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

  Orchid glared her fury, urging him to cooperate. He raised a hand. ‘Just a minute. Now, if this thing is so important to you, why aren’t you searching for it yourself?’

  The youth drew himself up straight, offended. ‘We do not scramble through ruins like common thieves. Someone has it, or in the course of his or her looting will find it. And when he comes down we will be waiting and he will relinquish it. If he does not, he will be killed.’

  Antsy turned to the others, crossbow still resting on his hip. ‘Is it just me or doesn’t that sound like stealing too?’

  ‘Red …’ Corien warned.

  ‘No – c’mon.’ He waved to the two Seguleh. ‘Here they are pretending to be so superior to everyone yet what they’re doing is no better than any highwayman threatening travellers in the woods.’

  ‘Just swear,’ Orchid ground through clenched teeth. ‘You’re being an ass.’

  ‘No. Let’s hear their answer.’ He turned back to the young Seguleh. ‘What do you say? You’re the ones with the masks, after all.’

  The youth glanced back to the short wiry female sentry. She yanked a bag from her belt and tossed to him. He upended it, sending a cascade of gems bouncing and clattering over the stone floor. ‘We’ve been here for some time,’ he said airily. ‘We’ve collected many of these gems for their beauty. Yet whoever brings the mask may have them all.’

  Antsy stared at the scattered stones: the dark ones must be rubies, the pale ones possibly sapphires or emeralds. He saw countless pearls as well, white and black. Ye gods! A king’s ransom! With this he could purchase lands, a title. He cleared his throat. ‘Ah … well. Why didn’t you just say so …’ I

  The youth crossed his arms. ‘Few have challenged our terms.’

  Orchid jabbed Antsy in the side. ‘Right. Well, fine. I swear too, then.’

  Both Seguleh inclined their heads fractionally. ‘We thought so. You may pass.’

  Morn led them on. A few turns and lengths of corridors later Antsy noted that all the scattered riches were now gone. These halls had been picked clean.

  ‘Why didn’t you just swear back there?’ Orchid demanded. ‘What’s it to you? This thing they want has probably just sunk to the bottom by now anyway.’

  ‘Matter of principle,’ Antsy answered, distracted. The inlay of blue stones and the chandeliers and glowing faces still lit their way, but a side portal ahead remained dark. As if no light could penetrate it. He motioned ahead. ‘You see that?’

  Orchid peered and frowned. ‘It’s utterly dark to me – and that’s strange.’

  Antsy signed caution to Corien then noted that Morn was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where’s—’

  There was a rustle of heavy cloth being thrust aside and blinding yellow lanternlight burst from the opening, dazzling Antsy’s vision. ‘Don’t move!’ a voice bellowed in accented Daru.

  Shit! Wincing and blinking, Antsy tried to see through his slitted eyes. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Drop your weapons or die!’

  Dammit! He lowered his crossbow, raised a hand. ‘All right!’

  ‘Hands up!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Corien.

  Antsy could now make out some eight crossbowmen crouched in two ranks within the room, all aiming their weapons at them. He knelt to set down his. Goddamned ambushers!

  ‘Drop your weapon belts,’ the voice ordered.

  Antsy undid his to set it down with its sheathed long-knives and heavy dirk. Corien let his fall as well. A man pushed forward through the crossbowmen. He wore a slashed long jupon over a banded iron hauberk. His sleeves and leggings were mail and a blackened helmet, visor raised, rode high on his full head of dense brown curls. A thick beard was braided and tied off with strips of leather, lace and cloth. Antsy thought there was something vaguely familiar about him.

  He hooked his thumbs in his wide belt and looked them over. ‘So who’s in charge of this sorry ass group?’

  ‘I am,’ Corien said.

  The man shook his head. ‘No, mister fancy-boots. I don’t believe you are. Not that it matters any more. Turn round and put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Antsy said.

  ‘Oho! I know that accent. A damned Malazan spy!’

  Antsy just ground his teeth. Orchid turned round and clenched her hands behind her back. Corien followed suit. Teeth almost cracking, Antsy snarled and lurched round as well.

  They were marched through a sprawling, well-lit complex of living quarters, halls, guard chambers and large assemblage rooms. Antsy counted some fifty armed and armoured men and women, though their equipment was all mismatched and ill kept. Looted and scavenged from one dead fortune-hunter after another, no doubt. He wondered, idly, just how many had worn the hacked mail or used the battered blades around him. Also present were obvious slaves: dressed in rags, carrying out errands, fanning fires, cooking, mending. They passed one very pregnant woman cooking at a fire.

  The collected loot of an entire section of the Spawn glittered here as well: heaped gold artwork and plates, silver jewellery. Statuettes of semi-precious stone cluttered the corners of rooms; circlets of gems hung at the necks and wrists of almost all. Antsy recognized this for what it was, having seen its like in every war. Call these people what you would – raiders, scavengers, bandits, looters – they were the jackals who gather wherever laws break down, or never reach.

  Just as below, in Pearl Town, this lot had simply moved into living quarters now empty of their prior owners. The three of them were pushed into one such narrow cell. Two guards remained at the opening. A simple cloth hanging was yanked across the portal.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Corien asked Orchid. She nodded, rubbing her wrists. ‘Where’s—’ he began, but Orchid signed for silence. He nodded his understanding.

  ‘Now what?’ she whispered to Antsy.

  He sat on a plain stone ledge that might, or might not have been intended as a bed. ‘An interview of a kind, I suppose. They either need us or want us, or not.’

  ‘If not?’ Corien asked.

  Antsy shook his head.

  ‘Well, shouldn’t we—’

  Antsy held up a hand. ‘Sleep, for now. There’s nothing else we can do.’

  Disbelieving, Corien looked to Orchid for support but she nodded her agreement. ‘Yes. We need to rest. Who knows how long it’s been – or will be?’

  Sighing, Antsy lay back and threw an arm across his eyes.

  Malazan spy. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  CHAPTER XII

  A tale is told of a distant city where, when its exalted ruler wishes to travel, it is the custom of its inhabitants to lie down in the dirt before him so that his feet need not be sullied. When travellers ask the why of this custom they are told that the inhabitants willingly and gladly lay themselves down for their ruler as he protects them from the countless threats of raiders and bandit armies surrounding their peaceful settlement.

  And these travellers go their way shaking their heads, for all those surrounding the city have no interest in such a wretched place.

  A History of Morn

  Author unknown

  COLL WALKED THE EMPTY UNLIT ROOMS OF HIS MANOR HOUSE, gloriously drunk. He carried a cut crystal decanter loosely in one hand. It was late in the night, long past the mid-hour, and he was waiting to be killed.

  How better, it was his considered opinion, to die than carefree and thus beyond the reach of all pain? For it had always been care that brought him pain. He stopped, weaving, before one particular stretch of empty whitewashed wall. He knew what used to hang here … during that all too short anomaly in his life he knew as happiness.

  He wiped a sleeve across his face, sloshing wine. Damn her. Damn him! He’d been such a fool! And paying for it all his life. Was it pride? Masochism? That he cannot forget, cannot let go? He let his arms fall. Well, perhaps that was just the way he was.

  He lurched on, inspecting the main-floor rooms. But not upstairs. No, not there ! N
ever there ! He leaned against the long formal dining table, pulled the sweaty linen shirt from his chest. Humid tonight. Warm. The summer doldrums when tempers are short and passions run hot.

  He could have remarried. Plucked some daughter of a rich merchant house, or respected artisan. Someone grateful enough, or hungry enough, for a noble family name. And yet … he would always wonder: what’s she doing now?

  He raised the decanter for a drink. And any smirk or whisper among the young bloods! Gods, he could see the contempt in their eyes now! What could they be insinuating? Did they know something he did not? Eventually, he knew, it would’ve ended in a humiliating mismatch on the duelling grounds.

  At least this is private. The blade across the throat or through the back. Quiet and without witnesses. Much better than a ring of uncaring faces. Some shred of dignity may be kept …

  Gods. Who am I kidding?

  He slammed down the decanter, slumped into a chair. Was that it, then, that kept me alone all these years? Fear? Fear that I could never trust again and would thus make some good woman’s life a misery? Fear of my own weakness? Was that pathetic … or just sadly accurate?

  He blinked in the greenish light of the night sky streaming in from the colonnaded walk that led to the rear grounds. Someone stood there, cloaked, tall. Their chosen blade. Fanderay’s tits, they wasted no time about it.

  He threw his arms out wide. ‘Here I am, friend. May I call you friend? We are about to share an intimate moment – surely that permits me to call you friend.’ He reached for a tall wine glass, raised it. ‘Drink? No, I suppose not. Well, I believe I will.’ He poured a full glass.

  The man walked to the other end of the long table, regarded him from the darkness within his deep hood. Coll raised a hand for silence. ‘I know, I know. Quite the sight. In the old days I understand just a note was enough. Something like “save us the trouble”. We live in a decaying age, so they say.’ He emptied the entire glass in one long pull.

  The man closed further, coming up along one side of the table. He ran a gloved hand over the smooth polished surface as he came. Coll eyed him all the way, swallowed his mouthful. ‘Liquid courage, some would say, hey? But no – not in my case. I have courage. What I need is liquid numbness. Liquid oblivion.’

  The figure raised a hand to his hood while the other slipped within his cloak. ‘What you need,’ the man growled, throwing back his hood, ‘is balls.’

  Coll yelped and flinched backwards so hard he upended the chair and fell rolling. He came up clutching at his chest. ‘Gods, Rallick! Don’t do that!’ He righted the chair. ‘I thought you were … you know …’ He froze, then straightened to eye his friend. ‘You’re not … are you?’

  Rallick selected a plum from the table, sat. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Well … is there … someone?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ He took a bite of the fruit, threw a leg up on the table. ‘But I suspect not.’

  Coll sat. ‘You suspect not? Why?’

  Rallick chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. ‘Because you’re old and ineffectual. Useless. Unimportant. Marginalized and sidelined …’

  Coll had raised a hand. ‘I get it. Many thanks.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that just what you’ve been moping around these rooms about?’

  Coll would not meet his friend’s gaze.

  Rallick sighed. ‘Isn’t it about time you married someone? Sired another generation to carry on the family name? It’s your duty, isn’t it?’

  Coll sat back, waving a hand. ‘I know, I know. But what if she …’

  ‘I assume you’ll choose more wisely this time. And in any case, so what? Life’s a throw of the bones. Nothing’s guaranteed.’

  ‘How reassuring. And you are here because … ?’

  Rallick finished the plum. ‘I’m under a death sentence from the guild.’

  Coll stared from under his brows. ‘And you come here.’ He gestured angrily to the grounds. ‘What if they’re following you? You’ve led them here! They could be coming any moment!’

  Rallick held up his hands. ‘I thought you were expecting them.’

  Letting out a long breath Coll leaned forward over the table to massage his temples. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want that thing up on Majesty Hill gone.’

  The fingers stilled. He sat back, eyed his friend anew. ‘What’s this? A civic conscience? Rather belated.’

  The lines around the lean man’s mouth deepened as his jaws tightened. ‘Think. Who have we done work for all these years?’

  ‘Baruk. But Baruk has been taken – or has fallen, or failed. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘Then it falls to us. We are all that’s left. Us and Kruppe.’

  ‘Gods!’ Coll looked to the ceiling. ‘You almost had me, Rallick. Then you had to go and mention that greasy thief.’ He waved to the grounds. ‘Where is he? Have you seen him? The man’s halfway to Nathilog by now.’

  ‘No he’s not. He’s in hiding. I’m seeing his hand in things more and more.’ The man looked down, frowning. ‘I wonder now if all along I was nothing more than his hand and ear in the guild. As Murillio was among the aristocracy, and young Crokus may have been on the streets. While you were a potential hand and ear in the Council.’

  ‘Happenstance only, friend. You’re looking backwards and inventing patterns. You give him too much credit. I grant you he’s some sort of talent – but he uses it to do nothing more than fill his stomach.’

  ‘Does he? I heard he faced down the Warlord.’

  Coll frowned, uneasy. He reached for the decanter then thought better of it. ‘Brood just sort of … missed him.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m thinking no one has ever managed to get a firm grip on that fellow. Including us.’

  Coll knit his fingers across his gut. ‘So? You have a point?’

  ‘We should stay in this card game. Play the waiting hand. They want you out, yes? Well, all the more reason to remain.’

  Platitudes. A tyrant is closing his fist on the city and this man offers me platitudes. He raised his gaze to the immense inverted mountain that was the chandelier hanging, unlit, above the table. She always liked that monstrous thing. Gods, how I loathe it. He lowered his eyes to the man opposite. The harsh monochrome light painted the angular face in even sharper planes of light and dark. The man is serious. A serious Rallick should not be discounted.

  He took a deep breath that swelled his stomach against his entwined fingers, let it out. Beyond the walls, all over the neglected estate grounds, the crickets continued their songs to the night. He cocked his head, thinking. ‘Is the guild under their control?’

  ‘No. I believe not. In fact, I believe they may have just reopened their contract against the Legate.’

  Coll sat up, amazed. ‘What? Why didn’t you say so, man?’

  ‘Because I believe they will fail as they did before.’

  ‘Anyone can be killed,’ Coll mused. ‘If recent events in the city have taught us anything they have taught us that. It’s just a matter of finding the right way.’

  Rallick swung his leg down, stood. ‘Very good. I’ll shadow the guild. You shadow the Council.’

  ‘It’s no longer a Council,’ Coll said, sour. ‘It’s become a court of sycophants and hangers-on.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Rallick said.

  Coll peered up, brows raised. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you have an extra room? I need a place to sleep.’

  Coll fought down a near-hysterical laugh. ‘Here? Gods, man, this is the first place they’ll look for you.’

  ‘No. You’re still a Council member. They won’t move against you unless they’re offered a contract.’

  ‘How can you be so sure they won’t act anyway – unilaterally, so to speak?’

  Rallick smiled humourlessly and Coll reflected that even the man’s smiles resembled the unsheathing of a knife. ‘Guild rules,’ he said.

  Under the clear summer night sky the long banner of the Scimitar
arced high and the moon cast its cold, emerald-tinged silver light upon the empty Dwelling Plain. A lone figure, dark cloak blowing in the weak wind, walked the dry eroded hills. His features were night dark, his hair touched with silver. He wore fine dark gloves and upon the breast of his dark green silk shirt rode a single visible piece of jewellery: an upright bird’s foot claw worked in silver, clutching an orb. The Imperial Sceptre of the Malazans.

  Topper had only been to Darujhistan a few times. Personally, he did not understand its prominence. He thought it too vulnerable, relying as it did on such distant market gardens and fields to feed its populace. Yet he did detect among the dunes and wind-swept hills straight lines and foundations which hinted that things had not always been this way. Logic, however, rarely guided such choices. History and precedent ruled. His names for such forces in human activity were laziness and inertia.

  He came across yet another wind-eaten ring of an abandoned well, and dutifully he knelt to examine the stones. Nothing here. That report had better be accurate or he’d have the head of that useless mage for wasting his night. He moved on.

  Frankly, nothing of what he’d found here interested him over much. He was glad of the recent carnage to the south. In his opinion such disarray and expending of resources opened the way for Malazan expansion. So too here in Darujhistan. Anomander gone. The Spawn ruined. In all, things could not have worked out better for the Throne.

  What worried him was his absence from Unta. Who knew what idiocy Mallick might be initiating? Like that adventurism in Korel. It had better work out, or the regional governors might start to wonder if perhaps they’d made a mistake in backing the man …

  He reached another dry well and knelt to examine it. This time he grunted his satisfaction and turned his attention to the lock blocking its top. Under his touch it opened easily. He threw aside the wooden lid and jumped in. A hand lightly touching the side slowed his descent. As the bottom approached he spread his feet to either side and stopped himself. Here he noted the faintest remnant glimmers of ancient wards and Warren magics. To his eye the work appeared to bear the touch of an Elder’s or Other’s hand. In either case, not plain human Warren manipulation. This fit with what he knew of what he faced.