Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER VII

Kiska had long lost track of how many leagues of shoreline she and Leoman had walked when, eventually, as she knew he would, the man cleared his throat in a way that told her he had something to say — something she would no doubt not want to hear.

She stopped on the stretch of black sand, the sun-bright surf brushing up the strand, and turned to regard him. He stood some paces back. His hands were at his weapon belt; his long pale robes hung grimed and ragged at their bottom edge over his chain coat. He was growing a beard to match his moustache and his hair hung long and unkempt from beneath his peaked helmet.

She knew she must present no prettier a picture. She waved for him to speak. ‘What is it?’

He gave an uneasy shrug, not meeting her eyes. ‘This is useless, Kiska. If he wanted to be found he’d have come to us long ago.’

‘We don’t know that …’

‘Stands to reason.’

‘And I suppose you have some brilliant alternative?’

‘I suggest we strike inland. Perhaps we’ll find something. A way …’ He tailed off, seeing Kiska’s change of expression. She was no longer looking at him, but above and beyond. He turned round. A moment later he cursed softly. She came up to stand next to him. ‘It’s closing,’ he said.

‘Yes. Definitely smaller.’

The dark smear in the slate-grey sky that was the Whorl had faded to a fraction of the size it had once been.

‘Looks like the Liosan have put an end to it.’

‘I suppose so. Two offspring of Osserc ought to be enough.’

He studied her, his gaze oddly gentle. ‘That could be our way out closing before us.’

She turned away to keep walking. ‘All the more reason to track him down.’

‘Kiska,’ he called, a touch irritated. ‘We could be walking in the wrong direction.’

‘Go ahead! I’m not keeping you! I’m sure all the ladies are missing your moustache.’

She walked on in silence. Part of her wondered whether he’d answer, or whether he was following along at a distance. She refused to glance behind.

Then his voice came, shouting from far off: ‘What if I told you I could find him?’

She stopped, let out a long angry breath. Ye gods! Was this all just some sort of game to the fellow? She turned round, eyed him. He was standing as before, hands still at his belt, rocking back and forth on the heels of his boots. Shaking her head, she retraced her tracks back up the stretch of beach and planted herself before him, hands on hips.

‘This better be good.’

His brown eyes held the usual glint of amusement. He brushed at his now enormous untrimmed moustache, so very pleased with himself. Like the damned cat that has the mouse.

‘You seem to have a soft spot for these local unfortunates, don’t you?’

She flinched away, eyeing him warily. ‘I’ll not let you harm any of them.’

The man looked positively pained — or made a great show of it. ‘Never. What do you think I am?’

A murderous self-interested callous prick? Yet didn’t there seem to be something more to the man? He did appear to have a surprising gentleness. A kind of unpredictable fey compassion. His problem is that he hides it too well. ‘Your point?’

A nod. ‘My point is that your pity for them seems to have blinded you to how they could be of use in your … well, quest.’

She felt distaste hardening her mouth. ‘And that is?’

He sighed, opening his hands. ‘Think, Kiska. There is some kind of connection there. All we need do is keep an eye on them. And eventually …’ He gave an evocative shrug.

She felt a fool. Yes. Stands to reason. Simple. Elegant. Why didn’t I think of it? Because it was passive. She much preferred action. Yet Leoman was hardly the retiring type. Perhaps it was because he must have grown up hunting and thought like a hunter, whereas she had not. For her, just sitting and waiting for something to happen, well, it grated against all her instincts.

Yet she had to agree. And so she allowed a curt nod and headed back up the curve of shoreline. Leoman followed at a discreet distance. Perhaps to spare her his supercilious smirk and self-satisfied grooming of his moustache.

Barathol was slow to answer the loud persistent knocking at his door. It had a suspiciously arrogant and officious sound to it. Finally opening up, he found that he’d been right. A clerk faced him, a great sheaf of scrolls tucked under one arm and another in his hand. Behind him stood three Wardens of the city watch, and behind them stood a wrinkled pinch-faced woman he recognized as a representative of the city blacksmiths’ guild.

He crossed his thick arms, peered down at the clerk. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you …’ the young man consulted the scroll he was holding, ‘the smith known as Barathol Mekhar, a registered foreigner?’

‘I’m not foreign where I was born.’

The clerk blinked up at him. His brows wrinkled as he considered the point. Then he shrugged. ‘Well, Barathol, as a tradesman and a resident you are hereby conscripted to the city’s construction efforts.’

‘I’m not a mason.’

‘Metalworking is also required,’ the woman observed from the rear.

Barathol jerked a thumb to her. ‘Then why isn’t she conscripted?’

‘Members of the blacksmiths’ guild in good standing are exempt,’ the woman replied, prim and flushed with triumph.

Barathol nodded. ‘I see.’

‘I’ll give you a good exempting,’ Scillara spat from behind Barathol and tried to push past him. He threw an arm across the doorway.

‘Is it paid service?’ he asked.

The clerk allowed the thick paper of the scroll to snap back into a cylinder. ‘It will count as taxation.’

Barathol had yet to pay any tax whatsoever on any of his income but decided that perhaps it would be best not to raise the point at this time. ‘Starting when?’

‘The morrow. Report to the site foreman in the morning.’ The man hurried off, clearly relieved to be done. The woman threw Barathol a haughty glare then hastened in his wake. The three Wardens ambled off, hands tucked into belts. Barathol closed the door.

‘How can you go along with that?’ Scillara demanded.

Barathol peered around the small apartment, which was barely furnished at all. The only domestic touches were those he’d added: a cloth at the table, utensils he’d made. ‘Have to,’ he murmured. ‘No choice.’

‘No choice,’ she echoed, disappointed. ‘No choice. I thought I’d picked one with a spine.’

He flinched, but eased his shoulders. ‘They would arrest me. You’d be on the street.’

She sniffed, dismissing that. ‘I’ve been there before. I’ll do it again.’

‘Not with the little ’un. Not with him. I’ll not see that happen.’

Scillara gave a great rolling of her eyes. ‘Gods! Back to that. Martyr for the children.’ She waved him off and headed up the stairs. Barathol watched her go.

Only thing worth martyring for, I’d say.

‘You a friend o’ that rat?’

Rallick looked up from his usual seat in the Phoenix Inn. He blinked, widening his gaze at the astounding apparitions before him. Two men, twins it seemed, embalmed in dust. Clothes ragged and torn. Dirt-pasted faces cadaver hollow. Hair all standing wind-tossed and hardened in grime. ‘What rat might that be?’ he asked, though he sat at the man’s table.

Each pulled out a chair and sat, stiffly. One coughed into a fist and managed, croaking, ‘While we hash that out how ’bout standing two thirsty men a drink?’

Rallick signed to Scurve for a round.

The two let out long exhalations as if cool cloths had just been pressed to their brows.

‘And who are you?’ Rallick asked.

‘Leff.’

‘Scorch.’

Ah. In the flesh. He leaned back, nodding. ‘I see. What can I do for you?’

‘We’re at the rat’s table but we don’t see no hide nor tail,’ said the one who gave his name as Leff.

‘And for the immediate future let’s keep it to rat — shall we?’

‘Oh?’ said the other, Scorch, his expression puzzled. Or at least so it looked beneath all the pancaking of dust and grit and untrimmed beard. ‘Why’zat?’

Subtlety, Rallick decided, would be lost upon these two and so he allowed himself an exaggerated frown and lift of his shoulders. ‘Well … let’s just say that everyone’s name is on a list somewhere …’

The two stiffened, their gazes flying to one another. One touched a dirty finger to his nose; the other touched a finger just beneath his left eye. Both gave Rallick broad winks.

‘From your lips to the gods’ ears, friend,’ said Leff.

The drinks arrived care of Jess: two tall stoneware tankards of weak beer. The two men stared at them as if they were miraculous visitations from the gods. Each reached out shaking dusty hands to wrap them round a tankard. Each lowered his mouth as if unequal to the task of raising the vessel. Each sniffed in a great lungful then sighed, dreamily. They took first sips by sucking in the top film then coughed, convulsing and gagging. When the fits had subsided they returned to the tankards to rest their noses just above them once more.

All this Rallick watched wordlessly, his face a mask. And so it is for men. What we lust after almost kills us yet we always return for more … we never learn.

Rallick waited while the two addressed the tankards. It took some time. The surrounding tables changed over during the wait. Rallick overheard talk of Lim, this new Legate, and of vague building plans. Right now operations were beginning at the mole to recover stone blocks dumped into the harbour. Finally, after much sighing and swallowing, the two wiped their mouths, leaving great smears of wet dirt across their faces.

Leff pointed to Scorch’s face and laughed. Scorch pointed to his and he scowled. Left cleared his throat and spat on to the straw and sawdust scattered across the floor. ‘We’re lookin’ for a man,’ he told Rallick.

‘I’m happy for you.’

Both frowned and canted their heads as if thinking they’d misheard him.

Rallick sighed and waved his comment aside. ‘What’s that got to do with the rat?’

‘We’ve done work together. Him ’n’ us. Might be a percentage in it all for him. If you know what I mean.’ And he touched a finger under his eye once more.

‘I’m listening.’

‘This feller owes us a lot o’ money-’

‘And countin’!’ Scorch interjected. ‘And countin’!’

Leff nodded his profound, rather drunken agreement. ‘And counting too. A scholar. Ain’t been seen for a long time — so his landlady says. Overdue on rent too.’

‘Maybe he’s skipped.’

Scorch shook his head, unsteadily. ‘Naw. All his books ’n’ old broken pieces ’n’ such is still there. He’d never leave them behind.’

‘All right. So, when did you last see him?’

‘Ah. Well …’ The two blinked at one another, their heads sinking lower and lower. ‘We’d rather not say at this juncture of time … kinda confuse the issue … if you know what I mean.’

‘Fair enough.’ Rallick eyed the two slumping in their chairs. Full tankards on empty stomachs. They’ll be under the table in moments. ‘There’re rooms upstairs, you know. You can maybe use a rest.’

Leff gave a vague wave as he tottered to his feet. ‘Naw. You tell that rat. We’re lookin’ for the scholar.’

Scorch banged into the neighbouring table, righted himself. ‘Look out for that dancing girl, though! That minx. Got a temper like a she-devil. Wouldn’t even give us a kiss.’

Rallick watched them go. I’ll no doubt see them in the gutter later tonight. And dancing girls? Where’d that come from?

Kenth, out of Saltoan, had graduated quickly to full Claw membership. He’d always heard the old-timers grumble that the winnowing of the ranks that had been going on for a while now had also thinned their quality. He was determined to prove them wrong. He was of Golana’s clan and they had been given the biggest contract of recent times, one guaranteed to restore the reputation of the guild in Darujhistan.

The target was Jeshin Lim, the new self-styled Legate.

The Hand moved in as soon as the coming dawn allowed enough light. The Lim estate was well known to the guild. And this Lim was inexcusably negligent in not hiring more guards now that he was Legate.

Kenth’s particular talent was climbing and so he was assigned to help secure the second-storey rooms while the main party assaulted the Legate’s chambers. Their watchers had reported that the man was not taking any particular extra precautions such as sleeping in different rooms, or even securing his doors and windows.

Kenth and his brothers and sisters stole across the estate grounds, dark shadows slipping from cover to cover. No challenges arose from roving guards; no dogs barked or attacked; no Warren-laid traps or alarms burst forth with claps of thunder or blazing lights.

It seemed to Kenth that this city’s ruling class had forgotten their fear of the guild. Tonight, he decided, would restore that ancient and time-tested balance of power.

The estate’s ancient brick and stone wall was simplicity itself to scale. He found a small window terrace and popped the thin wood shutters sealing it. Within, the false dawn’s glow through the shutters revealed the room to be made up as a child’s nursery. It was empty. From here he gained the second-storey main hall. He went from room to room finding all unsecured, and all empty. It seemed that their watchers’ report was accurate: the Legate had sent all the Lim family members to another of their many residences scattered about the city and surrounding countryside.

Presumably, one would think, for their safety.

Yet at the same time all to the guild’s convenience.

Having secured the east wing of the rambling building, Kenth signed to his opposite number covering the west wing, then padded to his assigned post guarding the narrow servants’ stairs. Here he waited, tensed, fingertips on the top stair feeling for the slight vibrations of footsteps below, his ears pricked for the telltale creak of old dry wood. He waited, and waited.

And still his superior did not show to sign the all-clear.

A pink and amber dawn brightened perceptibly in the east-facing rooms.

Should he check in? But, gods, abandoning his assigned post! He would be lucky to be kept on as message-runner! Not to mention whipped to a bloody pulp. Still … so much time!

Dread and the insect-crawling passage of minutes won out and Kenth padded off to check on his opposite number across the main stairs. He leaned out to glance across the broad balustraded marble expanse. And the woman was not there!

Something lay in a dark heap at the top of the stairs.

He darted out, knelt, blades ready. It was Hyanth, dead. No sign of a wound. Magery! No doubts now — time to report.

He ran for the main chambers. The tall twin door leaves were open. He slid in, a hand raised in the alarm sign, only to halt, stunned. Everyone was dead. That is, the entire assault team lay sprawled as corpses. And on the bed, sheer sheet rising and falling, in calm sleep, the Legate.

Kenth did not even hesitate then. He went for the target, blades out.

Before he reached the big four-poster something slammed into his back, sending him tumbling forward to hit the base of the wall. He peered up dazed at a slim lithe figure wrapped in black cloth. The figure stepped over him to open the shutters of a nearby window, then grasped his shoulders and, with astounding strength, levered him out and held him there. He scrabbled frantically for handholds.

She whispered close to his cheek, ‘Take this message to your superiors, good soldier,’ and released him.

Kenth half fell, half scrambled, from stone to stone, snapping latticework and grasping at vines, and crashed to the ground. He lay groaning, his vision flashing with blazing lights. Fortunately, he’d managed to avoid landing on his back.

Report, he told himself — or thought he did. Report!

He lurched to his feet, muffling a cry of pain. Then he staggered, hunched, arms wrapped around his torso, across the grounds to the rallying point.

Rallick sat in his room in an old tenement building of the Gadrobi district. He sipped the morning’s first cup of tea while considering all that he’d learned — or, rather, what little he’d learned.

Baruk missing. Vorcan secreting herself away. Both reputed members of this half-mythic T’orrud Cabal. And in the Council an old forbidden title renewed.

A power struggle. It all adds up to a power struggle. Yet with whom? This upstart Legate?

And Vorcan’s words: No matter what happens, you will not act.

Then there’s what Raest said. Bluff. It’s a game of bluff. And what is bluff but lies, deception, misdirection?

And who does that remind him of?

He stilled, hands wrapped around the warm cup. He cocked his head, listening; the building was silent. Not in all the years he’d kept this room was the building ever silent. He stood, pushing back the chair, hands loose at his sides.

‘Who’s there?’

The door swung open revealing the empty hall beyond. Someone spoke, and Rallick recognized the voice of Krute of Talient. ‘It’s all come clear now, Rallick.’

‘What’s clear, Krute?’

‘No longer in the guild, you said … aye, I’ll give you that. But it’s all in the open now. No need to play the innocent.’

‘What are you talking about, Krute?’

‘She’s backing the Legate, ain’t she? And maybe you are too. We lost six of our best this night. But one made it out. What he brought with him made everything clear. I’m sorry you chose to go your own way on this, my friend.’

Something came sliding in along the floor. A blade: blued, slim, needle-tipped, good for close-in fighting and balanced for throwing. An exquisite weapon exactly like those commissioned by only one person he knew.

The old floor creaked in the hall: a number of men on both sides of the door. Rallick considered the window and the sheer three-storey drop.

Damn. Done in by my own precautions.

He raced through a number of other options, none particularly promising. Then he noticed a smell. A strong sewer stink.

‘Gas leak, lads!’ Krute shouted from the hall. ‘Damn you, Rallick! A trap! Make for the roof.’

Rallick remained frozen, hands close to the heavy curved knives beneath his loose shirt. The floorboards of the hall creaked and popped, then were silent. He edged towards the door, leaned to peer out. It was empty.

Gas? None can afford gas here.

He returned to his room, froze again. Something was on the table that had not been there before. A small leaf-wrapped object. He pulled open the greasy package to reveal a rolled crepe. A breakfast crepe with a delicate nibble taken from one end, as if the purchaser couldn’t bear to part with the treat without a taste and hoped no one would notice.

Lies, deception and misdirection.

So be it.

‘So you are saying that your timely arrival scared them off? Is that what you’re saying?’ Lim eyed the two estate guards, both retired members of the city watch, standing uncomfortable, and extremely nervous, before him. Somehow he was not convinced. He pulled his dressing gown tighter about himself. ‘And the mess outside?’

‘Ah! Well, in their haste to flee — one appears to have fallen.’

‘Is that so? A clumsy assassin. It’s standards that appear to have fallen.’

The guards shared embarrassed glances. One swallowed while the other clasped and reclasped a hand on the shortsword at his side.

Sighing his disgust, Lim turned away. He faced the small desk he kept in his room for correspondence and composing his memoirs. He picked up a slim gold mask among the mementos there and turned it in his hands. ‘I suppose I should hire more guards.’

‘We strongly recommend it, sir.’

He turned, favoured the two with an arched brow. ‘Well … do so. Take your leave. Hire as many as you deem appropriate.’

They snapped salutes. ‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’

Incompetents. It’s a miracle I’m alive. Someone had taken out a contract on me and I slept right through it. And frankly, who it is I suspect is no mystery. The Abyss has no fury like a patron scorned, as they may say. I’ll have to respond. Hit him where it hurts. In the moneybelt.

Lim crossed the room to dress, then paused, confused. Hadn’t there been a rug here? The servants appear to be taking great liberties with the furnishings. They ought to let me know when they take things away to be cleaned.

Torvald Nom and Tiserra eyed one another across the table of their house. Her gaze was a steady unswerving pressure while he shot furtive skittish glances her way between long perusals of the various ceramic bowls, jars and cups arrayed about the room. A breakfast meal of tea, honey and flatbreads lay untouched between them.

‘I’m not moving,’ Tiserra said.

‘No one has mentioned such a thing.’

‘Well … I’m not.’

‘As you say.’

She sipped her tea. Torvald shifted in his seat. ‘Did you say something?’ she demanded.

‘No — nothing at all.’

‘I suppose you’ll be receiving all sorts of petitions to intervene in this or that. Ladies throwing themselves at you, bosoms heaving, panting how they’ll do anything to have your support.’

‘No bosoms heaved my way yet, dear.’

Tiserra glared. Torvald cleared his throat, reached for a flatbread.

‘And I’ll attend none of those damned fancy parties, or gala fetes.’

Torvald withdrew his hand. ‘Perish the thought.’

‘Won’t have those harridans whispering behind their hands about the cut of my dress or the state of my hair.’

‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Won’t have it.’

‘Quite.’

‘I like it here!’

‘Absolutely.’

She raised the cup to her mouth, set it down untouched. ‘So we’re agreed, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘All right then.’ She shifted in her seat, tore a flatbread. ‘Good.’ She nibbled at the bread. ‘So … what has this Legate proposed?’

‘Nothing too shocking yet. Various construction and maintenance projects. All long overdue, really.’ He spread honey on a flatbread.

‘And how much does the position pay?’

The rolled flatbread paused before it reached his mouth. Damn.

In his private room in the Malazan garrison at Pale, Fist K’ess was woken by shouts of alarm and banging. He leapt up from his piled furs and blankets already gripping the sheathed shortsword he always slept with and thumped barefoot to unlatch the heavy wood door. Captain Fal-ej stood waiting there, fully armed and armoured, torch in hand.

‘What is it, Captain?’ he demanded.

The Seven Cities officer took in her Fist standing in the open doorway and quickly looked away. ‘Fire, sir. Kitchens and barracks.’

‘Kitchens and barracks?’

A weary nod. ‘They abut each other.’

‘Who in the name of Togg built …’

The captain raised a forestalling hand. ‘Be that as it may — perhaps the Fist should get dressed.’

K’ess frowned, then remembered that he was naked. ‘Well … if you think it would help.’ He gave the captain a courtly nod and slammed the door shut. Facing the adzed wooden slats Captain Fal-ej let out a silent breath of awe and headed down the hall on weak knees. By the great stallions of Ugarat. This puts the man into a different perspective.

Fist K’ess caught up with Fal-ej where the captain stood shouting commands to a bucket-brigade vainly tossing water on the burgeoning flames consuming the barracks. Studying the conflagration, a hand raised to shield his face from the heat, the Fist shouted: ‘Never mind! It’s a loss! Just try to stop it from spreading.’

Fal-ej saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’ She jogged off, shouting more commands.

After the captain had reorganized the soldiers K’ess waved her to him. ‘Anyone hurt?’

‘No, sir.’

A roar as the roof collapsed silenced any further talk and drove everyone back a step, coughing and covering their faces. Fist K’ess wiped a smear of some sort of air-borne grease from his face — the larders up in smoke.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘An accident?’ He asked but he didn’t believe it: the fire had spread far too swiftly. The shake of her head confirmed his suspicions. Sabotage, act of rebellion, call it what you will. They never wanted us here.

And now this new Legate down in Darujhistan to goad them on.

He waved the captain further back to talk. ‘Any suspects?’

She’d pulled off her helmet and now ran a hand through her matted dark hair. K’ess noted how her features seemed to glow — a combination of sweat from the heat and the grease of the smoke. He realized she had a strange look in her eyes even as he studied them.

She glanced away, clearing her throat. ‘One of the kitchen staff, probably. Or one of the local servants.’

‘You have them?’

‘A few. They all claim innocence, of course. What do you want done with them? We could … send a message.’

‘I very much doubt that the one who set this hung about to get caught.’

‘I agree, Fist.’

‘So … let them know what we could do with them should we be so inclined. Then let them go.’

Her thick black brows rose. ‘Let them … go?’

‘Yes. We’re soldiers, not executioners, or some sort of police. It’s subjugation that requires brutality, and I’m not willing to stoop to that yet. Do you understand, Captain?’

The woman’s face hardened as if struck. ‘I am from Seven Cities, Fist.’

K’ess cursed himself for his obvious misstep but kept his expression blank. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘My apologies — then you more than understand.’

A lieutenant arrived, rescuing the Fist from his discomfort. ‘A mob at the gates, sir. Blocking the exit.’

‘Armed?’

‘Haphazardly so. Though there may be veterans mixed in among ’em.’

K’ess turned to Fal-ej. ‘My apologies again, Captain. You were correct. Perhaps we should have withdrawn earlier. It seems we’re always underestimating Pale.’ He motioned to the lieutenant. ‘Have the entire command salvage what they can then form up before the gates. We’re evacuating.’

The lieutenant saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ He ran off, bellowing.

‘North, sir?’ Fal-ej asked.

They flinched at another thundering reverberation accompanied by curtains of sparks from the collapsing barracks. Did we have any Moranth munitions stored there? Well, I understand they aren’t flammable anyway.

Their few horses, pulled from the stalls, began screaming their terror as the flames drew nearer the mustering square. ‘No, Captain. South. We’ll catch up with the Twenty-second.’

‘Aye. And the gates?’

‘I understand they’re designed to be unhinged, if need be.’

The Captain’s full lips drew up in a feral grin of anticipation. ‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Very good.’ K’ess saluted. Fal-ej jogged for the gates. He wiped his sweat-slick face. Now to toss everything from my office into these damned flames.

A short time later, mounting amid the column, K’ess slapped his gauntlets against his cape to put out drifting sparks. Then he nodded to the bannerman, who dipped the black, grey and silver standard of the Fifth. At the gates Fal-ej oversaw the saboteurs who struck the hinges. At her wave, K’ess motioned that the banner be pointed forward and the entire garrison charged into the broad timber doors. For an instant the gates wavered, creaking, then shouts of alarm from beyond signalled their leaning outwards.

K’ess drew his longsword, bellowing, ‘Onward, Fifth!’

The entire column leaned forward, shields to backs, pressing. The gates groaned, gave, toppled. Screams sounded beyond. The broad timber leaves crashed down — but they did not lie flat — far from it, in truth. The front ranks stepped up on to the planks, ignoring the cries beneath. The garrison marched out, stamping over a good portion of the crushed mob while the rest fled. Even halfway back in the column, when K’ess urged his mount up on to the planking the flattened gate still settled slightly.

Watching from across the square, the Lord Mayor stared in utter horror at the slaughter done by the Malazans in one murderous gesture. He turned to the shadowy figure next to him. ‘This is unspeakable! What have we done?’

‘We?’ intoned the shade of Hinter. ‘As yet I have done nothing. This is all your doing, Lord Mayor.’

The man’s plump hands clasped the furred robes at his neck as if he were strangling himself. ‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘But you assured me …’

The shade made a gesture as if to remove dust from one translucent sleeve. ‘All I assured you was that you would be rid of the Malazans. And behold — am I not good to my word?’

‘But … these deaths!’

‘Not nearly so many as when they arrived, I understand.’

That comment, so calmly delivered, touched something in the Lord Mayor and he clenched his fists around the rich material. ‘You will fare no better! Darujhistan has no more army than we!’

The tall shade’s regard seemed to radiate an almost godlike disinterest. ‘We shall see. In any case, I suppose we do owe you our thanks for sending them off. Therefore — you are now on your own.’ The shimmering figure bowed mockingly, murmuring, ‘Better luck to come.’

The Lord Mayor’s eyes bulged. ‘You are … leaving? But what of the Rhivi raiders? Barghast war bands? The Moranth? You said you would protect us!’ The mayor, nearly breathless, ceased his objections when he saw he was alone; the shade had faded from view. He glanced, terrified, at the shadows surrounding him in the empty night, then quickly scuttled away.

The Malazans had not entirely abandoned southern Genabackis. After the crushing of the Pannion Seer Dujek embarked with the battered remnants of his Host for some distant continent, while Captain Paran collected his remaining columns and also departed. Not all elements withdrew, however. A small portion consisting mainly of the last under-strength legion of the Second Army was left behind. Its mandate, straight from Dujek, was to maintain order while the surviving inhabitants of the region rebuilt their lives, their cities, and their defences. Command of this garrison fell to a veteran who had risen through the logistics and supply side of campaigning. Her name was Argell Steppen and she was awarded the honorary rank of Fist.

What she was entrusted with some thought no honour. Many soldiers muttered that these last fragments of the Second, Fifth and Sixth armies were shattered, if not irrevocably broken. Whether the blunt-talking, short, and some thought rather unattractive woman agreed with this estimation she never said. What she did do was order a general withdrawal from the festering wrecks that were the one-time urban centres of the south — Bastion, Capustan and others — to a hillock near the headwaters of the River Eryn, close by the verges of the Cinnamon Wastes. And here she ordered a fortress built. Most of her command thought her mad to be constructing a redoubt in the middle of nowhere so far from the coast.

Then the raids began.

Bendan, son of Hurule, had grown up among the huts, open sewers and garbage heaps of the Gadrobi slums west of Darujhistan. Being a young lad kicking about the alleys with no income or any likelihood of it, he naturally joined together with other youths of his background to form a brotherhood for mutual support and protection. And for the generation of gainful profit. An organization that the city Wardens and ruling Council of Darujhistan denounced as a gang.

After a successful run of thefts, beatings and a few murders, the ire of the wealthier class of merchants was finally roused and the Wardens were spurred to corner Bendan and his fellows in the abandoned two-storey house they used as their base. By this time he had acquired a nickname, the Butcher, of which he was extremely proud, but which stood him in no stead against the armour and shortswords of the Wardens.

He escaped the encirclement, unlike most of the brothers and sisters of his gang, the last remaining friends of or ties to his youth. Hunted, with nowhere to turn, he naturally sought out the final option available for someone without any attachments to his homeland: enlistment among the invading Malazans.

He watched now, under the cover of night, from the crest of a shoreward dune on the coast just north of Coral, close to Maurik, while four ships stole quietly up on to the strand. He glanced to his right, down the line of his fellow squad-members, anxious for the signal. Eventually, the sergeant, a giant of a man with skin so black Bendan had thought it paint, gave the sign.

As one the squad slithered down the rear of the crest then jogged for the narrow streambed the raiders had been using. Here, under cover of the scraggy brittle brush, they readied crossbows and javelins. Somewhere in the dark across the steep-sided cut waited the 33rd. Once his squad, the 23rd, opened fire and engaged the raiders, they’d charge in from the rear. Meanwhile, the 4th was perhaps even now coming up the shore, ready to cut off retreat to the ships.

‘Like herding sheep,’ the corporal, Little, had told him, winking. ‘Just keep them from breaking out.’

‘More like wolves,’ the oldest of the squad had warned, a hairy and very dirty fellow in tattered leathers everyone called Bone. ‘These Confederation boys are pirates and slavers. Been raiding this coast for generations. Think it’s their gods-given right. This’ll be right sharp.’

‘I’m not afraid of no fight,’ he’d said.

‘Right, Butcher,’ Bone had answered.

He’d given that name when asked. And surprisingly, they used it. Only when they said it they used the same tone they used for arse, or idiot. And somehow there was no way he could call them on it. So he’d shrunk back, glowering, determined to show them what fighting was all about. After all, it was the one thing he’d had to do every day of his life, and since he wasn’t dead yet he was obviously good at it.

‘Let none escape,’ had been bald Sergeant Hektar’s last rumbled instruction. ‘This is our warning stroke. Our last chance before we go.’

Before they left. Marching out! Bendan had seen everyone’s reaction to that stunning news. Crazy as one of them Tenescowri! Abandoning the fortress before it’s even finished. Who was this ambassador to order them out? Couldn’t Steppen have just sent ten or twenty for that marionette to inspect?

Everyone in his squad was disgusted at this typical army stupidity. All except Bone, who’d muttered through a mouthful of the leaves he chewed, ‘The ways of officers is a mystery to regular people.’

Bendan thought it an improvement — he was damned sick of hammering rocks and humping dirt. He’d take a bit of marching over that backbreaking work any time.

Now, it seemed, was their last chance for any real action and everyone was eager to make it count. Beneath them, tracing the bed of the dry cut, came the Confederacy raiders jogging along to their target, another defenceless farming hamlet. He struggled with his crossbow in the disorienting light of the silvery bright reborn moon, and the greenish glow of the swelling arc of light in the sky that some named the Sword of God — though just which god varied.

The mechanism of the crossbow defeated him once again. He couldn’t seem to master the damned foreign thing. He set it down and readied one of the wicked barbed javelins he’d brought against just such a possibility. And just in time as well, as the whistled signal came to fire.

Everyone straightened, letting loose. Crossbows thumped, soldiers shouted, tossing javelins. Bendan hurled his, then, without waiting to see whether he’d struck anyone or not, he started down the slope readying his shortsword and shield. What he glimpsed below worried him. Instead of the milling chaos he’d been told to expect the line of warriors had simply knelt behind large shields, taken the initial barrage, and even now was counter-charging up through the rock and brush.

And damn his dead and gone ancestors but there were a lot of them.

No more time to think as his headlong run brought him smack into the first of the raiders. He shield-bashed the man and knocked him backwards off his feet. That shock absorbed almost all his inertia and now he traded blows with two others. His squad was ridiculously outnumbered. Bendan released all the ferocity he’d learned in life or death fights before he’d even grown hair on his chin. He gave himself into the blazing rage completely, whirling, screaming, attacking without let-up. Raiders backpedalled before him, overborne. Blades struck his hauberk of leather hardened with mail and iron lozenges but he ignored the blows in a determination to carry on until dead. Only this complete abandon had seen him walk away from all his fights — bloodied and punished, but upright.

Then in what seemed like an instant all that stood before him wore the black of Malaz and he lowered his arm, weaving, sucking in great ragged breaths, near to vomiting. The other squad had pushed through from the other side. The column of raiders had broken and men were running for their ships. Bendan and his squad mates left them for the others.

Someone offered him a skin of water and he sucked in a small mouthful and splashed one spray over his face. The blows he’d taken were agony and he knew he’d be hardly able to move tomorrow but he’d been lucky: none was serious enough to take him down.

Sergeant Hektar came by and cuffed his shoulder. ‘Damn, Butcher,’ he rumbled. ‘I can see we’re gonna have to rein you in some.’

Nearby Bone had a cloth pressed to his blood-smeared face, still grinning. ‘Lookin’ forward to a full day’s march tomorrow, lad?’ He laughed.

Bendan waved that off.

‘What about these wounded, Hek?’ someone called.

The massive Dal Hon ran a hand over his gleaming nut-brown scalp. ‘These are slavers … give them a taste of it. We sell them.’

‘Can’t do that,’ Bone shouted from where he was rifling the bodies, one-handed. ‘Empire don’t sell slaves.’

‘Indentureship is so much better, is it?’ the Dal Hon muttered, and shrugged. ‘So we give them away to the Coral merchants.’

Bone’s answering laugh was genuine, but it wasn’t pleasant.

Later that night as he was walking back to camp it occurred to Bendan that when Hektar had called him ‘Butcher’ he hadn’t used that tone. The sergeant had seemed to mean it. He felt grateful, but also a little embarrassed. Because for the entire fight he’d been so terrified he’d pissed himself.

Awareness came to Ebbin in brief disconnected instants. Like startling flashes of lightning in an otherwise terrifying pitch-black landscape of lashing, spinning winds. Each illuminated an instant tableau frozen in stark contrast of light and shadow: he huddled among the bones of a hilltop sepulchre, its stone door shattered; he was chiselling layers of barnacles and sea-growths from a stone revealing it white and pure as mountain snow; he was being kicked aside by Aman while the girl Taya danced frenziedly before a cloaked figure with the face of the sun; his hands held before his face cracked and bloodied, sleeves in tatters.

At other times, the worst times, he was called to writhe in abject terror before that cloaked figure. During these times, lost in the eternal storm that now raged in his mind, the being’s face shone silver like the moon. At other times he raged insane against this monster, shook his fists, swore himself hoarse.

All his tormentor ever gave in return was lofty mocking amusement. As if not only his life and ambitions were meaningless, puerile, but the hopes, struggles and dreams of everyone in the city and beyond were nothing more than puffery and self-important vacuousness. This god-like overview of the entire sweep of human civilization on the continent sent Ebbin once more into the eternal raging storm within his mind.

Yet the stones are important. He is worried about the stones. Will there be enough to complete the base?

At other times they shook him from his tortured nightmare trance to perform tasks for them. The girl — though hardly a girl, Taya — always accompanied him. He helped oversee the salvaging of these very stone blocks being taken from the city mole. He hired craftsmen, answered queries. In short, he was the human face before the operations these fiends wished to complete.

And all the while he was powerless to speak of any of it. He tried — gods, how he fought to utter a word of objection or defiance! But the moment he contemplated such rebellion his mouth and throat constricted as if throttled. Not even his hands would cooperate to scrawl a plea for help. And so, like a prisoner within his own skull, he could only watch and speculate.

Whatever these fiends planned, it reached back all the way to their internment. A resurrection of their rule as one of the legendary Tyrants. Yet why the elaborate charade? Why wait to declare their return? Why the mask? Ebbin was frustrated beyond measure by the mystery. He felt that he had almost all the pieces, yet arranging a meaningful pattern defied him.

One strange moment seemed to almost shock him out of his fugue. He was working in the tent on the salvage site near the shore at the base of Majesty Hill when someone stopped before his table and spoke to him. He looked up from the wage lists, blinking, to see a dark muscled fellow with a wide mane of black hair peering down at him; startling honest concern creased the man’s features. ‘Yes …?’

‘Are you sure you are all right?’ the fellow asked.

Something squeezed Ebbin’s chest painfully — and it was no outside coercion from the masked fiend. He fought to find his voice. ‘Yes … yes. Thank you.’ Emboldened, he took another breath.

‘Your name …?’

‘Barathol Mekhar.’

Ebbin searched his mental lists, found the man. Foreigner, skilled, unregistered blacksmith. Something in that sketch moved him to lurch forward, saying, ‘You have to-’ Then came the clenching fist at his throat. He struggled to continue, even to breathe.

The man’s puzzled concern returned. ‘Yes?’

Then Taya was there at his side to wrap an arm about his shoulders, and squeeze, painfully. ‘My uncle has a lot on his mind,’ she explained sweetly. ‘He is ashamed. He gambled, you see. And he lost. He lost everything.’ She squeezed him again, digging in the nails of a hand. ‘Isn’t that so, Uncle?’

Ebbin could only nod his sunken head.

‘Well,’ the man said, his voice gruff but gentle, ‘I understand. I was just saying that I could set up a smithing station here for your needs. Sharpening tools, forging items.’

‘Yes,’ Taya said. ‘That would be excellent. Thank you. I believe we will have need of that.’

After one last warning clasp she watched while the man moved off, then she left Ebbin to pick up his stylus and return to his record-keeping.

Antsy and Corien led the way out of Pearl Town, as Panar had named it. Malakai immediately slipped away without a word. Ashamed to be seen with the likes of us, Antsy grumbled to himself. Progress was slow, as they elected to travel with no light at all. Orchid murmured directions from close behind. Despite the girl’s descriptions of the way ahead Antsy kept crashing into walls in the pitch black. And Corien limped, unsteady, grunting his pain, his breathing wet and laboured.

‘I see them,’ Orchid announced after they’d walked a maze of narrow streets. ‘Stairs, ahead.’

Antsy let out a snort of disgust. Just great — climbing blasted stairs in the dark!

‘They’re very broad. Open on the right. They climb a cliff up and up … Great Mother — so high!’

In the dark Antsy rolled his eyes. Wonderful. Absolute night all around and a drop-off. Couldn’t get any better. ‘Malakai?’

‘No sign.’

Gettin’ too casual, he is. Antsy’s right foot banged up against the riser of the first stair and he tumbled forward on to them. He dropped his sword and scraped a shin, cursing. The blade clanged from the stone steps like anvils falling in the dark.

‘Sorry, Red,’ Orchid offered, sounding embarrassed.

Antsy just cursed under his breath. Corien almost fell over him as he felt his way forward in the black ink. Fucking band of travelling harlequins, we are. Just missing the floppy hats.

Orchid grasped his arm to help him up and he almost yanked it free.

‘Keep tight to the left,’ she suggested. ‘Single file … I guess.’

‘I’ll go first,’ Antsy said. Then he froze, his lips clenching tight. ‘Orchid — where’s my Hood-damned sword?’

‘Oh! Sorry.’ She pressed it to his hand. He snapped it up, grated a sullen, ‘Thanks.’

Can’t even find my own damned sword! Useless! Completely useless!

Up they went, sliding along the smooth left wall. The staircase was quite broad, with shallow risers only a hand’s breadth or so in height. Luckily the natural list of the Spawn tilted forward and to the left. If it had leaned the other way he didn’t think they could have managed. A gathering warm breeze dried the sweat on the nape of his neck and pressed against his back as the air pushed in around him, rushing up this access. Just warm air rising? Or something more … worrisome? He couldn’t be sure.

‘Feel that wind?’ Corien asked from the dark.

‘So pleasant for a change,’ Orchid answered.

Antsy said nothing.

Finally, Orchid ordered a stop. ‘Something’s ahead. Doors. Broken doors. Stone. Very thick. Looks like we can get through, though.’ Antsy grunted his understanding. ‘Careful now. Slow.’

Antsy and Corien felt their way over shards of shattered rock, ducked under leaning eaves of larger fragments. The Darujhistani swordsman was stumbling more and more and Antsy found himself helping him constantly now. He whispered, ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Not so well, I’m afraid. Feeling weak.’

Antsy touched the back of a hand to the lad’s forehead: hot and slick with sweat. Maybe an infection. That blade or sharpened stick couldn’t have been too clean. ‘We have to stop,’ he said, louder.

‘Corien?’ Orchid asked. ‘It’s bad?’

‘My apologies. Not what I had in mind.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ she demanded, outraged. ‘I asked earlier!’

‘We couldn’t very well have stayed there,’ he said, tired and patient, ‘could we?’

‘There are rooms ahead,’ came Malakai’s voice from far to the fore.

Despite himself Antsy flinched at the sudden announcement from the dark. Hate it when he does that! ‘What’ve you been doing!’ he yelled back angrily.

‘Scouting,’ came the answer, much closer now. ‘Orchid, the hall goes on straight then there are multiple rooms to either side. Take one. We need to rest anyway.’

Antsy started forward, still helping Corien. ‘Any sign of the Malazans?’

‘No. None. No sign of anyone at all.’

‘Perhaps we should’ve brought that fellow Panar with us,’ Orchid said.

Antsy snorted. ‘What could he do for us?’

‘He knows his way around the Spawn. He could direct us.’

‘Almost all of what he told us was lies,’ Malakai said, dismissive.

‘How do you know?’

‘His story’s full of holes. How did he get away from the attacks he described? I wager he betrayed his comrades. Sold them out to save his skin.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Orchid, outraged. ‘You weren’t there. Why assume that?’

‘Because of his other lies.’

‘What do you mean his other lies?’ she demanded, her voice getting even louder. ‘Stop making empty accusations. Either you know or you don’t.’

‘Leave it be,’ Antsy murmured. ‘I agree with him.’

‘No! I will not be shut up by this man’s airs and knowing hints.’

‘Very well,’ Malakai answered, sounding grimly pleased. ‘These poor starving men and women you seem to feel such sympathy for. These scrapings of the would-be treasure-hunters who came scrambling for easy riches. They can’t buy food and water from any Confederation boats. They’ve nothing left to sell. They didn’t even have the weapons left to stab our two friends. Now, there’s only one thing left down here to eat — which is why they attacked us in the first place, and why they didn’t pursue us afterwards. We killed or badly wounded a number of them, and — for the time being at least — they have enough to eat.’

Orchid’s breath caught in the dark. ‘No,’ she said, her voice strangled. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Malakai didn’t answer; he didn’t need to.

Antsy remembered those snarling rat-like faces, the bared teeth, the frenzied glistening eyes, and thought he’d vomit right then. Instead, he took a bracing deep breath of the sea-tinged air. ‘So this is not the way?’ he asked, dizzy.

‘The way?’ Malakai answered. ‘It’s a way — at least that. And that’s what I want. We’ll reconnoitre after a rest.’

Antsy grunted his agreement and he and Corien continued shambling up the hall.

They took turns keeping watch, or in Antsy’s case listening very hard indeed. And the titanic fragment of Moon’s Spawn spoke to him. A saboteur, he understood the deep groans that came shuddering up through the stone beneath his thighs and hands. The sharp distant poppings of snaps and cracks. He’d spent a lot of time underground. It reminded him of something … something from his youth. But for the life of him he couldn’t quite place it just then.

Even Malakai stayed with them to lie down and to stand a watch. It seemed he wasn’t the sort to pretend he needed less sleep than anyone else.

In the ‘morning’, when Malakai woke everyone, Orchid came to Antsy and set a hand on his arm to crouch down next to him. ‘Corien’s getting worse,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve done everything I can, but that weapon, whatever it was, must’ve been filthy.’

‘How bad-’

‘I can still walk,’ Corien interrupted loudly. ‘The quiet and dark, you know. Sharpens the hearing.’

‘You’ll have to walk on your own,’ Malakai said flatly.

‘Your concern is a soothing balm,’ the youth replied.

Antsy smiled in the dark: he would’ve just told Malakai to go fuck himself.

‘Red, you lead then,’ Malakai said, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘Corien … walk with Orchid.’

‘And you?’ Orchid demanded. ‘Wandering off gods know where? You should stay with us in case there’s trouble.’

‘If there’s trouble I’ll be more use as a hidden asset.’

Orchid just snorted at that. Antsy imagined her throwing up her hands in the dark.

As they readied, Antsy asked Orchid over and held out his pannier. ‘You’re sure?’ she said, surprised.

‘Yeah — no use in a fight. An’ I’ll need both hands. Corien? The use of your sword perhaps?’

‘Yes, Red.’ There came the unmistakable sound of polished iron brushing wood as the blade cleared the mouth of the sheath. ‘Orchid?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Fumblings as Corien handed Orchid the weapon. ‘Ach!’

‘What?’ from both Antsy and Corien.

‘Cut my hand on the edge.’

‘Don’t hold it by the blade!’ Corien exclaimed. ‘Both edges are razor sharp.’

‘So I see,’ she answered, scathing. ‘Here.’

The grip was pressed to Antsy, who took it and readied his own sword in his left hand. ‘Okay. Which way?’

‘To the right.’

Antsy edged to the right. He held the blades before him, off slightly to each side. Occasionally a tip grated against a wall and he would adjust his direction. Behind, Corien grunted his effort. His boots slid heavily over the smooth stone floor and every breath was tight with pain. Antsy knew Orchid was doing her best to help him along.

After a time turning corners and crossing large chambers — meeting places, or assemblies, Orchid thought them — she sent them climbing up against the Spawn’s slant to what she said was a large building front across a broad open court. ‘Do you even know where you’re going?’ Antsy finally complained.

‘Malakai is there, waiting,’ she said; then, rather impatiently, ‘I’ve been keeping us to the main ways, you know!’

Antsy now said aloud what had been bothering him for some time: ‘Then where is everyone? The place is deserted! Where’re these Malazans? Where’s anyone?’

‘How in the name of-’ She stopped herself. ‘How should I know?’

Antsy just grumbled. Again it seemed the constant straining to see in the utter dark was giving him hallucinations. Lights blossomed before his eyes. Shapes of deepest blue seemed to waver in his vision like ghosts. He silently fumed against it all. What a fool I was for throwing myself into this. A bad start before a worse end! I’m gonna die in the dark like a blasted worm.

‘You made it,’ Malakai said blandly from the dark. Antsy pulled up sharply. The observation was neither a compliment nor a complaint. ‘This looks to be some sort of large complex. We should take a look.’

‘I’m not so sure we should go in there,’ Orchid said, sounding worried.

‘Not for you to say. Corien, perhaps you can sit down inside, in any case.’

The lad managed a tight, ‘Certainly. That would be … most welcome.’

‘We are agreed then.’

‘Which way?’ Antsy rasped, his throat dry — already they were getting low on water.

‘There are stairs up,’ Orchid said.

He slid his foot ahead until he bumped up against the first, then he carefully felt his way up until Orchid told him he was on the last. ‘This is a very wide doorway, tall too,’ she murmured. ‘Open double doors. Inside is a kind of arcade with many side openings and corridors.’

Shit. This could take for ever. ‘Look, Malakai,’ he grumbled, ‘it would help if we knew what we were looking for … Malakai …?’

‘He’s gone.’

Osserc-damned useless whore’s son! That’s fucking well it! He pulled off his rolled blanket and began rummaging through it.

‘What are you doing?’ Orchid asked.

‘I’m getting the lantern.’

‘Malakai said-’

‘Malakai can dick himself with his own-’ Antsy bit off his words, cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, lass. Malakai isn’t here, is he?’

He set the lantern on the stone floor, pulled out his set of flints and tinder and began striking. The sparks startled him at first, so huge and bright were they. Light deprivation — seen it before in the mines. Have to shield the lantern. In moments he had the tinder glowing: that alone seemed light enough. He took up a pinch of the lint and shavings and held them to the wick and blew. Once the wick caught he blew again, steadily, pinched out the tinder and shoved it away back into its box, which he snapped shut.

The lantern’s flame blossomed to life and he had to turn his face away, so harsh was the golden light. Blinking, squinting against the pain the light struck in his eyes, he could eventually see and what he saw took his breath away.

Everything was black, yes, but not plain or grim. The walls, the columns of the carved stone arcades, all writhed with intricate carving. Stone vines climbed the walls, delicate stone leaves seemed to wave before his eyes. Bowers of trees, all carved from the glittering finely grained black stone, arched over a second-storey walkway above.

Then he saw the smooth polished floor and he frowned. Dust covered it, but so too did a litter of broken pots and scattered furniture. No looting here. Why?

In the light, Corien shuffled over to a side alcove of carved benches and sat down, hissing his pain. Antsy set the lantern on the bench next to him. The lad squinted his puzzlement. His face gleamed sickly pale, sheathed in sweat. ‘You keep the light,’ Antsy told him. ‘I’ll have a poke around.’ Corien drew breath to object but Antsy held out his sword, pommel first. Offering a tired smile, Corien took it. ‘Look after Orchid here while I’m gone.’

Orchid had the sense not to object to that bit of chauvinism.

Shortsword out, Antsy picked his way through the litter. It was a large main entrance hall, or gathering chamber. Halls opened off it all around. Stairs led down and up from it on both the right and the left. The stairs were intricately carved, the balusters with vines and blossoms. His light-starved eyes made out much more in the weak light than he knew he could’ve normally; as on a night of a full moon or a fresh snow. In places the floor bore carved designs like grille-work or lattices bearing foliage.

Far off across the chamber the lantern glowed like a star. Next to it Orchid paced restlessly. Antsy found an overturned chest or travel box, its contents of cloth spilled across the floor. He kicked through the dark rich robes. Damn me if I don’t know what’s valuable or not! A Togg-damned waste of time this is.

Something about the nearby stairs caught his attention and he crossed to them. The dust was disturbed here. Not by tracks, but brushed aside, as if disturbed by a wind or the dragging of a wide cloth. He decided to follow as far the light extended. The stairs brought him to a floor just beneath the main one. Here light streamed down through the carvings in the floor above, casting illuminated scenes of bowers of trees across another smooth floor. An intended effect, Antsy wondered? Did lamps or such like burning above cast the same shadows when this place was occupied? He walked out on to the floor.

An object gleamed in the light streaming down. A stick of some kind. Antsy walked up and crouched over it. A bone. A leg bone. A human tibia. And not clean, either. Tangles of ligaments and dried meat still clung to its ends.

He straightened, swallowed the bile churning sickly in his stomach. A dense glow now shone from the far end of the chamber. Fascinated, unable to turn away, he edged closer until the light was sufficient to reveal a carpet of similar remains choking the far side. The shadows of alien blossoms streamed down upon a mass of human carcasses. Many still wore their helmets. Their feet remained in boots. The meat of calf and thigh was gone, as were the viscera from empty gutted chests and abdomens. Ribcages gaped like open mouths hanging with desiccated strips of flesh and meat. Antsy had seen similar remains after battles where scavengers had picked over the dead, taking the choice bits and leaving the rest.

He choked back a yell of alarm and ran for the stairs.

Not looted. Avoided! Everyone else knows better! And Panar sent us here! To our damned deaths.

He came pelting back to Orchid and Corien, who stared, tensing in alarm. ‘What is it?’ Orchid demanded, rising.

‘We have to get out of here — now!’

‘What-’

‘That — thing — everyone was scared of below. I think this is its lair. We have to go.’ He snatched up the lantern, took Corien by the arm. ‘Come on.’

He chivvied them back up the hall to the doors. Here Orchid suddenly let out a cry and froze. Antsy let go of Corien, drew his shortsword. He squinted, seeing nothing. ‘What?’

Hand at mouth, the girl stammered, ‘The door.’

Antsy peered at the doorway anew. What of it? Dark, yes, but … Dark. The light did not penetrate. Something was blocking the entrance, something utterly black like a curtain of night. ‘What is it?’

But Orchid could not speak. She merely jerked her head side to side, appalled, eyes huge.

Shit. Antsy hefted his shortsword. Somehow he didn’t think it would do him much good. And munitions? Probably not them either. He looked to Corien; that finely curled hair now hung down sweat-plastered. The lad met his eye and nodded, hand tightening on his swordgrip.

‘It is a creature of Elder Night,’ said Malakai, stepping out from an alcove next to them. ‘Call it what you will. A daemon, or a fiend. Night animate. No doubt to it we are the invaders, the monsters.’

‘Spare me your sophistry,’ Antsy grated. ‘What can you do against it?’

‘I?’ The man cocked a brow. ‘Nothing. We are trapped. It would seem Panar has the last laugh after all.’

Antsy almost threw his shortsword at the man. ‘Fine,’ he snarled. ‘Everyone back! I’ll try my munitions.’

‘Red …’ Corien warned, touching his arm.

Antsy spun: Orchid had advanced upon the creature.

Shit! ‘Orchid!’

The girl ignored him, or couldn’t hear. One hand was at her throat, the other reaching out as if entreating. She spoke, and Antsy started, for now she uttered another language. One completely unfamiliar to him. Sing-song, it was. Not unpleasant to his ears.

She spoke at length, pausing from time to time as if awaiting an answer. Antsy, Corien and Malakai waited, silent, scarcely breathing.

Despite his anticipation Antsy jerked when a reply came at last. Words murmured from the night, deep and resonating, as if enunciated by all the immeasurable dark surrounding them. Orchid shuddered as if burned — Antsy wondered if she was even more surprised to hear an answer than they. Her breath caught and she looked aside, head bowed as if searching for something, grasping after memories.

Come on … Do it, girl. You can do it …

She nodded then, her gaze distant, and returned her attention to the doorway in front of her. Both hands went to her neck, as if she would throttle herself, and she spoke slowly, haltingly, for some time. The speech ended in a gasp, Orchid wrung out, breathless.

Silence followed. The barrier across the doorway seemed to waver in the lantern light like a wall of hanging velvet. The thing spoke again, a brief response, and Orchid launched into some sort of recitation. Antsy squeezed the grip of his shortsword, his hand wet with sweat. A biting cold now filled the hall. His breath plumed before him.

She finished again with a gasp as if barely able to squeeze out the words. In the silence that followed, Antsy wiped the ice from his hands then examined his fingers: blue and numb with cold. An answer rolled out of the dark: a speech in slow measured tones, a chant almost. The coal-black curtain wavered, then disappeared or slipped away like a shadow exposed to light.

A hissed exhalation escaped Orchid and she would have toppled but for Antsy rushing forward to steady her. He guided her to a bench. Her skirts rattled ice-stiff and rimed with hoar frost. Her skin was burning cold to the touch. Corien sat beside her, holding the lantern close.

‘Malakai …’ Antsy said, gesturing to the entrance.

After a moment the man answered from beyond, ‘It’s gone.’

A distant shout sounded from the darkened halls beyond: a frenzied cry of frustration and rage, and Antsy barked a laugh. ‘So much for Panar’s vengeance. I’m tempted to slit his throat.’

‘No!’ said Orchid, struggling up. Antsy helped her stand. ‘Let’s just go.’

‘And just which way do we go?’ Malakai asked, appearing from the dark.

‘Any way,’ she answered, annoyed. ‘Right. Left. It doesn’t matter. Just find a way up.’

‘Why?’

‘Because what you seek is in the upper levels.’

Malakai froze, astonished. His eyes widened with new appreciation, and he gave a bow of his head — though shallow and tinged by irony. ‘Very well. I will be back shortly.’

Orchid turned to Corien where he slouched on the bench, a hand pressed to his side. She knelt before him. Gently, she set her own hand over his and he hissed at the touch. She spoke again in that same eerie tongue that raised the hairs on the small of Antsy’s neck. It sounded like an invocation or recitation.

A great sigh escaped from Corien and the man would have fallen forward if Antsy hadn’t steadied him. Antsy let him slide down on the bench, unconscious.

‘What was that!’ he demanded, far more harshly than he’d intended. Fear. I’m hearing fear in my voice.

Orchid held her hands out before her, studying them. She stood, wiped the wet condensation from her face. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she said dreamily. ‘To be told stories all your life, to read them, study them, then suddenly discover it’s all true …’

Antsy was looking at a line of empty pedestals. Someone had set a rusted helmet on one. It looked just like a decapitated head. ‘Yeah. Life’s full o’ twists and turns,’ he breathed, uneasy.

She sat, folded her graceful dark hands primly on her lap. Like a priestess, Antsy thought. She looks like some kinda damned ancient priestess with her thick mane of tousled black hair, tattered skirts, and torn lace. Who was she?

He cleared his throat. ‘So … what happened there?’

Her gaze was tired, half-lidded, directed at the entrance. ‘I’m not sure myself. It surprised me, answering like that. Probably was just as amazed as I was to hear the old tongue.’

‘Yeah. The old tongue. Imagine that. And?’

An exhausted lift and fall of the shoulders. ‘I invoked the Rite of Passage as recorded by Hul’ Alanen-Teth, a Jaghut who claimed to have travelled the Paths of Eternal Night. The guardian honoured the formula.’

Beside her Corien stirred groggily. Antsy nodded to her, accepting her words. ‘Well, thanks for saving our lives.’

A wry smile twisted her lips. Head lowered, she peered up at him. ‘I did not save your life, Red. You it called … “Honoured Guest”.’

He frowned at her. ‘What …?’

Corien sat up. He held his head, touched his side. His brows rose. ‘The pain is gone.’

Orchid nodded. ‘Good. That was an Andii invocation of healing. You will be weak for a time, but you should mend.’ She stood. ‘Now, if you will excuse me. I … I want to be alone for a time.’

As she passed, Antsy touched the cloth of her sleeve. He tried to catch her gaze but she would not meet his eyes. ‘And what did it call you …?’

She flinched away. ‘Not now.’

Antsy eased himself down next to Corien. They exchanged wondering glances. Antsy blew out a breath. ‘Well … what d’you know.’

The lad gave a long thoughtful nod.

When Malakai returned he found them still sitting side by side. He cocked a brow. ‘What’s this? Why aren’t we moving?’

‘Orchid’s resting,’ Antsy said, smiling up at him.

‘And what are you so pleased about?’

Antsy tucked his hands up under his arms. ‘Oh, I’m always in a better mood when the squad has its cadre mage.’

The man wrinkled his dark brows, uncertain what to make of that. But Antsy just smiled. It seemed to him that everything had changed. As in battle. Things had reversed themselves as they can in any close engagement. There’d been no announcement, no horns blowing to signal it. Everyone involved just knew it, sensed it. The energy had shifted. Earlier, the party had been Malakai’s. Now, it was Orchid’s. And he and Corien? Well, they were her guards now.