Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  He was silent for a time, considering. Blend fired through the window. ‘The next one won’t miss!’ she bellowed. ‘Stay away!’

  The mage, or whatever he was, Aman, remained across the street, watching, while the Seguleh advanced. Duiker came to Spindle’s side. ‘I’m unarmed. Perhaps I could talk to them …’

  ‘You could try,’ Spindle told him; then, to Blend, ‘My other help says we’re not alone here.’ He was forced to fire on an advancing Seguleh. The woman knocked the bolt aside with her blade. Gods damn! From only twenty feet away, too.

  ‘What are your terms?’ Duiker called from the scorched doorway.

  ‘Your heads are my terms,’ the mage shouted back.

  A scream of surprise and terror sounded from the rear and Blend jumped. Picker? She threw down the crossbow and ran for the door to the pantry and kitchen. Duiker took her place, thrusting with a spear. He drew the haft back, surprised, to examine its cleanly severed end.

  As Blend reached the door it was thrust open to reveal a Seguleh. She swung, her blade biting into the man’s chest. He responded by grasping her arm and twisting. She buckled, hissing her pain and leaving the long-knife standing from the man’s leather-armoured chest.

  Spindle stared, then sniffed the air. Vinegar? Blades hacked at the wooden slats behind him. ‘Hey – it’s them pickled fellows from downstairs!’

  Picker rushed out from behind the preserved Seguleh. She twisted its grip from Blend’s wrist and it moved on, ignoring them. Spindle and Duiker retreated from the front where the living Seguleh were pushing back the barrier. They watched in disbelief as three more of the slow-walking, deliberate creatures emerged from the rear and took up defensive positions with the one Blend had stabbed: two at the front and two others holding the windows. The rest, Spindle assumed, were covering the back. At the entrance the two attacking Seguleh thrust and cut so beautifully he could only watch, awed. But their preserved – undead? – brethren, while slower, possessed the insurmountable advantage of already being dead. And so blades sliced into leathery hardened flesh to no visible effect and the attackers could make no headway.

  As the assault wore on it looked to Spindle as if their protectors would be literally hacked to pieces, so he went behind the bar to collect his kitbag. Then he jumped up on to a table in full view of the entrance, pulled out a wrapped object, shook off the layer of insulating cloth and held over his head his last remaining cusser. ‘See this?’ he shouted.

  The attacking Seguleh flinched back a step – they indeed recognized what he had.

  ‘Don’t press me! You come in here, we all go together! Understand?’

  ‘We won’t just lay down our swords, y’damned fool,’ Picker yelled out of a window.

  Dragging uneven steps sounded outside and the bent figure of the mage, Aman, appeared at the doorway. He pushed aside the two attacking Seguleh to study the frozen tableau first through one eye then through the other, much lower one; the Seguleh ready, weapons poised; their preserved undead fellows; Blend and Picker taking advantage of the lull to wind crossbows; Duiker already holding a loaded one; and Spindle, arms upraised.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare wreck this temple,’ Aman said.

  ‘Temple?’ Spindle said in disbelief. ‘This is a bar.’

  ‘A bar. You think this is a bar?’

  ‘It’s our bar,’ Picker said. ‘So we can blow it up if we want to.’

  ‘Privilege of ownership,’ Blend added, spitting to one side.

  The mage turned to Duiker. ‘And what of you, historian? Are you prepared to die?’

  Duiker levelled the crossbow on him. ‘I’ve already died.’

  One of the mage’s mismatched eyes twitched and he frowned his acceptance of the point. ‘I see. Well argued. For now, then.’ He waved the Seguleh back.

  Once they were up the street Spindle couldn’t help himself and he leaned out of the door to yell: ‘Hey, you Seguleh boys. You heel real well. Do you roll over too?’

  It seemed to him that the four with Aman all missed a step with that comment, and their backs straightened. But he couldn’t be sure. He turned to the bar to find their preserved Seguleh guardians shuffling back downstairs. Everyone watched them go then lifted their heads to stare at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not a proper saboteur, Spin,’ Picker said, and nodded to his hand. ‘Could you put that away now?’

  He saw that he was still cradling the cusser in one hand. ‘This?’ He threw it up and caught it again to a collective gust of breaths from the other three. ‘Aw, don’t worry. It’s a dud. Hollow.’

  Blend reached up as if to throttle him. ‘Well, you ought to let us know, dammit all to the Abyss!’

  ‘No. You shouldn’t know. Don’t you see? That would ruin the effect. They have to see the fear in your eyes to know it’s real, right?’

  Picker waved him away. ‘Aw, shove it.’

  ‘Now is the time to gird one’s loins for the labour ahead,’ the diminutive fat man murmured as he walked the mud lane between leaning shacks of waste-wood, felt and cloth. He wiped his gleaming mournful face with a sodden handkerchief. ‘Yes indeed … the time has come to hitch up one’s trousers and be a man! Or is it to pull them down and be a man? I never could get that straight … Oh dear, I really should stop right there!’

  He paused at an intersection of two lanes where a dog eyed him, growling. No hordes of unreasonably angry washerwomen armed with dirty laundry! Excellent. And the Maiten in sight where come curling currents from the plain where fates move as they do – forward, misplacing things as they go.

  Seven dogs now surrounded him, muzzles down between forelimbs, lips pulled back from broken teeth.

  Hoary old ones! Washerwomen preferable to this.

  He drew a bone from one loose sleeve. ‘Good doggies!’ He threw. Though not nearly so far as he would have wished. He turned and ran, or jogged, puffing, in the opposite direction.

  The next two corners brought him to the hut on the extreme western edge of the shanty town where he stopped, short of breath, and wiped his face.

  ‘And here he is panting in anticipation,’ the old woman sitting on the threshold observed around the pipe in her mouth.

  ‘Indeed. Here I am yet again. Your ever hopeful suitor. Slave to your whim. Prostrate in inspiration.’

  ‘I can smell your inspiration from here,’ she observed, grimacing. ‘You brought offering?’

  ‘But of course!’ From a sleeve he produced a cloth-wrapped wedge the size of a quarter brick.

  The old woman raised her tangled brows, impressed, as she took it. ‘Things are progressing nicely, aren’t they, love?’ She tore a piece and moulded it in one grimed fist, warming and softening it. ‘The circle complete, yes?’ and she eyed him, smirking.

  He ducked his head. ‘Ah – yes. Spoke too quickly, Kruppe did. Yet, is it not so? Was Kruppe not quite correct? There! Yes, god-like perspicacity, that.’

  ‘Back to anticipation, are we?’ the old woman murmured, and she drew long and hard on the pipe. ‘Suggesting … perspiration.’

  ‘Yes. Well. I am dancing as fast as I can, dearest.’

  ‘Hmm, dancing,’ she purred, exhaling a great stream of smoke. ‘That’s what I want to see. Won’t you come in?’

  ‘Gladly. Dogs and washerwomen and whatnot. But before … you have them, yes? Ready?’

  She pressed her hands to her wide chest. ‘All hot and ready for you, love.’

  The man passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Kruppe is speechless.’

  ‘For once. Now, come in – and think of Darujhistan.’ And she disappeared within.

  Kruppe wiped his slick forehead. ‘Oh, fair city. Dreaming city. The things I do for you!’

  Shall we draw a curtain across such a commonplace domestic scene? Modesty would insist. Yet Kruppe found the witch athwart her tattered blankets snoring to beat a storm. Well. Shall vanity be stung to no end? Shall the Eel skulk away, tail between its … whatever? Never! The prize aw
aits! And he knelt over the insensate woman, reaching for her layered shirts.

  To feel eyes upon him. Beady eyes, low to the ground.

  He turned to find the dogs watching from the doorway, eager, tongues lolling.

  Aiya! Kruppe cannot perform like this! He flapped his hands. ‘Begone! Have you no decency?’

  Liquid eyes begged, muzzles nudged forepaws.

  Defeated, Kruppe drew yet another bone from within his voluminous sleeve and threw. The dogs spun away, claws kicking up dirt.

  ‘Now, where were we, my love?’ He wriggled his fingers above her and there from a fold of the shirts peeped the weave of a dirty linen sack.

  Aha! And now to pluck this blushing blossom …

  Kruppe walked the trash-strewn mud ways of Maiten town, and all was well. He inhaled the scent of the open sewer, the steaming waste, and sighed. He patted his chest where a bag rested still warm from another, far greater and more bountiful nook. All was music to his ears: the fighting dogs, the laundry slapped with alarming force upon the rocks, the fond taunting and rock-throwing of the playful local urchins.

  And now for the city! Fair Darujhistan. Ringed round and enclosed. Yet are there not ways around all walls and gates for such as the slippery perspiry Eel!

  CHAPTER XIV

  It is said that once a ruler in far off Tulips hosted a great and rich banquet (Tulips then being a prosperous city, unlike now) at the end of which he invited the guests to stand and give their definition of a full and happy life – the best version of which he would reward with a heavy torc of gold. One after another the guests stood to assure the ruler that his was in fact that best exemplar of a full and happy life. A Seguleh traveller chanced to be attending the celebration and she did not rise to participate in the competition. Irked, the king bade the woman stand and deliver her, all too secretive, version of a full and happy life.

  The woman dipped her mask in compliance and stood. ‘Of a full and happy life I can give no accounting,’ she replied. ‘But we Seguleh believe that the gods give men and women glimpses of happiness only to reach again to take them away. Therefore, it seems to us that it is only at the very end, at one’s death, that any such measure can be made.’

  And the king bade the woman depart without any largesse or honour, for he thought it utter foolishness to withhold measure until the end. Yet it is said that afterwards all peace of mind fled the ruler as he fretted without cease over when his many advantages might slip from him and in the end he died tormented and mad.

  Histories of Genabackis

  Sulerem of Mengal

  JAN HAD GROWN up knowing an old saying among the seguleh: certainty is the spine of the blade. And he accepted this, making it part of his own bones. For were they not the sword of truth? The anvil of its testing? Yet nothing since the Call was as he thought it would be. Nothing in the shining glory of service to the First in their songs and stories had prepared him for the truth to be found here, in their original home, Darujhistan.

  Doubts assailed the others. That much was obvious. Therefore the duty was upon him to shoulder the weight of those doubts. To take them all upon himself and show there need be no concern. For was he not the Second? Did not all their eyes turn to him for guidance, for assurance? Let the purity of the cut lie in the steadiness of the blade.

  So shall it be. Let it not be said that the Second bent from his responsibilities.

  Only the First can call. And they answered. What need be complicated in that? And what do they find but the ancient mask that is a circle of gold? As storied and as fearsome as in their legends of old. What can he do but obey?

  Why, then, this need to dwell upon any of this at all?

  Perhaps because they were warriors. Not guards. Not warders of people or of the peace. The transition was easily accomplished; these local authorities, these Wardens, acquiesced immediately. Challenges were minimal. Only two deaths. One, a local simpleton, the other far too stubborn to pass by unanswered.

  Now, perhaps now, began the truly difficult part as mundane daily trivia intruded upon their purpose.

  Such as now, confronted by these two shabby would-be guards in the hands of Palla, Sixth, here in the court. Jan signed to Ira, Twentieth, who demanded: ‘Why have you returned? The hired guards have all been dismissed.’

  One knuckled his dirty sweaty brow. ‘Your pardons, sirs and madams. We’ve not been let go that we know of.’

  Jan tilted his head and Ira continued, ‘The orders were given. All have been notified.’

  The man saluted once more. ‘That’s all as you say for sure, sirs and madams. Me ’n’ Leff here, we don’t dispute any of that.’

  ‘Then what is your claim?’ Ira demanded.

  Jan gave Palla a sign and she released them. They straightened their armour.

  ‘Well, ma’am,’ began the spokesman – though not necessarily the lower of the pair. Frankly, between these two, any gradation at all was difficult to tell. ‘It’s just that we’re not your usual run o’ the mill Majesty Hall guards. No, sir …’

  ‘They work for me,’ breathed a weak voice.

  Jan peered at the bedraggled figure of the Mouthpiece of the Legate. He inclined his head in respect. ‘This is so?’ he asked. ‘They answer to you?’

  The man’s eyes darted, haunted and bloodshot; his features had sunk to a sweaty pasty pallor. Clearly this fellow found his duties far outmatched the strength of his nerves. Jan’s gaze shifted to the masked Legate, motionless on his throne. He appeared unaware. Yet always he demonstrated preternatural knowledge of all that went on around him. And this man spoke his will. Jan wondered at such an unlikely choice. However, again, it was not for him to wonder.

  ‘Yes,’ the man affirmed, a new certainty entering his quavering voice. ‘I remember them. I hired them.’

  Jan signed his assent. ‘Very well. It shall be as you say.’ He turned away, dismissing them from his thoughts. He scanned the court, searching for potential dangers or threats and found only one. The sorceress, Envy, with her flowing green dress and curled oiled hair. How he longed to part her head from her body for the debasement she brought to his brother and two followers. But she was an honoured guest of the Legate and so must he swallow her presence.

  Oh, certainly some members here of the court obviously longed to challenge the Legate. Their posture, breaths and sweat shouted it – especially one older ex-soldier councillor who looked as though he might have been a potential threat, a decade ago. And hints had come to him of assassination attempts, which the Legate and his pet mages handled.

  All very well. So why then this unease? This discomfort? Perhaps it is the loss of Cant. I miss its green mountain slopes. Peace of mind slipped away with it beyond the horizon. Soon Gall will sense this and he will challenge. Then there will be a new Second and all of this will no longer be my concern. I almost welcome it. Is this what cowardice feels like?

  The Legate stood then and descended the throne of pale white stone. He gestured and Jan moved to join him. The members of the court, masked councillors, their wives and masked mistresses, aristocrats and wealthy merchants, all parted at his approach. He stopped before the Legate and inclined his masked head in obeisance.

  ‘Second.’ The Mouthpiece had come to his side. ‘Our enemies await to the west. You Seguleh are my blade and anvil. Crush them and Darujhistan shall rule all these lands unrivalled, as before.’

  ‘I understand, Legate. These invading Malazans shall be removed from our shores.’

  The Legate gestured impatiently. Though the beaten gold features could not change, cast for ever into their secretive half-smile, the shifting light and shadow enlivened the lips and empty eyes with expression. Now they appeared angered.

  ‘The invaders are but a nuisance. They mean nothing. No. I speak of the true threat. This city’s eternal enemy … the Moranth.’ The Mouthpiece let out a strangled gasp as he spoke these words and clamped a hand to his mouth as if he were about to be sick.

  Jan dared gl
ance up more fully, as if he could discern some intent from the golden oval before him. ‘The Moranth, Legate? I do not understand.’

  ‘Always they forestalled us,’ the Mouthpiece began again, his voice ghostly faint. ‘They alone defied us when all others fell. Now we shall finish them.’

  ‘The Moranth wars ended a millennium ago.’

  ‘With the fall of the last of the Tyrants and the breaking of the Circle, yes.’ The oval turned to address Jan more directly. ‘Now that Darujhistan arises renewed we must answer that crime against us, yes?’

  And what could Jan do but bow when commanded by his First? For the gold mask was the legendary progenitor, the Father of them all. Attack the Moranth? Bring them low? An entire people? Was this what we were forged to accomplish? Our noble purpose?

  And you in your cracked wooden mask who told me so little. Was this the burden you sought to spare me? Well do I understand it now. No wonder we hide our faces.

  That burden is shame.

  Captain Dreshen found Ambassador Aragan in the stables, currying the two remaining horses. Catching his breath he reported: ‘Sir! The majority of the Seguleh have marched from the city.’

  Aragan straightened to peer over the back of the black bay, Doan, his favourite. He rested his hands there, a brush in each. ‘Out of the city?’ His gaze slitted. ‘Which way?’

  Dreshen nodded their shared understanding. ‘West.’

  ‘Dead Hood’s own grin. We have to warn them.’

  ‘The mounts won’t make it all the way.’

  ‘No.’ Aragan wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘A boat. Fastest one we can find. Then we’ll ride.’

  ‘Yes. And … can we count on reinforcements?’

  ‘No. No reinforcements. No recruits. Nothing. Everything’s been committed to another theatre.’

  Dreshen could not believe it. ‘But what of our gains here?’

  Aragan threw a blanket over Doan’s back. ‘Seems Unta considers us overextended. And I have to say I’m inclined to agree.’ He eyed Dreshen up and down. ‘Now get the Sceptre and our armour, Captain. In that order.’