The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  The woman bowed her agreement. ‘And Councillor Nom is here to participate.’

  The guard’s brow furrowed. He licked his lips while he appeared to be frantically digging through options. The brows unfurled and he smiled, reciting, ‘Chambers are closed.’

  ‘Open those doors!’ a bull-roar echoed from behind Torvald, who spun.

  A great bhederin of a fellow was hurrying up, unshaven, finery askew, a hand to his forehead, grimacing in pain. The clerk bowed. ‘Councillor Coll.’

  Torvald stared despite himself. Great gods, the Councillor Coll? The man was a legend among those who’ve served on the Council.

  The councillor cocked a bloodshot eye at Torvald. The clerk murmured, ‘Councillor Coll, may I introduce Councillor Nom, newly invested.’

  The bleary, watering eyes widened. ‘Indeed … may I ask after the mesmerizing Lady Varada, whom I have seen only from a distance, across the assembly?’

  The stale bite of cheap Daru spirits wafted from the man and Torvald struggled not to change his expression. ‘Ah … her health precludes her participation … I am come in her stead.’

  ‘My regrets to your family, Nom. And may she soon recover.’

  Torvald frantically cast about for something equally well mannered and sophisticated. ‘Ah, our thanks.’ Wonderful! Off to a dazzling start, you are.

  But Councillor Coll’s attention had shifted to the closed doors and the guards. ‘You’re still here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Of course you may enter, Councillor. But this other …’

  Coll snatched up the sheaf of papers held by the clerk: Torvald’s documents. He waved the flapping pages, complete with wax seals and coloured ribbons, before the faces of the guards. ‘You see these certificates? This man is as qualified to sit as I!’

  The guards eyed the sheaf, all in the tiniest spidery penmanship, the way those manning a wooden palisade might dread the approach of a siege onager. Resistance collapsed and they stood aside.

  The clerk pushed open the twin leaves. And as they passed within, it occurred to Torvald that an impenetrable bureaucracy was in truth more powerful than any sword.

  They stood high in a semi-circular amphitheatre of seats. The view reminded Torvald of a depiction of one corner of Hood’s realm: an immense prison for kings and despots, all arguing over who was in charge, when in truth none of the dead outside cared what went on within its tall walls.

  The floor of the amphitheatre was crowded with the cream of the city aristocracy. All were standing talking at once, many red-faced, some waving their exasperation. Occasionally thrown papers fluttered over the crowd, or some particularly loud yell penetrated the din, but mostly it was an unintelligible gabbling of voices.

  ‘Welcome to Council,’ the woman said, shouting to be heard though she stood right next to him.

  ‘How very inspiring,’ he answered, to himself of course, as none could have possibly heard, or cared to hear, for that matter.

  The woman backed out, pulled the doors closed. Councillor Coll took his arm and hurried him down the stairs. ‘My thanks,’ Torvald offered.

  ‘You can thank me by swearing to give me your first vote.’

  Such a vow struck Torvald as extremely dangerous, but he also knew that honour would dictate that he had no choice. Best to pretend that such was the case, then.

  A loud, exceptionally sharp knocking sounded which Torvald identified as coming from a slim man standing on the raised speaker’s platform, banging a stone on the lectern.

  ‘Order!’ he bellowed in a surprisingly commanding voice. ‘Order!’

  The clamour slowly diminished and the councillors stood silent, leaving only a single old fellow waving his arms and shouting, ‘I tell you, everything would go so smoothly if only everyone would just do as I say!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ someone shouted in answer and they all burst into applause.

  The old fellow peered about myopically then hurriedly turned away, red-faced.

  ‘The floor recognizes Councillor Lim,’ a clerk announced into the silence.

  It now occurred to Torvald that crowding about the central lectern were only some fifty or so members of the Council, yet the amphitheatre held seats for hundreds. ‘Where is everyone?’ he whispered to Coll.

  ‘It’s a damned trick,’ Coll answered, low and fierce. ‘There is a little-known emergency steering committee that can be called to meet in case of fires and such. Just those close enough to participate. Quorum is thirty. Thankfully I was nearby … sleeping in my chambers.’

  Passed out, you mean. So, an emergency sub-committee of Council. But to decide what?

  At the lectern, Lim stood tall and pole-thin, his dark expensive silk shirt and trousers accenting his figure. He raised his arms for silence.

  So, Lim, is it? Torvald believed he’d heard that Shardan Lim was dead.

  ‘Thank you,’ the fellow began. ‘My fellow councillors, fair Darujhistan has weathered astounding events of late. Many of you, myself included, no doubt wish that history would be so good as to pass us by for once, allow us our well-earned peace to quietly tend our fields and watch our children play …’

  Torvald snorted: the man looked as peaceful and compassionate as a viper. Coll chuckled. Torvald glanced over to see him offer a wink. ‘What’s going on?’

  In answer, the man gestured to the front. ‘Let us hear from Lim.’

  ‘That’s not Shardan Lim, is it?’

  ‘Ah. You are new. No, this is Jeshin Lim. His cousin.’

  Torvald grunted. He’d never heard of a Jeshin Lim. But then, he’d probably never heard of most of the men and women in the hall. The young man had been talking all the while, offering some long-winded soothing introduction to the course of action he wished to suggest. In time, the meat of the speech arrived: ‘ … and so it is clear that this abrupt, unannounced flight by the all Moranth present within the city, combined with the equally sudden withdrawal of their allies, the Imperial Malazan elements staining our fair city, can amount to only one thing: the first stage in a preplanned, coordinated initiation of hostilities against the freedom and independence of Darujhistan!’

  The hall erupted into chaotic noise once more. Most cheered, calling out their support of the claim. Only a few shouted their dismissal.

  Torvald and Coll remained silent. Torvald leaned to Coll. ‘Why is he saying everything twice?’

  ‘Ah. An older style of rhetoric. Something of a traditionalist, our Jeshin. New to assembly, he is. But there’s a great deal of money backing him.’

  Closer to the man, Torvald noted that while he was impressively large, it had all gone to fat. And though a strong miasma of Daru spirits surrounded him, he did not appear to be drunk.

  ‘And what do you propose?’ an old man’s sarcastic voice cut through the shouting.

  The raucous arguing died down as everyone waited for Lim’s answer.

  Coll gestured aside, indicating the speaker: an aged fellow, thin and straight, his hair a grey hedging round his skull. ‘Councillor D’Arle.’

  ‘Will you marshal the troops?’ the old man continued scathingly.

  ‘Assemble the navy? But wait … we have none! And the Malazans know this! If they wanted to occupy us they would have done so long ago.’

  Councillor Lim was shaking his head. ‘With all respect to House D’Arle, that is not so. The truth is that the Malazans have tried to annex us to their Empire but that said efforts have to this time failed, or been defeated by circumstance, or the intervention of diversionary challenges – such as the Pannions to the south. Now, however, with said threat crushed, and Moon’s Spawn also eliminated from the field – now it appears clear that the Malazans see that it is time to bring our fair city to heel.’

  ‘You do have a proposal,’ Councillor D’Arle demanded, ‘lurking somewhere within all that puff and wind?’

  ‘I like this fellow,’ Torvald whispered to Coll.

  A taut smile from Coll. ‘Sad family history there.’

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nbsp; Showing surprising patience, Councillor Lim inclined his head in assent. ‘I do. I propose that this emergency assembly of the Council now vote upon the investiture of the ancient position created precisely for such rare crises. I am speaking, of course, of the temporary and limited post of Legate of Council.’

  Coll’s meaty hand closed painfully on Torvald’s shoulder. ‘The bastard!’ he hissed, giving out a cloud of stale alcohol. ‘You can’t do that!’ he bellowed into the hall.

  Lim’s thin brows rose. ‘I see that we are fortunate in this time of threat to have Councillor Coll with us. You have a proposal for the floor, do you?’

  ‘Only that the office of Legate was abolished centuries ago because of its abuses!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ called Councillor D’Arle.

  ‘And short-sighted and mistaken that was too,’ Lim answered.

  ‘For how else can the city respond quickly and authoritatively to sudden emergencies?’

  A cheer went up from the gathered councillors. Coll slowly shook his head. ‘A stacked deck, as they say,’ he murmured to Torvald.

  ‘We will now vote upon the reinvestment of the position of temporary Legate of Council,’ called out the clerk. ‘All in favour raise hands.’

  Almost all raised their hands. Coll and Torvald did not.

  ‘Proposal carried,’ announced the clerk.

  A great cheer answered that pronouncement. The councillors congratulated one another, slapping backs and shaking hands. The celebration seemed premature to Torvald as they had yet to actually do anything.

  Councillor D’Arle pushed his way forward. ‘And I suppose you would tender your name for this post?’ the man’s voice was icy with scorn.

  Lim bowed. ‘Yes. Since Councillor D’Arle has been good enough to mention it.’

  The old councillor’s jaws snapped shut.

  ‘Seconded!’ another councillor shouted.

  It occurred to Torvald that the man with him was probably the only councillor who could boast of any direct military training or experience and that time was running out. He shouted, ‘I nominate Councillor Coll!’

  ‘What in Oponn’s name are you doing?’ Coll ground through clenched teeth.

  Silence answered the shout. Councillor Lim squinted down at Torvald, a look of distaste upon his pale fleshless face. ‘And you are … ?’

  ‘Nom, Torvald Nom.’

  ‘Councillor,’ Coll hissed.

  ‘Councillor! Ah, Nom.’

  Lim inclined his head in greeting. ‘I see. Welcome, then, to House Nom, so long absent from these proceedings. We have a nomination on the floor. Does anyone second?’

  Silence, then a young woman’s voice called out, ‘I second.’

  Torvald sat to find Coll glaring at him. ‘I don’t know whether to thank you or call you out,’ the man growled.

  ‘Don’t you think you should be Legate?’

  ‘If reason and logic ruled the world no one would be Legate. But it doesn’t rule. Power and influence does. And I have neither. I am sorry to say that you have made yourself some enemies this day my friend.’

  ‘Well, we’re off to a good start then. Who was that who seconded?’

  ‘Councillor Redda Orr. Most say she is too young to sit on the Council, but she has a sharp political mind and grew up in these halls.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘No. She just hates House Lim. Blames them for her father’s death.’

  ‘Ah.’ Rather belatedly it occurred to Torvald that he had just leapt into a kind of gladiatorial free-for-all without knowing any of the rules or the players. But then, why should he change the habits of a lifetime? He’d always run a very fast and loose game. Never mind the poor record scattered in his wake – he was alive, wasn’t he? There were many others who couldn’t boast as much.

  ‘Very good,’ announced the clerk. ‘We will now vote upon the nomination of Councillor Lim to the position of temporary Legate of Council. All in favour?’

  Almost all hands rose. The clerk did a quick count. ‘We have a majority of forty-two votes. Nomination carried.’

  This time a stunned silence answered the announcement, as if those gathered could not believe that they’d actually succeeded. Then an enormous cheer arose, councillors laughing, reaching up to clasp Lim’s hands, hugging one another.

  ‘I wonder just how much all this cost,’ Coll murmured into the clamour. ‘A family fortune, I imagine.’

  Speaking of money, it occurred to Torvald that he still had to break the news to Tis. Perhaps he should visit the bourse of the flower-sellers before heading home. And on the subject of costly items, just how huge was his new income from this prestigious post?

  ‘Excuse me for being so ill-mannered, friend Coll … but what is the pay for sitting on this assembly?’

  The big man frowned. His thick greying brows bunched down over his eyes, almost obscuring them. ‘Pay? There’s no pay associated with a seat on the Council. It’s a service. One’s civic duty. However,’ and here the man strove to keep his face straight, ‘monies do flow to members … in direct relation to their power and influence upon the Council …’

  Torvald slumped into a nearby seat. In other words, his earnings would amount to the impressive sum of zero. Perhaps for the immediate future it would be better if he avoided returning home altogether …

  Impatient banging brought Jess lumbering once more to the doors of the Phoenix Inn. She unlatched the lock to peer out into the glaring morning light. A tall dark figure brushed in past her, imperious.

  ‘Not – oh, it’s you,’ she said, blinking. She shuffled to the kitchen to wake Chud.

  Rallick crossed to the rear table, which stood covered in clumps of old wax, stained by spills of red Rhivi wine. Empty wine bottles crowded it, and crumbs lay scattered like the wreckage of war.

  Jess came shuffling up to offer a glass of steaming tea. Rallick took it. ‘Thank you.’ He blew on the small tumbler, then sipped. ‘So … where is he?’

  Jess cocked a brow at the man – a man rumoured to be the lover of Vorcan, once head of the city’s guild of assassins. And thus to her a man commanding a great deal of physical … tension. She kept her eyes on him. ‘Where’s who?’

  ‘The toad … self-proclaimed Eel. The fat man.’

  She swept an arm to the table. ‘Why, he’s right—’ She stared, gaping. ‘Fanderay’s tits! He’s not here! He’s buggered off! Where’s he got to?’ A hand closed over her mouth. ‘Oh, Burn’s mercy … who’s gonna cover his tab? Have you seen the size of his tab?’

  Rallick handed over the glass. ‘No. And I don’t care to, thank you.’ He headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Without stopping Rallick answered, ‘Looks like maybe it’s up to me to settle accounts, Jess. I seem to be the only one around here willing to do it.’

  Of all the men and women she’d seen in the Phoenix Inn it had always appeared to Jess that Rallick was the one who could close any debt. But this was a damnably huge one.

  Rallick pushed open the ornamental wrought-iron gate that allowed entrance to the grounds of the alchemist Baruk’s modest estate. He walked the curving flagged path past subdued plantings of flowering shrubs. A small fountain tinkled spray from the mouth of an amphora held at a boy’s stone shoulder. Leaves cluttered the surface of the pond, as did something else: a piece of litter, or wind-tossed garbage. Rallick’s long face drew down, accentuating the deep lines framing his mouth.

  Baruk’s grounds were always immaculate.

  He pulled on a pair of leather gloves and extracted the litter from the sodden leaves. A card. A card from an expensive custom-made Dragons Deck. Soaked now, and flame-scorched. Turning it over, he grunted. A card of rulership: Crown. He dropped it back into the glimmering water.

  The front door was unlocked. He lifted the latch and pushed it open. Inside lay destruction. Shards of ceramic urns and expensive glassware littered the carpet of the entranceway. Paintings had been thrown do
wn; furniture overturned.

  Rallick crouched to his haunches just outside the threshold. He drew pieces of wood and metal from his pockets and waist until he’d assembled a medium-sized crossbow, its metal parts blued. The sort of weapon that would immediately have you arrested should anyone catch sight of it.

  He loaded it, then cocked it by slipping a foot into its stirrup and straightening up. Then he crossed his arms, cradling the weapon across his chest. He called out, ‘Roald? Hello? Anyone?’

  No answer. He heard the wind brushing through nearby boughs; a carriage made its noisy metal-tyred way down one of the alleys bordering the estate. In the light of the sun he studied the weave of the carpet lining the way.

  Smooth well-worn slippers. The foot narrow, gracile. Yet the impression very heavy. Female. Slim but hefty? Entering then leaving. Trod over some shards as she left. Agent of the vandalism? No other recent traffic … except … the ghostliest of hints. A brushing across the rich weft as of broad, splayed moccasined feet slipping side to side, never lifting, entering and exiting also. And before the woman arrived, as her tracks obscure these others. An interesting puzzle.

  He rose, edged inward. Over the years he’d done occasional work for Baruk; non-assassination jobs, gathering intelligence, trailing people, collecting rare objects, and such like. As had Kruppe, Murillio, and sometimes Coll. Indeed, it was this very work that had thrown the lot of them together. Four as unlikely associates as one might imagine. In any case, he knew enough to be very wary of crossing this particular threshold.

  But others had entered already, to no ill effects he could discern. He peered into the nearest room opening off the foyer. Some sort of waiting room. Complete carnage and wanton devastation. Everything broken, thrown to the floor. Vandalism. Plain juvenile vindictiveness.

  He moved on. Up the narrow tower stairs he found chambers similarly ruined. So far he couldn’t tell if the intruder had come deliberately searching for something and was venting her frustration upon failing to discover it, or whether such destruction, or insult, had been the prime purpose of the visitation from the start.