Orb Sceptre Throne (55 page)

‘Fist Steppen.’

‘You have a report?’

Hektar gestured to Tarat. ‘Our Rhivi scout has news.’

Tarat saluted, quite smartly. Steppen nodded to her. ‘The trail the column passed just back—’ the girl began, but was interrupted.

‘We all saw it,’ an officer put in. ‘A band marching double-file, north. Bandits, perhaps.’

Tarat’s hand snapped closed on the bone-handled knife at her side and she glared at the man.

Steppen raised a hand for silence. ‘Continue,’ she said to Tarat.

The girl did so, but still glared murder at the officer. ‘No bandits – or even soldiers – have the discipline to maintain such a straight trail. Look to our own meandering track if you don’t believe me. Men and women pause to adjust gear, to relieve themselves, to remove stones from their sandals. Only one people are capable of moving across the land in this manner. It is said they can march for four days and nights without a single pause.’

‘It is said?’ Steppen asked, cocking her head.

Tarat lost her glare, removed her hand from her blade. ‘In our stories, Fist. Among us Rhivi are told stories of these people. Most speak darkly of them.’

‘And they are?’

Tarat was clearly unwilling to say just who she was talking about, but asked directly she hunched slightly, as if expecting scorn, and said, ‘The Seguleh.’

Bendan laughed out loud. Hektar glared for him to shut up but he couldn’t help it. The Fist arched a brow. ‘You have something to add, trooper? I see you too are a local. What is your opinion?’

He waved a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just … the
Seguleh
? Scary stories for children only, ma’am.’

‘I assure you they are quite real.’

‘Oh yes. Real enough. Down south. I’d say they’re damned good all right – damned good at puffing up their reputation, if you follow me, ma’am.’

Leather creaked as the Fist leaned forward on to her pommel. ‘You are from Darujhistan, yes?’

‘Yes, m’am.’

‘And the opinion you express regarding these people … this would be typical of the city, would it?’

‘Oh, yes. Just a lot of tall tales.’

‘I see. Thank you. Very informative.’ She turned to Tarat. ‘Thank you for your report. That is all.’

The troop edged their mounts aside and cantered off to return to the van. Tarat whirled to face Bendan. ‘Laugh at me again and I’ll slit you open like a weasel. Yes?’

Bendan held out his arms. ‘Yeah. Fine. Whatever.’

The tribal girl stalked away on those fine haunches.

Gods! So damned prickly!

We are the freemen privateers.

We sail the forested isles

from Callows to far Galatan!

We have thrown off the chains

of yoke, coin and tyrant.

So join us who dare to be free!

The Freemen Privateers

Author unknown

BARATHOL HAD TAKEN
to sleeping in his work tent. During the late afternoon he’d drop in on the house to make sure little Chaur was fed and clean. He didn’t blame Scillara for her lack of maternal instincts – he was resigned to it. Perhaps it balanced what he admitted might be his own over-developed nurturing instinct.

This night he was bringing up the heat of the forge, readying for another shift, when he heard a strange sound. It seemed to be coming from the excavation trench. Outside the tent, the work crew was on break and all should have been silent, yet intermittent clanging or thumping reached him. He stepped out into the dig, listening.

He thought it came from the exposed stone blocks themselves. Kneeling, he placed an ear close to the cold smooth stone. Shortly, he heard it: a clanging or banging reverberating down the stones. It sounded as if someone was digging somewhere along the now nearly completed arc of set blocks. He stood to peer about; no one was around. The mages who oversaw the installations never arrived until much later. Frowning, he picked up a crowbar and set off to walk the circuit.

He sensed nothing strange until halfway round the nearly completed circle. Here the arc cut through a patch of woods dense in underbrush, part of an artificial park planted on the hilltop. Damn good cover, it occurred to him, and he immediately ducked down to take advantage. Edging forward, he found another excavation, this one much smaller. A pit had been dug over the arc of the stone ring. Even as he watched, dirt flew up to land in the brush.
What in the Twins’ name was this?

Then he sensed someone behind him. He spun, gripping the crowbar horizontally in both hands. Steel rang from the heavy tool and a wide burly figure readied for another thrust. Barathol fell, swinging the crowbar; it glanced from a shin and the figure grunted her –
her?
– pain, tumbling. As the assassin fell, her foot caught him across the throat. Both rolled in the dirt, gasping. Barathol rose just in time to block another stab then readied the crowbar for a swing but stopped, astonished. His attacker also froze.

‘Barathol?’ she said, amazed.

‘Blend?’

‘What in the Queen’s name’re you doing here?’ she snarled, wincing and holding her shin.

‘What are you marines up to?’ he demanded.

A needle-point pricked his back and a voice whispered from behind, ‘The Legate has declared war on Malaz, friend. Time to choose sides.’

‘Don’t do it, Topper,’ Blend warned.

Topper? Where had he heard that name before?

Blend straightened, tested her weight on her leg. ‘Stand aside, Barathol. This is nothing to do with you.’

‘Barathol?’ said the one named Topper. ‘Mekhar? Kalam’s relation?’

‘Yes.’

The knife point pressed harder for an instant, as if its holder were of a mind to finish him quickly then and there. He wasn’t the type to go quietly and he almost moved rather than just stand and be slaughtered but the thought of little Chaur stopped him and he froze, tensed, his limbs twitching.

‘Don’t,’ Blend urged Topper. ‘He’s a friend.’

The blade withdrew – slightly. ‘Are you, Barathol … a friend?’

‘This is just a job. I have rent to pay. A family to feed. I’m lucky to have any work.’

‘If it’s just a question of coin – you’ll have it.’

‘On your word?’

‘Yes.’

Barathol allowed himself a small shrug. ‘Then I’ll be on my way. This isn’t my business.’

‘Very well. On your way. But I’ll be watching. One word to anyone and you’ll die. Understood?’

‘Yeah. I know the drill.’

The blade pricked him to urge him on. He nodded to Blend and headed off. A few steps later he tossed the crowbar into the woods and continued along the path.

At the trench the work crew had returned to prepping the foundation. Barathol made a show of straightening his trousers as he descended into the trench. He pushed aside the tent flap and ducked in. The tall mage was there waiting for him, staff of old wood in one hand.

‘Where were you?’ he growled.

‘Call of nature.’

‘Took your time.’

‘I’m not eating right these days.’

‘How much do you think I care about the state of your bowels?’

Barathol held a hand over the coals, thrust in a bar to stir them. ‘You asked.’

‘Don’t leave the forge again. We are on a timetable. There can be no delay.’

Over his shoulder Barathol studied the strangely lean angular fellow. ‘Oh? To accomplish what?’

The man’s eyes seemed to flare and he clasped the staff in both hands. The wood creaked in the fierce grip. ‘That is not your concern,’ he ground out.

Barathol shrugged. He gestured to the wood and leather bellows. ‘Work those for me then.’

The mage sneered. The fresh scars on his face twisted in disgust. ‘Find another to do that, imbecile.’

Barathol threw down the bar. ‘Fine. More delay.’

He impressed a worker from the crew to help on the bellows. The entire time, the mage paced the narrow confines of the tent. The work might have gone as usual, but for Barathol it seemed to flow as slowly as the silver melting in the glowing ceramic crucible. He kept suppressing the urge to peer over his shoulder, and he hunched at particularly loud bangs and crashes of dropped equipment in the trench.

All the time, he felt the gaze of the mage on his back like the twin impressions of heated dagger-points. Finally, the work was done. Both moulds were poured, and the mage shouldered him aside to inspect the cooling bars. ‘These appear acceptable,’ he growled, bent over them. A flicked hand dismissed Barathol, who straightened his back with a murmured ‘You’re welcome’.

He pushed aside the heavy canvas flap and stepped out into cool dawn air. He drew a cloth from inside his shirt and wiped his face and hands, then stood still for a moment, enjoying the caress of the wind. Walking up from the trench he paused, glanced back towards the distant woods hidden behind a wing of the rambling complex of Majesty Hall.
No alarm as yet. Not even a peep. Reconnoitring? Investigating the stones? Or … no, they wouldn’t dare try
that,
would they?

Best to be far away in any case
.

He headed for a twisting walkway down the hill.

Halfway along the trail he flinched as a boom erupted over the hillside, echoing and rolling into the distance. It sounded eerily like broad sails catching a brisk wind. He turned in time to see a great cloud of dirt and dust billowing up over the tiled rooftops of the various buildings crowding the hilltop. He could even make out the clattering of rocks as they tumbled down the cliffs. Distant shouts and screams sounded. He hung his head.
Damn! Now I have to go back for a look – it would be strange if I didn’t
.

He turned round to climb the walkway.

City Wardens had already formed a cordon holding everyone back from the crater smoking in the pocket forest. He identified himself as a worker on the installation and so was let through. He found his two bosses – the hunchback and the hooknose, as he thought of them – investigating the site. The hooknose caught sight of him and waved him closer. He edged his way down into the pit. The loose dirt was hot beneath his sandals.

Looking like some sort of scholarly vulture, hooknose rose from studying the arc of exposed blocks. To Barathol the stones looked to be discoloured and scorched, but otherwise intact. The mage eyed him sourly. ‘What is your opinion?’ he asked.

Barathol allowed himself a shrug. ‘Moranth munitions, I imagine.’

Hooknose, ever in an ugly temper, looked to the sky. ‘Obviously, fool! No, the blocks. The links – how are they?’

‘I’ll have to examine them, I suppose.’

‘Well, do so!’ and the man swept aside, curtly waving him forward.

Suppressing his own temper, Barathol knelt next to the course of blocks and began brushing away the dirt. He found the pins and, spitting and wiping, used his shirt-tails to clean them. Leaning close, he studied the silver for cracks, the hair-line skein of shattering, or other surface distortions such as stress from flexing. He studied four in all, two exposed sets, but saw no damage that he could make out. Throughout the entire examination the two mages hovered close, shadowing his every move.

He leaned back, motioning to the exposed course. ‘There’s no damage that I can see. Amazing, that. The blast must have been enormous.’

Over Barathol’s head the two mages shared looks of savage satisfaction. ‘So we conclude as well,’ said the hunchback.

The hooknose waved him away. ‘That is all – you may go.’

He inclined his head then clawed his way up the steep side of the blast pit. The Malazans must have back-filled it to contain the force, he thought to himself. Yet the explosion had failed to mar the stones at all. He could only conclude that the blocks were ensorcelled against such attacks.

News to pass on to the Malazans. But no doubt they’d discover the failure of their opening move soon enough.

*

Blend, Picker and Duiker were playing cards. Or at least pretending to. None seemed to have their mind on the game. Spindle paced, stopping on every lap of the common room to peer out of the window. Fisher was at the bar, plucking out a composition.

‘Do you think he talked?’ Spindle asked of the room in general.

‘Topper’s watching,’ Blend said, irritated.

‘’Cause he might’ve.’

‘Shut up, Spin. We’ll hear all about it.’

Spindle rubbed his shirt. ‘Should’ve gone by now,’ he murmured.

‘Don’t trust your own work?’ Picker asked, cocking an eye.

‘It’s been a while, okay?’

‘Like
never
.’ Picker smirked at Blend.

‘I’m trained!’

‘So you keep claiming, Spin. So you claim.’

‘Well … I am. Okay?’