Orb Sceptre Throne (79 page)

The ex-guardsman studied Jan closely, as if attempting to peer in behind the mask. What he saw there, or failed to see, appeared to disappoint him. ‘Then that is the gulf between us.’ He tilted his head as if struck by a new thought. ‘Yet you are speaking to me – why?’

‘I am trying to understand.’

This admission rocked the ex-guardsman and his eyes widened as he seemed to appreciate the depth of it. Then his gaze slid to the floor and he let out a heavy breath. ‘If that is so, then I am saddened for you.’

Now Jan was shaken as if struck.
I am here to execute this man yet he pities me?

Perhaps alarmed by Jan’s reaction one of the Hundredth stepped forward, gripping her sword. ‘Kneel,’ she commanded. ‘You have been condemned to die.’

Jan snapped out a hand-command.
No
. ‘This is for me.’

‘You are Second,’ the woman dared breathe, mask held aside.

‘All the more reason it must be me.’
Yes, I am Second. To me must fall this burden. To me must fall the guilt
. He slipped a hand to his sword-grip, addressed the ex-guardsman. ‘It will be quick.’

‘For me it will be,’ the man whispered before Jan’s blade flashed one-handed beneath his chin. The knees gave first, seeming to drag the body down. It fell straight, limp, sagging.

Jan regarded the corpse and its last pumping jets of arterial blood as the heart stubbornly laboured on, refusing to admit to the end. He carefully cleaned his blade before resheathing it. The two of the Hundredth stared on, fascinated by the graphic demonstration. Jan motioned them out, rather impatiently, and remained behind. The man was right. For him this had been quick.
But I fear I will never put this behind me. I have murdered. To me now falls the guilt for this … and so much more. Oh, First, why did you not speak of this? Was it because your guilt was too great? And yet all that was so long ago. Can’t a people change? Perhaps they can – if those around them will allow it
.

Leaving the hall of cells Jan motioned to the prison guards. They passed him, eyes downcast, sliding along the far wall. And where Jan might have once read respect, or due esteem, he now saw only fear. Perhaps even a touch of distaste.

Or was that just himself?

Antsy could no longer hear the muted groaning and crack of rock echoing through the Spawn now that he was chiselling out the stone threshold under the great stone doors concealing what this crazy-eyed gang of witches, priests, mages and mercenaries were convinced was the Throne of Night.

He didn’t think they led to anything remotely like that at all. Maybe the Broom Closet of Dust. Or more likely the Toilet of Crap. But that wasn’t his worry. His job was to open these doors, or no one was going anywhere. Even when he rested, the sharp ringing of iron on iron twanged in his ears, and so it was a shock to glance over and see a set of fine polished leather boots right next to him. He glanced up and saw the armoured and richly attired fellow who he assumed to be a mage, who had given his name as Bauchelain.

‘What do you want?’ Antsy said, rather loudly because of all the ringing.

The man bent down to study him with unsettling intensity. ‘You are close to death,’ he said.

Antsy looked the fellow up and down very pointedly. ‘I sure am.’

He shook his head, chuckling. ‘No, no, no. Not me. Not at the moment, in any case. No, I mean death is watching you. You are of interest to … ah … it.’

‘You mean Hood?’

‘Certainly not. Hood has gone to his oh-so-poetic and appropriate end, has he not? Dying, as he did. Which itself raises all sorts of disturbing chicken-and-egg questions and other philosophical conundrums. No, what I mean is the new manifestation it has fixed on while it flails about trying to find a permanent one – if any. Which brings us back to you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. The current manifestation of death is, again appropriately enough, soldiers. A certain band of soldiers, whose remains, so rumours have it, can be found on this very rock. My companion, Korbal Broach, is very eager to make their acquaintance. Quite keen he is to study them. You wouldn’t happen to know their whereabouts, would you?’

Antsy swallowed hard and said, dead level, ‘I have no idea what yer talking about.’

‘Ah. A shame, that. Well, let’s hope something turns up, yes?’

Antsy said nothing.

A reedy old man’s voice called from the darkness: ‘Master Bauchelain! Our, ah,
friend
is getting into trouble again!’

The fellow stroked his goatee, looking at the ceiling and sighing. ‘Must go. Korbal’s wandered off. Till later then, yes? Take care.’

Shaken, Antsy returned to his chiselling.
Burn’s own blood!
Truth be told, he’d come here precisely to make sure nothing like what that creature was hinting at would happen, or had happened. In the back of his mind he’d known the danger existed, what with the Spawn crashing and all. Sure, a bucketful of gems and coin would go a long way. But that was just cream. All along he’d wanted to make sure things were still all squared away and proper. The thought of a broken sealed pit or whatever it was, and people messin’ about with the bones of his brothers and sisters, made him too furious to even think straight—

He left off his chiselling, panting, hands fisted on his thighs.
Almost busted a thumb there
.

Someone else was standing behind him now: cracked sandals, tattered trouser legs over bony bruised shanks. The lad, Jallin. He leaned down. ‘You’re gonna die, soldier,’ he said, matter of fact. ‘My mistress. The things I seen her do. She’s gonna do for you …’

‘Shut the Abyss up,’ Antsy growled. ‘I’m busy.’

The lad flinched, almost hurt. Then he recovered, grinning toothily. ‘Gonna die,’ he mouthed, backing away.

Shaking his head Antsy returned to his work. Some time later someone banged on the stone flag of the threshold and Antsy whipped round, a curse on his lips. It was the blond-haired mercenary in his plain cloth tabard over mail armour, and canvas-covered round shield. With him were two of his guards. The other two, it seemed, hadn’t made it. ‘What is it?’ Antsy asked, wary.

The man peered at his work from under his tangled brows. ‘You are making a hole, yes? A nest?’

The accent was completely unfamiliar but Antsy nodded. ‘Yeah. Sorta …’

‘How deep?’

‘About the span of a hand. Why?’

‘We will help dig. You go rest. Yes?’

‘You’re not from Elingarth, are you?’

‘No. We are from another land. Far away.’ He motioned to his guards and they held out their hands for the hammer and chisel. Antsy passed them over. The two laid aside their shields and set to work with a vengeance, bashing away. Antsy backed off. He drew out a cloth and wiped his face. ‘Why’re you here?’

‘Same as you, hey? The stories of riches we heard. We were in the south. We had a ship. We were … how you say … taxing shipping, yes? Then we came here.’ He shook his head. ‘Very large mistake. You get us out, we owe you much.’

‘Antsy.’

‘Cull. Cull Heel. Now you go sleep. We dig.’

Antsy kneaded the cloth in his numb aching hands. ‘Well, all right. You come get me in a little while, hey?’

The man waved him off. ‘Yes, yes.’

Antsy walked towards the room off the main chamber that Orchid and Corien had taken. He caught the two mages, the old woman and the fat man, eyeing him all the way across the chamber. He tried his best to ignore them.

Within, Orchid turned quickly on him, asking, ‘How is it going?’

Antsy lay down on a pile of gathered cloaks and odd clothing and threw an arm over his eyes. ‘Damned slow.’

‘They keep coming round – peering at us. Like they’re sizing us up for a meal. Gives me the shivers.’

‘Who does?’

‘All of them.’

‘Orchid,’ Corien warned gently from across the room.

‘What? Oh.’

A light kick woke Antsy and he blinked, squinting in the bluish magelight. It was Corien. The lad waved him up. One of the mercenaries was there; the man gestured him out. After pulling together his gear Antsy followed. Something about the mercenaries struck him then as he walked: they were all damned big fellows, wide and tall, unusually so. And they all had the same broad heavy faces, as if they were related by blood.

The blond man, Cull, motioned to the chiselled-out gap. ‘Good, yes?’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Antsy lay on his stomach to measure the space. Still too tight for his cusser. He pushed himself up to his knees. ‘A touch more yet.’ He reached for the hammer.

‘No, no. We do more. You watch.’

‘It’s all right. I should …’

Cull held up a bloodied hand. ‘No. You need your fingers to get us out, yes? We do this.’

Hunh. How do you like that?
He peered around at all the sweaty glistening faces watching from the dark walkways and portals: the tall woman, Seris; the old mage, Hemper; Hesta and Ogule.
Typical. They want out but don’t even consider lending a hand. Privileged shits
. And as for the Malazans, well, at least they were standing guard down the hall.

While Antsy was crouched, watching the chiselling, Orchid emerged from the dark to come to his side. ‘You should see this,’ she said, sounding unusually subdued.

‘We’re close here, Orchid.’

‘It’ll only take a moment.’

He saw the wonder on her face and grunted. ‘All right. But quick.’

‘This way.’

She led him up an unlit side passage; his mage-sight allowed him to see here away from the lanterns in the main chamber. Through doorways and a short set of stairs down she brought him into another large cavern, this one low-ceilinged and filled with undecorated stone pillars. Crystals glistened on the uneven black rock walls and from where he stood he could see a sort of natural set of terraces descending into the distance. Dirt lay under his feet along with brown withered plant stalks. ‘What’s this?’ he breathed, sharing Orchid’s wonder.

A figure emerged from the gloom: Malakai. He carried a bunch of stalks gathered up in one hand like a bouquet. He sat on the ledge of one of the low terraces, which Antsy now recognized as a kind of planting bed. ‘A garden,’ the man said, inspecting the dead stalks.

Antsy stared, amazed. ‘Not …’

‘Yes,’ Orchid whispered, awed. ‘The legends were true. A garden.’

‘There were flowers here that scholars tell had never seen the sun,’ Malakai said, and he shook his head. ‘Imagine what a single such blossom would have bought. All dead now. This is what Apsalar sought when she came to the Spawn so long ago. The Lady of Thieves came to steal a rose. A black rose. One that poets claimed had been touched by the tears of Mother Dark herself.’ Shrugging, he let the handful of chaff fall. ‘And I sought to best her. To succeed where she had failed.’ He motioned to encompass the wrecked cavern, the spilled soil and overturned beds. ‘So much for my ambitions.’

Antsy kicked at the black dirt underfoot. ‘We still need to get out, Malakai. You can lend a hand.’

The man drew a heavy breath. ‘Yes. Well … we shall see.’

Antsy motioned to Orchid. ‘I have to go,’ he said, low.

She nodded and waved him out.

Back in the main chamber the chiselling had stopped. On the way to the throne-room doors Antsy heard ominous popping and cracking that reverberated up through the stone beneath his feet.
Time’s runnin’ out, I swear
.

The mercenaries were all crouched inspecting the pocket they’d worked. They were arguing. The blond man, Cull, was cuffing the other two and shouting them down. Antsy picked up his pace.

‘What’s this?’

‘Ah, Malazan. I tell these fools no more. We wait for you.’

Antsy pushed through them – a hard task in that each seemed as solid and immobile as the rock itself – and studied the gap beneath the stone doors. ‘Looks good. Let’s try the fit.’ He swung his pannier forward.

The three mercenaries backed away. Antsy took a moment to study them. ‘Who are you anyway? What do I call you?’

Cull thumped his broad armoured chest. ‘We are the Heels!’

Antsy just stared.
Right. The Heels. Okay
… He waved them off and returned his attention to the pocket. The fit was too wide in places and too tight in one spot. A last few touches of the chisel fixed that. Stone chips helped keep the cusser in place, then Antsy pulled out a stone of rough unpolished granite. With this he started to abrade the keratin shell of the cusser as close to the top of it as he could reach.