Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘Those standing do.’

  He regarded her now in disappointment. ‘Ah, I see. My mistake.’

  Yusek found that she cared nothing for the old man’s disapproval. She pushed herself to her feet; she was weak and dizzy but she could stand. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Keeping watch.’

  ‘Take me to them,’ she demanded. He gestured to the exit.

  Outside lay a circle of stone huts atop a bare hillock surrounded by what appeared to be steep cliffs on most sides. Bo led her up a path. Then Yusek remembered: ‘Lorkal! You know her? Where is she?’

  Bo halted and turned back to her, pained. ‘Ah … Lorkal.’ His gaze lowered. ‘Yes, I knew her.’

  The band of iron returned to Yusek’s chest. She found it difficult to breathe. ‘Take me to her.’

  ‘It would do no good …’

  Yusek’s jaws clenched. ‘Take me to her.’

  He lowered his head. ‘This way.’

  The bodies had been collected to one side of the village, next to a rocky field where men and women, all ex-slaves or bondsmen, were at work digging a trench. They paused at Yusek’s approach, peering at her in curiosity. A few bowed. It did not take her long to find Lorkal. Like all the bodies hers had been stripped of arms and armour and wore only a long linen undershirt, stained with blood. Yusek studied the bruising, the cuts, the flesh of the wrists torn and bloodied. Tortured to death.

  She turned on the skinny old man. Cold wetness chilled her cheeks. ‘Did you stand by and look on disapprovingly while this happened?’ She was hardly able to grind out the words.

  He would not meet her gaze. ‘I’m sorry. Dernan didn’t believe her. Who would have? They never come this far north. What do they want? Why are they here?’

  Yusek had knelt at Lorkal’s feet. She adjusted the shirt to cover the woman’s legs. What lesson am I to take from this, Lorkal? Were your actions brave? Stupid? I suppose all that can be said is that you held to your convictions. Perhaps that’s the best that can be said of anyone. Yet now here you are, dead. Am I the coward, then, for always walking away? Well – at least I’m still alive.

  She fought down the tightness in her throat. ‘They’re looking for a monastery. One that’s supposed to be north of here.’

  The breath hissed from the old man. ‘Gods, no …’

  Yusek looked at him sharply. He gripped his neck. Something like panic had entered his eyes. She straightened. ‘You know what they’re looking for.’

  ‘I … can’t say.’

  Yusek found her hand had gone to her long-knife. ‘Can’t? Or won’t?’

  His gaze took in her tensed grip. ‘What is your name, child?’

  ‘Do not call me child.’

  He searched her face. ‘No … I suppose not. My mistake again. Would you give me your name?’

  ‘Yusek.’

  He nodded. ‘Come, Yusek. Let us talk.’ He invited her back to the huts. After one last glance at Lorkal, she followed.

  ‘What do you know of the Ascendants?’ he asked as they walked along, his breath pluming in the frigid early-morning air. They were higher up here and Yusek shuddered anew – her leathers and underclothes were still damp and they were sucking the warmth from her once again.

  ‘Ascendants?’ she answered, bemused. ‘Just what I’ve heard in stories and such. Why?’

  He led her back to the hut she had woken in. The two children jumped away from the hearth, where the plate and bowl now sat empty. He clapped his hands. ‘Go gather a selection of clothes.’ The pair bowed to Yusek and dashed from the hut. He sat next to the hearth, began rebuilding the fire. She sat as well, willing to grant the man a few moments before she left to find Sall.

  ‘Ascendants,’ he began. ‘I mention them because they are very few and far between, yes? Yet so many must arise in potential or power, only to fall short. We know of how many? The Warlord, the Lord of Moon’s Spawn, one or two others. Why do so few achieve such heights?’

  ‘What are you? Some kind of scholar?’

  A small shrug. ‘Scholarship is a hobby only. I am a mage.’

  Yusek stared at him; this was the first man or woman she’d ever met of any self-admitted talent. ‘A mage? Really? Why didn’t you blast Dernan to ash?’

  Tolerant amusement twitched his mouth. ‘Mages whose, ah, aspects are useful in warfare or in combat are a very small minority, I assure you.’

  Yusek wasn’t sure what to make of him or all this talk. ‘You have a point? Because I’m not in the mood to chat.’

  He raised a hand to beg her indulgence. ‘The children are gone to gather you warm clothes. Surely I have until then?’

  She merely grunted to urge him on.

  ‘I believe there are many more Ascendants out there in the world, of course. Most are far less – how shall I put it? – blatant in their activities. Such as the Enchantress, the Queen of Dreams. Now, why should that be among such powerful entities? Anyway, who dare oppose them? Well, each other, of course. I believe Ascendancy is something of a struggle. A constant effort to assert one’s identity. An eternal reinscribing of what one is. And why? Because there are others out there, rivals, all vying for what are, after all, in the end, a very limited set of roles or identities.’

  ‘The Dragons Deck?’ Yusek said, drawn into the man’s discourse despite her impatience.

  Bo nodded, impressed. ‘Yes. I believe the cards serve as one expression of these identities. There are many others, of course. And they are by no means exhaustive either. So too with godhead, I believe.’ He waved a stick as if to encompass the entire lowlands to the east. ‘Look at this ferment over the god of war. Who will it be in the end? Will its face be that of a beast? A wolf? Or some other? Who is to say? Only time will tell. But I digress.’

  He set his elbows on his knees, examined the stick. ‘I say all this because there is a small retreat in these mountains. A monastery or sanctuary, call it what you will. Very small, very remote. There, it is rumoured, someone has taken up residence. Someone who may count among those few thrown up every hundred years or so who could achieve Ascendancy. Think of that!’ he breathed, almost in wonder. ‘An Ascendant of our age. Just as the Warlord, Caladan Brood, is of his distant age. A stunning thought.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘Ah! Well. We have arrived at the crux of the problem.’ He squeezed the thin stick in his hands. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you.’

  Yusek snorted her impatience. ‘You’ll tell them when they get here. Believe me.’

  He blinked up at her, calmly. ‘No, I won’t, Yusek. What will they do? Do you think they will torture me the way Dernan did Lorkal?’

  The idea disgusted her; as if he’d asked whether she would. He dared ask that after what happened to Lorkal? She stood to wave her dismissal. ‘Fine. We’ll just ask someone else.’ He started to speak but the boy and girl came bustling in carrying armloads of clothing. Bo dusted his hands, bowed to her, and left her to it.

  Later she emerged warm and well insulated. Tall hide moccasins, their fleece turned inwards, rose to her knees over leather trousers. She had also put on multiple layers of shirts. Of what armour fit her, the best she could find was a heavy leather gambeson sewn with bands of what looked to be shaved horn and antler. Over that she’d pulled a thick wool cloak. A sheepskin hat and toughened hide gloves finished it all off.

  She took a path at random, meaning to track down Sall. As she went she belted on the longsword she’d scavenged, leaving the two knives at her waist as well. Armed to the teeth now, she thought, adjusting the strange new weight on her left hip. Not that it’ll do me any good – don’t know how to use the damned thing.

  She found Sall, his hood down, at a high point in the village, keeping watch. ‘Where’s Lo?’

  ‘On the path.’ Sall gave the slightest inclination of his masked head – the closest he came to pointing. ‘This village possesses an excellent defensive position. The path is its only entrance.’

  Not that it
did them any good. ‘What now?’

  The mask shifted; brown eyes examined her. ‘You are recovered?’

  ‘A hot meal and I will be.’

  ‘Very good. Collect supplies and we will depart.’

  She turned to go but stopped, thinking of something. ‘You saw Lorkal?’

  ‘Yes. We saw her.’

  ‘And – you killed Dernan?’

  The mask tilted ever so slightly. The light played over its complex lines. ‘Which one of them was he?’

  Great Goddess … Yusek waved it aside. ‘Never mind.’ She went to find Bo.

  The mage was speaking to the rag-tag remnants of slaves and bondsmen Dernan had kept: youths, oldsters, a few women fat with child. People probably dragged off from all the caravans and traders he’d slaughtered. Bo appeared to be organizing them into packing everything up.

  ‘What’s this?’ Yusek asked.

  The mage gave her an impatient look. ‘We can hardly just hang about waiting for the next gang of thuggish swordsmen to claim the place. Thanks to your Seguleh we’re utterly defenceless.’

  ‘Thanks to them you’re free!’

  ‘Free to be enslaved. Free to starve. Free to be abused or murdered at a whim. Yes. Freedom – rather more complicated in the concrete than the abstract, yes?’

  Yusek just curled a lip. ‘Don’t play your word games with me. I’m not interested.’

  ‘The fate of someone unarmed, or alone, or unprepared, in this lawless wilderness is hardly a game.’

  ‘Fine. Whatever you say. Listen … I don’t know why I’m doing this because I really don’t give a damn … but take your troop south. You know Orbern’s hold? Orbern-town, he calls it.’

  ‘Yes? What of it? Why should I deliver these people and myself to yet another murderous petty warlord?’

  Yusek exploded in laughter. ‘Old man … calling Orbern a warlord is like calling a grandmother a courtesan. He’s just not the right material. Go to him and say you’re settlers. Settlers come to Orbern-town. I swear, he’ll hug every one of you.’

  Bo looked doubtful. ‘You’re quite certain …’

  ‘Absolutely. Now, we need two packs of supplies ourselves.’

  ‘I will see to it. We can manage that at least, I suppose. You are determined to head north, even further into the mountains?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ The man was obviously struggling with something. He raised his face to the snow-clad mounts biting off the northern horizon, sighed, and nodded to himself. ‘Head north-west. Keep going higher, towards the coastal range.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Bo still appeared troubled. He ran his fingers through his thin beard. ‘Do you know who he is? This man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You would only know of him in one way, I think.’ He shifted his gaze, studying her. ‘As the slayer of Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon’s Spawn, and Son of Darkness.’

  Yusek snorted her denial. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘No. It is he. They are seeking him. And for one purpose only that I can imagine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To challenge him, of course.’

  Jeshin Lim, the Legate, was in special session together with his closest advisers and supporters among the councillors when yet another urgent communication arrived from the north. This newest information of events in Pale sent yet another round of confusion, denials and recriminations through the assembly. Jeshin, for his part, withdrew from the arguments, sitting back and turning in his hands a small curio, a delicate gold mask.

  ‘M’lord,’ Councillor Yost called, his voice deep and rumbling up from his great bulk. Then, louder, ‘Legate.’

  Jeshin peered up, startled. ‘Yes?’

  ‘M’lord, this latest news is above reproach. A relation of our family who minds our interests there in the city has cultivated long-standing sources—’

  ‘Your interests,’ another councillor shouted.

  Yost continued through gritted teeth: ‘These accounts corroborate earlier rumours. Some impostor is fomenting hostility, perhaps even war, between us.’

  ‘We cannot be certain,’ Jeshin said, eyeing the gold mask. ‘Who would gain from this?’

  Yost swung out his thick arms. ‘Why, any number of parties! Even the Malazans—’

  ‘The Malazans have apparently been driven from Pale,’ cut in Councillor Berdand. ‘And they fled from here.’ He gave an exaggerated farewell wave. ‘Their star is falling. We have seen the last of those invaders.’

  ‘Are you drunk and stupid?’ Yost barked.

  Berdand leapt from his chair. ‘How dare you! You push your family interests here at this table then insult us?’

  Jeshin raised a hand for quiet. ‘Gentlemen! Accord! Obviously we require more complete intelligence. I suggest a – well, not an envoy now, obviously, but something rather more covert. Someone to travel north and ascertain conditions first-hand and report back. I suggest …’ Jeshin eyed Councillor Yost, who shrank an involuntary step backwards under his speculative gaze, a hand going to his throat. ‘What was the name of that new upstart Nom?’

  Yost’s wide frame eased in relief. ‘Ah, Tor – something or other, Legate.’

  ‘Yes. I designate Councillor Nom as emissary of this body to investigate conditions and developments at Pale and its environs.’ Jeshin raised the gold mask to his face and spoke from behind it. ‘He is to travel north at once.’

  The assembled councillors shared barely suppressed smiles. Councillor Berdand laughed aloud, saluting Jeshin. ‘Excellent stroke, Legate.’

  *

  Torvald sat, head clasped between his hands, at the tiny kitchen table in the cramped main room attempting yet again to dredge up any excuse, no matter what, to rid himself of his appointment to the exalted, but unpaid, position of councillor. Tis had taken the news of its non-compensatory nature with a steely unsurprised silence that only made him feel all the more guilty – though over just what he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t done anything. None of this was his fault.

  It was simply an inconvenient circumstance. That was all.

  A tentative knock sounded on the door. Torvald frowned; it was late in the evening. Surely not the debt collectors already? How could word have travelled that fast? Since Tis was in her workshop in the rear he unlatched the door and opened it a crack. ‘Yes?’

  It was a clerk of the Council escorted by three city Wardens. Torvald opened the door wider. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is this …’ the clerk ran her disbelieving eyes over the plain front of the row-house, ‘the residence of Councillor Nom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I speak to him?’

  ‘I’m he – that is, he is me, myself.’

  The clerk’s brows arched even higher. ‘Indeed. How … refreshingly informal of you, Councillor.’

  One day I’ll get the better of one of these bureaucrats, I swear. ‘You have a message?’

  ‘Indeed.’ She held out a sealed scroll.

  Torvald read it by the uncertain light of a torch carried by one of the Wardens. Then he read it again. When he looked up there was an expression upon his face that made the clerk eye him more closely, puzzled.

  ‘You are quite well, sir?’

  Special emissary! Travel to Pale and environs. Report on state of affairs. Torvald restrained himself from hugging the clerk. A gift from the gods! He managed to hold his mouth tight, nodding curtly. ‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you. I will leave at once, of course. The Legate can be assured of my cooperation.’ He moved to close the door but stopped, thinking of something. ‘Ah – there wouldn’t be a travel stipend associated with this position, would there?’

  Later, retracing her steps to Majesty Hill to finish her report and retire for the night, it occurred to the clerk that never before had she ever seen any councillor so happy to be sent from the city.

  Barathol worked only at night. Long after sunset armoured chests arrived at the tent which housed his makeshift forge now moved t
o Majesty Hill. The chests contained silver to be melted down and poured into moulds. And not raw silver: finished jewellery, utensils, ornaments and coin. A great deal of silver coin. All destined for the ceramic crucible supplied to him to be heated on the forge.

  Once the metal was melted he poured it into sand moulds, two at a time. Plain forms, they were, shaped exactly like the iron pins used to hold stone blocks together. Except these would be of silver and thus far too soft to secure anything. And he’d told them that as well, the two who took over the process once he’d poured. Neither gave a damn what he thought. One was a tall scarred fellow with a great mane of hair and a ferocious hooked nose. The other was some sort of hunchback, or cripple, even worse-looking, all mismatched in his broken features and mangled hands. Both stank like mages to him.

  They would curtly gesture him out then work some sort of sorcery over the still soft metal. Later, he would be allowed back into the tent to knock the pins from their black sand moulds and polish them up. Each time he found them inscribed with symbols and script utterly unfamiliar to him. In the morning the men would pack up the finished items and carry them off. He never saw either of them during the daytime excavations.

  Shortly after the morning shift began work he would stagger home to get some sleep. Unfortunately for him this was a rather rare commodity. Scillara was disinclined to rise before noon and so he watched little Chaur until she came downstairs. Then he made lunch for them. After that she often had little chores for him; repairing this, or replacing that. Sometimes she went out, leaving him to mind Chaur for the rest of the day.

  Then there was dinner to be made.

  Often he did not lie down in the cot downstairs until close to dusk. Only a few hours later it would be time to rise to work the night through once again. For Barathol time began to pass in a dazed fog of utter exhaustion. Fortunately, the work was not demanding. He was tempted to sleep in the tent next to the forge but was haunted by what might happen to little Chaur in his absence. Scillara was not cruel; she was simply not interested and he did not hold this against her. It seemed to him that frankly most people by temperament and character should not be thrust into the role of parents. She was simply uncharacteristic in admitting it. He was at a loss to know how to resolve the trap life had set for him. The most attractive answer was to take little Chaur and walk away. He wondered, idly, his mind barely on his work, whether Scillara would even complain.