ain’t going another step. We need to sleep.’

Sall hesitated, glanced ahead to the others. ‘They will not stop.’

Yusek sank to her knees. ‘Well — what’s the use of arriving on your last legs? Too tired to be of any use? Aw, fuck it,’ and she glared at the river making its sluggish way north, gleaming beneath bands of clouds.

Sall jogged ahead.

Some time later the three returned. They sat without a word. A few scraps of food were handed out and the waterskins made the rounds. Someone must have kept watch but Yusek didn’t know who because she immediately fell asleep.

Late in the morning they set off again, following the Maiten’s east shore. Here they climbed small hills and narrow gullies the sides of which seemed too steep to be natural. It occurred to Yusek that they were crossing the remains of large channels that might have once carried water from the river. The Maiten was far too low now even to reach these features, but at some time in the past it must have run much higher. And these channels, then, would have directed part of the flow eastward. To farms, no doubt. Yet now the Dwelling Plain was a dusty wasteland of dry hills and wind-scoured hardpan. Frankly that fitted quite well with her personal experience of what happened anywhere after people arrived. She’d seen it again and again as a refugee fleeing the Pannions. Their bands would come staggering into towns and settlements, and fighting would immediately break out over water and food. Homes were invaded, herds decimated, water sources bled dry. Then the whole stream would move on again, a swarm of locusts, consuming and destroying all it met. And the only way to have a hope of snatching anything, a handful of barley, or a crust of hard bread, was to be among the first to arrive. Thus the mad dash westward; the desperate effort to beat the mob; to be among the first to kick down the doors.

It had been a harrowing time. And it had left its mark upon her wiry lean limbs, her restless gaze and her constant, almost feverish, nerves. And what of the scars one couldn’t see? The marks upon psyche and spirit? Well, she didn’t even want to think about that.

Now Sall, he interested her. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met on her march west, nor among Orbern’s crew. All those boys forced too early to become men had ruled through muscle and viciousness, the fist and the club. But not Sall, nor his father Lo, or this fellow, the Seventh.

Their way was strange, and, she could admit, harsh. But it had clear rules, and that attracted her. She knew she wanted to be part of it.

Late in the day, from one of the higher hillsides, they saw the first hints that they were getting closer. Smoke stained the northeast sky and ahead more and more huts and rotten piers crowded the riverbanks. They were close now. Close to the greatest city of the continent. Yusek had to hug herself to contain her yip of glee.

The murmurings of the arrival preceded them: doors slamming, sandalled feet stamping the stone floor; gasps and exclamations. Then the doors to the Great Hall swung open to admit a troop of Seguleh, dirty and sweat-stained, jogging up the centre.

Courtiers and aristocrats hastily flinched to the sides, making way. From near the white throne Jan watched their advance with stunned incomprehension. What was this? Why were they here?

Leading the troop came Gall. Soot stained his mask and black dried blood caked his side where a wound still gaped wet and open. The Third bowed to Jan.

‘Speak,’ Jan managed, almost breathless with wonder.

Gall straightened, weaving slightly. His chest worked soundlessly. ‘The Moranth,’ he grated. ‘They … used their alchemical weapons upon us. Only we few … escaped the slaughter.’

Still uncomprehending, Jan glared at the man. ‘That is nothing new. They have always had their strange chemistries. The smoking and bursting globes that they throw.’

The Third shook his head as if unable to find the words. ‘This is different, Second. Things have changed during our absence.’

And what an understatement, Gall. Yes. It seems that just as we have changed, so too have the Moranth. It is to be expected.

The Third bowed again. ‘I accept full responsibility, Second. I await your judgement.’

Jan signed for him to rise. ‘No, Third. All responsibility is mine and mine alone. Our rush to engage was foolish. And obviously costly beyond measure. We must re-evaluate our strategy.’

‘I concur,’ put in a new voice and Jan glanced down to see the Mouthpiece at his side. ‘When the rest of your people arrive, Second, then a new army will be sent to punish the Moranth. In the meantime control over the city must be enforced. You Seguleh must keep the population in order.’

Jan struggled to keep his tone neutral as he said: ‘And how do you propose we do so?’

‘Why,’ the sickly pale man answered as he dabbed a cloth to his sweaty forehead, ‘are you not my sword and anvil?’

Jan turned his mask to the immobile Legate upon his white stone seat. ‘I suggest, Legate, that we may not have the time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. The Moranth have dealt us a severe blow. I would be surprised if they did not strike now while we are weakened.’

‘Do not fear, Second. We are impregnable here within the protection of the Circle.’

Fear? This creature thinks I fear? Great Ancestors! The gulf between our thinking. Our mutual miscomprehension … beyond belief. If I fear at all, it is for the future of my people.

Yet Jan bowed, saying, ‘Of that I have no doubt, Legate.’

A knock brought Tiserra to her door. She was reluctant to open it, expecting some damned debt collector — not that she couldn’t handle such a one, but it was a distraction from her work. Finally, the persistence of the knocking, and its gentleness, persuaded her to answer.

She saw there the tall slim man that Bellam, one of her nephews on Torvald’s side, had become. She opened the door fully and he bowed.

‘Auntie.’

‘Bellam — a pleasure. You do not come by often enough.’

‘I am sorry, Auntie. I understand that the Legate has sent Torvald from the city. Some sort of political mission. So you are alone …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, Seguleh have returned to the city from the west. Just a bare ragged handful. People think there will be trouble. We are heading out to a residence in the Gadrobi hills. Perhaps you would care to join us?’

Touched, she squeezed his arm. ‘Why, thank you for the offer, nephew. But no. I will remain. Torvald will be returning and I will have to be here for him. And do not worry, I will be safe. Now go. Look after your mother and father, yes?’

Reluctant, a touch confused, the lad hesitated. ‘How do you know …’

‘Never you mind that, lad. Now go.’

He was still uncertain, but he bowed, deferring to her in any case. Sometimes, she knew, a reputation for fierceness made things so much easier.

She did not shut the door but threw on a shawl instead. So, it shall be this night. I must warn the Greyfaces — no gas! Shut the pipes! Squeeze their throats shut just as tight if I must!

The forest they walked gave way to a canyon. A narrow strip of starry night sky shone above. Tayschrenn led, moving confidently. Kiska kept a wary eye out. The canyon became a cave then a series of natural stone tunnels. Kiska finally ventured to ask: ‘Where are we going?’

But the mage merely raised a hand for patience. Kiska subsided, grumbling.

Eventually they emerged from a cave mouth and Kiska found herself high on the steep slope of some sort of mountain. Not too far away the sea spread to the horizons, black and glimmering like the sky. The jade banner of the Visitor glared high above. They were on an island.

‘Where are we?’

‘Kartool.’

‘Kartool!’ Kiska suppressed a start of revulsion. ‘Why here of all places?’

He turned on her a fond, almost amused, glance. ‘As I said, a long delayed reunion. Come.’ Kiska wasn’t sure if she approved of this peculiar sense of humour the High Mage seemed to have acquired.

He led the way along the narrow stone ledge. It curved round the wall of the mountain. For an instant Kiska had a flashback to a similar path on the cliffs of Malaz Isle, no great distance from her now. Agayla … are you there? Is this the Queen’s intent? Is this the right path? Gods, if I only knew.

The track stepped up on to a wide flat walkway that ran straight into the side of the mountain, to a worked cave entrance whose stone pillars were carved with the sigils of D’rek, the Worm of the World’s Autumn. After a moment’s stunned silence, Kiska cleared her throat. ‘Ah, Tayschrenn — this is a temple to D’rek …’

‘Indeed it is. I am glad to see your education encompasses the cult’s iconography.’

Ha! ‘D’rek tried to capture you!’

‘Many times, yes. Capture or kill. But that is the past. A new crossroads has been reached. It is time for a chat. Mustn’t hold grudges.’

They walked the processional way, where braziers lit the tunnel between thick pillars carved from the stone of the walls. No one was about. ‘Where is everyone?’ Kiska breathed, her voice low.

‘D’rek is still without priests, Kiska. Even here and at the temple below. This is the Holy of Holies. The most sacred shrine. Only priests and priestesses were ever allowed entrance here.’

‘And these braziers?’

‘We’ve been invited, Kiska. Here we are.’

The processional way ended at a great cavern, roughly circular. Kiska followed the line of its roof up and up until, squinting, she realized there was no roof. They stood at the base of a central vent that ran through the mountain to its very top. A dormant volcano.

At the centre of the cavern was a pit, a black jagged hole that led down into smoke and utter night. Kiska flinched back from its lip; whatever was down there, it smelled vile.

‘What now?’ she asked, a hand at her nose.

‘Now she and I are going to have a talk, and you mustn’t interfere. Stay here, yes?’

‘Well, all right,’ she allowed, doubtful. ‘But where are you-’ Then she screamed as Tayschrenn stepped up and threw himself into the pit, diving in a long arc to disappear from sight.

Screaming still, she nearly threw herself in after him, but a strong hand grasped her cloak and yanked her away. She fell on her back and found herself looking up at an old woman, bent, hair a thick ropy nest and eyes bright circles of milky white. ‘Doan do that,’ the old crone snarled at her crossly, shaking a crooked finger.

‘Don’t do what?’ she gasped, completely shocked.

‘Doan yell like that to wake the dead. Hurts the ears, that does.’

‘Sorry.’ She leapt to her feet. ‘But he jumped! He-’

‘Yes, yes.’ The old woman waved dismissively. ‘That’s what the most powerful of them do. Doan worry y’self. He’ll be back. Or … he’ll be dinner for the Worm!’ and she chuckled, shuffling off.

Kiska followed. ‘Dinner! You mean … down there … it’s down there?’

‘Oh aye. Down there. Far enough. Coiling and churning eternal. The Worm of the Earth. A worm of energy, it is. Fire and flame, molten rock and boiling metal. Ever restless. And a good thing too! Else we’d all be dead!’

‘I’m sorry — I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Never mind. Make y’self useful. See that bucket?’

Kiska peered into the shadows. ‘I think so.’

‘Well, fill it and follow me!’

Against the wall Kiska found a bucket and woven baskets bursting with coal. She filled the bucket and followed.

‘Keep the fires going — that’s my job,’ the old hag was muttering. ‘Can’t be neglected! It’s the light and heat that keeps us all alive. Yes?’ She peered about blindly.

‘Ah … yes,’ Kiska said.

‘That’s right!’ Reaching the wall, the woman walked along, tracing her way with one hand. The other hand she held up high, quavering. Nearing a brazier, she patted at the hot metal to test its heat. Kiska winced at the sight. Nodding to herself, satisfied, she moved on. ‘There’s precious few these days understand that, girl,’ she muttered. ‘Precious few understand that it’s all about service. Serving!’

‘Yes,’ Kiska answered, understanding now that this was her role.

‘No,’ the old crone muttered, spitting aside. ‘Nowadays it’s all about gathering — influence and power and whatnot.’ She found another brazier, patted its hot iron with her naked hand, waved. ‘Low! Fill it!’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s not how it used to be. Not how it should be! Do you understand me?’

‘Ah … yes.’ I have no idea what you’re blathering on about, you miserable hag.

‘Only way to sustain anything, to build anything, is to give! You understand me, girl? Give and give of y’self till there’s nothing left to give! Only then can you have something! If you take, you diminish things till there’s nothing left. If you give, you provide and things grow! Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘There y’go! That’s right. Everyone’s greedy these days. It’ll only diminish the pot till there’s nothing left! Then we’re all in the dark, yes?’

‘Ah … right. Yes.’

The old woman leaned back against the wall, breathing wetly. ‘There we go. All done.’

‘We’re done?’ Kiska studied the countless other braziers surrounding the chamber.

‘Not us! Me. I’m done. You go on and finish.’

Kiska eased out a long low breath between her teeth, but continued. She went all the way round the cavern, tossing lumps of coal into any of the braziers that were low, relighting others that had gone out. When she returned the bucket to its place she found the old woman sitting against the wall, her knees drawn up tight, a cloak wrapped around her, asleep, her mouth half open.

Tired, hungry, her nerves still jangling for Tayschrenn, Kiska eased herself down the wall to sit with her own knees drawn up and rested her chin on them. Soon afterwards she fell asleep.

She awoke to a light kick and jerked, blinking. Tayschrenn was peering down at her. He appeared to be in a good mood. He was smiling and seemed unharmed from his descent, but for his mussed hair and soot-stained cloak.

‘I’m sorry if I scared you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you would’ve reacted well to my telling you what I was about to do.’

‘No. I wouldn’t have.’ She pushed herself up, wincing and easing her back. ‘So — we’re done here?’

‘Yes.’

‘You … spoke to her?’

The mage eyed her sidelong. ‘Sort of. That’s not really how we communicated.’

‘I see. Well, I had a grand old time doing chores here.’

‘Chores?’

‘Yes. The old woman who takes care of the place. She showed me the ropes. Gods, does she ever go on.’

Tayschrenn had been on his way to the tunnel. He stopped to turn. ‘Kiska. There’s no one else here.’

‘Sure there is.’ She glanced about. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. ‘She was right here.’

‘Must have been a dream, Kiska. Because we are all alone. But tell me … what did she have to say?’

Baruk’s workroom was at the very top of the tower. On the way up the endless narrow circular stairway Spindle had grumbled to himself: Gods, why do they always have to be at the top? Never on the ground floor. All this useless walking up and down!

Since being guided into the room by the little waddling demon, Duiker had had him searching for all the various chemicals in their phials, globes, decanters and cups. The historian dropped samples from each liquid on to a chip of the white stone. He hadn’t been happy with any of the reactions produced.

Eventually, long past midnight, they gave up for the time being and Spindle gestured for the old man to rest. He would take first watch. An old campaigner, the historian curled up on all the cloths they’d piled together as a bed and went to sleep.

From a seat beneath a window Spindle watched the city below. It struck him as oddly dark. Very few of the many gas jets of blue flame that normally illuminated its streets and buildings appeared to be lit. Above, the green radiance of the Scimitar shone down. And it seemed to him that the two nimbuses warred over the city. Or at least that was what he fancied. The night was very quiet. In fact the city had been very quiet ever since the Seguleh arrived. Everyone hurried, reluctant to be out, constantly peering over their shoulders. People were afraid. And the Seguleh hadn’t even done anything yet! He had the impression that they simply weren’t welcome, weren’t wanted, here in Darujhistan. Which struck him as odd since the city seemed to welcome everyone, priding itself on being so cosmopolitan and all.

He supposed it was more what they represented. Or stood for, perhaps.

A few bells later he woke the historian.

In the morning nothing had changed. None of the chemicals they tested elicited the sort of reaction the historian seemed to expect. As the day waned Spindle returned to his seat at the window. A growled sigh of frustration drew his gaze to Duiker as the man pushed himself away from the worktable. He regarded Spindle through bloodshot, squinting eyes. ‘Nothing. I don’t understand it. This should be the answer. Why is nothing reacting?’

Spindle shrugged. ‘Maybe we need a new sample? Another shard?’

The historian waved his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Well … perhaps. Go get one.’

‘All right.’ He heaved himself from the chair and headed to the top of the stairs where they’d dropped their load of stones. Here he found the fat little demon, its head in the cloak, stuffing its great mouth with the chips.

‘Hey! Git outta there!’

It raced off, dragging the cloak with it. Spindle gave chase. Its little clawed feet clicked over the polished stone floor as it ducked under tables and around furniture. Spindle swore again for leaving his shortsword behind. He almost lost his quarry amid all the furnishings and hangings but spotted a telltale corner of the cloak peeping out of a well-hidden door. Searching about, Spindle found a fireplace poker and raised it, then reached for the slim stone door.

He yanked it open, poker poised, and the little demon hissed at him then ran between his legs and scuttled off. Spindle let it go; it had abandoned the cloak. He gathered up the cloth and gave it a shake. Just a few leavings rattled at the bottom.

Togg curse it!

Then he glimpsed something else in the narrow cupboard. A huge amphora as tall as his waist set on a wrought-iron stand. It looked to be of some sort of fired ceramic, glazed black. Its lid was sealed with wax and pressed into the liberal drippings was some kind of sigil.

He went to get the historian.

Together they carried the amphora into the workroom. Duiker studied the seal then looked at Spindle, arching one grey brow. Spindle reached outward to feel for any Warren-anchored wardings or traps. He sensed nothing and shrugged. ‘What’s the seal?’ he asked.

‘Looks like the High Alchemist’s own. As far as I can deduce.’

‘Should we open it?’

The historian sat back in his chair, rested his chin in one hand. ‘Well, that is a question. We’re inside the inner sanctum of a powerful alchemist. We find an amphora specifically hidden away and sealed and so naturally we open it. Sounds like an epitaph to me.’

Spindle nodded, pursing his lips. ‘I see what you mean. Let’s go get the pet.’

They lured it in with the stone chips. Spindle held one out, beckoning, backing up until they had it in the room. Duiker closed the door on it. It looked unhappy but Spindle held the chip over its head and let it have it.

Then he held out another of their rapidly dwindling supply and pointed to the amphora. ‘Should we open that?’ The little demon wouldn’t take its beady blood-red eyes off the chip. It hissed and tried to jump. Its pot belly wobbled. ‘What will happen if we open that?’ Spindle tried again, pointing. It held up its skinny arms, clawing the air. Spindle sighed.

‘Put the chip on the jar,’ Duiker suggested.

Spindle did so, resting the piece of Alabaster on the wax. The little demon watched with narrowed eyes. It waddled over to the amphora and with scratching claws and feet tried its best to climb it. Spindle had to stop the thing from toppling over.

Duiker came up and shooed the demon off. It snatched up the stone chip and scrambled off, claws scritching. ‘I guess we have our answer,’ Spindle said.

‘Unless the wretch has no idea what’s in there — which is more than likely.’

‘Ah. Well. What’ll we do?’

Duiker rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. ‘I guess we have no choice. We open it.’

Using the tools and supplies available in the alchemist’s workroom Spindle set up a rig. First he selected the sharpest steel tool he could find to scour a ring all the way round the neck of the amphora. Then he adjusted the height of a table so that it matched the height of the scoured line and secured the amphora to the edge. He cleared the table of everything and poured a decanter of oil all over it. Earlier he’d spotted a long iron bar and this he laid down on the tabletop so that one end touched the neck of the amphora while the other extended out over the opposite edge. Then he stood on a chair to drive a pin into the ceiling over the table. Using rope, he hung the biggest lead weight he could find from the pin. Carefully, he measured the length so that the weight — in the form of an elephant, appropriately enough — just touched the far end of the bar.

All this extraordinary effort Duiker watched, bemused, arms crossed. Finally he waved a hand. ‘Why all this?’

‘Don’t want to be in the room when it opens, do we?’

‘Well, no. I suppose not. But there has to be an easier way …’

Spindle paused in the act of tying off the weight so that he could pull another cord and release it to swing free, striking the end of the bar as it swung. He glared his annoyance. ‘You tellin’ me my trade?’

Duiker raised his hands. ‘No, no. It just seems rather … intricate.’

‘It’ll work, I’m pretty sure. The point is, I can pull the cord from the door and we’ll be outside when it happens.’

Duiker decided that perhaps it would be best if he said nothing more. Spindle waved him from the room, played out the cord until he stood outside with the door open a slit, then gave Duiker the high sign. He shouted, ‘Munitions!’ pulled the cord and slammed the door, throwing himself down on the hall floor next to Duiker.

The sound of the weight hitting the iron bar, a crash, and the metallic ringing of the bar hitting the stone floor reached them almost simultaneously. Spindle raised a hand for a pause, waited, then carefully climbed to his feet. He edged to the door, drew a breath, and glanced back to Duiker. The historian waved him on. Shrugging, he swung open the door. They both peered in. The top of the amphora was no longer visible above the table.

Spindle cuffed Duiker’s shoulder. ‘Ha! Knew it would work. What did I say?’

Indeed, the neck had snapped right off. Duiker was rather impressed; he hadn’t thought the weight would strike the bar. Spindle held a hand over the open amphora neck then sniffed his palm. He wrinkled his nose: ‘Sour. Acidic.’ Duiker went to find a clean pot.

Spindle edged over the amphora while Duiker held the container ready. Clear liquid poured out, smelling strongly acidic. Duiker set the pot down on the table then held one chip over it. ‘Ready?’ he said. Spindle nodded. Duiker dropped it and jumped backwards.

The reaction was, even by saboteur standards, impressive.

Spindle was leaning out of the open window; the stink in the room was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. ‘What now?’ he asked Duiker, who was pacing. ‘Can’t lug that through the streets. Might get stopped by the Wardens, or the masked boys.’

Duiker stood still. He tapped his thumb to his lips as he thought. ‘Might have an answer there. Any more chips?’

‘One or two.’

‘Get our friend.’

Spindle went to the hall and tapped a chip to a wall, calling, ‘Here, boy!’ He whistled and tsked. A crimson head poked round a corner, one red eye cocked.

Duiker knelt, hands on knees, to address the demon. ‘Tell me, friend. Does your master have a wine cellar?’

As the afternoon waned Spindle and Duiker walked through the city streets burdened by wooden crates of wine bottles. It was slow going. Duiker was an old man who’d been through a lot. This was more physical activity than he’d had in over a year. Spindle was patient; he knew what the man had experienced. Frankly it was a miracle the fellow was still able to function. In fact, Duiker might not be aware of it, but Spindle admired him no end. It seemed to him that they just didn’t make them that tough any more. And while the message that had sent them on this errand might have been delivered to him, Spindle was of the opinion that it had really been meant for the Imperial Historian. He was the one who possessed the knowledge that had gotten them this far.

But it was his show from this point onward.

As the afternoon edged into a warm humid evening they reached the alley at the back of K’rul’s bar. They stacked the crates in the kitchen and then, completely drained, staggered upstairs to rest.

The Great Hall of Darujhistan glittered with the silken finery of the city’s female aristocracy vying to display the most intricate and, to Lady Envy’s eyes, most cumbersome and uncomfortable dresses. Jewellery was heaped upon jewellery in a — really, quite vulgar — draping of necklaces, brooches, tiaras, bracelets and jewelled sashes.

It was all rather sadly disappointing. Not at all what she’d hoped it would be.

No one here appeared sophisticated enough to appreciate the fine subtleties she brought to the court in her exquisitely understated dress and cut of hair. It was dispiriting. Even here parochialism reigned. These young beauties of the noble families: what did they know of true elegance and natural grace? Nothing at all! Empty-headed adornments, they!

She’d tried engaging the Legate in conversation. ‘Legate’ indeed! How amusing. But only the sweaty little fellow would answer. It was almost embarrassing.

Then that young upstart approached her. Here! In front of everyone! Mortifying!

‘You are Lady Envy,’ she said, and she curtsied in her floating dancing scarves prettily enough.

‘And you are Vorcan’s daughter.’

‘I am.’

‘You … dance, I take it?’

A smile, revealing small sharp teeth. ‘And much more.’

‘I’m sure …’

‘Had you met my mother?’

‘No. But I was a great admirer of hers.’

‘Oh? How so?’

‘She knew her place.’

The smile disappeared into a straight colourless slit pulled back over teeth. ‘Careful. This court tolerates you now but that may change.’

‘I’d rather thought it was the other way round, myself.’

A confused clenching of the eyes as the girl tried to work out Envy’s meaning.

Oh, please! Mother Dark deliver me … Envy simply walked away.

Bored. I am bored. So utterly bored!

West of the Maiten River Ambassador Aragan called a halt to any further advance and ordered K’ess to dig a defensive line against any possible attack. Darujhistan’s sapphire glow was just visible yet strangely dim, muted, and Aragan wondered if perhaps smoke obscured it. Here they would wait while their temporary allies, the Moranth, proceeded with their plans.

Negotiations had been nerve-racking to say the least. The Moranth wanted to end things with a finality that was terrifying; and Aragan was hard pressed to blame them. His heart also went out to this Councillor Nom. The poor fellow, having to stand by while the fate of his city was debated by outsiders.

After much back and forth, with Mallick himself speaking through the Sceptre, an accord was reached, backed up by Malazan assurances. This was as far as they would go while the Moranth launched the fought-for compromise. But if this first gambit failed, the Moranth were firm, they would unleash a full assault. Then would come the firestorm. A city consumed. Y’Ghatan all over again.

Aragan prayed to all the Elder Gods it would not come to that. And he pondered yet again on the question that so tormented him: what would he do? If the fires should start — what would he do? Order the troops in to help the citizenry escape, thus endangering them? Or merely stand by and watch while countless thousands were consumed in flames? How could he live with himself then? How could any of them?

Just inland from Lake Azur, in his tent next to the barrow of the Son of Darkness, Caladan Brood, the Warlord, pushed aside the cloth flap of his tent to face the darkening evening. He frowned, revealing even more of his prominent canines, and sniffed the air. His glance went to the west, then over to the city, and a low growl sounded deep within his throat.

He ducked back within to put on his leathers and strap on his hammer.

Can’t let what I think’s in the air happen. No. Enough is enough. Not after all we’ve fought for. Have to put an end to it before it all gets out of hand. And frankly, better if I take the blame than anyone else.

South of the city, heading up what was named Cutter Lake Road, Yusek gaped at every building they passed. Two storeys! Almost every building has two storeys! It’s incredible. Already they’d passed more shops and inns and stables than she’d ever imagined — and they’d not even reached the city walls!

The Seventh led though his pace was glacially slow, almost reluctant. A permanent grimace of pain seemed fixed on his face. He’d muttered that no one seemed to be about.

Yet she’d seen more people than she’d ever seen since her refugee days. And these people certainly weren’t ragged drifters. Many were finely dressed. Some were even plump. Imagine, having so much to eat that you could get fat! Now that’s damned rich. She’d be that rich one day. She could taste the duck fat already. Soon it’d be her who was fat!

Then abruptly the Seventh raised a hand for a halt. He regarded the darkening sky, the glow Yusek knew was the fabled gas lighting of Darujhistan. That glow struck her as far less than the green blaze of the Scimitar above and she thought it probably overrated. Damned typical! The Seventh turned to Sall and Lo. ‘You Seguleh have stirred up a hornets’ nest and now they’re come to bite everyone. I don’t know what I can do.’

‘Will you challenge?’ Sall asked.

The man flinched, anguished. ‘No! It’s not my place … yet something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.’

‘But … you will help, yes?’ Sall asked. It was the closest the youth had come to a plea that Yusek had heard.

The Seventh’s mouth worked with suppressed emotion as he looked away. Finally, he ground out: ‘My record isn’t that encouraging.’ But he did start walking once more, his head lowered.

Spindle was dead asleep when he heard his ma’s voice calling him down in its old familiar cadence: Get your lazy arse out of bed! He fell to the floor, arms and legs flailing in panic. Then he froze dead still. Something had woken him. Something that raised the hair on his head and on his shirt. A sound.

The sound of bottles clanking together.

He flew to the door, rebounded from the jamb, then threw it open and tumbled out into the hall to pound to the common room, yelling: ‘It’s poison! Don’t drink it!’

Blend spat out a great mouthful of drink over the bar and down her front. ‘Gaah! What? Poisoned?’

Spindle hurried over to yank the bottle from her hand and sniff it.

‘Fisher just brought it!’ she complained, wiping her shirt. ‘Kanese red.’

Spindle nodded to the bard, then examined the bottle. ‘Red? Really? Sorry.’ He handed back the bottle. ‘Sorry.’

Blend gave him the withering glare she reserved for hopeless idiots. The one he always got. He gestured to the kitchens. ‘Thought you was using those other bottles, from the back. They’re not wine.’

‘So they’re wine bottles without wine in them.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Paid extra for that, did you?’

‘No! I mean, shut the Abyss up.’ He faced Fisher and poured himself a glass of red. ‘So, what’s the news?’

The bard nodded. He was a tall man, rangy, yet from what Spindle had seen surprisingly strong. Even leaning on a high stool he was still taller than Spindle. Something in the mage resented that. ‘I was just telling Blend,’ the bard said. ‘Whispers from the court. The Seguleh have been defeated out west. The Moranth. And maybe … the Malazans.’

Spindle and Blend shared a look. Damned right. She raised her glass and they drank.

‘Word is they may be expecting an attack.’

Blend waved a hand. ‘Ridiculous. No one has an army big enough to enter Darujhistan, let alone pacify it.’

Fisher lifted his shoulders, conceding he point. ‘That we know of … In any case, the Seguleh have withdrawn to Majesty Hill. Looks like they don’t plan on contesting the city.’

‘Why should they when the mob will do it for them? No, Aragan doesn’t have nearly enough troops. And if the Moranth enter, the entire city will rise against them. Always been bad blood here between them, so I heard.’

Fisher held up his hands. ‘Just reporting what I heard.’ He lifted his glass to Blend. ‘So, what do you think’s happening, then?’

The big woman — big now that she was putting on weight — swirled the wine in her glass, peering down at it. Her hair held more than a touch of grey amid the brown curls and dark circles bruised her eyes. We’re none of us gettin’ enough sleep these days, Spindle reflected. Watchin’ the streets. Too many days waitin’ on edge. Waitin’ for the hammer to fall. Like being back on campaign, it is. Only we’re damned older.

‘So they got their noses bloodied,’ she said, speculating. ‘Now they’ll just sit tight an’ consolidate here in the city. Firm up their grip an’ wait …’ She cocked her head, eyeing Fisher. ‘How many Seguleh do you think there are on that isle of theirs anyway?’

‘Well, there must be several … thousand … No. You don’t think so, do you?’

She shrugged at the uncertainty of it. ‘Why not? These boys and girls we’re looking at here could just be the tip of the spear. A whole army of them could be on the way. A whole people.’

Spindle felt sick to his stomach. Togg deliver them! An entire army of these people? That was too much to imagine. ‘I need to eat somethin’. I feel faint.’ He took his glass to the kitchen.

In a dark empty shop, its floor littered with broken wares and shattered furniture, stood a hulking stone statue inlaid with a mosaic of jade, lapis lazuli and serpentine chips. Its stone gleamed slick with oils and it was slathered in caked powders. The ash of a forest of burnt rare wood sticks lay about its feet, all now long cold. Mice scampering between its wide stone feet suddenly stilled. The bats that perched in the rafters above its head ceased their bickering. They tilted their big pointed ears, listening to the stillness.

Beneath them a grinding noise broke the silence as the statue grated its head to the left, and then ponderously to the right. At its sides further scraping of stone sounded as its fists opened and closed. In agonizing slow motion it leaned forward to grind one carved stone boot out before it across the littered floor. It paused there for a time as if testing its balance. Then it took another step.