Orb Sceptre Throne, page 47
Oh, certainly some members here of the court obviously longed to challenge the Legate. Their posture, breaths and sweat shouted it – especially one older ex-soldier councillor who looked as thought he might have been a potential threat, a decade ago. And hints had come to him of assassination attempts, which the Legate and his pet mages handled.
All very well. So why then this unease? This discomfort? Perhaps it is the loss of Cant. I miss its green mountain slopes. Peace of mind slipped away with it beyond the horizon. Soon Gall will sense this and he will challenge. Then there will be a new Second and all of this will no longer be my concern. I almost welcome it. Is this what cowardice feels like?
The Legate stood then and descended the throne of pale white stone. He gestured and Jan moved to join him. The members of the court, masked councillors, their wives and masked mistresses, aristocrats and wealthy merchants, all parted at his approach. He stopped before the Legate and inclined his masked head in obeisance.
‘Second.’ The Mouthpiece had come to his side. ‘Our enemies await to the west. You Seguleh are my blade and anvil. Crush them and Darujhistan shall rule all these lands unrivalled, as before.’
‘I understand, Legate. These invading Malazans shall be removed from our shores.’
The Legate gestured impatiently. Though the beaten gold features could not change, for ever cast into their secretive half-smile, the shifting light and shadow enlivened the lips and empty eyes with expression. Now they appeared angered.
‘The invaders are but a nuisance. They mean nothing. No. I speak of the true threat. This city’s eternal enemy … the Moranth.’ The Mouthpiece let out a strangled gasp as he spoke these words and clamped a hand to his mouth as if he were about to be sick.
Jan dared glance up more fully, as if he could discern some intent from the golden oval before him. ‘The Moranth, Legate? I do not understand.’
‘Always they forestalled us,’ the Mouthpiece began again, his voice ghostly faint. ‘They alone defied us when all others fell. Now we shall finish them.’
‘The Moranth wars ended a millennium ago.’
‘With the fall of the last of the Tyrants and the breaking of the Circle, yes.’ The oval turned to address Jan more directly. ‘Now that Darujhistan arises renewed we must answer that crime against us, yes?’
And what could Jan do but bow when commanded by his First? For the gold mask was the legendary progenitor, the Father of them all. Attack the Moranth? Bring them low? An entire people? Was this what we were forged to accomplish? Our noble purpose?
And you in your cracked wooden mask who told me so little. Was this the burden you sought to spare me? Well do I understand it now. No wonder we hide our faces.
That burden is shame.
Captain Dreshen found Ambassador Aragan in the stables currying the two remaining horses. Catching his breath he reported: ‘Sir! The majority of the Seguleh have marched from the city.’
Aragan straightened to peer over the back of the black bay, Doan, his favourite. He rested his hands there, a brush in each. ‘Out of the city?’ His gaze slitted. ‘Which way?’
Dreshen nodded their shared understanding. ‘West.’
‘Dead Hood’s own grin. We have to warn them.’
‘The mounts won’t make it all the way.’
‘No.’ Aragan wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘A boat. Fastest one we can find. Then we’ll ride.’
‘Yes. And … can we count on reinforcements?’
‘No. No reinforcements. No recruits. Nothing. Everything’s been committed to another theatre.’
Dreshen could not believe it. ‘But what of our gains here?’
Aragan threw a blanket over Doan’s back. ‘Seems Unta considers us overextended. And I have to say I’m inclined to agree.’ He eyed Dreshen up and down. ‘Now get the Sceptre and our armour, Captain. In that order.’
The Untan nobleman drew himself up straight, grinning and saluting. ‘Aye, sir. With pleasure.’
The two horsemen rode to the waterfront carrying large bundles tied behind the cantles of their saddles, and led their mounts down to the private wharves. Here a grossly exaggerated price was paid in rare silver councils for immediate passage west. A gangway was readied and the mounts were guided down on to the deck of the low, sleek vessel. Hands threw off lines and picked up oars. The vessel made its slow way out of the harbour to the larger bay where the freshening wind caught the sails. The pilot threw the side rudder over and they churned a course along the coast to the west.
Almost within sight of the ever-creeping edge of the Maiten shanty town rose the Great Barrow of the Son of Darkness, Lord of Moon’s Spawn, Anomander Rake. Here a bear of a man sat in the grass and eyed the late afternoon glow of distant Darujhistan.
The lake air had cooled his temper, and now he recognized his vow to squeeze some sense into this creature who paraded as the Legate as foolish and unrealistic in the extreme. What was he to do? Use the hammer there? In the city? Kill tens of thousands? No. And this Legate knew it. So what was he to do?
For the first time in many years no responsibilities weighed upon his shoulders. No cause to champion. He turned back to the barrow. Nearby, the pilgrims and worshippers who congregated here were erecting a tent for him. He hadn’t asked. But they knew him as the one who had raised the barrow and so he shared in their worship and regard.
He was not unaccustomed to it. All who worshipped Burn knew him as her champion. Caladan Brood, Warlord of the north. Yet war was far from his chosen vocation. Oh, he revelled in the individual challenge. Wrestling and trials of strength and skill. But war? Organized slaughter? No. That was the field of cold-hearted weighers of options such as Kallor. Or the opposite, those who inspired from all-embracing hearts, such as Dujek.
And what of him? Did he have this quality? He supposed he did, but in another way. Like Anomander, he inspired by example.
So he would wait. As before, eventually someone would be needed to settle things one way or the other. That was what he did best. Have the last word. The final say. The finishing blow.
The merest nudge of Sall’s hand sent Yusek sprawling to the beaten dirt of the practice yard.
‘You were off-balance again.’
She looked up at the kaleidoscope pattern of his mask, the amused brown eyes behind, and knocked aside his proffered hand. ‘So I noticed. I was leaning forward because I was trying to hit you. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ She jumped up to face him.
‘Do not sacrifice form for a possible hit. When you lean forward you bring your head closer. Not a good idea.’
‘But what if I hit?’
A wave in the Seguleh hand-talk dismissed the idea. ‘What if you miss?’
Fine. Be that way. Yusek struck a ready pose, sword before her in both hands, tip held steady angled outwards at a height about level with her nose. At first she’d resisted his insistence that she use a two-handed sword grip, arguing that daggers were quicker. But Sall had been unmoved. He pointed out that most of her opponents would be larger than her and so she would need the added leverage.
When she’d grudgingly agreed, saying it would help ‘muscle them back’, he’d shaken his head yet again.
‘No muscles.’
‘What do you mean no muscles? Everyone knows that’s what you do in a fight – you smash the other guy down.’
‘No. Do not strain. Do not tense until the last instant. Let the blade fall on its own. Let its weight do the work.’
It all sounded crazy to her. But she’d seen the lad cut through all the most fearsome, and big, hulking swordsmen she’d known, so fair enough.
Now, he circled her yet again, studying her stance. He crouched before her, tilting his masked head. ‘You have the same problem I used to have. Your stance is too long – always too eager to rush in, yes?’
‘That’s how you finish it. Bring it to them.’
Sall gave a sad shake of his head. He unwound a leather strip from his sash and knotted it round one of her ankles. ‘What’s this? Tying me up?’ He paused, but only for an instant, then waved her other foot closer. She edged it inward.
‘Closer yet.’
She gritted her teeth but complied. He tied the length of cloth tight, straightened. ‘Very good. This distance will allow you to recover more quickly in either direction. I want you to pace the length of the field in the high angle cut with each step, yes?’
‘Fine.’
‘Begin.’
She stepped, swinging, and almost fell as her extended foot was yanked short. She turned to stare at him, appalled. Was I that unbalanced? He urged her onward.
Fine. Just dandy. She concentrated on her stride and started again. The shorter stance felt uncomfortable and awkward. But then, she’d been standing however she damned well pleased all this time. No one had ever shown her any technique. She must have all kinds of bad habits.
The wind was cold but she was sweating now as she paced up and down the length of the dirt practice yard. On the far side of the field the priests were out doing their forms, which Sall explained were some sort of moving meditations. It made no sense to her. She found a rhythm, cutting side to side as she stepped, turning, and cutting again. Her arms burned. Holding an iron bar out from your body all day built up endurance and strength. Now, when she picked up her old fighting dirks, the heaviest she could find, they were like hollow sticks in her hands. And it seemed to her that with the slightest shift of her two-handed grip she could move the tip of the sword even faster than she could weave her daggers.
Leverage, Sall called that. The sword was a lever, he’d said. A lever for the application or redirection of force. Nothing more mystical than that.
When the sun set behind the western coastal peaks the air chilled quickly. Yusek dropped down next to Sall, exhausted, her shirt wet with sweat.
‘Your determination is commendable.’
‘Well, I have a lot of catching up to do, don’t I?’ She nudged him with a shoulder. ‘I could really use a back rub too …’
But Sall’s attention was on his father Lo, who had spent these last days doing nothing more than watching the various priests at their practice and exercises. Now he had climbed to his feet, his gaze fixed. Sall stood as well.
Lo began making his way through the kneeling ranks of priests, none of whom moved. Sall edged forward also.
Of all the lousy timing. ‘What is it?’ Yusek asked, now a touch worried. Gods, not like at Dernan’s! Please no. Sall signed for silence. Silence! It’s always silence with these two. That’s their answer for everything. Don’t they see that silence answers nothing?
Lo stopped near the middle of the assembled priests. He stood before one fellow, salt and pepper hair cut short, features very dark, but calm, eyes downcast. Sall, Yusek noticed, was fairly quivering so tense was he. She also climbed to her feet.
Then Lo’s blade was out, the tip extending close to the forehead of the kneeling man. The surrounding priests coolly shifted aside, not one saying a word. Great Burn! What was this? What was going on? ‘Sall …’ He signed again for silence, gesturing her aside.
Lo adjusted his grip on the sword, struck a ready stance, and for the first time Yusek heard words pass through his mask. ‘I challenge you.’
The kneeling man said nothing. He did not move. He did not even look up.
Yusek’s breath caught as Lo’s blade flew up and he let go a heart-stopping yell, swinging for the man’s neck. She jerked her head aside; she could not help it. When she opened her eyes Lo stood frozen, his blade pressed against the man’s neck. The man himself appeared to have not flinched one hair’s breadth.
She and Sall ran up through the motionless priests. The man slowly raised his eyes. In the darkening afternoon light they appeared to carry the depths of the ocean within them. He mouthed one word: No.
Lo stepped back sheathing his blade. Then he turned and walked away. Sall stood for a time staring down at the kneeling man, then he followed his father. Yusek remained. The priests merely returned to their duties, sweeping the compound, chopping wood, readying the evening meal. While Yusek watched, a bead of blood ran from the cut across the side of the man’s neck.
Shaken, she retreated to her hut. So that was him? The slayer of the Son of Darkness? How could that be? He looked like nothing to her. No bluster, no show. It was contrary to everything she’d seen among Orbern’s gang, or Dernan’s. Just a man past middle age. Impossible to pick out of a crowd. Yet Lo had somehow managed. Just by watching. Obviously there was much more here than she could see.
She filled a bowl at the kitchens then sought out Sall. She found him sitting before his room. She sat next to him, tore off a pinch from her flatbread and dipped it into the stew. ‘Now what?’ she asked, chewing.
He seemed to have been studying his open empty hands on his lap. ‘We leave. No one can be compelled to accept a challenge. My father could now claim Seventh should he choose to do so. I don’t believe he will, however. Not like this.’
‘Going to talk to him?’
‘Who?’
‘Who? Him of course. Ask him why he’s here. What he’s doing. Maybe you’d learn something.’
Sall made a gesture of helplessness. ‘There is no need. He has made his position clear.’
Yusek studied Sall for a time as if attempting to peer past his mask. Then she gave a disgusted grunt. ‘Gods … how you fellows manage is a mystery to me. How do you fucking accomplish anything? Aren’t you the least bit curious?’
He gave a cutting sign with his hand. ‘If he wanted to speak, he would do so.’
‘Oh? He’d just go on like you blabbermouths?’ She stood. ‘Well I’m going to talk to him. Even if you won’t.’
‘Yusek …’
She paused, looking down. ‘Yes?’
‘Thank you.’
Grunting again, she left. Can’t fucking believe this crap. Should I tuck them in, too? Maybe this wasn’t all so different from the bluster and chest-thumping she’d seen at Orbern’s. Posturing. Maybe it was all just posturing taken so far no one could back down any more – even if they wanted to.
She wondered. She really wondered.
The fellow was still kneeling in the same place. Looking west into the darkening mauve and deep blood-red of the fading sunset. Above, blotting out any stars that might’ve been visible, arced the jade curve of the Scimitar.
She sat next to him, dipped her bread, and tore off a bite with her teeth. ‘So …’ She chewed and swallowed. ‘As good as any place to hide, I suppose.’
His gaze slid round to her. He let out a long breath. Like I’m the pebble in the shoe, she thought.
‘They send you?’
‘No they fucking well didn’t send me. You’re the man of the world, right? You should know they wouldn’t do something like that.’
His mouth quirked up and he let go something that might’ve been a rueful snort. His gaze slid back to the west. ‘Lectured by a child. Serves me right. Well, yes. That was unfair of me. They wouldn’t do something like that. I’m just tired. Tired of it all.’
‘Tired of what?’
He raised his chin to the west, to the sunset and the Scimitar. ‘Choices are being made even as we speak. Important choices that will affect all of us. I refuse to be part of it. I’m tired of being used.’ His voice fell and it seemed to Yusek that he wasn’t talking to her any longer. Perhaps he’d never really been talking to her at all. ‘I did what I thought was right. Damn them all, I don’t even know what the right choice is any more. I don’t even know if one exists. Everything I do is used.’
‘If everything you do is used one way or the other then why worry about it? There’s nothing you can do about all that. That’s beyond your control, right?’ The man’s gaze slowly edged back to her. ‘I mean, who cares about them? They can all take a flying leap into the Abyss, right? You can only do what you think is right, yes?’
One dark brow arched up. ‘That’s one way of looking at things. Maybe you should get some sleep. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.’
Now who’s tucking who in?
‘Right.’ She stood. ‘I heard them say you killed the Lord of Moon’s Spawn. But I don’t think that’s right. I mean, he’s an Ascendant, right? Immortal. You can’t just kill someone like that.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, that’s just what I think.’
The man’s gaze followed her as she crossed the moonlit central field and remained fixed for some time where she disappeared amid the stone huts. Then his eyes slowly swung back to the west, the night sky, and the Scimitar above. He felt it there, in the west. Tugging at him. It was happening again. Another gathering.
He felt its call because he was close himself. Close, if not already there. But fighting. Refusing. As he told the girl: it was a choice awaiting him. It seemed that no matter which way he turned there it was, inevitable.
If only he knew which would be for the best. Yet perhaps it wasn’t a question of choice. Perhaps it had always been merely about doing. Perhaps that was the better way of thinking of things.
He could not be sure and that doubt was a torment. Because he didn’t think much of his choices so far.
In the morning Yusek stepped out chilled and wrapped in her blanket to see the man still there, still kneeling, the pink and amber sun’s rays painting his back.
Now that just ain’t human.
She shuffled to the kitchens for hot tea and a round of fresh bread. She had to jostle elbows and push herself forward just to swipe that much. These boys and girls might be priests and such, she reflected, but they sure weren’t shy when mealtime came around.
At her hut she packed what few bits and pieces she owned into a roll that she tied off and threw on to her back. Her new sword she belted at her left hip. On the grounds she found Sall and Lo ready to go. The fellow Lo had challenged was there as well.
