Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  This evening the weather was unusually chill. He hugged himself, shuddering. Very unseasonal. He paced his rounds, stamping his sandalled feet to warm them. In the twilight, over the hilltop ruins, the air seemed to shimmer. Stopping, he rested his spear against the base of a broken wall to rub his hands together. The air seemed to be full of vapour, as after a summer’s rain. Yet it hadn’t rained in days. He retrieved the spear, then yelped and dropped it. The wood haft was as chill as ice.

  Tatters of clouds now flew overhead, sending a confusing riot of shadows over the hill and the city beyond. He squinted in the shifting glow of starlight, seeing something. He wanted to flee but also knew it was his duty to remain, and so he crouched, advancing behind the cover of a ruined curving wall. Up close he saw how condensation beaded the wall, running in drops down the smooth flesh-like stone.

  A sudden wind blew up, lifting a storm of dust and litter. Arfan shielded his eyes; it was like one of those sudden dust-devils that arise in the summer’s heat. He peered up, eyes slit, and in the shifting shadows and blowing dust he thought he saw something … a ghostly image, a watery shimmering mirage: it was as if he stood next to an immense structure. A building, a palace, tall and ornate, which overlooked the city there on the next mound, Majesty Hill. All overtopped by what appeared to be an immense dome.

  Then a stronger gust of air and the ghost-image wavered, shredding, to waft away into tatters that disappeared like mist. And he ran … well, jogged really, as fast as he could, puffing and gasping, down the hill to bring word to his contact, an agent of the one who styled himself ‘circle-breaker’.

  Nearby in the old city estate district, among the ruins of Hinter’s Tower Hill, the arched entrance to said ruined tower glowed with a ghostly presence. The image of a tall man in torn clothes. His eyes were nothing more than dark empty sockets yet they stared, narrowed, towards Majesty Hill. He mouthed one short word. Only someone within a hand’s breath would have heard his cursed, ‘Damn.’

  His empty gaze edged slant-wise to where a fat winged demon lay snoring among the stones, a half-eaten fish in each thorny claw. The ghost raised a gossamer hand to his chin and tapped a finger to his lips.

  Antsy jerked awake to surf rustling over smoothed shingle, the cawing of seabirds, and a poke in the ribs. He lay among tall rocks just up from the shore of the Rivan Sea. Two kids, a boy and a girl, peered down at him. The boy held a stick.

  ‘See,’ the boy announced, triumphant, ‘he is alive!’

  ‘G’away,’ Antsy croaked, and he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and spat aside. His clothes stuck to him, chilled and wet with dew, and he shuddered. Too damned old for this bivouacking crap.

  ‘You want food? I got fish – one crescent each!’

  He probed the crusted bloodied cloth he’d pressed to the side of his neck. That had been one damned thin and sharp blade. He wondered whether he’d ever see the young nobleman again. He certainly owed him one.

  ‘Where you from? Darujhistan? You heading out to the Spawns?’

  ‘Why’s your hair red?’ the girl asked.

  ‘’Cause I’m half demon.’

  That quietened them. He decided to try to stand. First he leaned on the knuckles of one hand. Then he got to his knees. Next, he brought up a foot and pushed up to lever himself erect. His ankles, fingers and wrists all burned with the morning joint-fire. Too damned old.

  The girl said in a sing-song voice: ‘If you’re heading out you’re gonna be too late.’

  He was scratching the bristles of his chin. ‘What?’

  ‘They’re already linin’ up.’

  ‘Shit … ah, pardon my Malazan.’ He headed for the beach.

  The kids trailed him. ‘I have vinegared water too. You sure you don’t want any fish?’

  A crowd had gathered on the far end of the curving strand. Launches rested there, pulled up from the surf. He angled that way while chewing on a slice of smoked meat taken from one pannier bag.

  ‘I got a map of the Spawns too,’ the lad said, jumping up in front of him.

  Antsy eyed the boy in complete disbelief. ‘Thanks, kid, but I can’t read.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘That’s okay. The map’s still good.’

  Antsy barked a laugh. Had he any coin to spare he might’ve purchased the rag as reward for the lad’s salesmanship.

  Confederation soldiers guarded the boats. A table stood aslant on the gravel beach. The crowd consisted of men and women apparently waiting their turn to pay the transport fee. Most, Antsy figured, couldn’t and were just hanging around. He decided to join the spectators for a while to get a feel for how things worked.

  Here, a simple picket of soldiers was barrier enough to keep everyone back. An armed man, he reflected, might be able to fight his way to the boats, but then what? It took at least ten people to handle such huge launches. An armed party then. Ten to twenty to take the boat and oar it out through the surf. But again, then what? Free Cities Confederation ships waited beyond the bay. Your own ship then. But that had been tried. Four private armies had apparently made the attempt – and failed. Only a Malazan warship had forced its way through, and none had seen it since.

  A party of five pushed through the crowd of onlookers. They were well accoutred in cloth-wrapped helmets, banded iron armour. They carried longswords, crossbows, and large bags and satchels presumably containing supplies. Four carried large round shields, their fronts covered in canvas slips. The leader wore a long grey tabard over his mail coat. He had a commanding presence, with a great beak of a nose, broken, and a mane of wild blond hair that whipped in the wind.

  ‘You’re going?’ someone said to Antsy.

  He looked over, then up. A dark-skinned young woman stood at his side, slim, and a good two hands taller than he. She wore a dirty cloak over layered shirts and skirting that might have once been fashionable but were now shredded and grimed. Her thick black hair hung in kinked curls, unwashed and matted. Her dark eyes were bruised from hunger and lack of sleep.

  ‘What’s the price?’ he asked. The girl stiffened and her dark eyes flashed in shocked anger until Antsy raised his chin to indicate the table and the fee-collector.

  She relaxed, almost blushing. ‘Oh. I thought … never mind. About fifty gold councils a head.’

  Antsy gaped. ‘That’s … that’s pure theft! How can they ask that much?’

  She indicated the party. ‘Because they get it.’

  A price appeared to have been agreed as the fee-collector gestured to the guards. The party of five was allowed to pass.

  ‘Mercenaries from the southern archipelago,’ the girl sneered.

  ‘You’re from Darujhistan?’

  The sneer disappeared and she hunched self-consciously. ‘No. The north.’

  Her manner struck him as very young and very sheltered. A rich kid out of her element. ‘And you don’t have the price …’

  She gave a wry grin. ‘You’ve wangled the truth out of me.’

  ‘You came down on your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To find your fortune?’

  She hesitated. ‘Sort of. You see, I’m a student of ancient languages. I speak Tiste Andii. And I read the script.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ was Antsy’s gut reaction.

  The girl grimaced and tucked long strands of the greasy hair behind an ear. ‘That’s what everyone says.’

  The mix of naïveté and worldly adolescent disgust touched something in him. He wondered how on earth she’d lasted this long among such a lawless bunch. ‘Listen. What’s your name?’

  ‘Orchid.’

  ‘Orchid? That’s your name?’

  Another grimace. ‘Yeah. Not my idea. Yours?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘Must be a common name where you’re from.’

  Antsy just grunted, chewed on the end of his moustache. The man behind the table shouted, ‘Anyone else? Anyone else for today’s party?’

  No one answered. It occurred to Antsy that the girl might
have just made a joke. Gathered at one launch, the day’s complement of treasure-seekers consisted of the party of five plus four other individuals. The Confederation soldiers began packing up.

  ‘Another day’s waiting,’ Orchid sighed.

  ‘I’m gonna have a chat with that fellow taking the coin.’

  Orchid’s hand closed on his wrist. ‘Take me with you, please. If you go.’

  He gently twisted his arm to free it. He failed. ‘I don’t know.’ He stared at her hand. She followed his gaze and pulled her hand away.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I have to go. I don’t know why. I just know.’

  He stood rubbing his wrist: damn, but the tall gal had a strong grip. How old was he getting? ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The pickets let him through. The two guards at the table merely cradled their crossbows and watched while he stood waiting for the clerk to deign to notice him. Eventually, the man looked up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The price per head is about fifty gold Darujhistani councils?’

  The man sighed, started packing his scales and record books. ‘Yes. And?’

  ‘What would you give me for this?’

  The man didn’t stop packing while Antsy placed a leather-wrapped object on the table. It was about the size and shape of a flattened melon. The man gave another vexed sigh. ‘No bartering. No trades. I’m not a merchant. I don’t want your silverware or your chickens.’

  Antsy ignored him. He pulled back a portion of the quilted padding and the man couldn’t help but look. He paled, jerked away, then covered his reaction by closing an iron-bound chest behind the table.

  ‘How do I know whether that’s real?’ he asked after a time.

  ‘You saw the seal,’ Antsy growled.

  Disassembling the scales the man said, ‘Yes … but seals can be counterfeited. Replicas can be made. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s real enough to pulverize everyone on this Hood-damned beach.’

  His back to Antsy, the man paused in his packing. ‘That may be so. But then you wouldn’t get out to the Spawns, would you?’ And he turned to study him over his shoulder with a cool stare.

  Antsy decided that maybe there were good reasons why these Free Cities Confederation boys had managed to keep hold of the isles. He gave a sigh of his own and eased the object back into the pannier.

  ‘I suggest,’ said the man, ‘that you sell that to Rhenet Henel.’

  ‘Who’s this Rhenet?’

  ‘Why, the governor of Hurly and all the Spawns, of course.’

  Antsy just rolled his eyes.

  Orchid caught up with him at the cart track. ‘Turned you down, hey?’

  ‘Yeah. He didn’t like the look of my chickens.’

  She frowned, prettily, he thought, then let the comment pass. ‘So, where to now?’

  He stopped, faced her. ‘Listen, kid. I can’t get you out to the Spawns. I can’t even get myself out. There’s nothing I can do for you.’

  She bit at her lip. ‘Well, maybe there’s something I can do for you?’

  He had to take a long breath to safely navigate that minefield. Gods, girl! How naïve can anyone be? He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. I suppose there is. You wouldn’t know where I could get a decent meal round here, would you?’

  She took him a few leagues down the shore to what appeared to be nothing more than a camp of refugees squatting among the driftwood of dying overturned trees. ‘Welcome to New Hurly,’ she said, waving an arm to encompass the ramshackle huts and tents.

  ‘New Hurly? What’s wrong with the old one?’

  ‘This is the real Hurly,’ she explained, waving to kids and oldsters nearby. She was obviously well known here. Antsy spotted his two would-be guides among a horde of running children. ‘This is what’s left of the original inhabitants.’

  ‘Here? Why not in town?’

  ‘Driven out by those vulture hustler scum.’ She sat on a driftwood log before the smouldering remains of a cook-fire and invited him to join her. ‘They have no money so they’d just get in the way, right?’ Her tone was scathing.

  He grunted his understanding. He’d seen it before: these natural disasters were not so different from war. An old woman ducked out of a nearby wattle-and-daub hut and Orchid signed to her. She grinned toothlessly and returned to the hut. A moment later she emerged carrying two wooden bowls which she filled from a cauldron hanging over the fire. It was some kind of fish stew. He blew on it.

  While they ate the old woman squatted before them, grinning and nodding. He studied the girl. Skin the hue of polished ironwood, slim, hands unblemished and smooth. Educated. A pampered upbringing in some large urban centre. Tutors, fine clothes. All this spoke of a great deal of money yet here she was sitting on a log pushing boiled fish into her mouth with her fingers.

  ‘Good, yes? Good?’ the old woman urged.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, uncomfortable under her manic stare. ‘Good. Thanks.’

  She grinned lopsidedly then took the bowls and returned to the hut.

  Orchid watched her go, her gaze sad. ‘Lost her husband, three married children and eight grandchildren in the flood. Never recovered.’

  Antsy grunted again, this time in sympathy. He’d seen a lot of that too. He cleared his throat. ‘So, what do I owe …’

  ‘Nothing. You owe nothing. I healed one of her last remaining grandchildren. Had an infection and fever.’

  ‘You’re a healer?’ That put a whole new perspective on things.

  She shrugged. ‘A little training and reading. All mundane. I just kept the wound drained, threw together a poultice of some herbs and moss and such.’

  He eyed her anew. All this made her a great deal more valuable. Why hadn’t she marketed her skills? Hood, they could use her in Hurly. Then he realized: she chose not to offer her services there.

  The old woman ducked out of the hut carrying a small water bucket. She offered Orchid a dipper and the girl drank. Antsy had a mouthful as well – it was clean, mostly. ‘Orchid,’ he began, awkwardly, ‘you’ve hitched yourself to a broken cart. I’m going nowhere fast right now.’

  ‘You’ll get out there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have an intuition,’ she said, completely without any hint of embarrassment or reserve. ‘A feeling. I know you will go.’

  He just raised a brow. Crazies. Why do I always get the crazy ones?

  ‘So,’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘What’s your next move?’

  He studied the blasted tumbled landscape. ‘Where can I find the governor of this fair land?’

  The governor, it happened, occupied a fort under construction up the shore in the opposite direction. Fort Hurly. Walking to it they crossed an eerie post-flood landscape of dead uprooted trees flattened like grass where stiff seaweed hung from the bare limbs. Skeletal carcasses wrapped in dried flesh lay tangled in the wreckage. Flies were a torment. They quickly became muddied up to their thighs. Orchid’s layered skirts hung like wet sails.

  Antsy knew they had been followed since leaving Hurly. The fellow wore a dirty brown cloak and made no secret of tagging along at a discreet distance. Antsy had the troubling sensation of being dispassionately studied. Finally, as they clambered over an enormous pile of fallen tree trunks, he decided he’d had enough of the game. He pushed Orchid down behind cover at the natural fortress’s peak, whispered, ‘Quiet,’ and moved off.

  From his panniers, waist and leggings, he drew together the components of his Malazan-issued heavy crossbow. Since he’d spent years field-stripping and reassembling the weapon, he did not have to look at his hands while crouched behind cover, keeping watch. Orchid remained quiet and didn’t move and because of this he felt better about possibly taking her with him – should he ever manage to get out.

  The man came into view at the base of the heaped logs. He paused as if sensing something. Antsy grinned: a canny devil. He shouted down, ‘What do you want
?’

  The fellow appeared to be considering the climb.

  ‘Don’t move! We can have us a little chat just like this.’

  ‘Talk is what I wish.’ The voice was soft and low yet carried easily over the distance. The tone bothered Antsy: much too assured given the situation. He stood up, the crossbow levelled.

  ‘All right. Talk.’

  The man peered up, his hood shadowing his face. ‘That object you showed the fee-collector. I’d like to examine it. I may want to purchase it.’

  ‘Not for sale.’

  ‘How about fifty Darujhistani gold councils?’

  Antsy raised his gaze from sighting down the stock, considered. ‘I don’t trade with someone who hides his face.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the man answered, amused. ‘Force of habit.’ He threw back his hood. His face was scrawny and thin, like a cat’s. A small trimmed beard sat on his chin like a smudge of dirt and his black hair hung in thick oiled curls.

  A Hood-damned fop. Antsy didn’t like him already. He raised the weapon to rest it on a hip. ‘All right. Back away. I’m coming down.’

  Gloved hands out from his sides, the man backed away. Closer, Antsy was struck by the fellow’s wiry leanness, his knife-like slash of a mouth. A cruel mouth, he decided. And small eyes that seemed to glitter like polished obsidian stones.

  The fellow pointed to the crossbow. ‘No need for that.’

  ‘That’s my call and I’ve decided to keep it.’ Raising his voice, he shouted, ‘Orchid! Bring down my bags. Bring them here.’ She carried the bags down and laid them next to him. ‘Careful now, take out the wrapped package there. Set it between us – gently.’

  A sideways smile on the man’s mouth seemed to be calling attention to how silly all this was. ‘You’re a careful man, soldier. I want you to know I respect that.’

  Antsy didn’t bother answering. Orchid had stopped rummaging and now peered up at him, uncertain. ‘The largest one,’ he told her.

  Nodding, she drew out a wrapped packet, set it between them, then backed away. The man knelt, unwrapped and studied the dark green oblong. Without looking up he asked, ‘You are trained in its use, I presume?’