Orb Sceptre Throne (60 page)

‘One more thing,’ Rallick said.

Coll peered up, brows raised. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you have an extra room? I need a place to sleep.’

Coll fought down a near-hysterical laugh. ‘Here? Gods, man, this is the first place they’ll look for you.’

‘No. You’re still a Council member. They won’t move against you unless they’re offered a contract.’

‘How can you be so sure they won’t act anyway – unilaterally, so to speak?’

Rallick smiled humourlessly and Coll reflected that even the man’s smiles resembled the unsheathing of a knife. ‘Guild rules,’ he said.

Across the clear summer night sky the long trailing banner of the Scimitar arced high while the moon cast its cold, emerald-tinged light upon the empty Dwelling Plain. A lone figure, dark cloak blowing in the weak wind, walked the dry eroded hills. His features were night dark, his hair touched with silver. He wore fine dark gloves and upon the breast of his dark green silk shirt rode a single visible piece of jewellery: an upright bird’s foot claw worked in silver, clutching an orb. The Imperial Sceptre of the Malazans.

Topper had only been to Darujhistan a few times. Personally, he did not understand its prominence. He thought it too vulnerable, relying as it did on such distant market gardens and fields to feed its populace. Yet he did detect among the dunes and wind-swept hills straight lines and foundations which hinted that things had not always been this way. Logic, however, rarely guided such choices. History and precedent ruled. His names for such forces in human activity were laziness and inertia.

He came across yet another wind-eaten ring of an abandoned well, and dutifully he knelt to examine the stones. Nothing here. That report had better be accurate or he’d have the head of that useless mage for wasting his night. He moved on.

Frankly, nothing of what he’d found here interested him over much. He was glad of the recent carnage to the south. In his opinion such disarray and expending of resources opened the way for Malazan expansion. So too here in Darujhistan. Anomander gone. The Spawn ruined. In all, things could not have worked out better for the Throne.

What worried him was his absence from Unta. Who knew what idiocy Mallick might be initiating? Like that adventurism in Korel. It had better work out, or the regional governors might start to wonder if perhaps they’d made a mistake in backing the man …

He reached another dry well and knelt to examine it. This time he grunted his satisfaction and turned his attention to the lock blocking its top. Under his touch it opened easily. He threw aside the wooden lid and jumped in. A hand lightly touching the side slowed his descent. As the bottom approached he spread his feet to either side and stopped himself. Here he noted the faintest remnant glimmers of ancient wards and Warren magics. To his eye the work appeared to bear the touch of an Elder’s or Other’s hand. In either case, not plain human Warren manipulation. This fitted with what he knew of what he faced.

All was simply more intelligence to help him build the profile that would guide him in his own possible action against this Legate.
If it should come to that
.

And he rather hoped it would. For it would allow him to indulge in a bit of personal vindication. For the description of this young female servant – the filmy white clothes, the bangles and long hair – resembled someone else. Someone he hoped to have the excuse to confront.

He launched himself into the slim tunnel and pushed himself along on elbows and knees to where it emptied into a larger chamber. Here he dusted himself off then peered about. Empty. Side vaults empty as well. He examined the skulls decorating the floor, the empty stone plinth. Then he found the one occupied side vault. Here he paused for a long time.

The lingering magery flickering about this corpse interested him the most. He rested his hands on the stone ledge the carcass lay upon to lean closely over the remains. Why had this one alone resisted, or failed, reconstitution and escape? It seemed a puzzle. A trap within a trap within a trap. Subtle weavings. Yet who was trapping whom? And could he be certain? According to those cretin marines there could be only one witness. Only one individual emerged from the well before this masked creature appeared. The one others called scholar, a small-time potterer here among the ruins.

He leaned back, brushed his fingertip across his lips. As before: one set apart. Why? There must be some significance. He simply couldn’t get a tight enough grip upon it yet. The lineaments of the castings held a cold sharp edge. They whispered of non-human origins. Not Tiste – he knew his own. Certainly not K’Chain nor Forkrul. That left Jaghut. So, the legends of the ancient Jaghut Tyrants. Returned? Didn’t the Finnest house finish that?

Reason enough for any other to be wary.

He brushed his gloved hands together, climbed from the narrow alcove.
Too many players for things to be straightforward and clear. Have to watch and wait
.

At least until the inevitable frantic recall to the capital comes
.

While the cargo scow was slow, it made steady progress all through the day and on through the night and so far sooner than Torvald expected they drew up next to the sagging dilapidated pier at Dhavran. His travelling companions, he knew, would be disembarking here. He was saddened to see them go. They’d been extraordinarily informative regarding the political situation among the Free Cities and the Malazans to the north. From hints and details he gathered that the big fellow, Cal, had once been some sort of military commander far in the north.

In the dawn’s light, alongside all the other passengers preparing to leave, the two put together their meagre travelling gear. At the rail Torvald waited to say his farewells. Sailors readied the gangway.

‘Sorry to say goodbye,’ he told the old man, Tserig.

The fellow glanced up to his huge companion, who peered down at Torvald from amid his wild mane of blowing hair and beard, a half-smile at his lips, and rumbled, ‘Haven’t you been listening? You’re coming with us.’

Torvald blinked. For an instant he had a flashback to another of his travelling companions, one similarly large and abstruse. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘There is no longer at Pale anything of any relevance to your master in Darujhistan. Here at Dhavran, however, will soon arrive something of great significance.’

‘And that is?’

‘The Rhivi nation is invading the south, meaning to crush the Malazans. Don’t you think you should discuss the matter with them? You are, I gather, a duly appointed city councillor, yes?’

Torvald coughed to clear his throat. ‘You are not serious, I hope?’

‘Very serious.’

Tserig gummed his nearly toothless mouth, nodding his agreement. ‘We are here to try to talk them out of it.’

The gangway slammed down, rattling the dock. The crowd on the deck hefted their bags and rolls while babies cried, pigs squealed, and caged fowl gobbled. Torvald shouldered his own bag. ‘Well … I suppose I ought to accompany you, then.’

‘Very good,’ Cal said. ‘They should be here shortly.’

They waited until all the other departing passengers had shuffled down the gangway. Tor watched families reunited amid hugs and tears; travelling petty traders set down their wares and immediately start haggling; and local merchants fussed over the unloading of ordered goods. This was the stuff of normal life – the daily round of trying to build a better future. This was what people wanted. Really, in the final accounting, they just wanted to be left alone to get on with things.

Once the way was clear they hefted their bags and tramped down the planking. Tor noted that it bowed alarmingly beneath Cal’s weight.

They set up camp close to the muddy riverside where a meagre bridge made a crossing. Here they waited. ‘It will only be a few days,’ Tserig assured Torvald. In the meantime Torvald questioned Cal. It turned out the man knew an incredible amount regarding general history and politics. Torvald, who had been away from the region for some time, suddenly found himself very well informed.

Just a few days later the first of the Rhivi outriders arrived at the broad shallow valley that this creek, the Red, meandered through. Cal, Tserig and Torvald went to meet them at the bridge.

The riders trotted up to the bridge, dismounted. Cal awaited them with his hands tucked into the wide leather belt of his travel-stained trousers. Old Tserig leaned on a large walking stick. Torvald stood just behind. He keenly felt that he was intruding.

The two outriders knelt before Cal. ‘Warlord,’ they said.

Torvald slapped a hand to his mouth.
Great gods! Warlord? Cal – Caladan – Caladan Brood!
He heard a roaring in his ears and his vision darkened, narrowing to a tunnel. The old man grasped his arm with a grip like the snaring of a root, steadying him. The riders bowed to Tserig as well, murmuring, ‘Elder.’

‘I would treat with Jiwan,’ Caladan said. ‘If he will receive my words.’

‘We will carry your message.’

‘One more thing.’ The Warlord motioned aside to Torvald. ‘I also have with me an emissary from the ruling council of Darujhistan, Torvald Nom. He too would speak with Jiwan.’

The two bowed again, then returned to their mounts. Caladan watched them go. After a time he turned to Torvald. ‘We should have an answer soon enough.’

Tor struggled to find his voice. ‘Why … why didn’t you tell me …?’

‘I could hardly announce it there on that boat, could I?’

‘Well … I suppose not. But … why aren’t you …’ Tor swallowed, realizing his indelicacy, and finished lamely, ‘you know.’

‘With them?’ the big man supplied, arching a bushy brow. ‘I argued against any further war but I was outvoted. The young bloods want to prove themselves. And being the aggressive faction – they won the day.’ His hands knotted at his belt. ‘At least that is how it had better have been. Otherwise …’ He shook the great mane about his head and gestured to the creek. ‘In the meantime let’s try and catch some fish.’

In the end, it was Tserig who caught them. Wading along the shore, robes pulled high up over his skinny shanks, he scared two whiskered bottom-feeders into the shallows and Torvald scooped them up. They skewered them over flames, and after the meal, the noise of hooves announced the approach of riders. Rising, Caladan pulled his hands through his thick beard then wiped them on his trousers. Torvald helped Tserig to his feet. ‘My thanks,’ the man murmured. ‘My joints are not what they used to be. Though I’ll have you know my prick is just fine.’

Torvald clamped his teeth together against a choking laugh. ‘That … is … encouraging news, Elder.’

The old man gummed his mouth, nodding. ‘It should be!’

The riders were Rhivi warriors finely accoutred in mail and enamelled leather armour with skirtings that hung down the sides of their mounts. Torvald recognized these men and women as the cream of the Rhivi’s leading clans. The foremost rider drew off his helmet to nod to Caladan. His thin beard was braided, as was his long black hair.

‘Warlord. To what do we owe this honour … again?’

‘Jiwan. I am here to ask you one last time to put down the spear. No good will come of it, only suffering and tears. Think of your people – the lives that will be lost.’

The young commander nodded thoughtfully, frowning. ‘I hear your words, Warlord, and I honour you for your past leadership and wisdom. But these words are not those of a war leader. They are the words of an old man who has lost a great friend. A mourning elder who looks at life only to see death. Such a dark vision must not guide a people. We who see life, who look ahead to the future, we must lead. And so, Caladan … I ask that you stand aside.’