Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘Lessons learned,’ the masked and cloaked figure answered.

  ‘You seek to avoid this.’

  ‘I seek to avoid a paradox. Escape the inescapable. I wish to complete the circle without suffering its fate.’

  ‘Each time it has ended this way.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘So many would-be tyrants,’ Ebbin breathed, saddened.

  The graven gold face turned his way. ‘Still you do not fully understand.’

  Emboldened, Ebbin ventured: ‘What is there to understand? You failed once, you shall fail again.’

  ‘Once? No, scholar. Evidently the truth is even more difficult for you to swallow than that. In truth, I have failed countless times.’

  ‘What?’

  The taunting secretive curve carved on the lips of the mask seemed to be verging on a full smile. ‘Each time it has been me, scholar. In truth, there has been but one Tyrant.’

  The raging winds of Ebbin’s mind crept closer. Walls of impenetrable black closing in. ‘But … that cannot be. What of Raest? What of him?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Raest. Too crude in his methods. I have refined and perfected his tools. Lessons learned, scholar.’

  Ebbin clenched his skull as if to hold it from flying apart. ‘Why tell me this?’

  ‘Give up, scholar. Yield. There can be but one outcome.’

  ‘No! Never. I … never.’ And he fled. Hands pressed to his skull, he ran from the ledge and laughter chased him. The laughter melded with the howling of the winds that came sweeping in to toss him, spinning and flying, into countless shattered fragments.

  Jan could not get used to being confronted wherever he turned by near replicas of the Legate’s gold mask. The ladies of the court held theirs on long gold stems that they raised to their faces. The men’s rested on the bridges of their noses, held there by fine thread that ran behind their heads.

  Part of Jan wished to slap them all off. Just as he still could not help twitching upon meeting so many directly challenging, even haughty, stares from armed men.

  These are no longer your people, his inner voice said to him. These are no longer your ways.

  Across the court Palla, the Sixth, signed to him: Any word?

  None.

  It has been long.

  The mountains are vast.

  The Moranth have never been shy.

  True. A tentative throat-clearing at his side. Jan turned, knowing who to expect: the Mouthpiece. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A word, Second.’

  They crossed to the edge of the court where a pillared colonnade stretched all along one wall. It was the favoured locale for much whispering. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Send a runner to your people in the south. Have them all relocate here to the city.’

  Jan’s gaze snapped to the masked figure on his throne, his hands resting lightly atop a white stone armrest to either side. ‘All?’

  ‘Yes. All. It seems strange notions and distortions have crept into your teachings over the years. It would be best if I took over all future training.’

  ‘You,’ Jan said, his gaze fixed on the broad oval mask.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jan nearly fainted in the animal urge to draw and slice. No! The burden is yours! Endure! He allowed himself a shuddering intake of breath while his eyes slitted almost closed. ‘Very well,’ he grated through clenched jaws. ‘It shall be as you order.’

  ‘Of course.’ The Mouthpiece, Jan noted, appeared more sweaty and pallid than ever before.

  He turned his back, signing to Palla: We must talk.

  At a side entrance he came to the two private guards. Seeing him, they jumped to attention, saluting. ‘Don’t you worry there, sir,’ one said, ‘we’ll keep a watch out. Ain’t that so, Scorch?’ He elbowed his companion.

  ‘Yessir.’ The other winced, blinking his bloodshot eyes.

  Jan swept past without answer. Odd that the Legate should want these two here. But, as he had read, every court has its fools.

  He waited in his quarters for Palla to find a moment to excuse herself. Eventually the door quickly opened and was just as swiftly shut. What now? she signed.

  ‘He would have us all here. All our people.’

  ‘That cannot be allowed,’ she answered, her mask averted.

  ‘No. It cannot. We do not belong here.’ Something shook him then. Something arising from the base of his spine and low in his stomach. He shuddered as it clenched his throat and he fought it with hands clamped to his sides. Was this weakness? Is this the gathering wail of despair? ‘I am so sorry.’ The words seemed to escape of their own accord. ‘This is all my doing.’

  She drew close, almost raising her mask to gaze up at him. ‘No! You did as any Second would have. The call came and you answered. There is no error in that. It is this place,’ she went on, fierce. ‘Here. Darujhistan. It is no longer worthy of us.’

  Jan groaned. Oh, the loftiness of pride! No longer worthy of us? Or are we simply … obsolete?

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘When the others return I will reinstitute the Exile.’

  ‘Gall will challenge.’

  ‘That is his right.’

  ‘We must not allow that. He must be stopped before he can—’

  ‘Palla! Listen to yourself. And we worry about perversion of our ways?’

  She touched his arm, lightly, as if frightened that he would brush her hand aside. ‘But what if he …’

  ‘What if he wins?’

  She whispered a faint ‘Yes’.

  He crooked his lips. ‘Is your estimation of my abilities so low?’

  She ducked, genuinely hurt, and he winced inwardly. ‘I see how all this weighs upon you,’ she breathed.

  He touched her arm. ‘I only jest. If he should best me then he deserves the victory.’

  Her grip tightened. ‘Then do not force me to wade through the Fourth and Third to reach him.’

  ‘I will go peacefully knowing you would avenge me, Palla.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, after a brief silence, ‘the others will note our absence, and …’

  ‘… there will be much wagging of tongues in the dormitory.’ He allowed his fingertips to trace a line down her taut arm. ‘Another reason to hope for better times, Palla.’

  She returned the gesture, sending a shiver through his flesh. ‘Let us hope, then.’

  ‘Yes.’ He opened the door. ‘In the meantime …’

  Stepping out to the hall she murmured low, ‘We delay.’

  Antsy came to, coughing up a great gout of water followed all too swiftly by the contents of his stomach. On his side, his face pressed into dirt, he groaned, his stomach still cramping. A great shout of surprise sounded then and hands grasped at him.

  ‘You’re alive!’ Orchid cried.

  ‘We thought you dead,’ Corien said, amazed.

  He merely groaned again, dry-heaving. ‘What in the Abyss happened?’ he managed, spitting.

  ‘You ought to ask these gentlemen,’ Corien said.

  Antsy peered up. It was still as dark as the inside of a barrel, but his mage-vision allowed him to see that they occupied what appeared to be a meadow surrounded by a thick forest, its boughs windswept. Starry night arched above, empty of any greenish glow.

  With him were Orchid and Corien, yes, but also the three mercenaries, the Heels, and about ten or so Malazan marines including Sergeant Girth. But what captured his attention were the six Seguleh standing about him, water dripping from their leathers.

  ‘Where’s the Hood-damned menagerie of mages?’

  ‘All fled as soon as they could,’ said Orchid.

  ‘Even Malakai?’

  Corien nodded. ‘Even him.’

  ‘Well … how do you like that. Not even a by-your-leave.’ He eyed the Seguleh. ‘Who’s the spokesman here?’

  ‘I,’ said one.

  ‘Right.’ He gestured for Corien to help him up. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘We returned to the Throne as soon as
we were able. You were in our way so we merely pushed you through with us.’

  ‘Well … my thanks.’

  ‘We did not intend to save your life – we thought you dead.’

  Antsy waved a hand. ‘I said thanks!’ He held his head, grimacing. ‘Leave it at that. Gods.’

  He faced Orchid. ‘So. Where are we?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ She turned a full circle, arms raised to the night sky. ‘Kurald Galain. Elder Night.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be here. We have to go. Right away.’

  ‘And go where?’ Girth demanded, pushing forward blindly. Antsy realized that none of the others could see a thing. ‘Just where would you suggest? And how? And who’s gonna send us? All the mages have scarpered. We’re no better off now than where we were.’

  Antsy pointed. ‘We have her.’

  The Malazan sergeant peered about. ‘Who?’

  ‘Orchid – the girl!’ Antsy barked then held his head again, groaning.

  Girth pulled at his beard. ‘Fine. So – question still stands. What’s the marching orders?’

  ‘Well … I don’t know quite yet,’ Antsy admitted. He rubbed his neck, feeling where the dagger had entered, and found only slit cloth and throbbing pain.

  ‘I would suggest Darujhistan,’ said a new voice, and Orchid gasped.

  ‘Morn! You escaped.’ She ran to him.

  The hooded figure of dark wavered, translucent. ‘I am barely here at all, Orchid,’ he said, his voice hollow. ‘In truth I am very committed elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re fading!’

  ‘I’m sorry, child. This sending has done its duty. Now it must disperse. All I can say is that these men ought to go to Darujhistan. You have given me much hope, child. It was a pleasure, this time I spent with you. I found it … renewing.’

  ‘Don’t go!’

  ‘I must. I cannot stay. It is too … painful. May Night bless you. Farewell.’

  The hooded figure faded away like smoke.

  After a moment of silence, Girth complained, ‘Well – that was no damned help. And I still can’t see a Togg-farting thing!’

  Antsy went to Orchid’s side, whispered, ‘We should go, lass. These Warrens are dangerous.’

  ‘I believe it may be too late,’ Corien said, pointing to the woods.

  Some sort of party or procession was approaching through the trees. They carried torches on tall poles, but to Antsy’s eyes the torches burned with black flames that gave off black light that seemed to aid his mage-vision. The strange inversion made him dizzy.

  The Malazan marines were linking up, he noticed, weapons out, sweeping the blades through what to them must be utter dark. ‘Form circle!’ Antsy barked, and set to helping organize them. When he reached for Cull Heel the man brushed his hand aside, making him jump. ‘You can see?’

  ‘Aye,’ the man ground out, his narrowed eyes on the approaching party. ‘We can see a little – someone’s coming.’

  Antsy had no time to wonder about that at the moment. ‘Form up with the soldiers. Help them out.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Aside, the Seguleh formed their own small circle round one of their number as if to protect him. His mask was mostly pale; only a handful of lines marred it. Three crossed the forehead and three each cheek. One crossed the bridge of the nose. While Antsy studied him the man’s hand strayed to a cloth-wrapped package thrust into his waist sash and rested there for a time as if making sure of it.

  Antsy and Corien shifted to stand before Orchid at the centre of the circled marines and Heel mercenaries.

  ‘That’s close enough,’ Antsy shouted. The party halted. It consisted of a double file of female Tiste Andii. From their flowing dress and rich jewellery he thought them priestesses of some sort. One at the forefront advanced slightly closer. She held high a torch of the liquid pitch light.

  ‘There is no need for such suspicion,’ she called in accented Talian, perhaps making herself understood through magery.

  ‘What do you want?’ Antsy called.

  She gestured towards him. ‘Our daughter.’

  A gasped breath sounded from Orchid. ‘I think that’s up to her,’ Antsy said.

  ‘Indeed. Then let it be so.’ The Andii woman’s eyes, almost black as the night surrounding them, swept past him. ‘Child,’ she called, ‘we have been bereft, in mourning. For we have lost a Son of Darkness. Yet behold. We rejoice! For just as precious and rare are the Daughters of Tiam!’

  Orchid’s weight fell on Antsy, and he grunted. The girl was much more solid than she looked. He clasped her arm. ‘What’s this, lass? What’s she goin’ on about?’

  She steadied herself, blinking rapidly, a hand on Antsy’s shoulder. ‘If what she says is true—’

  ‘It is,’ the Andii woman asserted.

  ‘—then I am part Andii, yes. But also part – Eleint.’

  Antsy jerked away a step. ‘Eleint! But that’s …’

  ‘Yes,’ the Andii woman shouted. ‘That is so. Child, whoever hid you and protected you all these years has taught you also, I see. Very good. Now join us. It is time to continue your education.’

  ‘Orchid,’ Corien murmured, ‘you don’t have to go with these witches …’

  ‘I need to know,’ she answered just as low, fierce. ‘I want to.’

  Antsy nodded. ‘’Tis true – we can’t stop you. But what of us?’

  She shot him an insulted look. ‘I’m not an utter fool, Bridgeburner.’ She raised her chin to the Andii woman. ‘I have terms!’

  They barely made it to shore before the hide boat became too heavy with water to be manoeuvrable. Crouched, Yusek hugged her knees, warming herself, watching the flooded thing slowly drift away. It was no more than an oval rim now, like a squeezed ring laid on the smooth dark surface of the river. She was soaked and shivering but had to admit that she missed the damned thing. Beat walkin’, that was for sure.

  The Seventh merely shouldered his meagre roll of gear, waterskin and such, and set off. Sall and Lo followed. Yusek bent her head back to send an entreating look to the sky and all the gods, but bit back any complaint knowing it would be entirely useless. Well, she suddenly realized, seem to have finally understood that lesson at least.

  She pulled up her own roll and shoulder bag of wet gear and followed. It was many hours before dawn. She was exhausted. It had been almost impossible to sleep in the damned boat what with the constant bailing and the sloshing water. Now they were expected to march on? What was the rush? It wasn’t like the city was goin’ anywhere.

  She pushed herself to reach Sall, and announced: ‘I’m beat! I ain’t going another step. We need to sleep.’

  Sall hesitated, glanced ahead to the others. ‘They will not stop.’

  Yusek sank to her knees. ‘Well – what’s the use of arriving on your last legs? Too tired to be of any use? Aw, fuck it,’ and she glared at the river making its sluggish way north, gleaming beneath bands of clouds.

  Sall jogged ahead.

  Some time later the three returned. They sat without a word. A few scraps of food were handed out and the waterskins made the rounds. Someone must have kept watch but Yusek didn’t know who because she immediately fell asleep.

  Late in the morning they set off again, following the Maiten’s east shore. Here they climbed small hills and narrow gullies the sides of which seemed too steep to be natural. It occurred to Yusek that they were crossing the remains of large channels that might have once carried water from the river. The Maiten was far too low now even to reach these features, but at some time in the past it must have run much higher. And these channels, then, would have directed part of the flow eastward. To farms, no doubt. Yet now the Dwelling Plain was a dusty wasteland of dry hills and wind-scoured hardpan. Frankly that fitted quite well with her personal experience of what happened anywhere after people arrived. She’d seen it again and again as a refugee fleeing the Pannions. Their bands would come staggering into towns and settlements, and fighting would immediat
ely break out over water and food. Homes were invaded, herds decimated, water sources bled dry. Then the whole stream would move on again, a swarm of locusts, consuming and destroying all it met. And the only way to have a hope of snatching anything, a handful of barley, or a crust of hard bread, was to be among the first to arrive. Thus the mad dash westward; the desperate effort to beat the mob; to be among the first to kick down the doors.

  It had been a harrowing time. And it had left its mark upon her wiry lean limbs, her restless gaze and her constant, almost feverish, nerves. And what of the scars one couldn’t see? The marks upon psyche and spirit? Well, she didn’t even want to think about that.

  Now Sall, he interested her. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met on her march west, nor among Orbern’s crew. All those boys forced too early to become men had ruled through muscle and viciousness, the fist and the club. But not Sall, nor his father Lo, or this fellow, the Seventh.

  Their way was strange, and, she could admit, harsh. But it had clear rules, and that attracted her. She knew she wanted to be part of it.

  Late in the day, from one of the higher hillsides, they saw the first hints that they were getting closer. Smoke stained the northeast sky and ahead more and more huts and rotten piers crowded the riverbanks. They were close now. Close to the greatest city of the continent. Yusek had to hug herself to contain her yip of glee.

  The murmurings of the arrival preceded them: doors slamming, sandalled feet stamping the stone floor; gasps and exclamations. Then the doors to the Great Hall swung open to admit a troop of Seguleh, dirty and sweat-stained, jogging up the centre.

  Courtiers and aristocrats hastily flinched to the sides, making way. From near the white throne Jan watched their advance with stunned incomprehension. What was this? Why were they here?

  Leading the troop came Gall. Soot stained his mask and black dried blood caked his side where a wound still gaped wet and open. The Third bowed to Jan.

  ‘Speak,’ Jan managed, almost breathless with wonder.

  Gall straightened, weaving slightly. His chest worked soundlessly. ‘The Moranth,’ he grated. ‘They … used their alchemical weapons upon us. Only we few … escaped the slaughter.’