Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘What? Into the water?’

  ‘That’s what’s in the river. Go on.’

  ‘But my silks . . .’

  Dorin pointed again, rising.

  Silk sighed and stood. ‘Very well. Just so you know, you two are the stupidest—’

  Dorin pushed him over and he fell with a great awkward splash. He flailed in the water, perhaps trying to swim, or giving them an obscene gesture. Dorin took the oars. Wu sat at the stern plate, peering back at the receding walls of Heng, lit now in dawn’s pink and gold glow. ‘Farewell, poor city. You will never know what you missed.’

  ‘Wretched dung-heap,’ Dorin muttered.

  ‘What lies ahead?’ Wu asked.

  ‘The Idryn meets the Bay of Nap at Cawn.’

  Wu tapped a finger to his nose. ‘Ah, Cawn. City of merchants – sorry, I mean thieves, gougers, frauds and those who fatten themselves on the misery of others. We should do well there . . .’

  The rowboat passed beneath the overhanging branches of a copse and Dorin started as something thumped down from a tree limb into the boat. It was that tiny monkey-creature, the nacht, baring its fangs in what he hoped was a grin.

  Wu threw open his arms. ‘There you are! What took you so long?’

  ‘That’s your daemon?’

  The creature climbed Wu and tried to sit on his head; Wu fought with it to keep it from doing so. ‘Indeed. That’s its name – Demon. He’s quite the troublemaker.’

  Dorin corrected the boat’s path by rowing gently. ‘Give it another, please.’

  The nacht hissed at Dorin and made gestures that vaguely resembled obscene signs. Wu pulled its hands down. ‘Now, now. Bad Demon. Bad.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think this is going to be a long journey,’ Dorin muttered.

  The nacht reached its quick hands into Wu’s shirt and tossed a box to the bottom of the rowboat. It spilled open to reveal the broken piece of worked stone. Dorin hung his head in disbelief. ‘We lose everything and that’s all you come away with?’

  ‘It’s important,’ Wu huffed. He shook a finger at the nacht. ‘Bad Demon.’

  Dorin picked up the flint shard and shoved it back into the box. For an instant he was tempted to toss the damn thing into the water, but that would hurt the poor fellow’s feelings needlessly, so he threw the ridiculous object to Wu. The mage tucked it back into his shirt. As he did so, the nacht snatched his stick and threw it overboard. Wu swung a punch at the creature but it ducked. He pointed out over the water. ‘Fetch! Get the stick, Demon!’

  The nacht yawned, showing a pink mouth and enormous fangs, then curled up at the bottom of the boat and shut its eyes. Wu sat grumbling and fussing impotently at the stern.

  Dorin decided that maybe he could come round to taking a liking to the ugly beast. He raised his gaze to the tall walls of Heng slowly diminishing into the distance behind them, and pondered on all he was leaving behind.

  He regretted not having a chance to say farewell to Rheena. But the moment hadn’t arisen. He also knew that she wanted far more than a partnership and that he wasn’t prepared to offer – not yet, anyway.

  As for Ullara . . . He paused in his rowing, resting his hands on the oars. Ullara . . . He hung his head and pressed a hand to his brow for a time.

  He’d taken so much from her – and she’d given him so much. Even more than she knew, perhaps. She’d given him his true identity. It was terrible that she’d lost her vision when she’d seen his true self right away. And named him.

  So he was finished with Dorin. He was not the lad he’d been when he’d entered the city. Not that he’d been some green farmhand, but he’d been untested, unbloodied . . . unready.

  Not so now. Dorin was done.

  Hard lessons luckily survived had put an end to that lad and his dreams. A transition from which a good few do not emerge alive. But necessary, if hard. The city had cut away the untried Dorin and trampled his dreams into the mud and the mire.

  He was Dancer now, and Dancer from now on.

  But he would not regret it or hold a grudge. Perhaps he no longer had dreams. He didn’t need them. Now he had plans.

  * * *

  With the long delayed spring already giving way to summer, Silk walked the walls of Li Heng. The warmth of the sun was welcome on his new white silk shirt and new Untan olive-green silk pantaloons. Construction was moving along swiftly on most of the wall repairs. And since the siege he’d been enjoying far more respect from the Hengan militia, and among the citizens in general.

  He stopped at a view over the river, but did not lean out of the crenel as the stone would dirty his shirt. He watched the muddy ochre-red waters course along and pondered once more on the fate of those two bold-faced would-be usurpers. The utter audaciousness of their ambition still made him shake his head in wonder. Were they simply criminals with arrogance far outstripping their abilities, or had he come within a hair’s breadth of having to bow down to a psychopathic sorcerer? He still wasn’t sure.

  Mara still wanted them dead. But Shalmanat would have none of it. And in any case, it appeared they were gone for good. Lying in a ditch in Cawn with their throats slit, no doubt. As befitted a couple of common criminals.

  The good news was that Shalmanat was recovering. He thought he’d actually seen a spot of colour come to her cheeks with the returning warmth.

  But it was different now. It could never be the same after her . . . cleansing. Palace bureaucrats and functionaries who had treated her as a chief administrator before now bowed before her. Some even feared to address her. In the streets her ascendance was unavoidable. Shrines to her now stood on almost every corner. Temples openly worshipped her as the patron goddess of Heng. And the priests of Burn no longer dared object.

  Yet all the while something else tinged the reverence. Something far less welcome to his senses. The populace had watched while the Protectress slaughtered thousands and now they laid garlands and burned incense to her in worship. But, sometimes, Silk noticed the taint of propitiation in their offerings. They venerated her, yes. But now they also dreaded her. For she was a goddess. And goddesses acted capriciously – they were not like normal people, nor even nobles. They were accountable to no one but themselves.

  It saddened and worried him. For worshippers had been known to turn upon their idols.

  The words of that young soldier returned to him and he shivered. The Wrath of the Goddess. They had seen her wrath and it terrified them.

  It saddened him because – more than anyone – he did not want a goddess in Shalmanat.

  Epilogue

  IT WAS NIGHT on the fields south of Heng, and Sister of Cold Nights crouched before a pile of kindling and dry moss. The sparks she struck flamed to life and she blew upon the fire for a time before sitting back on her heels. The fire’s glow played over her tall husky form and reflected brightly in her pale hazel eyes.

  She fed sticks into the flames as she waited. The firelight revealed that she sat not far from the croft where she’d brought Juage, but the Jaghut was gone now, journeying south to return to his pretended servitude. She rocked on her haunches, continuing her vigil.

  It was long into the night before she sensed someone with her and blinked, drawing her thoughts from the far reaches where she had ventured – a place of low granite hills scoured bare. A cloaked and cowled figure sat opposite, studying the fire.

  ‘Brother K’rul,’ she greeted.

  ‘Sister of Cold Nights.’

  ‘He’s left Heng.’

  Beneath its thick cloak the figure raised and lowered its shoulders. ‘Did I say he would stay?’

  ‘You said I would find him here.’

  ‘And you found him.’

  She tossed a stick on to the fire. ‘He can’t be the one to succeed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She scowled her distaste. ‘He is incompetent. Dishonest. Nothing more than a self-seeking opportunist. How can he succeed where so many others have failed?’

  ‘So,
because he does not conform to your expectations . . . this means he cannot succeed?’

  She let out a long hissed breath and threw another stick on to the fire, raising a shower of sparks into the night sky. ‘Very well. I shall see it through.’

  ‘Only then may you see where it might take you.’

  She nodded. ‘So you say. I am trusting you in this, brother.’

  ‘And I you.’

  She eyed him warily. ‘How so?’

  ‘Fate has plans for me as well. They are bound up with your actions. We are all entwined in the skein of events now.’

  She nodded, accepting this. ‘That I should have foreseen.’ She held up a hand, rubbing the palm. ‘I remain bound to the flesh and no longer have our old vision. It is . . . frustrating.’

  ‘Trust sister T’riss in this.’

  She barked a laugh. ‘No.’

  ‘You should make up, you two.’

  She shook her head. ‘Never.’

  K’rul sighed. ‘You are one to hold a grudge.’

  ‘We all are. It is our curse. We never forget.’

  ‘Indeed, we do not. Fare you well, sister.’ The figure faded away.

  ‘Fare you well, brother.’

  * * *

  Ullara rose from her straw pallet in the family kitchen that was an open-walled addition behind the barn. A cloth was wrapped tightly about her eyes and she crossed the beaten dirt floor carefully, hands extended, to where a cage hung from a rafter. She found the cage and drew the cloth blind from it.

  Within, a small songbird chirped and fluttered about the bars. Ullara pulled the cloth from her head revealing the empty scarred pits of gouged-out eyes. She opened a small door on the cage and held up a finger. The tiny yellow and black bird alighted on the tip, singing happily.

  The girl set the bird on her shoulder and turned to a counter, picked up a knife, and began cutting vegetables for the day’s meal.

  All morning the bird kept up a constant cheery song, though it quietened whenever anyone else entered the kitchen. Chores finished, Ullara went to the stables, the bird clutching her shoulder. Here, any strangers or patrons she met glanced away, or made warding gestures against evil. She headed to a set of stairs, hearing behind her murmured references to witchery and pacts – all of which she had learned long ago to ignore. She climbed a ladder to the attic and threw open the trapdoor to clamber up. The songbird now fluttered about her.

  In the large open space of the loft the bird chirped happily as it explored the rafters. Ullara crossed the dark empty space to a gable. She threw open the shutters at the window. The songbird alighted on her shoulder.

  The red brick rooftops of Heng lay before her. Smoke rose from countless cooking fires. The traffic of carts and wagons rumbled from the streets. Vendors touted their wares and the commingled talk and shouted bartering of the markets was a low constant tumult.

  She crossed her arms, sighing.

  The tiny bird kept up its constant cheery song, though, at one point, it chirped Dancer!

  The girl rubbed a finger on its head and murmured, ‘Shush, you.’

  * * *

  In the royal pleasure garden of the kings of Kan, Iko sought her hidden quarry. It was a warm night, and she stalked her target in her full fine mail coat, her whipsword at her back. Torches stood on tall poles at the many crossings of the paths about her. She edged aside the broad flat leaves of the rhododendron bushes; she peered into thick verges of white and pink rose bushes. She squinted up at the invitingly low limbs of the monkey-tail trees, and quietly crept round to peep behind the wide boles of the fat baobab trees, yet she failed to flush him out.

  He was canny, this one. Sharp. He never used the same approach twice.

  She did not take the marble-flagged path that forked into the flower garden wing, as cover would be too scarce there; instead, she turned to the path that led to the hedge maze. He thought he could lose her in there.

  She entered the narrow lanes of the maze, shaking a bush now and again. At one point she thought she heard a muffled giggle from a lane that shadowed hers and she carried on, harrumphing her frustration.

  Shortly thereafter she halted, peering round. ‘Where is he?’ she exclaimed loudly, vexed. ‘Well – I can’t find him!’ She headed for the exit.

  Just before she reached the opening, the bushes behind her shook and something poked her back. She spun, throwing up her hands. ‘What!’

  A boy danced in circles waving his stick, chanting, ‘I won, I won, I won!’

  Iko knelt, chuckling. ‘Indeed you did.’

  Four liveried servants approached and surrounded them. All bore lanterns on tall poles. The lad pointed the stick at her, now all serious. ‘Did you hear me?’

  Iko pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I swear that I did not.’

  The lad did not appear convinced. ‘Well . . .’ He played with the stick, eyed her sideways. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘What they say . . . about the killing. The assassination.’

  Iko fought to keep her expression light. She nodded. ‘Yes. It is true.’

  ‘You’ll not let that happen, though, will you?’ And the lad peered up at her with his soft brown eyes, suddenly anxious.

  Iko swallowed hard, her throat so tight and hot she was unable to speak for a moment. She put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and brought her face to his. Her voice was low and thick as she managed, ‘I swear upon my life that I will never let any harm come to you, my king.’

  The lad scampered off, slashing his stick at the bushes as he ran. All four servants raced after, struggling to light his way as he charged about the many paths of the garden.

  Iko straightened. She dabbed her eyes with a sleeve of her royal green jupon. The lad’s route brought him back to her and he jabbed now at the tree trunks. He turned to her, suddenly. ‘Do you know the name the guards at the palace have for you?’

  Iko paused, wondering whether she wanted to know it or not. She inclined her head. ‘No, sire, I do not.’

  ‘Well, you always wear your mail coat. Always. No one’s ever seen you out of it and so they call you Shimmer.’ And the boy raced off again, the servants puffing as they chased after him through the trails, their lanterns bobbing in the darkness.

  She arched a brow. Hunh. Shimmer. Well, it could’ve been far worse, that was for certain. She started walking after him, hands at her belt, pacing. Chulalorn the Fourth was a handful, that was for certain. But he was her charge. And Mosolan was regent until he reached adulthood.

  Until then, she swore to all the gods above and below – that had ever been and would ever be – that no harm should ever come to him under her wardship. She had lost one king and would not lose another.

  So did she vow.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Winnipeg in 1962, Ian Cameron Esslemont has studied and worked as an archaeologist, travelled extensively in South-East Asia and lived in Thailand and Japan for several years. He now lives in Fairbanks, Alaska, with his wife and children. He has a creative writing degree and his novels Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone and Assail are all set in the fantasy world of Malaz that he co-created with Steven Erikson. Dancer’s Lament marks the beginning of an exciting new series that is set in the same extraordinarily imagined world.

  Also by Ian C. Esslemont

  NIGHT OF KNIVES

  RETURN OF THE CRIMSON GUARD

  STONEWIELDER

  ORB SCEPTRE THRONE

  BLOOD AND BONE

  ASSAIL

  For more information on Ian C. Esslemont and his books, see his website at www.malazanempire.com

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2016
by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Ian Cameron Esslemont 2016

  Maps © Neil Gower 2016

  Ian Cameron Esslemont has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473509627

  ISBNs 9780593074343 (cased)

  9780593074350 (tpb)

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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