CHAPTER X
Let it be known that a number of centuries past an ambitious and expansionist dynasty of rulers named the Jannids asserted control over the southern city states. These rulers prosecuted successful campaigns across the lands gaining sway all the way north to the Pannion region. They were famous for having raised countless stelae upon which they ordered engraved the detailed histories of those campaigns, listing their victories, together with exhaustive compilings of treasure taken, prisoners, and states humbled. Only in one campaign were they crushed – a defeat that triggered their downfall. This is known because of one unpolished boulder that lies on the western shore south of Morn. Carved on it are a mere four words: ‘The Jannids fell here.’
Histories of Genabackis
Sulerem of Mengal
THE FIRST VESSEL leaving Darujhistan’s harbour that morning was an old merchantman ferrying passengers and freight westward around the lakeshore. Upon sighting the ancient ship, its paint sun-faded to a uniform pale grey, sails patched and threadbare, sides battered and scraped to naked slivers, Torvald halted on the wharf. Passengers brushed past laden with rolled reed mats and bags of possessions. Some drove young sucklings ahead of them. Just about all carried fowl gobbling inside cages woven of reed and green branches.
He turned on one of the city Wardens sent to escort him to the docks. ‘This is supposed to be a diplomatic mission,’ he hissed, struggling to keep his voice low. ‘I can’t go on this tub!’
One of the guards tucked a folded pinch of leaves into a cheek and leaned against piled crates. ‘It’s a secret mission, Councillor,’ he drawled.
Torvald tried his best superior glare but the fellow was clearly indifferent. ‘If it’s so secret then how come you know about it? And don’t call me Councillor.’
A lazy roll of the shoulders from the man. ‘Orders.’
Torvald began to wonder just what those orders were. See him from the city even if it means throwing him from the docks, perhaps. He picked up his heavy travelling bag and slipped its strap over a shoulder. ‘Fine. Secret. Tell your superiors you saw me off then,’ he said, and headed up the gangway.
The small deck was crammed with goods. Pigs squealed, terrified, sheep bawled, and caged birds gabbled. All this did nothing for the state of the decking. The only available space was a suspiciously clear arc surrounding two figures sitting against the side close to the bow. Torvald could well understand the avoidance: one of them was a giant of a fellow with a massive tangle of hair and beard all unkempt together like a great mane of dirty blond and grey. His shoulders were titanic, his upper arms as massive as Torvald’s own thighs, and his chest swept out like a barrel. Torvald thought him perhaps a travelling strongman. The fellow next to him was a skinny Rhivi tribesman elder looking particularly frail in such company. To Torvald the two would have appeared a far more intimidating pair if the big fellow hadn’t been so clearly absorbed in studying the city, laid out pink and golden in the dawn’s light, climbing in cliff ridge over cliff ridge to Majesty Hill beyond. The old fellow was clearly sick as a dog, bleary-eyed and pale.
But then Torvald had travelled for a time in the company of someone who could arguably be named the most intimidating figure these lands had ever met. He dropped his bag and leaned up against the side. ‘Not going to try your luck?’ he said to the big fellow.
The man’s gaze swung to him and Torvald suppressed a flinch when he saw the bestial eyes, the irises oddly shaped, and felt the plain sheer weight of the man’s regard. The fellow cocked one thick brow, rumbled, ‘How’s that?’
Torvald found his throat suddenly dry. ‘The city … they’re always hungry for new acts.’
‘Acts?’ the man slowly enunciated, his voice hardening.
‘You know … bending bars, breaking chains.’
Both brows rose as comprehension dawned and the fellow eased back, relaxing. ‘Ah. No.’ He crooked a small nostalgic smile. ‘Been a lot of years since I’ve had to do any of that.’
Somehow, Torvald felt immense relief. ‘I’m sorry – I thought …’
The man raised a gnarled hand to forestall any further explanation. ‘I understand.’ The fierce eyes looked him up and down. ‘What are you doing on a tub like this?’
My point exactly. Torvald offered an indifferent shrug. ‘First boat leaving.’
‘And far from the fastest,’ the man rumbled.
Unformed suspicions writhed anew in Torvald’s stomach and he glanced over to see the two city Wardens, who, grinning, offered lazy waves of farewell.
Gods curse the Legate!
The gangway scraped up and wharf hands threw off the lines. Two of the crew pushed off with poles while others set the single lateen-rigged sail. The menagerie of animals squealed and voided anew.
Torvald threw himself down against the side, rested his arms on his knees. Burn’s love. Did I just sell myself on to a slow boat to nowhere for the price of a bright certificate and an empty fancy title? He pressed his hands to his head.
Lim has just rid himself of an irritating new councillor.
‘Love or coin?’ A quavering thin voice spoke up.
Torvald raised his head to see the Rhivi elder studying him from around the great bulk of his companion. ‘I’m sorry …?’
‘Your reasons for travel – if you would speak of them. In my experience a man travels for one of two reasons. A powerful husband or a powerful debt.’
Torvald snorted a self-mocking laugh. ‘No. Nothing so romantic. Just a plain old powerful political rival.’
The big fellow now eyed him sidelong, his gaze narrow. ‘Really?’ he rumbled.
The lazy silt-laden stream that ran into Lake Azur at Dhavran hardly deserved a name. Some called it the Red, others the Muddy. In any case, it was a barrier of a sort. Over the years a crossing had been constructed of stones and garbage capped by a simple bridge of laid logs packed with dirt. Fist K’ess eyed the mud-choked channel and thought it the most pathetic crossing he’d ever seen.
‘Do we defend here?’ Captain Fal-ej asked. Her tone more than made clear her own disenchantment.
K’ess adjusted his seat astride his mount. He’d been too long out of the saddle and his thighs were scraped raw. For a time he eyed the troops marching on to the short causeway. Not enough to make a stand. And Dhavran? This collection of mud and wood huts doesn’t boast one defensible position.
He sipped some water from a skin hung on his saddle then sucked his teeth. At first he’d considered heading west into the Moranth mountains to wait things out there. But then a rider had arrived from Captain Goyan’s contingent: they were moving on. And why? Word had come from the Fifth. Fist Steppen moving north. Rendezvous south of Dhavran.
All very well and good. Altogether they might field close to ten thousand. Every remaining Malazan trooper south of Cat. Enough for him to finally unclench his anxious buttocks for a moment or two.
But before he could allow himself that one moment of relaxation reports arrived from loyal Barghast scouts in the eastward foothills of the Tahlyn range: a large force moving west. Rhivi tribals, apparently. Some three days out and moving far faster than they.
It was a race he knew he wouldn’t win. Thus the hope of contesting the crossing here at Dhavran. And thus his disappointment.
He straightened in his stirrups for a moment to adjust the sweaty leathers beneath his mail skirting. He eyed Fal-ej while she watched the troops march. Her helmet hung from her pommel and she’d wrapped a scarf around her head in the style of her homeland, Seven Cities. A handsome woman. Damned smart. But a touch sharp-edged. Haughty, some of the officers thought her, he knew. But not he. Good wide hips on her too. Fit for throwing out sons, as his ma would’ve said. Woman like that ought to have someone to hold on to.
‘Sir?’ she said. Her gaze had moved to him, questioning.
He cleared his throat. ‘We keep going. Double-time. This place is too wretched.’
She nodded her curt assent, relieved. ‘Yes, Fi
st.’
K’ess plucked at the gauntlets he held in one hand. ‘Fal-ej …’ he began.
‘Yes, Fist?’ she answered quickly.
He slapped the gauntlets to his armoured thigh. ‘Nothing. It’s not important.’ He waved towards the stream. ‘Keep the sappers on that ramshackle excuse for a bridge. The last thing we need is for it to fall apart under us.’
Fal-ej saluted, kneed her mount into motion. ‘Yes, Fist.’
He watched her go, frowning at himself. Now’s not the time – what with a horde of Rhivi closing in on us. He sighed.
Captain Fal-ej urged her mount down the stream’s oversized channel more savagely than she intended. Remember your priorities, woman, she castigated herself. By the Seven False Gods, what’s gotten into you? Hanging about like a mare in heat. It must be offensive to the man.
She pulled up next to a bridge picket, demanded, ‘Where are the damned saboteurs, trooper?’
The man saluted twice for good measure. He pointed vaguely down towards the stream. ‘Thought I saw them headin’ off that way, Captain, sir …’
Fal-ej yanked the reins over, kneed the mount onward. Has the responsibility of every soldier on his shoulders, woman! Not likely to allow himself to be distracted – and hardly by a figure such as yourself! Calluses on your cheeks from the helmet. Stink of sweat always on you. Arms like some blacksmith’s!
Cresting a grassed sandbar she spotted the crew squatting around a campfire, gutted fish on sticks over the flames. She slapped her mount down towards the stream and pulled up, kicking mud over them. ‘What is this?’
The marine sergeant, a great fat woman, merely peered up unperturbed. ‘Just havin’ a bite, Cap’n.’
‘You were ordered to keep an eye on the bridge.’
‘Bridge is good as beer, Cap’n. Nothin’ there to break. Just big ol’ logs.’
Fal-ej glared down at them. ‘Well … just the same, stay on it! Something might give.’
The sergeant rubbed a large black mole on one cheek, considering. ‘Such as …?’
Fal-ej threw her arms out wide. ‘How in the name of Ehrlitan should I know! I’m not the engineer. Now get going!’
Frowning her agreement, the sergeant motioned to a trooper. ‘Whitey, take your team over.’
‘Aw, c’mon, Sarge. Fish is almost ready.’
The sergeant’s voice took on an edge. ‘Get going … now.’
‘Fine!’ The man straightened to slap dirt off his hide trousers, motioned his team up. The sergeant turned to the captain, cocked a brow and saluted.
Fal-ej answered the salute and yanked her mount round. ‘Thank you, sergeant.’ She rode off kicking up more mud.
‘What’s gotten under her saddle?’ a trooper muttered. ‘Martinet bitch.’
‘Naw,’ the sergeant said as she watched the woman go, a hand shading her gaze. ‘Ain’t nothing a good humping wouldn’t cure.’
‘Sarge!’ one trooper groaned. ‘Do you have to?’
‘That’s your answer for everything,’ another complained.
The sergeant turned, rubbing her hands together. ‘Yes indeed – too bad none of you poor excuses are up to it.’
‘Oh, don’t go on about the damned Moranth. We don’t believe none o’ those stories.’
‘Now don’t go and just kill everyone, okay!’ Yusek snarled over her shoulder as they struggled up the narrow mountain trail.
‘You exaggerate,’ Sall answered calmly.
‘No, I do not fucking exaggerate! Someone raises a cooking ladle your way and you two butcher two hundred! Try to show a little respect. This is some kinda monastery or something.’
‘If they are unarmed they have nothing to fear from us.’
She snorted her scorn. Pausing, she glanced further down to distant Lo making his way up after them. No sign of sweat or labour on either of them! No shortage of breath. Yusek, for her part, felt light-headed and nauseous with the height. Gods. Never been this high before. They say the air is poisonous up here. Kill you as sure as a blade to the heart.
Swallowing to wet her rasping throat she glanced ahead to the monastery walls of heaped cobbles. Tattered prayer flags snapped in the cold wind. White tendrils of smoke blew here and there from cook-fires. Overhead a clear, painfully bright blue sky domed the world. Beautiful, in its way, but for a faint green blemish across its vault – the Scimitar of a god’s vengeance, some named that banner.
A monk, or acolyte, or whatever you would call him, met them at the stone arch that was the compound’s entrance. Yusek took the shaven-headed slim figure for a boy until she spoke, revealing her sex. ‘Enter, please, the adytum. We offer food, shelter, and peace for contemplation to all who would enter.’
‘Adytum?’ Yusek repeated. ‘Is that the place’s name?’
‘The adytum is a location. The most sacred place. The inner shrine of worship for our faith.’
‘What faith is that?’
‘Dessembrae.’ And the woman gestured aside, inviting. Nor did she blink in the face of the two masked Seguleh.
Yusek urged Sall forward. ‘Well? Go on!’
By his hesitation the young man appeared almost embarrassed. ‘There is a proper time for everything,’ he told Yusek aside; then, to the acolyte: ‘Thank you. We would rest. And any hot food you may spare would be welcome.’
The acolyte showed them to a simple hut of piled stone cobbles, almost like a cell. A fire already burned in its small central hearth. Smoke drifted up to the ceiling hole. A black iron pot was heating over the low flames. The young acolyte – no older than I am, Yusek reflected – in her loose shirt over trousers of plain cloth and bare feet, stopped at the threshold. ‘You would prefer separate quarters?’ she asked Yusek, who nodded. ‘This way.’
The hut she showed Yusek was no different from the other. ‘Listen,’ Yusek told her, lowering her voice, ‘those two are Seguleh.’
‘I have heard of them.’
‘Yeah. Well, they’re here to kill someone. You have to warn him – tell him to get out of here.’
‘They’ve come to kill someone? I doubt that very much.’
Yusek found herself clenching her teeth. ‘You don’t understand—’
The young woman held up a hand. ‘Your concern does you credit. But there is no need for worry. The man you speak of has no interest in their challenges. They will leave empty-handed.’
Yusek wanted to grab the girl’s shoulder and shake her. You little fool! You have no idea what you are facing here! But the girl studied her, calm, uninflected, and something in that steady regard made Yusek uneasy. As if she’s looking through me … like I’m a ghost or something.
The girl bowed. ‘If that is all.’
‘Yeah … I suppose so.’
The girl withdrew. Yusek sat on the cot, unrolled the bedding of thick woven blankets provided against the cold. In truth she was exhausted, which surprised her. Hardly a full day’s journey since their last camp, she freezing her butt off, complaining the entire time, and those two maintaining their infuriating silence – not even telling her to shut the Abyss up.
She lay down, threw an arm across her eyes. Well, she was free of them. She’d brought them to the monastery and now her obligation was over. She’d take off tomorrow and leave these pathetic empty wastes behind. Maybe she’d head on north to Mengal. Who knew, maybe she’d take a ship to some rich distant land like Quon Tali or Seven Cities.
She fell asleep dreaming of that. Of getting away, far away.
When she started awake the light coming in through the shutters over the single tiny window held the pink of dawn. Normally she never woke up this early but normally she never fell asleep in the afternoon. Groaning, she stretched her stiff frozen limbs, then dropped to her knees before the hearth to tease the fire back to life. After a hot cup of tea she felt alive enough to head out.
When she opened the door the first thing that struck her was the silence. She’d grown used to the forest with its constant background noise of
the wind through the branches, the trunks groaning as they flexed. Here there was only the low moan of the wind over stone, the faint snap of the prayer flags. She found herself almost trying to soften the fall of her moccasins on the stone-flagged walk. Almost. Then she shook off the spell and went to find something to eat.
To her chagrin she found everyone up already. What is it with these people that they get up so early? It’s inhuman. A group of the monks, or priests, were out on a central field of sand, weaving through some sort of exercise or devotional movements. She watched for a time: the practice held a kind of flowing beauty. It seemed almost hypnotic. But she was hungry and so she turned away to find someone to ask for directions to a kitchen or mess.
Later, chewing on a hot flatbread, she wandered back out to the central open field to see Sall and Lo watching the monks, who were now engaged in some sort of paired physical training of throws and falls.
Aha, she thought. This is more like it. She stepped up to Sall. ‘Going to talk to me? Or am I a nobody now?’
Standing arms crossed, the youth did not shift his gaze from the monks. ‘I will speak to you … for the time being.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. What now? What will you two do?’
‘Lo will challenge the – the man here.’
Yusek gave an exaggerated nod. She too watched the monks. ‘So which one’s he?’
A heavy breath raised Sall’s shoulders. ‘That is the problem. He will not identify himself. Nor will anyone else do so.’ His voice took on an almost puzzled edge: ‘They are simply ignoring us.’
Yusek choked on her bread. Gulping, she managed to swallow, then broke out in a laugh that left her almost helpless. She bent forward, resting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. She straightened, wiping her cheeks. Sall was regarding her from behind his mask, his dark brown eyes uncomfortable. She took a steadying breath. ‘Aii-ya. So … how does it feel to be on the receiving end, hey?’
Orb Sceptre Throne Page 34
