Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 3

A cold, long-fingered hand clasped across his mouth woke Gregar and he flailed for an instant before realizing who it was; then he nodded. Haraj released him and raised a single digit to his mouth to sign for silence.

They lay in a half-fallen-down old barn, close by the rutted road north to Balstro, along the River Nye. It was early morning and soldiers were tramping about outside; he could glimpse them through the slats. They wore the sky-blue livery of Gris.

Gregar held himself as still and quiet as possible.

After an agonizing wait, a gruff woman’s voice called out: ‘We know you’re in there! C’mon out.’

Gregar shot an angry glare to Haraj, hissed, ‘You said they wouldn’t bother!’

‘I got us this far!’ he hissed back.

‘I had to carry you half the way!’

Haraj flapped his hands, dismissive. ‘I’m not used to all this walking – who knew it’d be so fucking far?’

‘You coming?’ the woman barked. ‘Hurry up! Haven’t got all day.’

Gregar shot Haraj another glare.

‘Maybe they don’t know we’re here,’ the lad whispered. ‘Maybe they’ll just go—’

He shut up as thrown brands came arcing through the open doorway to land amid the scattered straw and rushes. A tossed splash of oil followed and immediately burst into flames.

Gregar shook the fellow. ‘Magic us out of here!’

The lad hugged himself. ‘I’m not that kind of mage … but I have an idea.’

Gregar released him, coughed into a fist as the smoke thickened. ‘Fine! What? What is it?’

Haraj ran for the entrance and jumped the flames, his hands held high, shouting, ‘I surrender! Don’t kill me!’

Gregar threw wide his arms. ‘That’s it? That’s the plan?’ He shook his head then picked up a harvesting scythe – the only decent weapon he’d come across – and followed.

Clearing the smoke, he paused, blinking, then threw down the scythe; the soldiers held crossbows trained upon him. In front of him, Haraj was kneeling on the ground, arms out.

The fat female sergeant swaggered forward and tied their hands together behind their backs with leather thongs. ‘All this fuss just to get caught again,’ she growled, and clouted Gregar across the head. ‘That’s for all the trouble you caused me, y’damned wretch of a stonemason. And you,’ she shook Haraj like a rat. ‘Your master bent my ear warning me how tricky you are, so I’m gonna keep a close eye on you!’

The soldiers yanked them to their feet and marched them down to the road, where a caged prison wagon waited. Gregar growled to Haraj, ‘Some plan.’ Yet his companion didn’t appear the least bit troubled by what was happening; he was even smiling as they were thrown in, and he offered Gregar a broad wink.

The sergeant slammed and locked the cage door then returned to her troop. There she bellowed orders for them to set to work to contain the fire; it seemed she was having second thoughts about burning Grisian property so carelessly.

Gregar threw himself down on the dirty straw. The quarries for him. Or just plain execution for escaping.

The wagon rocked beneath him and he raised his head, complaining, ‘What in the name of Hood are you doing?’

But the fellow wasn’t in the cage. In fact, the door now hung open and Haraj was on the roof, clambering like a human-sized spider for the front, and the driver’s plank seat.

‘Grab the reins!’ Gregar urged, coming to the front bars.

‘What’re they?’

‘The reins! The leads!’

The lad thumped down into the driver’s seat. ‘These strappy things?’

‘Yes! Snap them. Snap them and yell!’

Haraj gave the reins a pathetic shake. The two horses, sad old beaten-down animals, merely turned their heads to give him an amused look.

‘Mean it, dammit!’ Gregar snarled.

A bellow of alarm sounded from the direction of the burning barn.

Haraj snapped the leads as hard as he could and he may also have yelled something, but it was swallowed by the curdling scream Gregar let loose. The horses reared, startled, and took off up the rutted mud way – northward, fortunately.

Once the horses were spent, which didn’t take very long at all, they came to a slow stall amid deep woods and Haraj and Gregar jumped from the wagon. With a mere flick of his wrist the strange lad loosed Gregar’s bonds. Then he peered up at him and asked, ‘Now what?’

For an instant Gregar was tempted to free the horses of their tack and try riding them, but being a mere commoner and apprentice stonemason he’d never even been on one before, and so he eyed the surrounding woods instead. ‘We should take off through the forest.’

Haraj winced. ‘Really? I mean, the road would be easier going …’

‘They’ll send riders after us – or you, really. It’s you they want, isn’t it? They don’t give a damn about me.’

The lad hunched from him as if expecting a beating, and the sight of this brought a wringing pain to Gregar’s chest. He looked away, blinking, and muttered, ‘We should get moving.’ He headed into the trees. ‘Follow me.’

They walked through the forest for a time, or rather Gregar walked and Haraj crashed, tripped, cursed, broke branches, and shook brush as he fell. Gregar just sighed and waited for him to catch up. As the evening darkened into night Haraj cleared his throat to offer, tentatively, ‘Ah … we have no food …’

‘Noticed that, did you?’

‘Or water.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So … what’ve you got in mind?’

‘Can you hunt?’

‘Ah … no. Can you?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ah. Well. That’s a problem.’

Gregar started off again. ‘Yes it is. But it’s not one we can solve by standing around.’

Haraj followed along, stumbling and breathing loudly. ‘What about tonight? Sleeping and all?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean … what about wolves and such?’

Gregar turned to offer him a smile. ‘We’re the wolves now.’

This mollified the lad for a time, though as the night darkened he spoke again. ‘But you do know where you’re going … don’t you?’

Gregar halted to point roughly northwest – or at least what he was fairly certain was northwest. ‘I’m heading for the lines.’

Haraj blinked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m sorry … what lines?’

Gregar couldn’t help but gape at the fellow. ‘Are you a fool? The lines! The Bloorian League is trying to encircle Gris! Surely you’ve heard about it.’

The skinny fellow winced and ducked, writhing almost as if in agony, his head lowered. ‘I’ve heard about it, of course. But I’ve never – that is, I was never let …’ He cleared his throat, and finished as if in apology, ‘I didn’t get out much.’

Again Gregar had to look away. He took a long breath, squinting at the surrounding dark woods. Finally, after some time, he said quietly, ‘Something will turn up, don’t you worry.’ He gestured north once more – at least what he hoped was north. ‘Let’s go a bit farther.’

Some time later, exhausted, and, Gregar suspected, possibly lost, they halted next to a giant oak, gathered up armfuls of leaves, and covered themselves to attempt to sleep.

Gregar woke first. The sun glared down in a dappling pattern about him through gaps in the boughs above. For a time he watched the sleeping curled form of his companion, then he scanned the woods. Let him rest a while longer. He was obviously completely unused to any physical exertion. Gregar had seen dogs raised in cages. Released, the poor pathetic things couldn’t even straighten their legs. They were cripples. Unable to walk.

But to do that to a boy. To raise him in such a way.

A burning heat clenched Gregar’s chest and he found he had to wipe his eyes to clear them.

This Ap-Athlan had a lot to answer for.

Noises in the underbrush caught his attention. Animals running. A forester would imagine that meant …

Shapes now moved through the brush, upright. Gregar caught glimpses of pale sky-like blue amid the bushes. Grisian soldiery.

A loud snapping of branches jerked Haraj awake, gasping and flailing. Gregar tried to calm him but the nearby figures halted. A step sounded next to him and he spun to peer up at a Grisian infantrywoman in mail, her surcoat torn and bloodied. She held a sword on him.

‘Here!’ she called.

Gregar’s shoulders fell in despair. They’d been found.

The figures closed. ‘Who is it?’ one called.

‘Don’t know,’ the woman answered, studying them with something like distaste. ‘Outlaws, looks like. Wretched runaways.’

Gregar felt his mouth open, but no sound emerged. Outlaws?

The surrounding brush parted and a number of Grisian heavy infantry now squinted down at them. One waved a dismissal. ‘We don’t have time for this. Just kill them.’

‘Righty-o,’ the woman answered, and raised her sword.

For a fraction of an instant Gregar simply stared upward, completely paralysed by disbelief. Really? This was happening? He was to be murdered. Just like that?

Then he reacted, and suddenly everyone about him seemed to be moving in slow motion. Rising, he pushed his back into the woman, and taking her descending arm used his strength and the techniques of years of heaving stone blocks, and threw her to spin head over heels. She crashed amid the brush.

Now the soldiery gaped at him – then rushed. First came the one who’d ordered their deaths. His sword was raised and Gregar stepped into the swing, blocked the arm, and shoved his straightened fingers into the man’s throat. Cartilage popped and snapped. The man flinched in shock and pain.

Drawing backwards, Gregar slid his left hand down the man’s arm and snatched the sword from his weakened grip, then pushed him away with his right.

For a fraction of a second he admired the silvery iron length of the blade he had taken. This was the first real sword he’d ever held – not some wooden training piece he’d secretly played with until someone saw and beat him for it. Frankly, it felt too heavy in his hand; he much preferred the sticks he had practised with ceaselessly.

The next man came in, swinging. Gregar sidestepped the blow, and because they were all wearing armour and he was not, he didn’t bother hacking at the extended mailed arm but slashed downwards in passing, across the back of the man’s knee.

The fellow bellowed his pain and fell.

Something crashed into him, sending him flying; a shield-bash, he realized, as he staggered into a meadow of tall weeds and grass next to their hiding place. The helmeted heads of at least twenty more Grisian troopers turned his way.

Shit!

The one who had shield-bashed him now came on, thrusting and jabbing with the point of his sword – he’d obviously been watching and learning. Gregar gave ground, circling.

Capricious Oponn’s luck was with Gregar then, as the fellow tripped on something: a hole, or a tangle of grasses. Gregar was immediately inside his guard, thrusting in over the shield to strike the neck and push inwards, feeling the muscle, the frail bones and ligaments parting and giving.

The man fell gurgling and clutching at his neck.

Gregar pulled back, turning in a full circle. He now faced a ring of infantry.

Strangely then, though the sky was completely clear, approaching thunder sounded, turning everyone’s head.

Two cavalrymen crashed into the ring of troopers.

They swung down at the soldiery, hacking from side to side. One heaved his mount to the left, the other to the right. Immediately, Gregar was forgotten. All the Grisians closed on the mounted fighters.

The newcomers fought with astonishing speed and ruthlessness. One threw himself from his mount even while still moving; he bore a tall spear that he whipped about, slashing. A banner rippled close to its broad leaf-shaped tip. The other remained mounted, hacking with two swords in elegant figure-eight motions. Even the mounts fought, lashing out to crush chests.

Gregar stared, stunned. Each rider wore an ankle-length tabard of a red so dark as to be near black. Sinuous down the front and back writhed a long silver dragon sigil. Their mounts’ livery shared this dark blood-red field and sigil.

The Crimson Guard.

The two finished off the Grisian infantry with brutal efficiency. Then the spear-bearer turned to regard Gregar, planting the long weapon. Haraj came staggering out of the brush then, attracting everyone’s attention; the lad tripped over a torn bloody body, took one look, then promptly vomited, heaving and gagging in misery.

The two Crimson guardsmen exchanged arched looks. The spear-bearer inclined his head to Gregar in salute and remounted, while Haraj waved an arm, wiping the spume from his mouth. ‘Wait! Wait! We want to join the Guard!’

The two shared amused smiles. ‘Sorry,’ answered the spearman. ‘Our roster is full right now.’

‘No!’ Haraj insisted. ‘You don’t understand …’

The spearman pointed north. ‘There are refugees in the Coastal Range. Outlaws too. They’ll take you.’ The two kneed their mounts and thundered off.

‘No, wait!’ Haraj called after them, but he let his arms fall. ‘Dammit.’

‘I don’t think we made much of an impression,’ Gregar offered.

‘I’ll make an impression,’ Haraj practically snarled. ‘What now? I’m famished and cold and wet.’

Gregar waved to the bodies. ‘This lot must have something. Search them. And quickly, before more show up.’

Haraj recoiled. He shuddered and hugged himself. ‘Must we?’

‘If you want food and water. Myself, I might try to find some armour that fits.’

After rifling through all the bodies they came up with a few pouches of dried meat and wrapped boiled barley and assorted light weapons, and Gregar had selected a coat of mail that he believed might fit.

‘Now what?’ Haraj asked, burdened by seven skins of water thrown over a shoulder. ‘Which way?’

Gregar had to smile. He motioned to the twinned deep sets of hoofprints.

They set off running as best they could.

* * *

The hamlet on the south shore of the river Idryn was so small it didn’t even have a formal name. The locals Dancer had asked directions from just called it ‘the town’, and pointed them onward.

No formal roads. Just mud paths between a few wattle and daub mud houses, sod-roofed. Fish dried on racks while a handful of sheep watched them nervously from a pen.

He and Kellanved walked down to the muddy waterfront and peered around. Dancer eyed the mage, who raised his chin to indicate the distant shore. ‘North – and west.’

Dancer grunted. This news eased his general ill-temper a touch. He did not like this errand much. Not much at all. Just a few lazy days’ journey east down the Idryn lay Li Heng. He did not want to see that city again.

Children played along the shore and Kellanved approached them. ‘We’re looking for a boat,’ he called.

The mud-smeared pack halted in their game of capturing frogs to gape at them. ‘Who’re you?’ one demanded.

‘A traveller. Now, do any of you know—’

‘You talk funny.’

‘So do you. Now, a boat, yes?’

‘No we don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’ Kellanved asked.

‘Talk funny. We talk normal-like.’

Kellanved opened his arms. ‘Well, it’s all a matter of perspective. Different peoples—’

Dancer held out a single Hengan silver round. ‘This goes to whoever can bring us a boatman.’

The children took off as a mass, straight down the shore. Dancer raised a brow to Kellanved, who huffed and rolled his eyes.

Moments later the gang returned with a stooped elderly man whom they alternately cajoled and pulled. Once they neared, the children abandoned him to mob Dancer.

‘I found him! Me!’ they all shouted at once.

Dancer made a display of tossing the coin far off into the tall grasses. The kids ran off, kicking and piling on to each other.

‘They’ll search for ever,’ Kellanved opined.

‘Yes, they will,’ Dancer agreed, and he showed Kellanved the coin still cupped in his palm.

Kellanved smiled appreciatively. ‘I’m not the only one with tricks, hmm?’

The old man tipped his head. ‘You want a boat, sors?’

‘We wish to cross,’ answered Kellanved.

The oldster nodded and motioned that they should follow.

The boat proved to be a leaky punt that the old fellow pushed off the strand then invited them to enter. Dancer stepped in gingerly, fearful that his foot might go right through the rotten planks. Water sloshed, filling the bottom. Kellanved rather daintily set himself down on a plank seat. The boatman set his two oars into their locks and heaved.

They barely made any headway from the shore. The boatman motioned a clawed hand to Dancer and indicated a wooden cup floating at his feet. ‘Gotta bail.’

Dancer picked up the pathetic piece of carved wood and examined it incredulously. ‘With this?’

The boatman spat over the side. ‘What you do is you dip it into the water and throw it over.’

Dancer gritted his teeth against saying anything more – and making things worse – and started bailing.

‘You city folk,’ the boatman sniggered. ‘Don’t know nothing.’

Kellanved swept an arm to the west. ‘So tell me, O stalwart wise man of the river, salt of the earth, what lies to the west?’

The boatman hawked up a mass of phlegm and spat over the side once more. ‘The rest of the damned country, that’s what.’ And he shook his head at the astounding depth of their ignorance.

Kellanved and Dancer exchanged quizzical looks and were quiet for the remainder of the trip.

When they reached the north shore, Dancer tossed the man the silver Hengan round and the fellow grunted, unimpressed, though it was no doubt ten times anything he had ever been paid. Then Kellanved pointed his walking stick west and they set off, the mage swinging his stick, Dancer shaking his head.

After a time Kellanved observed, ‘I do enjoy these earthy conversations with the local worthies, don’t you? So very edifying.’

‘They say wisdom comes from the country,’ Dancer offered, ‘but frankly I don’t see it.’ He motioned to the plain of the Seti grasslands ahead; rolling hill after rolling hill, the sun lowering towards them. ‘Could be all the way to Quon. Even beyond the coast.’

The mage pursed his wrinkled lips. ‘True … however, there is one particular feature ahead. One legendary for its religious and mystical importance …’

Dancer nodded. ‘Ah, the Idryn Falls.’

‘And the Escarpment,’ Kellanved added. ‘Where legend has it Burn herself sleeps.’ He jiggled the mottled pale brown point in his hand. ‘This appeared in Heng after all. Nearby.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, if it proves to be a false lead, then perhaps we shall have to take to the Warrens after all.’

Dancer nodded his assent as they walked.

The evening darkened into a deep purple. The insects of the night began chirping and bats flew overhead. Kellanved was waving his stick through the grasses, but suddenly he pointed it to the north. ‘Am I mistaken, or is that a light glimmering there?’

Dancer rubbed his chin, and noticed the stubble growing. ‘Must be a wayside stop along the trader road.’

Kellanved’s thick black brows rose in delight. ‘A stop? Perchance an inn? Excellent!’

Dancer sighed; he’d been hoping to keep Kellanved away from people, for the most part. Trouble seemed to follow him round like, well, like his own shadow. ‘Very well. This one night.’

The little mage headed off. ‘Come, come. Let us sit at the fire and hear the travellers’ news, yes? News perhaps of how a certain terrifying mage haunted Heng!’

Dancer winced, following. ‘Please don’t try to bring that up.’

Kellanved did try to bring it up, several times. Dancer, however, interrupted each time to ask of Tali, Kan, or Unta. It occurred to him that the mage had had a good idea in catching up on happenings around the continent. Nom Purge, for example, appeared close to overrunning Quon Tali – an astounding development in their decades of intermittent hostilities. But that news was two weeks old.

Most of what preoccupied the travellers and inhabitants was local: dark scandals and wild rumours. As was the case everywhere, no doubt.

One moment of the evening struck Dancer; when talk came round to news of the nearby mines at the Escarpment, Kellanved actually started, as if shocked by something. Then he stared off into the distance for a time, thinking perhaps, and grinned wickedly.

All this told Dancer that he was scheming again – as usual.

The next day they set out west along the trader road. The poetry of this amused Dancer. Not so long ago he had come up this very road heading east, to Heng, an unproven ambitious youth. And now … well, he was still a youth, but only in years.

Kellanved had been consulting the spear-point and now he halted, appearing rather surprised. He regarded Dancer. ‘Northwest from here.’

‘Really?’ The assassin examined the point in the mage’s hand. ‘Northward? What’s there?’

‘Well, the mines for one thing. Which is odd, as I was about to suggest just such a detour.’

‘What for?’

The little mage had got that cunning self-satisfied look on his wrinkled face that so exasperated Dancer. ‘Oh, you’ll see …’

Dancer clenched his teeth as the mage set off, but followed, rubbing his chin savagely – a smooth chin, since that morning he’d taken the opportunity to shave.

Striking northwest across the plain they soon came to a road, little more than twin ruts in the grass. This they followed until it met up with a more substantial route, muddied and rutted. Already Dancer could smell in the wind the smoke and the noisomeness of trash and cesspits.

They topped one of the low smooth hills and halted, taking in the vista west, of the tall sheer stone cliff of the Escarpment itself, and the disorganized scattering of ragged tents, open pits and fenced enclosures at its base. The workings of the mines.

‘The stone?’ Dancer asked.

Kellanved jiggled it in his hand. ‘It points northwards of here. You don’t mind, though, if we have a look. Do you?’

Dancer shrugged. ‘Fine. But I don’t see why.’ Still, something about the mines did tickle Dancer’s memory. Something about them; he just couldn’t place it.

Armed men and women watched the newcomers suspiciously as they made their way between the pits – some open, others fenced. This place was notorious all across the continent for unrestrained greed, casual murder and lawlessness. The only rule here was the one of the sword and utter ruthlessness.

After a time it appeared to Dancer that his companion seemed to be looking for something. They passed numerous tall fences of planks, most overlooked by dirty and ragged men and women armed with crossbows. One, however, appeared unguarded, and this one Kellanved studied for a good while before approaching and knocking on a plank.

‘Go away!’ piped a high voice.

At that instant Dancer knew – he remembered – and he pressed a hand to his brow. Blessed Burn! Could it be that they were actually really still here?

The mage drew himself up as tall and straight as he could. ‘Not the welcome I was expecting,’ he announced.

A young girl, dirt-smeared, her hair a frightful mess, peeped over the top. Her eyes grew huge. ‘Magister!’ she squeaked, and disappeared.

Kellanved shot Dancer a smug look; Dancer looked to the sky. ‘How is it they could still be here?’ he whispered. ‘Surely these gem-hunters would’ve enslaved them.’

‘My dear Dancer,’ the mage answered, ‘more than half these orphans are talents. Remember that. Rashan, Thyr, D’riss, Denul – you name it. I’m surprised they’re not running the entire place by now.’

The groaning of heavy timbers sounded from behind the plank door, and it opened. Kellanved swaggered in, Dancer following. The door was shut behind them.

A crowd of children had gathered; unwashed, in ragged torn clothes. More and more appeared, climbing up rickety ladders from the lower works. Dancer recognized a number of the orphans he’d seen in Heng. He reflected that perhaps it was not so surprising that they’d survived, given the abuse and brutal treatment they’d endured digging for the black market boss Pung then.

The older of the lot pushed forward, girls and boys. They inclined their heads to Kellanved. ‘Magister.’ Dancer noticed a number of these were actually bowing to him, addressing him as ‘Master’.

‘You have done well?’ Kellanved asked.

All nodded. ‘Rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Burn’s bounty,’ one girl said.

‘Very good,’ Kellanved answered, as if he’d been expecting no less all this time. ‘A new mission. Take what you have gathered and use it as a fund to establish eyes and ears in every major city. In Unta, in Tali, in Cawn, in Purge – everywhere. Yes?’

All bowed in assent. One boy asked, ‘Even Heng?’

Kellanved nodded. ‘Yes. Even Heng.’ He raised a finger. ‘And remember – you answer only to myself and my partner here, yes? To none other. You are mine and his. Our hands, our ears, our eyes. Do you so swear?’

All pressed hands to their chests. ‘We swear, Magister.’

Kellanved nodded indulgently, smiling. ‘Very good.’

Another lad straightened. ‘But how shall we communicate? I know the earth, D’riss, but Leath here knows of the night, Rashan.’

Kellanved nodded once more, reassuringly, hands raised. ‘Worry not. Tonight all you talents must gather with me. I will show you a place where we may travel. A place that shall be ours, and ours alone.’ He waved them away with a flutter of his hands. ‘Go now, prepare your leave-taking.’

The majority of the youths left the main gathering, all but some twelve. These lads and lasses all stood silent, steadily regarding Dancer, who, in turn, studied them. One came forward and extended his hand, palm upwards, exposing the inner wrist. Here Dancer saw crudely tattooed, perhaps by a sharp iron point with charcoal for ink, a small arc, or curve. Anyone could have mistaken it for a sickle moon, but Dancer recognized it. A talon.

‘We heard of your sigil,’ said the lad. ‘Will you have us?’

He did not know what to say. To agree would be to take advantage; to say no almost inhumanly cruel. He set a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘You do not have to do this. You could leave, go anywhere, do anything with your lives. The choice is yours.’

The girls and boys exchanged glances. ‘All our lives we have fought for each other,’ a girl said. ‘Everyone we’ve met has tried to enslave us, beat us, rape us, sell us. We’ve fought everyone. Everyone but you and the magister. Only you and he treated us fair. Home is here with each other. Where else would we go? Who could we trust? Who would defend us?’

‘We serve each other,’ the lad affirmed. ‘Give us our orders.’

Dancer nodded; this he understood. ‘Very well. Join with the others. Serve Kellanved, go where you are sent. But in each city seek out the underworld, the thieves and killers. Learn your trade. And wait. A time will come when I will call upon you.’

The twelve inclined their heads in acceptance.

‘What of recruitment?’ one asked. ‘We are few.’

Hearing the youth’s voice, Dancer remembered his name. ‘Baudin, isn’t it?’

The lad blushed. ‘Yes.’

‘Wherever you go watch for those skilled and trustworthy. These may join – but it must be their choice. There can be no coercion.’ He motioned to where Kellanved sat surrounded by the rest of the orphans. He appeared to be regaling them with a tale of how he personally conquered Malaz. ‘Go ahead and join them.’

The twelve bowed, then slipped in among the others. Dancer propped his shoulders against the side of a crude lean-to dwelling and watched. The mage certainly had a way with mongrels and misfits … like himself, perhaps? Dancer thought about it. Like them both, apparently, from what the girl had revealed of their childhood.

A fire was started and a simple meal of flatbread and boiled lentils was prepared. Guards were changed at the walls, light crossbows at their hips. Then a troop of the orphans descended with Kellanved into the works below. The mage will be showing them the Scar – how to transition into it and how to move about, Dancer reflected. It would be their personal circuit of communications no matter where they may travel.

Since he was awake, he stood a watch at the wall. The mineworks stretched mostly north and south, in a thin line tracing the base of the Escarpment. Each claim was sectioned off by fences or armed guards, every one standing careful vigil against their neighbours, watchful for any attempt to steal the bounty they’d dug. Beyond this stretched a wide tent town of hangers-on, hopefuls, and those who preyed upon the miners, selling supplies, food, wine, and themselves. He wondered, idly, how these lads and lasses had come into a claim, then decided that they’d probably secretly studied them all and simply taken the richest. At least that’s what he’d have done.

After his watch, he bedded down for the night. Before sleep took him he lay for a time staring up at the stars wondering just what Kellanved had in mind for the morrow, and beyond.

* * *

Nedurian leaned on a gritty granite battlement of the keep above Malaz City, overlooking the Inner Bailey. Just what to name the old fortress had been aired briefly, what with Mock’s death and all. But the question answered itself, as everyone simply continued calling it Mock’s Hold. And so it was now, formally. There were even rumours of a ‘Mock’s Barrow’, as funds were being raised to construct one.

He watched a class of Malazan marines, mixed recruits and veterans, training under the watchful eye of their swordmaster and champion, Dassem UItor.

It was a wonder to watch the man work. How, with a simple adjustment of an elbow here, or the widening of a stance there, he transformed men and women into far more balanced and effective fighters.

And the rankers knew it too. Nedurian could even tell when the man simply entered the training field: backs straightened, chatter died away. It was almost comical to see the youth holding forth among a crowd of scarred and grizzled veterans of decades of sea-raiding and see them all nodding sombrely at his words and taking his advice to heart.

It was a wonder. But it was also a danger.

He’d seen what such regard could do to a person. The power it offered. This man might be a favourite of Hood, but all those around him, and following him, certainly weren’t. He’d seen blind worship lead a lot of people to their deaths.

He hoped this swordsman would prove able to resist its seductive call.

He shifted his stance to rub his left leg, wincing. That was not all there was to worry about. What of the Napans? Where were they? Gone off raiding, most of them, while Surly kept out of everyone’s sight. With the absence of their glorious leaders – the fearsome mage and his assassin partner – just where were the soldiers to place their esteem and regard? And, dare he say it … their loyalty?

It was another danger.

The class below laughed then, hazing or chaffing one of their number, and he smiled, remembering such comradeship. He shook his head at himself; gods above, he was becoming quite the gloomy old duffer, wasn’t he! Searching for trouble everywhere he looked.

No, he should keep his thoughts to his assigned job – setting up a cadre system of mages among the army such as had been instituted in the old days among the Talian legions.

So he studied every set of recruits just as carefully as Dassem. And, just as Dassem admitted he was surprised by the depth of the fighting talent offered up by the island – as almost every family was the selected product of generations of raiders – so, too, was Nedurian again surprised by the depth of true talent. Nearly every day’s lineup saw at least one witch or warlock or talent of some order. Sometimes as many as four.

Again, it was astonishing to him that this tiny insignificant island could possibly churn out so many touched by the Warrens. True, the vast majority were minor hedge wizards only, or wax-witches, or wind-callers, or sea-soothers, or minor clairvoyants. But still – so many!

And this was after Surly’s own sorting through the pick of everyone for her own unit of specialized recruits. He suspected that he’d missed out on a number of talented youths in this regard and this irked him, but there was nothing to be done about it, as in Kellanved and Dancer’s absence the Napan aristocrat pretty much ran everything.

This afternoon he watched while the Dal Hon swordsman ran down the line of men and women all eager to enter Malazan service – many from elsewhere drawn by the reputation of Dassem himself, plus the fearsome tales spreading of Kellanved’s prowess – fed, no doubt cynically, by Surly’s agents on the mainland and elsewhere. This day, as Dassem walked down the line of hopefuls Nedurian eyed each in turn as well, and when the Dal Hon came to one particular young woman, an obvious Seti girl, in leathers, with a bone-handled blade thrust though her belt and her long auburn hair tied in a single thick braid, he tapped his dagger’s hilt on the stones and Dassem glanced back to nod.

This girl Dassem spoke to in low tones and sent to him.

She met him with her head thrown back and scorn in her brown eyes. ‘And who are you?’ she demanded.

Inwardly, Nedurian smiled, remembering his own youth and his own assurance of immortality and supreme talent. He crossed his arms. ‘Name’s Nedurian. I’m organizing a special element among the Malazan forces. A cadre of mages to serve in the combat units. Are you interested in fighting?’

The girl snorted her impatience. ‘Of course! That is why I am here, fool.’

‘Yes, you have come a long way. Why?’

She curled a lip. ‘I am disgusted. The elders of my people are fat and lazy. They refuse to see what is coming – or are blind to it.’

‘And that is?’

‘Destruction. The loss of our way of life. We are bounded in, surrounded. With each day our land is smaller. The trend is obvious.’

Nedurian nodded at this and rubbed his neck, thinking. ‘But isn’t the cult of the White Jackal fighting this? Why not join it?’

The girl’s brows rose, as she was apparently quite impressed by his knowledge. ‘The cult of Ryllandaras has always been with our people. Traditionally he is regarded as a threat, a scourge. I, personally, am not comfortable with his worship.’

Nedurian nodded his understanding. ‘I see. So here you are, forced to fight among foreigners.’

‘As my own people will not, yes.’

‘And your name?’

‘Thistle.’

Nedurian cocked a brow, wondering whether she was named after her character manifested itself, or whether she just grew into the name. ‘So you agree to join the cadre?’

‘Not if it means some sort of special treatment, or being taken from the ranks.’

Nedurian smiled, encouraged by her reaction, though others might have thought it insolent. ‘No. As I said, you will remain in the ranks.’

‘I answer to you?’

He smiled again, amused by how she somehow managed to make every statement a challenge. He shook his head. ‘No. There is no hierarchy among the cadre. Each squad mage is equal to any other. All may have their say in tactics or strategy.’

This claim obviously surprised her. She frowned, thinking, then she threw back her head, sneering once more. ‘And what of this Kartoolian magus I hear so much of? This Tayschrenn?’

Nedurian nodded, rubbing the bristles of his growing beard. ‘He is in charge of the formal cadre. Those who mostly don’t wish to serve among the ranks. Who think they are above it. Or those who wisely know they’d be of no use in the field.’

Thistle’s scowl deepened. ‘They will consider themselves above us.’

His smile turned wry. ‘Well, they can think that all they want – can’t they?’

An answering smile grew on the girl’s lips, and she laughed. ‘Very good. May I return to the ranks?’

‘Yes. Just come to me if you have any questions.’

She inclined her head, then jogged off.

Nedurian watched the slim, vibrant young girl go and wished, for however brief an instant, that he was a hundred years younger.