‘The business of the ruling Council of Darujhistan does not wait for appointments, nor sit patiently for the pleasure of a mere merchant.’
Measure nodded to himself, setting the papers down on the cluttered desk before him. ‘Ah, yes. Council business. Pray tell, what business could the Council have with this mere merchant?’
The young man produced a sealed scroll from his robes. ‘By order of the ruling Council of Darujhistan, as countenanced by its newly elected City Legate, this business is seized as property of said Council as a strategic resource vital to the defence of the city.’ He swallowed as if out of breath, or awed by the significance of what he had just blurted out.
Humble Measure cocked one brow. ‘Indeed?’
‘It is of course your prerogative to dispute the Council’s decision. You are free to appeal the judgement with the relevant subcommittee—’
‘I am not disputing the Legate’s decision,’ Humble said calmly.
The young man continued: ‘All petitions must be reviewed before any hearing …’ He blinked, faltering. ‘Not disputing?’ he repeated as if uncomprehending.
Humble waved to dismiss the very possibility.
‘Not – that is – there will be no appeal?’
‘None. I’ve been expecting this, truth be told.’
The young clerk of the Council wet his lips then cleared his throat into a fist. ‘Very well. You are free to remain, of course, in a purely supervisory role, as the entire production capacity of these facilities is to be immediately given over to the manufacture—’
‘Of arms and armour,’ said Humble.
The clerk frowned at the scroll in his hands. ‘No … to the manufacture of construction matériel. Namely chain, bars, quarrying implements and such.’
Humble Measure stared at the fellow as if he hadn’t spoken, then said, very softly, ‘What was that? Construction matériel?’
‘Yes. And half your labour force is to be transferred to the salvage works at—’
The clerk broke off as Humble stalked round the desk to snatch the papers from his hand. The Watch guards pressed forward, wary. Humble read through the official pronouncement, and looked up to blink wonderingly. ‘This was not our – that is, I will take this up with the Legate.’
The clerk found himself on familiar ground and this emboldened him to gently take back the nested scrolls. ‘You are of course free to register for an appointment with the city court.’ He waited for a response, but the burly merchant seemed to ignore him as he returned to his position behind his formidable desk. ‘Official copies of this notification will remain on file with the court.’
The merchant waved him away. His job completed in any case, the clerk found no difficulty in bowing and withdrawing. He was relieved: he would now have time to stop at a street stall for steamed dumplings.
Humble Measure sat for some time staring off at the empty darkness of his shadowed office. His secretary watched from the shattered doors, not certain whether he should withdraw or not. Then the man let go a long hissed breath as if releasing something held deep within, something held for a very long time indeed. His hands were fists on the desk before him.
The secretary bowed, tentatively, ‘Your orders, sir?’
‘Cancel today’s schedule, Mister Shiff. I am … planning.’
‘Perhaps I should request an appointment with the office of the Legate, sir?’
‘No. No need for that, Mister Shiff.’
‘You do not desire an appointment?’
‘Oh, he’ll see me,’ said Humble. ‘You can be assured of that. He will see me.’
Out on the Dwelling Plain the wind snapped the tattered edges of the awning Scorch and Leff huddled beneath for protection against the glaring sun. In all directions scarves of dust and sand blew about the low, desiccated hills. Leff raised the earthenware jug he was holding to his cracked lips.
‘Ain’t no more water,’ Scorch said, watching him. ‘Ran out day b’fore yesterday.’ He blinked his eyes sleepily. ‘I think.’
Leff looked at the jug as if just noticing it. ‘Oh – right. F’got again.’ He heaved a tired sigh and set down the jug in the sand next to him, though he retained a firm grip at its neck. ‘You know,’ he mumbled, forcing himself to swallow, ‘I don’t think they’re comin’ back.’
‘Who’s not comin’ back? The lads? That Gadrobi hag?’
‘Naw. Not them. They stole everything they could carry, didn’t they? Naw … I mean what’s-his-name. The chubby guy. Our employer.’
‘Not comin’ back?’ Scorch repeated, his face revealing his customary astonishment. ‘But he ain’t paid us!’
Leff’s long face paled in surprise. ‘Whaddya mean he ain’t paid us? Y’r supposed to take care of all that paperwork an’ such.’
Scorch shook his head in vigorous denial until he blinked, dizzy, and nearly toppled over. ‘That’s your side of the partnership.’
‘No. I clearly remember—’ Leff stopped because he discovered he’d once more raised the jug to his mouth. He let it fall. ‘Damn. Well, I guess we gotta find him.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Right. Find him.’ Then a sly look came to his bleary eyes and he touched a finger to the side of his nose. ‘But … come to think of it, he didn’t really fire us neither, did he?’
Scorch’s expression held its usual utter lack of comprehension. He slowly blinked again. ‘Hunh?’
‘I mean every day that passes he has to pay us for, right?’
Scorch drew breath to speak, stopped himself. His eyes widened and his lips formed a silent O of understanding. He eyed Leff, who nodded.
They started chuckling. Then they started laughing. They guffawed and slapped their thighs for a long time before they quietened down.
A shepherd minding his flock across the hills nearby heard the wind-borne crazy laughter of evil spirits and hurried his charges on with swift strikes of his staff. The fat gourds of water slung over his shoulders sloshed and rubbed his back raw.
He swore to the Mother Goddess he would never try this short cut through the hills again.
Ephren was by trade a fisherman in a nameless village on the coast where the Mengal mountains sweep down to the shores of the Meningalle Ocean. He was inspecting the caulking of his skiff which he had drawn up on the strand when six long vessels eased silently into the bay. He was curious, but not alarmed, since pirates and raiders were hardly known on this coast. While he watched, the vessels stepped their masts and sweeps ran out to drive them, with surprising speed, to shore.
As they drew closer he saw that the vessels’ lines were unlike those of any he knew: very long and low open galleys, their sides lined by rows of shields. These were not from Mengal, Oach, or distant Genabaris. Nor were they the fat carracks of the distant south, Callows, and the far-off Confederacy beyond.
When the shields resolved into oval painted masks Ephren’s skin shivered as if he had seen a shade and his heart lurched, almost failing. Once before he’d seen a similar vessel. He’d been trading in the south and such a ship had been drawn up on the shore for repairs. Its crew had been the talk of Callows; everyone stared though none had dared approach.
Seguleh, they’d whispered. Disarm yourself to approach – wait for one to address you then speak only to him or her.
And there had been some trading; the strangers’ amphorae of rare oils for food, sweet water, and timber. No one was wounded or killed. Indeed, the Seguleh had seemed just as curious as their hosts, wandering the markets and walking the fish wharves, if extraordinarily prideful and utterly aloof.
Others further up the shore were pointing now; word of the vessels’ arrival was spreading. Ephren studied the hammer and awl in his hands, then set them down and walked – never run! – to the hamlet to warn everyone.
All six longships were drawn up side by side. Ephren made certain everyone in the settlement was unarmed and warned them to just go about their normal business. But of course none did. Everyone gathered on the edge of the small curve of beach the Seg
uleh had landed upon.
There were more of them than he’d ever heard tell of. Down in Callows there’d been some four, together with a regular crew of hired Confederacy sailors – many of the latter outlawed men and women with blood-prices on their heads and nowhere else to turn. Here, all hands and crew were masked Seguleh; hundreds of them. It was an army. An invading army of Seguleh. Ephren almost fainted at the thought. Hoary Sea-Father! Who could withstand such a force? Why had they come? Was it in response to these other invaders – the foreign Malazans from across the sea? Perhaps that was the answer; the legendary Seguleh ire, finally provoked.
In any case they ignored Ephren and his family and neighbours. And instead of trading, or setting up camp to overnight, out came the amphorae of rare oils, which to Ephren’s astonishment and growing dread they upended over their vessels, splashing the contents all over the open holds and over the sides.
A single torch was lit. One of their number silently held it aloft. From a distance this one’s mask was very pale. He, or she, touched it to the nearest of the vessels and the yellow flames leapt quickly from one to the next. A great cloud of black smoke arose and billowed out to sea. The gathered Seguleh stood as still as statues, and as silent, watching.
Then, just as silently, they set out, two abreast, running inland. They took the track Ephren, his neighbours and their parents and grandparents before them had tramped up into the Mengal range, onward to Rushing River pass, then even further, twisting downslope towards the dusty Dwelling Plain far below.
The last to go was the one who had set flame to the vessels. After the last of his brethren had jogged off he remained, motionless, torch still in hand. Finally he dropped the blackened stick and walked up the beach to come within an arm’s length of Ephren. And as he passed, his walk so fluid and graceful, Ephren saw that a single smear of fading red alone marred the man’s otherwise pristine pale oval mask. He knew enough lore of the Seguleh to know what that should indicate. But still he could not believe it. It was unheard of. Unimaginable. And if in fact it was true – then perhaps this was not an invasion as he had thought.
It was, perhaps, in truth more … a migration.
CHAPTER VI
They who go out into the world see the wonders wrought by the gods,
And return humbled
Wisdom of the Ancients
Kreshen Reel, compiler
ANTSY DREAMT OF the northern campaigns. he was back in Black Dog Woods. He lay flat in the cold mud and snow as auroras and concatenations of ferocious war-magics flickered and danced overhead. Mist clung about the trees like cobwebs. His squad was hunched down around him, toothy grins gleaming through the camouflaging muck. Downslope, along a track of churned mud and ice, a column of Free Cities infantry filed past. He gave a ready hand-sign. He timed his move then leapt up, aimed, and fired his crossbow. A hail of bolts lanced down from either side of the road. The column became a churning mass of screaming men.
The contingent’s leader ignored the missiles. Wearing armour of blackened plates over mail, and a helm beaten to resemble a boar’s head, the man charged the slope. Behind him soldiers scattered, struggling in the rime and iced mud. The commander was headed straight for him. Antsy threw aside his crossbow, knowing it was useless as every bolt rebounded from the man’s virtued armour. The Sogena City officer swept up a blade that resembled a cold blue shard of ice. No choice now but to pull a Hedge. Antsy threw a Moranth munition point-blank at the man’s iron-armoured chest.
His world shattered into white light as a giant’s fist slapped him backwards. He lay staring up at snow drifting over him like ash. He felt nothing, just a vague lightness. Faces crowded into his vision. Unending thunder reverberated in his ears.
‘Sarge? Antsy? You alive, man?’
He swallowed hot blood mixed with bile. Countless gashes stung his face, and his chest was cold with wet blood. He grabbed one trooper, a woman, and tried to raise himself. ‘Did I get the bugger?’
‘Yeah, Sarge. You drove him off good.’
Something was stabbing at his arm. Antsy snatched the hand, twisted it, and got a girl’s surprised squeak. He looked up, blinking, into darkness. A weak bronze light was shining up the stairwell of the Spawn, and in its glow he saw Orchid glaring at him. ‘Sorry.’ He released her hand.
‘Your neck bled in the night. Did you reopen it on the rocks?’
‘Something like that. Where’re Malakai, Corien?’
‘Malakai went further in, exploring. Corien went down to the water. Now take off that armour. I have dressings and a balm.’
He pulled at the laces of his hauberk – more of a jack, really, what some might call a brigandine. Mail over layers of leather toughened by bone and antler banding glued between them. Beneath this he wore a quilted aketon padded with hessian, and under that a linen shirt. When he pulled the shirt over his head Orchid let out a hiss – he presumed at all the scars of old wounds and the crusted blood from his dash against the rocks.
‘Corien told me you were a professional soldier. I’ve never met one before. What’s this?’
She was pointing to the tattoo on his shoulder of an arch in front of a field of flames. He thought about lying, then decided it really didn’t matter any more. ‘That’s my old unit. The Bridgeburners. All gone now.’
‘Disbanded?’
‘Dead.’
‘Oh.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘Is that why it’s glowing and the flames are moving?’
‘Glowing?’ He raised his arm to study it. ‘It ain’t glowing.’
The girl was frowning, but she shrugged. ‘I thought it was.’ She handed him a wet cloth. ‘Clean yourself up. I guess that makes you my enemy,’ she added, musing, watching him wipe away the blood.
‘Oh? You from the north?’
She glanced away, biting at her lip. ‘Sort of. Anyway, you sacked the Free Cities.’
‘Sacked ain’t the word. Most capitulated.’
She took back the cloth, began cleaning the wound on his neck, rather savagely. ‘Who wouldn’t in the face of your Claw assassins? Your awful Moranth munitions?’
He winced. ‘Careful there, girl.’
‘You use them, don’t you? Bridgeburners? Siegeworkers, sappers, saboteurs?’
‘Yeah. That’s right.’
She pushed herself away. ‘It’s not deep, and it’s clean now.’ She dug into her shoulder bag then suddenly looked up. ‘Those are the things in your pannier bags, yes? The things Malakai wants?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You would have used them against Darujhistan, wouldn’t you? Razed the city?’
‘I suppose so. If it came to a siege.’
She threw a leather pouch at him. ‘Put that on the wound. You Malazans are nothing more than an army of invading murderers and bullies. Barbarians.’
Antsy saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
They sat at opposite ends of the tilted chamber in silence the rest of the time. Antsy pulled on his shirts and hauberk then set to oiling his weapons and tools. Orchid wrapped herself in Malakai’s cloak, which was dry; the man must have thrown it off before diving into the water. Digging through the equipment Antsy found a lamp: a simple bowl with a wick. Utterly useless. And without a light he was useless. What a way to pull together a cache for his retirement.
Oh well, he’d probably just have died of boredom anyway.
Corien returned first. He climbed the stairs carrying an armload of flotsam: broken boards, lengths of rope, pieces of broken furniture cut from some dark wood. He dropped the lot in the lowest corner of the chamber then brushed at his brocaded finery.
‘What’s all this?’ Orchid demanded.
He bowed. ‘Well, we are wet and the air in here is chill. That calls for a fire.’
‘That won’t burn. Half of it is wet.’
He looked to Antsy. ‘Would you care to do the honours?’
‘Certainly.’ Antsy crab-walked across the canted floor. He dug in the equipment for a skin of oil, f
rom which he poured one precious stream over the refuse before pulling out his flint and iron.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Orchid, and she clambered to the opposite side.
All it took was a few strikes at the driest length of old rope and the hairs began to sizzle. Blue and yellow flames enveloped the pile. ‘Excellent,’ said Corien. ‘Now, Orchid, you first.’
‘Me first what?’
‘Your clothes. We ought to dry your clothes. You have that big cloak to wrap yourself in.’
She snorted. ‘Tell you what – you two wander up the hallway to take a look while I dry my clothes.’
Corien bowed again. ‘Your wisdom is as unassailable as your beauty.’
She scowled at the courtly praise as if suspecting she was being mocked.
Antsy pushed Corien up the tunnel.
A cloud of sooty black smoke climbed with them. They shared a worried glance in the uncertain light of the fire before a leading edge of the cloud caught an updraught and the smoke was sucked deeper into the complex. Antsy eased out a tensed breath.
Corien led the way. Round the first corner it became almost instantly dark. Even for Antsy, trained and experienced sapper that he was, comfortable in any mine, it was unnervingly close and black. Like feeling your way through ink. He resisted the urge to call for Corien. The lad was just ahead, he could hear him: the scrape of the bronze end-cap of his sheath, his slightly tensed breathing, his gloved hands brushing the stone walls as they advanced like blind fish through the murk.
Beneath Antsy’s fingers the cut and polished stone walls were as smooth as glazed ceramic. He kept stumbling as the passage not only tilted upwards but canted a good twenty degrees. The walls slid by slick and cool under his fingertips. He glanced back and could just make out a slight lightening of the absolute black – a hint of the fire far behind. ‘How far on does this go?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can’t you see? I thought you had that unguent thing.’
He believed he glimpsed a bright grin in the gloom. ‘I do. I just haven’t used it yet.’
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