Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

‘Aye.’

  The man straightened. ‘Then I would like to hire you for my expedition to the Spawns.’

  Orchid’s breath caught.

  ‘And how many are there on this expedition of yours?’ Antsy asked.

  The man smiled again. ‘Two, now.’

  ‘Three.’

  The smile fell away. The man edged his head aside. ‘Three?’

  ‘The girl here. She’s a trained healer and claims she can read the Andii scribblings.’

  ‘Really? Read the language? Hardly possible. Let me see you, girl.’

  Orchid raised her chin, a touch nervously.

  ‘You say you can read the Tiste Andii script?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Answer carefully, girl. If I find that you’ve lied, then I’ll leave you out there to die. Do I make myself clear?’

  Orchid nodded again, barely. ‘Yes.’

  From his demeanour Antsy knew the man would do just that. And so, rather belatedly, he hoped the girl wasn’t overstating her skills.

  They returned to Hurly. Antsy made sure the fellow walked ahead all the way. He led them to another of the many inns and taverns that dotted the boom town: the Half Oar. They took a table and the man excused himself to go to his room above.

  As soon as he’d left the table Orchid whispered, fierce, ‘I don’t trust him at all.’

  Antsy chuckled. ‘Damned good that you don’t.’

  ‘He’s a killer.’

  ‘Probably. But is he an honest killer?’

  ‘How can you joke like that? He makes me shiver.’

  Antsy pulled his hands through his tangled hair. ‘Look, you want to get out to the Spawns and he’s willing to take us. One thing you can be sure of – there’ll be a lot more like him out there already. And I get the feeling it’s better he’s with us than against us.’

  They ordered tea and shortly after that the man returned. The cloak was gone, revealing a vest of multicoloured patches over a black, billowy-sleeved silk shirt. The black matched his hair, beard and eyes. ‘So,’ Antsy asked, ‘what’s your name?’

  ‘You can call me Malakai. Yours?’

  ‘Red.’

  Malakai smiled thinly. ‘And the girl is Orchid, I understand,’ he said, his eyes not leaving Antsy’s. ‘An interesting name.’

  A serving boy offered vinegared water to drink, then a mid-day meal of roasted waterfowl. They tore the carcasses apart with their hands. ‘We’ll leave on tomorrow’s boat,’ Malakai said. ‘You, Red, will be my guard. And you, Orchid … well, just look imperious.’ The girl seemed to shrink under his gaze. ‘Speak and read the language, do you?’

  She straightened her shoulders. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How came you by this rare gift?’

  The girl visibly braced herself, pushed back her unruly mane of hair. She seemed to be taking his questions as some sort of test administered before fifty gold councils were thrown away. ‘I was raised in a temple monastery dedicated to the cult of Elder Night. Kurald Galain, in the ancient tongue. The nuns and priests taught me the language, the rituals and the script.’

  ‘And are you a talent in that Warren?’

  The girl deflated. She shook her head, ‘No. That is … sometimes I feel as if something’s there. But no, I could never summon the Warren.’

  Malakai frowned his exaggerated disappointment and Antsy squirmed, uncomfortable with the enjoyment the fellow took in baiting the girl. The man set his chin in his hands. ‘Tell me, then, what you know of the history of Moon’s Spawn.’

  Orchid nodded, took a drink of water. Her gaze lost its focus and she spoke slowly, as if parsing some text visible only to her. ‘No one really knows the origins of what we call Moon’s Spawn. It emerged from Elder Night, but what was it before then? Some argue it is the remnant of a K’Chain Che’Malle artefact that ventured into Kurald Galain and was taken by the Andii. Perhaps. Others suggest it was found abandoned and empty deep within the greatest depths of Utter Night. In either case, Anomander Rake brought it into this realm together with a legion of his race, the Tiste Andii, who followed him as he was the son of their sole deity, Mother Dark.’

  Antsy gaped his amazement. He’d heard all kinds of legends and tales touching upon these ancient events, but this girl spoke them as if they were the literal truth!

  She resumed after another sip. ‘For ages the Spawn floated over the continents, roving everywhere. We know this to be true as it figures in almost every mythology in every land. During these ages its inhabitants rarely involved themselves in human, or Jaghut, or K’Chain affairs. All that changed however with the rise of the Malazan Empire and its ruler, Kellanved. For some reason the Emperor gained Anomander’s enmity. Some suggest a failed assault upon the Spawn by Dancer and Kellanved.’

  She shrugged, clearing her throat. ‘In any case, Anomander opposed Malazan expansion here in Genabackis. From that fell out the engagements up north, the siege of Pale, the Spawn’s fracturing and fall, and all the unleashing of Elemental Night at Black Coral.’

  Listening to this litany a memory suddenly possessed Antsy: staring up at the dark underside of that suspended mountain while Pale burned below, a city aflame. Then, the ground shuddering, his ears deafened, as all the old Emperor’s High Mages summoned their might against its master …

  He shivered, blinking and wiping his eyes.

  Neither Malakai nor Orchid seemed to have noticed. The man was nodding, his gaze distant as if in meditation. ‘He would’ve won, I think, had not the Pale Hand thaumaturges betrayed him and gone over to the Malazans.’

  ‘You wanted him to win?’ said Orchid, outraged.

  Malakai continued nodding. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘You’d support the inhuman over the human?’

  The man’s smile was a knife blade. ‘I admired his style.’

  Antsy cleared his throat. ‘So, tomorrow. Supplies? Equipage?’

  Malakai leaned back, swung his lizard gaze to him. ‘In my room. I have rope, oil, lamps, dried food. We need only purchase water.’

  ‘And crossbow bolts. I’ll need more of them.’

  Malakai shook his head. ‘I think you’ll find that more than enough of them have already been taken out to the island. Those and other things.’ His dark gaze fixed on the gouged tabletop. ‘There’s probably continual warfare on the isle. We may be attacked the moment we land. For our food, our supplies. The ruins have been a lawless hunting ground for over a year. The stronger parties have probably carved out claims, territory. There might even be a form of taxation for passage. Very probably slavery. I’ve heard that no one has returned for over two months now. It may be that newcomers are simply killed out of hand as useless mouths to feed.’

  Orchid stared, plainly shaken by this calm assessment.

  ‘And you were prepared to step into the teeth of that alone?’ Antsy said.

  The man smiled as if relishing the prospect. ‘Of course. Weren’t you, too?’

  Antsy took a drink to wet his throat. ‘Well … I suppose so.’ Truth was, he hadn’t really given much thought to what might be awaiting him on the islands. All his plans had been fixed on just getting out there. After that, well, he imagined he’d see which way the wind was blowing. Stupid, maybe. But he had his shaved knuckles in the hole and rare skills to offer. Besides, things might not be as bleak as this morbid fellow would have it.

  ‘Friends of yours, Red?’ Malakai whispered into the silence.

  Startled, Antsy looked up from his scarred knuckles. Three men now crowded the table. His friend from last night, Jallin, and two toughs. The Jumper sported a large purple bruise on his temple where Antsy had knouted him. Antsy rolled his eyes. ‘For the love of Burn, lad! What is it now?’

  Jallin carried a truncheon tight in both white-knuckled hands. His lips drew back from his small sharp teeth. ‘Three councils is what it is now.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Interest.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ Orchid asked.

  Jallin’s ey
es, sunken and bloodshot, flicked to her. His lips twisted into a leer. ‘Seen you around. Finally broke down and sold the last thing you got left, hey?’

  Antsy cut off Orchid’s shout. ‘Call it a day, lad. Don’t push this one.’

  The youth’s laugh of contempt was fevered. Antsy wondered when he’d last had a meal. Jallin glanced at his companions. ‘Hear that? The man arrives yesterday and all of a sudden he’s the governor. Well, I’ll tell you, old man – you hand over them bags and we’re even and no one gets hurt.’

  ‘That I cannot allow,’ said Malakai.

  Jallin jerked a glance down to the man as if seeing him for the first time. He gave a twitched shrug of dismissal. ‘Stay out of this if you know what’s good for you.’

  Malakai’s slash of a mouth spread in a big wide smile. Antsy noted that Jallin’s companions were nowhere near as confident as he. One licked his lips nervously while the other eyed Malakai with open unease.

  Malakai raised his gloved hands, palm down. He turned them over and suddenly both held throwing knives. He turned them over again and the knives disappeared. He did this over and over again, faster and faster, the blades seeming almost to flicker in and out of existence. The two thugs stared, fascinated, almost hypnotized by the demonstration. For his part, Antsy wondered whether what he was watching was the product of Warren manipulation or pure skill.

  Finally, jarring everyone, a blade slammed into the table before each of the two hired toughs. Both flinched back, and then, sharing a quick glance, continued their retreat, leaving Jallin standing absolutely still, his mouth working. All eyes shifted to the youth, whose chest heaved as if winded. ‘Damn you to Hood’s paths. I swear I’ll have your head!’ He threw the truncheon, which Antsy deflected with a raised forearm. Then he marched out after his companions.

  Orchid clearly wanted to ask what all that had been about, but instead her gaze swung to Malakai and Antsy watched her begin to wonder just who this was she’d entered into service with. As for himself, he now understood why the man was willing to venture out to the Spawns alone: there were probably damned few out there who could trouble him. The fellow struck him as a cross between his old army companions Quick Ben and Kalam. He wondered who he was and what he wanted out there. And just what he had sold himself into for fifty gold councils.

  Malakai simply returned to studying the tabletop as if he’d already forgotten the incident and was unaware of their quiet regard.

  CHAPTER III

  In ancient times a Seguleh came shipwrecked to the shores near Nathilog. The local ruler, thinking to impress upon him the strength and power of his city state, took the warrior upon a tour of the ringed-round cyclopean walls, the thick towers, and the deep donjons that was the fortress of Nathilog of that age. When the long detailed demonstration was finished the ruler turned to the man, saying, ‘There! Now you may return to your home and convince your fellows of our impregnability and might!’

  The Seguleh replied: ‘I have but one question.’

  ‘Yes?’ the ruler invited.

  ‘Why do you live in a prison?’

  Histories of Genabackis

  Sulerem of Mengal

  AS WAS HIS habit, scholar Ebbin Rose early and was the first to have tea. He found that the old hag was three times as sullen as before now that she had to cook for three times the men. One of Humble’s new guards was also up, pacing over the beaten dusty ground of the Dwelling Plain, a cloak wrapped tightly about him. The two guards Ebbin had hired weeks ago lay snoring next to the smouldering remains of a bonfire. He sighed.

  Still, somehow he’d felt safer with just those two incompetents watching camp. Captain – and he doubted the man really was a captain – Drin had made it very clear that he worked for Humble Measure, just as did he, Ebbin. This uncomfortable truth rankled as he’d always thought of himself as a free hand, more independent iconoclast than employee.

  Also, from time to time he’d seen the guards watching inwards towards camp as much as outwards towards any potential thieves or marauders. Sometimes Ebbin felt more like a prisoner than a client. Shrugging, he tossed away the rest of his tea and went to collect his equipment and to wake the two Gadrobi youths.

  At the well, he unlocked the cover and shoved it aside. Captain Drin was there with his four men. Ebbin’s two guards had also tagged along uninvited. Ebbin almost laughed. Seven guards! For what? A few potsherds. A handful of votive funerary offerings. Nothing of any true monetary worth. Some silver perhaps, but little gold. It was the artistic style and the subject matter that would be explosive. Potential proof of an erased, or systematically suppressed, Darujhistani Imperial Age.

  The captain peered down into the dark pit. He motioned to his men. ‘Strap your gear.’

  Ebbin eyed the man while he secured his helmet and tied his shield to his back. ‘Ah … Captain. Only I need go down.’

  ‘No longer.’

  An almost speechless panic gripped Ebbin. He wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs. ‘It’s dangerous – the rope. The youths are not strong enough …’

  The captain yanked on the rope, grunted his satisfaction. He pointed to Ebbin’s guards. ‘You two – you can man the winch.’

  Ebbin’s panic turned to a sudden possessive anger. He stepped up before the hired sword. ‘My find, Captain,’ he said, low and firm. ‘There’s no need for you or your men. You’ll only get in the way. You’ll unknowingly damage or trample precious artefacts. You would be interfering in a delicate excavation.’

  A lazy smile crooked up behind the man’s beard. He touched a finger to the point of a long iron chisel protruding from Ebbin’s shoulder bag. ‘Delicate. Right.’ The man was peering down with oddly veiled eyes, as if he were not really seeing him at all. ‘It’s settled, scholar. Humble Measure’s orders. We come along to oversee his interests. Whatever you find – it’s his.’ He motioned to the sling seat. ‘Now, if you please … you first.’

  Down in the tunnel opening Ebbin crouched, lit lantern in hand, awaiting the captain. His dread was now like a caged rabid animal racing round and round his skull. What of … it? The figure? What if they … disturbed it? Yet what if they did? Gold held no fascination for him. Humble Measure was welcome to all the loot he wanted. Why should this alarm him?

  Yet it did. He felt an unreasoning dread of that supine waiting figure. So exposed, so … inviting. He wanted to cringe from it in terror.

  When the captain arrived Ebbin helped him find his footing in the tunnel, then backed up a little to make room for the others. Drin had picked two of his men to accompany him, leaving two at the well-top – along with Ebbin’s men, of course.

  ‘Captain,’ he said, whispering in the dark, ‘there’s a figure in the tomb … I don’t want you or your men touching it … disturbing it. Do I have your word?’

  The man squinted at him, his face wrinkling up in scepticism. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘A body, lying on a plinth. It’s not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Whatever you say, scholar.’

  Somehow Ebbin was not reassured.

  When the next two had entered the tunnel, Drin motioned for Ebbin to go on. Lantern raised high before him, the scholar edged his way forward on hand and knees. Once within the large round burial chamber the three guards stood stock still for a long time, hands on strapped sword hilts, their eyes bright and big in the gloom. Eventually their gazes found the figure lying exactly as before, at the very centre of the chamber, within the arches that resembled two large rings carved of stone. The beaten gold mask gleamed in the lantern light. The graven smile seemed to welcome them. Their gazes rarely left the figure as Ebbin led them to the remaining sealed side-niche. He set down his shoulder bag, began getting out his tools.

  ‘Since your men are here, Captain,’ he said, ‘I could use some help.’

  Peering back over his shoulder at the figure, Drin grunted his agreement. He motioned to one of his men. Ebbin handed the guard one of the special alloy chisels supplied by Aman. ‘I
f you’ll hold this steady …’ He showed the man where he wanted the chisel on the door slab, then raised the hammer he’d carried down the tunnel.

  While Ebbin carefully tapped, the captain stood behind, watching. ‘Twelve,’ Drin mused, sounding much more subdued now in the dark confines of the tomb. ‘Like the stories my old grandpa used to tell. The Twelve Fiends …’ He shook his head in remembrance. ‘“Be good”, the old guy used to warn, “or they’ll come steal ya away.”’

  ‘This one’s still sealed,’ Ebbin said, and he blew on the scarring now visible on the face of the slab.

  ‘Aye. The others all looted. But not this one … nor him,’ and he jerked a thumb to the chamber’s centre. ‘Like they was interrupted, maybe.’

  Ebbin swept at the face of the slab with a fine horsehair brush. It looked as if a crack was developing. ‘Perhaps they meant to return to finish the job – but never made it back.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The captain sounded unconvinced.

  A desperate urge to hurry was on Ebbin, yet at the same time he was painfully aware that this was his one chance, his gods’ sent opportunity to salvage his reputation. To make a name for himself and overturn many past insults. And so he took his time despite the guard’s wandering attention and the heat that gathered in the confines of the tomb sending drops of sweat down his nose and neck, and making his hands slick.

  Boredom had driven the captain and the second guard from his side. They poked through the other chambers only to report them all empty, as Ebbin knew.

  A crack now ran horizontally across the slab, close to the top. He planned to take off the upper section, then reach behind to pull or strike the rest outward, thereby avoiding damaging any artefacts which might lie near the entrance. He grunted his frustration as a few shards fell within. The guard with him could not suppress a flinching retreat as the seal was broken. ‘It’s okay,’ Ebbin murmured. He raised the lantern to peer within, but couldn’t make out anything defining. The niche appeared no different from the eleven others. ‘Could you …’ He mimicked a yank on the remaining section of stone slab.