Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER II

The challenge began as these things always do: with a look. A glance held a heartbeat too long. In this case lingering across the beaten dirt of the practice grounds at the centre of Cant, the marble halls of the Seguleh.

Jan, in the act of turning away to call for a slave, noted the glance, and stopped. Those of the ruling Jistarii family lineage out exercising that morning also instinctively sensed the tension. The crowd parted and Jan found himself staring across the emptied sparring fields and wrestling circles to Enoc, the newly installed Third. He watched while the young aristocrat’s friends and closest supporters within the rankings crossed to stand at his side. Without needing to turn his head Jan knew his own friends had come to his. He held out his wooden practice sword. It was taken from his hand.

‘Give him your back,’ Palla, the Sixth, hissed from behind. ‘How dare he! This is not the place.’

Jan answered calmly: ‘Does not our young Third claim that daring is just what is lacking these days among our ranks?’ A snarl of clenched rage answered that. Jan allowed himself a slight raise of his chin to indicate the seats of the amphitheatre across the way. ‘Look … the judges of the challenge assembled already.’

‘They are all of his family!’ Palla exclaimed. ‘This is the work of his scheming uncle, that fat Olag.’

Jan’s sword appeared, offered hilt-first from behind. He took it and began securing the sheath to his sash. Across the field Enoc’s coterie of supporters, ambitious young-bloods mostly, did the same for him. Someone handed Jan a gourd of water and he sipped. His gaze did not leave Enoc’s mask: a pale oval marred only by two black slashes, one down each cheek.

So, a year already, is it? He was surprised. Time seemed to pass ever more quickly as he became older. Not that he intended to get older — it was merely the byproduct of his extended wait for someone to manage to defeat him. Enoc obviously thought his chance had come. And he had to acknowledge that the daring youth seemed to have chosen his moment quite well: Enoc himself was yet fresh, merely having stretched and warmed up, while he had just completed a very gruelling series of sparring matches and was even now still sweating with exertion. It would appear that this cunning new Third had the advantage.

But Jan was where he wanted to be. His blood was hot and flowing fast. His limbs glowed with heat and felt strong. Practice did not drain him as it seemed to so many others. Rather, it enlivened him. Yet … a challenge during exercise … a time when by tradition all members of the Jistarii aristocracy were welcome to mix freely, practising and training. This was very bad form. An assembly of impartial judges wouldn’t even countenance it.

Yet there was no question he must answer. It was his duty. He was Second.

He set the tips of his fingers on the two-handed grip of his longsword and walked out to the middle of the amphitheatre sands. Over the years he had lost count of the many Thirds who had come and gone beneath him. The ranks of the Agatii, the top thousand, were like a geyser in this manner — ever throwing up new challengers. And this one was an impatient example of a notoriously impatient ranking. Long ago it was always said that Second was the worst ranking to attain. Ever Second, never First. But with the death of the last ancient to achieve First, it was Third that was now so regarded. The itchiest ranking; the briefest rung … in one manner or another. And this one seems to think me tired. Very well. Let him do so. Let him challenge now, so very early. So very … precipitately. So be it. I can only do my part and accept.

Enoc strode out to meet him. The other Jistarii backed away, leaving the field clear, while slaves removed equipment. The wind was calm, and the sun was far enough overhead not to be an issue. Jan waited, head cocked. When the Third was close enough to allow private conversation, he offered the ritual exchange: ‘I give you this last chance to reconsider. Form has been obeyed. No shame would accrue.’

The gaze was scornful behind the white mask with its two black lines. ‘Waiting is not for me, Second. I do not plan to cling to my perch — as you have.’

Jan’s breath caught momentarily. ‘You covet the First?’

‘It is time. If you will not lead, then stand aside for one who will.’

So that is what they are whispering in the dormitories … How they have all forgotten. One does not claim First. It cannot be taken. It can only be given. And I — even I — was not judged worthy. Anger beckoned now, and with a supreme effort he allowed it to flow past. No. There must be no emotion. No thought. This one thinks too much — it slows him. One must not think. One must simply act. And he, Jan, had always been so very fast to act.

Pushing with his thumb, he eased the blade a fraction from its sheath. ‘Very well, Third.’ He inhaled, and exhaling whispered the ritual words: ‘I accept.’

Their blades met crashing and grating even as the last syllable left Jan’s mouth. Jan deflected several attacks, noting subconsciously how the lad relied too much on strength as a bolster to a form not yet quite at ease with itself. He knew instinctively he had the better of him, and that any of the rankers above the Tenth would see this as well. But the judges. They would not be convinced. Something much more irrefutable would be needed.

The poor lad. In stacking the assembly his uncle has left me with no alternative. And now this one will pay the price.

Still he delayed, parrying and circling. Among the highest rankings, actually being sloppy enough to spill blood was considered very poor form. The best victories were those achieved without such crudity.

The storm of the Third’s unrelenting aggression washed over him in a constant ringing of tempered, hardened steel. Yet he remained calm — an eye of tranquillity surrounded by a blurred singing razor’s edge. That storm had first been one of blustering overbearing power. But now it carried within it a discord of confusion, even recognition.

And a coiling frantic desperation.

Jan chose to act. Best to end the testing now, lest he acquire a reputation for cruelty. In the midst of their entwined dance of thrust, feint and counter, Jan’s blade extended a fraction of a finger’s breadth further as his shift inwards allowed Enoc’s own movement to close their distance more than intended and the tip of his blade licked the inside of the right elbow, severing tendon.

Enoc’s right arm fell limp, the longsword swinging loose. The lad froze, chest rising and falling in an all too open display of exertion. His fevered gaze through his mask was one of disbelief now crashing into horror.

The lad was crippled. Oh, it would heal, and in time he would probably regain use of the arm. But with that wound he would be hard pressed even to maintain a position within the Agatii. He would retain the right to carry a blade, of course. But there would be no more challenges for him.

Jan considered a whispered apology now while they held this fragile intimate moment between challengers, but the youth would probably take it as an insult. And so he said nothing.

That delicate moment, the onlookers’ breath caught in aesthetic appreciation of the beauty of a single cut perfectly executed in power, timing, accuracy and form, passed.

And the gathered Jistarii all bowed to their Second.

Later that evening Jan sat cross-legged at dinner with his closest friends among the ranked: Palla, the Sixth, and Lo, Eighth these many years, but recently, with the reported death of Blacksword, under consideration for promotion to the long empty rank of Seventh. With them also was an old friend of his youth, Beru, one of the Thirtieth.

‘Will Gall reclaim the Third?’ Jan asked Palla.

She laughed, and, ducking her head, lifted her mask to take a pinched morsel of rice and meats. ‘He will. And with gratitude to be back on his old rung again.’

‘Gratitude? I did not act as I did for his benefit.’

She bowed, all formal, but her voice held humour: ‘Gratitude for reminding everyone why he has remained Third for so long.’

Jan motioned gently to close the subject. He turned to Lo, seeing the seven lines of soot that radiated from the eye holes of his friend’s mask. ‘And what of you? Will you take the Seventh?’

Lo bowed stiffly from the waist. ‘If commanded. But I do not seek it. It is … distasteful … to step up in this manner.’

From Beru’s tense pose Jan could tell he had something to say. ‘And you, Beru?’

The man bowed, and kept his gaze averted. ‘With respect, Second. There is talk of this swordsman, whoever he may be, who slew Blacksword, the Lord of the Moon’s Scion. Some say he must be regarded as the new Seventh. Some suggest a challenge.’

Jan had been reaching for a pinch of meat, but stilled. ‘You know I am against such … adventurism. I opposed the expedition of punishment against the Pannions. What did that gain us? Mok’s skills wasted against rabble and unworthy amateurs.’

His three companions ate in silence for a time, for all knew Jan’s feelings regarding Mok, his elder brother, who volunteered to silence those disrespectful Pannions. And who returned … changed. Broken.

It fell to Palla to speak, the one who shared the greatest claim to intimacy with him, as the lovers they had been. Until both had climbed too high in the rankings and the tensions of the challenge intervened. ‘And yet,’ she began, cautiously, ‘you supported Oru’s venture.’

Jan made a deliberate effort to soften his tone. ‘Oru claimed to have had a vision. Who am I to dispute that? I allowed him to call for any who would voluntarily accompany him.’

‘And twenty answered! Our greatest expedition ever mounted.’

‘True.’ And for the greatest goal of all. For only to him, as Second, did Oru reveal the truth of his vision … the belief that somehow, in some manner, he would regain the honour of the Seguleh stolen from them so long ago. A mad, desperate hope. But one he could not oppose.

His gaze fell on Lo, face turned away as he raised his mask to drink. Perhaps he should allow the challenge. Any man who could defeat Blacksword … if he could better Lo then he could have the rank.

A gentle tap at the door broke into Jan’s thoughts. He nodded for Beru to answer. On his knees, one hand on the grip of his sword, Beru cracked open the door and spoke in low tones to whoever was without. After a short exchange he opened it.

It was an old man, an unmasked honoured Jistarii who had chosen the path of priest. The man shuffled in on his knees and bowed, touching his brow to the bare hardwood floor. ‘My lord. You are requested at the temple. There is … something for you to see.’

Jan inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Very well. I will attend.’ The priest bowed again. He shuffled backwards on his knees and stepped out of the low threshold without turning his back upon them. Jan took a sip of tea to cleanse his mouth.

Palla bowed in a request to speak.

‘Yes?’

‘May we accompany you?’

‘If you wish.’

The main temple of Cant was a large open-sided building of columns and arches. It was constructed entirely of white marble veined with black. Lit torches hissed in the evening wind, casting shadows among the eerily pallid white stone columns, floor and ceiling. The High Priest, Sengen, awaited them. He wore the plain tunic and trousers of rough cloth that were the customary clothing of the Seguleh. He was clean shaven, as most Seguleh males of the Jistarii tended to be, and his long grey hair was oiled and pulled back tightly in a braid. He bowed to Jan.

‘Sengen,’ Jan acknowledged, thereby granting him permission to speak.

‘Only the Second may accompany me,’ the old man commanded, stepping forward.

Palla and Lo stiffened, exchanged outraged glances. Jan raised a hand for patience. ‘That is your right here within the temple.’

Sengen bowed again, beckoning Jan forward.

He led him to the very rear. To the altarpiece: a single pillar of unearthly translucent white stone, waist-high, its top empty. Sengen regarded the pillar reverently, his hands crossed over his chest. Jan stared at him, puzzled by his odd behaviour. Then his gaze moved to the pillar, and he started forward, amazed. Beads of moisture ran down the white stone, and a thin vapour, as of a morning mist, drifted from it.

‘It sweats, Second,’ the High Priest breathed, awed. ‘The stone sweats.’

‘What does this mean?’

Eyes fixed on the pale stone, Sengen answered, ‘It means that what we have been awaiting all this time may come. Our purpose.’

Shaken, Jan stepped away. Yet the pillar was empty … was this right? How could this happen?

‘It is your duty to make ready,’ Sengen said sharply.

Jan nodded. Turning, he caught his reflection on a nearby polished shield. A pale white mask distinguished by a single blood-red smear across the brow. A mark put there by the last First, so long ago. ‘Yes,’ he answered, his voice thick. ‘I shall.’

His three friends waited on the steps of the temple. Coming to them Jan stood silent for some time while they shifted, uncomfortable, gazes averted. ‘Lo,’ he said at last. ‘I give you permission to seek out this Seventh. We may have need of him.’

‘Need?’ Lo echoed, glancing up in startlement, then quickly away.

‘You may take one other with you. Who would that be?’

Lo gestured. ‘Beru here, if he would.’

‘No. I would have him remain. Choose another.’

Lo bowed. ‘As you command.’

‘What is it?’ Palla asked, inclining her head. ‘You are … troubled.’

Jan regarded her. For a moment he allowed himself the pleasure of taking in her lithe limbs, her tall proud bearing, and wished she had not pursued the Path of the Challenge. But that was selfish of him; she deserved her rank. ‘Gather the Agatii, Sixth. We must make ready. The altarstone has awakened.’

The three glanced to the temple, their eyes behind their masks widening in awe. ‘We thought that just a legend,’ Palla breathed.

‘Before he passed, the First imparted to me a portion of what was handed down to him. It is no legend. Now go, Palla. Tell the first half of the Agatii to gather here.’

Palla jerked a swift bow and dashed down the steps. Jan turned to the Eighth. ‘A vessel will be placed at your disposal.’

Lo bowed and backed away down the stairs. Watching him go, Beru spoke, wonder in his voice. ‘And what can this lowly Thirtieth do to help?’

‘I would have you remain among the ranks, Beru. Listen to the talk in the dormitories. A difficult time may be coming. We will all be tested. Let us hope we are not judged … unworthy.’

‘I understand, Second.’ Jan did not answer, and, sensing that his friend wished to be alone now, Beru bowed and departed.

Jan stood for some time in the chill air of the evening. He looked out across the paved white stone Plaza of Gathering to the houses and the mountains of this, their adopted homeland. That adoption was itself no secret. They knew they’d come from elsewhere; all their old stories told of a great march, an exile, although none named their mythical place of origin. That was another truth the First had confirmed: their homeland was to the north. And he had named it.

Precious little more guidance had the ancient yielded, though. When pressed for more the old man had simply peered up at him from where he lay and shaken his head. ‘It is best you do not know these things,’ he had said. ‘It is best for all.’

Ignorance? How could ignorance be best? Jan’s instincts railed against such a claim. Yet he was raised and trained to obey, and so he had submitted. He was Second. It was his duty. Perhaps it was the old man’s tone that had convinced him. Those words had carried in them a crushing grief, a terrible weight of truth that Jan feared he might not be able to endure.

‘You smell that?’ Picker asked. She looked up from where she sat with her feet on a table in the nearly empty common room of K’rul’s bar, chair pushed back, cleaning her nails with a dagger.

Blend, chin in hand at the bar counter, cocked a brow to Duiker in his customary seat. ‘That a comment?’

Picker wrinkled her nose. ‘No — not you. Somethin’ even worse … Somethin’ I ain’t smelt since …’ The chair banged down and she cursed. ‘That hair-shirted puke is back in town!’

Blend straightened, peered around. ‘No …’ She lunged for the door. ‘Get the back!’

The door opened before Blend reached it. She tried to push it shut on a man with a shock of unkempt salt-and-pepper hair and a weather-darkened grizzled face, wearing a long ragged hair shirt. He managed to squeeze in as she slammed it shut. ‘Good to see you too, Blend,’ he commented, scowling.

Blend flinched away, covering her nose and mouth. ‘Spindle. What in Hood’s dead arse are you doing here?’

Picker ran in from the rear: ‘Back’s locked. There’s no way he can- Oh. Damn.’

A toothy smile from the man. ‘Just like old times.’ He ambled over to sit at Duiker’s table, nodded to the grey-bearded man. ‘Historian. Been a while.’

The old man’s mouth crooked up just a touch. ‘Nothing seems to keep you Bridgeburners down.’

‘Shit floats,’ Picker muttered from the bar on the far side of the room.

‘So how ’bout a drink then?’ Spindle called loudly. ‘’Less you’re just too damned busy with all your customers an’ all.’

‘We’re out,’ Blend said. ‘Have to try somewhere else. Don’t let us stop you.’

Spindle turned in his chair. ‘Out? What kind of bar has no alcohol?’

‘A very grim one,’ Duiker offered so low no one seemed to hear.

‘Hunh.’ The man pulled on his ragged shirt at its neck as if it were uncomfortable, or too tight. ‘Well, I think maybe I can help you out with that.’

Picker and Blend exchanged sceptical glances and said in unison, ‘Oh?’

‘Sure. Got some work kicked my way. You know, paid work for coin. For drink and food. And to pay the rent.’ Spindle studied Blend more closely. ‘Who do you pay rent to here anyway?’

The women shifted their stances, squinting at the walls. ‘Why us?’ Blend asked suddenly and Picker nodded.

‘They just want people they can count on to keep their damned mouths shut.’

‘People have given up on the assassins’ guild, have they?’ Picker commented.

‘If there’s any of them left …’ Blend added, aside.

Spindle rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Not that kinda work!’

‘What in Fener’s prang is it then?’ Blend demanded.

Sitting back, booted feet straight out before him, the veteran clasped his hands over his belt. He smiled lopsidedly in what Picker imagined to be an effort at ingratiation, but which looked more like the leer of a dirty old man. ‘Right up your alley, Blend. Plain ol’ low-profile reconnaissance. Observe and report. Nothin’ more.’

‘How much?’ Picker asked.

‘A gold council per day.’

Blend whistled. ‘Who’s worth that much? Not you, that’s for damned sure.’

Spindle lost his smile. ‘They’re payin’ a lot to make sure the job gets done.’

‘Who’s paying?’ Duiker suddenly asked in a low hoarse voice. ‘Who’s the principal?’

All three regarded the old historian, amazed.

‘Damned straight!’ Blend said.

‘Yeah,’ Picker said. ‘Could be a trap. Fake contract to draw us out.’

Spindle dismissed that with a wave. ‘Ach! You’re soundin’ too much like Antsy.’ He peered around. ‘Where is that lunatic anyway?’

Blend leaned back to set her elbows on the bar. ‘Went south. Said he was … ah, antsy.’ She scowled. ‘Stop changing the subject! Who’s payin’?’

Spindle just waved again. ‘Never you mind. I know. And I know we can trust ’em.’

‘Them?’ Picker said, arching a brow. ‘Who’re them?’

Spindle threw his hands up. ‘All right, all right! Trusting as Jags, you lot are. Okay!’ He leaned forward and tapped the side of his gashed and battered nose. ‘You could say it’s our old employers.’

If Picker had had something in her hands she would’ve thrown it at the man. ‘You great idjit! We’re deserters!’

He produced that knowing smirk once more. ‘Exactly. That makes us free agents, right?’

‘It makes political sense,’ Duiker said, and he brushed a hand across the tabletop. ‘Aragan can’t have the Council accuse him of meddling, or spying.’

Spindle’s brows rose. ‘Aragan? That old dog’s here?’

Blend and Picker both swore aloud. ‘Spindle!’ Blend managed, swallowing more curses. ‘You brick-headed ox! He’s the Oponn-cursed ambassador! You said you knew who you were working for!’

Spindle’s face reddened and he stood, heaving back his chair. ‘Well he hardly stopped me on the damned street, did he!’

The old historian eyed the three veterans glaring each other down across the room. He raised a hand. ‘I’ll mind the shop.’

All three blinked and eased out tensed breaths. Picker gave a curt nod. ‘Okay then.’

‘Where?’ Blend asked.

Spindle was frowning down at the historian. ‘South of the city. The burial fields. People want to know what’s goin’ on there.’

‘Everyone says that’s all tapped out,’ Picker said.

‘The past never goes away — we carry it with us,’ Duiker murmured, as if quoting.

Brows crimped, Spindle scratched a scab on his nose. ‘Yeah. Like the man says.’

Blend was behind the bar. She pulled out a set of scabbarded long-knives wrapped in a belt. ‘We should head out tonight. Before the Ridge Town gate closes.’

A wide sideways grin climbed up Spindle’s mouth. ‘Spot their campfires, hey?’

‘Just like old times.’

They walked the desolate shore of black sands, over coarse volcanic headlands, and along the restless glowing waves of the Sea of Vitr. Beach after beach stretched out in arcs of pulverized glass-like sands.

As they walked one such beach Leoman cleared his throat and motioned to their rear. ‘Do you think he really is what he claims?’

Kiska shrugged her impatience. ‘I don’t even know what it is it claims to be.’

Leoman nodded to that. ‘True enough. Not for the likes of us, perhaps.’ He stretched, easing the muscles of his shoulders and back.

How like a cat, Kiska thought again. With his damned moustache — like whiskers!

‘I had a friend once,’ he said, after a time of walking in silence, ‘who was good at ignoring or putting such questions out of his mind. He simply refused to dwell upon what was out of his control. I always admired that quality in him.’

‘And what came of this admirably reasonable fellow?’ she asked, squinting aside.

The man smiled, brushing his moustache with a finger and thumb. ‘He went off to slay a god.’

Kiska looked to the sky. Oh, Burn deliver me! ‘Are your companions always so extravagant?’

He eyed her sidelong. The edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Strangely enough, yes.’

Kiska had stridden on ahead to where an eroded cliff blocked the way. They would have to climb.

At the top Kiska could see far out over the empty sea of shimmering, shifting light. Nothing marred it. Behind, the shadowy figure of Maker had re-joined the sky. The entity had returned to what Kiska mused must be an infinite labour. Was it some kind of curse? Or a thankless calling nobly pursued?

She turned her attention to the next curve of beach and her breath caught.

Leoman found her like that, sitting on her haunches, staring, and drew breath to ask what was the matter, but she raised her chin to the beach ahead. He looked, and grunted a curse.

An immense skeletal corpse lay sprawled across the beach. Half its length narrowed down to the glimmering surf, where it disappeared, eaten away by the Vitr.

The corpse of a dragon.

They approached side by side. Leoman clutched his morningstars and Kiska her stave — though she knew neither would help them should the beast prove some sort of undead creature. But no sentience animated the dark sockets of its eyes. The flesh of its great snout, itself of greater length than she or Leoman, was desiccated, curled back from the dark openings of its nostrils. Yellowed curved teeth, an alchemist’s hoard, grinned back at them.

Who had this Eleint been in life? Had it been known to humans? Or was this the extent of its life … this one brief titanic struggle to escape the Vitr? The idea made her very sad.

Leoman cleared his throat but said nothing. She nodded, swallowing. As they walked away his hand found hers but she pulled it free. She covered her reaction by walking impatiently ahead to where the beach ended at a tumble of the loose porous volcanic rocks.

After a time, Leoman called after her: ‘There’s no hurry, lass.’

She hung her head, pausing on the uneven rocks jutting out into the glowing waves of the Vitr. She glanced back to the man; he was coming along slowly, taking great care with his footing.

‘We don’t know for certain-’

‘Yes, yes! I know. Now hurry up.’

He came up beside her and offered a wink. ‘Wouldn’t do to get yourself killed this close, would it?’

‘This close to what?’

He brushed his moustache. ‘Well, to an answer. One way or t’other.’

‘Leoman,’ she began, slowly, as she hopped from rock to rock, ‘promise me one thing, won’t you? Should I fall into the Vitr and get myself burned to ashes.’

‘And what is that, lass?’

‘That you’ll shave off that idiotic moustache.’ She jumped down on to the black sands of the next long stretch of beach. ‘And stop calling me “lass”.’

He thumped down next to her, ran a finger along the moustache, grinning. ‘I’ll have you know the ladies always love it when I-’

‘I don’t want to know!’ she cut in. ‘Thank you.’

‘So you keep sayin’. But I promise you you’ll-’

Kiska had snapped up a hand. She knelt and he joined her.

Tracks in the sands. Unlike any spoor she’d ever seen, but tracks all the same. When they’d yet to see any at all. Some kind of shuffling awkward walk. She pointed to cliffs inland that the beach climbed towards. Leoman nodded. He freed his morningstars to hold them in his hands, the chains gripped to the hafts. Kiska levelled her stave.

They kept to the edge of the rocky headland, slipping inland, keeping an eye on where the beach ended at the cliffs. She saw the dark mouths of a number of caves. She looked at Leoman, pointed. He nodded. Reaching the cliff, she dodged ahead from cover to cover. Behind, a strangled snarl sounded Leoman’s objection. The first opening was narrow and she slipped within, stave held for thrusting. The cramped space was empty. But packed sand floored it, and depressions showed where people, or things, might have sat or lain. A population? Here? Of what nature? A sound raised the hairs on the back of her neck. A high-pitched keening. Leoman’s morningstars, which he could raise to a blurred speed greater than any she had ever seen or heard tell of.

She leapt out of the cave to see the man facing off a crowd of malformed creatures. Daemons, summoned monstrosities, all somehow warped or wounded. They grasped with mangled clawed hands. The faces of some were no more than drooling smears. Most raised limbs far too crippled to be any danger. Leoman held them off, his back to the cave mouth.

‘What do you want?’ she yelled. ‘Speak! Can you understand me?’

Then the ground shook. Kiska tottered, righted herself and peered up. A gigantic creature had joined the crowd. It appeared to have jumped down from the cliff. It straightened to a height greater than that of a Thelomen. Great splayed clawed feet, like those of a bird of prey, dug into the sands. Its broad torso was armoured like that of a river lizard. It brushed aside its smaller kin with wide, blackened, taloned hands. A huge shaggy mane of coarse hair surrounded red blazing eyes and a mouth of misaligned dagger-like teeth.

She sent one quick glance to Leoman, who nodded, and they both leapt backwards into the cave. In the narrow chute of the entrance she took the forefront; there was no room for morningstars.

A shadow occluded the opening. A deep voice of stones grinding rumbled, ‘Who are you, and what do you wish here?’

‘Who are you to attack us!’

‘We did not attack you — you trespass! This is our home.’

‘We didn’t know you lived here …’

‘So. Even when you knew you were the strangers here, you assume we are the interlopers. How very typically human of you.’

Kiska looked at Leoman, who rolled his eyes. A lecture on manners was the last thing she expected. ‘So … this is a misunderstanding? We can come out?’

‘No. Stay within. We do not want your kind here.’

‘What? Now who is being unfriendly?’

‘You have proved yourselves hostile. We must protect ourselves. Stay within. We will discuss your fate.’

‘Let us out!’ Kiska stood still, listening, but no one answered. She edged forward a little and saw a solid wall of the deformed creatures blocking the exit. She slumped back inside against a wall, slid down to the sand.

Leoman eased himself down next to her. He glanced about the narrow cave. ‘Damned familiar, yes?’

Arms draped over her knees, she only grunted her agreement.

‘We could fight our way out,’ he mused.

‘That would only confirm their judgement, wouldn’t it?’

‘I suppose so. I wonder how much time we will have …’

She cocked a brow. ‘Oh?’

‘Because we might as well spend it profitably …’

‘Leoman! Can’t you keep your mind off that for one minute?’

He shrugged expansively. ‘You need to learn to relax when you have no control over a situation. There is nothing you can do, yes? Now I will rub your back.’

She snorted, but fought a rising grin. ‘Leoman … you can rub my back if you promise me one thing …’

Early in the morning Scholar Ebbin approached the main gates of the Eldra Iron Mongers in the west end of Darujhistan. Under the bored eyes of the door guards he waited as wagons and carts came and went, all stopped and inspected by tablet-wielding clerks, their contents counted, itemized and graded. Ebbin stood waiting. Smoke from the foundries belched overhead. A steady rain of soot added to the layers already blackening the helmets, shoulders and faces of the guards.

After waiting what seemed like half the morning — the guards staring ox-like at him the entire time — Ebbin thrust himself forward into the path of one of these soot-smeared scurrying clerks. ‘I’m here to see the master,’ he blurted out.

Sniggering laughs all around from the youthful clerks. ‘Hear that, Ollie?’ the addressed one said, and he turned his back on Ebbin to examine a wagonload of crates. ‘Here to see the master.’

The fellow Ebbin presumed to be Ollie answered with a mocking laugh. ‘I’ll just summon him then, shall I?’

More laughter answered that. Ebbin pulled a scroll from his shoulder bag. ‘He gave me this.’

The nearest clerk simply continued his tally. Finishing, he swung an exasperated glare to Ebbin. ‘What’s this then? You’d better not be wasting my time.’ He snatched the scroll from Ebbin’s hand and yanked it open, scanned it. He paused, returned to the top to go through it again, more slowly. After finishing the entire letter he raised his eyes to Ebbin; a kind of guarded resentment now filled them. ‘Follow me,’ said.

With the clerk leading, Ebbin wound his way across the busy yards of the ironworks. They crossed rails guiding wooden cars pulled by soot-blackened sickly mules, past great hangars where smoke billowed and sparks showered like glowing rain. They reached a building that looked to have once been a handsome estate house, but now stood almost entirely black beneath countless years of soot. Dead, or nearly dead, vines clung to its facade, some still bearing leaves thick with ash.

Just within the main doors they met some sort of reception secretary, or higher-ranked clerk. ‘Yes?’ the pale fellow asked without so much as glancing up. In answer Ebbin’s guide shoved the letter in front of him. The receptionist’s lips compressed and he took the now soot-smeared vellum between a forefinger and thumb as if it were a dead animal. He gave it a cursory glance, even in the act of tossing it away, then stopped suddenly and slowly flattened it before him. After reading the letter he said, ‘You may go.’ It was not clear to Ebbin whom the man meant. But the young clerk immediately turned on his heel and left without a word. The man blinked up at Ebbin. ‘Follow me.’

The receptionist led him up a wide set of ornate stairs of polished stone. Soot layered the balustrade and the steps were black with ground-in dirt and ash. The man knocked at a set of narrow double doors then pushed them open. Here in a slim but very high-roofed room waited another cadaverous fellow just like this one. The receptionist set the vellum sheet on the man’s desk then returned to the doors. He bowed to Ebbin and made a curt gesture that was somewhat like an invitation to enter. Ebbin did so; the man shut the doors behind him.

The secretary glanced at the letter as he continued writing. The scratching of the quill was quite loud in the upright crypt-like room. ‘You are lucky,’ he said without glancing up. ‘The master is rarely in. If you wait here I will announce you.’

Ebbin hardly trusted himself to speak. A breathless ‘Certainly’ was all he could manage.

The man set down his quill and blotted the document before him, then pushed back his chair. He knocked on the door beside the desk, then went through and quickly shut it behind him. Ebbin waited, rubbing his fingers nervously over the sweat-stained leather strap of his shoulder bag.

The door opened and the secretary brusquely waved him forward. Smiling and nodding, Ebbin edged in past the fellow, who closed the door so quickly he almost caught Ebbin’s fingers. The room within was quite large — it might have originally been a main bedroom, or private salon. Tables cluttered it, each burdened by great heaps of documents and folders. Maps covered the dark-grimed walls. Ebbin recognized schematic drawings of mineworks and street maps of Darujhistan, some very old indeed. One map on a far wall appeared remarkably ancient and he was about to head for it when someone spoke from where light shafted in from a bank of dirty windows. ‘Scholar Ebbin! Over here, if you please.’

‘Master Measure,’ he replied, squinting and bowing. ‘Good of you to see me.’

The master of Eldra Iron Mongers, rumoured to be the richest man in all Darujhistan, stood at one of the tables, his back to a window, studying a folder. He was rather short, going to fat. His northern background was evident in his black curly hair, now thin and greying. Ebbin recognized the folder in the man’s hands as his original project proposal.

‘So,’ the master announced, ‘you are here to request further funding, I take it?’

Ebbin’s throat was as dry as the dust swirling in the light shafts that crossed the room. His heart was hammering, perhaps reverberating with the pounding of the forges. ‘Yes, sir,’ he gasped weakly.

‘This would be your …’ he sorted through the papers, ‘third extension.’

‘Yes … sir.’

‘And what do you have to show for my investment?’

Ebbin struggled with the clasp of his shoulder bag. ‘Yes, of course. I have some shards that hint at decorative styles mentioned in the earliest accounts …’ He halted as the master curtly waved a hand.

‘No, no. I’m not interested in your knickknacks, or your odds and bobs. What have you found?’

Ebbin let go of his shoulder bag. Gods, dare I say it? What if I am laughed out of this office? Well, no more funding regardless … He took a deep breath. ‘I believe I have discovered a vault that may contain proof of the Darujhistan Imperial Age.’

Humble Measure dipped his head in thought, pursed his lips. He started out from behind the table. ‘A brave claim, scholar. Isn’t it orthodoxy that such an age is mere myth? Whimsical wish fulfilment of those yearning for some sort of past greatness?’

The master had walked to the centre of the room. Looking back at Ebbin, he added, ‘As the honoured members of the Philosophical Society point out: surely there would be evidence?’

‘Unless it was expunged with the last of the Tyrant Kings.’

The ironmonger crossed to a table bearing great heaps of papers, yellowed maps and dust-covered volumes. He picked something up and turned it in his hands, a card of some sort. He spoke while peering down at it. ‘One and the same, then? Scholar? The Tyrants and the city’s place as the true power of these lands?’

Ebbin nodded, said, ‘I believe so, yes. Back then.’

‘And what gives you reason to believe you may be close to such proof?’

‘The artistic style of the decor. The architecture of the burial chamber itself. Associated artefacts above from the earliest years of the Free Cities period. All evidence points to this conclusion.’

‘I see. And this vault?’

‘It looks undisturbed.’

‘And … just the one?’

Ebbin’s brows rose in surprise and appreciation at the astuteness of the query. ‘Why, no. One of twelve, in fact.’ And the thirteenth? The central figure? What of him? Shall you mention him? And the floor of skulls? No! Mere excesses of funerary devotional offerings, nothing more. He drew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face and the palms of his hands. He felt almost faint with thirst. The slanting yellow rays cut at his eyes.

‘Twelve,’ the master repeated. ‘Such a weighty, ill-omened number for Darujhistan. The twelve tormenting daemons come to take children away.’

Ebbin shrugged. ‘Obviously some ritual significance of the number goes back even to the time of the Tyrants. Those old wives’ tales of the twelve fiends merely reveal how far we’ve fallen from the truth of the past.’

The Cat native glanced sharply back at him then, over a shoulder. ‘Indeed, scholar. Indeed.’ He returned to studying the card. ‘You shall have your funding. I will provide labourers, draught animals, cartage. And, because what you find may be valuable, armed guards as well.’

Ebbin now frowned his confusion. ‘Master Measure, there is no need for such measures — ah, that is, for such expenditures. Such a large party would only attract the attention of all the thieves and pot-hunters on the plain.’

‘Thus the armed guards, good scholar. Now, I own a warehouse close to the Cuttertown gate. My guards will know it. You will bring whatever you find there.’

‘But, sir. Really, it would be best if I made the arrangements-’ The ironmonger had raised a hand, silencing him.

‘I will protect my investment, scholar. That is all. Wait without.’

Over the years Scholar Ebbin had not begged and scraped for monies from this man, and many others like him, without learning when to argue and when to obey. And so, in an effort to salvage some modicum of dignity, he bowed and left.

Alone, the ironmonger Humble Measure returned to studying the card. It was an ancient artefact of the divinatory Dragons Deck. The single surviving example from an arcana of an age long gone. He held it up to the light and there, caught in the slanting afternoon rays, it blazed pearly white, revealing an image of one of the three major cards of power, rulership and authority … the Orb.

There is a steep gorge amid the hills east of Darujhistan that all the locals know to avoid. To some it is the lair of a giant. To those who have travelled, or spent time talking to those who have, it is merely home to a displaced Thelomen, or Toblakai, of the north.

Here he had lurked for nearly a year. And though several people had complained to the tribal authorities, no one had organized a war band to drive him out. Perhaps it was because while sullen, and an obvious foreigner, the giant had not actually killed anyone as yet. And the woman who was sometimes with him did eventually pay for the animals he took. And he did seem gruffly affectionate towards the two children with him. Or perhaps it was because he was a giant with a stone blade that looked taller than most men.

In any case, word spread, and the gorge came to be avoided, and developed an evil reputation as the haunt of whatever anyone wished to ascribe to it. The local tribes became comfortable with having someone conveniently nearby to blame every time a goat went missing or a pot of milk soured. A few unexplained pregnancies were even hung upon him — charges the foreign woman with him laughed off with irritating scorn. As she also did their subsequent angry threats to skin the creature.

In time, some locals claimed that in the dim light of the re-formed moon they had seen him crouched high on the hillside, glaring to the west, where one could just make out the blue flames of Darujhistan glowing on the very horizon.

Had he been cast out of that pit of sinfulness? Or escaped the dungeon of one of the twelve evil magi who clan elders claimed secretly ruled that nest of wickedness? Did he plot revenge? If so, perhaps he deserved their tolerance; for the destruction of that blot of iniquity was ever the goal of the clan elders — when they weren’t visiting its brothels, at least.

And so an accord of a sort was established between the clans of the Gadrobi hills and their foreign visitor. The elders hoped that flame and sword was what the giant held in his heart for Darujhistan, while the war band fighters were secretly relieved not to have to face his stone blade.

As for the creature himself, who could say what lay within his heart of stone? Had he been thrown out of the city as an irredeemable troublemaker and breaker of the peace? Or had he turned his back on that degenerate cesspool of vice and nobly taken up station in the hills, far from its corrupting influence? Who could say? Perhaps, as some elders darkly muttered, it merely depended upon which side of the walls one squatted.

In the estate district of Darujhistan a grey-haired but still hale-looking man walked through an ornamental garden, but he hardly saw the heavy blossoms, or registered their thick cloying scents. His hands were clasped behind his back and his path was wandering. He was a bard who went by the name of Fisher, and he was wrestling with a particularly thorny problem.

He was struggling with his growing impatience and lack of respect for his current lover. In the past such a falling away of allure would have proved no complication. All it took was a tender chaste kiss, a last lingering look, and he was on his way.

No, the problem was that his current lover was Lady Envy. And Envy did not take rejection well. He paused in his pacing, wincing in memory of their last parting. At least he had gotten away alive.

A woman’s voice rose in the distance, cursing, and Fisher ran for the white pavilion that graced the middle of the gardens. Here he found Envy sitting cross-legged before a low table of polished imported wood. A scattering of cards lay on the thick rich grain and Envy was cursing a streak of invective that would make a dock porter blush.

‘An unhappy future?’ he asked in mock innocence, then winced again.

‘This is nothing for you to joke about,’ Envy answered, imitating his tone. Thankfully she did not look up to catch his pained features.

He made an effort to pull his expression into one of serious concern. ‘What is it?’

She held up a card. ‘This bastard.’

The Orb. He frowned. ‘Yes?’

She eyed him aslant. A smile that hinted at oh so many secrets raised one edge of her lips. ‘You have no idea, do you?’

Fisher struggled to hide all signs of his exasperation. Keeping his voice light, he asked, ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me?’

Envy tapped the card to her lips — lips that she had taken to painting a pale blue after the current fashion. She lowered her green eyes. ‘No. I think not. This could be … diverting.’

Fisher lurched to a sideboard to pour himself a crystal flute of wine. ‘A drink, m’lady?’ he asked, ever courtly.

‘No. Nor should you, I think. I note you are drinking more lately. You should stop. I find it … unflattering.’

He turned from the sideboard, leaned back against it and downed the entire glass in one long pull. He crossed his arms. ‘Really?’

Lady Envy pursed her sky-blue lips and began shuffling the Deck of Dragons. ‘Dearest Fisher,’ she said after a time, ‘you are a talented man … but still just a man. These are matters far beyond you.’

He carefully set the delicate flute on the table. ‘Well, then. Perhaps I should ask around.’

Already into a new casting, Envy was quiet for some time. A vexed frown creased her powdered white brow and she bit her lip. She had paused at the final card, which when turned would be the centre of her field. ‘Ask around?’ she echoed, distracted. She laughed throatily. ‘Oh yes. Do so. If you enjoy playing the facade of usefulness.’

Instead of the anger that ought to have answered such a dismissal, Fisher felt only sadness; an ache for what briefly had been, and for the fading promise of what might have been. He bowed to Envy. ‘I shall go and play then.’

She did not answer as he walked away.

Envy sat alone for a long time, unmoving, hand poised over the card that would lock the swirling pattern of futures before her. Orb high, of course. Card of authority and rulership. And Obelisk near. Past and future conflating. But what of her? What of Envy?

Shadows crept across the faces of the cards. The sky darkened. At long last Envy steeled herself sufficiently to slide the card from the top of its fellows and hold it over the centre position.

She turned it and immediately let go as if burnt. Her hands flew to her throat. She gasped, unable to speak. A great inhuman gurgling yell exploded from her and a burst of power erupted, blowing off the top of the pavilion. Out of the billowing flames stalked Envy. She walked stiff-legged up a garden path, her rich robes scorched and smouldering. Heavy flower blossoms beamed and nodded at her. Snarling, she batted one into a flurry of crimson petals.

A rain of cards came fluttering down around the estate district that afternoon. Aristocratic couples out for a promenade watched, puzzled, as blackened rectangles flitted down on the roads. Servants pocketed many, recognizing the gold and silver paints and the exquisite, though ruined, quality of production. A tutor hired to knock some sense into the spoiled scions of one noble family saw a card lying on a back servants’ way, and bent to pick it up. Having some touch of access to the Mockra Warren, he immediately dropped the thing as accursed.

The focal card, the axis of the casting, fell into the deep shadows next to a hothouse, where it lay half-burnt on the cool wet earth. It bore on its face the barely discernible remnants of a hooded dark figure, crowned in jet night.

The King of High House Dark.

The guard walked his rounds of Despot’s Barbican as he did every evening. In the dusk the clamour of Darujhistan, the calls of the street merchants and the braying of draught animals, was dying down, although it was still too early for the grey-faces to start on their silent rounds from gas jet to gas jet, lighting the blue flames that would pierce the night.

Arfan expanded his chest, taking in a good breath of the cool air wafting in from the lake. It was a good sinecure, this post. If certain parties wanted an eye kept on these dusty ruined monuments to the city’s past, then so be it. This retired city Warden was happy to offer his services. There was nothing here to tempt any thief. The hilltop was abandoned. Not like Hinter’s Tower. Those ruins gave him chills. Everyone was right to think that place haunted. But not here. The tumbled weed-dotted white stone foundations were silent. On the darkest of nights he could even sometimes see the distant glow of the blue flames flickering through parts of the white stone walls. It was actually rather pretty.

This evening the weather was unusually chill. He hugged himself, shuddering. Very unseasonal. He paced his rounds, stamping his sandalled feet to warm them. In the twilight, over the hilltop ruins, the air seemed to shimmer. Stopping, he rested his spear against the base of a broken wall to rub his hands together. The air seemed to be full of vapour, as after a summer’s rain. Yet it hadn’t rained in days. He retrieved the spear, then yelped and dropped it. The wood haft was as chill as ice.

Tatters of clouds now flew overhead, sending a confusing riot of shadows over the hill and the city beyond. He squinted in the shifting glow of starlight, seeing something. He wanted to flee but also knew it was his duty to remain, and so he crouched, advancing behind the cover of a ruined curving wall. Up close he saw how condensation beaded the wall, running in drops down the smooth flesh-like stone.

A sudden wind blew up, lifting a storm of dust and litter. Arfan shielded his eyes; it was like one of those sudden dust-devils that arise in the summer’s heat. He peered up, eyes slit, and in the shifting shadows and blowing dust he thought he saw something … a ghostly image, a watery shimmering mirage: it was as if he stood next to an immense structure. A building, a palace, tall and ornate, which overlooked the city there on the next mound, Majesty Hill. All overtopped by what appeared to be an immense dome.

Then a stronger gust of air and the ghost-image wavered, shredding, to waft away into tatters that disappeared like mist. And he ran … well, jogged really, as fast as he could, puffing and gasping, down the hill to bring word to his contact, an agent of the one who styled himself ‘circle-breaker’.

Nearby in the old city estate district, among the ruins of Hinter’s Tower Hill, the arched entrance to said ruined tower glowed with a ghostly presence. The image of a tall man in torn clothes. His eyes were nothing more than dark empty sockets yet they stared, narrowed, towards Majesty Hill. He mouthed one short word. Only someone within a hand’s breath would have heard his cursed, ‘Damn.’

His empty gaze edged slant-wise to where a fat winged demon lay snoring among the stones, a half-eaten fish in each thorny claw. The ghost raised a gossamer hand to his chin and tapped a finger to his lips.

Antsy jerked awake to surf rustling over smoothed shingle, the cawing of seabirds, and a poke in the ribs. He lay among tall rocks just up from the shore of the Rivan Sea. Two kids, a boy and a girl, peered down at him. The boy held a stick.

‘See,’ the boy announced, triumphant, ‘he is alive!’

‘G’away,’ Antsy croaked, and he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and spat aside. His clothes stuck to him, chilled and wet with dew, and he shuddered. Too damned old for this bivouacking crap.

‘You want food? I got fish — one crescent each!’

He probed the crusted bloodied cloth he’d pressed to the side of his neck. That had been one damned thin and sharp blade. He wondered whether he’d ever see the young nobleman again. He certainly owed him one.

‘Where you from? Darujhistan? You heading out to the Spawns?’

‘Why’s your hair red?’ the girl asked.

‘’Cause I’m half demon.’

That quietened them. He decided to try to stand. First he leaned on the knuckles of one hand. Then he got to his knees. Next, he brought up a foot and pushed up to lever himself erect. His ankles, fingers and wrists all burned with the morning joint-fire. Too damned old.

The girl said in a sing-song voice: ‘If you’re heading out you’re gonna be too late.’

He was scratching the bristles of his chin. ‘What?’

‘They’re already linin’ up.’

‘Shit … ah, pardon my Malazan.’ He headed for the beach.

The kids trailed him. ‘I have vinegared water too. You sure you don’t want any fish?’

A crowd had gathered on the far end of the curving strand. Launches rested there, pulled up from the surf. He angled that way while chewing on a slice of smoked meat taken from one pannier bag.

‘I got a map of the Spawns too,’ the lad said, jumping up in front of him.

Antsy eyed the boy in complete disbelief. ‘Thanks, kid, but I can’t read.’

The boy shrugged. ‘That’s okay. The map’s still good.’

Antsy barked a laugh. Had he any coin to spare he might’ve purchased the rag as reward for the lad’s salesmanship.

Confederation soldiers guarded the boats. A table stood aslant on the gravel beach. The crowd consisted of men and women apparently waiting their turn to pay the transport fee. Most, Antsy figured, couldn’t and were just hanging around. He decided to join the spectators for a while to get a feel for how things worked.

Here, a simple picket of soldiers was barrier enough to keep everyone back. An armed man, he reflected, might be able to fight his way to the boats, but then what? It took at least ten people to handle such huge launches. An armed party then. Ten to twenty to take the boat and oar it out through the surf. But again, then what? Free Cities Confederation ships waited beyond the bay. Your own ship then. But that had been tried. Four private armies had apparently made the attempt — and failed. Only a Malazan warship had forced its way through, and none had seen it since.

A party of five pushed through the crowd of onlookers. They were well accoutred in cloth-wrapped helmets, banded iron armour. They carried longswords, crossbows, and large bags and satchels presumably containing supplies. Four carried large round shields, their fronts covered in canvas slips. The leader wore a long grey tabard over his mail coat. He had a commanding presence, with a great beak of a nose, broken, and a mane of wild blond hair that whipped in the wind.

‘You’re going?’ someone said to Antsy.

He looked over, then up. A dark-skinned young woman stood at his side, slim, and a good two hands taller than he. She wore a dirty cloak over layered shirts and skirting that might have once been fashionable but were now shredded and grimed. Her thick black hair hung in kinked curls, unwashed and matted. Her dark eyes were bruised from hunger and lack of sleep.

‘What’s the price?’ he asked. The girl stiffened and her dark eyes flashed in shocked anger until Antsy raised his chin to indicate the table and the fee-collector.

She relaxed, almost blushing. ‘Oh. I thought … never mind. About fifty gold councils a head.’

Antsy gaped. ‘That’s … that’s pure theft! How can they ask that much?’

She indicated the party. ‘Because they get it.’

A price appeared to have been agreed as the fee-collector gestured to the guards. The party of five was allowed to pass.

‘Mercenaries from the southern archipelago,’ the girl sneered.

‘You’re from Darujhistan?’

The sneer disappeared and she hunched self-consciously. ‘No. The north.’

Her manner struck him as very young and very sheltered. A rich kid out of her element. ‘And you don’t have the price …’

She gave a wry grin. ‘You’ve wangled the truth out of me.’

‘You came down on your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘To find your fortune?’

She hesitated. ‘Sort of. You see, I’m a student of ancient languages. I speak Tiste Andii. And I read the script.’

‘Bullshit,’ was Antsy’s gut reaction.

The girl grimaced and tucked long strands of the greasy hair behind an ear. ‘That’s what everyone says.’

The mix of naivete and worldly adolescent disgust touched something in him. He wondered how on earth she’d lasted this long among such a lawless bunch. ‘Listen. What’s your name?’

‘Orchid.’

‘Orchid? That’s your name?’

Another grimace. ‘Yeah. Not my idea. Yours?’

‘Red.’

‘Must be a common name where you’re from.’

Antsy just grunted, chewed on the end of his moustache. The man behind the table shouted, ‘Anyone else? Anyone else for today’s party?’

No one answered. It occurred to Antsy that the girl might have just made a joke. Gathered at one launch, the day’s complement of treasure-seekers consisted of the party of five plus four other individuals. The Confederation soldiers began packing up.

‘Another day’s waiting,’ Orchid sighed.

‘I’m gonna have a chat with that fellow taking the coin.’

Orchid’s hand closed on his wrist. ‘Take me with you, please. If you go.’

He gently twisted his arm to free it. He failed. ‘I don’t know.’ He stared at her hand. She followed his gaze and pulled her hand away.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I have to go. I don’t know why. I just know.’

He stood rubbing his wrist: damn, but the tall gal had a strong grip. How old was he getting? ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you.’

The pickets let him through. The two guards at the table merely cradled their crossbows and watched while he stood waiting for the clerk to deign to notice him. Eventually, the man looked up.

‘Yes?’

‘The price per head is about fifty gold Darujhistani councils?’

The man sighed, started packing his scales and record books. ‘Yes. And?’

‘What would you give me for this?’

The man didn’t stop packing while Antsy placed a leather-wrapped object on the table. It was about the size and shape of a flattened melon. The man gave another vexed sigh. ‘No bartering. No trades. I’m not a merchant. I don’t want your silverware or your chickens.’

Antsy ignored him. He pulled back a portion of the quilted padding and the man couldn’t help but look. He paled, jerked away, then covered his reaction by closing an iron-bound chest behind the table.

‘How do I know whether that’s real?’ he asked after a time.

‘You saw the seal,’ Antsy growled.

Disassembling the scales the man said, ‘Yes … but seals can be counterfeited. Replicas can be made. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s real enough to pulverize everyone on this Hood-damned beach.’

His back to Antsy, the man paused in his packing. ‘That may be so. But then you wouldn’t get out to the Spawns, would you?’ And he turned to study him over his shoulder with a cool stare.

Antsy decided that maybe there were good reasons why these Free Cities Confederation boys had managed to keep hold of the isles. He gave a sigh of his own and eased the object back into the pannier.

‘I suggest,’ said the man, ‘that you sell that to Rhenet Henel.’

‘Who’s this Rhenet?’

‘Why, the governor of Hurly and all the Spawns, of course.’

Antsy just rolled his eyes.

Orchid caught up with him at the cart track. ‘Turned you down, hey?’

‘Yeah. He didn’t like the look of my chickens.’

She frowned, prettily, he thought, then let the comment pass. ‘So, where to now?’

He stopped, faced her. ‘Listen, kid. I can’t get you out to the Spawns. I can’t even get myself out. There’s nothing I can do for you.’

She bit at her lip. ‘Well, maybe there’s something I can do for you?’

He had to take a long breath to safely navigate that minefield. Gods, girl! How naive can anyone be? He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. I suppose there is. You wouldn’t know where I could get a decent meal round here, would you?’

She took him a few leagues down the shore to what appeared to be nothing more than a camp of refugees squatting among the driftwood of dying overturned trees. ‘Welcome to New Hurly,’ she said, waving an arm to encompass the ramshackle huts and tents.

‘New Hurly? What’s wrong with the old one?’

‘This is the real Hurly,’ she explained, waving to kids and oldsters nearby. She was obviously well known here. Antsy spotted his two would-be guides among a horde of running children. ‘This is what’s left of the original inhabitants.’

‘Here? Why not in town?’

‘Driven out by those vulture hustler scum.’ She sat on a driftwood log before the smouldering remains of a cook-fire and invited him to join her. ‘They have no money so they’d just get in the way, right?’ Her tone was scathing.

He grunted his understanding. He’d seen it before: these natural disasters were not so different from war. An old woman ducked out of a nearby wattle-and-daub hut and Orchid signed to her. She grinned toothlessly and returned to the hut. A moment later she emerged carrying two wooden bowls which she filled from a cauldron hanging over the fire. It was some kind of fish stew. He blew on it.

While they ate the old woman squatted before them, grinning and nodding. He studied the girl. Skin the hue of polished ironwood, slim, hands unblemished and smooth. Educated. A pampered upbringing in some large urban centre. Tutors, fine clothes. All this spoke of a great deal of money yet here she was sitting on a log pushing boiled fish into her mouth with her fingers.

‘Good, yes? Good?’ the old woman urged.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, uncomfortable under her manic stare. ‘Good. Thanks.’

She grinned lopsidedly then took the bowls and returned to the hut.

Orchid watched her go, her gaze sad. ‘Lost her husband, three married children and eight grandchildren in the flood. Never recovered.’

Antsy grunted again, this time in sympathy. He’d seen a lot of that too. He cleared his throat. ‘So, what do I owe …’

‘Nothing. You owe nothing. I healed one of her last remaining grandchildren. Had an infection and fever.’

‘You’re a healer?’ That put a whole new perspective on things.

She shrugged. ‘A little training and reading. All mundane. I just kept the wound drained, threw together a poultice of some herbs and moss and such.’

He eyed her anew. All this made her a great deal more valuable. Why hadn’t she marketed her skills? Hood, they could use her in Hurly. Then he realized: she chose not to offer her services there.

The old woman ducked out of the hut carrying a small water bucket. She offered Orchid a dipper and the girl drank. Antsy had a mouthful as well — it was clean, mostly. ‘Orchid,’ he began, awkwardly, ‘you’ve hitched yourself to a broken cart. I’m going nowhere fast right now.’

‘You’ll get out there.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I have an intuition,’ she said, completely without any hint of embarrassment or reserve. ‘A feeling. I know you will go.’

He just raised a brow. Crazies. Why do I always get the crazy ones?

‘So,’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘What’s your next move?’

He studied the blasted tumbled landscape. ‘Where can I find the governor of this fair land?’

The governor, it happened, occupied a fort under construction up the shore in the opposite direction. Fort Hurly. Walking to it they crossed an eerie post-flood landscape of dead uprooted trees flattened like grass where stiff seaweed hung from the bare limbs. Skeletal carcasses wrapped in dried flesh lay tangled in the wreckage. Flies were a torment. They quickly became muddied up to their thighs. Orchid’s layered skirts hung like wet sails.

Antsy knew they had been followed since leaving Hurly. The fellow wore a dirty brown cloak and made no secret of tagging along at a discreet distance. Antsy had the troubling sensation of being dispassionately studied. Finally, as they clambered over an enormous pile of fallen tree trunks, he decided he’d had enough of the game. He pushed Orchid down behind cover at the natural fortress’s peak, whispered, ‘Quiet,’ and moved off.

From his panniers, waist and leggings, he drew together the components of his Malazan-issued heavy crossbow. Since he’d spent years field-stripping and reassembling the weapon, he did not have to look at his hands while crouched behind cover, keeping watch. Orchid remained quiet and didn’t move and because of this he felt better about possibly taking her with him — should he ever manage to get out.

The man came into view at the base of the heaped logs. He paused as if sensing something. Antsy grinned: a canny devil. He shouted down, ‘What do you want?’

The fellow appeared to be considering the climb.

‘Don’t move! We can have us a little chat just like this.’

‘Talk is what I wish.’ The voice was soft and low yet carried easily over the distance. The tone bothered Antsy: much too assured given the situation. He stood up, the crossbow levelled.

‘All right. Talk.’

The man peered up, his hood shadowing his face. ‘That object you showed the fee-collector. I’d like to examine it. I may want to purchase it.’

‘Not for sale.’

‘How about fifty Darujhistani gold councils?’

Antsy raised his gaze from sighting down the stock, considered. ‘I don’t trade with someone who hides his face.’

‘Sorry,’ the man answered, amused. ‘Force of habit.’ He threw back his hood. His face was scrawny and thin, like a cat’s. A small trimmed beard sat on his chin like a smudge of dirt and his black hair hung in thick oiled curls.

A Hood-damned fop. Antsy didn’t like him already. He raised the weapon to rest it on a hip. ‘All right. Back away. I’m coming down.’

Gloved hands out from his sides, the man backed away. Closer, Antsy was struck by the fellow’s wiry leanness, his knife-like slash of a mouth. A cruel mouth, he decided. And small eyes that seemed to glitter like polished obsidian stones.

The fellow pointed to the crossbow. ‘No need for that.’

‘That’s my call and I’ve decided to keep it.’ Raising his voice, he shouted, ‘Orchid! Bring down my bags. Bring them here.’ She carried the bags down and laid them next to him. ‘Careful now, take out the wrapped package there. Set it between us — gently.’

A sideways smile on the man’s mouth seemed to be calling attention to how silly all this was. ‘You’re a careful man, soldier. I want you to know I respect that.’

Antsy didn’t bother answering. Orchid had stopped rummaging and now peered up at him, uncertain. ‘The largest one,’ he told her.

Nodding, she drew out a wrapped packet, set it between them, then backed away. The man knelt, unwrapped and studied the dark green oblong. Without looking up he asked, ‘You are trained in its use, I presume?’

‘Aye.’

The man straightened. ‘Then I would like to hire you for my expedition to the Spawns.’

Orchid’s breath caught.

‘And how many are there on this expedition of yours?’ Antsy asked.

The man smiled again. ‘Two, now.’

‘Three.’

The smile fell away. The man edged his head aside. ‘Three?’

‘The girl here. She’s a trained healer and claims she can read the Andii scribblings.’

‘Really? Read the language? Hardly possible. Let me see you, girl.’

Orchid raised her chin, a touch nervously.

‘You say you can read the Tiste Andii script?’

She nodded.

‘Answer carefully, girl. If I find that you’ve lied, then I’ll leave you out there to die. Do I make myself clear?’

Orchid nodded again, barely. ‘Yes.’

From his demeanour Antsy knew the man would do just that. And so, rather belatedly, he hoped the girl wasn’t overstating her skills.

They returned to Hurly. Antsy made sure the fellow walked ahead all the way. He led them to another of the many inns and taverns that dotted the boom town: the Half Oar. They took a table and the man excused himself to go to his room above.

As soon as he’d left the table Orchid whispered, fierce, ‘I don’t trust him at all.’

Antsy chuckled. ‘Damned good that you don’t.’

‘He’s a killer.’

‘Probably. But is he an honest killer?’

‘How can you joke like that? He makes me shiver.’

Antsy pulled his hands through his tangled hair. ‘Look, you want to get out to the Spawns and he’s willing to take us. One thing you can be sure of — there’ll be a lot more like him out there already. And I get the feeling it’s better he’s with us than against us.’

They ordered tea and shortly after that the man returned. The cloak was gone, revealing a vest of multicoloured patches over a black, billowy-sleeved silk shirt. The black matched his hair, beard and eyes. ‘So,’ Antsy asked, ‘what’s your name?’

‘You can call me Malakai. Yours?’

‘Red.’

Malakai smiled thinly. ‘And the girl is Orchid, I understand,’ he said, his eyes not leaving Antsy’s. ‘An interesting name.’

A serving boy offered vinegared water to drink, then a mid-day meal of roasted waterfowl. They tore the carcasses apart with their hands. ‘We’ll leave on tomorrow’s boat,’ Malakai said. ‘You, Red, will be my guard. And you, Orchid … well, just look imperious.’ The girl seemed to shrink under his gaze. ‘Speak and read the language, do you?’

She straightened her shoulders. ‘Yes.’

‘How came you by this rare gift?’

The girl visibly braced herself, pushed back her unruly mane of hair. She seemed to be taking his questions as some sort of test administered before fifty gold councils were thrown away. ‘I was raised in a temple monastery dedicated to the cult of Elder Night. Kurald Galain, in the ancient tongue. The nuns and priests taught me the language, the rituals and the script.’

‘And are you a talent in that Warren?’

The girl deflated. She shook her head, ‘No. That is … sometimes I feel as if something’s there. But no, I could never summon the Warren.’

Malakai frowned his exaggerated disappointment and Antsy squirmed, uncomfortable with the enjoyment the fellow took in baiting the girl. The man set his chin in his hands. ‘Tell me, then, what you know of the history of Moon’s Spawn.’

Orchid nodded, took a drink of water. Her gaze lost its focus and she spoke slowly, as if parsing some text visible only to her. ‘No one really knows the origins of what we call Moon’s Spawn. It emerged from Elder Night, but what was it before then? Some argue it is the remnant of a K’Chain Che’Malle artefact that ventured into Kurald Galain and was taken by the Andii. Perhaps. Others suggest it was found abandoned and empty deep within the greatest depths of Utter Night. In either case, Anomander Rake brought it into this realm together with a legion of his race, the Tiste Andii, who followed him as he was the son of their sole deity, Mother Dark.’

Antsy gaped his amazement. He’d heard all kinds of legends and tales touching upon these ancient events, but this girl spoke them as if they were the literal truth!

She resumed after another sip. ‘For ages the Spawn floated over the continents, roving everywhere. We know this to be true as it figures in almost every mythology in every land. During these ages its inhabitants rarely involved themselves in human, or Jaghut, or K’Chain affairs. All that changed however with the rise of the Malazan Empire and its ruler, Kellanved. For some reason the Emperor gained Anomander’s enmity. Some suggest a failed assault upon the Spawn by Dancer and Kellanved.’

She shrugged, clearing her throat. ‘In any case, Anomander opposed Malazan expansion here in Genabackis. From that fell out the engagements up north, the siege of Pale, the Spawn’s fracturing and fall, and all the unleashing of Elemental Night at Black Coral.’

Listening to this litany a memory suddenly possessed Antsy: staring up at the dark underside of that suspended mountain while Pale burned below, a city aflame. Then, the ground shuddering, his ears deafened, as all the old Emperor’s High Mages summoned their might against its master …

He shivered, blinking and wiping his eyes.

Neither Malakai nor Orchid seemed to have noticed. The man was nodding, his gaze distant as if in meditation. ‘He would’ve won, I think, had not the Pale Hand thaumaturges betrayed him and gone over to the Malazans.’

‘You wanted him to win?’ said Orchid, outraged.

Malakai continued nodding. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘You’d support the inhuman over the human?’

The man’s smile was a knife blade. ‘I admired his style.’

Antsy cleared his throat. ‘So, tomorrow. Supplies? Equipage?’

Malakai leaned back, swung his lizard gaze to him. ‘In my room. I have rope, oil, lamps, dried food. We need only purchase water.’

‘And crossbow bolts. I’ll need more of them.’

Malakai shook his head. ‘I think you’ll find that more than enough of them have already been taken out to the island. Those and other things.’ His dark gaze fixed on the gouged tabletop. ‘There’s probably continual warfare on the isle. We may be attacked the moment we land. For our food, our supplies. The ruins have been a lawless hunting ground for over a year. The stronger parties have probably carved out claims, territory. There might even be a form of taxation for passage. Very probably slavery. I’ve heard that no one has returned for over two months now. It may be that newcomers are simply killed out of hand as useless mouths to feed.’

Orchid stared, plainly shaken by this calm assessment.

‘And you were prepared to step into the teeth of that alone?’ Antsy said.

The man smiled as if relishing the prospect. ‘Of course. Weren’t you, too?’

Antsy took a drink to wet his throat. ‘Well … I suppose so.’ Truth was, he hadn’t really given much thought to what might be awaiting him on the islands. All his plans had been fixed on just getting out there. After that, well, he imagined he’d see which way the wind was blowing. Stupid, maybe. But he had his shaved knuckles in the hole and rare skills to offer. Besides, things might not be as bleak as this morbid fellow would have it.

‘Friends of yours, Red?’ Malakai whispered into the silence.

Startled, Antsy looked up from his scarred knuckles. Three men now crowded the table. His friend from last night, Jallin, and two toughs. The Jumper sported a large purple bruise on his temple where Antsy had knouted him. Antsy rolled his eyes. ‘For the love of Burn, lad! What is it now?’

Jallin carried a truncheon tight in both white-knuckled hands. His lips drew back from his small sharp teeth. ‘Three councils is what it is now.’

‘Three?’

‘Interest.’

‘What’s this about?’ Orchid asked.

Jallin’s eyes, sunken and bloodshot, flicked to her. His lips twisted into a leer. ‘Seen you around. Finally broke down and sold the last thing you got left, hey?’

Antsy cut off Orchid’s shout. ‘Call it a day, lad. Don’t push this one.’

The youth’s laugh of contempt was fevered. Antsy wondered when he’d last had a meal. Jallin glanced at his companions. ‘Hear that? The man arrives yesterday and all of a sudden he’s the governor. Well, I’ll tell you, old man — you hand over them bags and we’re even and no one gets hurt.’

‘That I cannot allow,’ said Malakai.

Jallin jerked a glance down to the man as if seeing him for the first time. He gave a twitched shrug of dismissal. ‘Stay out of this if you know what’s good for you.’

Malakai’s slash of a mouth spread in a big wide smile. Antsy noted that Jallin’s companions were nowhere near as confident as he. One licked his lips nervously while the other eyed Malakai with open unease.

Malakai raised his gloved hands, palm down. He turned them over and suddenly both held throwing knives. He turned them over again and the knives disappeared. He did this over and over again, faster and faster, the blades seeming almost to flicker in and out of existence. The two thugs stared, fascinated, almost hypnotized by the demonstration. For his part, Antsy wondered whether what he was watching was the product of Warren manipulation or pure skill.

Finally, jarring everyone, a blade slammed into the table before each of the two hired toughs. Both flinched back, and then, sharing a quick glance, continued their retreat, leaving Jallin standing absolutely still, his mouth working. All eyes shifted to the youth, whose chest heaved as if winded. ‘Damn you to Hood’s paths. I swear I’ll have your head!’ He threw the truncheon, which Antsy deflected with a raised forearm. Then he marched out after his companions.

Orchid clearly wanted to ask what all that had been about, but instead her gaze swung to Malakai and Antsy watched her begin to wonder just who this was she’d entered into service with. As for himself, he now understood why the man was willing to venture out to the Spawns alone: there were probably damned few out there who could trouble him. The fellow struck him as a cross between his old army companions Quick Ben and Kalam. He wondered who he was and what he wanted out there. And just what he had sold himself into for fifty gold councils.

Malakai simply returned to studying the tabletop as if he’d already forgotten the incident and was unaware of their quiet regard.