That night Ho sat with Su in the empty cargo hold. ‘If you don't go, they'll come down and carry you up.’
‘I'd curse their manhoods – if they still had them.’
‘It's just water. A quick dunk and they'll leave you alone.’
‘I'm too old for too many things, including dunking.’ The hull groaned around them. Rat claws scratched on wood. Ho felt the dark pressing in upon him, damp and gravid. ‘And what of you,’ Su said, tilting her head back to eye him. ‘They are all so much less than you – why fear them at all?’
‘We're not talking about that, Su. We could lower you in a net.’
‘A net? Am I a fish? Does your friend Blues know the real reason why you did not tell him of Heng? Why you are so frightened to return?’
‘Quiet, witch.’
‘Let us make a pact, magus-’
‘No pacts, witch. Just washing.’
‘A washing for me and a reunion for you.’
‘You're going under regardless, witch. It's just a question of coercion.’
‘Yes, it is always a question of coercion in the end, is it not?’
Ho sighed his impatience. ‘Su, I told you already I'm not impressed by these vague empty pronouncements you toss off hoping people will think they're wise.’
She smiled. ‘Is that what I do?’
‘Su…’
The old woman lifted a crooked finger. ‘Wisdom lives only in hindsight.’
Ho pushed his head back to hit the hull planking.
‘Is that anger I'm seeing, Ho? A temper, perhaps?’
‘Right, that's it.’ He stood, gestured Su up. ‘Let's go. On deck. Right now. There's something going on you should see. C'mon.’
She stared up at him, fiddled with her walking stick. ‘What? Right this minute?’
‘Yes. Come on!’
‘Well! Give an old woman a moment, would you?’ She struggled to rise, slapped away his offered hand. ‘As if anything could be so pressing! You would think Hood's Paths themselves had opened up above vomiting up all the dead!’ She grasped the steep gangway in one gnarled hand. ‘Just a trick, I'm sure,’ she grumbled, climbing.
On deck, torches and a bright moon in a clear night sky lit a crowd of inmates gathered around the Avowed at the larboard side of the Forlorn. Fingers sat gripping the sides of a slat seat perched atop the gunwale. By turns he peered down with pure dread and at Blues with pure venom. Treat and another of the Avowed, Reed, were tying ropes to the seat and to Fingers – who was already tightly strapped in.
‘It ain't gonna work!’ Fingers was shouting. ‘You're taking advantage of me right now is what you're doing! I'll drown.’
‘We'll keep a close watch,’ Dim assured him. ‘Don't you worry now.’
Fingers glared bloody fury at the man.
‘OK,’ Blues said. ‘All secure?’
Treat slapped Fingers’ back. ‘All secure.’
‘Bastards!’
‘Over we go,’ Blues ordered.
Treat and Reed lowered the stretcher by the ropes, backed up by Blues and Dim. Fingers had stopped cursing them all and, sinking out of sight, his pale white face stretched even tauter over his sharp cheekbones. The crowd of inmates pressed forward to line the side.
‘Room, dammit,’ Blues complained, raising his elbows. ‘Room!’
Ho observed aside to Su, ‘We're a little short on entertainment out here.’
‘Somehow this is not reassuring, Ho.’
‘Don't worry.’ He waved to a solid woman, her greying hair hacked short, who had come to his side. ‘Su, this is Devaleth. She's been over already but she and you and Inese – and Opal also – can wash at the stern. We'll put up a spare canvas or blankets. It's that or they'll throw you over in a net.’
The old witch's thin mouth curled in condescension. ‘If I must.’
Whoops and laughter sounded from the gathered inmates. Treat and Dim were hauling on the ropes. A sodden, shivering Fingers appeared at the gunwale. His torn linen shirt hung from his lank form. He stuttered something – curses probably – as they lowered his stretcher to the deck. Dim held out a blanket that he snatched and wrapped around himself. Ho watched, wondering, how could anyone be so skinny?
‘This does nothing for the traces we've ingested, or are ground into our calluses, or under our nails, or such,’ Su observed.
‘We've used the pumice stones on our flesh and knives under our nails,’ Devaleth said. ‘Myself, I would cut off my left hand to regain my gifts.’
‘Yes, well, let us hope it does not come to that,’ Su observed, turning away to limp to the stern.
From the broken wall of what was once one of a series of outlying gatehouses, hostelries and pilgrim inns for the sprawling complex that was the Great Sanctuary of Burn, Shimmer watched the envoy of the Talian League mount and ride off. The doubts and small suspicions that had gnawed at her since their return had lately coalesced into one dark, smothering feeling of wrongness that seemed to choke her. She turned back to the other two occupants of the room, Skinner and Cowl. ‘Was that wise?’ she asked, though she knew nothing would come of her objection – yet again the sensation struck her of being a player in a charade, of merely going through the motions in some tired play. Had she been here before? Done this countless times? Whence came this mood?
Skinner, his helm under one arm, revealing his scarred face and matted reddish-blond hair, waved her concerns aside. ‘This League is no different from the Malazans. I no more credit their offers of territory than I would any from Laseen.’
‘They may unite against us.’
The swordsman's gaze slid aside to Cowl. The High Mage, who had been looking off across the plain to the south, frowned a negative. ‘Unlikely for the near future – but a growing threat admittedly. Yet more forces are approaching.’
‘Laseen's?’ Shimmer asked.
A sly smile pulled at the curled tattoos beneath his mouth. ‘Who is to say? The choice is their commander's, I should think.’
‘It would precipitate matters, would it not,’ Skinner rumbled, ‘if Choss believed them Laseen's?’
‘Indeed.’
Skinner waved Cowl away. ‘I leave it to you.’
A curt bow from Cowl. The High Mage backed into shadow and disappeared. Shimmer turned to Skinner, surprised. ‘I thought Warren travel was extraordinarily dangerous these days.’
Heading to the shattered door jamb, the commander paused, considering. ‘So is Cowl.’
Alone, Shimmer suddenly felt the heat of the day seep into her – as if the commander's presence drained something vital from her. Catching his eyes still made her wince. What had become of the man who had led the First Company into the diaspora? He had been ambitious and fierce, yes, but not – inhuman. Now, something else looked out of those eyes. Something that felt more terrifying and menacing than anything that might be awaiting in the field.
‘Captain?’
Blinking, Shimmer turned. Greymane stood there along with Smoky and a regular, Ogilvy. ‘Yes?’
‘Turned them down, didn't he,’ Smoky said.
‘Yes.’
A sour nod. ‘Thought so. Makes sense.’
Shimmer straightened, ill at ease once more. ‘Explain yourself, mage.’
‘Me ‘n’ Grey been talking. Got us a theory.’
‘Yes?’ Shimmer said calmly, though her breath seemed to die in her throat.
‘First, though, this Guardsman here has something to say.’ Smoky urged Ogilvy forward with a curt jerk. Saluting, bobbing his bald bullet-head, the regular saluted.
‘’Pologies, ma'am, sir. Kept my drink-hole shut I did, sorry. Seemed most discretionary. Circumstances as they was, ’n’ all.’
Shimmer blinked again, her brow crimping. ‘Sorry, Guardsman…?’
‘Was first at the scene of Stoop's killin’ there in Stratem. Saw tracks – tracks that was later smoothed away. By spell.’
‘And those tracks told you what?’
‘Accordin’ to those tracks the lad never entered that clearing.’
‘I… see.’ Shimmer swallowed a tightening sickness. ‘Is there anyone else who saw these tracks? Who could corroborate your testimony?’
The Guardsman glanced to Greymane, then down. ‘No, sir.’
‘No. Well then, Guardsman, I suggest you continue to keep this to yourself until such time as further information comes forward.’
Ogilvy saluted. ‘Yes, ma'am, sir.’
‘You are dismissed.’
‘Yes, ma – sir.’
Ogilvy left. Shimmer turned on Smoky. ‘You presume too much, mage.’
Smoky's long face hardened. ‘I got more to presume. The men won't say, but there's a lot of grumbling. Skinner's gathering Avowed to himself, treating everyone else like servants, not brothers or sisters. There's sides drawing up. Everyone's looking to you to do something. You or-’ he stopped himself, then barrelled on, ‘Greymane.’
Shimmer finally faced the massive ex-High Fist. ‘I would take great care if I were you, Malazan. You are not of the Avowed.’
‘A condition that perhaps allows me the proper perspective.’
‘Proper – explain yourself, soldier.’
‘It is plain that Skinner intends to defeat both Laseen and this Talian League. And once both are crushed, what then?’
Brows wrinkled, Shimmer shrugged. ‘Why, then, the terms of the Vow will have been fulfilled – the shattering of the Empire.’
Greymane and Smoky exchanged troubled glances. ‘And yet not. Any new force could then step into the vacuum, such as an alliance of Dal Hon and Kan forces, or any other such, yes?’
‘Possibly…’
‘Unless this position were already occupied by another organization, another force ready to act. Is that not so?’
‘I do not see what you are getting at, Malazan.’
Smoky gave an impatient snarl. ‘The Vow has you in too tight a grip, Shimmer. Open your eyes! Skinner intends to occupy the throne himself!’
Shimmer could only stare. Then she laughed outright at the absurdity of the assertion. ‘Smoky, you know as well as I that the terms of the Vow would never allow such a thing.’
‘You're not a mage, Shimmer. Even I can see a few possible ways around it and Cowl is leagues ahead of me. One way to construe it is that the Malazan Empire remains an impossibility so long as the Avowed occupy the throne. There? How's that? Life and power eternal. Worth a throw, wouldn't you say?’
Shimmer felt almost dizzy. She steadied herself at a wall. ‘But that would be-’
‘A monstrous perversion? Yes.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, Smoky. You are inventing threats, conspiracies. Seeing enemies everywhere. Perhaps that is the Vow affecting you. You've never made a secret of your distaste for Cowl. Have you considered that?’
The mage was silent for some time. His stare was hard, gauging, and Shimmer was shaken to see disappointment colour the man's eyes. ‘Greymane is not Avowed, Shimmer,’ he said, and pushed his way past. Greymane remained, but Shimmer would not face him. She turned her back. After a time he bowed and left.
We are so close. Queen's Prophecies, the completion of the Vow is within reach! We can break them! Why then these doubts, these worries? None afflicted at the beginning. Everything was so clear then. The sides so cleanly drawn, our cause so pressing. Now, though, I can hardly muster the effort to go through with it. For whom did they fight? Not the Untans, nor the Cawnese. Then who? Skinner on the throne, and through him, what else?
Riding out alone into the night from the remains of the Sanctuary of Burn, Lieutenant-Commander Ullen felt extremely ill at ease until the detachment of Talian cavalry escortinging him rode up to rendezvous. Leading them was Commander Amaron, accompanied by Toc's new aide, Captain Moss.
‘They rejected the offer?’ Amaron called.
‘Yes.’
A sour shake of the head. ‘The fools. They're going to get themselves wiped out.’
‘You're so sure?’
Amaron smiled knowingly, signed for a return to the fortified encampment – Fort Urko, some called it. ‘You are not?’
Ullen merely raised a brow; he motioned to the ruins. ‘I've just come away from speaking with Skinner, Amaron. I never did meet him before, and I have to say he looks every bit as nasty as his reputation.’
‘Oh, I don't doubt that.’ The commander shifted his considerable broad weight on his tall horse. ‘I'm not saying we'll pull down the Avowed. What I'm saying is that if they are so foolish as to take to the field their regular force will be broken and the surviving Avowed will have to withdraw alone. Then what can they do? A handful of men and women cannot hold territory. They will have to flee once again. No, the whole thing, their recruiting and return, will all have been for nothing. A sad waste, really.’
Behind the commander's mount, Ullen and Moss shared a glance, saying nothing. Moss flicked his eyes to indicate the fifty troopers walking their mounts along behind and Ullen nodded. Amaron was not speaking to them; he was speaking to the men, fulfilling one of the obligations of command, bolstering morale.
The Napan turned to Moss. ‘So, Captain, served in Genabackis, did you?’
‘Yes, Commander.’
‘With Dujek?’
‘No, sir. Not directly. I remained up north. Rotated out.’
‘Up north? Why, so you've faced the Guard before, then! Didn't they have a contract with a warlord there, that fellow named Brood?’
‘Yes, sir. I've faced them.’
‘And they were beaten there, weren't they?’
Moss shot Ullen a glance of veiled amusement. Oh yes, sir,’ he responded loudly. ‘They were beaten.’
Half of the cavalry officer's expression told Ullen that he could play Amaron's game too – and had said what the men would be helped to hear. The other half of the expression told Ullen just how far from the truth were the man's words.
The Wickan camp occupied a stretch of the east shore of the River Jurd, just north of Unta. Circular yurts dotted hillsides in a sudden new township of some four thousand. The surrounding Untan villages and hamlets supplied fodder for horses, firewood and staples. Nil and Nether promised eventual payment in trade goods. Rillish and his Malazan command occupied a large farmhouse and compound in the middle of vineyards where bunches of white grapes hung heavy on the stems. Since his night foray with Nether, his sergeant, Talia, had been even more insistent on their intimacy – to his great relief and pleasure, he had to admit.
So it was they lay in bed together one morning when a discreet knock sounded on the door of his room. He pulled on his trousers, while Talia dressed as well, quickly strapping on her swordbelt. ‘What is it?’ he called.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir. Riders from the south.’
‘Yes?’
‘They carry the Imperial banner.’
‘I see. Thank you, sergeant. I'll be down shortly.’
He turned to Talia and she laughed at the embarrassment that must have been obvious. He splashed his hot face in a basin. Outside in the courtyard, horses readied by Chord waited. Rillish mounted, invited Chord to attend him, gave command of the compound over to him, and rode off with a troop of ten.
Wickan horsemen had already met and stopped the small column, which consisted of some twenty Untan cavalry. Room was made for Rillish to edge to the front. He inclined his head to the man leading the column, who, by the markings on his helmet, held the rank of Imperial Fist, though Rillish did not recognize him. The man's dark eyes glanced to him but in no other way did he acknowledge Rillish's presence. Eventually, Nil and Nether arrived from their more distant camp. They pushed through to the front, nodded to the Fist who saluted, bowing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fist Tazil Jhern. I am come as envoy from the capital, empowered to discuss terms.’
Nether inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘I am Nether, this is my brother Nil. And this is Lieutenant Rillish Jal Keth. Greetings.’ The man continued to studiously ignore Rillish.
‘What terms, may I ask?’ Nil inquired. Terms of your surrender?’
‘Terms of cessation of hostilities. You have grievances, conditions you wish to discuss, surely?’
The twins exchanged narrowed glances. ‘We have demands and conditions, Fist,’ Nil corrected.
‘You say you are empowered, Fist,’ Rillish asked. ‘Empowered by whom?’
The envoy said nothing, continued to stare straight ahead. Nether's brow furrowed. ‘The lieutenant asked you a question, Fist.’
‘I am sure you understand that I feel in no way obligated to speak with a traitor,’ the man told her.
Nil flinched, stung, and tightened his reins. ‘Then I am sure you understand that we-’
So, the day has come when I am repudiated. Rillish raised a hand. ‘It is all right. Please, take no offence. I will go.’
‘Stay where you are!’ Nether ordered, startling Rillish. ‘You will remain and listen to all this envoy has to say. Then, my brother and I will expect you to advise us afterwards.’
Struggling to keep his astonishment from his face, Rillish bowed stiffly. ‘As you order.’
Nil invited the Fist onward. ‘This way, envoy.’
Later that day, the Fist begged off early to retire to the quarters prepared for his party. Once the man left the large tent a fury of debate leapt to life among the gathered clan representatives, elders and surviving warlocks. The twins sat quietly, letting the storm blow itself out. Rillish was alarmed by some opinions he overheard: sacking the province, ravaging the countryside, even claiming the Throne. When that suggestion, taking the Throne, was called across the tent to Nil, he merely observed, ‘What would we do with it? It's too heavy to sit on a horse.’
A new round of debate began, this time peppered by escalating retorts, condemnations and insults. It seemed to Rillish that the discussion was veering further and further into the territory of past transgressions, slights and ages-old grudges. He glanced to Nil and saw him watching – the lad winked, tilted his head to invite him outside. Rillish uncrossed his numb legs, bowed to the assembly and ducked out of the tent.
Without, twilight was gathering. The hillside sloped down like a dark green swath of silk to the Jurd, which glimmered, tree-lined, wide and black. The air was thick with the scent of ripeness, pressing into rot. Night moths and flies clouded around, attracted by the light. It occurred to Rillish that he was home yet this was no longer his home. Where could he call home now? The Wickan plains? They could hardly be expected to be welcoming at this point. Nil ducked out, joining him. The lad hugged himself over his plain deerskin jerkin. His unkempt black hair was a tangle, yet Rillish said nothing – one does not tell the premier Wickan warlock that he needs a haircut.
‘A rich land,’ the youth said, viewing the green hillsides. ‘You people have done well by it.’
Rillish eyed the Wickan adolescent, blinking. ‘Pardon…?’
A blush and duck of the head. ‘Sorry. All this once belonged to my ancestors.’
‘No, Nil,’ Rillish managed, his stomach clenching, ‘It is I who am sorry.’
The youth blew out a breath. ‘So different from Seven Cities.’
‘So, what will you do?’ Rillish asked, gesturing to the tent.
‘We will let them talk, then give our opinions, then let them talk some more, then give our opinions again and let them talk. Once they begin saying our opinions back to us as if they are their own, then we will agree with their wisdom and we will have their unshakable support.’
Rillish eyed the lad, who was looking down the slope, unmindful of his regard. ‘Nil?’
‘Yes?’
‘You are far too young to be so cynical.’
A bright smile. ‘My sister and I are far from young, Lieutenant.’
Yes, you have come so far too swiftly and for that I am sorry. ‘What are those opinions then? What should you do?’
‘Ah… you've hit upon the problem. We aren't sure yet.’ Horses nickered in a nearby corral, stirring restlessly and the lad's eyes moved to the noise. ‘What do you think of our envoy?’
‘It's possible we're intended to judge the offer by its bearer – candid, honest and practical.’
A boat appeared floating down the Jurd, sail limp, long sweep raising a bright wake. The eyes of both tracked it. ‘Yes,’ Nil said. ‘An honest offer honestly given, to be just as honestly disregarded at earliest convenience.’
In that statement Rillish listened for echoes of sullen resentment, sneering disdain or suppressed rage, but heard none. Only a sad sort of resignation that the world should be so ordered. ‘You are caught,’ he said. ‘You've done everything you can but you still have no true leverage.’
A long slow assent. ‘We are in a strange situation, Lieutenant. We ought to have all the advantages, camped as we are on the capital's doorstep, yet we find ourselves a sideshow. Unta has been sacked already. We can hardly threaten that. What will be our fate is in fact being determined far to the west – and we are not even there.’
‘You must still work to achieve the most advantageous terms you can.’
‘Yes,’ the lad sighed. ‘We must. Yet I wonder – have we done all that we can?’ Nil turned to face Rillish, and his gaze slid to the tent then back, cautious. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’
‘For what?’
‘For listening. Unlike many of my countrymen I think it useful to talk through things. I find that it helps unravel knots.’
Rillish motioned to the tent once more. ‘Your countrymen do not seem averse to talk.’
‘Most use it only to tighten existing knots.’
‘Ah. I see.’
The warlock took hold of the tent flap. ‘You need not endure any more of this tonight. Nether and I will manage things. I understand you have much more pleasant company awaiting you,’ and he grinned.
An adolescent effort at adult banter? ‘Yes, thank you.’
The grin faltered. ‘Now, if only I could find someone for my sister…’
Rillish bowed quickly, ‘Goodnight.’
On the dark road back to the farmhouse Rillish found two mounted figures waiting. Sergeants Chord and Talia. Sergeant Chord saluted, turned his mount, and rode off ahead. Rillish brought his mount alongside Talia's. ‘Sergeant…’
‘Lieutenant…’ She leaned aside and they kissed. There was something about her tonight; her smile was so bright in the dark, her eyes so full of a hidden humour.
‘You are looking… mysterious… this night.’
She turned her mount while watching him sidelong. ‘I have a secret.’
He stilled, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I am, as they say in your fancy aristocratic society – with child.’
‘What?’ He stared, utterly shocked. ‘But that's impossible!’
An arched brow. ‘Has no one told you how all this works, then?’
‘No! I mean, what I meant was… how could you know so soon?’
‘The horsewives told me. They're beside themselves. You should've heard them clucking over me.’
‘Well, you'll have to leave the ranks, of course.’
She faced him squarely. ‘I certainly will not. I'm a sergeant now. Got a pay increase.’
‘I could bust you down.’
‘For what?’ she snapped. ‘Misconduct with an officer?’
Rillish opened his mouth then quickly shut it, thinking that perhaps another assault would be inadvisable at this time. Reconnoitring and observation were clearly called for. Perhaps some judicious probing. Talia rode in a loud pointed silence, her back stiff, face averted. He cleared his throat. ‘Not the reaction you were expecting, I imagine.’
‘Damned straight.’
‘I'm sorry. It's just… quite a surprise. My first reaction is that you don't take any risks…’
‘You think I want to?’ She sighed, eased her mount closer, took his arm. ‘Old Orhan and I can swap duties.’
Orhan, Rillish reflected. The company quartermaster and horse-master. Demanding work, potentially dangerous, but not a battlefield position. A gimp leg and getting slow, yet a canny veteran who'd been in the service all his life. Was a sergeant on the listings.
‘… then I'll find a wetnurse among the Wickans. After that the little tyke can go to stay with my brother in Halas. He's a wood-wright there. Or what about your people?’
Rillish thought about his people. He thought of the high-season house in Unta and the off-season house in Haljhen. The family lands along the Gris River where vineyards, fields and orchards stretched for more than a day's ride in any direction. He thought of the barrels of wine ageing beneath the great manor house, the countless families who lived on and worked those lands.
All lost to him. Lost to Rillish Jal Keth, the family traitor.
And now he had an heir. An heir to the two swords he carried, the bag of coin under his shirt and a name he or she could never claim. He took Talia's hand. ‘So where is this Halas?’
One of their remaining Seti scouts came roaring up and pulled short at the last moment, his mount stamping, sweaty and lathered. Ghelel recognized Toven, the young smartarse who had teased her and Molk earlier. Now, she was grateful for the lad's love of excitement.
’They're headed for Heng,’ he reported.
The ‘they’ in this case was a huge Kan Confederacy army that had come marching out of the south, consisting of some four thousand lancers and twenty-five thousand infantry. The ‘they’ being the reason the Marquis and his command were now hunkered down in a copse of trees south-west of Heng.
The Marquis nodded his acknowledgement.
Thank you, scout. Get yourself a fresh horse.’
‘Aye, commander.’ A leering grin to Ghelel and the lad kicked his mount onward.
‘Going to get himself killed,’ Prevost Razala said with a kind of reluctant affection.
‘I hope not,’ the Marquis murmured, ‘we're running out of scouts.’
‘So this Kan force – they're our allies?’ Ghelel asked.
The Marquis drew his pipe from his shoulder-pouch, clamped it unlit between his teeth. ‘Not necessarily, they may be with Laseen. But, if I were to lay any wagers on the matter, I'd say they're on the side of the Itko Kan Confederacy.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that they may be here to try to take Li Heng.’
‘What? But that's ridiculous! With our army here, and Laseen's!’
A thoughtful frown. ‘Not at all. Itko Kan has always resented the establishment of the Free Cities. Heng is the only reason the entity exists. Now's their chance to rid themselves of it. Not to mention possibly keeping hold of Heng. No, I imagine they plan to negotiate with whoever wins up north, using Heng as their card. Sound strategy.’
‘That's-’ Ghelel stopped herself from saying anything that would reveal any more of her lack of… well, cold-bloodedness.
‘Makes me wish the beast would cross the Idryn,’ Razala grated.
Jhardin shot the woman a look. ‘Believe me, Prevost, you do not wish that.’
‘What of us, then, Marquis?’ Ghelel asked.
‘We withdraw west. To the Falls.’
‘West? West to Broke Earth Falls?’ Ghelel repeated, disbelieving. ‘But that would take us completely from battle! We are needed up north! Choss is facing off against Laseen. Every man and woman is needed!’
‘Five hundred would make precious little difference, Prevost Alil. In any case, our way north is blocked. We are cut off from the Pilgrim Bridge, from Li Heng. The only place we may be able to cross is the Falls.’
‘I differ with you on that point, Commander. A charge of a hundred heavies could make all the difference in any battle. Razala? What of you?’
The commander of heavy cavalry held her gaze long and hard on Ghelel, who caught a storm of suppressed emotions writhing just beneath her sweaty, plain, scarred face: resentment, anger, shame and finally regret. Then the woman lowered her eyes as if studying the backs of her gauntlets crossed before her on the pommel of her saddle. ‘I wish it more than I can say, Prevost. But… I'm sworn to follow the Marquis.’
‘So we go west,’ Jhardin said. ‘The Seti will keep us informed.’ And he kicked his mount into motion.
‘Kanese forces,’ Sergeant Banath snorted next to Hurl. ‘Ploughboys, fishergals and runaway ‘prentices. Not a backbone in the lot. Don't know why they bother. Might as well pack up and go home.’ He spat over the edge of the tower next to the South Outer Round gate. ‘ ‘Cept their mages. Plenty tricky, them Kan mages. Like the Dal Hon – only not so bad.’
‘Thanks for the tip, Sergeant,’ Hurl said, head in hands. It still hurt. Liss said she was all healed up, but it still hurt. And this Kan parley did not help at all. Gods help its commander; she was in a mood to bite stone. ‘All right. Let's go.’
Hurl rode out accompanied by Silk, Sergeant Banath and a detachment of twenty Hengan cavalry – a good fraction of all that remained to them. Liss was watching the north, Sunny was handling repairs and reconstruction, while Storo lay in bed, barely alive, recovering from the savaging the beast had inflicted upon him. And Jalor; Jalor had fallen doing his job – standing next to Rell. As for Rell, he made it plain these sort of negotiations were not for him. And so it came to Hurl, now Acting-Fist, and commander of the city's defence.
Kan outriders stopped them just a short ride along the road south. Here they waited for the Kan representatives. They had a long wait. Hurl took the opportunity to get as much room as possible between her and the horses. She walked to an abandoned farmhouse and grounds – the trampled garden plot picked clean, the rooms emptied of all furniture, tools. All hints of the family that had occupied the homestead gone. Standing in the thatch-roofed, single-room house, watching the dust swirl in the light from the open door, all she felt was a sense of sadness and loss. Who had lived here? She wondered if their own scavenging parties had been responsible, or the Talian force reportedly in the south, or these very Kanese outriders keeping an eye on them. Eventually, a large carriage drawn by four oxen came rumbling up the south road. Lancers escorted it, and a van of five horsemen preceded it. Hurl went out to meet them.
One dismounted and approached, a man wearing functional armour of banded strips and a long jupon bearing the seven entwined blossoms of the Itko Kan Confederacy – an insignia last seen some hundred years ago. He pulled off his helmet and cloth cap revealing a middle-aged man, darkly featured with a moustache and closely trimmed beard. He bowed to Hurl. ‘Commander Pirim ‘J Shall at your service.’ He motioned to the riders. ‘Invigilator Durmis.’ The short robed man bowed. The rest of the riders were obviously guards. ‘Within the carriage is Custodian Kapalet. Sadly, the demands of the expedition have proved wearying for the custodian and she is indisposed.’
‘Acting-Fist Hurl.’ She motioned to her own escort. ‘And this is Silk.’ The commander bowed. Exhaling noisily, he sat on the edge of the broken water trough.
‘Congratulations in forestalling the Talians. It must have been very difficult.’
‘Accepted.’
‘Yet…’ and he was looking off to the west, ‘it has no doubt left you sorely diminished. You must ask yourself, how much more can your men take? How much more must they have left within them?’
‘Enough to turn away your dog and pony act.’
He flashed a tolerant smile and motioned to the surrounding countryside. ‘We of the Confederacy did not come empty-handed, Acting-Fist. We know these lands well – they used to be ours. We know of the shortage of wood and so we brought our own. Enough for many siege towers.’
‘There's nothing I like more than a good fire.’
Again, a smile of forbearance. ‘Consider, commander, can you face us in the south and keep adequate watch on your north? I very much doubt it. Consider well, and offer terms – if only for the sake of your men.’
Hurl pulled on her gloves. The formalities had been observed; she had no interest in jousting with the man. ‘Our terms are that you withdraw to a day's march to the south. Otherwise we consider you a target. Am I understood?’ She finally succeeded in wiping away that smile. The man stood, gave a curt bow and gestured to the horses. Hurl led.
Readying her horse, Hurl saw that the fat bald Invigilator and Silk were locked in something of a staring match. As she mounted, the Invigilator addressed Silk: ‘Many of my brothers and sisters in the south say that now that the Malazan peace has been broken the man-eater has returned, summoned by the bloodshed. What say you?’
‘I would say the current hostilities have much to do with it, yes.’
‘Those responsible for his return deserve to die in his jaws,’ the Invigilator called as Silk turned his horse. ‘Just as the ancient curse prophesies. Wouldn't you agree?’
Silk did not turn. His back stiff, he snapped his reins and rode off.
‘How many has he taken so far?’ the man yelled.
Hurl followed, but she could not help glancing back: the Invigilator pointed a damning finger at her. She urged her mount on to catch up to Silk.
‘What in the name of D'rek was all that about?’
Looking ahead, the mage pushed aside his wind-tossed hair. ‘Nothing, Hurl.’
‘Nothing? You mean there's a real curse? Jalor's dead. Storo is nearly. Shaky's gone-’
‘Shaky died before we did anything, Hurl.’
‘Don't split hairs. I see a trend. How long have you known about this curse?’
Silk gestured helplessly. ‘Hurl, it's nothing to take seriously. Nothing specific. It's probably just something made up by minstrels and such who love the subject. That's all.’
‘Probably… probably? How do you know?’
‘Because neither Kellanved nor Tayschrenn deal in curses, yes? It wasn't to their taste.’
‘So I'm supposed to trust to that?’
‘Yes.’ He faced her, gave his best reassuring smile that she'd seen him lie through hundreds of times. ‘Listen. He was just trying to shake you up. Undermine your confidence. That's all.’
‘Yeah, well, he succeeded.’
They met up with the rest of their detachment and by mutual consent neither said anything more on the subject. Reaching the city, Hurl travelled with her newly assigned six bodyguards to the North Outer Round to check on the repairs. There the seething activity astonished her. Hundreds of workers clearing up, repairing walls, salvaging material. It seemed that the residents of Li Heng had finally come around to their own defence. The cynic in Hurl wondered whether Ryllandaras's appearance had anything to do with their sudden new enthusiasm. But there was another explanation. She could not deny that after Rell's performance forestalling the beast the city had embraced him. It was now common to hear them shouting ‘Protector!’ after him and even throwing flowers. It had got to the point that he didn't go out on to the streets any more. The city, it seemed, had convinced itself that, in its hour of most dire need, it had found its new Protector. And for her part, Hurl was not entirely certain that they hadn't.
At the North Plains Gate she spotted Sunny surrounded by a crowd of shouting tradesmen, and he raised a hand to acknowledge her while heaping insults on them. She climbed stairs to the wall ramparts. The gate, beyond repair, was being permanently sealed. A wall of stone blocks was being raised up behind temporary wood and rubble outer barriers. At the battlements she found Liss. The Seti shamaness, or mage, or whatever she might be, was staring north over the prairie, empty now but for broken, abandoned equipment, humped burials and wind-lashed tatters.
‘How's Storo?’ Hurl asked.
A cocked brow. ‘As good as can be expected. Mending a clean sword cut, a blade puncture, or knitting a broken bone is easy compared to trying to align flesh torn and mangled by talons. He's lost his arm, an eye, and we may yet lose him to his internal wounds. But why ask me? You should go to see him yourself.’
Hurl shook her head. He would not want her to see him as he was, helpless and broken. Liss pursed her lips but said nothing. She returned to moodily watching the plain.
‘Will he be back?’ Hurl asked. Both understood that by he. Hurl now meant someone else.
Liss nodded weakly. ‘Yes. Eventually. Right now there's easy pickings out there.’ The shamaness's demeanour seemed to be falling by the hour. Her hair hung in greasy strings, her skin looked unhealthily pale and, unbelievably, she smelled worse than when Hurl first met her – something which had she been asked at the time she would not have thought possible.
‘And the Seti? Are they safe?’
A tired smile. ‘Thank you, Hurl, my gal. Yes. For the time being. They are safe. Yet can a people be said to be safe from themselves?
This White Jackal worship must not be allowed to gain its stranglehold once more. It is a regression for us – a childlike dependency.’
‘I'm sorry.’ Indeed, she felt very sorry. More and more it was coming to seem that they should not have done what they did. That she had made a terrifying mistake that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Perhaps there really was a curse.
The shamaness slapped Hurl on the back. ‘Don't worry yourself, lass. What's done is done. Now, it's up to me to do something.’
‘You?’ She eyed her suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’
Liss turned her hands back and forth before her eyes, examined her layered ragged skirts. ‘Just something I've put off for maybe too long, that's all. Maybe the time's come.’
For what? Hurl wanted to ask but something stopped her, a vague unformed dread that whispered you do not want to know. It occurred to her that perhaps she was a coward after all.
The journey north had been smooth, though the Kite did not perform nearly so lithely as before without Ereko's steady hand at the tiller. Jan, Stalker and Kyle traded off keeping the sail as taut as possible. The brothers kept to the middle of the open boat, preparing the food and generally getting on each other's nerves. Traveller was a dark brooding presence at the prow that everyone avoided. It was as if Ereko, though not human himself, had been the only thing keeping a human presence within the swordsman. Kyle knew that the Lost brothers believed he blamed Traveller for Ereko's death. And for a time he had. But now he wondered how much choice the man had – the entire confrontation had had the air of an inevitable convergence, the long-delayed closure of a circle. Unavoidable. And Ereko had warned of the melancholy spell of the weapon at the man's side. It was clear now to him that what had happened had been just as hard on Traveller, if not harder. Hadn't he been friends with the Thel Akai for so much longer? It seemed to him unhealthy that the man be allowed to brood for so long and he realized that if anyone was going to do anything, it could only be him. On the fifth day he worked up the resolve to approach and sit near the prow.
‘So, Quon,’ he said after a time.
Through his long black hair hanging down, the man's dark ocean eyes shifted from his hands hanging limply at his legs to
Kyle. Something stirred, flickering within them, a kind of distant recognition, and a hand came up to squeeze them. He raised his head. ‘Yes. Quon.’
‘May I ask why?’
A tired shrug. ‘You have a case to make with the Guard. That is where the Guard is headed.’
‘And you?’
‘I will make my way from there.’
‘Will you help?’
A smile of amusement. ‘No, Kyle. My presence would only… complicate matters.’
‘Cowl will just kill me out of hand.’
‘No. You'll be safe enough with the brothers. And there is the blade you carry. You have no idea what you really have here and that I think is the way things were intended.’
His sword? ‘What do you mean?’
An easy shrug. ‘It is a powerful weapon. Others might have used it to gather riches, power. But nothing like that has even occurred to you, has it?’
Kyle thought about that – the fact was he didn't have the first idea how to go about such things.
‘Then, what about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
The man took a deep breath, scanned the waters. ‘I'm hunting someone, Kyle. Someone determined to avoid me. But eventually I will corner him. Then there will be an accounting long delayed.’
‘Vengeance?’
A sharp glance, softened. ‘Yes. But not just for me, for a great deal. A very great deal.’
An errant wave sent spray across Badlands who howled his shock. Coots laughed uproariously, his mouth full. A smile touched Traveller's features, though it appeared to Kyle to be the wintry, distant smile of an adult watching the amusing antics of children. Or… what was that word he'd overheard the Guardsmen using when discussing the leader of the race they called the Andii? And the Magus? An Ascendant.
‘Well, perhaps we can help?’
Traveller looked to him, his smile holding. ‘Thank you, Kyle. But no. This is something I have sworn to do. I must pursue it in my own way.’
‘Well, if that is as it must be.’ He rose to go.
‘Kyle?’ Traveller called after him.
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you. And… I'm very sorry. I know you were very fond of him.’
‘Yes. I'm sure you were too.’ Kyle turned away and his eyes met those of Jan, watching from the stern, who looked away, back out over the water, as was his habit.
The next morning Kyle awoke to find Stalker at the tiller, standing, peering ahead, and at the bow Traveller standing as well. ‘What is it?’ he asked Coots. The man was tending the small cooking fire in a metal bowl, cutting up the roots they boiled for a starchy stew. He gave an unconcerned shrug.
‘Some kind of storm ahead.’
At the stern he caught the eye of Stalker, who gestured forward. A dark bruising of clouds darkened the sky. ‘Can we go around?’
The scout merely arched one dusty blond brow. ‘This is my third course correction since dawn. Each time – there it is.’ To one side Jan lay curled up in blankets. Kyle considered questioning him but decided against it; if Stalker or Traveller wanted to, they could do it.
‘What does Traveller say?’
‘He said to stop trying to go around. Just head on north-east.’
Kyle went to the bow. Traveller's gaze was fixed ahead. He was wearing his armour coat beneath his leathers and his sword belted at his side. A sizzling anger rode his taut shoulders and stare. ‘What is it?’
‘Someone's interfering. Someone who should know better than to get in my way.’
‘Who?’
The man looked about to answer but stopped himself, shaking his head. ‘Never mind. Just keep your eyes sharp.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Do? Eat, check your weapons.’
Coots prepared a meal of boiled mush with fish and mouldy old bread. The Lost brothers busied themselves testing the edges of the multitude of blades each carried at belts, vests and boots. Jan had no weapon at all that Kyle could see so he fished around to come up with an old long-knife that he never used and offered it to the man. Jan looked up, surprised and pleased. Then his gaze slid aside and Kyle followed it to find Traveller watching, his face held rigid, unreadable. Jan pushed the weapon through his belt.
The edge of the unnatural cloudbank drew close. The sea curving around its front held its normal swell and trough of tall smooth waves touched by the thinnest of spume at their crests. Beneath the clouds, under the gathering dark of thick shadow, the sea appeared calm, the wind diminished. Traveller turned from the prow. ‘Get down. Secure yourselves. Tie the rudder.’ Stalker roped the rudder's long arm. The brothers twined their arms in taut ropes. Kyle found a secured rope and pushed an arm through. Jan sat against the ship's side, his legs out. Eerily silent, the tall looming wall of darkness rose above them like a cliff, severing the light. The Kite was engulfed.
Loss of headway was immediate. Kyle was thrown forward. Equipment and stores shifted, tumbling. The Kite groaned, planks creaking, the sail flapping loose. Waves surged around them, flooding the freeboard. In the disorienting diffuse light everything seemed flat and distant, colourless. Traveller was shouting something from the prow but his words sounded strange, distorted. Kyle was punched forward once more. Stores crashed over the brothers who roared their anger. The grinding of the keel and planking announced the Kite scraping up on a shore where no shore should be. A savage blow stunned Kyle.
After a time his vision cleared – he'd been disoriented for a moment. Blinking, he stood, steadying himself. A dark plain of mud stretched into the distance to an even darker treeline. Behind them, a sullen sheet of water as flat as black glass but for the wake of their passage. Overhead, dull sky the colour of slate. ‘Cheerful place,’ Jan observed, rubbing his shoulder.
Coots erupted from a pile of stores, cursing, a hand pressed to one eye. Badlands laughed uproariously. Stalker rubbed his hip. Traveller was examining the planking at the prow. ‘Damaged?’ Stalker called to him.
‘Can't say. We're stranded in any case.’
‘Travellers! Greetings!’ someone called in Talian from the distance. Kyle peeked over the side. A man was standing in the muck. A great thatch of black hair framed a long pale face. His robes hung down in the mud and he was either very short or sunk in the slime.
Traveller vaulted the gunnel to land before the fellow only to promptly sink past the shins of his boots. Regardless, he managed to grasp hold of the front of the fellow's robes and twist a grip. The man flailed at Traveller's arm, the long loose cloth of his sleeves – long enough to hang in the mud – slapping wetly.
‘Take us to the scheming rat,’ Traveller snarled. ‘He's finally earned a few choice words from me.’
‘Yes!’ the man squawked. ‘That is, no. No screeching bats here. They're in the woods.’
Startled, Traveller released the fellow, who straightened his robes, smearing mud all over his front. ‘I am come to deliver you to my master, Shadowthrone. You are blessed by his condescension.’
‘Who are you?’ Traveller asked.
‘Whorou?’ the man said, squinting. ‘Damned awkward name. Common enough though, isn't it?’ He stuck out a muddy hand. ‘Hethe.’
Traveller did not raise his. After a time the fellow lowered his, wiped it on his smeared robes. ‘Yes, well. We must be off! Come!’ The fellow waddled away, his robes dragging behind, curls of green-brown mud falling from its trailing edges. After a few paces he turned, beckoning. ‘Come, come!’
‘Aw, for the Lady Thief's sake,’ Coots grumbled. He collected a few stores and skins of water, and lowered himself from the side. His sandalled feet sank entirely beneath the quivering gelid surface. He shivered, gasping. ‘Damn, that's cold!’
The rest followed, dropping one by one into the muck then labouring on after Traveller and their guide. Soon Kyle was almost short of breath as each foot became encased in a leaden weight of clinging mud. Stalker and Badlands had drawn knives and were shaving the layers from their feet and flicking it away. The stink was ripe with the fetid reek of decomposing sea creatures. Kyle had to turn his face away when he reached down to shave off the mud.
‘Damned undignified, hey?’ Badlands said to his brother, and Traveller turned sharply at that, his gaze narrowing, only to snort as if at some joke known only to himself, and set off again slowly shaking his head. The brothers exchanged mystified looks.
Ahead, the mudflats yielded to a climbing strand of black gravel. To the left stretched a dark forest of tangled grey underbrush and squat trees. Their guide was leading them to the right where the shore climbed to eroded hillocks thatched in thick tangled grasses. Kyle wondered if he was falling behind. Either that, or their guide was sinking further and further into the mud, or getting shorter. Most of his robes now trailed him in a long train and his sleeves dragged as well. Stalker and Kyle exchanged uncertain looks.
Beneath his hanging robes, the man, or whatever he was, now clearly stood no more than waist-high to Kyle. Taking a few quick steps Traveller lunged ahead to grab the sodden trailing cloth and yank it. It came away revealing a short, hairy, winged, monkey-like creature that spun, hunching and snarling.
Everyone froze, staring.
Surprised, the creature drew itself up and, with an uncanny mimicry of wounded dignity, snatched the robes back from Traveller and marched off. Traveller turned to face everyone, completely astonished. He bent his head back as if entreating some unknown blessing from the sky – patience, perhaps – then rubbed his neck and exhaled loudly. ‘Apologies. It's my fault. An old argument between myself and the one awaiting us. He was always of the opinion that… I took myself too seriously.’
Ahead, the creature had reached the gravel and now struggled to dress itself. The effort degenerated into a battle of life and death between beast and garment. The creature flailed amid the wet folds, hissing and kicking, squalling its rage. Its bullet-head emerged, fangs clenched on a mouthful of the cloth. It mimicked throttling folds in its hairy hands then disappeared again amid the sagging wet mess. Traveller simply walked on past. Everyone followed, stamping the mud from their sandals and boots. Last, Kyle saw the creature pop its head up. Its yellow eyes deep beneath prominent brow ridges blinked their confusion. It scampered ahead dragging its tattered adversary after it.
Cresting the eroded hillock, Kyle saw a plain dotted with abrupt hills, or what resembled hills. Their sides appeared too steep to be natural. Traveller was walking on, heading in the direction of a dark lump in the distance, though just how far away it might be Kyle had no way of judging. Everything seemed strangely distorted here, wherever here was. He jogged up to Stalker. ‘So, where are we?’
The scout was adjusting his studded leather hauberk and kicking mud from his knee-high leather moccasins. He scowled his disgust. ‘Shadow Hold, I'd say.’
‘Shadow Hold? What's that?’
‘That's what we call it where we're from. You could call it the Warren of Shadow, or Meanas, or whatever you like. Take your pick – it don't care a whit.’
Kyle slowed. So, Shadow. The Wanderer, Trickster, Deceiver. A power to avoid, or treat with most carefully, according to the shamans and warlocks of his people. Now they were in its grip. And the swordsman with them claimed to know its master personally – and to have an argument with him. True, so far it did not strike Kyle as particularly menacing. If anything, it struck as, well, disorganized and slightly deranged.
The beast had gained the advantage once again and, throwing the ragged robes over its shoulders, stuck its chest out and marched in a direction slightly askew of their line of advance. Eventually, finding itself off alone, it would squawk and run to gain the front once more, raise its chin and set off resolutely in the wrong direction. All these antics took place under the very nose of Traveller who displayed no outward hint of noticing, though Kyle thought his back increasingly rigid and sword-straight as the journey continued.
The hills proved to be domes constructed of cyclopean stones, ancient, overgrown, some displaying cracks or collapsed sides where the blocks scattered the plain as if having been thrown outwards by some tremendous force.
At one point a sudden cloud of darkness boiled over them as if the unseen sun were obscured even further. Kyle was unnerved to see shadows flickering over the dry dusty ground, even over his arms and legs. It was as if someone were waving tatters of cloth between him and the sun. Just as suddenly the ‘storm’ of shadows swept on. Seeing that no one appeared harmed, he and Jan exchanged uncertain shrugs and continued.
Their goal resolved itself into one of these domes, larger than the rest and with straighter sides. Reaching the open dark portal, the creature scampered in without a backward glance leaving a trail of mud across the threshold. The party halted by mutual unspoken consent. Traveller turned to them, his eyes lingering on that portal. ‘I'll go in. No one else need come. Though I can't forbid anyone from choosing to do so. It's up to you.’
‘I'd rather remain out here. If you don't mind,’ Jan said with something like distaste in his voice. And he sat on a nearby block.
‘Us, too,’ Stalker said. Coots and Badlands gave their curt agreement.
Traveller looked to Kyle.
‘Is it dangerous?’ Kyle asked.
‘Dangerous? Well, if you mean will we be attacked… no, I don't believe so.’
‘All right. I'll come. I mean, we're kind of in already, if I understand things aright.’
Traveller's brows rose, impressed. ‘True enough. I believe so.’ He started to the portal. Kyle followed.
The entrance tunnel was dark, cool and humid. Torchlight flickered ahead. They entered the main chamber, a round domed vault containing shattered stone sarcophagi, the occupants of which lay scattered about the chamber, desiccated limbs askew, clothes dusty dry tatters, teeth gaping in yellow grins. Traveller scanned the chamber and his fists clenched.
‘Enough!’ The eruption of his voice shook the stones and brought down wisps of dust. ‘Was that your wizened monkey face we followed all this way?’
‘Wizened!’
A shadow against the far wall started forward, rising. ‘I'll have you know I am quite well preserved.’
‘No more games – Ammanas.
‘Games? No more games? What, then, to do? All is a game.’
‘Ammanas…’ Traveller ground out.
‘Oh, very well.’ Translucent shadow arms gestured. The chamber blurred, shadows churning, to resolve into a long hall, stone-walled, a roof of sturdy timber crossbeams sunk in gloom, and at the far wall a broad stone fireplace. ‘More to your liking?’
A shrug. ‘Yet another facade, but it will do. And Cotillion?’
‘Here.’ A soft voice spoke from behind Kyle, who spun to see a man in a doorway, unremarkable but for a rope coiled around one shoulder. Traveller bowed shallowly to the man who continued to watch, motionless.
‘And who is this?’ Ammanas asked. Kyle was alarmed to see the figure approach, a walking stick now in one insubstantial hand. Its features resolved into that of an elder, darkly hued, mouth a nest of wrinkles. ‘Kyle,’ he said, his voice faint. Could this be the Deceiver himself? He struck Kyle as dangerous, yes, but also oddly frail, even vulnerable.
‘A companion,’ Traveller said.
‘And why are you here?’
Kyle had no idea how to answer that. Why was he here? Curiosity? Hardly adequate. No – he came simply because Traveller did. Kyle motioned to the swordsman, ‘To accompany Traveller.’
‘Ah yes.’ The figure, no more than a gauzy patchwork of shadows, turned to the man. ‘Such a valuable quality. So… useful it proved.’
Traveller merely snorted his dismissal. ‘Do not speak possessively of that which you never possessed.’
‘That is open to debate.’
‘I did not come here to debate.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘You brought me here!’
‘I merely invited you – you did not have to come.’
‘Did not-’ Traveller bit the words off, pressing a fist to his lips. He exhaled a great harsh breath, flexing his neck. ‘You have not changed a damned bit. There's still nothing for us to discuss.’ He turned away. ‘Come, Kyle. My apologies. This was a mistake from the beginning.’ He faced the other man, Cotillion, who stood aside, a mocking smile at his thin lips.
‘Come, now,’ Ammanas called out. ‘Let us stop this bickering. You know what I offer.’
Traveller stopped, turned, keeping both Ammanas and Cotillion in view. ‘No, I do not. You haven't made your offer yet.’
The shadow figure's shoulders slumped their exasperation. ‘Really, please! I rather thought my hairy messenger made it all quite plain in his eloquent pantomime… you can never succeed in your goal, my friend. I'm sorry, but there it is.’ The figure shook, giggling. ‘Quite inspired, his display. Emblematic, you might say.’
Kyle had decided that he really ought not be where he was. Traveller, however, blocked the exit. Since he was stuck, then, he decided he ought to be useful and guard the man's flank. He rested his hand on the grip of his tulwar and found the sword surprisingly warm – hot, almost. He yanked his hand away, alarmed.
‘And your offer?’ Traveller ground out.
‘My offer?’ Ammanas fairly squawked. ‘Gods! Need I spell it out?’
‘From you? Yes. Exactly so.’
The god – yes, the god of deceivers, Kyle reminded himself – hissed a string of curses beneath a breath, drew himself up as tall as he could manage – a height yet far below even that of Kyle, who was considered squat – and swished his walking stick back and forth through the air, mimicking swordplay. ‘You strike at shadows. You chase ghosts. Yet always your quarry eludes you… Well, I know something of shadows and eluding. I can help you along, old friend. A nudge here; a hint there. What say you?’
‘And the price?’
The walking stick set down with a tap. Translucent hands rested upon its silver hound's head grip. ‘A mere service. That is all. One small service.’
Traveller was silent for a time, his gaze steady upon the wavering transparent figure. Kyle's sword had become intolerably hot. He pulled it away by stretching his belt. Yet instead of alarm what he felt was embarrassment – how dare he interrupt such talk so far above his ken with a complaint about his weapon?
‘I will agree, Ammanas, provided you agree to a condition.’
The shadow figure hunched, almost wincing. ‘A condition! What's this of conditions? I ask no conditions of you! One does not raise a finger to the one you seek and insist upon conditions!’
‘Hear me out. Don't fly to the winds.’ A harsh laugh sounded from Cotillion at that. The figure turned a dark glare upon the man. ‘What is it?’
‘Two requests.’
‘Two! Two!’
‘Hear him out,’ Cotillion said wearily.
‘I'm handling these negotiations.’
‘Is that what you call this?’
The figure wavered closer to Cotillion. ‘Don't-’ Though appearing to float, Ammanas seemed to suddenly trip, stumbling. ‘What?’ He poked with his walking stick and came up with limp folds of muddy torn robes. ‘What is this mess? Look at it! Mud all over the floor! Who is going to clean this up? Where is he! I'll skin the rat.‘ He shot a finger into the air. ‘Wait!’ The finger lowered to point to Kyle. ‘What are you doing?’
Kyle could not help but back away. ‘Nothing. Nothing! It's just my sword. Something's-’
‘Cotillion! I sense an emergence!’
A hiss accompanied Cotillion's coiled rope seeming to come to life of it own accord. It leapt to twist around the sheathed weapon at Kyle's side. A flick and Kyle's belt snapped, the tulwar flying loose. A coil then snapped around his neck, tightening. Traveller motioned and the rope parted, snipped cleanly in two. Cotillion and Traveller faced one another, Cotillion spinning his foreshortened length of rope, Traveller with his sword held in a two-handed grip above his head, point down. Kyle yanked the now limp coil of rope from his neck and gasped in a breath.
‘Halt!’ Ammanas bellowed. Surprisingly, both men obeyed the Deceiver, edging back into guard positions. He raised a finger it to where the tulwar had fallen. ‘An uninvited guest.’
The sheathed weapon had fallen in a tangle of Kyle's leather belt. Smoke now climbed from the equipment, then flames as the wood and leather burst into fire. Incredibly, molten iron poured out over the stones, bubbling and hissing. It steamed like boiling water. The clouds became biting, forcing Kyle to cover his eyes and nose. Even Traveller, at Kyle's side, was batting an arm through the mixed steam and smoke.
As the smoke dispersed Kyle caught sight of a tall shape hunched where the sword had fallen. The figure slowly straightened, climbing taller and taller, stretched out his long arms. A bunched mane of white hair fell down his back. He was barefoot in loose trousers and a long loose shirt.
When the newcomer turned, Kyle was astounded to see the Archmagus of the Spur. It was he! The Wind King! Closer now, Kyle was certain that he must also be the figure from his dreams.
Ammanas, Cotillion and Traveller all edged together to face the intruder and Kyle almost laughed to see them shrinking from the entity. His second thought was: all that is Holy! Who was this being? Ammanas eventually slid forward, planted his walking stick. ‘Osserc! You are trespassing upon my demesnes!’
So! It was he! Sky father of his people. Alive after all! Known to these – an Ascendant?
The blunt, almost brutal features of the being did not even register recognition that anyone had spoken. His gold eyes scanned the room, avid. A smile of satisfaction tightened his heavy lips. ‘After so long…’ he rumbled in accented Talian.
‘You must go! You are not permitted here!’
Kyle's stomach clenched in dread upon seeing Cotillion and Traveller, flanking Ammanas, exchange narrowed glances. The doorway was now unoccupied but Kyle did not move. He longed to approach yet dared not interrupt. From the distance, muted by the walls of the ruin, or building, or whatever sort of construct it was, came the long and low baying of hounds. Ammanas straightened to rest his hands on the handle of his walking stick. A creamy satisfied smile crept up his lips.
Osserc merely turned his back upon everyone, stretched his hands out, running them over the walls. ‘Yes, yes. I see…’ he breathed, his tone almost reverent.
Ammanas's insubstantial features twisted his frustration. He stamped his walking stick. ‘Do not be so foolish as to provoke me!’
‘And do not be so foolish as to repeat the mistake you made with my compatriot Anomander not so long ago,’ Osserc growled. ‘How many guardians did you lose bickering with him, little shadow crow? Two? Three?’
Flinching away, Ammanas turned to Cotillion. The two appeared to share unspoken communication. The rope in Cotillion's hand twitched as if it were part of the thoughts. Traveller slid forward, sword raised, the light gleaming from the oily magenta blade. His back to the room, Osserc murmured, ‘I know that weapon better than you and we have no business, upstart.’ Traveller carefully edged back, his eyes slitted.
A rumbling snarl shook the stones beneath Kyle's feet. He turned his head aside to see there in the entrance a crouching hound, a monstrous one that appeared as if it could be fully as tall as Kyle himself, mangy brown and scarred. Its snout, longer than Kyle's forearm, rested on its outstretched forepaws. Ammanas crossed to it, set a hand on its head, murmured reassuringly.
Into this tableau came the little monkey-like messenger. He was pushing a mop ahead of himself as he came from further within. All eyes, but for those of Osserc, moved to track the creature as it became increasingly obvious that his path would take him straight into the giant. The mop bumped up against Osserc's bare foot. The giant did not move, though he clasped his hands behind his back in what Kyle thought might have been irritation. The creature repeatedly banged the wet mop-head against Osserc's foot. Its face screwed up in vexation. The giant edged his head down. The monkey-like thing jumped up and down, waved its arms, stamped a foot. Letting out a deep rumbling sigh, Osserc stepped aside to allow the fellow to pass. The creature slathered the mop over the flagging, muttering to itself.
Ammanas straightened, his gauzy face relieved. The House is unconcerned. We need not bother ourselves with this rude intrusion. We may ignore it as one might an irksome fly.’
Osserc snapped a glare to Ammanas that just as quickly eased into indifference and he turned away. His gaze found Kyle and the eyes swirled molten, his lips pulled back in what one might generously call a smile, revealing prominent tusks at his lower jaws. ‘Well done, son of the steppes. I am in your debt.’
‘Father of Winds,’ Kyle began, stammering, ‘I had no idea…’
‘You were not to. And I am not father to winds or to your people. Your ancestors merely adopted the ancestral totems of sun, sky and winds – all of which shine, turn and blow without my intervention. So are traditions invented. It is up to you to keep them – or not. Here,’ and he gestured and a weapon appeared in his hand. ‘I owe you a weapon. Take mine with my thanks and we are even. Goodbye.’ The giant abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing into the gloom further within. Kyle stared after him as one might a phantom.
‘Good riddance!’ Ammanas called loudly. ‘Now, the rest of you, out as well! Out! Is this a grubby tavern? Am I social host?’
The hound had left and so Kyle backed into the doorway. It opened on to a hall that led past an alcove containing a huge and ornate set of bronze armour, then on to another door that opened as Kyle approached. Kyle almost stumbled here as he glanced back to see the same old beehive-like tomb behind him.
Outside, Jan and the Lost brothers sat up, weapons out. ‘Thank the Dark Hunter,’ Stalker called. ‘A hound as large as a horse came running in after you.’
‘Yes. It didn't attack.’
‘And Traveller?’
Kyle looked back, surprised. ‘He should be with me…’
After a moment the swordsman did emerge. He glanced anxiously among them, then relaxed. ‘Good. I was worried that perhaps the hound…’
‘It ignored us,’ Stalker said. ‘So? What happened?’ and he looked between them.
‘An agreement was reached and you are free to go,’ Traveller said.
‘You?’ Kyle and Stalker echoed.
‘Yes. I am not going with you.’
‘I didn't agree to that,’ Kyle said, his voice rising.
‘Don't worry. There's no danger – either for you or for me.’
‘No danger? That man, or god, or whatever he is, is a lunatic’
‘I've had that impression for some time, Kyle.’
‘So, just like that? You'll stay?’ The scout could not have been more sceptical.
‘Yes.’
‘Do we go back to the boat?’ Jan asked.
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘You no longer need it.’ The swordsman scanned the horizon, inclined his head to indicate a direction. ‘You should go that way.’
‘What do you-’ Stalker began but something flew out of the open portal to land in the dust with a wet slap. A torn muddy robe.
Everyone traded glances. ‘I suppose,’ Coots said, ‘that means we ought to be on our way.’
‘Yes. You should.’
‘Traveller,’ Kyle begged. ‘Don't…’
‘It's best this way. I'm endangering you. Attracting unnecessary attention.’ He walked to stand before Jan. The two locked gazes for a time, neither looking away. Finally, taking a deep breath, the swordsman studied Jan directly for the longest time, his gaze moving up and down; the old man did not move at all, his mouth clenched tight as if he dared not speak. After a moment Traveller sighed, nodded at some unspoken evaluation and turned to Kyle. He set his hands on Kyle's shoulders. ‘Farewell, Kyle. Bring your case to the Guard. I hope they will prove worthy of you.’ He released Kyle's shoulders.
‘Please come with us!’
The swordsman gently reached out to touch the amber stone hanging at Kyle's neck. ‘You were right to pick that up. But I know he will always be with you regardless. I know he will always be with me. Farewell.’ And he turned away, blinking.
Kyle felt the hot tears at his cheeks. ‘Traveller…’
The man's shoulders tightened. ‘It is how it must be, Kyle. I… I am sorry.’ He faced the brothers. ‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands. An honour.’
They tilted their heads in goodbye.
Traveller ducked into the tomb, disappearing into the darkness.
‘Farewell Whorou!’ a voice called from aside. ‘Fare thee well!’ Kyle spun. Their guide, the dirty-robed fellow, had returned. As they all watched, he blew his nose on the arm of his torn garment. Kyle glanced back to the entrance; it was of course gone. ‘Come, come,’ the man beckoned, the loose wet sleeves hanging empty. ‘Come.’
Reluctantly, Kyle last, they started away from the beehive-shaped tomb, striking a direction that to all appearances seemed no different from any other across the flat dusty plain dotted by its ancient sepulchres. Overhead, in the slate sky, things flew, looking like nothing more than folded shadows.