Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  Duiker raised his hands. ‘No, no. It just seems rather … intricate.’

  ‘It’ll work, I’m pretty sure. The point is, I can pull the cord from the door and we’ll be outside when it happens.’

  Duiker decided that perhaps it would be best if he said nothing more. Spindle waved him from the room, played out the cord until he stood outside with the door open a slit, then gave Duiker the high sign. He shouted, ‘Munitions!’ pulled the cord and slammed the door, throwing himself down on the hall floor next to Duiker.

  The sound of the weight hitting the iron bar, a crash, and the metallic ringing of the bar hitting the stone floor reached them almost simultaneously. Spindle raised a hand for a pause, waited, then carefully climbed to his feet. He edged to the door, drew a breath, and glanced back to Duiker. The historian waved him on. Shrugging, he swung open the door. They both peered in. The top of the amphora was no longer visible above the table.

  Spindle cuffed Duiker’s shoulder. ‘Ha! Knew it would work. What did I say?’

  Indeed, the neck had snapped right off. Duiker was rather impressed; he hadn’t thought the weight would strike the bar. Spindle held a hand over the open amphora neck then sniffed his palm. He wrinkled his nose: ‘Sour. Acidic.’ Duiker went to find a clean pot.

  Spindle edged over the amphora while Duiker held the container ready. Clear liquid poured out, smelling strongly acidic. Duiker set the pot down on the table then held one chip over it. ‘Ready?’ he said. Spindle nodded. Duiker dropped it and jumped backwards.

  The reaction was, even by saboteur standards, impressive.

  ~

  Spindle was leaning out of the open window; the stink in the room was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. ‘What now?’ he asked Duiker, who was pacing. ‘Can’t lug that through the streets. Might get stopped by the Wardens, or the masked boys.’

  Duiker stood still. He tapped his thumb to his lips as he thought. ‘Might have an answer there. Any more chips?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Get our friend.’

  Spindle went to the hall and tapped a chip to a wall, calling, ‘Here, boy!’ He whistled and tsked. A crimson head poked round a corner, one red eye cocked.

  Duiker knelt, hands on knees, to address the demon. ‘Tell me, friend. Does your master have a wine cellar?’

  As the afternoon waned Spindle and Duiker walked through the city streets burdened by wooden crates of wine bottles. It was slow going. Duiker was an old man who’d been through a lot. This was more physical activity than he’d had in over a year. Spindle was patient; he knew what the man had experienced. Frankly it was a miracle the fellow was still able to function. In fact, Duiker might not be aware of it, but Spindle admired him no end. It seemed to him that they just didn’t make them that tough any more. And while the message that had sent them on this errand might have been delivered to him, Spindle was of the opinion that it had really been meant for the Imperial Historian. He was the one who possessed the knowledge that had gotten them this far.

  But it was his show from this point onward.

  As the afternoon edged into a warm humid evening they reached the alley at the back of K’rul’s bar. They stacked the crates in the kitchen and then, completely drained, staggered upstairs to rest.

  The Great Hall of Darujhistan glittered with the silken finery of the city’s female aristocracy vying to display the most intricate and, to Lady Envy’s eyes, most cumbersome and uncomfortable dresses. Jewellery was heaped upon jewellery in a – really, quite vulgar – draping of necklaces, brooches, tiaras, bracelets and jewelled sashes.

  It was all rather sadly disappointing. Not at all what she’d hoped it would be.

  No one here appeared sophisticated enough to appreciate the fine subtleties she brought to the court in her exquisitely understated dress and cut of hair. It was dispiriting. Even here parochialism reigned. These young beauties of the noble families: what did they know of true elegance and natural grace? Nothing at all! Empty-headed adornments, they!

  She’d tried engaging the Legate in conversation. ‘Legate’ indeed! How amusing. But only the sweaty little fellow would answer. It was almost embarrassing.

  Then that young upstart approached her. Here! In front of everyone! Mortifying!

  ‘You are Lady Envy,’ she said, and she curtsied in her floating dancing scarves prettily enough.

  ‘And you are Vorcan’s daughter.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You … dance, I take it?’

  A smile, revealing small sharp teeth. ‘And much more.’

  ‘I’m sure …’

  ‘Had you met my mother?’

  ‘No. But I was a great admirer of hers.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘She knew her place.’

  The smile disappeared into a straight colourless slit pulled back over teeth. ‘Careful. This court tolerates you now but that may change.’

  ‘I’d rather thought it was the other way round, myself.’

  A confused clenching of the eyes as the girl tried to work out Envy’s meaning.

  Oh, please! Mother Dark deliver me … Envy simply walked away.

  Bored. I am bored. So utterly bored!

  West of the Maiten River Ambassador Aragan called a halt to any further advance and ordered K’ess to dig a defensive line against any possible attack. Darujhistan’s sapphire glow was just visible yet strangely dim, muted, and Aragan wondered if perhaps smoke obscured it. Here they would wait while their temporary allies, the Moranth, proceeded with their plans.

  Negotiations had been nerve-racking to say the least. The Moranth wanted to end things with a finality that was terrifying; and Aragan was hard pressed to blame them. His heart also went out to this Councillor Nom. The poor fellow, having to stand by while the fate of his city was debated by outsiders.

  After much back and forth, with Mallick himself speaking through the Sceptre, an accord was reached, backed up by Malazan assurances. This was as far as they would go while the Moranth launched the fought-for compromise. But if this first gambit failed, the Moranth were firm, they would unleash a full assault. Then would come the firestorm. A city consumed. Y’Ghatan all over again.

  Aragan prayed to all the Elder Gods it would not come to that. And he pondered yet again on the question that so tormented him: what would he do? If the fires should start – what would he do? Order the troops in to help the citizenry escape, thus endangering them? Or merely stand by and watch while countless thousands were consumed in flames? How could he live with himself then? How could any of them?

  *

  Just inland from Lake Azur, in his tent next to the barrow of the Son of Darkness, Caladan Brood, the Warlord, pushed aside the cloth flap of his tent to face the darkening evening. He frowned, revealing even more of his prominent canines, and sniffed the air. His glance went to the west, then over to the city, and a low growl sounded deep within his throat.

  He ducked back within to put on his leathers and strap on his hammer.

  Can’t let what I think’s in the air happen. No. Enough is enough. Not after all we’ve fought for. Have to put an end to it before it all gets out of hand. And frankly, better if I take the blame than anyone else.

  *

  South of the city, heading up what was named Cutter Lake Road, Yusek gaped at every building they passed. Two storeys! Almost every building has two storeys! It’s incredible. Already they’d passed more shops and inns and stables than she’d ever imagined – and they’d not even reached the city walls!

  The Seventh led though his pace was glacially slow, almost reluctant. A permanent grimace of pain seemed fixed on his face. He’d muttered that no one seemed to be about.

  Yet she’d seen more people than she’d ever seen since her refugee days. And these people certainly weren’t ragged drifters. Many were finely dressed. Some were even plump. Imagine, having so much to eat that you could get fat! Now that’s damned rich. She’d be that rich one day. She could taste the duck fat
already. Soon it’d be her who was fat!

  Then abruptly the Seventh raised a hand for a halt. He regarded the darkening sky, the glow Yusek knew was the fabled gas lighting of Darujhistan. That glow struck her as far less than the green blaze of the Scimitar above and she thought it probably overrated. Damned typical! The Seventh turned to Sall and Lo. ‘You Seguleh have stirred up a hornets’ nest and now they’re come to bite everyone. I don’t know what I can do.’

  ‘Will you challenge?’ Sall asked.

  The man flinched, anguished. ‘No! It’s not my place … yet something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.’

  ‘But … you will help, yes?’ Sall asked. It was the closest the youth had come to a plea that Yusek had heard.

  The Seventh’s mouth worked with suppressed emotion as he looked away. Finally, he ground out: ‘My record isn’t that encouraging.’ But he did start walking once more, his head lowered.

  *

  Spindle was dead asleep when he heard his ma’s voice calling him down in its old familiar cadence: Get your lazy arse out of bed! He fell to the floor, arms and legs flailing in panic. Then he froze dead still. Something had woken him. Something that raised the hair on his head and on his shirt. A sound.

  The sound of bottles clanking together.

  He flew to the door, rebounded from the jamb, then threw it open and tumbled out into the hall to pound to the common room, yelling: ‘It’s poison! Don’t drink it!’

  Blend spat out a great mouthful of drink over the bar and down her front. ‘Gaah! What? Poisoned?’

  Spindle hurried over to yank the bottle from her hand and sniff it.

  ‘Fisher just brought it!’ she complained, wiping her shirt. ‘Kanese red.’

  Spindle nodded to the bard, then examined the bottle. ‘Red? Really? Sorry.’ He handed back the bottle. ‘Sorry.’

  Blend gave him the withering glare she reserved for hopeless idiots. The one he always got. He gestured to the kitchens. ‘Thought you was using those other bottles, from the back. They’re not wine.’

  ‘So they’re wine bottles without wine in them.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Paid extra for that, did you?’

  ‘No! I mean, shut the Abyss up.’ He faced Fisher and poured himself a glass of red. ‘So, what’s the news?’

  The bard nodded. He was a tall man, rangy, yet from what Spindle had seen surprisingly strong. Even leaning on a high stool he was still taller than Spindle. Something in the mage resented that. ‘I was just telling Blend,’ the bard said. ‘Whispers from the court. The Seguleh have been defeated out west. The Moranth. And maybe … the Malazans.’

  Spindle and Blend shared a look. Damned right. She raised her glass and they drank.

  ‘Word is they may be expecting an attack.’

  Blend waved a hand. ‘Ridiculous. No one has an army big enough to enter Darujhistan, let alone pacify it.’

  Fisher lifted his shoulders, conceding he point. ‘That we know of … In any case, the Seguleh have withdrawn to Majesty Hill. Looks like they don’t plan on contesting the city.’

  ‘Why should they when the mob will do it for them? No, Aragan doesn’t have nearly enough troops. And if the Moranth enter, the entire city will rise against them. Always been bad blood here between them, so I heard.’

  Fisher held up his hands. ‘Just reporting what I heard.’ He lifted his glass to Blend. ‘So, what do you think’s happening, then?’

  The big woman – big now that she was putting on weight – swirled the wine in her glass, peering down at it. Her hair held more than a touch of grey amid the brown curls and dark circles bruised her eyes. We’re none of us gettin’ enough sleep these days, Spindle reflected. Watchin’ the streets. Too many days waitin’ on edge. Waitin’ for the hammer to fall. Like being back on campaign, it is. Only we’re damned older.

  ‘So they got their noses bloodied,’ she said, speculating. ‘Now they’ll just sit tight an’ consolidate here in the city. Firm up their grip an’ wait …’ She cocked her head, eyeing Fisher. ‘How many Seguleh do you think there are on that isle of theirs anyway?’

  ‘Well, there must be several … thousand … No. You don’t think so, do you?’

  She shrugged at the uncertainty of it. ‘Why not? These boys and girls we’re looking at here could just be the tip of the spear. A whole army of them could be on the way. A whole people.’

  Spindle felt sick to his stomach. Togg deliver them! An entire army of these people? That was too much to imagine. ‘I need to eat somethin’. I feel faint.’ He took his glass to the kitchen.

  *

  In a dark empty shop, its floor littered with broken wares and shattered furniture, stood a hulking stone statue inlaid with a mosaic of jade, lapis lazuli and serpentine chips. Its stone gleamed slick with oils and it was slathered in caked powders. The ash of a forest of burnt rare wood sticks lay about its feet, all now long cold. Mice scampering between its wide stone feet suddenly stilled. The bats that perched in the rafters above its head ceased their bickering. They tilted their big pointed ears, listening to the stillness.

  Beneath them a grinding noise broke the silence as the statue grated its head to the left, and then ponderously to the right. At its sides further scraping of stone sounded as its fists opened and closed. In agonizing slow motion it leaned forward to grind one carved stone boot out before it across the littered floor. It paused there for a time as if testing its balance. Then it took another step.

  CHAPTER XIX

  We forge our weapons so that they may never be used.

  Moranth saying

  ONCE MORE TORVALD gripped the handles of the quorl saddle and hunched behind Galene’s engraved reflective back. Now that he’d grown accustomed to the noise of flight the experience seemed eerily quiet. The straps and jesses snapped in the rushing wind and the near-invisible wings hummed and hissed. Other than this constant background murmur a serene silence reigned.

  He fancied he could almost hear the waves of Lake Azur just beneath as they whipped by, so close it seemed he could reach down and touch them. For they were far out over the lake, scudding over the night-dark waves, headed for Darujhistan. Scarves of cloud passed overhead obscuring the mottled reborn moon with its muted pewter glow. The jade banner of the Scimitar also loomed high among the stars. It seemed to have grown perceptibly of late. He’d heard grumbling among the troops that it was about to smash into the land in a great explosion that would mark the end of the world. Brought about, many claimed, by the hubris of the gods.

  Behind and to either side flight after flight of quorl floated and darted over the waves. Each was burdened by a passenger and packs of the fearsome munitions. This was Torvald’s own personal end of the world fear. He and the Malazan ambassador, Aragan, had fought hard to blunt the Moranth’s intent to resolve these hostilities in one massive destructive wave. They had argued instead for this first more targeted attack.

  Torvald prayed to all the gods below that it would succeed. For the alternative was just too horrific to contemplate.

  Ahead, he could hardly discern the cobalt glow of Darujhistan from the lurid sea-green banner of the Scimitar arcing above. Was there a night fog off the lake? Or some trick or trap awaiting them? Never before could he remember seeing the night so dark over the city. Yet the Scimitar more than made up the difference. Their target was unmistakable. So low did the chevrons of quorl whip across the lake that tiny wakes actually glimmered in phosphor white behind. Fishing boats snapped past not below, but to Torvald’s side. Men and women gaped and pointed in the light of the lanterns they hung to draw in their catch.

  The night was warm, he knew, but the wind punished him. His hands were frozen numb and he could only steal quick glimpses through his slitted, watering eyes. Ahead, the differing tiers of the city slowly emerged from the glow. Second Tier, and, above, Third Tier and the rambling stone complex of Majesty Hall. Galene raised an arm, signing a command. Her quorl waggled its wings. Quorls answered
around them with similar signals and her flight group peeled off in tilting chevrons. Other groups flitted off in other directions, also spreading out.

  Torvald leaned forward to yell: ‘Why the manoeuvring?’

  Galene turned her helmed head. ‘This one’s servants are powerful mages, Nom,’ she answered, her voice low and loud. ‘We will take many losses in this assault.’

  Torvald didn’t know what to say to that: Darujhistan was about to take many losses itself. And so he leaned back, silent, hunching from the driving wind.

  ‘You will throw this time, yes?’ she continued, relentless.

  He ducked his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. I hope so – for your sake. Ready the packs.’

  With numb hands he fumbled with the clasps of the two packs strapped in before him. Four cussers! Two in each pack. Gedderone have mercy. After this there will be no hill left!

  *

  In the Great Hall, Coll was speaking to the young, and, he had to admit, very sharp and elegant Councillor Redda Orr. He was worried that she was a touch too forward in her disapproval of the powers the Legate had taken upon himself. He was constantly doing his best to counsel discretion and patience.

  In return she’d taken to calling him ‘Grandfather Coll’.

  He answered her with ‘Child’.

  She broke off their verbal duelling as the murmur of conversation faded away throughout the hall. The Legate was standing before his throne. His wretched Mouthpiece came fumbling to his side. Coll pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

  The Legate’s gold oval was tilted up to the arched stone ceiling. Its engraved face, the half-smile, appeared now more like a sneer. ‘Servants attend me,’ the Mouthpiece called, and he clutched at his neck afterwards as if choking.