Glancing back at the balcony, Tayschrenn murmured, ‘I was truthfully drawn here for another reason – if you must know.’
Rage flared like dark fires in Surly’s eyes and her good hand shot out to the High Mage as if she would crush him in her fist. Kiska almost shouted a warning, but as quickly as the fires rose so were they banked. She gave a small, low laugh. ‘Play the pompous lord to your underlings, Tay, not me. That you are here belies your words.’
The magus turned to her. Kiska watched him blinking, as if he were utterly unaware of the woman’s reaction. Yet how could that be? The two of them had worked, fought, and schemed together for generations. They must know to a hair’s breadth how far they could goad each other. Clearly, Tayschrenn wanted to remind Surly of something.
His shoulders rose and fell in a slow, indifferent shrug. ‘If you insist. Still, it would seem—’
‘I don’t care how it seems to you.’ She studied her bandaged hand. ‘It is over. I am Imperial Regent no longer. I will take the Throne, and my new name to rule it by. What say you to that?’
He said nothing. Kiska imagined he had already carefully thought through all possible outcomes.
‘Hail the Empress,’ prompted the Claw from the balcony, stroking his neck with a hand in a green leather glove. Tayschrenn eyed the man, who offered a predatory smile in return. There was open dislike here between Tayschrenn and these pet servants of the throne. Kiska wondered how such a meeting would have developed years ago, with Kellanved and Dancer also present. Likely a nest of vipers.
Tayschrenn gave a short bow. Kiska couldn’t tell if it was genuine or mocking. ‘Indeed. Hail,’ he echoed.
Surly answered with a curt nod, all business. ‘Good. Now, we have much to discuss . . .’ She inclined her head towards Hattar and Kiska, whose heart lurched at the attention.
Tayschrenn waved to the Claw. ‘And what of him?’
A thin smile tightened Surly’s lips. ‘The Claw is now part of the command structure, Tay. Each one speaks with a measure of my personal authority; each will be, in a measure, my representative. Topper will stay’
Tayschrenn bowed as briefly as before and backed away. To Hattar he said, ‘Your task is done for the night. Take her and return to the dining hall. Get some sleep. I’ll join you later.’
Hattar’s jaw tightened in distaste, but he nodded. Waving a brusque farewell to Kiska, Tayschrenn turned away. Hattar motioned to the hall, pushed her ahead of him. Startled by the abruptness of it, she peered back over her shoulder. Was that it? Not even a goodbye? Hattar urged her on with a jab at her back.
In the hall, Kiska glared and hissed, ‘Couldn’t I get a word in?’
The plainsman’s face remained set. ‘Not now. Tomorrow.’
Kiska relaxed, ceased resisting. ‘Okay’ She walked on. ‘I just don’t want to be shaken off, you know. I went to a lot of trouble to talk to him.’ She laughed at the thought of that. ‘Hood’s own trouble.’ But Hattar had set his face ahead, ignoring her. Kiska shut up. Here she was complaining to the one fellow who couldn’t possibly give a damn.
In the dining hall, Kiska watched while Hattar blocked the door with a chair, lit the candles, and sat. He thumped both booted feet onto the table, then untied his belt and lay it before him so that the sheathed knives rested within reach.
Kiska eased herself down into a chair across the table. ‘What was that about the red dust upstairs? What was it? Poison?’
Hattar’s gaze had been directed up at the ceiling. Now it swung down to her. The eyes were slitted, unreadable. ‘You ever heard of Otataral ore?’
‘Something about magic?’
‘Magic deadening.’ His gaze returned to the ceiling. ‘Upstairs, in that room, he’s helpless.’
She blurted, ‘Then Surly must have seeded the room, or thrown it, and Kellanved—’
Hattar’s nod was savage. ‘A great leveller that. Just knives and sheer numbers after.’
Kiska was silent, trying to imagine what it must have been like: the crippled Kellanved a useless burden in any mundane battle. Dancer struggling to both fight and protect him. The two retreating to the balcony, desperate to escape. How many dead had she seen? Twelve? She shook her head, awed. ‘Now what?’
‘Now nothing. We wait.’
Biting her lip she watched Hattar as he stared off into the darkness. After a moment, she asked, ‘You’ve disliked me from the start. What have you got against me?’
A slight clenching of his mouth seemed to betray that he was debating whether to reply. Then he growled, ‘I lost three good friends tonight. You’ve too high an opinion of yourself if you think you’ve got anything to do with my mood, lass.’ She looked down, her cheeks flushing. Who did he think he was – but then, who did she think she was? From his view she was just a meddlesome civilian – and a girl at that – nothing more than a security risk, and an impediment to his sworn task.
She clasped her hands together, studied the dusty tabletop. ‘I’m sorry. You’re doing your duty. I see that. But I’m not going to disappear just for your convenience. Dammit, I’ve gone through a lot tonight. As much as you, maybe. It has to be for something!’ Looking up, she wiped at her eyes, damned the tears of frustration. She glared at Hattar, daring him to dismiss her, then gaped in utter disbelief: the plainsman’s head hung back, mouth open, and his chest rose and fell steadily. Asleep! Well, damn him to the Abyss! How could he?
Watching him doze, she felt her own eyes droop. Her knee and shoulder and side all ached fiendishly, calling for rest. Sighing, she pushed back from the table and set to building a small fire in the hearth from kindling and split logs piled to one side. Soon it caught and she gathered her cloak about her and sat with her back to wall. Uncertainty for her safety still nagged at her, but her exhaustion swept over worry, and her chin sank eventually to her chest.
At the bottom of Rampart Way the two cultists who had escorted Temper to the stairs stepped out from the darkness to meet him. He ignored them. The slim one let fall the slightest of chuckles as Temper passed, as if he’d personally had a hand in the slaughter above and knew all the secrets those lips were sealed to protect. The conceit enraged Temper. He pulled short and turned on them; neither had earned the right.
They stopped, but much closer than before – arm’s reach in fact. The slim one jerked his hooded head back up to the Hold. ‘A waste of time, yes? As I said, now you serve my master.’
‘You should learn a little respect.’
The man glanced to his companion, laughed outright. ‘You’ve been sent by our master to run an errand, soldier. Do it and shut up.’
‘If Dancer’s your master, then yes, I made a deal. But it doesn’t include putting up with mouthy pups like you.’
Temper’s fist lashed out and caught the cultist on the side of his head.
The scorchmarked hood flew back, revealing a young man with cropped blond hair and beard. He stared, amazed past words, blood welling from the torn flesh of his cheek. He drew a knife from within his robes. Without comment, his stocky partner stepped aside. The youth wove the weapon before him in a backhanded grip. Trait warned us you’re a dangerous man, soldier. I say you’re just a tired old relic. I’m going to send you to my master.’
‘You talk to much to worry me, boy’
Snarling, the cultist lunged. Temper was almost caught off guard. He hadn’t believed he’d actually attack. The blade caught the edge of a cracked iron scale, nearly reaching the gap in the hauberk’s underarm. Temper clamped one gauntleted hand at the fellow’s neck and squeezed. The knife racked his side. He grabbed the hand and twisted the blade free, then pushed it into the youth’s stomach. The knife slid in just below the ribs. The cultist shuddered, gagged a half-throttled scream.
Temper shook him by his neck, then let him drop in a heap. The youth lay curled around the knife like an impaled insect. He moaned. Temper faced the other. ‘Let’s go,’ and he started down toward Cutter’s Strait. After a few moments footfalls announced
the stocky one following.
Long before Temper reached the houses of the old quarter surrounding the Deadhouse and the Hanged Man Inn, he saw signs of the battle ahead. The frigid night fog had thickened-unnaturally so – but through it bursts of phosphorescence flickered. Hidden beyond, the hounds howled, a number of them, drowning out the brittle crackle of raw energy and small eruptions.
It reminded Temper of the worst kind of engagement he’d known: mage duels where more died from the side-blasts of unleashed Warrens than from sharp iron. Ahead, a cultist emerged from the fog and stood motionless, apparently waiting for him. The figure motioned him forward into the churning wall. Clenching his jaw, Temper continued on and the cultist fell into step at his side. His old escort stopped outside the barrier, implying a hierarchy within the organization. Perhaps those inside were initiated into higher secrets. Or, Temper reflected, maybe they were those the cult wouldn’t mind losing if this gambit went to the Abyss.
The opaque fog obscured everything. Buildings vanished, then the cultist at his side. He wondered if perhaps he’d just been escorted into a portion of the Warren itself. Musing on that, he was unprepared when something like a bat launched itself out of the mist. He yelped, ducking, and the ghostly shape of his escort appeared at his side, gesturing. The thing folded up upon itself and flapped off. Temper was shaken: it appeared to be nothing more than a patch of fluttering shadow. He leaned close to the cultist who smiled back from within his hood. ‘Where are we?’ he growled.
His escort shrugged. ‘Nowhere, strictly speaking.’ He waved Temper on: ‘Come, we haven’t much time.’
As they walked on Temper was startled to find himself climbing the slow rise of a cobbled road. Here the fog was thinner, and after a few more paces he and his escort emerged from the worst of it. Ahead, at the top of the shallow grade, sat the Deadhouse and the crumbling wall surrounding it. All around waited cultists. As for the rest of the town, it was nowhere in sight, erased by the haze. It was as if he, the assassins, and the House had been transported to another isle. High clouds masked the sky, making the light eerie and diffuse like early dawn, spilling from no discernible direction. At the front gate a knot of cultists had gathered and his escort led him to them.
Temper eyed the Deadhouse. The dark shuttered windows betrayed no hint of what might be going on within. Instead it was the grounds that captured his attention: the dead black branches of the trees twitched like jerking fingers, and the bare earth bulged and heaved as if something stirred beneath. Temper smelled a dustiness in the air, as of a long-sealed crypt, and over it the ozone stink of power like the constant low discharge of a channelled Warren.
A cultist in pale robes broke away from the group and met Temper. He waved off the escort.
‘Pralt?’ Temper asked.
He nodded, inviting Temper to accompany him to the wall of heaped stones.
‘So this is it then? Shadow?’
‘No, not properly. More of a bridge. A midway stage created by tonight’s special conditions.’
‘The hounds?’
‘We’ve left them behind. No need to worry about them. We’ve other things to occupy us.’
Temper detected the irony of a massive understatement. He stopped short, rested his fists on his weapons. ‘Okay. I’ve played along so far. But now that I’m here, what’s the arrangement?’
Pralt faced the grounds, then turned to Temper. Even standing this close, Temper saw only darkness filling his hood and that aggravated him. The assassin folded his arms, slipping his gloved hands into the robe’s wide sleeves as if he were some kind of priest. ‘An assault on the House. Simple as that.’
Temper scowled. ‘Defences?’
‘Ah, yes. You’ve hit upon the main worry. No one knows just what the House is. Some claim it’s simply a gateway. Others say it’s an entity itself, one that straddles the realms. Whichever the case, we are by no means the first to try to master it. Through the ages countless have attempted and all have failed. And all who failed are now enslaved by the House to its defence.’ Pralt was silent for a time, letting that fact sink in. ‘Ingenious, yes? As time passes its defences actually gain strength. Impressive.’
Temper stared, speechless, then laughed his utter disbelief. ‘You can forget it, Pralt. There’s no way this shabby outfit can win this one. You’re in over your heads.’
The hood nodded as if the man agreed. ‘Oh, yes. We haven’t the firepower to defeat the House. But that has never been our goal.’
Now Temper frowned. He hadn’t liked the way this was headed before; now he was sure he would hate it. ‘I ain’t no one’s stalking horse.’
The hood faced him directly. After a moment Pralt said gently, ‘That’s all you’ve ever been, Temper. Even the Sword was nothing more: a banner to draw the notice of the strongest enemy. Bait to tempt them out.’
Temper’s fists clenched reflexively, but he took a deep breath, allowing the comment to pass. Dassem used to speak of that. Called himself the army’s lightning rod. And they’d all known it too: he, Ferrule, Point, and the rest. But they hadn’t minded at the time because they were young and believed Dassem couldn’t be beaten by anyone. So what did it matter? Let all comers try; the Sword would always prevail. Little thought or care did they give to those profiting from their blood and lives.
‘Strong words,’ Temper finally growled, staring off at the House, ‘from someone who expects my cooperation.’
‘Nothing we say now can change the past. And you gave your word.’
Temper snorted, pulled off a gauntlet frayed by hound’s teeth. He rubbed his index finger over the puckered scar at his chin, nodded. ‘Yeah. I suppose I did at that. All right. Let’s go’
Pralt invited him to walk to the gate. Temper slapped the gauntlet to his thigh, thinking: so, a diversionary sortie. A quick in and out. That meant the real assault would come from another direction, and run a much lower profile. He figured he knew who that would be.
Before the gate they joined the other cultists. Temper studied them. This was it? Just the six of them? Pralt and his companion spoke once more, hooded heads nearly touching. Temper, uneasy, rested his hands on the iron pommels of his swords. Was he just an extra hand or was something else in the offing? He didn’t have such an inflated opinion of himself to believe that they needed his participation. Or that they’d even planned for it. No, this had the feeling of something thrown together. A last-minute change. Now he was certain he hated it. But he’d given his word; he at least had his honour. He’d step in, but would back out once it got too hot for his liking. And he had the feeling it wouldn’t take long to attract that kind of heat.
Pralt and his friends broke off their talk. Hand signals flew between them. Temper couldn’t interpret the sign language – it was not Malazan standard. He didn’t like that at all. It made the back of his neck itch.
Pralt turned to him. ‘Get ready. You’ll take centre point between Jasmine and me.’
Temper nodded to Jasmine who answered with the slightest inclination of – her? – hood. He drew his longswords, eased his shoulders to loosen them. Pralt approached the plain wrought-iron gate.
A shout from behind made Temper start. ‘Do not enter those grounds! ’
He turned. There stood Faro Balkat and Trenech. They looked the same as they had ever looked: Faro frail, rheumy-eyed, and Trenech dull and bhederin-like. Only now Trenech carried a wicked pike-axe, its butt jammed into the ground, and Faro had clearly shaken off his drugged stupor. A number of cultists came running up, surrounded the two. Faro ignored them as he had the soldiers earlier at the Hanged Man.
Pralt faced them, gave a stiff bow. ‘Our mission does not cross yours,’ he called. ‘Why are you here?’
Faro’s mouth drew down in disgust. Temper had never seen the man looking so lively. ‘Do not play games with me, shadow-slave. By crossing the barriers you weaken them, and that is not to our liking.’
Pralt shrugged. ‘’Tis regretful, but I know the conf
ines of your roles, and you cannot stop anyone from entering the grounds.’
Faro’s gnarled hands clenched at his sides. ‘That much is true.’ He stepped closer. ‘I ask you not to do this. You play with forces of which you have no conception.’
Shaking his hooded head, Pralt turned away. Temper stared at the man hard. What did this promise for him?
‘They are waiting,’ Jasmine whispered, urgent. ‘We must act now.’
Pralt faced the gate.
‘Soldier!’ Faro called. Temper turned. ‘Do not enter. You’ll not return.’
Temper raised a sword in a farewell salute. ‘Sorry, Faro. Gave my word.’ He spoke with as much bravura as he could muster, though his stomach was clenched in the certainty that he was already more committed than he wished.
The gate rasped under Pralt’s hand, rusted with disuse. Faro fell silent. Trenech hefted his long pike-axe.
A path of slate flags led to the front steps past bare mounds that reminded Temper of hastily dug battle graves. It was quiet so far, the House dark and lifeless. Pralt and Jasmine advanced to either side and Temper followed. They appeared unnaturally relaxed, without any weapons in evidence. About halfway up the walk they stopped. Pralt turned to him.
Temper stared back, uncertain, licked his dry lips.
‘This is as far as we go,’ Pralt said. He sounded strangely solemn. ‘This isn’t what I had in mind, and I’m sorry. Dancer’s orders. Goodbye, soldier.’
Pralt and Jasmine disappeared. Temper spun: the three others were also gone. It was as if he’d walked in alone. The ground to either side of the walk heaved. The moist bare earth crumbled and steamed while above the tree branches flailed, creaking. Blue-green flames like mast-fire danced over them and along the low stone walls. Trenech now blocked the gate, pike-axe lowered. Faro stood behind. Beyond, gathered together once more, stood the cultists – Pralt and Jasmine included – watching, arms folded.
Temper pointed a sword at them to shout that he’d have their hearts out, when a loud grinding rumbled from the House. He turned, flexing, weapons ready. The door scraped open, dust falling from its jambs. Darkness yawned within only to be filled by the advance of a giant figure.
Night of Knives Page 21
