Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER VI

Antsy dreamt of the northern campaigns. he was back in Black Dog Woods. He lay flat in the cold mud and snow as auroras and concatenations of ferocious war-magics flickered and danced overhead. Mist clung about the trees like cobwebs. His squad was hunched down around him, toothy grins gleaming through the camouflaging muck. Downslope, along a track of churned mud and ice, a column of Free Cities infantry filed past. He gave a ready hand-sign. He timed his move then leapt up, aimed, and fired his crossbow. A hail of bolts lanced down from either side of the road. The column became a churning mass of screaming men.

The contingent’s leader ignored the missiles. Wearing armour of blackened plates over mail, and a helm beaten to resemble a boar’s head, the man charged the slope. Behind him soldiers scattered, struggling in the rime and iced mud. The commander was headed straight for him. Antsy threw aside his crossbow, knowing it was useless as every bolt rebounded from the man’s virtued armour. The Sogena City officer swept up a blade that resembled a cold blue shard of ice. No choice now but to pull a Hedge. Antsy threw a Moranth munition point-blank at the man’s iron-armoured chest.

His world shattered into white light as a giant’s fist slapped him backwards. He lay staring up at snow drifting over him like ash. He felt nothing, just a vague lightness. Faces crowded into his vision. Unending thunder reverberated in his ears.

‘Sarge? Antsy? You alive, man?’

He swallowed hot blood mixed with bile. Countless gashes stung his face, and his chest was cold with wet blood. He grabbed one trooper, a woman, and tried to raise himself. ‘Did I get the bugger?’

‘Yeah, Sarge. You drove him off good.’

Something was stabbing at his arm. Antsy snatched the hand, twisted it, and got a girl’s surprised squeak. He looked up, blinking, into darkness. A weak bronze light was shining up the stairwell of the Spawn, and in its glow he saw Orchid glaring at him. ‘Sorry.’ He released her hand.

‘Your neck bled in the night. Did you reopen it on the rocks?’

‘Something like that. Where’re Malakai, Corien?’

‘Malakai went further in, exploring. Corien went down to the water. Now take off that armour. I have dressings and a balm.’

He pulled at the laces of his hauberk — more of a jack, really, what some might call a brigandine. Mail over layers of leather toughened by bone and antler banding glued between them. Beneath this he wore a quilted aketon padded with hessian, and under that a linen shirt. When he pulled the shirt over his head Orchid let out a hiss — he presumed at all the scars of old wounds and the crusted blood from his dash against the rocks.

‘Corien told me you were a professional soldier. I’ve never met one before. What’s this?’

She was pointing to the tattoo on his shoulder of an arch in front of a field of flames. He thought about lying, then decided it really didn’t matter any more. ‘That’s my old unit. The Bridgeburners. All gone now.’

‘Disbanded?’

‘Dead.’

‘Oh.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘Is that why it’s glowing and the flames are moving?’

‘Glowing?’ He raised his arm to study it. ‘It ain’t glowing.’

The girl was frowning, but she shrugged. ‘I thought it was.’ She handed him a wet cloth. ‘Clean yourself up. I guess that makes you my enemy,’ she added, musing, watching him wipe away the blood.

‘Oh? You from the north?’

She glanced away, biting at her lip. ‘Sort of. Anyway, you sacked the Free Cities.’

‘Sacked ain’t the word. Most capitulated.’

She took back the cloth, began cleaning the wound on his neck, rather savagely. ‘Who wouldn’t in the face of your Claw assassins? Your awful Moranth munitions?’

He winced. ‘Careful there, girl.’

‘You use them, don’t you? Bridgeburners? Siegeworkers, sappers, saboteurs?’

‘Yeah. That’s right.’

She pushed herself away. ‘It’s not deep, and it’s clean now.’ She dug into her shoulder bag then suddenly looked up. ‘Those are the things in your pannier bags, yes? The things Malakai wants?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You would have used them against Darujhistan, wouldn’t you? Razed the city?’

‘I suppose so. If it came to a siege.’

She threw a leather pouch at him. ‘Put that on the wound. You Malazans are nothing more than an army of invading murderers and bullies. Barbarians.’

Antsy saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

They sat at opposite ends of the tilted chamber in silence the rest of the time. Antsy pulled on his shirts and hauberk then set to oiling his weapons and tools. Orchid wrapped herself in Malakai’s cloak, which was dry; the man must have thrown it off before diving into the water. Digging through the equipment Antsy found a lamp: a simple bowl with a wick. Utterly useless. And without a light he was useless. What a way to pull together a cache for his retirement.

Oh well, he’d probably just have died of boredom anyway.

Corien returned first. He climbed the stairs carrying an armload of flotsam: broken boards, lengths of rope, pieces of broken furniture cut from some dark wood. He dropped the lot in the lowest corner of the chamber then brushed at his brocaded finery.

‘What’s all this?’ Orchid demanded.

He bowed. ‘Well, we are wet and the air in here is chill. That calls for a fire.’

‘That won’t burn. Half of it is wet.’

He looked to Antsy. ‘Would you care to do the honours?’

‘Certainly.’ Antsy crab-walked across the canted floor. He dug in the equipment for a skin of oil, from which he poured one precious stream over the refuse before pulling out his flint and iron.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Orchid, and she clambered to the opposite side.

All it took was a few strikes at the driest length of old rope and the hairs began to sizzle. Blue and yellow flames enveloped the pile. ‘Excellent,’ said Corien. ‘Now, Orchid, you first.’

‘Me first what?’

‘Your clothes. We ought to dry your clothes. You have that big cloak to wrap yourself in.’

She snorted. ‘Tell you what — you two wander up the hallway to take a look while I dry my clothes.’

Corien bowed again. ‘Your wisdom is as unassailable as your beauty.’

She scowled at the courtly praise as if suspecting she was being mocked.

Antsy pushed Corien up the tunnel.

A cloud of sooty black smoke climbed with them. They shared a worried glance in the uncertain light of the fire before a leading edge of the cloud caught an updraught and the smoke was sucked deeper into the complex. Antsy eased out a tensed breath.

Corien led the way. Round the first corner it became almost instantly dark. Even for Antsy, trained and experienced sapper that he was, comfortable in any mine, it was unnervingly close and black. Like feeling your way through ink. He resisted the urge to call for Corien. The lad was just ahead, he could hear him: the scrape of the bronze end-cap of his sheath, his slightly tensed breathing, his gloved hands brushing the stone walls as they advanced like blind fish through the murk.

Beneath Antsy’s fingers the cut and polished stone walls were as smooth as glazed ceramic. He kept stumbling as the passage not only tilted upwards but canted a good twenty degrees. The walls slid by slick and cool under his fingertips. He glanced back and could just make out a slight lightening of the absolute black — a hint of the fire far behind. ‘How far on does this go?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can’t you see? I thought you had that unguent thing.’

He believed he glimpsed a bright grin in the gloom. ‘I do. I just haven’t used it yet.’

‘So we’re both blind as bats?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘This is useless — not to mention damned dangerous. We should stop here.’

‘I agree.’

Antsy slid down one wall. Examining the dark, it appeared that an intersection lay just ahead. Corien was a shadowy shape on his right. He pulled out a scrap of dried meat and chewed for a time. He felt as disheartened as he could ever remember. And for him, a career paranoiac, that was saying something. ‘So … this is it. The Spawn.’ He spoke in a low whisper. The darkness seemed to demand it. He wondered where Malakai had gone off to. He speculated, briefly, that the man had simply abandoned them all as useless baggage. But probably not yet. Not before getting his fifty gold councils’ worth.

‘Indeed. The Moon’s Spawn,’ Corien echoed after a time.

‘So … why’d you come then? No insult intended, but you look like you got money.’

‘No offence taken. Yes, the Lim family’s been prominent in Darujhistan for generations. We practically own a seat on the Council. But money? No. Over the years my uncles have bankrupted us. They’ve pursued all sorts of reckless plans and political alliances. I think they’re taking the family in the wrong direction.’ He sighed in the dark. ‘But … if I’m to have any influence I must have some sort of leverage …’

‘So … the Spawn.’

‘Quite.’

‘I understand. Well, good luck.’

‘Thank you. And you? The same?’

Antsy shrugged, then realized neither of them could see a thing. His personal reason for coming here to the Spawn was just that, personal. So he fell back on the obvious and cleared his throat. ‘Pretty much. I never expected to get old. Didn’t think I’d live long enough. Hood’s grasp, none of my friends have. Anyway, a man starts to think about his final years. Retiring from soldiering. I need a nest-egg, as they say. Buy some land, or an inn. Find a wife and have kids and be a cranky burden to them. And-’ He stopped himself as he seemed to sense something close, watching them, though he could see nothing in the dense murk of shadows.

‘Hear that?’ he whispered. He listened and after a moment’s concentration began to hear the background noises of the Spawn. Groaning seemed to be emerging from the very stone — the conflicting strains and forces of tons of rock held somehow in suspension, as if waiting, poised, ready to drop at any instant. Antsy suddenly felt very small. A roach in a quarry and the rocks are falling.

Or was it his sense of not being alone: that this darkness was no ordinary lack of light? After all, the Spawn had been an artefact holy to Elemental Night. He’d heard stories that Mother Dark herself lingered on in all such shrines. He cleared his throat, whispered, ‘You don’t think there’re any spooks ’n’ such, do you? Here in the dark?’

‘Well, now that you mention it, Red … of all the places I can imagine being overrun by your spooks ’n’ such, this would have to be it.’

Antsy shot the young man a glance and saw his teeth grinning bright in the gloom. ‘Burn dammit, man! You really had me going there.’

‘I agree with our fancy friend,’ said another voice from the dark.

Corien flinched upright, his long duelling blade coming free in a swift fluid hiss. Antsy’s hand went to his pannier. He squinted into the murk; the voice had been Malakai’s but the hall seemed utterly empty. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t see, it was that the hall felt vacant. ‘Malakai?’

Then he saw it against one wall: an oval pale smear that was Malakai’s face, seemingly floating over nothing, so dark was his garb. Eyes that were no more than black holes in the oval shifted to glance up the hall.

‘What’s this?’

‘We’re all wet and cold,’ Corien offered. ‘I thought that called for a fire.’

‘The girl?’

‘Presently availing herself of it to dry her clothes.’

The face grimaced, perhaps at the delay. ‘Fine. I’ll continue to reconnoitre.’

‘What have you found so far?’ Antsy asked.

Malakai answered slowly, as if resenting having to share anything at all. ‘This area has been emptied of everything. All valuables, all possessions. Even every scrap of furniture. Fuel for fires, I imagine.’

‘Any lanterns? Lamps?’

The ghost of a smile touched and went from the pale lips. ‘What need would the Children of the Night have for those?’ Then he was gone in the dark, utterly without a sound.

Snarling, Antsy fell back against the wall. ‘Hood on a pointy spike! No lamps at all? Nothing? What am I supposed to do?’

‘There are other people here. They’ll have lanterns and such.’

Antsy eyed the youth, who was grinning his encouragement. He shrugged. ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

They sat for a time in silence, Antsy’s vision gradually adapting to the dark. He caught Corien waving after Malakai. ‘Your employer seems one to prefer working alone.’

‘Yeah. I get that feeling too.’

‘Then, may I ask … why did he hire the two of you?’

Antsy cleared his throat while he considered what to say. ‘Well, me he hired as a guard. An’ Orchid, she’s a trained healer and says she can read the Andii scribbles.’

After a time Corien said, ‘If she really can read the language then I can see how she would be valuable. And you are this fellow’s guard? In truth, he strikes me as the sort one should guard against.’ And he chuckled at his witticism.

Not wanting to dig himself in any more, Antsy added nothing. Corien, ever polite, refrained from further questions. They sat in silence. As the time passed, Antsy became aware of more sounds surrounding him. He could hear the waves of the Rivan Sea shuddering up through the rock like a resting giant’s heartbeat. Other noises intruded: the fire crackling and popping, and faintly, once or twice, what sounded like voices from far away, further into the maze of halls and rooms ahead.

He heard Orchid coming up the hall long before she called, tentatively, ‘Hello?’

‘Yes?’ Corien answered.

She walked up to them with the ease of one completely unhindered by the dark. ‘All done. Or good enough, anyway. Help yourselves. The embers are hot.’

Antsy let out a thoughtful breath. ‘I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna dry my footgear. You should too, Corien. We could be facing a lot of walking, and believe me, there’s nothin’ worse than blisters and sore feet on a march.’

‘Very well. I bow to your superior experience.’

Antsy wasn’t sure how to respond to that; he didn’t detect any hint of sarcasm. The lad seemed to be one of those rare ones who could actually take advice without resentment or sullenness. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a burden after all.

They dried what gear they could while the embers lasted. Corien re-oiled his weapons. Watching, Antsy thought him too liberal with his oil: it was damnably expensive stuff, but the lad could probably afford it.

‘So where is Malakai?’ Orchid asked.

‘Reconnoitring,’ Corien answered.

The girl made a face in the dimming orange glow. ‘I hope he never comes back.’

‘Our chances are better with him,’ Antsy said.

‘Very true,’ Corien added. ‘Red and I are blind in the dark.’

‘I thought you had some sort of preparation.’

‘That is true. However, it is only good for a short time.’

‘So you lied to Malakai?’

‘Not at all. He didn’t ask how long it would be effective.’

She let out a frustrated growl. ‘So this is it? You two come all this way just to sit and wait for Malakai to hold your hands?’

‘Hey now!’ Antsy protested. ‘Just a minute there, girl.’

‘Well? What are you going to do about it?’

Antsy took a long breath, thinking. ‘You can see fine?’

‘Yes. Never better. My vision seems even stronger than before.’

He nodded, then remembered Corien might not see. ‘Okay. We’ll pack up, then.’

They shared out the waterskins, the panniers of food, and the equipment. Antsy wondered where in the Abyss Malakai had gotten to but there was nothing he could do about the man’s absence. And anyway, there was nothing the man could do about his blindness either.

Leaning close, Corien murmured, ‘Very strong-willed, our lass.’

Antsy merely grunted his assent. Tongue like a whip dipped in tar and sand. The girl’s jibe had gotten under his skin. Were they malingering here on the doorstep because they were afraid to venture in? He’d always pulled his weight; he was proud of that. He might not be crazy brave, but neither did he ever shirk. Was he losing his edge?

They felt their way up the hall. Antsy had Corien leading, sword drawn, himself next, and Orchid bringing up the rear. As they walked, awkward and slow over the tilted floors, he assembled his crossbow. That at least he could do blind.

At an intersection of four halls he whispered for a halt. ‘All right,’ he said to Orchid. ‘Which way? What do you think?’

‘Let’s ask Malakai,’ she said.

‘Okay … just where in the Abyss is he?’

‘Right over there.’ She must’ve pointed but he couldn’t catch the motion. ‘I see you skulking in that doorway, Malakai. Enjoying yourself?’

Silence. Not a brush of sleeve or scuff of booted heel. Then Antsy flinched as directly in front of him he heard the man say, ‘Well done, Orchid. I’d thought you the least of the party. But perhaps you and I could manage things on our own. These two don’t seem to be of much use.’

‘What of Red’s munitions?’

‘There’s much less structural damage than I’d feared. Perhaps they won’t be needed.’

Antsy had had enough of them talking as if he wasn’t standing right there and he cleared his throat. ‘Listen, if there’s no light then I will turn round and leave. There’s no point in me going on.’

Silence. Malakai murmured, ‘Leave? It seems plain there’s no going back.’ He sounded as if he was enjoying giving this news far too much.

‘What do you mean? I’ll just wait for another boat.’

‘I overheard they drop people off at different places each time.’

Antsy wanted to punch the bastard. He squinted so hard stars burst before his light-starved eyes. ‘But a pick-up? There must be a pick-up!’

‘Yes. A place called the Gap of Gold, apparently. Just where that is I have no idea.’ From the man’s tone Antsy could imagine him arching a brow there in the darkness. ‘We’ll just have to poke around …’

Antsy managed to bite back his yelled opinion of that. He almost exploded, so great was the wash of rage and frustration that coursed through him. No wonder no one had returned in so long! This island was a death trap — and he’d walked right in like a lamb! You damned fool. You should’ve known better than this.

He realized that the others were talking and that he had no idea what they’d been discussing. ‘What’s that?’

‘Some way ahead,’ Malakai said. ‘People. I spotted them earlier. They have a few lights burning.’

That was all Antsy needed to hear. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Let’s go!’

‘I’ll go first,’ Malakai cautioned. ‘Give the crossbow to Orchid.’

‘She can’t use it. She’d put one in your back.’

‘At least she’d have a better view of her target than you would. What do you say, Orchid? Will you take it?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, reluctantly, her voice sour with distaste. ‘I suppose so.’

Antsy held out the weapon, felt her take it.

‘Okay. Red, Corien, you two are in the middle. Orchid will follow, guiding you.’

Antsy growled.

They advanced in that order for some time. Orchid would whisper what was ahead, giving directions. Antsy trailed his left hand along a wall, his shortsword out. Malakai led them on through hallway after hallway, round corners, past open portals that gaped as blind emptiness to Antsy’s questing fingers. It seemed to him that the air was steadily getting warmer. And he was completely lost. Then a familiar stink offended his nose. To Antsy it was like a veteran’s homecoming: the pungent miasma of an old encampment. Smoke, the stale stink of long unwashed bodies, vile latrines. He heard snatches of exchanged words, echoes of footsteps, wood being broken and chopped.

Ahead, his light-deprived eyes beheld what seemed like a golden sunset far overhead. He stopped, squinted his disbelief. The apparition resolved itself into light reflecting off a high domed ceiling. Silver paint or perhaps actual gems dotted stars and wisps across the dome in constellations completely unfamiliar to him. The night sky of true Night? Something for philosophers to get into fistfights over.

Orchid whispered, ‘Malakai’s at some kind of low wall or balcony ahead. He’s signalling for you … wants you to crawl over.’

‘Straight ahead?’

‘Yes.’

Grunting, Antsy sheathed his shortsword and got down to crawl along the cool polished stone floor until his hand hit a wall.

‘To your right,’ Malakai hissed. Antsy shuffled along until he touched the man.

‘Okay. Take a look.’

He felt up to the lip of the wall and peered over. At first he saw nothing; the glare from what was only feeble lamplight blinded him. Then, slowly, he began to make out details. He was looking down about three or four storeys on to a city, or village, cut from solid rock. Light shone from a small huddle of buildings near its centre. People walked about, in and out of the light’s glare. Muted conversations sounded. A woman’s harsh laugh broke the relative quiet. He’d seen eight people so far.

‘What do you think?’ Malakai asked.

‘There’s a lot of them.’

‘At least twenty.’

‘Damn. Too many.’

‘I agree.’

‘There might be a watch up here somewhere.’

‘On the other side right now.’

‘Hunh. Time’s running out then. What do you have in mind?’

‘Parley for information.’

‘I agree. Who?’

‘You and Corien. I’ll shadow. Orchid stays out of sight.’

Antsy ran a thumbnail over his lips. ‘Okay. Rally to here?’

‘Might as well.’

Antsy waved for Corien and Orchid to come up.

It was a village sculpted from stone in every detail. Antsy and Corien descended a street of shallow stairs that ran between high walls cut with windows, doors, and even planters. All now was wreckage, tilted and uneven. Litter covered the street; fallen sheets of stone choked some alleys. Jagged cracks ran up the walls. And everywhere lay the remnants of water damage; they breathed in the stink of mouldering and mud. The stairs opened on to the main concourse of the houses the people occupied; they’d obviously just found the place and moved in.

Antsy felt naked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been without his munitions. He’d hated leaving them behind, but Malakai had been right: no sense in risking these people getting their hands on any. He carried only a dirk; Corien his parrying gauche. They advanced side by side down the middle of the street, careful to step over rubbish, broken possessions and scatterings of excrement. The population seemed to just squat wherever they wanted. Up ahead four men stood within the light of a single flickering lantern. Since Antsy and Corien stood in the dark the men could not see them — so much for having a light with you on guard.

‘Hello,’ he called.

Three of the men yelped, diving for cover. A woman screamed and was roundly cursed. Only one man remained standing in the light. ‘Yes?’ he called, squinting. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Newcomers.’

‘Ah! Welcome, welcome. Please, come right up to the light and let’s have a look at you. You gave us quite a start there.’

‘We’ll stay back here for now, if you don’t mind.’

The man held up his empty hands. ‘Fine, fine. Whatever you wish. We, you say? How many are you?’

‘My friend and I. We speak for a larger party. We’d like some information.’

The man motioned towards the houses as though beckoning his companions. ‘Come on, come on! No sense hiding. It’s not hospitable.’ He turned back to Antsy and Corien, bowing and holding out his open empty hands. ‘Sorry, but we’re a harmless lot, I assure you. My name is Panar. We’re just poor stranded folk, like yourself.’

‘Stranded?’ Antsy echoed. Something churned sourly in his gut at the word.

The man nodded eagerly. ‘Oh, yes.’ He raised his arms to gesture all about. ‘This is it. All there is. The Spawn. Utterly emptied. Looted long ago. The Confederation sailors might as well have knocked us all over the heads and pitched us into the drink.’

Antsy gaped at the man. ‘What?’ And a voice sneered in his mind: Fucking knew it! Too good to be true. He tottered a step backwards.

Corien steadied him with a hand at his back. ‘I don’t believe it,’ the lad whispered.

‘Believe it,’ Panar answered. ‘The Twins have had their last jest with us. All the gold, all the artwork, whatever. All gone. Looted already. Come, come! Relax. There’s nothing here for anyone to fight over.’

Corien leaned close to Antsy. ‘This smells as bad as a brothel.’

‘Yeah.’ Antsy raised his voice: ‘What about the Gap of Gold?’

Panar’s brows furrowed. He rubbed his chin. ‘The gap of what? What’s that?’

‘Bullshit,’ Antsy muttered. He noted that none of the men from the fire had reappeared. Nor any others, for that matter. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Corien began edging backwards. ‘Yes. Let’s.’

‘There’s no other way forward!’ Panar shouted. ‘This is it. The end of the road … for you.’

A screaming horde erupted from the surrounding doorways and engulfed them. Antsy went down like a ship beneath a human wave. He was trampled, bitten, punched and scratched. Broken-nailed fingers clawed at his eyes, his mouth, pulled at his moustache. Hands fought to slide a rope over his head. The stench choked him more than the slick greasy hands at his neck. Somehow he managed to get his dirk free and swung it, clearing away the hands from his eyes and mouth. He pushed his feet beneath him and stood up, slashing viciously, raising pained howls from both men and women. He reached out blindly to find a wall, put his back to it. They screamed and shrieked at him, inhuman, insane. It was as savage a close-quarter knife work as any he’d faced in all the tunnel-clearing he’d done. He slid along the wall searching for an opening, slashing and jabbing, ringed round by glaring eyes and dirty grasping hands.

His questing left hand found a gaping doorway and he slid into it, able now to face his attackers without having to defend his flanks at the same time. His face, arms and legs stung from cuts and slashes. His leggings hung torn.

A shout sounded from the dark and the mad frenzied faces backed away, disappearing into the ink of utter night. Antsy stood panting, his heart hammering, squinting into the gloom. ‘Corien!’ he bellowed.

‘Here!’ came a distant answering call.

‘Here! Here! Dear!’ other voices tittered from the dark, mocking and laughing. Antsy himself was frankly surprised to hear the youth’s response; he hadn’t thought the dandy could’ve withstood such a savage onslaught.

‘You’re trapped,’ Panar said from somewhere nearby in the murk. ‘Maybe you are with others. Maybe not. But I wonder … just where are they?’

Antsy said nothing. He’d been wondering that too. Earlier Malakai had hinted at his and Orchid’s going it alone. Now the two had all the supplies — and his munitions as well! And Malakai had neatly manoeuvred him and Corien down here. Had he and Orchid simply sauntered off leaving them to keep these people busy?

But he was being unfair to the girl. Surely she wouldn’t go along with that. And the munitions were useless without him to set them. Still … where were they?

‘The way I see it you have only one choice,’ Panar continued from the cover of the gloom, ‘give up now. You can’t guard yourself for ever. Eventually you’ll weaken. Or go down in some desperate rush into the dark. But where would you rush to? Believe me, there’s no escape. Best just to give up now.’

Noises sounded from the street and dim light blossomed. Antsy peered out — a lantern had been lit. Rocks clattered from the walls around him and he flinched back. Where in the Abyss was Malakai? ‘Hey, Corien,’ he shouted, ‘what do you say we link up and kill the lot of these rats?’

‘Gladly! I got two, I believe.’

Two. Out of how damned many? Too many. Had Malakai written them off?

Then the light went out. Shouts of alarm and fear all around. Feet slapped the stone floor, running. A woman asked from the night, her voice tremulous, ‘Is it the fiend?’ Someone cursed her to shut up. It seemed to Antsy that these people were uncommonly scared of the dark. He started to wonder if perhaps he should be too.

Was it Malakai? Antsy considered a rush to the far side of the street — Corien sounded as if he was there.

‘Red?’ Malakai’s disembodied voice spoke from just outside his doorway.

‘Yes?’

‘Cross the street then go four doors to the right.’

‘Aye.’

No answer. The man was gone — Antsy wasn’t even sure he’d been there at all: just a voice in the dark. He dashed out into the street. Part of the way across he tripped over a body and fell, knocking something hot that clattered off across the stone street. Cursing, he chased after it, only to bash his head against a wall. He knelt, squeezing his head in his hands, biting his lip. Someone ran by in the absolute black; Antsy had no idea who it might’ve been. Panicked shouting sounded all around.

Feeling about blindly Antsy found what he’d sought and burned his hand in the process: the snuffed lantern. With its handle in one hand and his shortsword in the other, he felt his way down the wall. Feet thumped and scuffed in the dark. Someone was crying far off in one of the houses. He reached what he thought was the fourth doorway. ‘Corien?’ he whispered.

‘Here.’

Antsy recognized the voice. He slipped in, covered the doorway behind him. ‘Malakai speak to you?’

‘Yes. And-’

‘I’m here,’ Orchid cut in from the blackness.

‘What’s the plan?’

‘I’ll lead you out,’ Orchid said. ‘Malakai said he’ll keep them busy.’

‘Okay, but listen. Malakai seems to know his business, I admit, but these people scattered like chickens. He’s not that good. One of them mentioned some thing … a fiend.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Orchid snapped. ‘We just have to get out of here. Take these.’

The panniers hit Antsy in the chest. He arranged them over his shoulders. Orchid pushed out past him. Someone else, Corien, bumped him and squeezed his arm. ‘How’d you fare?’ the lad asked.

‘Okay. Scrapes. You?’

‘Just between us … I took a bad one. Someone stuck me. I rubbed in something I purchased. We’ll see.’

‘Hurry,’ Orchid hissed.

She led them each by the arm through the narrow canted streets. Light now shone from a few high windows. Everything was quiet, hushed. Antsy imaged everyone huddled in their rooms, waiting. What was out there in the dark? What were they afraid of? The dark itself?

‘These are quarters for servants, guards, and others of lesser status,’ Orchid whispered as she yanked them along. ‘Mostly abandoned for centuries. The Moon’s population was always low. The Andii have few children.’

Antsy wondered whether she spoke to distract herself from the fear that surely must be writhing in her guts. They twisted and turned up the narrow tilting stone streets. Antsy was completely lost. Then Orchid slowed, hesitated, came to a halt. ‘Where are we going?’ Antsy asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she hissed, low. ‘Just away from there for now. I thought …’

‘What?’

‘I thought I saw something. A dark shape.’

Antsy barked a near-hysterical laugh. ‘Dark? Isn’t it all dark?’

‘No. Not at all. I can’t explain it. I can see well enough. Textures, shapes, even shadows. But that one seemed … deep.’

‘Deep,’ Antsy echoed, uncomprehending. ‘Where is it?’

‘Gone now.’

Totally blind, Antsy felt as if he was about to be jumped at any instant. He gripped the still-warm lantern as if he could squeeze comfort from it. ‘Well, where will you meet Malakai?’

‘Nowhere. Anywhere. He said he’ll find us.’

‘Then let’s just get into cover. A small room. Defensible.’

‘Yes,’ Corien said in support, his voice tight with pain.

‘Well … okay.’

A shriek tore through the blackness then, echoing, trailing off into hoarse gurgling. A chorus of terrified screams and sobbing erupted in response as the locals broke into a gibbering panic.

‘I don’t think that’s Malakai’s doing,’ Corien said.

‘No …’ Antsy agreed. He sheathed the shortsword and took a tight grip of his pannier.

Orchid rushed them into a room. Antsy wanted to light the lantern so badly he could taste the oil and smell the smoke. But he set it aside; the light would only bring their pursuers like flies. They waited, he and Corien covering the open doorless portal. No further screams lifted the hair on his neck, though he did hear distant voices raised in argument.

Then, down the street, the scuff of footsteps. ‘Company,’ he hissed, crouching, drawing his shortsword.

‘Red?’ came Malakai’s voice, whispering.

A nasty suspicion born of years of warfare among the deceptions of magery made Antsy ask, ‘Red who?’

‘Red … whose name that isn’t.’

Antsy grunted his assent, backed away from the portal.

Orchid gasped as Malakai came shuffling noisily into the room.

Antsy and Corien demanded together: ‘What? What is it?’

‘Company,’ Malakai said, the familiar acid humour in his voice. ‘Your friend Panar. And Red, I like that counter-sign. Speaks of a sneaky turn of mind. I like it. We’ll adopt it.’

‘Fine,’ Antsy answered, impatient. ‘But what’s the idea dragging this guy off? Now they’ll come after us.’

‘No, they won’t. They’re too busy fighting over who’s in charge now. Isn’t that so, Panar?’

A pause, cloth tearing, then Panar’s voice, rather blurry and slurred: ‘They’ll ransom me.’

‘No, they won’t. You’re dead and buried to them.’

‘They’ll ransom me with information. Just go back and ask.’

Malakai laughed quietly at that. ‘You’ll give us all the information we need.’

‘I won’t talk.’

‘Then,’ Malakai whispered, ‘I’ll have to do … this.’

From behind a hand or a balled cloth erupted a gurgled muted scream of agony. Feet kicked against the stone floor.

Orchid gagged. ‘Gods, no! Stop him! Stop him, Red!’

Then silence and heavy breathing. Antsy imagined Orchid covering her eyes. Malakai’s voice came low and cold — as when they’d met and he’d warned her he might leave her to die: ‘If you don’t like it, Orchid, then I suggest you step outside.’

‘Red?’ she hissed. ‘Do something! You aren’t going to let him torture this poor man, are you?’

Antsy fumbled for words. ‘I’m sorry … I’ve questioned men myself. Has to be done.’

‘Oh, you’ve questioned men, have you? Her voice dripped scorn from the darkness. ‘Barbarian!’

She had his sympathy. He’d lived his entire adult life in the military and he’d long ago been hardened to brutality. But men — and women — like Malakai left him squeamish.

‘What do you say now, Panar?’ Malakai asked. ‘Tell us what we want. After all, what does it matter? We’re all dead anyway, yes?’

Silence in the room’s darkness. Then a groan, someone shifting. ‘Fine. Yes. What do you want?’

‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Malakai said conversationally. ‘Who are you?’

‘Panar Legothen, of March.’

Antsy grunted at that: March was one of the so-called Confederation of Free Cities.

‘How did you get out here?’

A laugh full of self-mockery. ‘You won’t believe me, but I was one of the first. I came out in my own boat.’

‘And?’

Silence, followed by a long wistful sigh. ‘What a sight it was then. A glittering mess. Everywhere you looked, pearls, moonstones, tiger-eye, sapphires, gold and silver. Silver everything! You could scoop it up by the armload.’

Antsy stopped himself from barking at the man to go on. Where was it all? What happened? He wanted to take the fellow by the shirt and shake him, but Malakai was obviously just letting him talk himself out.

‘There were others, of course. Sometimes I fought — most times I just ran. Where could I keep it all, though? We all had too much to carry, so we started to strike bargains, band together. Stake out territories. This here, this town — Pearl Town, we call it — is just a little place. The bottom of things. Where I’ve ended up.’

‘What happened?’ Orchid prompted gently.

Another groan from the dark. ‘Me and a few partners, we’d cleaned out our stake. When we saw more dangerous fortune-hunters arriving we knew things would be goin’ downhill fast. So we made for the Gap. But we’d waited just a touch too long. Got greedy. I caught that particular fever when I arrived. I think if I’d just picked up the first thing I found … a beautiful statuette in silver, such a sweet piece … if I’d just climbed back down to my boat and left right then and there I’d be a rich and happy man right now.’

‘But?’ Orchid prompted again after a long silence.

Stirring, the man roused himself. ‘Well … first we met the Malazans. They controlled about a third of the isle then. We bribed our way past them. Then a band of other looters jumped us. I guess they waited there for fools like us to go to all the effort to bring the riches to them. I got away with a bare fraction and reached the Gap.’

‘What is it?’ Malakai demanded.

‘It’s just what it says — an exit. A big series of terraces open to the outside. I guess the Andii used them to view the night sky or some such thing. The water comes right up to them now. They pull their boats up there, take their cut then take you out. Least, that’s what everyone said happens …’

‘But … that’s not what happened,’ Corien said.

‘No. That’s not what happened.’ The man’s voice thickened, almost choking. ‘I handed over all my best pieces, the cream of the riches — and do you know what they said?’

‘It wasn’t enough,’ Malakai said.

‘That’s right. It wasn’t enough. I threw them everything I had, even my weapons. They still claimed I was short of the payment for passage.’ The man sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. ‘You’ve all probably figured it out, haven’t you? But only then did I realize what was going on. Up until that moment I truly believed they would take their cut and let me go. God of the Oceans, what a fool I was.’

‘They just sent you back to collect more,’ Malakai said.

‘Yes. This is their gold mine and they need the labour. They said they’d keep what I’d brought as a down payment on my exit fee. Ha! That’s a joke. I had nothing left, just the shirt I’m wearing. I simply wandered off and ended up here.’

That mailed fist of rage brought stars to Antsy’s vision once more. Trapped! Fucking knew it! A joke? Oh yes, because all Oponn’s jests are bad news!

Orchid was saying, ‘How do you survive down here?’

‘Oh, we scrape together enough to buy food and water from the Confederation crews. At astounding prices, of course. Water is truly worth its weight in gold.’

‘We want up,’ Malakai cut in. ‘Which way do we go?’

‘There are stairs … it’s the only way. It’s-’

A second scream exploded in the night, making Antsy flinch and raising an answering cry from Orchid. It wailed, rising in terror and agony until it cracked as if the throat carrying it had been torn out.

In the long silence following that terrifying sound Malakai asked mildly, ‘And what was that?’

‘Ah. That. The Spawn is an ancient place, you know. Full of inhuman spirits and sorcery. Some claim it’s a curse on all of us. Humans aren’t welcome here. Myself, I believe it to be an escaped demon. Every few days it comes to feed. I was rather hoping it would show up here.’

‘That’s enough,’ Malakai said. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘And … what of me?’

‘You we leave behind. Congratulations. Maybe you’ll be the last off this rock.’

‘But — as I told you — there’s nothing left.’ The man sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘What could you possibly be looking for?’

A long awkward silence followed that seemingly simple question. Antsy wasn’t looking for anything beyond someone to pay him handsomely for his skills. And to look into rumours he’d heard about this place. Corien wanted riches and the influence they could bring. Malakai similarly so, he imagined. He had no idea what Orchid wanted.

Malakai spoke into the silence: ‘Myself, I’m searching for the gardens of the moon.’

Antsy blinked in the night. There was no such thing; it was just poetic — wasn’t it? But Orchid’s gasp of recognition told him she knew something of it. As for Panar, he started laughing. He laughed on and on and would not stop. It seemed the man was laughing not so much at Malakai’s gallows jest as at them, and himself, and at the entire absurd fate they’d all so deftly manoeuvred themselves into through greed, and ambition, and short-sightedness — all the classic character flaws that lead men and women to their self-inflicted dooms.

And he kept on laughing even after Malakai threw him aside.

Nathilog had been among the first of the settlements of northwestern Genabackis to fall to the Malazans. It had been a notorious pirate haven before that, ruled by might of fist under a series of self-styled barons. Now, after decades of Malazan occupation, its aristocracy was thoroughly Talianized. Trade across the top of the Meningalle Ocean was heavy as the raw resources and riches of a continent passed across to the Imperial homeland, and troops and war materiel returned.

Agull’en, the Malazan governor, resided in the rebuilt hall of rulership once occupied by his robber baron antecedents. It was here at the end of his daily reception that a mage suddenly appeared in the hall. His picked bodyguard of twenty Barghast surged forward to interpose themselves between him and the interloper. His own mage, a Rhivi shaman, stared frozen at the apparition, clearly stunned.

Remind me to fire the useless sot, Agull’en snarled to himself, then turned his attention to the mage. Tall, regal-looking with his long hair pushed back over his skull. A greying goatee. Plain brown woollen robes, though a wealth of rings on the fingers. The man’s face was badly lined — red and blistered with livid scars as if he had recently been severely wounded, or lashed.

The governor steeled himself and hardened his voice: ‘What is the meaning of this? Who has sent you?’

The man bowed low, hand at goatee. ‘Greetings, Agull’en, governor of north-west Genabackis. I am come with salutations from my master, the newly installed Legate of Darujhistan.’

Agull’en frowned, puzzled. ‘Legate? Darujhistan has a Legate?’

‘Newly installed.’

‘I see.’ Agull’en peered around, thinking. His mage, he noted, was nowhere to be seen. Had the man fled? Damn him! He’d see him flogged! Then the instincts that had guided his path these many years over so many rivals and up so many rungs asserted themselves and his lips eased into a knowing, rather condescending smile. ‘You wish to renegotiate trade agreements. Very well. A trade delegation may be sent.’

‘No, Governor. My master does not wish to renegotiate details of trade.’

‘No? Treaties then? This “Legate” must speak with the Malazan ambassador there in Darujhistan regarding any treaties.’

‘Be assured that my master will deal with the ambassador when his time comes. No, I am come as the mouthpiece of the one who is the rightful spokesman for all Genabackis. And he demands, my good governor, that you swear allegiance to him.’

Agull’en sat forward in his chair. ‘I’m sorry? Swear allegiance to this Legate of Darujhistan?’ He laughed his utter disbelief. ‘Are you mad? Is he mad?’

The mage bowed once more. ‘No, sir. I assure you he is not.’

‘And what if I refuse this demand? What will this self-styled Legate do should I decline his invitation? You may be an accomplished practitioner in your field, mage. But I offer a lesson in stark politics for your consideration. Malazans have thousands of troops. Darujhistan has none.’

‘If you do not swear, then we will find someone who will,’ the mage answered simply.

Agull’en’s face darkened as his rage climbed beyond his control. He waved his guards forward. ‘Flay this bastard!’

The guards did not live long enough to draw weapons. And the hall of rulership at Nathilog was once more in need of rebuilding.

Similar scenes played themselves out across the north of the continent from one ex-free city to the next: Cajale, Genalle, and Tulips. Last of all was a visitation within the temporary wood hall of mayorship in Pale. The mayor was dining with guests when an apparition wavered into view before the long table. The guests started up in panic, raising eating daggers. Guards were called. The ghostly figure of a tall man opened his hands in greeting. ‘I would speak to the Lord Mayor,’ he called.

Guards came scrambling in, crossbows raised. A portly bearded man raised his arms, bellowing, ‘Hold!’ The guards halted, taking aim. ‘Who are you and what do you wish?’ the man demanded of the apparition.

The figure bowed. ‘Lord Mayor of Pale. I am come as the mouth of the newly installed Legate of Darujhistan.’

The mayor frowned behind his beard, clearly astonished. He glanced aside to another guest, a balding dark man in a black leather jerkin. ‘Is that so? A Legate in Darujhistan?’

‘Yes. Newly installed. As such, he claims his traditional position as spokesman for all Genabackis. And in such capacity he demands your allegiance.’

The mayor’s tangled brows climbed his forehead. ‘Indeed. My allegiance in … what, may I ask?’

‘In Darujhistan’s enlightened guidance and protection.’

‘Ah. How … appealing.’ The mayor shot another glance aside to the balding dark fellow who had sat forward, chin in fists, eyes narrowed to slits. The Lord Mayor wiped a cloth across his brow and cleared his throat. Then a thought seemed to strike him and his thick brows drew down together. ‘All Genabackis, you say? What of Black Coral? Does this claim of suzerainty extend over the Tiste Andii?’

The shade’s haggard features twisted in distaste. ‘Black Coral is no longer part of Genabackis.’

‘Ah. I see. How … unfortunate.’ The Lord Mayor drew breath, raising his chin. ‘We in Pale wish His Excellency to know that we consider it an honour to be so invited. We convey our salutations, and beg time to give this offer the serious consideration it demands.’ The man sat heavily, gulping in breath, his face flushed.

The apparition straightened; it did not bother to disguise its disapproval. ‘Consider carefully, then. You have two days.’ It disappeared. The Lord Mayor and his guests sat in stunned silence. The dark balding man pushed back his chair and stood, revealing the sceptre inscribed on the left of his chest.

‘You are leaving us, Fist K’ess?’

The Fist wiped his hands on a cloth and threw it to the table. His gaze remained exactly where the casting had once stood. ‘My apologies, Lord Mayor,’ he grated. ‘Duty calls me away.’

‘We understand.’

The Fist stalked from the hall, followed by two officers, male and female.

A woman beside the mayor whispered, fierce: ‘Who is this Legate? Who is he to challenge the Empire?’

The mayor raised a hand for silence. ‘We will wait and see.’

‘And if two days pass and we are none the wiser?’

The mayor shrugged. ‘Then we will agree.’

‘And the Malazans?’

‘We will tell them we agreed only to buy time.’

Another guest smiled his approval. ‘Which is true — time to discover which of them is the stronger.’

The mayor picked up his crystal wine glass, studied the muddy red liquid. ‘Of course.’

Outside the hall, Fist K’ess turned to the male officer with him. ‘Cancel all furloughs, restrict the troops to garrison. Have we no one capable of raising the Imperial Warren?’

‘None.’

The Fist pulled savagely at his chin. ‘What a gods-awful state of affairs. Going to the dogs, we are. Go!’

The man saluted, ran off.

The Fist started walking again, striking a stiff marching pace. The other officer, the woman, hurried after him. ‘Might I remind you we are at half strength, Fist,’ she said. ‘Half went south at Ambassador Aragan’s request. Now we know why.’

‘Yes, yes. Your point?’

‘We are under strength. In case of an uprising I suggest we withdraw.’

The Fist halted. Next to him lay a stretch of buildings still in ruins from the siege of years ago. Squatters now occupied it, living in huts of wood and straw among the fallen stone walls. ‘Withdraw?’ he repeated, outraged. ‘Withdraw to where?’

‘West. The mountains.’

He rubbed his chin. ‘Throw ourselves on the mercy of the Moranth, you mean? Aye, there’s some merit there. I’ll keep it in mind. Until then, no. Too much Malazan blood was spilled taking this city. We’ll not withdraw.’ He started off again, his pace swift.

Captain Fal-ej, of the Seven Cities, struggled to keep up.

K’ess barked at her: ‘Send our swiftest rider south, Captain. I want to know from that fat-arse Aragan what in the name of fallen Hood is going on!’

Captain Fal-ej saluted and ran off.

K’ess massaged his unshaven throat. He spat aside. ‘What a gods-damned time to choose to quit drinking. Just when things were getting quiet …’ He shook his head and hurried on.

As was his habit of late, the Warlord spent time in the evening in silent solitary vigil overlooking the valley leading west to the glow of Darujhistan. Yet perhaps his gaze passed over the city, even beyond, to the barrow of Anomander Rake, once Lord of Moon’s Spawn. This evening was dark and close. Thick clouds massed from the north, over Lake Azur and the Tahlyn Mountains beyond.

Something troubled the Warlord; this everyone spoke of, though none knew what it was. The castings of the shamans hinted at blood and violence to come. Word of war against the Malazan invaders swept like wildfire across the wide plains — though the elders themselves had not raised the White Spear. All this might have been part of the weight the Warlord carried. For though he was so named, some now whispered that he was too old, too grief-stricken, and perhaps his time had passed.

He may or may not have been aware of these whispers within the assembly as he stood his solitary evening vigils out upon the hillside. Some said that in truth it was his distaste for it all that drove him from the tents to begin with.

In either case, late into one such evening the Warlord suddenly knew he was no longer alone. He glanced about to see standing a short distance off a man he’d thought his friend. A single glimpse, however, was enough to convince him that that was no longer the case. He shifted his weight to face the man, slid a hand over the grip of the hammer at his side. ‘Greetings, Baruk. What brings you from the city?’

The man certainly was Baruk, but not the Baruk the Warlord knew, with that avid hungry light in his fever-bright eyes, the fresh scars that traced a map of pain across his face. ‘The one you called Baruk is gone. Burned away in the cleansing flames of truth. I am Barukanal, restored and reborn.’

Gossamer flames of power burned like auroras at the man’s hands, where forests of rings now gleamed gold. Caladan’s grip tightened upon his hammer. ‘Truth? Which truth would that be?’

‘The truth of power. One I know you are intimately familiar with. The truth that power will always be used. The question only being by whom.’

‘Then you know enough not to tempt me.’

A gleeful mockery of a smile twitched the man’s mouth. ‘I recall enough to know that to be an empty threat, Warlord.’

In answer Caladan’s lips pulled back over his prominent canines. ‘Then you presume too much. If the … presence … I sense makes any effort to reach beyond Darujhistan, I will not hesitate to remove the city from the face of the continent.’

The one he once knew as Baruk gave a sham frown of sorrow. Backing away, he gestured to the west. ‘More deaths, Warlord? How many more must die …?’ The figure dissipated into the night, leaving Brood to pull his clenched hand from the hammer and massage its stiff knuckles. He let out an animal growl and headed back up the hill to the distant lit tents. Baruk taken, he mused. That one will be a dangerous opponent. Yet he wondered at the constant stream of tears that had glistened on the man’s scarred cheeks. And the eyes — that feyness could just as easily have been torment and horror trapped within.

Before he reached the tent the flap was pushed aside and a Rhivi elder hurried out. ‘The shamans bring amazing news from the north, Warlord.’

Something in Caladan’s expression caused the elder to flinch aside. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Brood rumbled as he stalked past.

It was the most difficult act he had ever had to force himself to commit. Every step deliberate, stiff, reluctant, he approached the squat, ominous house that stood alone in the woods of Coll’s estate. Every beat of Rallick’s pounding heart screamed at him to flee. For not so long ago, when the Jaghut Tyrant Raest returned to the city only to be entombed here in this Azath construct, so too was he. And perhaps the house would not give him up a second time.

But he did not flee. He understood necessity. He alone in this city seemed to understand that there were things that simply had to be done. Reaching the door he paused, hand outstretched. Someone had been digging in the yard. A trail of dirt led across the grounds. He knelt to study the spoor. Two sets of tracks. One in rotted leather sandals. The other naked bony feet. Very bony, and very definitely inhuman in shape. Shedding dirt as they came.

While he crouched there before the door it opened and Rallick found himself staring up at the grim, emaciated figure of the ancient Jaghut Tyrant Raest, prisoner to the house, and now its … guardian? Or perhaps more accurately its interpreter or spokesman. Or doorman.

‘Not even if you beg,’ the Jag breathed, his inflection completely dead.

Rallick straightened. ‘May I speak to you?’

The unsettling vertical-pupils of the eyes rose to encompass the night sky over the estate district; narrowed. ‘We already have a boarder. I am not taking in more. No matter how awful it will get.’

A shiver ran its fingers down Rallick’s spine. He clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands. ‘That is the last thing I would want.’

The Jag shuffled out of the doorway back up the hall. ‘That is what they all say — then there’s no getting rid of them.’

Rallick forced himself up the hall. Behind, the door swung shut, enclosing him in almost utter gloom. On one side, in a narrow corridor a large man lay blocking the way, snoring loudly and wetly. Raest passed this strange apparition without comment and Rallick was forced to follow. Murky light shone ahead; a sort of limpid greenish underwater glow cast down as if from a skylight. Here he found the Jag seated at a table and across from him sat another creature — an Imass. Or at least so Rallick assumed. He was no expert. Half-rotted flesh over bones and those bones stained dark. Battered armour of leather, furs and bone plates. And over all clumps of dried dirt. The entity held wooden slats in ravaged hands of bone and ligament. It raised its empty sockets to regard Rallick for a moment then returned its gaze to the slats in its hands.

In that brief regard a cold wind had brushed Rallick’s face. He heard it moaning, carrying the call of large animals far in the distance. He shivered again.

The Jag, Raest, took up his own slats.

Cards, he realized. They were playing cards. Now. With so much hanging over the city.

On the table between them sat the corpse of a cat.

Rallick cleared his throat. ‘What is going on?’

‘I am up ten thousand gold bars,’ Raest breathed. ‘My friend here is having trouble with the changes in the rules.’

The Imass’s voice came as a low creaking of dry sinew: ‘I am better at mechanisms.’

‘No,’ Rallick insisted. ‘The city. What’s going on outside?’

‘The neighbourhood is fast deteriorating. I am considering a move.’

‘A move? You can move?’

The Tyrant turned his ravaged features to study him wordlessly for a time.

Rallick swallowed. Ah. I see.

The Jag laid down one wooden card from his hand.

The Imass edged its blunt skeletal chin forward to study the card then sat back to return to the contemplation of its own. Rallick also leaned to squint at the face; he saw nothing more than a crudely scratched image he couldn’t make out.

‘No,’ the Jag continued, ‘I’ve put too much work into the place.’ Rallick eyed the walls of rotting wood, the hanging roots, the dust sifting down through the cascading starlight. ‘Besides, Fluffy here would be devastated.’

Fluffy? Please be referring to the cat — my sanity won’t survive otherwise.

‘Can you give me any hint of what is to come?’

‘I serve the House now. Only it. However, I can tell you what sort of game we are playing.’

Game?

From his mangled leathery hand the Imass slowly slid a wooden card on to the table.

Raest leaned forward to study the image scratched upon its face. He sat back, shaking his head. ‘No — not her. She’s out of the game. For now.’ He brushed the card aside. The ligaments of the Imass’s neck creaked as it followed the card to the far edge of the table. It growled.

Rallick found he was holding his breath. ‘What sort of game … is it?’ he asked, hardly able to speak.

‘It’s a game of bluff. Bluff on both sides. Remember that, servant of Hood.’

‘Hood is gone.’

‘The paths remain.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? It would be astounding if you did.’

Rallick clenched his lips. I can’t settle my aim here. He turned his attention to the Imass. Those are not his leg bones. He looked away. ‘Is there anything more you can tell me?’

The Jag remained immobile, his slashed and battered face a mask, long grey hair like iron shavings hanging to his shoulders. ‘I can tell you that you are distracting me from the game. Go away.’

Rallick decided that he should not wait to be told twice. He edged back out of the room, not turning away from the oddly mismatched, yet so utterly matched, couple.

He reached the closed door.

Now for the hardest part of all.

But the door did open.

When someone entered his office, Legate Jeshin Lim’s first thought was that a councillor had requested an unscheduled meeting and his staff had ushered him or her through. He was surprised, therefore, upon peering up from composing his next speech to see the merchant Humble Measure standing before him.

He stifled the urge to leap from his chair. Burn’s mercy! Who allowed the man in! Someone will lose their position over this. He transformed his twitch of mouth into a rigid, if rather strained, welcoming smile. Well … one can hardly complain. This man’s money allowed me entrance to this office … why not the man himself?

He stood, smiling, and came round the desk. ‘Humble Measure! This is a surprise!’ He motioned to a chair. ‘Please, sit. May I offer you some tea?’

The big man sat stiffly and ponderously. ‘None, Legate … thank you.’

How odd to see him outside the offices at his works. He looks … diminished. Jeshin poured himself a tiny thimbleful of tea and retreated once more behind his desk. ‘What can I do for you, old friend?’

‘First,’ the man ground out, ‘congratulations upon the renewal of the ancient honoured position, Legate.’

Lim waved such formalities aside. ‘It is our victory, Humble. Our shared vision led to this. We achieved it together.’

Humble inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘The Legate is too generous. Yet I wonder, then, why, with this victory in your grasp, you have not gone on to move Darujhistan towards the position of pre-eminence we once agreed it deserves?’

Jeshin frowned, cocking his head. The tea sat forgotten before him. ‘How so?’

‘Legate — Darujhistan must have an arsenal. Arms, armour, siege engines. The materiel of war-’ He stopped himself, because the Legate had raised a hand to speak.

Back to this old argument. Should’ve anticipated it. The man’s a fanatic. ‘Humble … your point is well taken. Arms and armour are needed, yes. Yet look at what we have accomplished! We are in accord on so much. Darujhistan shall be set once more on a course of pre-eminence. We only differ in this one small matter — you believe that putting weapons and armour on every citizen will accomplish this, while I believe the city’s defences must first be addressed. The walls, Humble-’

The merchant interrupted. ‘Darujhistan has walls, Legate.’

Jeshin waved this aside. ‘Hardly worth the name. Playgrounds for the city’s children. Neglected and pillaged for centuries. They must be rebuilt, strengthened.’

‘It’s not the walls of Darujhistan that must be strengthened, Legate … it is the will.’

Jeshin stilled, hands pressed to the cool marble surface of his desk. ‘The discussion is closed, Humble. I thank you for your concern. I know I can count on your cooperation in our efforts to bring prestige and influence to our city.’ And he stood, smiling once more. He motioned to the door.

Humble Measure levered his bulk from the chair. He glowered from under his thick brows. Without a word he turned and lumbered to the door.

Jeshin watched him go, stiff smile still fixed on his lips. A guard. Guards, today. Unbribable guards. Am I not the damned Legate of this ridiculous city?

Humble’s closed carriage rocked as he settled his weight within. He sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, as if examining someone seated opposite. The carriage started its twisting way down Majesty Hill. The man’s heavy-lidded eyes were narrowed, almost closed, as he lolled back and forth. Indeed, another passenger might have thought him asleep.

But he was far from asleep. Like the ponderous presses of his foundry his mind was slowly working, inexorably turning, and with crushing irresistible weight. And the conclusion he reached was that he did not sacrifice so much to put a Legate in charge of this city in order that the holder of the position could cower behind walls.

Fortunately, however, ways exist to resolve this temporary hindrance.

The Mengal mountains ran as a backbone along the west coast of the Genabackan continent. They were for the most part a dangerous unsettled wilderness. A trader mud track twisted along the skirts of their inland eastward slope, unkept, swept away in places by erosion, crossed by fallen trees. Mule trains, two-wheeled carts and backpacks were the only way to make the trip. And even then in places the track was practically impassable. Far quicker and easier to ship any goods, livestock or people up and down the coast by water. But there were always those for whom the up-front expense of such cargo space or berths was unaffordable. For these petty traders, tinkers, travelling smiths, would-be homesteaders, or plain adventurers off to find a new horizon there would always be the mud track through the tall evergreen forest, their breath pluming in the cold wet mist cascading down the slopes, and their own rag-swathed feet and bent, burdened backs.

And so, too, there were always those who preyed upon them.

Yusek’s people were out of the east, Bastion way. During the Troubles they’d packed up and headed west. By the time they crossed the Dwelling Plain the way of life had become habit and they just kept on moving. Eventually Yusek raised her head and looked around and realized that all her family’s starving and slogging hadn’t gotten them anywhere worth going. So she packed up everything useful and did the only thing she knew how to do: she moved on.

She’d fallen in with Orbern’s crew, or rather they’d taken everything she had and given her the choice to join them or starve in the cold. She being young and new, they’d tried using her, of course, but she’d grown up defending herself and had discovered early on that she didn’t mind the shedding of blood half as much as those around her. So they made her a scout, or a runner, or whatever you damned well wanted to call it, on account of the fact that she could walk all their fat drunken arses into the ground. And they had no armour worth the name to give her anyway.

Orbern claimed to be from Darujhistan. From one of the city’s noble families. Kept going on about being cheated of his position, unappreciated, or driven out by idiots, or some such. Not that anyone gave a damn. Fancied himself ‘Lord of the western mountains’. Even had a horse, a sickly lonely-looking thing that he insisted on riding through the dense brush. Stupidest spectacle Yusek had ever seen.

Noble-born or not, Orbern ran things because at least he had some kind of claim to an education. Knew how to build. He’d had them put up a palisade across the gorge they occupied. Raised log cabins that didn’t leak. Even got a crude sort of forge up and running for their metalworking needs. It used a big ol’ flat stone as an anvil.

And because of all this the man’s rule was tolerated, even if he was a pompous ass.

Today Yusek was ‘scouting’. Which consisted of crouching under the cover of a tall evergreen watching the rain misting down the mountainside. The Mengal mountains were tall enough to gather clouds to themselves, but here they were not tall enough to completely shadow the leeward slopes, and deep valleys cut through to the coast. As a result, a portion of the mist always reached inland — not that any ever touched the Dwelling Plain.

She was keeping an eye on the trader track where it came winding up from the south. And this day, sure enough with the damned cold rain and all, there came two figures tramping through the mud, stepping over the trunks of fallen trees, pushing through the channels of run-off that charged across the path.

Damned fools. Out in this weather. Now she had to get soaked too!

She went down to meet them.

They were a couple of the sorriest travellers she’d ever seen. Carried no goods or packs as far as she could make out; they wore big loose hooded cloaks pulled close against the rain. At least they were armed, as she could see the polished bronze heels of sheaths hanging down beneath their cloaks.

As she stepped out on to the track they stopped and exchanged looks with each other from under their deep hoods. ‘Where you headed?’ she asked.

One stepped forward. ‘North,’ he said in a strange accent.

‘I’m with a settlement just-’

‘Do you know of a monastery here in these mountains?’ the fellow demanded, cutting her off.

‘A what? Monastery? No. Like I said, I’m with-’

But the two had walked right past her. She watched them go, dumbfounded. What in the name of Mowri …

She caught up with them. ‘Listen. There’s a settlement near here. Orbern-town.’ Stupid damned name. Orbern-town! Damned ass. Ha! Ass-town!

The two stopped. Even this close Yusek couldn’t see into the deep hoods. One spoke again, the same one as before — the other had yet to say anything at all. ‘There are people there who would know these mountains well?’ he asked.

Yusek wiped the cold mist from her face, shrugged. ‘Yeah. Sure. You bet.’

‘Very well. You may lead us there.’

She snorted, waved for them to follow. Listen to that! ‘You may lead us there …’ Who do these two think they are?

Yusek wouldn’t have denied she’d grown up in the middle of nowhere and knew next to nothing, but even she would’ve run off when the sharpened logs of the palisade hove into view. She especially would’ve panicked when the heavy log door was pushed shut behind them and the great cross-piece was set into place and all the hairy unwashed mountain men of Orbern’s crew came shambling out to see what was up.

But not these two. They followed her right in, meek as lambs to the axe. Some people, she reflected, didn’t have the sense to be allowed to live.

She led them straight up to the main log ‘Hall’ as Orbern called it, pushed open the door. The two followed her in. A bunch of the crew pushed in behind.

Orbern was eating; he spent a lot of time doing that, hanging around the table. Yusek guessed this was his way of playing ‘Lord of the Manor’. He looked up as if surprised, set down his knife and wiped his hands on the layered robes he wore to demonstrate his ‘Office’. He had a great head of straggly hair and beard that Yusek figured he cultivated, again as part of his image as some kind of great master of the wilderness, like those of the ex-free cities of the north.

‘And who do we have here?’ he asked, all arch and loud.

‘Travellers, sir,’ she answered, addressing him as he kept telling them to.

Orbern pulled on his beard, nodding. ‘Excellent! Greetings, sirs! Welcome to Orbern-town — such as it is at this time. Admittedly no Mengal yet. But we are growing. Soon we hope to become a regular waystop on the trader road. What may we do for you? Beds for the night, perhaps?’

Some of the boys behind the travellers chuckled at that. The two didn’t even turn round.

‘Do you know of a monastery in these mountains, north of here?’

Orbern made a great show of stroking his beard and studying the cross-beams above. ‘A monastery, you say? Are you on a devotional pilgrimage? Are they expecting you?’

‘If none here knows it then we will move on.’

A lot more of the men laughed at that. Yusek couldn’t hide her disbelief. How dense can you be?

Orbern merely raised a hand for silence. ‘There’s no hurry. Perhaps we do know of such a place. Perhaps-’

‘Do you know?’ the traveller asked, interrupting.

Orbern was thrown for a moment but recovered smoothly. ‘I? No. But for a contribution to Orbern-town’s-’

‘Then who?’

Orbern glared from beneath his tangled brows. Yusek laughed, and none too gently. Now this was funny … this was a good show. ‘A contribution to Orbern-town’s future will gain you our good will,’ Orbern ground out, sounding far from friendly.

As if by way of answer, the spokesman of the two pushed back his heavy hood.

Yusek heard gasps of hissed breaths. Almost as one the crowd of outlaws and murderers, hunted men all, flinched several steps backwards, clearing a circle round the two. She stared surprised: the man wore a mask, a painted oval, all complex swirls and bands. Oddest thing, she thought. Then she glanced to Orbern.

The man was frozen, eyes huge. He appeared to be struggling to take a breath to speak but failing. Yusek made a disgusted face. What’s this? So the fellow’s wearing a mask? So what?

No one moved or spoke; it was as if all were too terrified. A few like Yusek were peering about, confused; mostly men from the north. Since no one was saying anything she stepped forward, hands on the knives at her belt. ‘Hand over everything you have,’ she demanded.

A strangled high-pitched laugh burst from Orbern. He waved his hands frantically. ‘Don’t listen to her!’ he spluttered, almost squeaking. ‘You are free to go, of course!’

‘What’s this?’ called out Waynar, a great hairy fellow from the north who claimed Barghast blood. He uncrossed his thick arms and stepped forward. ‘Free to go?’

‘Would you shut up!’ Orbern snarled at him, then offered the two guests a nervous laugh.

‘You ain’t our king or anything,’ Waynar countered. He loomed up so close to the visitors that his out-thrust chin almost touched the masked forehead of the much shorter and slighter of the two. ‘Who in Hood’re you? An’ why’re you wearin’ that stupid mask?’

Damned straight! Yusek added silently. ’Bout time someone took charge. Looks like Orbern might be on the outs.

The spokesman tilted his head to peer past Waynar’s shaggy bulk. ‘Is this one in defiance of your orders?’

Orbern’s shoulders fell. He clasped his head in his hands and let out a long shuddering breath. ‘I am very sorry, Waynar,’ he said. ‘But … yes. He is.’

The spokesman shrugged. Or appeared to shrug. Something happened. Yusek wasn’t sure; she didn’t quite catch it. His cloak moved, anyway. Waynar’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened but nothing came out. Then a great torrent of blood and fluids came gushing down from the man’s waist, down over his legs, splattering amid falling wet glistening coils and viscera. The man almost split in half.

Yusek screamed, jumping backwards. Even the strangers stepped away from the spreading pool of gore.

Some went for their swords but others in the crowd stopped them, grabbing their arms. Orbern threw up his hands for calm. ‘Do not move!’ he called. To the travellers he offered a small bow of his head. ‘There will be no further challenges. Your demonstration is most … pointed. North of here you will find a handful of small settlements, homesteads and such. And I have heard rumours of a temple of some sort.’

‘Who knows this region best?’ the spokesman asked, his voice still mild and uninflected.

Orbern’s brows drew down once more. ‘Well, Yusek here has covered most of the slopes.’

Yusek tore her gaze from the pile of viscera and saw that the spokesman stranger was now regarding her through his painted mask. His eyes were hazel brown.

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘You will guide us.’

‘Sure as the bony finger of the Taker, I will not.’

The spokesman turned away. ‘It is decided. We require food and water.’

Orbern exhaled his relief. ‘Shel-ken, find them some supplies.’

‘No! It is not decided!’ Yusek snarled. She glared at Orbern. ‘I won’t go with these murderers!’

‘Is this one also defying the hierarchy?’ the spokesman asked of Orbern.

Yusek backed up until her shoulder blades pressed against a wall. Orbern eyed her, one brow arched as if to ask: well?

All eyes swung to her. A few of Orbern’s men licked their lips as if eager to see her sliced from throat to crotch. ‘No,’ she said.

Yusek confronted Orbern after the two visitors had left the hall to wait outside. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded while he watched, pulling on one fat lip, as the mess that had been Waynar was hauled away. Fresh sawdust was thrown over the stained dirt floor. He returned to picking at the greasy bird carcass. ‘Well?’

His tired gaze flicked to her. ‘You’re hardly really a member of this little community of ours, are you, Yusek? You take every excuse to range over the slopes for days on end. It’s as if you’ve just been waiting for an excuse to cut and run anyway.’

She couldn’t find it in herself to deny any of what he said. ‘But with these two murderers? You saw what they did to Waynar! You just want to get me killed.’

Orbern pushed aside the bones. ‘Yusek …’ He rubbed his brow, sighing. ‘Firstly, dear, Waynar asked for it. He challenged the Seguleh. So, lesson number one — do not challenge them! Now, secondly, contrary to what we all just saw, in their company you will be the safest you’ve been in years.’ He sat back, opening his hands. ‘Thirdly, almost everyone here is a murderer — since when has that been a problem for you? And lastly, frankly, it has been a royal pain in the arse keeping everyone off your arse this last year.’

‘If they can’t control themselves that’s their problem, not mine. They can go hump animals.’

‘Oh, don’t fool yourself — some do. Or each other. In any case, I agree, yes. Why women get blamed for men’s callousness and lack of respect for others is beyond me. But it becomes your problem when it’s you they’re attacking. Yes?’

‘I’ll kill anyone who tries that. They know that.’

‘So I’m down yet another man.’

‘It’s not my damn fault they’re arseholes!’

He pulled savagely on his beard. ‘Yusek! The reason they’ve been driven out of all other towns and villages and families — any community of cooperative people — is because they are murderous, selfish, short-sighted, impulsive, cruel arseholes!’ He pointed to the door. ‘I’m doing you a favour.’

She didn’t move. ‘I can take care of myself.’

‘The fact that you’re still alive proves that, Yusek. But the odds are stacking up. Eventually, you’ll disappear and Ezzen, or Dullet, will have a self-satisfied smirk on his face for a few days … and that would be the end of it.’

Yusek lowered her chin. ‘I’m not asking you to do me any favours.’ She hated how sullen that sounded, but it was the truth.

Orbern sighed again. ‘I know. But I am anyway. Osserc knows why. Must be my civilized conscience.’

She went to pack the rest of her meagre belongings. Queen’s throw! I may as well just ditch ’em. She spotted Short-tall, out of the south, and raised her chin to him. ‘So who are these Segulath anyway?’

‘It’s Seguleh,’ he corrected her, then drew a slashing line across the air. ‘Swords, sweetmeat. Walking swords is what they are. Watch yourself or they’ll do you as they did Waynar.’

She gave him a face, threw her tied bedroll over her shoulder.

She found them waiting in the muddy garbage-strewn grounds that Orbern called the ‘Marshalling field’. A pack of gathered stores sat with them.

The spokesman indicated it. ‘Carry this.’

‘I ain’t no one’s pack mule.’

‘None the less.’

‘No. You can fucking carry it.’

Something whipped past her face — a silvery blur. Her bedroll fell from her shoulder into the mud, its rope tie cut. The man straightened, his cloak falling back into place.

Yusek stared. How in the name of Togg did he do that? She raised her gaze to the painted mask and the eyes behind: these studied her, narrowed, as if gauging her reaction. It was not the swaggering superior look she was used to from all those who’d bested her in the past.

She spat to one side — ‘Fine!’ — yanked up the pack, which was damned heavy, adjusted it on her back. ‘You do have a name …?’

The spokesman motioned for her to walk with him. The silent partner followed, hood still raised. As they approached the palisade door she spotted fat Orbern up on the catwalk. He waved for the solid log cross-piece to be pulled aside and the door pushed open. They exited into the woods with almost the entire crew of Orbern-town at the palisade watching them go.

‘My name is Sall,’ the spokesman said. Now, in the silence of the woods, he sounded rather young.

Yusek jerked a thumb to the other. ‘And him?’

Sall was silent for a time, perhaps searching for the right words. ‘In the rankings of the Seguleh I am of the Three Hundredth-’

‘Three hundredth what?’ she cut in.

Again, he was silent for a while. The rain had let up and now the streams of run-off trickled across the track. Heavy drops pattered amid the woods. The morning’s mist was gone with the rain.

‘The Three Hundredth I refer to means among the Seguleh fighters,’ Sall said, his tone now quite icy. It seemed he wasn’t used to being interrupted.

She eyed him sidelong. He’d raised his hood again. ‘So … you mean that you’re among the top three hundred fighters of all you Seguleh?’

‘Among all those who choose to pursue the rankings, yes. Not all need do so.’

Among the three hundred best fighters of these Seguleh? Damn! She jerked her thumb to the other. ‘And him?’

‘Yusek’ — he spoke much more quietly now — ‘I can give you his name … but it will be of no use to you. You might address him but he will never speak to you. He is Lo. And he is Eighth.’

Eighth? Like in eighth best of all of ’em? Burn’s embrace! And they’re out here in the middle of nowhere? ‘What’re you two doing here?’

‘As I said, we are looking for a monastery that is supposed to be somewhere here in these mountains.’

Yusek snorted. Damned foolishness. Here she was guiding a couple of fanatics off to some temple so they could bow to some dusty piece of bone, or a sacred statue on a wall, or have a senile old man wave his hand over their heads. What a fucking waste of her time!

She decided to ditch them right away.

She simply didn’t stop walking. So far that tactic had never failed her. She’d lost everyone she’d ever walked away from. As the day progressed, sure enough they fell back just as everyone always did. Once they were far enough behind on the trail she shucked the pack from her shoulders, took the best of the dried staples and a skin of water, and just kept right on going without looking back. In fact, she decided to run.

She made for an overhang she knew of, a kind of unofficial way-station along the trail. It was much further than an average day’s travel but she’d push on into the night.

For all the rest of the day, into the long twilight of evening, until the light failed entirely and she couldn’t make out the track ahead, she saw no more sign of them. The combined light of the mottled moon and the ill-omened green night sky visitor allowed her to find the narrow path up the rocks to the overhang and here she crouched down on her hams, in the dirt and rotting leaves, and chewed on a strip of dried venison. Her legs were trembling and numb, her chest aflame, but she’d made it. And she was rid of them. She was rid of them all! Fat Orbern, leering Ezzen, slow-witted Henst with his clumsy paws. She’d done it again! Shaken the useless dust from her heels. Just like her ma and pa that day in the worst stretch of the Dwelling Plain when it was them or her and damned if it was gonna be her!

I’ll head for Mengal just as I’ve always wanted. Make a name for myself there. Must be plenty of opportunities for a girl like me … I’ll be-

She stiffened, listening. Rocks were falling down on the trail. She slowly straightened, a hand going to the fighting knife at her hip, her heart thudding.

The hooded and cloaked figure of Sall climbed up into the overhang. He brushed dirt from himself. He dropped the pack to the dry dust and leaves. She lowered her hand. I don’t fucking believe it!

‘A fair first day’s travel, Yusek.’ The hood rose as he peered about. ‘I approve. You may rest. I will take first watch.’

Lo joined them, rising as silently as a ghost from the murk. He crossed to the rear of the overhang and sat without a word.

‘Who are you people …?’ she breathed, awed despite herself.

‘We are the Seguleh, Yusek. And all these lands will soon come to know us again.’

Spindle sat on a stone bench in the Circle of Faiths. It was a paved plaza in the Daru district that through the years, building by building and yard by yard, had been invaded then annexed by the worshippers of foreign, emerging, or even discredited religions. A sort of unofficial bazaar to any god, spirit or ascendant you’d care to name. Tall prayer sticks burned next to him as votive offerings to some obscure northern deity, possibly Barghast ancestor spirits. He waved the thick smoke from his face. Across the plaza a tiny stone building looking unnervingly like a sepulchre housed a priest of the new cult of the Shattered God. The man sat gabbling on to all who passed but was rather hard to understand, speaking as he was through broken teeth and a swollen jaw from the many beatings the local toughs meted out. Spindle had to hand it to the fellow, though. The man was undeterred. He even seemed to relish the extra challenge to his devotion and perseverance.

Some people just want to be persecuted … it proves they’re right.

But then, he knew all about persecution. He and his ma together had watched the world succeed in its persecution of his father, uncles, brothers, aunts, sisters and uncounted cousins. ‘Ain’t gonna lose you, little ’un,’ she’d always told him. She repeated it yet again when word came of the loss of his last brother, fallen overboard in rough seas off the coast of Delanss. ‘That’s my sworn vow, that is.’ And he’d looked up from where he sat next to her chair to watch her brushing her hair — hair so long it would drag along the ground behind her should she ever let it down. ‘Hold you in my arms, I will. Bind you up in protection. Keep you safe. Your mama’s gonna keep you safe. You’ll see.’

He rubbed his shirt over his chest. She was close now. He could feel her next to him the way he could when trouble was coming.

Been three days and no contact yet from any of the cadre mages. Should’ve been contact by now. Ain’t right.

‘You look like a brother,’ someone addressed him in Daru.

Spindle shaded his eyes to blink up at a young swell-sword all done up in mock Malazan officer gear complete with torcs and Quonstyle longsword. On his silk surcoat the lad bore the sword symbol of the cult of Dessembrae. ‘Whazzat? Brother?’

‘One of the initiate. The Elite. Recognized by Dessembrae.’

‘What in Osserc’s smothering warmth are you going on about?’

The young man’s ingratiating smile slipped into a stung haughtiness as he looked Spindle up and down. ‘My apology. Clearly I am mistaken. Obviously you do not possess the requisite dignity.’

Spindle hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat. ‘Dignity, my arse. If he saw you now he wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

‘So those found unworthy may grumble.’

Spindle considered rousing himself to teach the pup a lesson, but he was feeling at ease on the bench and decided not to let the ignorant fool ruin his day. He waved the lad away. ‘Take your rubbish elsewhere.’

The aristocratic youth actually tossed his head as he walked off. Spindle snorted at the absurdity of it all, then realized he was no longer alone on the bench. He eyed the fellow sidelong: tall and rangy, wrapped in an old travelling cloak. Long black wavy hair. Looked Talian in profile.

‘If that lad knew he was talking to a Bridgeburner he’d have pissed himself,’ the man said.

Spindle cursed under his breath. ‘Took your own damned time, didn’t you?’ He rubbed his hand over his chest, listening for guidance, heard nothing. This man was no mage. ‘Who are you anyway? Where’s Filless?’

‘Filless is no longer with us. Someone’s made a sport of hunting Imperial mages and Claws.’ He turned to address him directly. ‘If I were you I’d keep my head down.’

‘Hunh. That’s me. Question still stands. Who’re you?’

‘I’m with the Imperial delegation.’

Spindle snorted again. ‘Military intelligence. Shoulda known.’

‘We learned long ago not to depend entirely on the Claw.’

‘Hood’s cautionary finger to that, my friend.’

‘So — your report?’

‘Some kinda spook’s entered the city. Drug his arse outta the burial grounds to the south. Wasn’t alone neither. Has servants. And they ain’t entirely human, if you know what I mean.’

The intelligence officer let out a faint whistle, fingers tapping on his lap. ‘And the Moranth flee … Damned scary, that.’

‘As did we. You lot marched out.’

‘Just a training exercise,’ the fellow answered, as if it was un-important. ‘I want you to try to track him, or it, down.’

Spindle gave him his best glare. The feller tells me to keep my head down, then he has the nerve … He spat again. ‘Not me. Just a bystander, remember?’

The young officer murmured, ‘Might I remind you the punishment for desertion is still death?’

Stretching out his legs, Spindle took out a handful of nuts he’d purchased from a street vendor, began cracking them and tossed them one by one into his mouth. ‘Amateurish bluff, lad. I’m the last asset you got left in this whole Queen-damned city.’

The officer studied his tapping fingers for a time. ‘I wouldn’t count on that. When the Fifth came to this continent an Imperial Sceptre was sent with High Fist Dujek. It’s with us now. Here in the city. And it’s awakened.’

Spindle missed his mouth with a thrown nut. Gods all around. A line straight to Unta. Anything could be sent through. An army of Claws. A High Mage. He cleared his throat, shrugging. ‘Well, then, you don’t need me.’

The young intelligence officer pursed his lips eloquently. ‘Until then — we’ll just have to put up with you.’

Damned Empire! Never lets you go. Always drags you back in. Sons a bitches.

Then he squeezed the nuts in his sweaty hand. Oh no. Picker’s gonna kill me!

Stooped and shuffling, Aman picked his way through his wrecked shop. Taya followed in his wake. Her steps were dainty and soundless against his noisy dragging of his boots through the broken wares.

She wrinkled her nose at the churned-up dust. ‘Revenge?’ she asked. ‘A warning?’

Aman picked up a relatively whole glass urn, turned it in an errant ray of sunlight that penetrated the shutters he kept locked. ‘No, my dear. Neither.’ He dropped the urn to smash to pieces alongside its fellows. ‘Irrelevant. All too irrelevant.’

Taya studied his gnarled profile. She blew a hair from her face. ‘Then why are we here?’

‘Tone, dear. Watch your tone. Petulant. It is not becoming.’

She raised her full painted lips in a smirk that was almost a leer. ‘Depends upon what you’re looking for.’

After a moment Aman tilted his head to acknowledge the point. ‘True. It has served you in the past. But things are changing now. And you must change as well.’

She snorted her opinion of that. ‘Nothing has changed! Still we skulk in the shadows.’ Her gaze slid sideways to Aman. ‘Perhaps you’re too used to living like rats?’

He was examining the glittering jade-encrusted statue, running his mangled hands over its strange crusted armour of stone. ‘You are wasting your breath, young one. Too long among those who can so easily be stung. Whereas I possess no vanity to be plucked like a thin rich robe. No fragile self-image so readily chipped or shattered.’ He regarded her, his gaze weighing. ‘No. The die is cast … as they say. We merely wait while the ripples spread outward — if I may be permitted to tweak my metaphors. We must wait for we are yet vulnerable, yes? But soon … soon we shall be unassailable. Never you doubt, child.’ He clasped his hands together under his uneven chin as if praying. ‘So. What happened here?’

She shrugged her thin bare shoulders. ‘Someone broke in and ransacked the place. Probably offended by your housekeeping.’

Aman touched his fingertips to his mouth. His mismatched eyes, one brown, the other a sickly yellow, seemed to peer in two directions. ‘No. That is not what happened at all. Observe.’ He indicated the floor next to the statue. Taya looked: near where it stood the floorboards clearly showed the dark outline, free of dust, of its carved stone armoured boots.

‘It moved,’ she breathed.

Aman smiled lopsidedly — the only way he could. ‘Yes.’

‘So … it’s alive?’

He patted the statue’s chest. ‘No. It is not. Makes it even more formidable, truth be told. No, this is what happened. Someone entered undetected, bypassing all my considerable wards, spirit guardians, and Warren-keyed traps. An accomplishment all by itself. He was in the process of examining the premises when the one guardian he did not anticipate acted.’

‘And the mess?’

‘The clumsy efforts of my foreign friend to corner the pest … who, with breathtaking insolence, continued his search even while being chased.’ He shook his misshapen head, awed. ‘Such effrontery! It will be his downfall.’

Taya raised an expressive, elegant brow. ‘Whose downfall?’

Aman tugged at something clasped in one stone fist. He pulled again, grunting. Cloth tore. He raised a dirty shred of material: a stained handkerchief. ‘An old friend. Slipped greasily away … yet again.’