Orb Sceptre Throne, page 37
At their servant’s table in the kitchens of the Lim estate, Leff let out a long loud sigh. Scorch, opposite, roused himself, blinking. ‘You say somethin’?’
Leff shook his head. He tucked his hands up under his arms, sighed again. ‘You know, Scorch, I don’t think anyone’s comin’ back. I’m gettin’ the distinct feeling that we’ve been handed our hats.’
Scorch’s puzzled frown deepened even further. ‘Howzat? Hats? I ain’t got no hat.’
Leff glared his disapproval. ‘It’s an expression, man. Means we’re fired.’
Scorch goggled at his partner. ‘What? Fired? We ain’t even been paid yet!’
Now Leff banged his chair forward, gaping. ‘Ain’t been paid yet? How can that be? You’re supposed to be in charge of all that.’
Scorch’s consternation creased his forehead until his brows met between his small darting eyes. ‘I thought you were supposed to be handlin’ that.’
Leff pressed a hand to his brow. ‘I distinctly remember me saying that you should do it.’
‘Oh. Well, we could take it up with the scholar.’
Now Leff’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment. ‘The scholar? What in the Queen’s name does he have to do with any of this?’
‘He’s with the Legate. I seen him.’
Leff dropped his hand, amazed. ‘Burn protect us! Why didn’t you say so?’
‘You didn’t say it was important.’
Leff pushed himself up from the table, stretched his numb legs, wincing. ‘Gods, man. You have to learn to think for yourself! I can’t be expected to keep doin’ all the thinking for us.’
Scorch hung his head. ‘Sorry, Leff.’
‘Well I should think so!’
City Wardens stopped them at the gate to the Way of Justice leading up Majesty Hill. The two Wardens gripped their wood truncheons. ‘You’re carrying weapons,’ one called, accusing.
Leff and Scorch glanced to their peace-strapped swords, the crossbows over their shoulders. ‘Looks like it,’ Leff answered and attempted to brush past. The thick wooden portal was closed, however, and he pushed against it to no effect. ‘Open up,’ he shouted. ‘Official business.’
The two Wardens shared smirks. ‘Official? You two?’
‘Go squat your official business off in the bushes,’ the other suggested.
Scorch drew himself up, offended. ‘I’ll have you know we’re all certified, listed and official. I’d go ahead ’n’ check if I were you. Otherwise could be consequences.’
‘That’s right,’ Leff put in, though with much less certainty. ‘Consequences. ’
One of the Wardens banged his truncheon on the rough timbers of the door. A small communicating slit opened. ‘Names?’ someone demanded from behind the slit.
‘Leff and Scorch,’ Leff shouted, mouth to the slit.
‘All right, all right!’ the hidden clerk grumbled. ‘You don’t have to shout.’
One Warden leaned against the door, arms crossed, shaking his head. Leff adjusted the weight of the crossbow against his shoulder. Scorch dug a finger into his ear and twisted it round.
The heavy door slid backwards and the Warden almost fell with it. He jerked, wildly surprised, and received a superior look from Leff as the latter pushed through. Scorch ambled after, crossbow held behind his neck, arms draped over it. ‘Consequences,’ he murmured, and winked.
As they wandered their slow way up the twisting path Leff rubbed his unshaven jaw, casting narrowed wondering glances Scorch’s way. Finally an idea occurred to him and he gave an exaggerated knowing nod, saying, ‘Ah! I get it now … good ol’ Captain Soen. Ever conscientious, that one. Good guess, Scorch.’
Scorch’s permanent scowl of resentful confusion took on an even greater perplexity. ‘What’re you talking about? I just said that, that’s all. Sounded like the kinda thing important persons say.’
Leff used his crossbow to brush aside a clerk who was waving papers at him. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Scorch. I really do.’
But his partner was ambling down another hall. ‘Got us in, didn’t it?’
Eventually, after being shooed out of a number of chambers and offices, they found the guarded doors to the Great Hall. Leff approached the city Wardens standing guard, and as one opened his mouth to challenge them bellowed, ‘Message for Captain Soen!’ The Warden snapped his mouth shut and exchanged an uncertain glance with his fellow. Leff pushed open the small clerk’s door and strode in.
‘Message for Captain Soen!’ Scorch echoed as he stepped through.
‘You don’t have to say it again!’ Leff hissed, pushing him aside.
Scorch pushed back and Leff nearly dropped his crossbow. ‘I got us in, didn’t I!’
‘We’re already …’ Leff tailed off feeling the weight of numerous eyes. He turned.
A great crowd of nobles and councillors filled the length of the Great Hall. All were dressed in rich finery. Many wore masks, as was traditional for the various city religious ceremonies and fetes. Leff bowed, cuffing Scorch, who bowed as well. Dismissing them, the many eyes turned away. Leff scanned the crowd. ‘There he is.’
‘Who?’
‘Soen, dammit! Who else? C’mon.’
They tramped forward. The clank and clatter of their weaponry almost downed out the low murmured conversations. A figure sat motionless on a raised seat of white stone at the far end of the hall. Before Scorch and Leff were halfway across Soen intercepted them, a sharp grip on the forearm of each. He steered them aside into the shadows of a colonnaded walk along one wall of the hall.
‘What in the name of the Queen of Mysteries are you two doing here?’ he hissed, furious.
Scorch looked to Leff. Leff saluted. ‘Reporting in, sir.’
The big man’s salted brows clenched. ‘What? Reporting? Why?’
A panicked look gripped Leff’s lined features, as if he’d reached the end of his gambit and hadn’t realized more may be required. ‘Ah … reporting that the manor house is all secure, sir!’
‘What? Secure? Who gives a—’ The captain bit back his rising voice, peered round, anxious. ‘You two are fired,’ he said, his voice low and fierce. ‘Get out of here and never come back.’
‘Fired?’ Scorch echoed, outraged. ‘What for? Guild rules—’
‘Guild rules require justification, I know. Deserting your post. How’s that?’
The two shared a pained look. Leff pulled at his lower lip. ‘Well … I suppose that would kinda do it.’
‘It most certainly does. Pay can be collected at the guild office. Now leave – or must I escort you out?’ The captain didn’t wait for an answer but beckoned others of Lim’s private guard over.
‘Wait!’ a voice called. Captain Soen turned and immediately bowed to one knee. ‘Sir.’
Scorch and Leff were astonished to see their old employer, the scholar Ebbin. Something like wonder was on the man’s face as he gazed upon them. ‘I … know … you,’ he breathed, as if awed by the realization.
Leff knuckled his brow. ‘Yes, sir. Been working for you for some time now, sir.’
The old man’s gaze seemed to wander as he stood, brows furrowed in concentration. ‘Yes. I remember. I … remember you.’ He glanced to the captain. ‘These men work for me, Soen. They are my guards.’
The captains’ brows climbed almost all the way up to the rim of his helmet. He shot a glance to the immobile and silent figure on the throne, blew out a breath. ‘Well … if you say so … sir.’
‘They may remain.’
Soen was obviously still very confused, but as a good private soldier he accepted his employer’s dictates – no matter how stupid in his estimation. He saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’
Leff saluted too. Then he cuffed Scorch, who also saluted.
But the scholar had wandered off. He’d pulled out a cloth and was wiping his sweaty strained face, the other hand rubbing his chest. Captain Soen scowled down at the pair; then he nodded to himself. ‘I see it now. Friends in high places. Looks like I’m stuck with you.’ He eyed them up and down again, his disgust increasing. ‘At least get yourselves cleaned up.’
Scorch straightened, outraged. ‘I washed just a few weeks ago!’ ‘Your clothes and armour, man! Clean them up.’
Leff saluted. ‘Yessir. Right away sir.’
The captain just shook his head, jerked a thumb to another of his guards. ‘Willa here will kit you out. Come back when you’re presentable.’
‘Yes sir! With pleasure, sir!’
Soen answered with half salute, half dismissive wave. ‘Whatever. Get out of here – now.’
They travelled at night once they entered the desolate hills of the Dwelling Plain. Despite this, and all Fist Steppen’s many precautions in water conservation, they still lost irreplaceable mounts and dray animals. Even a few men and women collapsed under the unrelenting pace. Some died; others recuperated in the wagons trailing the column.
That pace was nightmare for Bendan. Never having had cause to walk for longer than one bell – what in Fanderay’s name for? There was never any need – he couldn’t believe what was being demanded of them. What in all the Lost Lands could be so important? He managed to keep up, but barely. He walked in a daze and knew he’d be no use in a fight. Not that there’d been any raids. But still, he felt defenceless, hardly able to stand.
This day their scout, a Rhivi exile named Tarat – word was the young woman had killed a relative – raised her hand and crouched, studying the dry dusty ground. Sergeant Hektar joined her, and, bored, Bendan staggered over.
‘What is it?’ the giant Dal Hon rumbled.
‘The column has crossed this trail,’ she answered, a hand indicating a line northward.
‘So?’
‘It’s like nothing I have ever seen before.’
‘So?’
The girl blew out a breath and pushed the unruly kinked hair from her freckled face. ‘Malazan. I know every spoor on the face of these lands. If I see something new it is a strange matter. Still … this trail reminds me of something. Something from an old story …’
Bendan simply took the opportunity for a breather; and he didn’t mind standing looking down at the tribal girl, either. Fine haunches she had. Too bad she also had a knife for anyone who got too close.
He pulled out his skin of water and took a pull. He was about to take another when Hektar pushed the skin down.
‘That’s enough, trooper. You know the water rules.’
‘I know I’m damned thirsty.’
‘You’ll be even more thirsty two days from now when you run out.’
Both of them jumped when the Rhivi girl let out a shout of alarm and scrambled back from the trail as if it was a snake that had reared at her. ‘What is it?’ Hektar demanded.
Tarat’s gaze swung to them, her eyes huge with wonder. ‘I have to speak to the commander.’ Almost the entire column had passed now. Hektar drew off his helmet to wipe his dark sweaty face. ‘She’s with the van …’ he began.
‘I must. Immediately.’
Hektar sighed his disgust. He wiped the leather liner inside the helmet then pulled it on again. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
‘I’ll tell Little,’ Bendan said.
‘No – you’re comin’ with us. Let’s go.’
‘What for? You got her. You don’t need me.’
‘You seen it too. Now c’mon.’
‘Aw, for Hood’s sake …’ But the big sergeant crooked a finger and started after the scout. Bendan dragged himself along behind.
The van was a damned long way ahead. First, they were all mounted, something which irked Bendan no end. Why should they be mounted when the rest of them had to plod along? And second, they were all so much cleaner and better accoutred than he. Something that also never failed to stir his resentment. Why should they wear such superior armour – cuirasses of hammered iron and banded hauberks – when all he wore was a hauberk of boiled leather faced with ring mail, with mailed sleeves? It was his general view that anyone with better equipment than his, or with greater wealth, just didn’t deserve it.
In response to a signal from the sergeant a messenger rode over, spoke to him briefly, then wheeled off to take his request to the Fist. Shortly thereafter a small mounted body broke off from the van to return to them. It was Fist Steppen, accompanied by a small guard and her inner staff. They parted around the three waiting troopers. Sergeant Hektar saluted the dumpy sunburned woman in her sweat-stained riding trousers and loose shirting, and noticed that the skin of her forehead was peeling.
‘Fist Steppen.’
‘You have a report?’
Hektar gestured to Tarat. ‘Our Rhivi scout has news.’
Tarat saluted, quite smartly. Steppen nodded to her. ‘The trail the column passed just back—’ the girl began, but was interrupted.
‘We all saw it,’ an officer put in. ‘A band marching double-file, north. Bandits, perhaps.’
Tarat’s hand snapped closed on the bone-handled knife at her side and she glared at the man.
Steppen raised a hand for silence. ‘Continue,’ she said to Tarat.
The girl did so, but still glared murder at the officer. ‘No bandits – or even soldiers – have the discipline to maintain such a straight trail. Look to our own meandering track if you don’t believe me. Men and women pause to adjust gear, to relieve themselves, to remove stones from their sandals. Only one people are capable of moving across the land in this manner. It is said they can march for four days and nights without a single pause.’
‘It is said?’ Steppen asked, cocking her head.
Tarat lost her glare, removed her hand from her blade. ‘In our stories, Fist. Among us Rhivi are told stories of these people. Most speak darkly of them.’
‘And they are?’
Tarat was clearly unwilling to say just who she was talking about, but asked directly she hunched slightly, as if expecting scorn, and said, ‘The Seguleh.’
Bendan laughed out loud. Hektar glared for him to shut up but he couldn’t help it. The Fist arched a brow. ‘You have something to add, trooper? I see you too are a local. What is your opinion?’
He waved a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just … the Seguleh? Scary stories for children only, ma’am.’
‘I assure you they are quite real.’
‘Oh yes. Real enough. Down south. I’d say they’re damned good all right – damned good at puffing up their reputation, if you follow me, ma’am.’
Leather creaked as the Fist leaned forward on to her pommel. ‘You are from Darujhistan, yes?’
‘Yes, m’am.’
‘And the opinion you express regarding these people … this would be typical of the city, would it?’
‘Oh, yes. Just a lot of tall tales.’
‘I see. Thank you. Very informative.’ She turned to Tarat. ‘Thank you for your report. That is all.’
The troop edged their mounts aside and cantered off to return to the van. Tarat whirled to face Bendan. ‘Laugh at me again and I’ll slit you open like a weasel. Yes?’
Bendan held out his arms. ‘Yeah. Fine. Whatever.’
The tribal girl stalked away on those fine haunches.
Gods! So damned prickly!
CHAPTER XI
We are the freemen privateers.
We sail the forested isles
from Callows to far Galatan!
We have thrown off the chains
of yoke, coin and tyrant.
So join us who dare to be free!
The Freemen Privateers
Author unknown
BARATHOL HAD TAKEN TO SLEEPING IN HIS WORK TENT. DURING THE late afternoon he’d drop in on the house to make sure little Chaur was fed and clean. He didn’t blame Scillara for her lack of maternal instincts – he was resigned to it. Perhaps it balanced what he admitted might be was his own over-developed nurturing instinct.
This night he was bringing up the heat of the forge, readying for another shift, when heard a strange sound. It seemed to be coming from the excavation trench. Outside the tent, the work crew was on break and all should have been silent, yet intermittent clanging or thumping reached him. He stepped out into the dig, listening.
He thought it came from the exposed stone blocks themselves. Kneeling, he placed an ear close to the cold smooth stone. Shortly, he heard it: a clanging or banging reverberating down the stones. It sounded as if someone was digging somewhere along the now nearly completed arc of set blocks. He stood to peer about; no one was around. The mages who oversaw the installations never arrived until much later. Frowning, he picked up a crowbar and set off to walk the circuit.
He sensed nothing strange until halfway round the nearly completed circle. Here the arc cut through a patch of woods dense in underbrush, part of an artificial park planted on the hilltop. Damn good cover, it occurred to him, and he immediately ducked down to take advantage. Edging forward, he found another excavation, this one much smaller. A pit had been dug over the arc of the stone ring. Even as he watched, dirt flew up to land in the brush. What in the Twins’ name was this?
Then he sensed someone behind him. He spun, gripping the crowbar horizontally. Steel rang from the heavy tool and a wide burly figure readied for another thrust. Barathol fell, swinging the crowbar; it glanced from a shin and the figure grunted her – her? – pain, tumbling. As the assassin fell her foot caught him across the throat. Both rolled in the dirt, gasping. Barathol rose just in time to block another stab then readied the crowbar for a swing but stopped, astonished. His attacker also froze.
‘Barathol?’ she said, amazed.
‘Blend?’
‘What in the Queen’s name’re you doing here?’ she snarled, wincing and holding her shin.
‘What are you marines up to?’ he demanded.
A needle-point pricked his back and a voice whispered from behind, ‘The Legate has declared war on Malaz, friend. Time to choose sides.’
‘Don’t do it, Topper,’ Blend warned.
Topper? Where had he heard that name before?
Blend straightened, tested her weight on her leg. ‘Stand aside, Barathol. This is nothing to do with you.’
