Orb Sceptre Throne (61 page)

‘Pretty words, Jiwan,’ Brood answered, unruffled by the young man’s dismissal. ‘I see now how you turned the heads of the Circle of Elders. But I do not think I will stand aside. I think I will block this bridge to you and all those foolish enough to follow anyone hypocritical – or inexperienced – enough to speak of life while going to war.’

Torvald’s mood had fallen from uncomfortable to distinctly exposed here on the open bridge as more and more of the Rhivi cavalry, mixed medium and light, came trotting down the shallow valley. He felt like an interloper among the negotiations of a war leader who had dominated the north for decades, and had led the resistance there against the invading Malazans. Now to be dismissed in such an ignoble and off-handed manner! It grated against his instincts. To so blindly dismiss the hard-learned wisdom of centuries!

The young war leader’s gaze now found Torvald. He raised his chin. ‘You are this Darujhistani emissary, Torvald, Nom of Nom?’

Torvald bowed from the waist. ‘I am he.’

‘What think you of this man’s position here?’

‘I think it … rather unassailable.’

A scornful smile drew back the youth’s lips. ‘Strange words from an emissary of Darujhistan when all the others are so eager for Malazan blood.’

‘What’s that?’ Caladan growled, his voice suddenly low and menacing.

The war leader seemed to believe he had scored a point and he nodded his assurances. ‘Oh, yes. The city is with us. We have the fullest intelligence from them. For example, the remnant fleeing just before us number less than twelve hundreds, while our numbers swell with every passing day. Soon we shall reach thirty thousands! And your Legate, Nom of Nom, promises aid during the engagement. Obviously he too recognizes the threat these Malazans pose.’ Jiwan sat up taller in his saddle. He raised his voice to be heard by the surrounding riders. ‘Now is our chance to rid our lands of the invader! They are weak. Leaderless. Few in number. Now is our best chance and perhaps our only chance! We must strike now! While we are assembled! The gods have handed us this opportunity. We must not let it slip away out of fear.’

‘Your words lack respect!’ Tserig called suddenly. ‘They displease the ancestors.’ The Elder pointed to Caladan. ‘This man sheltered Silverfox the Liberator! The gift of the Mhybe!’

The war leader bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘True. But where is the miraculous Silverfox now?’ He turned in his saddle to shout: ‘She has abandoned us!’

‘
Enough!
’ Caladan bellowed. So strong was the yell that Torvald felt the bridge judder beneath his feet. ‘Enough talk. Jiwan, this bridge is closed to you.’

Exaggerated regret drew the war leader’s mouth down. He shook his head. ‘Caladan, it is sad to see you reduced to such petty gestures.’ He pointed to the shallow waterway. ‘You accomplish nothing. We will merely ride through the creek.’

Caladan crossed his arms. ‘You are welcome to do so. You are much overdue, I think, for getting muddy.’

Jiwan merely clamped his lips shut. Yanking on his reins he waved for the cavalry to go round. Torvald watched while the columns passed to either side of the bridge. Some refused to acknowledge the Warlord or glance his way, while the lingering eyes of others held sadness, regret, and even guilt.

It was many hours before the last of the riders passed. Above, the mottled moon and the Scimitar cast bright competing shadows while threads of clouds passed between them. Caladan finally let out a long breath. ‘A large force,’ he admitted. ‘Every clan represented.’

‘They smell blood,’ Tserig agreed.

‘Malazan blood.’

‘What will you do now?’ Torvald asked.

The huge man uncrossed his arms and shifted his stance. The logs of the bridge creaked beneath their feet. ‘I warned your Legate not to interfere in this. But he has defied me. Whipped the Rhivi on to the Malazans. All Jiwan sees is the glory of being the war leader who defeats the Malazans. He doesn’t see that Rhivi blood is simply ridding this creature of his enemies for him.’

‘I’ll go back, then,’ Torvald said, certain of what he should do. ‘Speak against this.’

The man’s tangled brows rose. ‘Great Burn, no, lad. You’ll be killed out of hand. No. I’m going. I intend to take this Legate by the neck and let him know of my displeasure.’

Suddenly Torvald felt rather afraid for his city. There were stories of this man – this Ascendant – levelling mountains in the north. ‘You won’t …’ he began, only to pause as he realized he wasn’t sure what he intended to say.
Won’t destroy the city
?

The man smiled his reassurance. ‘Only this Legate troubles me. I am sorry, Torvald Nom, but all is not as you think in your home. I suspect something is controlling Lim, or he has struck a bargain where he should not have.’

Something strange going on? What is strange about Lim’s having resurrected an ancient reviled title? Or started wearing a gold mask? There is nothing strange in that
.

‘Tserig,’ Caladan continued, ‘would you re-join Jiwan’s forces? If things go badly there will be a need for your voice.’

‘I understand, Warlord.’

Caladan regarded Torvald, stroked his beard. ‘Perhaps if you accompanied me you would be safe enough.’

Tor thought about the offer but realized that there might be something else he could do. Something perhaps
only
he could do. ‘No.’

Caladan stopped to turn, frowning. ‘No?’

‘No. The Moranth withdrew when they sensed something was happening. And here we are in the shadows of their mountains. I’ll … I’ll go to them.’

‘Torvald Nom, that is an extraordinary offer. But no one has ever succeeded in reaching them in their mountain strongholds. They speak to no one. I’ve heard that only the Emperor and Dancer ever managed to sneak into Cloud Forest.’

‘They will speak to me.’

The Ascendant eyed him while he pulled at his beard. He was obviously curious as to the source of Torvald’s certainty, but refrained from challenging it. He grunted instead, nodding. ‘Very well. I wish there was some help I could offer.’

‘Well – I could use a horse.’

The big man smiled behind his beard. His gaze shifted to the south where a galaxy of campfires now lit the plain. ‘I think I might be able to produce one.’

Leoman sat with his arms draped over his folded knees. He watched the titanic shadow of Maker high against the horizon where the giant continued his labour while the stars wheeled and the waves of glimmering Vitr worked their eternal erosion.

He sighed and glanced over to where Kiska stood high on the strand, facing the Sea of Vitr. Day after day she stood in plain view of Tayschrenn, or Thenaj, and his cohort of helpers while they carried out their rescue mission of dragging unfortunates from the burning energies of creation and destruction. Her goal, he believed he understood, was that somehow, eventually, the sight of her would trigger some memory within the archmagus and the man would come to his senses.

He thought it a forlorn hope. He stretched then sat back, his elbows in the black sand. Was he losing weight? Wasting away? Would he fade to a haunt doomed to wander the shores of creation wringing his hands or searching for a black button he’d dropped?

Kiska nudged his leg – he’d been wool-gathering. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. She peered down at him, then away, screwing up her eyes. ‘You don’t have to stay,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘True.’

‘You
should
go. There’s no need for you to be here.’

‘One does not return empty-handed to the Queen of Dreams.’

‘She’s not vindictive.’

He snorted. ‘This is all assuming we
can
return.’

‘She wouldn’t have sent us to our deaths.’

‘She said she couldn’t see beyond Chaos.’

Kiska set her hands on her hips. ‘Well … so, you’re just going to lie around watching?’

He peered about as if searching for something else, then returned his gaze to her. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Well … you’re making me uncomfortable.’

‘Oh – I’m making you uncomfortable?’

‘Yes! So go away.’

He pointed one sandalled foot to the beach. ‘I’m sure our friends feel the same way.’

‘That’s different.’

‘It is? Shall we ask them?’

Kiska’s lips tightened to almost nothing. ‘They won’t talk to me.’

Fine lips they are for kissing. Too bad there’s been precious little of that. Now
there’s
a reason to go back
. He squinted up at her. ‘That’s because you’re making them uncomfortable.’

She waved curtly, dismissing him – ‘Gods, I don’t know why I bother’ – and marched away.

Well … that didn’t work. What now? Bash her on the head and drag her back to the Enchantress? Here you are, Your Ladyship – one troublesome agent returned safe and sound. Are we even now?

He eased back into studying the horizon. Time for that yet. Best wait a touch longer. See if she works this out of her system all on her own. As he’d learned from experience – it’s always easiest simply to set out the bait and wait for them to come to you.

The old witch who lived at the very western edge of the shanty town that itself clung to the western edge of Darujhistan seemed to spend all her time whittling. That and incessantly humming and chanting to herself. People whose errands happened to bring them wandering by sometimes considered telling the hag to shut up. But, after reconsidering, none ever did so. It was after all asking for trouble to insult a witch.

This afternoon, as the sun descended to the west, where just visible was the top of the great hump of the tomb of the Andii prince – uncharacteristically unlooted as yet, as, again, it would be asking for trouble to attempt to rob the tomb of the Son of Darkness – this afternoon the witch’s head snapped up from her sticks and she stuffed them away into the folds of her layered shirts. She stood, peering narrowly to the south. Out came her pipe in one hand and in her other a pinch of mud or gum that she rolled between grimy thumb and forefinger.

She brought the lump up to her eyes, squinting. Brought it even closer, so close that her thumb touched the bridge of her nose and her eyes crossed. Then she grunted, satisfied, and jammed the lump into the pipe. This she lit, puffing, before returning to studying the south, an arm tucked under the one holding the pipe. Passers-by noted her attention and stopped to look as well. But, seeing nothing but the dusty hills of the Dwelling Plain, they shook their heads at the woman’s craziness and moved on.

‘Almost,’ the woman muttered aloud as if conversing with someone. She blew twin plumes of smoke from her nostrils. ‘Almost.’