‘Why him? Why don’t you go down?’
The man did nothing to hide the condescension in his answering chuckle. ‘My dear. You are most diverting. The countless protections, wards and conditions imposed by my erstwhile allies are most exacting. Almost without openings. Only those who do not seek may pass. They must be innocent of bloodshed, possess no lust for personal gain … the conditions go on and on. Mammotlian contrived them. And so, since Mammotlian, a scholar, built the tomb, perhaps only a fellow like-minded spirit may possess the instincts to follow. If you see my reasoning.’
‘And should he fail – like all the others?’
A crooked shrug from the man. ‘Well, they’re nearly out of floor space down there, aren’t they?’
Her eyes constricted to slits and she tilted her head, unsure of his meaning.
On the street of the whitesmiths in the Gadrobi district, Barathol Mekhar inspected his latest consignment of iron ore. It was of unusually good quality. There was a useful variation of softness and brittleness within the clumps. He closed the box and went to the forge, held a hand over the bed of coals. Still needed more time. He left the shop to cross a small open court to the rear of his row-house. Dusting his hands, he climbed the narrow stairs to his rooms above. Dawn was just brightening the sky outside the shuttered windows. For a time he stood next to the bed where his wife Scillara still slept. Then he went to the other side of the bed to the tiny crib fashioned by his own hands. Kneeling, he studied the infant within, curled and plump.
Never had he ever imagined such a treasure would be his. It seemed too defenceless for the world. Too tenuous. Its fragility terrified him. He feared even to touch it with his coarse blackened hands. He did however gently ease one into the crib to let the child’s quick hot breath warm those fingers.
Smiling, he rose to see Scillara watching him. ‘Not run off yet, I see,’ she said, stretching.
‘Not yet.’
‘Not even with a squalling brat and a fat wife?’
‘I guess I must have done something terrible in a prior life.’
‘Musta been pretty damned awful.’ She looked about as if searching for something. ‘Gods, I miss my pipe.’
‘You’ll live.’
She pointed to the door. ‘Throw me my gown. Don’t you have work to do? Money to earn? Enough to hire a cook. I’m getting sick of your burnt offerings.’
‘You could try lending a hand, you know.’
She laughed. ‘You don’t want to eat my cooking.’
‘I’ll be out back then.’ He threw the gown. ‘Could use some tea.’
‘We all could.’
On the way down the stairs he looked forward to another day standing at the forge where he could look over to the courtyard and see Scillara sitting on rugs laid out on the ground there, nursing little Chaur.
Life, it seemed to him, was better than he’d ever hoped it could be.
CHAPTER II
Turn not thine hand against thy father; for it is sacrilege
Inscription upon stone fragment
Dwelling Plains
THE CHALLENGE BEGAN AS THESE THINGS ALWAYS DO: WITH A LOOK.
A glance held a heartbeat too long. In this case lingering across the beaten dirt of the practice grounds at the centre of Cant, the marble halls of the Seguleh.
Jan, in the act of turning away to call for a slave, noted the glance, and stopped. Those of the ruling Jistarii family lineage out exercising that morning also instinctively sensed the tension. The crowd parted and Jan found himself staring across the emptied sparring fields and wrestling circles to Enoc, the newly installed Third. He watched while the young aristocrat’s friends and closest supporters within the rankings crossed to stand at his side. Without needing to turn his head Jan knew his own friends had come to his. He held out his wooden practice sword. It was taken from his hand.
‘Give him your back,’ Palla, the Sixth, hissed from behind. ‘How dare he! This is not the place.’
Jan answered calmly: ‘Does not our young Third claim that daring is just what is lacking these days among our ranks?’ A snarl of clenched rage answered that. Jan allowed himself a slight raise of his chin to indicate the seats of the amphitheatre across the way. ‘Look … the judges of the challenge assembled already.’
‘They are all of his family!’ Palla exclaimed. ‘This is the work of his scheming uncle, that fat Olag.’
Jan’s sword appeared, offered hilt-first from behind. He took it and began securing the sheath to his sash. Across the field Enoc’s coterie of supporters, ambitious young-bloods mostly, did the same for him. Someone handed Jan a gourd of water and he sipped. His gaze did not leave Enoc’s mask: a pale oval marred only by two black slashes, one down each cheek.
So, a year already, is it? He was surprised. Time seemed to pass ever more quickly as he became older. Not that he intended to get older – it was merely the byproduct of his extended wait for someone to manage to defeat him. Enoc obviously thought his chance had come. And he had to acknowledge that the daring youth seemed to have chosen his moment quite well: Enoc himself was yet fresh, merely having stretched and warmed up, while he had just completed a very gruelling series of sparring matches and was even now still sweating with exertion. It would appear that this cunning new Third had the advantage.
But Jan was where he wanted to be. His blood was hot and flowing fast. His limbs glowed with heat and felt strong. Practice did not drain him as it seemed to so many others. Rather, it enlivened him. Yet … a challenge during exercise … a time when by tradition all members of the Jistarii aristocracy were welcome to mix freely, practising and training. This was very bad form. An assembly of impartial judges wouldn’t even countenance it.
Yet there was no question he must answer. It was his duty. He was Second.
He set the tips of his fingers on the two-handed grip of his longsword and walked out to the middle of the amphitheatre sands. Over the years he had lost count of the many Thirds who had come and gone beneath him. The ranks of the Agatii, the top thousand, were like a geyser in this manner – ever throwing up new challengers. And this one was an impatient example of a notoriously impatient ranking. Long ago it was always said that Second was the worst ranking to attain. Ever Second, never First. But with the death of the last ancient to achieve First, it was Third that was now so regarded. The itchiest ranking; the briefest rung … in one manner or another. And this one seems to think me tired. Very well. Let him do so. Let him challenge now, so very early. So very … precipitously. So be it. I can only do my part and accept.
Enoc strode out to meet him. The Jistarii backed away, leaving the field clear, while slaves removed equipment. The wind was calm, and the sun was far enough overhead not to be an issue. Jan waited, head cocked. When the Third was close enough to allow private conversation, he offered the ritual exchange: ‘I give you this last chance to reconsider. Form has been obeyed. No shame would accrue.’
The gaze was scornful behind the white mask with its two black lines. ‘Waiting is not for me, Second. I do not plan to cling to my perch – as you have.’
Jan’s breath caught momentarily. ‘You covet the First?’
‘It is time. If you will not lead, then stand aside for one who will.’
So that is what they are whispering in the dormitories … How they have all forgotten. One does not claim First. It cannot be taken. It can only be given. And I – even I – was not judged worthy. Anger beckoned now, and with a supreme effort he allowed it to flow past. No. There must be no emotion. No thought. This one thinks too much – it slows him. One must not think. One must simply act. And he, Jan, had always been so very fast to act.
Pushing with his thumb, he eased the blade a fraction from its sheath. ‘Very well, Third.’ He inhaled, and exhaling whispered the ritual words: ‘I accept.’
Their blades met crashing and grating even as the last syllable left Jan’s mouth. Jan deflected several attacks, noting subconsciously how the lad relied too much
on strength as a bolster to a form not yet quite at ease with itself. He knew instinctively he had the better of him, and that any of the rankers above the Tenth would see this as well. But the judges. They would not be convinced. Something much more irrefutable would be needed.
The poor lad. In stacking the assembly his uncle has left me with no alternative. And now this one will pay the price.
Still he delayed, parrying and circling. Among the highest rankings, actually being sloppy enough to spill blood was considered very poor form. The best victories were those achieved without such crudity.
The storm of the Third’s unrelenting aggression washed over him in a constant ringing of tempered, hardened steel. Yet he remained calm – an eye of tranquillity surrounded by a blurred singing razor’s edge. That storm had first been one of blustering overbearing power. But now it carried within it a discord of confusion, even recognition.
And a coiling frantic desperation.
Jan chose to act. Best to end the testing now, lest he acquire a reputation for cruelty. In the midst of their entwined dance of thrust, feint and counter, Jan’s blade extended a fraction of a finger’s breadth further as his shift inward allowed Enoc’s own movement to close their distance more than intended and the tip of his blade licked the inside of the right elbow, severing tendon.
Enoc’s right arm fell limp, the longsword swinging loose. The lad froze, chest rising and falling in an all too open display of exertion. His fevered gaze through his mask of was one of disbelief now crashing into horror.
The lad was crippled. Oh, it would heal, and in time he would probably regain use of the arm. But with that wound he would be hard pressed even to maintain a position within the Agatii. He would retain the right to carry a blade, of course. But there would be no more challenges for him.
Jan considered a whispered apology now while they held this fragile intimate moment between challengers, but the youth would probably take it as an insult. And so he said nothing.
That moment, the onlookers’ caught breath of aesthetic appreciation of the beauty of a single cut perfectly executed in power, timing, accuracy and form, passed.
And the gathered Jistarii all bowed to their Second.
Later that evening Jan sat cross-legged at dinner with his closest friends among the ranked: Palla, the Sixth, and Lo, Eighth these many years, but recently, with the reported death of Blacksword, under consideration for promotion to the long empty rank of Seventh. With them also was an old friend of his youth, Beru, one of the Thirtieth.
‘Will Gall reclaim the Third?’ Jan asked Palla.
She laughed, and, ducking her head, lifted her mask to take a pinched morsel of rice and meats. ‘He will. And with gratitude to be back on his old rung again.’
‘Gratitude? I did not act as I did for his benefit.’
She bowed, all formal, but her voice held humour: ‘Gratitude for reminding everyone why he has remained Third for so long.’
Jan motioned gently to close the subject. He turned to Lo, seeing the seven lines of soot that radiated out from round the eye holes of his friend’s mask. ‘And what of you? Will you take the Seventh?’
Lo bowed stiffly from the waist. ‘If commanded. But I do not seek it. It is … distasteful … to step up in this manner.’
From Beru’s tense pose Jan could tell he had something to say. ‘And you, Beru?’
The man bowed, and kept his gaze averted. ‘With respect, Second. There is talk of this swordsman, whoever he may be, who slew Blacksword, the Lord of the Moon’s scion. Some say he must be regarded as the new Seventh. Some suggest a challenge.’
Jan had been reaching for a pinch of meat, but stilled. ‘You know I am against such … adventurism. I opposed the expedition of punishment against the Pannions. What did that gain us? Mok’s skills wasted against rabble and unworthy amateurs.’
His three companions ate in silence for a time, for all knew Jan’s feelings regarding Mok, his elder brother, who volunteered to silence those disrespectful Pannions. And who returned … changed. Broken.
It fell to Palla to speak, the one who shared the greatest claim to intimacy with him, as the lovers they had been. Until both had climbed too high in the rankings and the tensions of the challenge intervened. ‘And yet,’ she began, cautiously, ‘you supported Oru’s venture.’
Jan made a deliberate effort to soften his tone. ‘Oru claimed to have had a vision. Who am I to dispute that? I allowed him to call for any who would voluntarily accompany him.’
‘And twenty answered! Our greatest expedition ever mounted.’
‘True.’ And for the greatest goal of all. For only to him, as Second, did Oru reveal the truth of his vision … the belief that somehow, in some manner, he would regain the honour of the Seguleh stolen from them so long ago. A mad, desperate hope. But one he could not oppose.
His gaze fell on Lo, face turned away as he raised his mask to drink. Perhaps he should allow the challenge. Any man who could defeat Blacksword … if he could better Lo then he could have the rank.
A gentle tap at the door broke into Jan’s thoughts. He nodded for Beru to answer. On his knees, one hand on the grip of his sword, Beru cracked open the door and spoke in low tones to whoever was without. After a short exchange he opened it.
It was an old man, an unmasked honoured Jistarii who had chosen the path of priest. The man shuffled in on his knees and bowed, touching his brow to the bare hardwood floor. ‘My lord. You are requested at the temple. There is … something for you to see.’
Jan inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Very well. I will attend.’ The priest bowed again. He shuffled backwards on his knees and stepped out of the low threshold without turning his back upon them. Jan took a sip of tea to cleanse his mouth.
Palla bowed in a request to speak.
‘Yes?’
‘May we accompany you?’
‘If you wish.’
The main temple of Cant was a large open-sided building of columns and arches. It was constructed entirely of white marble veined with black. Lit torches hissed in the evening wind, casting shadows among the eerily pallid white stone of the columns, floor and ceiling. The High Priest, Sengen, awaited them. He wore the plain tunic and trousers of rough cloth that were the customary clothing of the Seguleh. He was cleanly shaven, as most Seguleh males of the Jistarii tended to be, and his long grey hair was oiled and pulled back tightly in a braid. He bowed to Jan.
‘Sengen,’ Jan acknowledged, thereby granting him permission to speak.
‘Only the Second may accompany me,’ the old man commanded, stepping forward.
Palla and Lo stiffened, exchanged outraged glances. Jan raised a hand for patience. ‘That is your right here within the temple.’
Sengen bowed again, beckoning Jan forward.
He led him to the very rear. To the altarpiece: a single pillar of unearthly translucent white stone, waist-high, its top empty. Sengen regarded the pillar reverently, his hands crossed over his chest. Jan stared at him, puzzled by his odd behaviour. Then his gaze moved to the pillar, and he started forward, amazed. Beads of moisture ran down the white stone, and a thin vapour, as of a morning mist, drifted from it.
‘It sweats, Second,’ the High Priest breathed, awed. ‘The stone sweats.’
‘What does this mean?’
Eyes fixed on the pale stone, Sengen answered, ‘It means that what we have been awaiting all this time may come. Our purpose.’
Shaken, Jan stepped away. Yet the pillar was empty … was this right? How could this happen?
‘It is your duty to make ready,’ Sengen said sharply.
Jan nodded. Turning, he caught his reflection on a nearby polished shield. A pale white mask distinguished by a single blood-red smear across the brow. A mark put there by the last First, so long ago. ‘Yes,’ he answered, his voice thick. ‘I shall.’
His three friends waited on the steps of the temple. Coming to them Jan stood silent for some time while they shifted, uncomfortable, gazes a
verted. ‘Lo,’ he said at last. ‘I give you permission to seek out this Seventh. We may have need of him.’
‘Need?’ Lo echoed, glancing up in startlement, then quickly away.
‘You may take one other with you. Who would that be?’
Lo gestured. ‘Beru here, if he would.’
‘No. I would have him remain. Choose another.’
Lo bowed. ‘As you command.’
‘What is it?’ Palla asked, inclining her head. ‘You are … troubled.’
Jan regarded her. For a moment he allowed himself the pleasure of taking in her lithe limbs, her tall proud bearing, and wished she had not pursued the Path of the Challenge. But that was selfish of him; she deserved her rank. ‘Gather the Agatii, Sixth. We must make ready. The altarstone has awakened.’
The three glanced to the temple, their eyes behind their masks widening in awe. ‘We thought that just a legend,’ Palla breathed.
‘Before he passed, the First imparted to me a portion of what was handed down to him. It is no legend. Now go, Palla. Tell the first half of the Agatii to gather here.’
Palla jerked a swift bow and dashed down the steps. Jan turned to the Eighth. ‘A vessel will be placed at your disposal.’
Lo bowed and backed away down the stairs. Watching him go Beru spoke, wonder in his voice. ‘And what can this lowly Thirtieth do to help?’
‘I would have you remain among the ranks, Beru. Listen to the talk in the dormitories. A difficult time may be coming. We will all be tested. Let us hope we are not judged … unworthy.’
‘I understand, Second.’ Jan did not answer, and, sensing that his friend wished to be alone now, Beru bowed and departed.
Jan stood for some time in the chill air of the evening. He looked out across the paved white stone Plaza of Gathering to the houses and the mountains of this, their adopted homeland. That adoption was itself no secret. They knew they’d come from elsewhere; all their old stories told of a great march, an exile, although none named their mythical place of origin. That was another truth the First had confirmed: their homeland was to the north. And he had named it.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 197
