Orb Sceptre Throne (30 page)

‘No. That’s not what happened.’ The man’s voice thickened, almost choking. ‘I handed over all my best pieces, the cream of the riches – and do you know what they said?’

‘It wasn’t enough,’ Malakai said.

‘That’s right. It wasn’t enough. I threw them everything I had, even my weapons. They still claimed I was short of the payment for passage.’ The man sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. ‘You’ve all probably figured it out, haven’t you? But only then did I realize what was going on. Up until that moment I truly believed they would take their cut and let me go. God of the Oceans, what a fool I was.’

‘They just sent you back to collect more,’ Malakai said.

‘Yes. This is their gold mine and they need the labour. They said they’d keep what I’d brought as a down payment on my exit fee. Ha! That’s a joke. I had nothing left, just the shirt I’m wearing. I simply wandered off and ended up here.’

That mailed fist of rage brought stars to Antsy’s vision once more.
Trapped! Fucking knew it! A joke? Oh yes, because all Oponn’s jests are bad news!

Orchid was saying, ‘How do you survive down here?’

‘Oh, we scrape together enough to buy food and water from the Confederation crews. At astounding prices, of course. Water is truly worth its weight in gold.’

‘We want up,’ Malakai cut in. ‘Which way do we go?’

‘There are stairs … it’s the only way. It’s—’

A second scream exploded in the night, making Antsy flinch and raising an answering cry from Orchid. It wailed, rising in terror and agony until it cracked as if the throat carrying it had been torn out.

In the long silence following that terrifying sound Malakai asked mildly, ‘And what was that?’

‘Ah. That. The Spawn is an ancient place, you know. Full of inhuman spirits and sorcery. Some claim it’s a curse on all of us. Humans aren’t welcome here. Myself, I believe it to be an escaped demon. Every few days it comes to feed. I was rather hoping it would show up here.’

‘That’s enough,’ Malakai said. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘And … what of me?’

‘You we leave behind. Congratulations. Maybe you’ll be the last off this rock.’

‘But – as I told you – there’s nothing left.’ The man sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘What could you possibly be looking for?’

A long awkward silence followed that seemingly simple question. Antsy wasn’t looking for anything beyond someone to pay him handsomely for his skills. And to look into rumours he’d heard about this place. Corien wanted riches and the influence they could bring. Malakai similarly so, he imagined. He had no idea what Orchid wanted.

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 its 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 on 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.