Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  After a time Kellanved observed, ‘I do enjoy these earthy conversations with the local worthies, don’t you? So very edifying.’

  ‘They say wisdom comes from the country,’ Dancer offered, ‘but frankly I don’t see it.’ He motioned to the plain of the Seti grasslands ahead; rolling hill after rolling hill, the sun lowering towards them. ‘Could be all the way to Quon. Even beyond the coast.’

  The mage pursed his wrinkled lips. ‘True … however, there is one particular feature ahead. One legendary for its religious and mystical importance …’

  Dancer nodded. ‘Ah, the Idryn Falls.’

  ‘And the Escarpment,’ Kellanved added. ‘Where legend has it Burn herself sleeps.’ He jiggled the mottled pale brown point in his hand. ‘This appeared in Heng after all. Nearby.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, if it proves to be a false lead, then perhaps we shall have to take to the Warrens after all.’

  Dancer nodded his assent as they walked.

  The evening darkened into a deep purple. The insects of the night began chirping and bats flew overhead. Kellanved was waving his stick through the grasses, but suddenly he pointed it to the north. ‘Am I mistaken, or is that a light glimmering there?’

  Dancer rubbed his chin, and noticed the stubble growing. ‘Must be a wayside stop along the trader road.’

  Kellanved’s thick black brows rose in delight. ‘A stop? Perchance an inn? Excellent!’

  Dancer sighed; he’d been hoping to keep Kellanved away from people, for the most part. Trouble seemed to follow him round like, well, like his own shadow. ‘Very well. This one night.’

  The little mage headed off. ‘Come, come. Let us sit at the fire and hear the travellers’ news, yes? News perhaps of how a certain terrifying mage haunted Heng!’

  Dancer winced, following. ‘Please don’t try to bring that up.’

  Kellanved did try to bring it up, several times. Dancer, however, interrupted each time to ask of Tali, Kan, or Unta. It occurred to him that the mage had had a good idea in catching up on happenings around the continent. Nom Purge, for example, appeared close to overrunning Quon Tali – an astounding development in their decades of intermittent hostilities. But that news was two weeks old.

  Most of what preoccupied the travellers and inhabitants was local: dark scandals and wild rumours. As was the case everywhere, no doubt.

  One moment of the evening struck Dancer; when talk came round to news of the nearby mines at the Escarpment, Kellanved actually started, as if shocked by something. Then he stared off into the distance for a time, thinking perhaps, and grinned wickedly.

  All this told Dancer that he was scheming again – as usual.

  The next day they set out west along the trader road. The poetry of this amused Dancer. Not so long ago he had come up this very road heading east, to Heng, an unproven ambitious youth. And now … well, he was still a youth, but only in years.

  Kellanved had been consulting the spear-point and now he halted, appearing rather surprised. He regarded Dancer. ‘Northwest from here.’

  ‘Really?’ The assassin examined the point in the mage’s hand. ‘Northward? What’s there?’

  ‘Well, the mines for one thing. Which is odd, as I was about to suggest just such a detour.’

  ‘What for?’

  The little mage had got that cunning self-satisfied look on his wrinkled face that so exasperated Dancer. ‘Oh, you’ll see …’

  Dancer clenched his teeth as the mage set off, but followed, rubbing his chin savagely – a smooth chin, since that morning he’d taken the opportunity to shave.

  Striking northwest across the plain they soon came to a road, little more than twin ruts in the grass. This they followed until it met up with a more substantial route, muddied and rutted. Already Dancer could smell in the wind the smoke and the noisomeness of trash and cesspits.

  They topped one of the low smooth hills and halted, taking in the vista west, of the tall sheer stone cliff of the Escarpment itself, and the disorganized scattering of ragged tents, open pits and fenced enclosures at its base. The workings of the mines.

  ‘The stone?’ Dancer asked.

  Kellanved jiggled it in his hand. ‘It points northwards of here. You don’t mind, though, if we have a look. Do you?’

  Dancer shrugged. ‘Fine. But I don’t see why.’ Still, something about the mines did tickle Dancer’s memory. Something about them; he just couldn’t place it.

  Armed men and women watched the newcomers suspiciously as they made their way between the pits – some open, others fenced. This place was notorious all across the continent for unrestrained greed, casual murder and lawlessness. The only rule here was the one of the sword and utter ruthlessness.

  After a time it appeared to Dancer that his companion seemed to be looking for something. They passed numerous tall fences of planks, most overlooked by dirty and ragged men and women armed with crossbows. One, however, appeared unguarded, and this one Kellanved studied for a good while before approaching and knocking on a plank.

  ‘Go away!’ piped a high voice.

  At that instant Dancer knew – he remembered – and he pressed a hand to his brow. Blessed Burn! Could it be that they were actually really still here?

  The mage drew himself up as tall and straight as he could. ‘Not the welcome I was expecting,’ he announced.

  A young girl, dirt-smeared, her hair a frightful mess, peeped over the top. Her eyes grew huge. ‘Magister!’ she squeaked, and disappeared.

  Kellanved shot Dancer a smug look; Dancer looked to the sky. ‘How is it they could still be here?’ he whispered. ‘Surely these gem-hunters would’ve enslaved them.’

  ‘My dear Dancer,’ the mage answered, ‘more than half these orphans are talents. Remember that. Rashan, Thyr, D’riss, Denul – you name it. I’m surprised they’re not running the entire place by now.’

  The groaning of heavy timbers sounded from behind the plank door, and it opened. Kellanved swaggered in, Dancer following. The door was shut behind them.

  A crowd of children had gathered; unwashed, in ragged torn clothes. More and more appeared, climbing up rickety ladders from the lower works. Dancer recognized a number of the orphans he’d seen in Heng. He reflected that perhaps it was not so surprising that they’d survived, given the abuse and brutal treatment they’d endured digging for the black market boss Pung then.

  The older of the lot pushed forward, girls and boys. They inclined their heads to Kellanved. ‘Magister.’ Dancer noticed a number of these were actually bowing to him, addressing him as ‘Master’.

  ‘You have done well?’ Kellanved asked.

  All nodded. ‘Rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Burn’s bounty,’ one girl said.

  ‘Very good,’ Kellanved answered, as if he’d been expecting no less all this time. ‘A new mission. Take what you have gathered and use it as a fund to establish eyes and ears in every major city. In Unta, in Tali, in Cawn, in Purge – everywhere. Yes?’

  All bowed in assent. One boy asked, ‘Even Heng?’

  Kellanved nodded. ‘Yes. Even Heng.’ He raised a finger. ‘And remember – you answer only to myself and my partner here, yes? To none other. You are mine and his. Our hands, our ears, our eyes. Do you so swear?’

  All pressed hands to their chests. ‘We swear, Magister.’

  Kellanved nodded indulgently, smiling. ‘Very good.’

  Another lad straightened. ‘But how shall we communicate? I know the earth, D’riss, but Leath here knows of the night, Rashan.’

  Kellanved nodded once more, reassuringly, hands raised. ‘Worry not. Tonight all you talents must gather with me. I will show you a place where we may travel. A place that shall be ours, and ours alone.’ He waved them away with a flutter of his hands. ‘Go now, prepare your leave-taking.’

  The majority of the youths left the main gathering, all but some twelve. These lads and lasses all stood silent, steadily regarding Dancer, who, in turn, studied them. One came forward and extended his hand, palm upwards
, exposing the inner wrist. Here Dancer saw crudely tattooed, perhaps by a sharp iron point with charcoal for ink, a small arc, or curve. Anyone could have mistaken it for a sickle moon, but Dancer recognized it. A talon.

  ‘We heard of your sigil,’ said the lad. ‘Will you have us?’

  He did not know what to say. To agree would be to take advantage; to say no almost inhumanly cruel. He set a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘You do not have to do this. You could leave, go anywhere, do anything with your lives. The choice is yours.’

  The girls and boys exchanged glances. ‘All our lives we have fought for each other,’ a girl said. ‘Everyone we’ve met has tried to enslave us, beat us, rape us, sell us. We’ve fought everyone. Everyone but you and the magister. Only you and he treated us fair. Home is here with each other. Where else would we go? Who could we trust? Who would defend us?’

  ‘We serve each other,’ the lad affirmed. ‘Give us our orders.’

  Dancer nodded; this he understood. ‘Very well. Join with the others. Serve Kellanved, go where you are sent. But in each city seek out the underworld, the thieves and killers. Learn your trade. And wait. A time will come when I will call upon you.’

  The twelve inclined their heads in acceptance.

  ‘What of recruitment?’ one asked. ‘We are few.’

  Hearing the youth’s voice, Dancer remembered his name. ‘Baudin, isn’t it?’

  The lad blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wherever you go watch for those skilled and trustworthy. These may join – but it must be their choice. There can be no coercion.’ He motioned to where Kellanved sat surrounded by the rest of the orphans. He appeared to be regaling them with a tale of how he personally conquered Malaz. ‘Go ahead and join them.’

  The twelve bowed, then slipped in among the others. Dancer propped his shoulders against the side of a crude lean-to dwelling and watched. The mage certainly had a way with mongrels and misfits … like himself, perhaps? Dancer thought about it. Like them both, apparently, from what the girl had revealed of their childhood.

  A fire was started and a simple meal of flatbread and boiled lentils was prepared. Guards were changed at the walls, light crossbows at their hips. Then a troop of the orphans descended with Kellanved into the works below. The mage will be showing them the Scar – how to transition into it and how to move about, Dancer reflected. It would be their personal circuit of communications no matter where they may travel.

  Since he was awake, he stood a watch at the wall. The mineworks stretched mostly north and south, in a thin line tracing the base of the Escarpment. Each claim was sectioned off by fences or armed guards, every one standing careful vigil against their neighbours, watchful for any attempt to steal the bounty they’d dug. Beyond this stretched a wide tent town of hangers-on, hopefuls, and those who preyed upon the miners, selling supplies, food, wine, and themselves. He wondered, idly, how these lads and lasses had come into a claim, then decided that they’d probably secretly studied them all and simply taken the richest. At least that’s what he’d have done.

  After his watch, he bedded down for the night. Before sleep took him he lay for a time staring up at the stars wondering just what Kellanved had in mind for the morrow, and beyond.

  * * *

  Nedurian leaned on a gritty granite battlement of the keep above Malaz City, overlooking the Inner Bailey. Just what to name the old fortress had been aired briefly, what with Mock’s death and all. But the question answered itself, as everyone simply continued calling it Mock’s Hold. And so it was now, formally. There were even rumours of a ‘Mock’s Barrow’, as funds were being raised to construct one.

  He watched a class of Malazan marines, mixed recruits and veterans, training under the watchful eye of their swordmaster and champion, Dassem UItor.

  It was a wonder to watch the man work. How, with a simple adjustment of an elbow here, or the widening of a stance there, he transformed men and women into far more balanced and effective fighters.

  And the rankers knew it too. Nedurian could even tell when the man simply entered the training field: backs straightened, chatter died away. It was almost comical to see the youth holding forth among a crowd of scarred and grizzled veterans of decades of sea-raiding and see them all nodding sombrely at his words and taking his advice to heart.

  It was a wonder. But it was also a danger.

  He’d seen what such regard could do to a person. The power it offered. This man might be a favourite of Hood, but all those around him, and following him, certainly weren’t. He’d seen blind worship lead a lot of people to their deaths.

  He hoped this swordsman would prove able to resist its seductive call.

  He shifted his stance to rub his left leg, wincing. That was not all there was to worry about. What of the Napans? Where were they? Gone off raiding, most of them, while Surly kept out of everyone’s sight. With the absence of their glorious leaders – the fearsome mage and his assassin partner – just where were the soldiers to place their esteem and regard? And, dare he say it … their loyalty?

  It was another danger.

  The class below laughed then, hazing or chaffing one of their number, and he smiled, remembering such comradeship. He shook his head at himself; gods above, he was becoming quite the gloomy old duffer, wasn’t he! Searching for trouble everywhere he looked.

  No, he should keep his thoughts to his assigned job – setting up a cadre system of mages among the army such as had been instituted in the old days among the Talian legions.

  So he studied every set of recruits just as carefully as Dassem. And, just as Dassem admitted he was surprised by the depth of the fighting talent offered up by the island – as almost every family was the selected product of generations of raiders – so, too, was Nedurian again surprised by the depth of true talent. Nearly every day’s lineup saw at least one witch or warlock or talent of some order. Sometimes as many as four.

  Again, it was astonishing to him that this tiny insignificant island could possibly churn out so many touched by the Warrens. True, the vast majority were minor hedge wizards only, or wax-witches, or wind-callers, or sea-soothers, or minor clairvoyants. But still – so many!

  And this was after Surly’s own sorting through the pick of everyone for her own unit of specialized recruits. He suspected that he’d missed out on a number of talented youths in this regard and this irked him, but there was nothing to be done about it, as in Kellanved and Dancer’s absence the Napan aristocrat pretty much ran everything.

  This afternoon he watched while the Dal Hon swordsman ran down the line of men and women all eager to enter Malazan service – many from elsewhere drawn by the reputation of Dassem himself, plus the fearsome tales spreading of Kellanved’s prowess – fed, no doubt cynically, by Surly’s agents on the mainland and elsewhere. This day, as Dassem walked down the line of hopefuls Nedurian eyed each in turn as well, and when the Dal Hon came to one particular young woman, an obvious Seti girl, in leathers, with a bone-handled blade thrust though her belt and her long auburn hair tied in a single thick braid, he tapped his dagger’s hilt on the stones and Dassem glanced back to nod.

  This girl Dassem spoke to in low tones and sent to him.

  She met him with her head thrown back and scorn in her brown eyes. ‘And who are you?’ she demanded.

  Inwardly, Nedurian smiled, remembering his own youth and his own assurance of immortality and supreme talent. He crossed his arms. ‘Name’s Nedurian. I’m organizing a special element among the Malazan forces. A cadre of mages to serve in the combat units. Are you interested in fighting?’

  The girl snorted her impatience. ‘Of course! That is why I am here, fool.’

  ‘Yes, you have come a long way. Why?’

  She curled a lip. ‘I am disgusted. The elders of my people are fat and lazy. They refuse to see what is coming – or are blind to it.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Destruction. The loss of our way of life. We are bounded in, surrounded. With each day o
ur land is smaller. The trend is obvious.’

  Nedurian nodded at this and rubbed his neck, thinking. ‘But isn’t the cult of the White Jackal fighting this? Why not join it?’

  The girl’s brows rose, as she was apparently quite impressed by his knowledge. ‘The cult of Ryllandaras has always been with our people. Traditionally he is regarded as a threat, a scourge. I, personally, am not comfortable with his worship.’

  Nedurian nodded his understanding. ‘I see. So here you are, forced to fight among foreigners.’

  ‘As my own people will not, yes.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Thistle.’

  Nedurian cocked a brow, wondering whether she was named after her character manifested itself, or whether she just grew into the name. ‘So you agree to join the cadre?’

  ‘Not if it means some sort of special treatment, or being taken from the ranks.’

  Nedurian smiled, encouraged by her reaction, though others might have thought it insolent. ‘No. As I said, you will remain in the ranks.’

  ‘I answer to you?’

  He smiled again, amused by how she somehow managed to make every statement a challenge. He shook his head. ‘No. There is no hierarchy among the cadre. Each squad mage is equal to any other. All may have their say in tactics or strategy.’

  This claim obviously surprised her. She frowned, thinking, then she threw back her head, sneering once more. ‘And what of this Kartoolian magus I hear so much of? This Tayschrenn?’

  Nedurian nodded, rubbing the bristles of his growing beard. ‘He is in charge of the formal cadre. Those who mostly don’t wish to serve among the ranks. Who think they are above it. Or those who wisely know they’d be of no use in the field.’

  Thistle’s scowl deepened. ‘They will consider themselves above us.’

  His smile turned wry. ‘Well, they can think that all they want – can’t they?’

  An answering smile grew on the girl’s lips, and she laughed. ‘Very good. May I return to the ranks?’