He turned at the knock, growling, ‘Yes?’
A trooper, one of his personal guard, opened the door. ‘Trouble downstairs, sir.’
Coming down, Aragan found a city Warden in the open doorway, the rest of his detachment waiting outside. His own guard was ranged across the bottom of the stairs, tensed, awaiting his command.
‘Ambassador Aragan,’ the city Warden officer called, ‘you are summoned to an audience with the Legate.’
At least this Legate sent an escort of twenty … Anything less would have been an insult.
‘Stand down ranks,’ he ordered. Passing the sergeant, he murmured, ‘Remain until I return.’
‘Sir.’
Aragan stopped before the Warden, gestured to invite the man outside. ‘After you.’
The man’s gaze slid over the solid front of Malazan veterans and his lips compressed. He backed up then aside to allow Aragan to exit. The detachment formed up to either side of the ambassador and the officer waved a hand. They marched off, heading, Aragan knew, for Majesty Hill.
Along the way, the only thing of interest Aragan noted was the scar of recent construction that marred the grounds atop the hill. A broad trench had been dug up and back-filled. It cut through crushed gravel walkways, ornamental hedges and beds of flowering perennials. He only caught a glimpse as they passed, but it appeared to describe an immense arc heading off round the buildings. Some sort of defensive installation? Pits?
Then he was hurried along through the interminable stone halls of the complex. To his surprise and growing discomfort, he was not escorted as he’d expected straight to Council. Rather, he was taken into older dusty halls where they met almost no one save for the odd harried-looking clerk. Was he to be imprisoned? Questioned?
The way led to what he recognized from formal gatherings as the Great Hall. The largest of the surviving ancient wings of Majesty Hall. Guards pushed open one of the immense copper and bronze panelled doors and Aragan was escorted in.
The long hall was, for the most part, empty. The only light entered in long shafts from openings high up where the pale marble of the walls met the arched roof. A small scattering of people waited at the far end, where one fellow sat on a large seat, or throne, of white stone blocks: the Legate. As Aragan had heard rumoured, the man had indeed taken to wearing a gold mask. However, a few of the gathered coterie also sported gold masks – slim things that encircled their eyes and covered only the upper half of their faces.
The escort stopped Aragan directly before what he guessed he ought to consider a ‘throne’. He crossed his arms, waiting. In time the Legate ceased his low conversation with an old man – a rather jarring figure in his old tattered clothes amid the glittering finery and riches on display among the coterie. This fellow stepped forward, hunched, hands clasped to his chest as if hugging himself.
‘Ambassador Aragan,’ he began, almost cringing, ‘I speak for the Legate.’
Aragan ignored the ridiculous figure and addressed the Legate. ‘You speak to the Imperium when you speak to me … You should show proper respect.’
The old man glanced backwards to the Legate – like a dog to its master, Aragan thought. ‘Invaders, thieves and murderers deserve no respect,’ he said, gulping as if in horror of what he’d just announced.
‘Darujhistan was more than eager to cooperate with us in the crushing of the Pannions,’ Aragan observed as drily as he could manage given his growing anger.
‘Self-interest guided us both in that,’ the old man said. ‘Now, that same self-interest should guide your diminished forces north to Cat in a withdrawal and complete abandonment of the lands of South Genabackis.’
‘That is your demand?’
‘Such is our generous offer.’
Aragan couldn’t help himself; he had to drawl, ‘Or what?’
The figure on the throne gave one lazy flick of a hand. ‘Or they will be annihilated,’ the old man said, disbelief in his hoarse voice.
A number of the gathered crowd hissed their anxiety at that announcement; clearly it was far beyond anything they anticipated. All faces, masked and otherwise, now turned to study Aragan. He squinted his scepticism and opened his hands. ‘With what? By whom? You have no army worth the name.’
‘We need no army,’ said the old man, rubbing his chest. ‘We merely speak for all the peoples of the south. It is they who will throw off your foreign yoke.’
‘Or trade a new one for an old one, I suspect,’ Aragan answered, now eyeing the masked figure with new suspicion.
‘We merely advise and guide … just as a caring parent wishes the best for his children.’
Aragan cocked a brow. ‘What?’ Where did that come from?
One of the masked followers – a tall fellow with a great mane of salted hair – motioned curtly then, and the spokesman bowed. ‘The audience is at an end. You have our terms. Follow them or many will die.’
The Wardens urged Aragan back. He retreated, eyeing the masked Legate who sat so immobile on his throne. Was that even the Lim in truth, he wondered. Yet he’d recognized a number of councillors among the crowd. They would know him. Surely they would not put up with some impostor.
His thoughts elsewhere, Aragan allowed himself to be ushered out and back down Majesty Hill. So, it was all out in the open now. War had been declared. Yet a war against what, or whom? He felt as if he was facing a ghost, a shadow. Who is our enemy? This masked would-be king? If Darujhistan wants a king in all but name then that is up to them – we never controlled the city.
But if the army is attacked … well, that is another matter entirely.
Back in the manor house Aragan entered his offices to find the emissary from the Imperial Throne sitting on his couch, legs outstretched, waiting for him.
In the plain light of day he saw more clearly whom he faced: the tall thin frame, the oddly shaped eyes, silvered hair. So this was Topper – true to his descriptions. The once and returned Clawmaster.
‘You witnessed?’ Aragan grunted, and headed to a sideboard to pour a drink.
‘From a distance, yes.’
‘A distance?’
‘There are some very powerful magi gathered together on that hilltop.’
Aragan gulped down his drink, studied the lanky, unnerving man. ‘Too much for you?’
A thin humourless smile. ‘Let’s just say it would be counterproductive for me to tip my hand as yet.’ The man’s gaze roved about the room as if uninterested in him. ‘And what ridiculous demands were made?’
‘Very ridiculous ones. We’re to withdraw to the north. Relinquish all territory south of Cat.’
‘Including Pale?’
A sombre nod from Aragan. ‘Yes. Including Pale.’
‘That would not go down well.’
‘No. I imagine it wouldn’t.’
The man cocked his head like a grackle, watching him. ‘And what would you recommend?’
It occurred to Aragan that he was angry. He felt insulted. As if he, and by extension the entire Empire which he represented, had been accorded none of the respect they warranted. He sucked his teeth then finished the last few drops of the rare Moranth liqueur. ‘It seems to me that so far whatever it is that now squats on Majesty Hill has done all the pushing. It’s long past time someone pushed back.’
The thin slash of a smile drew up, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Mallick chose well in you, I think, Ambassador Aragan.’
‘Most of my promotions were under Laseen.’
The smile faltered and the man sat up, leaning forward. The mention of the former Empress seemed to have stung him. Ah yes, Aragan realized. His failure in averting her assassination. ‘Yes. A lesson there for all of us.’
‘Lesson?’ Somehow Aragan could not help probing; it pleased him to be able to penetrate the fellow’s irritating manner.
Elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose, the master assassin said, ‘That in our line of work we all die alone, Ambassador.’
Aragan didn’t know
whether to laugh or snort his scorn. What the devil did he mean by that? What line of work? He served the Throne.
Topper stood. ‘I will begin making my arrangements, then.’
‘You’ve located our assets?’
‘Oh yes. And it’s time I paid a visit. They will be none too pleased.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘See to our regular forces, Ambassador. Leave the rest to me.’
Aragan nodded. ‘Very good. May Oponn favour you, Clawmaster.’
A clench of pain crossed Topper’s face. ‘Let’s leave those two out of this, shall we?’
*
‘I’m tellin’ ya it’s some kinda foundation … but for what I got no idea.’ Spindle sat back in his chair and frowned his confusion. ‘Seems too flimsy for a wall.’
At the table Picker sent a glance to the historian, Duiker. The man was unaware of her regard, his thoughts obviously distant as he pursued the problem. Good. May it rouse the man even further. ‘Guards?’ she asked Spindle.
‘Hardly any. City Wardens, that’s it.’ The mage drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Naw, it’s them mages you gotta watch for. Plenty scary, them. Remind me of the Old Guard cadre, Hairlock and Sister Chill.’ He rubbed a hand over his greasy shirt. ‘You know, I swear one had me cold to rights. But damned if he didn’t let me go.’
‘Which?’ the old man asked.
‘The tall one – scholarly look to him.’
The historian grunted, returned to studying the tabletop.
‘There’s more than them to worry about,’ the bard, Fisher, said from the bar.
Picker cocked a brow. ‘Oh?’
‘Sadly, Envy supports this Legate.’
Blend, behind the bar, let out a long drawn-out ‘Damn …’ The front door opened and a customer entered. Blend sent a cursory glance over then froze, her eyes bulging. ‘Look out!’ she bellowed and disappeared behind the bar.
Fisher just stared his puzzlement.
Picker knocked over the table to duck behind. Spindle threw himself into a booth. The historian remained in his chair. He eyed the newcomer first with surprise, then distaste. He raised a hand for a halt. ‘He came in the front door, Blend,’ he called.
Blend straightened from behind the bar, a cocked crossbow trained on the man at the door. ‘You’ve got some nerve showing yourself here, y’damned snake.’
The tall fellow held up both gloved hands. ‘Now, now. I come in peace.’
Spindle emerged, hand on the shortsword at his side. ‘What d’ya want?’
‘Just a chat. Let us sit down together over drinks. Reminisce and tell lies of the old days.’
‘I’d rather fall into a privy,’ Picker said, standing, twin long-knives out.
‘Who’s this?’ Fisher asked Blend.
‘Topper. Clawmaster. The Empire’s found us.’
Topper looked to the ceiling. ‘We never lost track of you, Blend.’
‘Everyone relax,’ Duiker said. ‘If Mallick wanted your heads he wouldn’t send this one.’
Topper squinted, edging forward. ‘Do my eyes deceive me? Not Imperial Historian Duiker?’
‘Ex.’
Blend raised her crossbow, pulled out the bolt. Picker sheathed her long-knives and righted the table. ‘What’re you after?’ she grumbled.
‘We have a common enemy.’
Blend, Picker and Spindle shared quick looks, then Picker snorted, ‘No, we don’t.’
Topper pulled a chair to the table. He undid his dark green silk-lined cloak and hung it over the back, then sat. The shirt beneath was a fine satiny forest green. He drew off his gloves and peered round innocently at everyone. ‘A drink, perhaps?’
Blend drew a pint from the bar and ambled over. ‘Whatever you’re sellin’ we don’t want any,’ she growled.
The Clawmaster took the earthenware pint and sipped. He made a face. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ Spindle started up from the table and Picker flinched. Topper raised a placating hand. ‘A joke.’
Spindle’s mocking smile was sickly. ‘Very funny.’
Duiker eyed the Clawmaster, his lined face stony behind his grey beard. He steepled his hands on the table. ‘What is your proposal? And bear in mind – these soldiers are retired.’
Topper hooked an arm over the top of his chair. He turned the pint in circles before him. ‘Retired? Is that what you call it? According to the lists you are all deserters. Except for our honoured historian here.’
‘Not according to us,’ Picker ground out.
‘Dujek told us—’ began Spindle.
‘He was not in a position to offer anything,’ Topper interrupted.
‘Don’t push that line,’ Blend warned from where she now stood behind Topper’s chair. ‘That dog won’t hunt.’
Topper gave a small shrug. ‘Fair enough. I understand you’ve already accepted a contract to collect intelligence. What would it take for you to sign on for something a little more … direct?’
‘As free agents?’ Picker said.
‘Yes. Free agents.’
Picker opened her mouth to name something, a price perhaps, but Duiker took hold of her arm, silencing her. He whispered into her ear and her tangled brows rose. She cuffed the old man’s shoulder. ‘Our price, Clawmaster, is the formal decommissioning of the Bridgeburners.’
Topper’s slit gaze glanced aside to the historian and his lips pursed. After turning the mug in circles on the rough slats of the table he gave a slow nod. ‘Agreed. It will be arranged.’
‘And the job?’ Spindle asked nervously.
An easy shrug from the slouched Clawmaster. ‘Well … it seems for reasons known only to himself this Legate wants a wall built … Therefore, we should do our best to interfere with that.’ His gaze rose to Spindle. ‘I take it you have munitions?’ The saboteur-trained mage gave a jerked nod. ‘Excellent. Then you lot can do what you’re best at.’
‘And you?’ Blend demanded, her chin stuck out.
‘I’ll provide cover in case there are any … complications.’
Picker snorted. ‘Somehow I’m not so relieved by that.’
The Clawmaster laid his hands flat on the table. His smile was now supremely assured. ‘You should be.’
At their servants’ table in the kitchens of the Lim estate, Leff let out a long loud sigh. Scorch, opposite, roused himself, blinking. ‘You say somethin’?’
Leff shook his head. He tucked his hands up under his arms, sighed again. ‘You know, Scorch, I don’t think anyone’s comin’ back. I’m gettin’ the distinct feeling that we’ve been handed our hats.’
Scorch’s puzzled frown deepened even further. ‘Howzat? Hats? I ain’t got no hat.’
Leff glared his disapproval. ‘It’s an expression, man. Means we’re fired.’
Scorch goggled at his partner. ‘What? Fired? We ain’t even been paid yet!’
Now Leff banged his chair forward, gaping. ‘Ain’t been paid yet? How can that be? You’re supposed to be in charge of all that.’
Scorch’s consternation creased his forehead until his brows met between his small darting eyes. ‘I thought you were supposed to be handlin’ that.’
Leff pressed a hand to his brow. ‘I distinctly remember me saying that you should do it.’
‘Oh. Well, we could take it up with the boss. What’s ’is name – Ebbin.’
Now Leff’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment. ‘The scholar? What in the Queen’s name does he have to do with any of this?’
‘He’s with the Legate. I seen him.’
Leff dropped his hand, amazed. ‘Burn protect us! Why didn’t you say so?’
‘You didn’t say it was important.’
Leff pushed himself up from the table, stretched his numb legs, wincing. ‘Gods, man. You have to learn to think for yourself! I can’t be expected to keep doin’ all the thinking for us.’
Scorch hung his head. ‘Sorry, Leff.’
‘Well, I should think so!’
City War
dens stopped them at the gate to the Way of Justice leading up Majesty Hill. The two Wardens gripped their wood truncheons. ‘You’re carrying weapons,’ one called, accusing.
Leff and Scorch glanced to their peace-strapped swords, the crossbows over their shoulders. ‘Looks like it,’ Leff answered and attempted to brush past. The thick wooden portal was closed, however, and he pushed against it to no effect. ‘Open up,’ he shouted. ‘Official business.’
The two Wardens shared smirks. ‘Official? You two?’
‘Go squat your official business off in the bushes,’ the other suggested.
Scorch drew himself up, offended. ‘I’ll have you know we’re all certified, listed and official. I’d go ahead ’n’ check if I were you. Otherwise could be consequences.’
‘That’s right,’ Leff put in, though with much less certainty. ‘Consequences.’
One of the Wardens banged his truncheon on the rough timbers of the door. A small communicating slit opened. ‘Names?’ someone demanded from behind the slit.
‘Leff and Scorch,’ Leff shouted, mouth to the slit.
‘All right, all right!’ the hidden clerk grumbled. ‘You don’t have to shout.’
One Warden leaned against the door, arms crossed, shaking his head. Leff adjusted the weight of the crossbow against his shoulder. Scorch dug a finger into his ear and twisted it round.
The heavy door slid backwards and the Warden almost fell with it. He jerked, wildly surprised, and received a superior look from Leff as the latter pushed through. Scorch ambled after, crossbow held behind his neck, arms draped over it. ‘Consequences,’ he murmured, and winked.
As they wandered their slow way up the twisting path Leff rubbed his unshaven jaw, casting narrowed wondering glances Scorch’s way. Finally an idea occurred to him and he gave an exaggerated knowing nod, saying, ‘Ah! I get it now … good ol’ Captain Soen. Ever conscientious, that one. Good guess, Scorch.’
Scorch’s permanent scowl of resentful confusion took on an even greater perplexity. ‘What’re you talking about? I just said that, that’s all. Sounded like the kinda thing important persons say.’
Leff used his crossbow to brush aside a clerk who was waving papers at him. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Scorch. I really do.’
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