Orb Sceptre Throne, page 21
Malakai spoke into the silence: ‘Myself, I’m searching for the gardens of the moon.’
Antsy blinked in the night. There was no such thing; it was just poetic – wasn’t it? But Orchid’s gasp of recognition told him she knew something of it. As for Panar, he started laughing. He laughed on and on and would not stop. It seemed the man was laughing not so much at Malakai’s gallows jest as at them, and himself, and at the entire absurd fate they’d all so deftly manoeuvred themselves into through greed, and ambition, and short-sightedness – all the classic character flaws that lead men and women to their self-inflicted dooms.
And he kept on laughing even after Malakai threw him aside.
Nathilog had been among the first of the settlements of northwestern Genabackis to fall to the Malazans. It had been a notorious pirate haven before that, ruled by might of fist under a series of self-styled barons. Now, after decades of Malazan occupation, its aristocracy was thoroughly Talianized. Trade across the top of the Meningalle Ocean was heavy as the raw resources and riches of a continent passed across to the Imperial homeland, and troops and war matériel returned.
Agull’en, the Malazan governor, resided in the rebuilt hall of rulership once occupied by his robber baron antecedents. It was here at the end of his daily reception that a mage suddenly appeared in the hall. His picked bodyguard of twenty Barghast surged forward to interpose themselves between him and the interloper. His own mage, a Rhivi shaman, stared frozen at the apparition, clearly stunned.
Remind me to fire the useless sot, Agull’en snarled to himself, then turned his attention to the mage. Tall, regal-looking with his long hair pushed back over his skull. A greying goatee. Plain brown woollen robes, though a wealth of rings on the fingers. The man’s face was badly lined – red and blistered with livid scars as if he had recently been severely wounded, or lashed.
The governor steeled himself and hardened his voice: ‘What is the meaning of this? Who has sent you?’
The man bowed low, hand at goatee. ‘Greetings, Agull’en, governor of north-west Genabackis. I am come with salutations from my master, the newly installed Legate of Darujhistan.’
Agull’en frowned, puzzled. ‘Legate? Darujhistan has a Legate?’
‘Newly installed.’
‘I see.’ Agull’en peered around, thinking. His mage, he noted, was nowhere to be seen. Had the man fled? Damn him! He’d see him flogged! Then the instincts that had guided his path these many years over so many rivals and up so many rungs asserted themselves and his lips eased into a knowing, rather condescending smile. ‘You wish to renegotiate trade agreements. Very well. A trade delegation may be sent.’
‘No, Governor. My master does not wish to renegotiate details of trade.’
‘No? Treaties then? This “Legate” must speak with the Malazan ambassador there in Darujhistan regarding any treaties.’
‘Be assured that my master will deal with the ambassador when his time comes. No, I am come as the mouthpiece of the one who is the rightful spokesman for all Genabackis. And he demands, my good governor, that you swear allegiance to him.’
Agull’en sat forward in his chair. ‘I’m sorry? Swear allegiance to this Legate of Darujhistan?’ He laughed his utter disbelief. ‘Are you mad? Is he mad?’
The mage bowed once more. ‘No, sir. I assure you he is not.’
‘And what if I refuse this demand? What will this self-styled Legate do should I decline his invitation? You may be an accomplished practitioner in your field, mage. But I offer a lesson in stark politics for your consideration. Malazans have thousands of troops. Darujhistan has none.’
‘If you do not swear, then we will find someone who will,’ the mage answered simply.
Agull’en’s face darkened as his rage climbed beyond his control. He waved his guards forward. ‘Flay this bastard!’
The guards did not live long enough to draw weapons. And the hall of rulership at Nathilog was once more in need of rebuilding.
Similar scenes played themselves out across the north of the continent from one ex-free city to the next: Cajale, Genalle, and Tulips. Last of all was a visitation within the temporary wood hall of mayorship in Pale. The mayor was dining with guests when an apparition wavered into view before the long table. The guests started up in panic, raising eating daggers. Guards were called. The ghostly figure of a tall man opened his hands in greeting. ‘I would speak to the Lord Mayor,’ he called.
Guards came scrambling in, crossbows raised. A portly bearded man raised his arms, bellowing, ‘Hold!’ The guards halted, taking aim. ‘Who are you and what do you wish?’ the man demanded of the apparition.
The figure bowed. ‘Lord Mayor of Pale. I am come as the mouth of the newly installed Legate of Darujhistan.’
The mayor frowned behind his beard, clearly astonished. He glanced aside to another guest, a balding dark man in a black leather jerkin. ‘Is that so? A Legate in Darujhistan?’
‘Yes. Newly installed. As such, he claims his traditional position as spokesman for all Genabackis. And in such capacity he demands your allegiance.’
The mayor’s tangled brows climbed his forehead. ‘Indeed. My allegiance in … what? May I ask?’
‘In Darujhistan’s enlightened guidance and protection.’
‘Ah. How … appealing.’ The mayor shot another glance aside to the balding dark fellow who had sat forward, chin in fists, eyes narrowed to slits. The Lord Mayor wiped a cloth across his brow and cleared his throat. Then a thought seemed to strike him and his thick brows drew down together. ‘All Genabackis, you say? What of Black Coral? Does this claim of suzerainty extend over the Tiste Andii?’
The shade’s haggard features twisted in distaste. ‘Black Coral is no longer part of Genabackis.’
‘Ah. I see. How … unfortunate.’ The Lord Mayor drew breath, raising his chin. ‘We in Pale wish his excellency to know that we consider it an honour to be so invited. We convey our salutations, and beg time to give this offer the serious consideration it demands.’ The man sat heavily, gulping in breath, his face flushed.
The apparition straightened; it did not bother to disguise his disapproval. ‘Consider carefully, then. You have two days.’ It disappeared. The Lord Mayor and his guests sat in stunned silence. The dark balding man pushed back his chair and stood, revealing the sceptre inscribed on the left of his chest.
‘You are leaving us, Fist K’ess?’
The Fist wiped his hands in a cloth and threw it to the table. His gaze remained exactly where the casting had once stood. ‘My apologies, Lord Mayor,’ he grated. ‘Duty calls me away.’
‘We understand.’
The Fist stalked from the hall, followed by two officers, male and female.
A woman beside the mayor whispered, fierce: ‘Who is this Legate? Who is he to challenge the Empire?’
The mayor raised a hand for silence. ‘We will wait and see.’ ‘And if two days pass and we are none the wiser?’
The mayor shrugged. ‘Then we will agree.’
‘And the Malazans?’
‘We will tell them we agreed only to buy time.’
Another guest smiled his approval. ‘Which is true – time to discover which of them is the stronger.’
The mayor picked up his crystal wine glass, studied the muddy red liquid. ‘Of course.’
Outside the hall, Fist K’ess turned to the male officer with him. ‘Cancel all furloughs, restrict the troops to garrison. Have we no one capable of raising the Imperial Warren?’
‘None.’
The Fist pulled savagely at his chin. ‘What a gods-awful state of affairs. Going to the dogs, we are. Go!’
The man saluted, ran off.
The Fist started walking again, striking a stiff marching pace. The other officer, the woman, hurried after him. ‘Might I remind you we are at half strength, Fist,’ she said. ‘Half went south at Ambassador Aragan’s request. Now we know why.’
‘Yes, yes. Your point?’
‘We are under strength. In case of an uprising I suggest we withdraw. ’
The Fist halted. Next to him lay a stretch of buildings still in ruins from the siege of years ago. Squatters now occupied it, living in huts of wood and straw among the fallen stone walls. ‘Withdraw?’ he repeated, outraged. ‘Withdraw to where?’
‘West. The mountains.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Throw ourselves on the mercy of the Moranth, you mean? Aye, there’s some merit there. I’ll keep it in mind. Until then, no. Too much Malazan blood was spilled taking this city. We’ll not withdraw.’ He started off again, his pace swift.
Captain Fal-ej, of the Seven Cities, struggled to keep up.
K’ess barked at her: ‘Send our swiftest rider south, Captain. I want to know from that fat-arse Aragan what in the name of fallen Hood is going on!’
Captain Fal-ej saluted and ran off.
K’ess massaged his unshaven throat. He spat aside. ‘What a gods-damned time to choose to quit drinking. Just when things were getting quiet …’ He shook his head and hurried on.
As was his habit of late, the Warlord spent time in the evening in silent solitary vigil overlooking the valley leading west to the glow of Darujhistan. Yet perhaps his gaze passed over the city, even beyond, to the barrow of Anomander Rake, once Lord of Moon’s Spawn. This evening was dark and close. Thick clouds massed from the north, over Lake Azur and the Tahlyn Mountains beyond.
Something troubled the Warlord; this everyone spoke of, though none knew what it was. The castings of the shamans hinted at blood and violence to come. Word of war against the Malazan invaders swept like wildfire across the wide plains – though the elders themselves had not raised the White Spear. All this was might have been part of the weight the Warlord carried. For though he was so named, some now whispered that he was too old, too grief-stricken, and perhaps his time had passed.
He may or may not have been aware of these whispers within the assembly as he stood his solitary evening vigils out upon the hillside. Some said that in truth it was his distaste for it all that drove him from the tents to begin with.
In either case, late into one such evening the Warlord suddenly knew he was no longer alone. He glanced about to see standing a short distance off a man he’d thought his friend. A single glimpse, however, was enough to convince him that that was no longer the case. He shifted his weight to face the man, slid a hand over the grip of the hammer at his side. ‘Greetings, Baruk. What brings you from the city?’
The man certainly was Baruk, but not the Baruk the Warlord knew, with that avid hungry light in his fever-bright eyes, the fresh scars that traced a map of pain across his face. ‘The one you called Baruk is gone. Burned away in the cleansing flames of truth. I am Barukanal, restored and reborn.’
Gossamer flames of power burned like auroras at the man’s hands, where forests of rings now gleamed gold. Caladan’s grip tightened upon his hammer. ‘Truth? Which truth would that be?’
‘The truth of power. One I know you are intimately familiar with. The truth that power will always be used. The question only being by whom.’
‘Then you know enough not to tempt me.’
A gleeful mockery of a smile twitched the man’s mouth. ‘I recall enough to know that to be an empty threat, Warlord.’
In answer Caladan’s lips pulled back over his prominent canines. ‘Then you presume too much. If the … presence … I sense makes any effort to reach beyond Darujhistan, I will not hesitate to remove the city from the face of the continent.’
The one he once knew as Baruk gave a sham frown of sorrow. Backing away, he gestured to the west. ‘More deaths, Warlord? How many more must die … ?’ The figure dissipated into the night, leaving Brood to pull his clenched hand from the hammer and massage its stiff knuckles. He let out an animal growl and headed back up the hill to the distant lit tents. Baruk taken, he mused. That one will be a dangerous opponent. Yet he wondered at the constant stream of tears that had glistened on the man’s scarred cheeks. And the eyes – that feyness could just as easily have been torment and horror trapped within.
Before he reached the tent the flap was pushed aside and a Rhivi elder hurried out. ‘The shamans bring amazing news from the north, Warlord.’
Something in Caladan’s expression caused the elder to flinch aside. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Brood rumbled as he stalked past.
It was the most difficult act he had ever had to force himself to commit. Every step deliberate, stiff, reluctant, he approached the squat, ominous house that stood alone in the woods of Coll’s estate. Every beat of Rallick’s pounding heart screamed at him to flee. For not so long ago, when the Jaghut Tyrant Raest returned to the city only to be entombed here in this Azath construct, so too was he. And perhaps the house would not give him up a second time.
But he did not flee. He understood necessity. He alone in this city seemed to understand that there were things that simply had to be done. Reaching the door he paused, hand outstretched. Someone had been digging in the yard. A trail of dirt led across the grounds. He knelt to study the spoor. Two sets of tracks. One in rotted leather sandals. The other naked bony feet. Very bony, and very definitely inhuman in shape. Shedding dirt as they came.
While he crouched there before the door it opened and Rallick found himself staring up at the grim, emaciated figure of the ancient Jaghut Tyrant Raest, prisoner to the house, and now its … guardian? Or perhaps more accurately its interpreter or spokesman. Or doorman.
‘Not even if you beg,’ the Jag breathed, his inflection completely dead.
Rallick straightened. ‘May I speak to you?’
The unsettling vertical-pupils of the eyes rose to encompass the night sky over the estate district; narrowed. ‘We already have a boarder. I am not taking in more. No matter how awful it will get.’
A shiver ran its fingers down Rallick’s spine. He clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands. ‘That is the last thing I would want.’
The Jag shuffled out of the doorway back up the hall. ‘That is what they all say – then there’s no getting rid of them.’
Rallick forced himself up the hall. Behind, the door swung shut, enclosing him in almost utter gloom. On one side, in a narrow corridor a large man lay blocking the way, snoring loudly and wetly. Raest passed this strange apparition without comment and Rallick was forced to follow. Murky light shone ahead; a sort of limpid greenish underwater glow cast down as if from a skylight. Here he found the Jag seated at a table and across from him sat another creature – an Imass. Or at least so Rallick assumed. He was no expert. Half-rotted flesh over bones and those bones stained dark. Battered armour of leather, furs and bone plates. And over all clumps of dried dirt. The entity held wooden slats in ravaged hands of bone and ligament. It raised its empty sockets to regard Rallick for a moment then returned its gaze to the slats in its hands.
In that brief regard a cold wind had brushed Rallick’s face. He heard it moaning, carrying the call of large animals far in the distance. He shivered again.
The Jag, Raest, took up his own slats.
Cards, he realized. They were playing cards. Now. With so much hanging over the city.
On the table between them sat the corpse of a cat.
Rallick cleared his throat. ‘What is going on?’
‘I am up ten thousand gold bars,’ Raest breathed. ‘My friend here is having troubles with the changes in the rules.’
The Imass’s voice came as a low creaking of dry sinew: ‘I am better at mechanisms.’
‘No,’ Rallick insisted. ‘The city. What’s going on outside?’
‘The neighbourhood is fast deteriorating. I am considering a move.’
‘A move? You can move?’
The Tyrant turned his ravaged features to study him wordlessly for a time.
Rallick swallowed. Ah. I see.
The Jag laid down one wooden card from his hand.
The Imass edged its blunt skeletal chin forward to study the card then sat back to return to the contemplation of its own. Rallick also leaned to squint at the face; he saw nothing more than a crudely scratched image he couldn’t make out.
‘No,’ the Jag continued, ‘I’ve put too much work into the place.’ Rallick eyed the walls of rotting wood, the hanging roots, the dust sifting down through the cascading starlight. ‘Besides, Fluffy here would be devastated.’
Fluffy? Please be referring to the cat – my sanity won’t survive otherwise.
‘Can you give me any hint of what is to come?’
‘I serve the House now. Only it. However, I can tell you what sort of game we are playing.’
Game?
From his mangled leathery hand the Imass slowly slid a wooden card on to the table.
Raest leaned forward to study the image scratched upon its face. He sat back shaking his head. ‘No – not her. She’s out of the game. For now.’ He brushed the card aside. The ligaments of the Imass’s neck creaked as it followed the card to the far edge of the table. It growled.
Rallick found he was holding his breath. ‘What sort of game … is it?’ he asked, hardly able to speak.
‘It’s a game of bluff. Bluff on both sides. Remember that, servant of Hood.’
‘Hood is gone.’
‘The paths remain.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? It would be astounding if you did.’
Rallick clenched his lips. I can’t settle my aim here. He turned his attention to the Imass. Those are not his leg bones. He looked away ‘Is there anything more you can tell me?’
The Jag remained immobile, his slashed and battered face a mask, long grey hair like iron shavings hanging to his shoulders. ‘I can tell you that you are distracting me from the game. Go away.’
Rallick decided that he should not wait to be told twice. He edged back out of the room, not turning away from the oddly mismatched, yet so utterly matched, couple.
