Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  But his partner was ambling down another hall. ‘Got us in, didn’t it?’

  Eventually, after being shooed out of a number of chambers and offices, they found the guarded doors to the Great Hall. Leff approached the city Wardens, and as one opened his mouth to challenge them, bellowed: ‘Message for Captain Soen!’ The Warden snapped his mouth shut and exchanged an uncertain glance with his fellow. Leff pushed open the small clerk’s door and strode in.

  ‘Message for Captain Soen!’ Scorch echoed as he stepped through.

  ‘You don’t have to say it again!’ Leff hissed, pushing him aside.

  Scorch pushed back and Leff nearly dropped his crossbow. ‘I got us in, didn’t I!’

  ‘We’re already …’ Leff tailed off, feeling the weight of numerous eyes. He turned.

  A great crowd of nobles and councillors filled the length of the Great Hall. All were dressed in rich finery. Many wore masks, as was traditional for the various city religious ceremonies and fetes. Leff bowed, cuffing Scorch, who bowed as well. Dismissing them, the many eyes turned away. Leff scanned the crowd. ‘There he is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Soen, dammit! Who else? C’mon.’

  They tramped forward. The clank and clatter of their weaponry almost drowned out the low murmured conversations. A figure sat motionless on a raised seat of white stone at the far end of the hall. Before Scorch and Leff were halfway across Soen intercepted them, a sharp grip on the forearm of each. He steered them aside into the shadows of a colonnaded walk along one wall of the hall.

  ‘What in the name of the Queen of Mysteries are you two doing here?’ he hissed, furious.

  Scorch looked to Leff. Leff saluted. ‘Reporting in, sir.’

  The big man’s salted brows clenched. ‘What? Reporting? Why?’

  A panicked look gripped Leff’s lined features, as if he’d reached the end of his gambit and hadn’t realized more might be required. ‘Ah … reporting that the manor house is all secure, sir!’

  ‘What? Secure? Who gives a—’ The captain bit back his rising voice, peered round, anxious. ‘You two are fired,’ he said, his voice low and fierce. ‘Get out of here and never come back.’

  ‘Fired?’ Scorch echoed, outraged. ‘What for? Guild rules—’

  ‘Guild rules require justification, I know. Deserting your post. How’s that?’

  The two shared a pained look. Leff pulled at his lower lip. ‘Well … I suppose that would kinda do it.’

  ‘It most certainly does. Pay can be collected at the guild office. Now leave – or must I escort you out?’ The captain didn’t wait for an answer but beckoned others of Lim’s private guard over.

  ‘Wait!’ a voice called. Captain Soen turned and immediately bowed to one knee. ‘Sir.’

  Scorch and Leff were astonished to see their old employer, the scholar Ebbin. Something like wonder was on the man’s face as he gazed upon them. ‘I … know … you,’ he breathed, as if awed by the realization.

  Leff knuckled his brow. ‘Yes, sir. Been working for you for some time now, sir.’

  The old man’s gaze seemed to wander as he stood, brows furrowed in concentration. ‘Yes. I remember. I … remember you.’ He glanced to the captain. ‘These men work for me, Soen. They are my guards.’

  The captain’s brows climbed almost all the way up to the rim of his helmet. He shot a glance to the immobile and silent figure on the throne, blew out a breath. ‘Well … if you say so … sir.’

  ‘They may remain.’

  Soen was obviously still very confused, but as a good private soldier he accepted his employer’s dictates – no matter how stupid in his estimation. He saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Leff saluted too. Then he cuffed Scorch, who also saluted.

  But the scholar had wandered off. He’d pulled out a cloth and was wiping his sweaty strained face, the other hand rubbing his chest. Captain Soen scowled down at the pair; then he nodded to himself. ‘I see it now. Friends in high places. Looks like I’m stuck with you.’ He eyed them up and down again, his disgust increasing. ‘At least get yourselves cleaned up.’

  Scorch straightened, outraged. ‘I washed just a few weeks ago!’

  ‘Your clothes and armour, man! Clean them up.’

  Leff saluted. ‘Yessir. Right away, sir.’

  The captain just shook his head, jerked a thumb to another of his guards. ‘Willa here will kit you out. Come back when you’re presentable.’

  ‘Yes, sir! With pleasure, sir!’

  Soen answered with a gesture that was half salute, half dismissive wave. ‘Whatever. Get out of here – now.’

  They travelled at night once they entered the desolate hills of the Dwelling Plain. Despite this, and all Fist Steppen’s many precautions in water conservation, they still lost irreplaceable mounts and dray animals. Even a few men and women collapsed under the unrelenting pace. Some died; others recuperated in the wagons trailing the column.

  That pace was nightmare for Bendan. Never having had cause to walk for longer than one bell – what in Fanderay’s name for? There was never any need – he couldn’t believe what was being demanded of them. What in all the Lost Lands could be so important? He managed to keep up, but barely. He walked in a daze and knew he’d be no use in a fight. Not that there’d been any raids. But still, he felt defenceless, hardly able to stand.

  This day their scout, a Rhivi exile named Tarat – word was the young woman had killed a relative – raised her hand and crouched, studying the dry dusty ground. Sergeant Hektar joined her, and, bored, Bendan staggered over.

  ‘What is it?’ the giant Dal Hon rumbled.

  ‘The column has crossed this trail,’ she answered, a hand indicating a line northward.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s like nothing I have ever seen before.’

  ‘So?’

  The girl blew out a breath and pushed the unruly kinked hair from her freckled face. ‘Malazan. I know every spoor on the face of these lands. If I see something new it is a strange matter. Still … this trail reminds me of something. Something from an old story …’

  Bendan simply took the opportunity for a breather; and he didn’t mind standing looking down at the tribal girl, either. Fine haunches she had. Too bad she also had a knife for anyone who got too close. He pulled out his skin of water and took a pull. He was about to take another when Hektar pushed the skin down.

  ‘That’s enough, trooper. You know the water rules.’

  ‘I know I’m damned thirsty.’

  ‘You’ll be even more thirsty two days from now when you run out.’

  Both of them jumped when the Rhivi girl let out a shout of alarm and scrambled back from the trail as if it was a snake that had reared at her. ‘What is it?’ Hektar demanded.

  Tarat’s gaze swung to them, her eyes huge with wonder. ‘I have to speak to the commander.’

  Almost the entire column had passed now. Hektar drew off his helmet to wipe his dark sweaty face. ‘She’s with the van …’ he began.

  ‘I must. Immediately.’

  Hektar sighed his disgust. He wiped the leather liner inside the helmet then pulled it on again. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

  ‘I’ll tell Little,’ Bendan said.

  ‘No – you’re comin’ with us. Let’s go.’

  ‘What for? You got her. You don’t need me.’

  ‘You seen it too. Now c’mon.’

  ‘Aw, for Hood’s sake …’ But the big sergeant crooked a finger and started after the scout. Bendan dragged himself along behind.

  The van was a damned long way ahead. First, they were all mounted, something which irked Bendan no end. Why should they be mounted when the rest of them had to plod along? And second, they were all so much cleaner and better accoutred than he. Something that also never failed to stir his resentment. Why should they wear such superior armour – cuirasses of hammered iron and banded hauberks – when all he wore was a hauberk of boiled leather faced with ring mail, with mailed sleeves? It w
as his general view that anyone with better equipment than his, or with greater wealth, just didn’t deserve it.

  In response to a signal from the sergeant a messenger rode over, spoke to him briefly, then wheeled off to take his request to the Fist. Shortly thereafter a small mounted body broke off from the van to return to them. It was Fist Steppen, accompanied by a small guard and her inner staff. They parted around the three waiting troopers. Sergeant Hektar saluted the dumpy sunburned woman in her sweat-stained riding trousers and loose shirting. The skin of her forehead was angry-red and peeling.

  ‘Fist Steppen.’

  ‘You have a report?’

  Hektar gestured to Tarat. ‘Our Rhivi scout has news.’

  Tarat saluted, quite smartly. Steppen nodded to her. ‘The trail the column passed just back—’ the girl began, but was interrupted.

  ‘We all saw it,’ an officer put in. ‘A band marching double-file, north. Bandits, perhaps.’

  Tarat’s hand snapped closed on the bone-handled knife at her side and she glared at the man.

  Steppen raised a hand for silence. ‘Continue,’ she said to Tarat.

  The girl did so, but still glared murder at the officer. ‘No bandits – or even soldiers – have the discipline to maintain such a straight trail. Look to our own meandering track if you don’t believe me. Men and women pause to adjust gear, to relieve themselves, to remove stones from their sandals. Only one people are capable of moving across the land in this manner. It is said they can march for four days and nights without a single pause.’

  ‘It is said?’ Steppen asked, cocking her head.

  Tarat lost her glare, removed her hand from her blade. ‘In our stories, Fist. Among us Rhivi are told stories of these people. Most speak darkly of them.’

  ‘And they are?’

  Tarat was clearly unwilling to say just who she was talking about, but asked directly she hunched slightly, as if expecting scorn, and said, ‘The Seguleh.’

  Bendan laughed out loud. Hektar glared for him to shut up but he couldn’t help it. The Fist arched a brow. ‘You have something to add, trooper? I see you too are a local. What is your opinion?’

  He waved a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just … the Seguleh? Scary stories for children only, ma’am.’

  ‘I assure you they are quite real.’

  ‘Oh yes. Real enough. Down south. I’d say they’re damned good all right – damned good at puffing up their reputation, if you follow me, ma’am.’

  Leather creaked as the Fist leaned forward on to her pommel. ‘You are from Darujhistan, yes?’

  ‘Yes, m’am.’

  ‘And the opinion you express regarding these people … this would be typical of the city, would it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Just a lot of tall tales.’

  ‘I see. Thank you. Very informative.’ She turned to Tarat. ‘Thank you for your report. That is all.’

  The troop edged their mounts aside and cantered off to return to the van. Tarat whirled to face Bendan. ‘Laugh at me again and I’ll slit you open like a weasel. Yes?’

  Bendan held out his arms. ‘Yeah. Fine. Whatever.’

  The tribal girl stalked away on those fine haunches.

  Gods! So damned prickly!

  CHAPTER XI

  We are the freemen privateers.

  We sail the forested isles

  from Callows to far Galatan!

  We have thrown off the chains

  of yoke, coin and tyrant.

  So join us who dare to be free!

  The Freemen Privateers

  Author unknown

  BARATHOL HAD TAKEN to sleeping in his work tent. During the late afternoon he’d drop in on the house to make sure little Chaur was fed and clean. He didn’t blame Scillara for her lack of maternal instincts – he was resigned to it. Perhaps it balanced what he admitted might be his own over-developed nurturing instinct.

  This night he was bringing up the heat of the forge, readying for another shift, when he heard a strange sound. It seemed to be coming from the excavation trench. Outside the tent, the work crew was on break and all should have been silent, yet intermittent clanging or thumping reached him. He stepped out into the dig, listening.

  He thought it came from the exposed stone blocks themselves. Kneeling, he placed an ear close to the cold smooth stone. Shortly, he heard it: a clanging or banging reverberating down the stones. It sounded as if someone was digging somewhere along the now nearly completed arc of set blocks. He stood to peer about; no one was around. The mages who oversaw the installations never arrived until much later. Frowning, he picked up a crowbar and set off to walk the circuit.

  He sensed nothing strange until halfway round the nearly completed circle. Here the arc cut through a patch of woods dense in underbrush, part of an artificial park planted on the hilltop. Damn good cover, it occurred to him, and he immediately ducked down to take advantage. Edging forward, he found another excavation, this one much smaller. A pit had been dug over the arc of the stone ring. Even as he watched, dirt flew up to land in the brush. What in the Twins’ name was this?

  Then he sensed someone behind him. He spun, gripping the crowbar horizontally in both hands. Steel rang from the heavy tool and a wide burly figure readied for another thrust. Barathol fell, swinging the crowbar; it glanced from a shin and the figure grunted her – her? – pain, tumbling. As the assassin fell, her foot caught him across the throat. Both rolled in the dirt, gasping. Barathol rose just in time to block another stab then readied the crowbar for a swing but stopped, astonished. His attacker also froze.

  ‘Barathol?’ she said, amazed.

  ‘Blend?’

  ‘What in the Queen’s name’re you doing here?’ she snarled, wincing and holding her shin.

  ‘What are you marines up to?’ he demanded.

  A needle-point pricked his back and a voice whispered from behind, ‘The Legate has declared war on Malaz, friend. Time to choose sides.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Topper,’ Blend warned.

  Topper? Where had he heard that name before?

  Blend straightened, tested her weight on her leg. ‘Stand aside, Barathol. This is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Barathol?’ said the one named Topper. ‘Mekhar? Kalam’s relation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The knife point pressed harder for an instant, as if its holder were of a mind to finish him quickly then and there. He wasn’t the type to go quietly and he almost moved rather than just stand and be slaughtered but the thought of little Chaur stopped him and he froze, tensed, his limbs twitching.

  ‘Don’t,’ Blend urged Topper. ‘He’s a friend.’

  The blade withdrew – slightly. ‘Are you, Barathol … a friend?’

  ‘This is just a job. I have rent to pay. A family to feed. I’m lucky to have any work.’

  ‘If it’s just a question of coin – you’ll have it.’

  ‘On your word?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Barathol allowed himself a small shrug. ‘Then I’ll be on my way. This isn’t my business.’

  ‘Very well. On your way. But I’ll be watching. One word to anyone and you’ll die. Understood?’

  ‘Yeah. I know the drill.’

  The blade pricked him to urge him on. He nodded to Blend and headed off. A few steps later he tossed the crowbar into the woods and continued along the path.

  At the trench the work crew had returned to prepping the foundation. Barathol made a show of straightening his trousers as he descended into the trench. He pushed aside the tent flap and ducked in. The tall mage was there waiting for him, staff of old wood in one hand.

  ‘Where were you?’ he growled.

  ‘Call of nature.’

  ‘Took your time.’

  ‘I’m not eating right these days.’

  ‘How much do you think I care about the state of your bowels?’

  Barathol held a hand over the coals, thrust in a bar to stir them. ‘You asked.’

 
‘Don’t leave the forge again. We are on a timetable. There can be no delay.’

  Over his shoulder Barathol studied the strangely lean angular fellow. ‘Oh? To accomplish what?’

  The man’s eyes seemed to flare and he clasped the staff in both hands. The wood creaked in the fierce grip. ‘That is not your concern,’ he ground out.

  Barathol shrugged. He gestured to the wood and leather bellows. ‘Work those for me then.’

  The mage sneered. The fresh scars on his face twisted in disgust. ‘Find another to do that, imbecile.’

  Barathol threw down the bar. ‘Fine. More delay.’

  He impressed a worker from the crew to help on the bellows. The entire time, the mage paced the narrow confines of the tent. The work might have gone as usual, but for Barathol it seemed to flow as slowly as the silver melting in the glowing ceramic crucible. He kept suppressing the urge to peer over his shoulder, and he hunched at particularly loud bangs and crashes of dropped equipment in the trench.

  All the time, he felt the gaze of the mage on his back like the twin impressions of heated dagger-points. Finally, the work was done. Both moulds were poured, and the mage shouldered him aside to inspect the cooling bars. ‘These appear acceptable,’ he growled, bent over them. A flicked hand dismissed Barathol, who straightened his back with a murmured ‘You’re welcome’.

  He pushed aside the heavy canvas flap and stepped out into cool dawn air. He drew a cloth from inside his shirt and wiped his face and hands, then stood still for a moment, enjoying the caress of the wind. Walking up from the trench he paused, glanced back towards the distant woods hidden behind a wing of the rambling complex of Majesty Hall. No alarm as yet. Not even a peep. Reconnoitring? Investigating the stones? Or … no, they wouldn’t dare try that, would they?

  Best to be far away in any case.

  He headed for a twisting walkway down the hill.

  Halfway along the trail he flinched as a boom erupted over the hillside, echoing and rolling into the distance. It sounded eerily like broad sails catching a brisk wind. He turned in time to see a great cloud of dirt and dust billowing up over the tiled rooftops of the various buildings crowding the hilltop. He could even make out the clattering of rocks as they tumbled down the cliffs. Distant shouts and screams sounded. He hung his head. Damn! Now I have to go back for a look – it would be strange if I didn’t.