Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XX

The wooden staircase left Torvald at the rear of the rambling buildings. Paths nearby led through a slim belt of woods and courts that encircled the top of Majesty Hill. He half walked, half dragged the wounded Galene through the park-like strip. It looked as though she’d twisted or broken her leg in the crash. The blasts and echoing reverberations shook him rarely now; through the trees he glimpsed quorls diving in to deposit their riders. He knew that somewhere Seguleh were waiting and he dreaded what would happen should he run into any now. But then, neither of them had weapons drawn so he imagined at worst they’d only be captured.

His fears played out when they rounded a curve and he saw two Seguleh standing where major paths crossed. He stopped abruptly, his shoulders falling. One calmly waved him forward. Galene fumbled for her longsword but he pushed her hand aside. ‘No point,’ he murmured.

‘I have one munition,’ she whispered, reaching to her opposite side.

‘No!’ They’d just kill us. ‘It’s too late.’

‘I won’t allow myself-’

The Seguleh spun aside raising their weapons as heavy armoured feet came pounding up another path. A column of Black Moranth charged: the first two held their wide shields up and threw something from behind. Galene yanked Torvald down.

He fell; she yelped her pain as she bent her wounded leg.

Multiple blasts buffeted him and gravel came pattering down all around. When he raised his head he glimpsed the Moranth finishing off the stunned and lacerated Seguleh. Even then there was a ferocious exchange of blows and half the Moranth were wounded.

Hands raised him and Galene. ‘We saw you go down,’ one Black said to her, ‘and came for you.’ They took her from Torvald, one to each side.

‘Take me to the main entrance,’ she ordered, her voice tight with suppressed pain.

The party formed up around Torvald and Galene and they headed to the front of the rambling complex. In the distance the staccato blasts of sharpers came and went in great volleys that shook the night. They had not gone far when they caught a glimpse through the trees of the main approach, and Galene groaned at what was revealed.

The walkways and flagged open courts and benches had been turned into one huge killing zone littered with Moranth fallen. As they landed they had formed squares or circles of interlocking shields, yet despite barrages of sharpers and crossbow volleys Seguleh had won through to slice their way into the formations, wreaking terrible destruction before being cut down from all sides.

And to one side further defences awaited in the form of a tall mage, watching, staff at his side, seemingly content to let the fighting proceed in its own course — for the time being.

Galene straightened. ‘We cannot win through,’ Torvald heard her murmur. ‘Yet he cannot be allowed to succeed. Cannot.’ From a pouch at her side she drew a tube, about the size of a baton, enamelled a deep red. She turned her helmed head to him. ‘I’m sorry, Councillor.’

Torvald eyed the tube, uncertain at first, then horror raised the hair on his arms and neck and he lunged for her. ‘No!’ A Black restrained him. ‘Don’t call it! Please don’t summon them. Wait! Just wait. That is all I ask!’

‘Very well, Councillor. For you, a moment.’

It looked to Spindle as though they were getting close; damned close. The depth looked right from what he remembered of the trench. So far they’d been ignored, as the Seguleh had much more immediate worries. Wave after wave of Moranth had landed, formed up, and made for the entrances to Majesty Hall, where they were met by the Seguleh. So far, from what glimpses he could snatch, despite their munitions it looked as if the Moranth were coming off far the worse. That meant that for him and Fisher time was running out.

He straightened once more to toss a shovelful of dirt only to see a pair of sandalled feet on either side of the pit. He looked up: the feet belonged to two Seguleh who were peering down at them, swords pointed.

‘Do not move,’ one commanded.

Spindle glanced to Fisher who slowly straightened, shovel in hand.

‘Explain this,’ the Seguleh demanded.

Spindle opened his mouth to answer then gaped, shocked, and threw himself flat yelling: ‘Down!’

Fisher fell immediately. The Seguleh only had time to turn before multiple eruptions blasted about the pit, sending earth flying. Spindle held his hands over his head as stones and clots of soil struck him. Fisher recovered first; he straightened, shaking his hair and brushing dirt from himself.

‘What was that?’ he demanded, speaking overly loud as everyone does after enduring blasts.

‘Just a hit and run,’ Spindle said, picking up his shovel. ‘C’mon. We’re almost there.’

But attention had been drawn; only one of the Seguleh had been taken down. The other had limped off, and now more were on their way. Spindle had barely scooped up the freshly fallen soil when another two came jumping through the low brush to glare down at them.

‘Out,’ one ordered.

Spindle dropped his shovel and raised his hands. Fisher followed suit.

‘Out!’

‘Okay, okay!’ Spindle reached up to the side.

A great war whoop erupted from the woods, freezing him; it sounded like a cross between a Barghast war bellow and a death scream. Even the Seguleh flinched. Then a huge multicoloured shape jumped the pit, two swords flashing, followed by another equally bizarre-looking fellow also wielding two swords. Even more astoundingly, they drove off the Seguleh in a dazzling coordinated attack of continuous multiple strikes.

Spindle stared open-mouthed at the astonishing apparition.

‘Ha ha!’ the huge one announced, waving his blades. ‘That is how you do it!’ He peered down at Spindle and Fisher. ‘Well? Go ahead, you two — dig away!’ He motioned across the pit and Spindle turned to see a third man standing there.

‘Ah, yes,’ the newcomer said, his voice nowhere near as loud as the huge one’s. ‘Dig.’

Half stunned, Spindle retrieved his shovel to set to it once more. Fisher, he saw, was shaking his head in disbelief as he worked. ‘You know them?’ Spindle asked.

‘It’s Madrun and Lazan Door is who it is.’

Spindle tossed a shovelful of dirt. ‘I thought those were just stories,’ he hissed.

‘No — they’re flesh and blood. As for what’s attributed to them, well … some of that is my fault.’

At the main entrance Jan watched while more and more of the Moranth gathered. Their strategy was simple but effective. They formed into tight squares of shield-walls from behind which the rear ranks threw their munitions. And those munitions: like the punishing heavier ones used earlier, these too demonstrated a far greater killing capacity than those written of in their records.

It was to be expected, he allowed. Time had passed. The Moranth had gone their way just as the Seguleh had gone theirs.

So far they had held them off. But the cost had been horrific. Any one fallen brother or sister was too much for Jan to imagine. Yet now, before his disbelieving eyes, ten, twenty, lacerated and maimed by the salvos of munitions. Each bloody cut was a slash across his heart. Each fallen, a name and a face well known: Toru, Sengal, Leah, Arras, Rhuk.

I am responsible for this. On my head lie their severed futures. Their lost potential. How many possible Seconds cut down before they could display their mastery?

How can I possibly atone for this? What act could even begin to repair the damage wrought?

All this he watched and his heart bled.

A runner arrived. She bowed her head, begging to speak, and Jan signed his permission. ‘They have broken through in the eastern wing, Second. We were few there.’

‘I see.’ He nodded to Palla. ‘Watch here. I will go.’

‘Take at least five,’ Palla urged.

‘No. You must defend these doors. Only I need go.’

‘But, Second …’

‘No. It is for me to answer this.’ He set off before Palla could speak again. The runner followed.

Jan found the doors blasted open and another fallen: Por, the Thirteenth. Yet the price the Moranth paid to achieve this breach had been high. Their slain far exceeded the few defenders. He drew his blade and stole ahead as silently as he could. With each step he loosed the fisted hold he kept upon everything driven down within his blazing chest: his self-condemnation, his self-disgust, his rage, and above all the lacerating sorrow that threatened to suffocate him. Until at last he carried no awareness at all into the rear of the ranks before him.

Horul, of the Hundredth, quickly fell behind within the maze of rooms. The Second more than ran; he charged unchecked by numbers. He did not slow no matter how many faced him; driving, spinning, slashing until only the bellows and howls of wounded Moranth led her on. And at every turn, every room, the fallen. Each bearing only a single mortal wound either to neck or to artery or to nearly severed limb. They did not know what was coming, so swift was his advance. No chance to throw their munitions or form a defence. It seemed to her he passed through them like a breeze, utterly silent but for the hiss of his two-handed blade.

She found him standing motionless deep within the east wing; listening, perhaps. She carefully stepped over the carpet of fallen choking the room: some sort of last stand. Gore limned his sleeves and legs. Bright droplets spattered his once pure mask, like seeds on snow. He seemed completely unaware of her before him.

‘Second,’ she breathed, almost reverent. ‘Second. Never had I ever imagined …’

Awareness suddenly flooded his gaze, but not before she glimpsed something naked and utterly unguarded that drove her eyes away. Horror. Horror and soul-lashing pain.

‘I … live,’ he uttered, wonder in his voice.

‘Yes. You live.’

‘Not … today, then.’

‘No. Not today.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’ He eased a hand from his side, releasing at the same time a hiss of suppressed pain. Horul glimpsed the wound from a penetrating thrust. His despairing smile made her turn her mask away again.

‘Second!’

‘Bind it, Horul,’ he managed through clenched lips. ‘Bind it tight.’

Now that the last of the crowd of councillors, aristocrats and court functionaries had all long since fled, the Great Hall was quiet. Scorch and Leff stood watch leaning up against the rear of one of the fat columns that ran along a wall. All was hushed now; the pounding had faded away. Only the laboured breathing and occasional muted sobs of that miserable Mouthpiece broke the silence of the hall. But listening, his head cocked, Leff could make out the distant clash of fighting.

Scorch turned to him, even more anxious and confused than usual. Then he sent a meaningful glance to a nearby exit. Leff shook his head. Scorch glared, demanding an explanation.

His voice as low as possible, Leff whispered: ‘You don’t really think anyone’s gonna get through all them Seguleh, do ya?’

Scorch’s expressive brows rose and he gave a great show of the light dawning. He winked. ‘Right. What now?’

Leff hefted his crossbow. ‘Well, now we gotta guard, don’t we? Up to us. Last line o’ defence and such.’

Scorch nodded towards the centre of the hall. ‘Maybe we should, y’ know, take a look …?’

‘Right. You go ahead.’

‘Me?’ Scorch ducked his head. He whispered sotto voce: ‘Why me? You go — you’re senior ’n’ all.’

‘No, I ain’t. Equals we are. Same rank.’ He urged Scorch out. ‘G’wan.’

Cursing under his breath, Scorch edged around the column. He stepped out, leaning to peer at the throne. ‘Still there,’ he whispered. ‘Hasn’t moved a muscle.’

‘Fine. Good. All’s …’ Leff’s voice faded away as he peered closely at Scorch. ‘Wait a minute. What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

In the doorway, Palla ducked flying stone chips from an errant throw. She waved aside the obscuring smoke to study the blasted grounds dotted with fallen, and the Moranth squares pushing for the walls. Then she scanned the night sky, now empty of quorls.

‘I believe that is all of them,’ she called to Shun, the Eighteenth.

‘How many?’

‘I cannot be certain. Perhaps a thousand.’

‘Then we have won. These last few we will finish off.’

‘Still, they have taken too many with them.’

‘It was their gamble. They-’

A dull brown blade smeared in gore erupted from the Eighteenth’s chest and was withdrawn almost before Palla had registered that it was there. She leapt backwards an instant before it slashed again, striking shards of stone from where she had just been standing. As Shun fell a walking horror was revealed behind him in the doorway: carious face of dried sinew and skull brown with age, broken remnants of hide and bone armour, limbs of bare bone strung with ligaments and creaking flesh, legs oddly mismatched.

Ancestors give me strength! Imass!

‘Attend!’ Palla shouted, backing away as she parried sweep after sweep of the wide flint sword.

Three others of the Hundredth charged. Blows rocked the Imass in a flurry of bone chips, sliced rotten hide and bits of cured flesh, and still it came on. A downward sweep taken full on the edge of one Seguleh’s sword shattered the blade and knocked the bearer to crash against a wall and slump unconscious.

Still Palla yielded ground one hard-fought step at a time. Each overbearing attack she slipped as obliquely as she dared, feeling her blade shudder and flex on the cusp of failing in her hands. Another of the Hundredth lunged close as the creature appeared to waver, but the Imass snatched the youth’s arm and propelled him into a pillar to smack wetly and fall.

‘It’s not you I want,’ it ground out. ‘Stand aside.’

The third Hundredth took the opportunity to leap, swinging a great blow to the creature’s neck. The blade chopped but caught. The half fleshless skull atop canted but did not topple. Palla halted her own lunge as the Imass seized the lad under the chin and lifted him from the floor while it knocked the blade from its neck.

How can I save the poor lad? What could I possibly …

Inspiration came. Palla offered the long deep bow of the ancient form, hands out from her sides. Then she struck the most traditional of the ready stances.

‘Your challenge is accepted.’

The Imass stilled. A second later it tossed the lad through an open doorway, where he landed amid furniture. ‘What is your rank?’

‘Sixth.’

‘Sixth? I met the First. Long ages ago. Then I wouldn’t have dared face any of the champions. Let us see how things proceed — now that I have had ample time to practise.’ It grasped the naked flint tang of its sword in both bone and sinew hands, and advanced.

The whirling storms that scattered Ebbin’s consciousness to the furthest corners of his mind had receded. And all his memories came crashing in at once, bringing with them the horrifying awareness of all that had happened, caused by him. The one small stone he dislodged and the avalanche it precipitated. And so he wept. Arms wrapped around his head, he sobbed, abject.

You see, the voice whispered within his mind, the favour I do you? Ignorance is a blessing.

Stung, Ebbin moved to scuttle off on all fours.

In his mind a hand clutched his neck. The monstrosity straddled him, gold mask turned to study the roiling clouds. ‘Let me go!’ Ebbin pleaded. ‘You’re finished!’

‘Nay. I have won. The Moranth are defeated. They cannot touch me.’

‘Your attack failed!’

‘True,’ the creature allowed. ‘That was … impetuous. But live and learn, yes, scholar? I will bide my time.’

‘No — you are lost. You’re revealed for what you are.’

‘And what is that, dear scholar?’

‘A monster nightmare of our childhood.’

The hand released his neck. The Tyrant stepped away from him. Mocking laughter rose from behind the graven gold oval. The embossed lips seemed to drip it. ‘Oh, scholar. If you only knew.’ The mask snapped away. ‘Enemies gather … but not the one I was expecting. Of course, the same may be said for me. We will continue this discussion later, scholar.’

The figure swirled away, but Ebbin’s awareness remained. He groaned and held his head once more.

‘There. That thing. In your crossbow.’

Scorch lifted the weapon to take a look. ‘What? Nothing.’

‘No — the …’ Exasperated, Leff stepped out to tap the stock. ‘Look at that bolt. Where’d you get that?’

Scorch stared. His mouth opened in amazement. ‘Would you look at that!’

Leff cuffed him. ‘Keep it down,’ he hissed, fierce. ‘Where’d you get it? You holding out on me?’

‘I ain’t never seen it afore in all my life! I promise.’

‘You stole it, didn’t ya?’

‘What? Never.’

‘Well — we need to give it back. Got our position to think about. Can’t be wavin’ stolen goods about.’

Unnoticed, the Legate stood to step down from his throne. He stopped before it, hands clasped behind his back.

Leff grabbed the stock. ‘Look at that thing. All engraved. Wax on the head, too — real fancy, that. Gotta give it back.’

‘No — let go. Don’t …’ Scorch knocked one of Leff’s hands aside. Leff tried twisting the weapon from his partner’s grip.

‘Just cooperate! Let me …’

‘Watch it!’ Scorch hissed. ‘Don’t …’

The crossbow fired, jerking in their four hands.

The bolt slammed into the Legate, who spun round with the force of the impact.

Four eyes swivelled to see the Legate straightening. He touched at the feathered end of the bolt where it stood from his ribs. The mask turned their way. A hand stretched out to them.

Scorch and Leff looked at one another, eyes hugely wide at the enormity of the accident. And at the magnitude of their immediate danger.

‘Fire!’ they yelled in unison and Leff levelled his crossbow, noticing in passing that an identical bolt sat snugly in the channel of his stock. He aimed and fired while Scorch slipped a foot through the stirrup of his weapon and yanked ferociously.

Leff’s bolt threw the Legate back another step. His knees appeared to weaken briefly as he staggered. Yet he came on. Smoke streamed from the two wounds.

‘Fire!’ Leff bawled again and Scorch levelled his weapon. The third bolt struck true, thumping the Legate backwards a good few weaving steps.

Leff reached into the sack at his side and was briefly surprised to see that every single one of the bolts he possessed had intricately engraved blackened shafts and gleaming iron heads encased in wax. None of this stopped him from frantically reloading.

‘He’s still comin’ for us!’ Scorch yelled, nearly bursting into tears.

‘Fire ’em all!’ Leff howled.

Lady Envy left a second-storey terrace overlooking the front battle-grounds. Tapping her fingertips together she crossed the abandoned darkened office. So, an Imass. Never cared for them. Smelly unkempt things always leaving bits of themselves lying about. She cocked her head, thinking. Been ages since I destroyed one of them.

She remembered impertinences recently suffered from one Imass in particular and her mouth hardened. Yes … too long by far.

She headed for the stairs.

Yet something whispered from the dark drew her to a pause. A presence. Someone’s there. In the shadows. ‘Who is it?’

‘Envy.’

The barest whisper from the night.

She raised her defences. Her Warren crackled, sending papers flying and bursting into flame around her. ‘Who’s there! I demand that you show yourself!’

‘Still afraid of the dark, Envy?’

That voice! So familiar. Who? ‘Who are you?’ she called, tentative now, a hand at her throat.

‘With reason!’

A flash of munitions lit the room, and in a freeze-frame instant revealed a tall man all in black. Face, eyes and hair all black. Envy backed away, her hand at her mouth, and gasped, choking and stammering, ‘Father …!’

And she fainted dead away.

One of the Moranth guarding Galene gestured, pointing through the woods, and Torvald joined in squinting at the nearest building corner. There one of the mages had been standing — the hunched, oddly proportioned one — and now while they watched he was down on all fours attempting to get up, clutching at his chest.

‘There! Look there!’ Torvald hissed. He almost reached out for the Moranth Silver. ‘Something’s happening.’

The red tube still in her gauntleted fist, Galene shifted her attention.

The mage managed to straighten but fell backwards against the wall. Panting, in obvious agony, he hugged his chest as if he would burst. Then he disappeared.

‘There!’ Torvald exclaimed. ‘See that! We’ve won!’

‘Contain yourself, Councillor,’ Galene said. She gestured to one of her guards. ‘Check in with the wing commanders. What’s going on?’

The Black trooper ran off through the woods.

Up hall after hall they duelled. The heavy flint sword was a blur in the hands of the tireless Imass. Palla retreated step by step, yielding, slipping all blows, leaving countless gashes across the fleshless ribs and skull and hacking apart rotting furs. She struck for the joints, hoping to sever ligaments and cripple the creature, not knowing if it was even possible.

But she was tiring. Her reactions were slowing. The weakness of complete exhaustion now stood between what she wanted to do and what she could. She knew she would fall; it was merely a question of when and how.

It came unseen in the form of a closing feint from the creature, a stunning elbow to her temple and a choking grip on her neck. Blinking, Palla found herself staring into two empty eye sockets where only a low glow simmered, like distant campfires.

‘You would have beaten me, Sixth,’ the Imass growled, slamming her into a stone door and releasing her to fall, ‘had I been alive.’

The Imass walked on.

Rallick watched from a window high up in the Great Hall while the two guards hammered bolt after bolt into the Legate. Then he watched them throw down their crossbows and run. Amazingly, the creature still stood. It must have fifteen bolts in it yet it remained upright. It leaned now, bracing itself with one arm, against a pillar.

Rallick had raised the coiled fine silk rope ready to toss it down, when out of the shadows came that shuffling servant, the Mouthpiece, and he knelt flat once more. The fellow came edging out the way a mouse might circle a crippled cat.

‘You are done!’ the Mouthpiece yelled, a fist raised. Then he flinched. ‘How can you say that? It is over! It is!’ The fellow was frantic with emotion, weeping uncontrollably. He backed away. ‘Flee? Me? Go? Why? Why would they kill me? I have done nothing! Nothing!’

Then he jumped as if seeing something terrifying. His hands flew to his throat and chest. ‘No!’ he breathed, appalled. ‘No — they wouldn’t. They mustn’t! Dear Soliel succour me … no!’

He fled from the chamber.

After a moment the Legate straightened from the pillar. The mask lowered as he seemed to inspect the many crossbow bolts studding his torso and the thin wisps of smoke arising from each wound. What could only be described as a muted chuckle shook him. The creature gestured to himself as if to say: yet here I am! And he laughed on and on behind the gold mask.

Rallick eased away from the open window ledge and pulled himself up to the roof again. Crouching, he brushed the tips of his fingers over his lips for a time, eyes narrowed, and came to a decision. He stuffed the coil of rope down his shirt and padded off along the roof, heading for the maze of mismatched gables and slopes of the complex.

Down in the Great Hall the main doors opened. The Legate turned to face them then rocked backwards, obviously shocked. An Imass strode within. The Legate backed away, hands raised. The Imass closed with astonishing speed on its oddly shaped legs, clasped hold of the Legate and raised its flint sword.

‘Now I take your head, Jaghut,’ it growled.

Then it stilled, hands falling. What dried muscle and flesh remained on its ravaged visage twisted as it frowned its uncertainty. It lowered its fleshless face to the gold mask as if inspecting the workmanship. A low rumble shook the sinews and bones of its torso. Its jaws shifted in something like disgust. ‘Faugh! Human!’ It threw down the Legate in a snapping of crossbow bolts and stalked from the chamber.

At the doors it met Palla, staggering towards the throne room, but it passed on, ignoring her, and Palla paid it no attention as its broad flint weapon was now tucked into the twisted hair rope it wore as a belt. She took in the crossbow-bolt-studded form of the Legate lying supine on the floor, and fled.

After a time the Legate managed to roll on to his side and lever himself upright. All in the snapping of more of the bolts. He staggered for the doors, one heavy step at a time. All the while his crossbow-bolt-lanced chest convulsed in what may have been silent laughter.

The doors to the Great Hall slammed shut. The Legate pulled up short. He turned in a slow weaving and shuffling circle to scan the chamber.

Kruppe stepped out from behind the nearest pillar. He slicked back his oiled hair and adjusted his frilled shirt cuffs and crimson waistcoat. Then he made a great show of waving a handkerchief in a rather too elaborate courtier’s bow. ‘Never did Kruppe imagine he would be called to court!’

The Legate lunged for him.

Kruppe twisted and narrowly avoided one grasping hand. ‘Come, then, Legate. Let us dance again!’ Another catching hand swung, missing a sleeve by a breath. Kruppe dodged aside. ‘Nearly!’ he encouraged. ‘Come. This way.’ He waved the handkerchief. ‘It strikes Kruppe that the problem with masks is one of seeing clearly.’

The Legate snapped out a clawed hand; cloth tore as Kruppe backed away. ‘Oh my!’

‘Pay-dirt!’ Spindle announced, sitting back from where he’d cleared a patch of dirt from the bottom of the pit. Fisher crouched down. It was a mud-smeared flat white surface. Together they cleared as wide a space as possible.

‘Hurry, my friends,’ called one of their protectors from above. Spindle glanced up to see the man’s gold and silver teeth bright against his face in a gleaming smile. ‘We are attracting too much attention.’

‘What? You? Attract attention?’

But the man was gone and the rapid clash of swordplay sounded from all sides of the pit. Spindle caught Fisher’s eye and nodded to the bottles.

Together they uncorked two and upended them. Neither was prepared for the reaction that instantly engulfed them.

Palla met Jan at the main entrance. She groaned inwardly at his blood-spattered condition. Upon catching sight of her he demanded: ‘What has happened? Where is this Imass?’

Palla waved her battered state aside. ‘It is gone. It killed the Legate.’

‘What? He is dead?’

‘Or near it.’

‘Why would it …’ The Second turned away to the grounds; Palla thought he moved awkwardly, as if stiff. ‘Recall everyone. Retreat to the inner halls.’

Palla bowed. ‘As you order.’ She ran for the open doors.

Jan turned a puzzled glance up the wide entrance foyer, and headed for the Great Hall.

Great roiling choking clouds drove the Seguleh from the pit. The smoke gnawed the tissue of the nose and seared the lungs. Coughing and gagging, Madrun, Lazan and Thurule backed away.

‘They have been consumed!’ Madrun announced, hand on chest.

A shadow moved within the clouds and figures emerged: the taller of the two dragging the shorter. The three quickly rushed in to aid the man, who went to his knees hacking and gasping. The smaller of the two, the Malazan, sat up and made for the pit again. Lazan held him back. ‘You’ll die, man. It’s poison!’

‘The rest have to go!’ the Malazan answered. His eyes were weeping uncontrollably and a stream of blood dripped from his nose.

‘There’s nothing you can do.’

‘Oh yes, there is!’ and the fellow raised his arms to inscribe a great circle in the air. If Lazan had had one hair on his head he knew it would be prickling and he edged away. The Malazan ducked back within the dense clouds.

Madrun was thumping the other on the back. Then he raised his head to peer about. ‘Am I mad, or do you hear horses screaming?’

In the Great Hall the Legate lurched away from reaching after Kruppe to face the doors. Something like a muffled snarl of panic sounded from his throat. He made unsteadily for the exit. Halfway there he fell to his knees, swayed, then crashed face down, a last few crossbow bolts snapping, the mask clanging against the floor.

Still wary, Kruppe edged slightly forward to peer more closely.

The Legate’s limbs shifted and he fumbled at the polished stone flagging. He began dragging himself onward. Kruppe threw his arms out in vexation. Great Elemental Forces! What more must Kruppe do?

Sliding one arm ahead of the other, the Legate began to chuckle. As he crawled, the chuckle swelled into a muffled dark laughter.

Kruppe backed away. He tucked the handkerchief into a sleeve and set his hands on his hips. His dimpled cheeks pulled down in an uncertain frown.

Really now. This is quite unreasonable.

Torvald stood immobile, listening as intently as he could. He felt as if his nerves were as taut as those annoying high-pitched Seven Cities stringed instruments. He believed he could discern a lessening in the clash of battle. Did that mean one side or the other was winning? Exactly what was going on? From their vantage they could see only a small portion of the overall extent of the front. Galene still held the baton ready in one hand but he saw her stance shift as if she, too, sensed the change.

‘Something …’ he began, but she raised a hand for silence.

A Black trooper ran to them from the woods. Torvald pushed closer to hear the report.

‘The Seguleh have withdrawn to the interior,’ he announced.

Galene examined the blasted field dotted with fallen. ‘Why would they … Our numbers?’ she snapped.

‘Less than three hundred of the flight remain viable.’

‘Ancestors,’ the Silver breathed, and the baton creaked in her ferocious grip. ‘And they?’

‘Perhaps seventy.’

‘Then why … One last charge …’

‘Perhaps,’ Torvald observed, breaking in, ‘someone could go and ask.’

And Galene turned to look him up and down.

‘It is very quiet,’ Councillor D’Arle whispered from his post next to the stairs up from the lowest of the cellars. ‘Perhaps I should take a look.’

Coll rested a hand on the old man’s arm. ‘I’ll go.’ He turned back to examine all the gathered councillors, aristocrats and court bureaucrats staring from the dark. No one else volunteered. Sighing, he loosed his sword in its sheath and started up.

Halfway he stopped as he heard footsteps behind. Redda Orr came up round a corner. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No, you’re not. This isn’t some summer jaunt. Stay below!’

‘I’m trained!’ She drew her slim sword far more swiftly than he ever could.

Coll shook his head. ‘I’m sure you are, child. But this isn’t the duelling field.’

‘I could take you, old man …’

‘Perhaps.’ Coll motioned to one side. ‘What’s that?’

Redda looked. He snatched the blade from her hand. She gaped, frozen, then fury blazed in her eyes. ‘What a dirty trick!’

‘Yes, it was.’ He started up the stairs again carrying both swords. ‘The world’s full of them so you’d better get used to it.’

As he approached the top landing he lay flat to peer over the lip, his blade ready. His gaze met the sandalled feet of two Seguleh. One motioned him back down the stairs.

Damn. We’re prisoners. Goddamned prisoners.

What’s going on? Has the Legate won?

A thought struck him on the way down and he paused, swallowing. Gods! Are we expendable now?

Madrun, Lazan, Thurule and Fisher all crouched as near as was possible to the foaming roiling clouds steaming from the pit. The noisome fumes seemed to repel all the birds and bats stooping in upon them, and the dogs charging from the woods — even one mad horse that had stormed past threatening to run them down.

A dull thud sounded from nearby and Madrun observed, disbelieving, ‘Did that owl just crash into a tree?’

The mist churned and out came the Malazan, a cloth pressed to his nose and mouth. He would have fallen had Fisher not lunged to support him. He hung coughing and gagging, and waved an arm weakly to the pit. ‘That’s the lot. But it’s still there — still in one piece!’

‘What is, Malazan?’ Madrun asked.

Lazan had been squinting off into the woods and now he backed away to tap Madrun on the arm. The giant glanced over and visibly started, amazement and panic in his gaze. ‘Holy Ancestors, I cannot believe it,’ he murmured to Lazan. The two began edging away.

‘Come, Thurule,’ Lazan called. ‘We have fulfilled our mistress’s instructions — now is the time to withdraw!’

Spindle watched in stunned astonishment as the three ran off in what could only be described as a panicked flight. He even sensed his ma grow quiescent in what felt almost like respectful deference. He turned to the woods and saw something huge approaching. Clearing his throat, he spat up a mouthful of the awful fumes he’d endured and raised his Warren to its highest pitch.

Fisher, an arm under one of Spindle’s, whispered, awed, ‘Is that …’

The shape emerged from the shadows to resolve into a wide and massive figure that Spindle recognized as Caladan Brood, the Warlord. The man’s narrowed gaze was turned aside, following Madrun and Lazan Door’s hasty retreat. Bizarrely, he held a spitting cat by the scruff of the neck. His heavy gaze swung to Spindle.

‘What are those two fools doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I … I don’t know,’ said Spindle.

The Warlord held out the frenzied cat. ‘That’s quite enough, Malazan,’ he growled.

Spindle blinked. ‘Oh! Sorry.’ He lowered his Warren. Brood handed the cat to him; it ravaged his hand and arm escaping.

‘Fisher,’ Brood said. ‘What are you doing here?’

The bard shrugged. ‘You know how I feel about witnessing things.’

The Warlord grunted his understanding. ‘Careful. One day you might just buy yourself too much trouble.’ He studied the pit barely visible through the boiling fumes. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’ And he walked into the cloud of poisonous steam.

Spindle watched as best he could through the mist. Peering forward, he thought he saw the Warlord down in the pit studying the stones, tapping them. The man sat back as if thinking. Then he raised both arms up over his head, clasped his hands into a great double fist and brought it down in a tremendous blow that shook the ground beneath Spindle’s feet. Once more he raised his fists and swung them down. This time the air was split by an immense crack that felt almost like a knife jabbing Spindle’s ears.

The Warlord pulled himself up from the pit and emerged waving the fumes from his face. He paused to glance down at Spindle. ‘I warned the creature,’ he said, and walked off the way he’d come.

Spindle let out a long slow breath. Fisher echoed the sentiment with a nod. Spindle gestured to the pit. ‘Well — you know, we must’ve weakened it for him …’

‘Oh, of course …’

Jan found the double doors of the Great Hall closed, but they opened easily at his touch. Within lay the Legate, or his body. He lay on his back, hands crossed over his chest. A forest of broken bolts stood from him at all angles. The gleaming gold oval remained fixed to his face. Yet it was marred now; a crack ran from the bottom up one cheek to just below a graven eye. Jan approached. He wanted to kneel to make certain of him, but to do so would possibly reopen the wound at his side. Was the man dead? He could not be sure.

A voice whispered then, within his mind: ‘Servant …’

He flinched away. What was this?

‘Take the mask, servant.’

The mask?

‘Yes. I sense you are wounded. Accept it and you will live for ever.’

Accept it? Wear it?

‘Yes. I have been banished from this flesh — but accept the mask and together we shall live again.’

Jan retreated from the corpse. No.

‘No? No! You have no choice, servant. Do as I command!’

No. Our slavery is long over. We have found our own way. We are our own masters now. I consign you to the past. I turn my face from you. You no longer exist.

‘Slave! Come back! I order you! Obey!’

Jan walked away. Leaving the throne room he met one of the pet mages at the doors; the one who paraded as a dancing girl. She came staggering up, an arm across her stomach, agony on her panicked face. ‘What is going on?’ she gasped. ‘Where are the others? What has happened?’

‘To us he is as dead,’ Jan said, flatly, and walked on, stiffly.

‘No! Impossible!’ She lurched into the room.

Within, alone, Taya edged up to the body. ‘Master!’ She reached out, but at the last instant she yanked back her hand as if stung. She started to her feet, flinching away. ‘No …’ she murmured, wincing. ‘Please … not that. Anything but-’

A sound spun her around. Someone emerged from behind one of the pillars. He was tall, dressed all in shades of green, and his hair hung silver and black. A long snarled hiss escaped her. ‘You …’

Topper bowed. ‘As they say, all good things, et cetera. And look at you. You are a bonus. One I’ve been hoping to pluck for some time now.’

Taya flicked her hands and short thin blades appeared. ‘I will have your head.’

‘I rather doubt that.’

They charged, meeting in a maelstrom of whirling flashing blades. Competing Warrens rose together, spinning and swirling until both disappeared in a loud burst of displaced air.

Torvald had never felt so exposed in all his life. Unarmed, he walked across the gouged and overturned dirt and broken flags of the once-groomed grounds. Galene limped at his side supported by a single Black. They made for the group of Seguleh guarding the main entrance, the majority of whose masks, he noted, bore very few marks.

As they neared, one Seguleh signalled for them to halt. Another, who carried a single bold line across his brow, signed to a third and these two approached.

‘I am Councillor Nom,’ Torvald said quickly. ‘I am come to propose negotiations.’

‘What is it you wish?’ the smaller Seguleh asked. She carried five hatch lines on her mask.

‘We come to demand your surrender,’ Galene said.

‘Our surrender? I rather think it is you who should surrender.’

Galene held up an empty gauntleted hand then slowly reached into her shoulder bag to remove a red baton. She held it up. ‘Your protective sorceries are gone, Seguleh. I merely have to signal with this and the hilltop will be reduced to rubble.’

The Seguleh Sixth motioned to Torvald. ‘What think you of this, Councillor Nom?’

Torvald swallowed. His voice came faint: ‘Darujhistan would consider that an act of war.’

Galene’s helm shifted to face him. ‘Better that than the alternative.’

‘We propose,’ said the Sixth, ‘that you merely stand aside and allow us to return to our homeland.’

‘Happily,’ Galene snapped. ‘We propose that you merely set down your swords and go unarmed.’

‘That is unacceptable to us.’

‘Then we have an impasse.’

‘Not so,’ the Sixth began again, a new iron in her voice. ‘We could march out right now if we so chose and there are none here who could stop us.’

‘Go ahead. We will chase you down like dogs and slay every one of you from above!’

Torvald loudly cleared his throat. ‘What of the hostages?’

The Sixth reluctantly pulled her gaze from Galene. ‘What hostages?’

‘The councillors and other citizens.’

The Sixth glanced to the one with her, obviously the Seguleh Second. Torvald felt almost dizzy standing this close to the highest living ranked of them. He couldn’t imagine what it must take to occupy such a position — let alone have all the others accept it as fully justified.

The Second signed something and the Sixth inclined her masked head. She turned to Galene. ‘They will be released. It is not our way to hide behind hostages.’

Torvald bowed. ‘Very good. My — our — thanks.’

Galene held out the red baton. ‘Once the non-combatants are clear consider your final answer carefully.’

‘You have it already,’ the Sixth replied, and the two Seguleh turned away.

Torvald and Galene watched them go. ‘Stiff-necked fools,’ she ground out. ‘They merely have to set aside their swords and all this would be behind us.’

‘Galene, I believe you are asking for the one thing they simply cannot do.’

Spindle and Fisher crouched in the woods, peering through the branches.

‘Looks like a parley,’ Spindle whispered.

‘Shh,’ Fisher warned. ‘We don’t want-’

Bursting eruptions of munitions drove them to the ground with their hands over their heads. Feet ran past nearby. Alarms were shouted, followed by more munitions.

Spindle raised his head for a peep. He saw a handful of Seguleh dodging for the entrance, Moranth running to intercept. Another group followed in the distance and Spindle gaped, astonished, at who was among them. He put fingers to his mouth and let go a piercing whistle. The fellow he had spotted skidded to a halt, grabbing another and gesturing.

Spindle jumped to his feet, waving. The whole group made for him.

Spindle opened his arms wide and to his further amazement Antsy accepted the greeting, giving an answering hug in return. ‘You dog!’ Spindle laughed, cuffing him.

‘What are you doin’ here?’ Antsy said. ‘Thought you were down south.’

‘You too!’ He gestured to the lad with him. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Corien,’ the lad answered. ‘Corien Lim.’

‘Lim! No …’

‘Fisher!’ one of the giants with Antsy suddenly bellowed. He grabbed hold of the bard and lifted him from his feet in a great bear hug.

‘Great Mother!’ Fisher cursed. ‘Cull? Cull Heel? What are you doing here!’

‘Fisher! Come back home with us, yes? You have been gone too long!’

At that moment Moranth emerged from the woods to surround them.

Jan ordered the release of the citizens, then saw to the defences of the main entrance. Should the Moranth return to their aerial bombardment his plan was for his people to occupy those same deepest cellars, wait for night to return, then scatter in all directions to return to Cant in ones and twos. Undignified, but perhaps the best way of ensuring that as many as possible made it out alive. His side was completely numb and he was weak from loss of blood, but if he could just avoid any further exertion he believed he might yet live to see this through.

It was here that the guards assigned to the west found him. They came escorting exhausted and bedraggled brothers and sisters whom he did not immediately recognize. It was not until one went to one knee before him that Jan realized who he was. With that understanding came a wave of anticipation that nearly caused him to faint. Great Ancestors! Oru, the Eleventh, gone more than two years, assumed lost by so many, returned now, at such a time!

Jan moved to raise him up but restrained himself, exclaiming instead, ‘Oru!’ He then clamped down on his breathing to observe dispassionately, ‘You are returned to us. I am pleased — but you should not have come here.’

The Eleventh stood. His eyes shone now with even greater passion than Jan remembered from years ago. ‘I believe it was fated that I should do so, Second.’ He drew from his waist a small object wrapped in a fine black cloth. ‘Just as I believed it was my fate to one day find this.’

Jan stared at the flat object held so delicately in Oru’s hands. This is it? The Unmarred? It seems so small. His arms remained petrified at his sides. His eyes rose to meet Oru’s eager, avid gaze. ‘There can be no doubt?’

‘None, Second.’

‘Then call everyone. All must witness this.’

Oru bowed. ‘Yes … Second.’

They assembled in the main entrance foyer, all remaining of the Five Hundred. Jan was stricken through the heart to count less than one hundred. Of the Eldrii, the Ten, only he, Gall and Palla yet lived.

He raised his chin for their attention. Through the windows the sky was lightening to the dark blue and violet of a coming predawn. Please, all our Ancestors, he invoked, eyes on the coming day, allow me the strength to see this through! Grant me that and you shall have me.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ he started, his voice thick with emotion — and more. ‘In this time of our greatest testing, one who has been gone from us on a long journey has returned — with the object he vowed never to return without.’

The gathered stirred, masks shifting to the Eleventh at his side. ‘Oru,’ Jan went on, ‘hold up the Mask of our Ancestors. The Pure One crafted by the First who led us on our exile …’ Even as he repeated the traditional words of invocation a sudden new realization came to Jan and their meaning shifted, taking on an utterly new significance. His breath caught at the truth of this new formulation. Everything made sense now: his people’s fate, their exile. It came to him that this must be what others describe as a religious awakening.

He took a renewing breath and continued, louder, his voice rough. ‘… on our exile … which was in truth a deliverance. A flight from slavery and a flight from our shame. Crafted in the hope of an eventual redemption, a cleansing of our past.’

Oru pulled off the black covering and held up above his head a pure unmarred mask carved from the same translucent bright stone as the Legate’s throne. In the gathering brightness of dawn it seemed to glow with an inner light. All those present stared immobile. It seemed to Jan that a great easing of some long-held breath escaped from them all, and as one they bowed to one knee, heads lowered.

‘A sign,’ he continued. ‘A promise. An offering sent from our past to our future. One we hope to one day be worthy of. One which belongs to all our people and must be returned to await that future safe in the temple at Cant.’

At these words the Third, Gall, straightened. ‘Nay! Take it, Second. Don it! With you at our head we will sweep these Moranth before us and return triumphant!’

‘No! It must not be taken up in anger or bloodshed. That would taint it beyond redemption. No, this artefact is too important for us few here to risk its destruction. We shall accede to the Moranth demands so that we may see it brought safely home.’

‘To that decision I give my fullest support.’ A new voice spoke up from the back of the assembly — which parted swiftly as Seguleh drew blades against the newcomer.

Jan and Gall both peered, squinting. Jan recognized Lo first, then his son and some girl. And with them one other, and as soon as he looked at this man he recognized him and knew him for what he was, and what he could be, all in one transfiguring instant. He knew then what he must do.

Gall turned his back on Lo, the Eighth, and the man who all knew must be the slayer of Blacksword, the presumed Seventh. He faced Jan. ‘We must not put down our swords. How can we abandon what it means to be Seguleh? It is not for you to propose such a thing.’

Jan felt remarkably calm in the face of what all others present must see as an inexcusable insult. The Third’s behaviour was nothing less than a direct challenge. Jan knew that was exactly what Gall intended. Yet I am not strong enough! I will fall and all I have just glimpsed will be lost to us! Please, Gall, my old friend. Stand aside just this once …

After a long bracing breath Jan’s answer emerged level and strong: ‘I propose it because I have seen what we could all too easily become — what we must never become.’

The Third reached out as if begging something of him. In his gaze Jan saw the reluctance, the torment of his position. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Do not drive me to what duty demands of me …’

‘I have spoken, Third,’ Jan said. ‘It shall be as I say.’

And Gall said what Jan knew he felt he must as Third: ‘Then I challenge you.’

After the Seguleh left to return inside, Torvald waited with Galene. She tapped the red baton in her palm, shaking her helmed head. ‘I fear we have our answer,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry. But once word comes that your fellow councillors are clear, I am compelled to act.’

Gods protect us! Torvald turned away to study the vista of Darujhistan spread out below in the coming light of the east. The various fires appeared to have been mastered, the looming threat of a firestorm feeding gas eruptions circumvented. For that he gave thanks. One miracle. Dare he hope for another?

‘Couldn’t you-’

‘No.’ She rubbed her leg, hissing with pain. ‘If it were up to me alone … perhaps. But I am not here on my own. I must think of my people. We cannot allow this threat to exist.’

‘Then I am sorry as well, because I have no idea how the Council will take this. There may be war between us.’

‘Perhaps.’

A party of Black troopers jogged up. One saluted Galene. ‘A small group that contained Seguleh were allowed through the cordon.’

Galene straightened, outraged. ‘Allowed through? On whose authority?’

Another of the troopers saluted. ‘Mine, Commander.’

Torvald studied the last speaker. He appeared to be the oldest Moranth he’d seen yet. The chitinous plates of his armour were thick, cracked and lined. He bore the countless scarifications and gouges of a veteran of many battles.

Galene nodded to the trooper. ‘Master Sergeant. Your record is beyond reproach. Why have you done this?’

The veteran bowed. ‘M’lady. You know I was among the first contingent serving alongside the Malazans. I fought with them for decades. I allowed that party through because of the man who was with them. Though it has been many years, I recognized him. I would know him anywhere. He was Dassem, the First Sword of the Empire.’

Torvald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The First Sword? Here? Was this credible?

Galene’s voice was barely audible: ‘That is impossible.’

‘Elect,’ the veteran continued, a new edge in his voice, ‘must I remind you that our treaty of alliance with the Malazans included Dassem as a signatory?’

‘And if he lives …’

‘Exactly, Elect. If he lives … then contrary to what we had assumed, that treaty is not void.’

Crowded within the rear of the hall, Yusek whispered to Sall, ‘What’s goin’ on?’

‘A challenge for leadership,’ he answered just as low.

‘If this is how things get resolved then I’m surprised there’s any of you above Fiftieth.’

He turned to regard her more closely. ‘Yusek — no one will be hurt. At this level it will all be over before you or I notice.’

‘And if someone was hurt?’

‘Then, consider. I see only the Sixth and Third with us now. That means this man, the Seventh, could be within one or two ranks of Second.’

‘That’s not why I came here,’ the Seventh growled.

‘Yet it is our way,’ Sall murmured, undeterred.

Palla came to Jan’s side, whispering, fierce: ‘Do not accept! There is something wrong … I see it. You’re wounded.’

‘I must answer or stand aside — as you well know.’ How to salvage this? The future I foresaw mustn’t be lost to us! ‘Will you second me?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she answered, nearly choking.

‘No challenges here!’ a voice called from the crowd and a Hundredth stepped forward. Horul. ‘This must wait until we return to Cant.’ A strange panic filled her voice. ‘Before the temple …’

Oru signed a negative. ‘The challenge has been made. It must be answered. What say you, Second?’

Jan inclined his head to the Eleventh. ‘I accept.’

Gall bowed, then looked around; by tradition the next highest ranked present or available should second him … the Seventh.

Lo extended a hand, inviting the dark-skinned Malazan forward. The man shot him a glare but the gathered Seguleh parted and so he reluctantly advanced.

As he passed through the ranks some reached out reverently to the sword wrapped in rags on his back and Yusek heard them murmuring a word. ‘What’s that they’re saying?’ she whispered to Sall.

‘Many say the sword on his back is the Son of Darkness’s own. The very one that defeated him. They are saying what legends hold as its oldest name — Grief.’

The four gathered near the centre of the hall and all the assembled Seguleh backed away to the walls. ‘Challenge has been issued,’ Gall called out.

‘And accepted,’ Jan answered.

Palla stepped forward. ‘As honour has been met I ask that said challenge be withdrawn.’ And she added so low that only the four gathered could hear: ‘If you proceed in this, Gall, then I will challenge you.’

‘Do as you feel you must,’ he answered, equally low. ‘Just as I must.’

‘Now you say that the challenge will proceed,’ Jan prompted the Seventh.

The Seventh studied the Second. He looked him up and down. For a long time he let his gaze linger on Jan’s wounded side. ‘Is this what you wish?’ he asked finally, uncertain.

Jan allowed himself a stiff nod. ‘Yes. It is what I wish.’

‘Very well.’ He raised his voice: ‘The challenge proceeds.’

The two seconds withdrew. Gall stepped away from Jan to make room.

Jan eased his weapon free. The moment the challenge was issued he had known what he had to do. It would be his most difficult performance ever. Weakened as he was he did not know if he could succeed. Yet he must. He would give all he had left. Even if it meant destroying a friend. He shouted to Gall: ‘In all the times we’ve fought you’ve never come close. What have you planned this time?’

‘What is he doing?’ Palla murmured, thinking aloud. ‘He’s never taunted anyone before.’

‘He’s setting him up,’ the Seventh answered grimly.

Palla turned to the Malazan. ‘What?’ but then swords clashed.

The instant their swords met Jan manoeuvred Gall to his wounded side. The Third came on with more passion and power than he had ever displayed in all the years upon the practice sands. But Jan had been one of his teachers and knew what Gall would do before he knew himself. It must be quick — already I’m weakening. No hint. He mustn’t have time to pull the thrust.

I’m sorry, my friend. In so many ways you are the most honourable of all of us. But this must be so.

Yusek stared, appalled and fascinated. Gods, it was so beautiful! So elegant. This was not the bashing and grunting she’d known. This was more like dance. A dance of nerves, flesh, and razor-sharp iron.

The time had come. Jan knew he could delay no longer; he was about to fall. Already in his parries and turns he had been preparing the way, leaving his hurt side slightly open. And now in an over-extended riposte he began a recovery that would invite the counter-thrust, and in the fraction of a heartbeat that committed Gall to making the move he reversed his recovery and advanced to meet the sword that was already flashing towards him and the razor-edged blade slid in as smoothly as if pushing through cloth.

Yusek could not be sure. It looked to her as if the Third deliberately thrust the Second through the side even as he was turning to him. She could not contain a scream at the ugly shock of it. Hers was the only cry in the utterly silent hall.

Palla did not move. This is not happening, she told herself. Such things do not happen. Yet the Second lay with the Third’s sword through his side. Only by conscious effort could she move her legs. She and the Seventh approached. All others remained immobile, hushed. Shocked beyond all reaction, perhaps.

Gall stood frozen. He stared at his empty hands as if in disbelief. He raised his gaze and there through the mask Palla saw desolation. ‘I didn’t …’ he groaned.

‘I know,’ the Seventh answered.

They knelt at Jan’s side. He lived still, panting, his breath wet. ‘Oru,’ he rasped.

‘Eleventh!’ Palla called.

A crash sounded close by: Gall had fallen to his knees, his hands covering his face. He rocked himself and shuddered with silent tears.

Oru ran to them. The Second swallowed hard to whisper: ‘My last request, Oru.’ His voice was slurred. ‘Offer the mask to the Seventh.’

‘What?’ Palla gasped. ‘No. You will live! There is no need.’

The Seventh jerked upright. ‘Do not offer this thing to me.’

‘You must,’ the Second barely mouthed. ‘You will take us … home.’ His eyes, behind their blood-spattered mask, closed.

‘Jan!’ Palla grated, her lips clenched against a ferocious scream. ‘Jan!’

‘He is dead,’ Oru said. The Eleventh straightened and turned to face the gathered Seguleh. He studied the mask he held in both hands.

After a long moment he raised his head to be seen by all present, turning a full circle. ‘All you know me,’ he began, his voice low. ‘You know that years ago a vision came to me — a vision that I could find our lost legacy, our birthright. You also know that by tradition the mark of the First cannot be taken … it can only be offered. I came fully intending to offer it to our Second. But he refused. His last request was that it be offered to the Seventh …

‘But,’ he continued, after a hard breath, ‘we are Seguleh. We must not forget who we are. And with us rank is paramount. Therefore … I am bound by tradition. By duty. By our ancient code. To offer this mask of the Unmarred, the First, to the Third.’

He turned to where Gall crouched rocking himself in mute anguish. ‘Third — do you accept?’

His face still covered, the man gave one savage negative jerk of his head.

Oru turned to Palla next. ‘Sixth. Do you accept?’

Throughout, Palla had not taken her eyes from the dead Second. Without looking up, she shook her head.

Oru turned to the Seventh. ‘It has come to you, Seventh. Do you accept?’

The man raised a hand. ‘A moment — there is one here who may choose to dispute this.’

Oru cocked his head, thinking, then turned to the entrance. ‘Eighth,’ he called. ‘Will you approach?’

Lo started forward. Sall moved to follow then stopped to point a finger at Yusek. ‘You, stay here.’

‘No fucking kidding,’ she answered under her breath.

Lo came to Oru’s side. The Seventh faced him. ‘Tell me, Eighth. If this mask came to you what would you do?’

The lean man gave an indifferent shrug. Behind his mask his eyes were half lidded, almost lazy. ‘Challenge has been issued. It must be met.’

Aside, Sall started forward, drawing breath, but a sign from Lo checked him.

The Seventh let out a ragged breath. ‘Gods — they say never gamble with the Seguleh and now I know why.’ He glared at the Eighth. His deep blue eyes shaded dark as his hands worked at his sides. ‘Damn you, Lo. You’re determined not to leave me any room …’ Lowering his voice even more he growled, ‘I’m of half a mind to call your bluff.’

‘But you won’t.’ The Eighth motioned Oru closer. The Eleventh held out the mask.

Wordless, the Seventh snatched the sword from his back and shook the rags from it. Hissed breaths escaped from a hundred throats as the blackwood sheath was revealed, the hilt all blued to night black, and the sable stone orb that was its pommel. The Seventh tied it to his belt then raised his face to the gathering. ‘I do not claim to be unmarred myself,’ he began, and emotion cracked his voice, stopping him. After a moment he continued: ‘Far from it. However, I accept this honour in the promise that perhaps one day I will prove worthy of it.’

He took the translucent white stone mask from Oru’s hands and raised it to his face.

‘Damned quiet in there,’ Torvald murmured aloud just to hear someone speak — the Moranth were utterly silent. Pink and gold bands now brightened the undersides of clouds to the east. Dawn was coming. The Moranth remained battle-ready. They appeared to fully expect the Seguleh to come charging out at any moment. And if that did happen, from what he’d seen he personally didn’t think anything would stop them.

A Black messenger came jogging up to Galene and saluted. ‘Noncombatants captured on the grounds, Elect.’

‘Who?’

‘A citizen, Malazans, and other foreigners.’

‘Malazans and foreigners? What are they doing here?’

‘They looked to have come to help fight.’

‘Well, release them and warn them off.’

The Black saluted. ‘Very good.’ He moved to leave.

‘Where are the councillors?’ Torvald asked.

The messenger looked to his commander. Galene waved to allow an answer. ‘They have been escorted off the hill.’

‘Thank you.’

Galene faced Torvald. She crossed her arms, the red baton still in one hand. ‘I’m sorry, Councillor. I can’t delay much longer. We will withdraw and then I will be forced to signal.’

‘I’m damned sorry as well. This will destroy our relations for ages to come.’

Galene nodded her understanding. ‘You are sounding more and more like a councillor, Nom of Nom.’ She turned to an aide and signed. He ran off, signalling to others as he went. The Moranth Black troops stirred, readying to withdraw. ‘We will be last,’ she told him.

Together, they watched the troops back away, making for stairs and twisting roadways down Majesty Hill. Torvald’s gaze kept returning to the blasted main entrance. What are you bastards doing in there? Do you mean to hide it out?

Then movement caught his eye and he shouted, near panicked, ‘Galene! Someone’s coming!’

She spun to the entrance, a hand going to her sword.

A small party of Seguleh approached — not the all-out charge they’d been fearing. From their masks these men and women represented the top leadership of the people. One fellow, however, carried a far heavier build and was far darker of skin, as dark as many Malazans, in fact. And the mask he wore blazed white in the dawn’s light as if glowing. Torvald squinted even more closely at it: was it …

He turned to Galene. ‘That mask! It’s-’

‘Yes. I see,’ she answered, and there was something in her voice that Torvald had never heard — what might have been a touch of awe. She crossed her arms, awaiting the party.

The four Seguleh, three men and one woman, stopped short of Galene. The lead one, not even of their stock it seemed to Torvald, matched Galene’s crossed arms. ‘You are the Elect in charge of this assault group?’ he asked, speaking barbarously accented Daru.

‘I am Galene.’ Then she bowed to the man. ‘Greetings, First. This is an unlooked-for honour.’

First, Torvald wondered? This was the man, then? But which First? And still Torvald did not know him, as the mask obscured his face.

‘I propose to lead the Seguleh south, to Cant. You have my word that we shall never return. What say you?’ His gaze slid aside to another of the Seguleh, one bearing ten hatch marks on his mask, and he continued: ‘Shall there be any challenge between us, Elect?’

Galene uncrossed her arms. Her armour gleamed mirror-like in the gathering light. ‘There can be no challenge between us, First.’

He gave the slightest dip of his head in salute. ‘Very good. We will leave by the Worrytown gate. Notify your forces.’

Galene saluted. ‘Done. First …’ she called as he turned away.

‘Yes?’

‘I am … relieved.’

The man bowed briefly again. ‘As am I.’

Torvald watched them go. Wondrous gods! Was that it then? Done? Finished? Wordless, suddenly exhausted, he watched Galene exchange the red baton for one of gold. This she held skyward and twisted. Some sort of munition shot from it, launched into the still deep-blue sky, where it burst into a sizzling amber flame. Torvald watched it drift like a burning flower, smoking and popping.

To the west of Darujhistan Captain Fal-ej nudged Fist K’ess, who looked then nudged Ambassador Aragan, who jerked, blinking, and squinted to the city. He then turned to Attache Torn.

‘What is it?’

‘A signal.’

Aragan bit back a sharp reply; instead he examined the quorls filling the fields around them. Hours ago they’d swooped down and landed in order to conserve their strength and wait out the night. None stirred now. No orders were shouted to mount.

‘Which?’ he asked, dread choking in his throat.

Torn turned his helmed head to Aragan. ‘It is the call to stand down. It seems, Ambassador, that the Elect has met with some sort of victory.’

Victory? Against over a hundred Seguleh? He didn’t think that possible. But then, they would hardly have surrendered, would they? ‘Now what?’

‘Now?’ Torn indicated the quorls, now readying, rising to flight, all unburdened, carrying only single riders. ‘The assault group will be extracted. And then we shall have a report.’

Aragan watched the quorls lift off and flitt away, making for the glow and drifting smoke over Darujhistan. Twin wakes followed some passing low over flooded fields nearby. And what a report that will be …

Not far off Sergeant Little nudged her squad awake to motion to the disappearing quorls. ‘Looks like a pick-up,’ she said. ‘Must be what those officer types call “a cessation of hostilities”.’

‘Sounds so pretty when you say it, Little,’ one trooper called out.

‘Music to my ears,’ Bendan murmured, half awake. ‘We gonna move out?’

Little shifted where she lay on one elbow. ‘Don’t know.’

‘We’ll pull back to Pale,’ Bone opined while he picked at his teeth. ‘Re-garrison. Won’t they be happy to see us.’

‘Pale! That pit,’ someone grumbled. ‘Nothing there.’

‘Don’t matter,’ Bendan sighed. ‘All the same to us.’

Little eyed him where he lay with an arm over his face. ‘That’s right, trooper. All the same to us.’