Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER V

Spindle could not sleep after he and Blend and Picker dragged themselves back to K’rul’s bar. It was dawn in any case, and his nerves were shot. They’d witnessed something they shouldn’t have; they all knew it. No one said a thing all the way back from the base of Majesty Hill — which wasn’t very far in any case, as K’rul’s old temple stood on its own hill in the estate district.

Blend and Picker thumped up the stairs to their room. Spindle slouched into a booth. The common room was empty. The historian was upstairs asleep. After dozing for a short time, Spindle was driven by a full bladder to shamble out of the rear kitchen exit. Facing the yard, looking out over the chicken coop, the woodpile and the pigsty, he untied his trousers and relieved himself in the chill air.

In mid-stream he gaped, jerked, traced a warm stream down his leg, then stumbled back inside, struggling with his trousers.

‘Picker! Blend! Burn’s own tits, would you come and look at this!’

‘Shut up!’ came the muffled response.

‘No, really! This is amazin’! You gotta see this.’

Shambled footsteps sounded from above. Picker’s voice called down: ‘If it’s just you findin’ your little soldier then I’m gonna be real mad.’

‘Ha, ha! No. I’m fucking serious here.’

‘All right, all right.’ Picker appeared, tucking in her shirt and tying her trousers, boots clumping. ‘What is it?’

‘Out back. Take a look.’

‘What? Has Moon’s Spawn returned?’

‘Somethin’ like that.’

Picker sobered, eyed the man, doubtful. She hiked up her trousers and headed to the kitchen. Spindle followed.

At the open doorway Picker stopped, peered right, then left. Behind, Spindle hopped from foot to foot, brushing at his wet pants. ‘Do you see it? Do ya?’

‘What? The amazin’ chickens? They dancin’? Singin’?’

‘No! Not …’ He squeezed his way round her, stared squinting into the distance. ‘But there was …’ He turned back to the big woman, hunched his shoulders. ‘There was this huge dome-like thing there. Over the hilltop …’

Picker just shook her head in a slow heavy dismissal. She rubbed her arm where scars marked a ring round the flesh, eyed the distance once more. Then she pushed him aside, muttering, ‘Fuckin’ moron. Can’t believe I’m beginnin’ to miss Antsy.’

Spindle was left alone in the chill air. He turned back to the view across the hills of the estate district, snorted to himself.

‘What did it look like?’ someone asked from behind.

He spun, jumping. It was Duiker, the old historian. He nodded a greeting. ‘It was pale. Kinda see-through. Big. Like the moon. It looked like the moon.’

The historian frowned thoughtfully behind his thick grey beard. His gaze fixed on Spindle. ‘You lot been gone days. What happened?’

‘I’ll tell you over some hot mulled wine.’

‘We don’t have any.’

Spindle cast another pinched glance over the hilltops. ‘Then I’m gonna go get some.’

Torvald Nom awoke to a cat’s claws sinking into his chest. He jerked upright with a gasp, heard something ricochet off the shelves under the open window, then sat tensed, limbs trembling with startled awareness.

‘What is it?’ Tiserra murmured, still mostly asleep.

‘For a moment I thought you’d thrown yourself upon me and sunk your nails into my chest in an ecstasy of passion, dear. But it was the cat.’

‘That’s nice,’ she murmured into her pillow.

Torvald sighed, peered about the shadowed room. ‘Well. I’m awake now. Might as well head out.’

‘Hmph.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself. Don’t bustle about with tea and bread and such for your working man.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Never mind.’ Torvald got up.

Passing through the streets on his walk to the estate district it struck him that the city was very quiet this morning. He felt that sense of suspended expectation, the atmosphere that some described as ‘holding one’s breath’. And he had had the strangest dreams just before awakening so very painfully. He did hear one noise that was very out of place indeed. He recognized it only because of his travels so far from this city of his birth. For it was a sound utterly unfamiliar to Darujhistan: the ordered stamp of marching soldiery. He hurried to where the marching echoed, the Second Tier Way.

He joined a press of Darujhistani citizenry turned out to watch this once in a lifetime sight. The tall cross-piece hanging banner preceding the column declared their allegiance: the white sceptre on a field of black, the sceptre much like an orb clasped in an upright three-toed predatory bird’s foot. The naked clawed grip of the Malazan Empire.

Elite heavy infantry. Campaign stripes marked them as veterans of every engagement on these, to them, foreign Genabackan lands. They carried broad rectangular shields blackened and edged in burgundy. Shortswords swung belted high at their sides. Crossbows and javelins rode strapped to their backs. The Malazan delegation honour guard, some two hundred strong. Withdrawing?

‘What’s going on?’ he asked one fellow in the crowd.

‘The Empire’s invading!’ the man bellowed, half drunk.

Torvald grimaced at his bad luck. ‘They’re headed in the wrong direction,’ he pointed out.

‘Ha ha!’ the drunk yelled. ‘We beat them! Good riddance, y’damned foreigners!’

Torvald walked away just in case the appropriately feared Malazan mailed fist should make itself felt. The rear of the column came marching up. Mounted officers rode just before a train of wagons and carts and strings of spare mounts. Torvald noted that he did not see the bald and rather fat figure of the ambassador among the officers. He hurried on to bring the news to his employer, the head of his family house and thus councilwoman, Lady Varada.

Madrun let him into the compound. ‘Captain,’ the man said, bowing. Torvald always listened carefully to this welcome but so far he’d yet to detect even the slightest tinge of insincerity. More than ever he regretted the absence of his old partners, Scorch and Leff, who used to guard these doors.

At least then he wasn’t the obvious weak link in the estate’s personnel.

The castellan Studlock met him at the open front doors of the house. ‘I have orders from the mistress,’ he lisped as Torvald hurried past.

‘Yes?’

‘The mistress is … ill,’ Studlock murmured. ‘Yes. That is it. Quite ill.’

Torvald sniffed the air. ‘What is that I smell? Is something burning?’

‘Just my preparations. The singeing of rare leaves. An infusion gone wrong.’ The strange man crept up close; the tatters and strips of gauzy cloth he wrapped himself in dragged long behind. Torvald flinched away. ‘You appear tired, malnourished,’ Studlock went on. ‘Are you having trouble in your sexual performance? Perhaps a mineral poultice to rebalance your animus?’

‘Rebalance my what? Ah, no. Thank you.’

‘A pity.’

‘Ill, you say? Where is she?’

‘The mistress is … indisposed.’

‘Indisposed …’

‘Yes. Quite. She did, however, leave detailed instructions regarding you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. None other.’

‘I see. And these instructions?’

The man edged closer, his watery green eyes narrowed upon Torvald. ‘There is a worrisome choleric tinge to you. Have you evacuated lately?’

‘Evacu what?’

‘Evacuated. Discharged your bodily wastes.’

‘Ah! Yes.’

‘And your bowels? How are they?’

‘Sacrosanct, thank you.’

‘Regretful. How am I to continue my practice?’

Torvald was surprised. ‘You’re a physicker?’

The man blinked his confusion. ‘No.’

Torvald regarded the unnerving hunched figure for a time, cleared his throat. ‘So … these instructions?’

‘Yes. You are now head of House Nom. Congratulations.’ The castellan shuffled away.

Torvald stood motionless in the receiving hall for a long time. Then he stormed up the stairs for his employer’s office. He was in the process of ransacking her desk when he looked up to see the gauzy apparition of Studlock before him once again.

‘There must be some mistake.’

‘None, I assure you.’

‘What of Bellam?’

‘Young Bellam remains an eventual heir.’

‘But … it can’t be official. There has to be paperwork. Certificates and such.’

The castellan drew a scroll from within the folds of cloth at his chest. ‘I have them here. Sealed and authenticated.’

Torvald slumped down into the chair. That had been his last hope. He straightened, his brows rising. ‘Aha! I appoint another. Someone else. Anyone else.’

‘Rallick Nom will support m’lady’s choice. So then will the majority of the House.’

Torvald slumped once more. Damn him! He would, too — if only to avoid being appointed himself!

He set his elbows on the desk, cupped his head in his hands. ‘But this is terrible … Tiserra will kill me! One day I leave for work and when I come home it’s hello dear your husband has a seat on the Council! Rather a shock.’

The castellan cocked his head. ‘Will she not be pleased?’

‘You don’t know her.’

‘You are correct. I do not. Are introductions in order? Some tea? My special brew …’

Torvald threw up his hands. ‘No! No, no, thank you. That’s quite all right.’

Studlock’s shoulders fell. ‘That is regrettable. Who will I test it on?’

Torvald frowned. ‘So, now what? What do I do?’

‘You should register your appointment with the clerk of the Council, I imagine.’

‘Ah. Thank you. How very … practical.’

The castellan bowed. ‘My only wish is to serve.’

Torvald had never been to Majesty Hill; indeed, had never dreamed he’d have cause. The Wardens at the lowest gate stopped him to inspect his paperwork. Before him rose the stairs that switched back and forth up the flank of the hill, lined all the way by monuments, family shrines, plaques commemorating victories — real and invented — and other grandiose pronouncements meant to impress the reader with the virtue and generosity of their sponsors. All no more than base self-aggrandizement, Torvald reflected, once you boiled it all down.

He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the worn heels of his old boots. Perhaps such an attitude was precisely what was not welcome on yon prestigious hilltop.

A clerk bowed as he handed back the scrolled paperwork. ‘Welcome, sir. My apologies for the delay. We do not see many councillors here at the gate.’

‘No? You do not? Just what do you see, then?’

‘Petitioners mostly. Appellants and other claimants summoned, or hoping, to address the assembly. And minor functionaries, of course.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Torvald wondered, vaguely, whether he’d just been insulted in some very sophisticated indirect fashion. Considering where he was headed, he decided that he’d better get used to it. ‘So, just where do the Council members enter?’

The man bowed — unctuously, it seemed to Torvald. ‘These days most take the carriageway from the south.’

‘Ah, well. Perhaps many would benefit from coming in this way occasionally, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, beyond a doubt, sir,’ the man agreed smoothly, his face straight.

Good at his job, this one, Torvald reflected. This gate must be where most of the squeezing of petitioners takes place. A coveted post. He bowed a farewell. ‘I’d best be going then.’

‘A sound decision, sir.’

Torvald walked away, wincing. Damn, drubbed by a bureaucrat. It’s going to be a long day.

Eventually, after rather a boring walk up an unnecessarily long set of stairs, he entered what appeared to be a main reception hall lined by many doors. It was … deserted. Is the place closed? Yet someone was here: noise reached him, a muted roaring as of many voices shouting. But where was it coming from?

A door slammed and a robed clerk appeared, sheaf of papers in hand, reading as he scuttled quickly across the hall.

Torvald cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me — could you tell me …’

The man disappeared into another side door. Torvald lowered his arm. A gods-damned rabbit warren. He poked his head into that door to see another hall, also lined by doors, albeit far less ornate. It occurred to him that a rather large old friend of his would know exactly what to do to a place like this. The sound of another door opening pulled him away. Another functionary was walking the hall. He planted himself before her.

The plump woman nearly ran into him before halting to blink up confusedly. ‘Yes?’

He wordlessly offered his paperwork. She examined it, then bowed. ‘Welcome, House Nom. I shall see to it that these are registered with the proper offices. You are no doubt come for the assembling of the emergency steering committee.’

It was now his turn to blink his confusion. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘This way. If you would, sir.’

Torvald followed the woman down the long hall, round a series of turns, to a tall set of double doors. Two city Wardens barred the entrance. From behind the doors came a riotous roaring such as Torvald imagined must prevail before the gates to Hood’s old realm.

The guards’ hands went to their shortswords. ‘This is a closed emergency session,’ pronounced one in what sounded like a carefully rehearsed line.

The woman bowed her agreement. ‘And Councillor Nom is here to participate.’

The guard’s brow furrowed. He licked his lips while he appeared to be frantically digging through options. The brows unfurled and he smiled, reciting, ‘Chambers are closed.’

‘Open those doors!’ a bull-roar echoed from behind Torvald, who spun.

A great bhederin of a fellow was hurrying up, unshaven, finery askew, a hand to his forehead, grimacing in pain. The clerk bowed. ‘Councillor Coll.’

Torvald stared despite himself. Great gods, the Councillor Coll? The man was a legend in the city.

The councillor cocked a bloodshot eye at Torvald. The clerk murmured, ‘Councillor Coll, may I introduce Councillor Nom, newly invested.’

The bleary, watering eyes widened. ‘Indeed … may I ask after the mesmerizing Lady Varada, whom I have seen only from a distance, across the assembly?’

The stale bite of cheap Daru spirits wafted from the man and Torvald struggled not to change his expression. ‘Ah … her health precludes her participation … I am come in her stead.’

‘My regrets to your family, Nom. And may she soon recover.’

Torvald frantically cast about for something equally well-mannered and sophisticated. ‘Ah, our thanks.’ Wonderful! Off to a dazzling start, you are.

But Councillor Coll’s attention had shifted to the closed doors and the guards. ‘You’re still here?’ he demanded.

‘Of course you may enter, Councillor. But this other …’

Coll snatched up the sheaf of papers held by the clerk: Torvald’s documents. He waved the flapping pages, complete with wax seals and coloured ribbons, before the faces of the guards. ‘You see these certificates? This man is as qualified to sit as I!’

The guards eyed the sheaf, all in the tiniest spidery penmanship, the way those manning a wooden palisade might dread the approach of a siege onager. Resistance collapsed and they stood aside.

The clerk pushed open the twin leaves. And as they passed within, it occurred to Torvald that an impenetrable bureaucracy was in truth more powerful than any sword.

They stood high in a semicircular amphitheatre of seats. The view reminded Torvald of a depiction of one corner of Hood’s realm: an immense prison for kings and despots, all arguing over who was in charge, when in truth none of the dead outside cared what went on within its tall walls.

The floor of the amphitheatre was crowded with the cream of the city aristocracy. All were standing talking at once, many red-faced, some waving their exasperation. Occasionally thrown papers fluttered over the crowd, or some particularly loud yell penetrated the din, but mostly it was an unintelligible gabbling of voices.

‘Welcome to Council,’ the clerk said, shouting to be heard though she stood right next to him.

‘How very inspiring,’ he answered, to himself of course, as none could have possibly heard, or cared to hear, for that matter.

The woman backed out, pulled the doors closed. Councillor Coll took his arm and hurried him down the stairs. ‘My thanks,’ Torvald offered.

‘You can thank me by swearing to give me your first vote.’

Such a vow struck Torvald as extremely dangerous, but he also knew that honour would dictate that he had no choice. Best to pretend that such was the case, then.

A loud, exceptionally sharp knocking sounded which Torvald identified as coming from a slim man standing on the raised speaker’s platform, banging a stone on the lectern.

‘Order!’ he bellowed in a surprisingly commanding voice. ‘Order!’

The clamour slowly diminished and the councillors stood silent, leaving only a single old fellow waving his arms and shouting, ‘I tell you, everything would go so smoothly if only everyone would just do as I say!’

‘Hear, hear!’ someone shouted in answer and they all burst into applause.

The old fellow peered about myopically then hurriedly turned away, red-faced.

‘The floor recognizes Councillor Lim,’ a clerk announced into the silence.

It now occurred to Torvald that crowding about the central lectern were only some fifty or so members of the Council, yet the amphitheatre held seats for hundreds. ‘Where is everyone?’ he whispered to Coll.

‘It’s a damned trick,’ Coll answered, low and fierce. ‘There is a little-known emergency steering committee that can be called to meet in case of fires and such. Just those close enough to participate. Quorum is thirty. Thankfully I was nearby … sleeping in my chambers.’

Passed out, you mean. So, an emergency sub-committee of Council. But to decide what?

At the lectern, Lim stood tall and pole-thin, his dark expensive silk shirt and trousers accentuating his figure. He raised his arms for silence.

So, Lim, is it? Torvald believed he’d heard that Shardan Lim was dead.

‘Thank you,’ the fellow began. ‘My fellow councillors, fair Darujhistan has weathered astounding events of late. Many of you, myself included, no doubt wish that history would be so good as to pass us by for once, allow us our well-earned peace to quietly tend our fields and watch our children play …’

Torvald snorted: the man looked as peaceful and compassionate as a viper. Coll chuckled. Torvald glanced over to see him offer a wink. ‘What’s going on?’

In answer, the man gestured to the front. ‘Let us hear from Lim.’

‘That’s not Shardan Lim, is it?’

‘Ah. You are new. No, this is Jeshin Lim. His cousin.’

Torvald grunted. He’d never heard of a Jeshin Lim. But then, he’d probably never heard of most of the men and women in the hall. The young man had been talking all the while, offering some long-winded soothing introduction to the course of action he wished to suggest. In time, the meat of the speech arrived: ‘… and so it is clear that this abrupt, unannounced flight by all the Moranth present within the city, combined with the equally sudden withdrawal of their allies, the Imperial Malazan elements staining our fair city, can amount to only one thing: the first stage in a pre-planned, coordinated initiation of hostilities against the freedom and independence of Darujhistan!’

The hall erupted into chaotic noise once more. Most cheered, calling out their support of the claim. Only a few shouted their dismissal.

Torvald and Coll remained silent. Torvald leaned to Coll. ‘Why is he saying everything twice?’

‘Ah. An older style of rhetoric. Something of a traditionalist, our Jeshin. New to assembly, he is. But there’s a great deal of money backing him.’

Closer to the man, Torvald noted that while Coll was impressively large, it had all gone to fat. And though a strong miasma of Daru spirits surrounded him, he did not appear to be drunk.

‘And what do you propose?’ an old man’s sarcastic voice cut through the shouting.

The raucous arguing died down as everyone waited for Lim’s answer.

Coll gestured aside, indicating the speaker: an aged fellow, thin and straight, his hair a grey hedging round his skull. ‘Councillor D’Arle.’

‘Will you marshal the troops?’ the old man continued scathingly. ‘Assemble the navy? But wait … we have none! And the Malazans know this! If they wanted to occupy us they would have done so long ago.’

Councillor Lim was shaking his head. ‘With all respect to House D’Arle, that is not so. The truth is that the Malazans have tried to annex us to their Empire but that said efforts have to this time failed, or been defeated by circumstance, or the intervention of diversionary challenges — such as the Pannions to the south. Now, however, with said threat crushed, and Moon’s Spawn also eliminated from the field — now it appears clear that the Malazans see that it is time to bring our fair city to heel.’

‘You do have a proposal,’ Councillor D’Arle demanded, ‘lurking somewhere within all that puff and wind?’

‘I like this fellow,’ Torvald whispered to Coll.

A taut smile from Coll. ‘Sad family history there.’

Showing surprising patience, Councillor Lim inclined his head in assent. ‘I do. I propose that this emergency assembly of the Council now vote upon the investiture of the ancient position created precisely for such rare crises. I am speaking, of course, of the temporary and limited post of Legate of Council.’

Coll’s meaty hand closed painfully on Torvald’s shoulder. ‘The bastard!’ he hissed, giving out a cloud of stale alcohol. ‘You can’t do that!’ he bellowed into the hall.

Lim’s thin brows rose. ‘I see that we are fortunate in this time of threat to have Councillor Coll with us. You have a proposal for the floor, do you?’

‘Only that the office of Legate was abolished centuries ago because of its abuses!’

‘Hear, hear!’ called Councillor D’Arle.

‘And short-sighted and mistaken that was too,’ Lim answered. ‘For how else can the city respond quickly and authoritatively to sudden emergencies?’

A cheer went up from the gathered councillors. Coll slowly shook his head. ‘A stacked deck, as they say,’ he murmured to Torvald.

‘We will now vote upon the reinvestment of the position of temporary Legate of Council,’ called out the clerk. ‘All in favour raise hands.’

Almost all raised their hands. Coll and Torvald did not.

‘Proposal carried,’ announced the clerk.

A great cheer answered that pronouncement. The councillors congratulated one another, slapping backs and shaking hands. The celebration seemed premature to Torvald as they had yet to actually do anything.

Councillor D’Arle pushed his way forward. ‘And I suppose you would tender your name for this post?’ The man’s voice was icy with scorn.

Lim bowed. ‘Yes. Since Councillor D’Arle has been good enough to mention it.’

The old councillor’s jaws snapped shut.

‘Seconded!’ another councillor shouted.

It occurred to Torvald that the man with him was probably the only councillor who could boast of any direct military training or experience and that time was running out. He shouted, ‘I nominate Councillor Coll!’

‘What in Oponn’s name are you doing?’ Coll ground through clenched teeth.

Silence answered the shout. Councillor Lim squinted down at Torvald. A look of distaste clenched his pale fleshless face. ‘And you are …?’

‘Nom, Torvald Nom.’

‘Councillor,’ Coll hissed.

‘Councillor! Ah, Nom.’

Lim inclined his head in greeting. ‘I see. Welcome, then, to House Nom, so long absent from these proceedings. We have a nomination on the floor. Does anyone second?’

Silence, then a young woman’s voice called out, ‘I second.’

Torvald sat to find Coll glaring at him. ‘I don’t know whether to thank you or call you out,’ the man growled.

‘Don’t you think you should be Legate?’

‘If reason and logic ruled the world no one would be Legate. But it doesn’t rule. Power and influence does. And I have neither. I am sorry to say that you have made yourself some enemies this day, my friend.’

‘Well, we’re off to a good start then. Who was that who seconded?’

‘Councillor Redda Orr. Most say she is too young to sit on the Council, but she has a sharp political mind and grew up in these halls.’

‘Friend of yours?’

‘No. She just hates House Lim. Blames them for her father’s death.’

‘Ah.’ Rather belatedly it occurred to Torvald that he had just leapt into a kind of gladiatorial free-for-all without knowing any of the rules or the players. But then, why should he change the habits of a lifetime? He’d always run a very fast and loose game. Never mind the poor record scattered in his wake — he was alive, wasn’t he? There were many others who couldn’t boast as much.

‘Very good,’ announced the clerk. ‘We will now vote upon the nomination of Councillor Lim to the position of temporary Legate of Council. All in favour?’

Almost all hands rose. The clerk did a quick count. ‘We have a majority of forty-two votes. Nomination carried.’

This time a stunned silence answered the announcement, as if those gathered could not believe that they’d actually succeeded. Then an enormous cheer arose, councillors laughing, reaching up to clasp Lim’s hands, hugging one another.

‘I wonder just how much all this cost,’ Coll murmured into the clamour. ‘A family fortune, I imagine.’

Speaking of money, it occurred to Torvald that he still had to break the news to Tis. Perhaps he should visit the bourse of the flower-sellers before heading home. And on the subject of costly items, just how huge was his new income from this prestigious post?

‘Excuse me for being so ill-mannered, friend Coll … but what is the pay for sitting on this assembly?’

The big man frowned. His thick greying brows bunched down over his eyes, almost obscuring them. ‘Pay? There’s no pay associated with a seat on the Council. It’s a service. One’s civic duty. However,’ and here the man strove to keep his face straight, ‘monies do flow to members … in direct relation to their power and influence upon the Council …’

Torvald slumped into a nearby seat. In other words, his earnings would amount to the impressive sum of zero. Perhaps for the immediate future it would be better if he avoided returning home altogether …

Impatient banging brought Jess lumbering once more to the doors of the Phoenix Inn. She unlatched the lock to peer out into the glaring morning light. A tall dark figure brushed in past her, imperious.

‘Not — oh, it’s you,’ she said, blinking. She shuffled to the kitchen to wake Chud.

Rallick crossed to the rear table, which stood covered in clumps of old wax, stained by spills of red Rhivi wine. Empty wine bottles crowded it, and crumbs lay scattered like the wreckage of war.

Jess came shuffling up to offer a glass of steaming tea. Rallick took it. ‘Thank you.’ He blew on the small tumbler, then sipped. ‘So … where is he?’

Jess cocked a brow at the man — a man rumoured to be the lover of Vorcan, once head of the city’s guild of assassins. And thus to her a man commanding a great deal of physical … tension. She kept her eyes on him. ‘Where’s who?’

‘The toad … self-proclaimed Eel. The fat man.’

She swept an arm to the table. ‘Why, he’s right-’ She stared, gaping. ‘Fanderay’s tits! He’s not here! He’s buggered off! Where’s he got to?’ A hand closed over her mouth. ‘Oh, Burn’s mercy … who’s gonna cover his tab? Have you seen the size of his tab?’

Rallick handed over the glass. ‘No. And I don’t care to, thank you.’ He headed for the door.

‘Where are you going?’

Without stopping Rallick answered, ‘Looks like maybe it’s up to me to settle accounts, Jess. I seem to be the only one around here willing to do it.’

Of all the men and women she’d seen in the Phoenix Inn it had always appeared to Jess that Rallick was the one who could close any debt. But this was a damnably huge one.

Rallick pushed open the ornamental wrought-iron gate that allowed entrance to the grounds of the alchemist Baruk’s modest estate. He walked the curving flagged path past subdued plantings of flowering shrubs. A small fountain tinkled spray from the mouth of an amphora held at a boy’s stone shoulder. Leaves cluttered the surface of the pond, as did something else: a piece of litter, or wind-tossed garbage. Rallick’s long face drew down, accentuating the deep lines framing his mouth.

Baruk’s grounds were always immaculate.

He pulled on a pair of leather gloves and extracted the litter from the sodden leaves. A card. A card from an expensive custom-made Dragons Deck. Soaked now, and flame-scorched. Turning it over, he grunted. A card of rulership: Crown. He dropped it back into the glimmering water.

The front door was unlocked. He lifted the latch and pushed it open. Inside lay destruction. Shards of ceramic urns and expensive glassware littered the carpet of the entranceway. Paintings had been thrown down; furniture overturned.

Rallick crouched to his haunches just outside the threshold. He drew pieces of wood and metal from his pockets and waist until he’d assembled a medium-sized crossbow, its metal parts blued. The sort of weapon that would immediately have you arrested should anyone catch sight of it.

He loaded it, then cocked it by slipping a foot into its stirrup and straightening. Then he crossed his arms, cradling the weapon across his chest. He called out, ‘Roald? Hello? Anyone?’

No answer. He heard the wind brushing through nearby boughs; a carriage made its noisy metal-tyred way down one of the alleys bordering the estate. In the light of the sun he studied the weave of the carpet lining the entranceway.

Smooth well-worn slippers. The foot narrow, gracile. Yet the impression very heavy. Female. Slim but hefty? Entering then leaving. Trod over some shards as she left. Agent of the vandalism? No other recent traffic … except … the ghostliest of hints. A brushing across the rich weft as of broad, splayed moccasined feet slipping side to side, never lifting, entering and exiting also. And before the woman arrived, as her tracks obscure these others. An interesting puzzle.

He rose, edged inwards. Over the years he’d done occasional work for Baruk; non-assassination jobs, gathering intelligence, trailing people, collecting rare objects, and such like. As had Kruppe, Murillio, and sometimes Coll. Indeed, it was this very work that had thrown the lot of them together. Four as unlikely associates as one might imagine. In any case, he knew enough to be very wary of crossing this particular threshold.

But others had entered already, to no ill effects he could discern. He peered into the nearest room opening off the foyer. Some sort of waiting room. Complete carnage and wanton devastation. Everything broken, thrown to the floor. Vandalism. Plain juvenile vindictiveness.

He moved on. Up the narrow tower stairs he found chambers similarly ruined. So far he couldn’t tell if the intruder had come deliberately searching for something and was venting her frustration upon failing to discover it, or whether such destruction, or insult, had been the prime purpose of the visitation from the start.

He glanced into what appeared to have been some sort of workroom. Delicate glass fragments of globes covered the bare stone floor, as did the tattered remains of torn books and scrolls. Workbenches had been swept clear of their clutter, which now lay in tangled heaps on the floor.

His foot crushed a glass shard and a chest flew open across the room. Rallick’s crossbow snapped out, seeming to point of its own accord, only to fall again — a squat toad-like familiar, or demon, was peeping out, its amber eyes huge with fear. ‘Gone!’ it croaked. ‘Out! Oh my!’

Rallick frowned, his mouth drawing down even further. ‘Who? Who’s out?’

‘Hinter gone! Out. Oh my!’

Hinter? As in the old ghost story Hinter of Hinter’s Tower?

‘Where’s Baruk?’

‘Gone! Oh my!’

‘And the place ransacked,’ Rallick muttered, more to himself.

‘Not all,’ and the demon’s clawed hand flew to cover its mouth.

With a jerk of the crossbow, Rallick motioned the creature from the chest.

The demon led him down the narrow circular staircase, which continued on past ground level, passing floor after floor of quarters, storerooms, and workrooms. Rallick had had no idea the place was so extensive. It seemed so small from the outside. The creature stopped at what appeared to be the lowest floor. Rallick lit a wall-mounted lantern and raised it to peer around. The room was bare, almost completely empty. Nothing to vandalize here. Old inscriptions covered the floor in ever-narrowing circles. Old metal-working tools lined the walls: tongs, hammers, a small portable forge, twinned anvils. The demon waddled to a heavy metal chest against one wall, only to recoil as if struck.

‘Oh no!’ it gibbered. ‘Out! Out!’ It slapped its bald head with its tiny undersized clawed hands and hopped from foot to foot.

‘What’s out?’

‘Scary big man squash us with hammer for this! Oh no!’

Hammer?

Rallick crossed to the chest. It was constructed of thick metal plates. A lock at its front hung open. He pulled on the lid, failed to budge it. He set down the crossbow, clasped a hand at either side of the lid and lifted. It grated, edging upwards. He strained, gasping, managed to lever it up to clang back against the stone wall. It was a full hand’s thickness of dull metal.

‘A lot of lead,’ he muttered.

‘Not lead!’ the creature answered. ‘Magic-killing metal!’

Rallick flinched from the chest. Otataral! An entire box of the metal? Beru fend! Why, an ounce of this would bring a man a fortune!

Within, a length of white silk lined the bottom, empty.

The demon was blubbering, hands at its head. ‘Scary big man mustn’t know! He will flatten us all!’

Something lay scattered on the dusty stones of the floor next to the chest. Rallick bent to study the mess. Crumbs? And next to that, a ring-stain — as of a wine glass? He pressed a finger to the crumbs, touched it to his tongue. Pastry crumbs?

He straightened, asked almost absently, ‘What was in the chest?’

The demon’s hands were now squeezing its own neck. ‘The master’s most awful terrible possessions of all!’ it choked, throttling itself. ‘Flakes. Slivers. Little scary slivers.’

‘Slivers of what?’

The creature’s already red face now glowed bright carmine. Its amber eyes bulged. ‘Slivers of death!’ it gurgled in a seeming last gasp, and fell, fat stomach heaving.

Rallick regarded the empty otataral chest. Slivers of death?

Went, Filless and Scarlon, the three cadre mages assigned to Ambassador Aragan’s contingent of the Fifth, were busy in the embassy cellar sorting through files for destruction. None noticed the presence of the slim young girl until she cleared her throat. Then all three looked up from the folders and string-bound sheaves of orders and logistical summaries to stare, dumbfounded, at what appeared to be a dancing girl in loose white robes with silver bracelets rattling on her wrists.

‘Are you lost, child?’ Filless demanded, first to recover her wits.

‘You three do constitute the last full Imperial mage cadre in this theatre, do you not?’ the girl enquired, and she smiled, demurely.

The three exchanged wondering glances. ‘You are a guest of the ambassador …?’ Scarlon offered, tentatively.

The pale girl drew up her long mane of black hair, knotted it through itself. ‘No. I am the last thing you will ever see.’

All three dived for cover, summoning their Warrens; none lived long enough to channel them. Filless died last, and hardest, as she was not only a mage of Denul but the last Claw of the contingent as well.

It was half a day before the mess was discovered.

Ambassador Aragan kicked through the wreckage of singed papers, destroyed tables, blood and gore-smeared folders cluttering the cellar. His aide, Dreshen, stood at a distance, as did the hastily assembled bodyguard of marines.

The ambassador was in a filthy mood.

‘No one heard a thing? Not a damned thing?’ he demanded, turning on them.

‘No, sir,’ Dreshen answered, wincing.

‘Someone enters the estate, happens to find all three of our cadre mages together in the same room, and kills them all without so much as a peep?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And of course the only ones who could be counted on to sense anything happen to be the very three lying here!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dreshen swallowed to settle his stomach as the ambassador squatted on his haunches next to the ravaged body of Filless: the woman’s face had been torn as if by jagged blades and her midriff had been slashed open, her looped entrails spilt out over her lap. Aragan stared down moodily at the corpse, drew a hand across the woman’s staring eyes to shut them. Dreshen felt his knees going weak at the sight of all the ropy blue and pink viscera.

Aragan used some of the scattered papers to wipe the blood from his hands. He stood, and started to pace again. ‘An act of war, Captain. An Osserc-damned act of war.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In the Academy this is what you’d call a “pre-emptive strike”.’

‘Sir?’

‘We’re effectively cut off now, aren’t we, Captain?’

‘Ah. Yes, sir.’

‘Communications neatly severed. No cadre mages to contact Unta. No access to the Imperial Warren.’ Aragan turned. ‘There must be some talents among the rankers, surely?’

‘Minor only, sir. None trained in cadre protocols.’

The ambassador stood still, apparently thinking. He had that wide-legged stance of big men, when in fact most of his size was a broad circle around his middle. He pulled on his lower lip, his mouth drawn down in a moue of angry disgust. ‘An act of war …’ he mused. ‘Someone’s made their opening moves against us and we don’t even know who we’re facing yet! We are too far behind.’ He pointed to Dreshen. ‘What about Fist K’ess? He must have cadre.’

Dreshen nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes … but none to spare, I’m sure. There’s still fighting in the north.’

Aragan grunted, accepting this. ‘And Fist Steppen?’

His aide cocked his head. ‘I don’t believe there are any active cadre in the south.’

Aragan looked to the low ceiling. Ye gods! That the Empire of Nightchill, Tattersail and Tayschrenn should be reduced to this! It would be laughable if it weren’t so damned tragic! Very well. If it’s to be war … then war it shall be.

He crossed to the stairs. His bodyguard parted to make way for him. He stopped before his aide. ‘Get the box, Captain.’

Dreshen frowned, uncertain. ‘The box, sir?’

‘Yes. The box.’

Dreshen’s pale thin brows rose. ‘Ah! The box. Yes, sir. Here?’

The ambassador peered about the cellar, shook his head. ‘No. Upstairs.’

Aragan waited in his office, hands clasped behind his back. Eventually Captain Dreshen entered, followed by two marines carrying a small battered travel trunk which they thumped down heavily on a table. Aragan motioned the marines out. He reached for the buckles securing the leather straps around the iron box but hesitated at the last moment and looked to Dreshen. ‘Well, let’s just hope I’m allowed to open this.’

The captain offered a strained smile. ‘Of course, sir.’

Aragan undid the buckles, opened the latches, and swung up the lid. Within lay a long thin object wrapped in oiled leathers. Captain Dreshen studied the item, mystified. The truth was, he had no idea what was in the box — other than that the cadre mages all considered it the most important artefact the Fifth Army possessed.

Aragan pulled off the oiled wrap and Dreshen caught his breath, stepping back. Burn, Oponn and Fanderay protect him. No. It couldn’t be …

His mouth drawn wide in satisfaction, Aragan hefted the thing in one hand. It was about the length of a long-knife. One end was a blade, the other sculpted into a three-toed bird’s foot grasping a frosted orb of glass or crystal.

An Imperial Sceptre.

Aragan slammed the artefact blade-first into the table. The gleaming point bit deep into the wood and the sceptre stood upright, at a slight angle. Aragan set his fists to the table on either side, studied the orb. Despite his awe, Dreshen edged forward as well.

Aragan cleared his throat. ‘This is Ambassador Aragan in Darujhistan. I do not know whether anyone is listening, or if this message will reach anyone, but I must report that all the remaining mage cadre of the Fifth have been murdered. Assassinated. Cadre Filless may have also reported that our allies, the Moranth, have fled the city — terrified, as far as I can see. Something is stirring here in the city and it has moved against us. This is our only remaining communication channel to command. If Unta values Darujhistan then some sort of help must be sent. That is all.’

The ambassador pushed himself from the table, stood with arms crossed regarding the sceptre. Dreshen watched as well, though for what he had no idea.

After a protracted silence during which nothing apparently changed in the state of the sceptre, Dreshen coughed into a fist. ‘How long,’ he began, ‘until …’

‘Until we know? Until they answer — or if anyone’s going to answer at all?’ Aragan shrugged his round shoulders. ‘Who knows.’ He peered round the room. ‘Until then I want this room sealed and guarded. Yes, Captain?’

‘Yes, sir.’

They shut and sealed all the doors, locking the last one behind them. While Aragan waited Captain Dreshen went to find two marines to post on the door.

Behind, in the gloom of the office, the only light was the glow through the slats of the folding terrace doors, now barred from within. And it may have been a trick of that uncertain light, but deep within the depths of the orb, a glimmering awakened and the clouds, like a storm of snow, began to churn.

When Spindle finally started awake, fully clothed on his cot, he lay back and held his head, groaning. No more Barghast mead. Never again. Even warm, as he’d had it with Duiker. Though come to think of it, the historian had drunk little more than one tumbler from the jug.

Holding his head very still for fear that it might fall off, he carefully edged his way down the stairs to the common room. By the light streaming in through the temple-bar’s few windows he saw that it was late afternoon. Damned well slept most of the day — a bad sign. Discipline’s goin’ by the wayside.

Now that the bar was wet once more a few of the regulars had returned to sit by themselves among the tables and booths. Irredeemable souses all, they spent the day expertly maintaining a steady state of numbness bordering on unconsciousness. Watching them, Spindle sometimes worried that that was where he was headed. Somehow, though, the abstract dread was not enough to stop him from getting hammered whenever possible.

He was surprised to see some tall well-dressed fellow sitting with the historian, and slowly eased himself down into a chair at the table. The two older men shared a knowing, amused glance.

‘Care for another to chase that one away?’ Duiker asked.

Spindle showed his teeth. ‘Evil bastard.’

The historian — a dour grim man at the best of times — offered a death’s-head grin. He motioned to his companion, ‘Fisher, Spindle.’

The bard nodded his greeting, his face held tight — Spindle recognized this as the politest possible reaction he could get to his hair shirt, which he never washed. He was surprised that this was the fellow Picker and Blend had spoken of: he had thought he’d be more imposing, more … mysterious. And they said he didn’t come round much any more. Taken up with a witch, or some such thing. He turned to the historian. ‘Remind me to never buy mead again.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ Duiker answered.

Spindle blew out a breath, rubbed his face. ‘Damned strange night last night.’ He tried to get the attention of Picker behind the bar.

‘They have been strange, lately,’ Fisher affirmed, his gaze distant.

‘Last night?’ Duiker asked, a grey brow arching. ‘You mean two nights ago, don’t you?’

Spindle stared, amazed. Damn, but time flies when you finally have coin in your pocket!

‘Spindle, why don’t you tell Fisher here what you thought you saw two nights ago.’

Spindle waved to Picker, who looked right through him. ‘Does a man have to get his own tea and a bite around here?’ he murmured absently. Then he stiffened and half started up from the table, only to groan and sink back down again, holding his head. ‘Beru take it!’

The historian lost his amused half-smile and studied him, uncertain. ‘What is it?’

Ye gods! Two days and I haven’t reported in! What was that woman’s name? Fells? Fillish? Damn! The saboteur’s bloodshot eyes darted right and left and his face took on a pale greenish hue. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll get me some soup.’ He nodded a curt goodbye and ran.

After Spindle had darted out of the bar Duiker said to Fisher, ‘There goes one of the last remaining Bridgeburner cadre mages. Or rather, a mage who thinks he’s a saboteur.’

Fisher touched a long thin finger to his nose and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, there was a certain air about him.’

The papers in Humble Measure’s hands did not so much as quiver when the double doors to his office were kicked open and his secretary was pushed in before an armed and armoured knot of the city watch. His brows, however, did climb his pale forehead as he peered up from the accounts. ‘And to what do I owe this interruption?’ he asked from across the darkened room.

‘They wouldn’t-’ the secretary began only to be hushed by a wave from a man accompanying the guards. This fellow wore plain, rather cheap dark woollen robes.

‘The business of the ruling Council of Darujhistan does not wait for appointments, nor sit patiently for the pleasure of a mere merchant.’

Measure nodded to himself, setting the papers down on the cluttered desk before him. ‘Ah, yes. Council business. Pray tell, what business could the Council have with this mere merchant?’

The young man produced a sealed scroll from his robes. ‘By order of the ruling Council of Darujhistan, as countenanced by its newly elected City Legate, this business is seized as property of said Council as a strategic resource vital to the defence of the city.’ He swallowed as if out of breath, or awed by the significance of what he had just blurted out.

Humble Measure cocked one brow. ‘Indeed?’

‘It is of course your prerogative to dispute the Council’s decision. You are free to appeal the judgement with the relevant subcommittee-’

‘I am not disputing the Legate’s decision,’ Humble said calmly.

The young man continued: ‘All petitions must be reviewed before any hearing …’ He blinked, faltering. ‘Not disputing?’ he repeated as if uncomprehending.

Humble waved to dismiss the very possibility.

‘Not — that is — there will be no appeal?’

‘None. I’ve been expecting this, truth be told.’

The young clerk of the Council wet his lips then cleared his throat into a fist. ‘Very well. You are free to remain, of course, in a purely supervisory role, as the entire production capacity of these facilities is to be immediately given over to the manufacture-’

‘Of arms and armour,’ said Humble.

The clerk frowned at the scroll in his hands. ‘No … to the manufacture of construction materiel. Namely chain, bars, quarrying implements and such.’

Humble Measure stared at the fellow as if he hadn’t spoken, then said, very softly, ‘What was that? Construction materiel?’

‘Yes. And half your labour force is to be transferred to the salvage works at-’

The clerk broke off as Humble stalked round the desk to snatch the papers from his hand. The Watch guards pressed forward, wary. Humble read through the official pronouncement, and looked up to blink wonderingly. ‘This was not our — that is, I will take this up with the Legate.’

The clerk found himself on familiar ground and this emboldened him to gently take back the nested scrolls. ‘You are of course free to register for an appointment with the city court.’ He waited for a response, but the burly merchant seemed to ignore him as he returned to his position behind his formidable desk. ‘Official copies of this notification will remain on file with the court.’

The merchant waved him away. His job completed in any case, the clerk found no difficulty in bowing and withdrawing. He was relieved: he would now have time to stop at a street stall for steamed dumplings.

Humble Measure sat for some time staring off at the empty darkness of his shadowed office. His secretary watched from the shattered doors, not certain whether he should withdraw or not. Then the man let go a long hissed breath as if releasing something held deep within, something held for a very long time indeed. His hands were fists on the desk before him.

The secretary bowed, tentatively, ‘Your orders, sir?’

‘Cancel today’s schedule, Mister Shiff. I am … planning.’

‘Perhaps I should request an appointment with the office of the Legate, sir?’

‘No. No need for that, Mister Shiff.’

‘You do not desire an appointment?’

‘Oh, he’ll see me,’ said Humble. ‘You can be assured of that. He will see me.’

Out on the Dwelling Plain the wind snapped the tattered edges of the awning Scorch and Leff huddled beneath for protection against the glaring sun. In all directions scarves of dust and sand blew about the low, desiccated hills. Leff raised the earthenware jug he was holding to his cracked lips.

‘Ain’t no more water,’ Scorch said, watching him. ‘Ran out day b’fore yesterday.’ He blinked his eyes sleepily. ‘I think.’

Leff looked at the jug as if just noticing it. ‘Oh — right. F’got again.’ He heaved a tired sigh and set down the jug in the sand next to him, though he retained a firm grip at its neck. ‘You know,’ he mumbled, forcing himself to swallow, ‘I don’t think they’re comin’ back.’

‘Who’s not comin’ back? The lads? That Gadrobi hag?’

‘Naw. Not them. They stole everything they could carry, didn’t they? Naw … I mean what’s-his-name. The chubby guy. Our employer.’

‘Not comin’ back?’ Scorch repeated, his face revealing his customary astonishment. ‘But he ain’t paid us!’

Leff’s long face paled in surprise. ‘Whaddya mean he ain’t paid us? Y’r supposed to take care of all that paperwork an’ such.’

Scorch shook his head in vigorous denial until he blinked, dizzy, and nearly toppled over. ‘That’s your side of the partnership.’

‘No. I clearly remember-’ Leff stopped because he discovered he’d once more raised the jug to his mouth. He let it fall. ‘Damn. Well, I guess we gotta find him.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Right. Find him.’ Then a sly look came to his bleary eyes and he touched a finger to the side of his nose. ‘But … come to think of it, he didn’t really fire us neither, did he?’

Scorch’s expression held its usual utter lack of comprehension. He slowly blinked again. ‘Hunh?’

‘I mean every day that passes he has to pay us for, right?’

Scorch drew breath to speak, stopped himself. His eyes widened and his lips formed a silent O of understanding. He eyed Leff, who nodded.

They started chuckling. Then they started laughing. They guffawed and slapped their thighs for a long time before they quietened down.

A shepherd minding his flock across the hills nearby heard the wind-borne crazy laughter of evil spirits and hurried his charges on with swift strikes of his staff. The fat gourds of water slung over his shoulders sloshed and rubbed his back raw.

He swore to the Mother Goddess he would never try this short cut through the hills again.

Ephren was by trade a fisherman in a nameless village on the coast where the Mengal mountains sweep down to the shores of the Meningalle Ocean. He was inspecting the caulking of his skiff which he had drawn up on the strand when six long vessels eased silently into the bay. He was curious, but not alarmed, since pirates and raiders were hardly known on this coast. While he watched, the vessels stepped their masts and sweeps ran out to drive them, with surprising speed, to shore.

As they drew closer he saw that the vessels’ lines were unlike those of any he knew: very long and low open galleys, their sides lined by rows of shields. These were not from Mengal, Oach, or distant Genabaris. Nor were they the fat carracks of the distant south, Callows, and the far-off Confederacy beyond.

When the shields resolved into oval painted masks Ephren’s skin shivered as if he had seen a shade and his heart lurched, almost failing. Once before he’d seen a similar vessel. He’d been trading in the south and such a ship had been drawn up on the shore for repairs. Its crew had been the talk of Callows; everyone stared though none had dared approach.

Seguleh, they’d whispered. Disarm yourself to approach — wait for one to address you then speak only to him or her.

And there had been some trading; the strangers’ amphorae of rare oils for food, sweet water, and timber. No one was wounded or killed. Indeed, the Seguleh had seemed just as curious as their hosts, wandering the markets and walking the fish wharves, if extraordinarily prideful and utterly aloof.

Others further up the shore were pointing now; word of the vessels’ arrival was spreading. Ephren studied the hammer and awl in his hands, then set them down and walked — never run! — to the hamlet to warn everyone.

All six longships were drawn up side by side. Ephren made certain everyone in the settlement was unarmed and warned them to just go about their normal business. But of course none did. Everyone gathered on the edge of the small curve of beach the Seguleh had landed upon.

There were more of them than he’d ever heard tell of. Down in Callows there’d been some four, together with a regular crew of hired Confederacy sailors — many of the latter outlawed men and women with blood-prices on their heads and nowhere else to turn. Here, all hands and crew were masked Seguleh; hundreds of them. It was an army. An invading army of Seguleh. Ephren almost fainted at the thought. Hoary Sea-Father! Who could withstand such a force? Why had they come? Was it in response to these other invaders — the foreign Malazans from across the sea? Perhaps that was the answer; the legendary Seguleh ire, finally provoked.

In any case they ignored Ephren and his family and neighbours. And instead of trading, or setting up camp to overnight, out came the amphorae of rare oils, which to Ephren’s astonishment and growing dread they upended over their vessels, splashing the contents all over the open holds and over the sides.

A single torch was lit. One of their number silently held it aloft. From a distance this one’s mask was very pale. He, or she, touched it to the nearest of the vessels and the yellow flames leapt quickly from one to the next. A great cloud of black smoke arose and billowed out to sea. The gathered Seguleh stood as still as statues, and as silent, watching.

Then, just as silently, they set out, two abreast, running inland. They took the track Ephren, his neighbours and their parents and grandparents before them had tramped up into the Mengal range, onward to Rushing River pass, then even further, twisting downslope towards the dusty Dwelling Plain far below.

The last to go was the one who had set flame to the vessels. After the last of his brethren had jogged off he remained, motionless, torch still in hand. Finally he dropped the blackened stick and walked up the beach to come within an arm’s length of Ephren. And as he passed, his walk so fluid and graceful, Ephren saw that a single smear of fading red alone marred the man’s otherwise pristine pale oval mask. He knew enough lore of the Seguleh to know what that should indicate. But still he could not believe it. It was unheard of. Unimaginable. And if in fact it was true — then perhaps this was not an invasion as he had thought.

It was, perhaps, in truth more … a migration.