Orb sceptre throne, p.43
Orb Sceptre Throne, page 43
And it was said the man had subsequently taken up a sword in the service of true slavery. But such were tales outside the testing circle and thus beneath attending.
In any case, they would soon know. Jan led the way. He hardly noticed the figures he brushed aside as he entered the Hall of Majesty. The body of their handed-down songs and stories contained many descriptions of the approach to the Throne, although it took a moment to sort through the subsequent alterations and additions to the rambling complex. That done, Jan directed those of the Fiftieth to guard the path, then walked up to the tall panelled doors – not even noting the two guards who stood ashen-faced to either side – and pushed them open.
It was dusk now, and the golden light of the sunset shone almost straight across the Great Hall, illuminating the gathered crowd in flames of argent. Jan paused, disconcerted to find a sea of plain golden masks directed his way. Though not all, he noted, wore them. And among those who did some now fell limp to crash to the floor.
He ignored them all as beneath his direct attention and strode for the Throne. His escort, the Twenty, followed him in. The crowd parted like torn cloth. Two of those insensate were dragged across the floor to clear the way.
The one on the throne rose to meet him.
He wore the template upon which all these others were obviously patterned. Jan recognized the power and authority radiating from it as if from the sun itself – but it was not the mask he had come all this way to meet. Halting, he met the man with his own masked head slightly inclined, eyes a shade downcast: the posture of uncertainty regarding rank.
The masked figure gestured, arms open, his thick burgundy robes wide.
‘Greetings, loyal children.’ A voice spoke from one side, quavering and breathless, almost choking. ‘You have answered the call of your master. Soon all shall be restored to what it was. The Circle of Perfect Rulership is near completion.’
The golden Father? First guide me! Was this the source of your silence? Ancestors forgive me … which do I choose? The knee or the blade? Which will it be? All now are watching, waiting upon me, the Second, to show the way. And yet … there it is. For am I not Second? And did not the last First ever instruct – the Second has but one task.
The Second follows.
And so he knelt before their ancient master reborn, his mask bent to the floor. And, leathers shifting and hissing, all the Twenty knelt in turn.
In the crowd yet another of those assembled crashed to the floor.
CHAPTER XIII
And the truth is not yet revealed
With the fall of the first gossamer veil
Nor does the second drifting shroud
Sent curling to the gold-dusted tiles
Bring the unthinking one step closer
To the necessary awareness of how
Close wafts the third clinging cowl
Troubling those fascinated as pure
White flashes yet promise and allure
Distracting the unwary from the
Fourth sheet unwound enlightening
All too late that only Death could
Dance so seductively
Song of the White Throne
Mad Ira Nuer
ANTSY AWOKE TO A HAMMERING ON THE WALL OF THEIR ROOM. ‘UP and on your feet,’ someone growled. ‘Let’s go.’ The feeble yellow light of a lamp glowed through the burlap hanging. He sat up, stretched, and set to pulling on his gear. He and Corien stepped out first to give Orchid more privacy to squat over the chamber pot.
The motley crew in their mismatched armour, men mostly, all chuckled at the loud hiss of the liquid stream against metal that came echoing out from behind the hanging. In charge of this detachment was the fellow boasting the huge thick beard tied off in tails and the tattered dirty jupon over the banded iron hauberk, its heraldry rendered murky and indistinguishable. When Orchid stepped out he gestured them impatiently. ‘This way.’
They were led through narrower and narrower private passages – what might have once been a large private dwelling – to a guarded room where tables stood crowded by scrolls and vellum sheets held down by countless statues of animals real and fantastic, some carved from semi-precious stone, others cast in silver and gold. Light was provided by a large candelabra so low it threatened to ignite the many sheets. A fat man sat with his boots up on one of the tables, leaning back, studying a document.
But what really caught Antsy’s attention was the wonderful scent of fresh fruit and cooked meat. His stomach lurched and grumbled and his mouth, dry for days, now flooded.
‘Prisoners, sir,’ their captor grunted.
The man did not look up from the document. ‘Very good, Lieutenant.’
The lieutenant promptly slouched into a chair, one of slung cured leather over carved dark wood that itself looked like a work of art. He helped himself to a cut crystal jug of red wine, pouring it into a cup that appeared to have been carved from jade. He waved away the guards.
The man tossed down the sheet. He was unshaven, his face glistening in the candlelight. His hair, bald on top, hung in a tangled mess. He rubbed his sunken red-ringed eyes with a pudgy hand thick with gem-studded rings. He blinked at them. ‘A Darujhistan dandy, a Malazan deserter, and some rich merchant’s plaything. How can any of you be of use to me?’
‘Torbal Loat,’ Antsy blurted, the name suddenly coming to him.
The man cocked one bloodshot eye. ‘Met before, have we?’
‘This fellow carved out quite the territory for himself up north during the wars,’ Antsy told Corien and Orchid.
‘Before you Malazans drove me out.’
Antsy raised his hands. ‘Hey, I chucked that in. No percentage there.’
The man merely grunted. He raised his chin to Corien. ‘You can use a blade, I assume?’
The youth bowed. ‘At your service.’
The lieutenant laughed a harsh bray and raised his glass in salute.
‘And you?’ Torbal demanded of Orchid.
‘She’s a mage of Rashan,’ Antsy said before she could answer.
Torbal’s heavy mouth twisted his irritation. ‘This true? If not, I’ll kill you myself.’
‘I have some small gifts, yes,’ she stammered.
He grunted, unimpressed. ‘Well … it’s the usual deal. You swear to fight for me and you’ll receive your fair share of food and shares in the profits. As you can see, we control the majority of the Spawn. Most of all that is worth anything is with us. Fight well and eventually your original gear will be returned. Though,’ and he glared at Antsy, ‘not all of it. Desertion is of course punishable by immediate execution,’ he added, continuing to give Antsy a hard eye.
‘For a share of the total profits I’m your man,’ Antsy said.
‘As am I,’ Corien added.
‘And I.’
‘Now,’ Torbal began, picking up a star fruit and examining it.
‘Our lookouts report that there was someone else with you … what happened to him?’
Antsy could not take his eyes from the ripe yellow star-shaped fruit. ‘He ran off.’
‘Ran off? You won’t mind then if we have a look for him?’
Antsy kept his face dead straight as he said: ‘No. We don’t mind at all.’
‘Where do you get all this food?’ Corien breathed, his voice thick with longing.
Torbal’s expression said that he was very pleased his little demonstration had had the desired effect. He sat back and took a bite of the fruit. ‘I have contacts with the Confederation boys. For a few trinkets I get regular shipments. My people eat well – remember that.’ He gestured to the lieutenant.
‘Get them rooms.’
The lieutenant pushed himself up. ‘Let’s go.’
He marched them back through the rambling living quarters. Antsy quickly became lost though he was doing his best to keep his bearings; he suspected the man was leading them in circles. Eventually he stopped before a portal covered by a hanging – a hacked portion of a tapestry that must once have been worth a fortune before such desecration. ‘You have a name?’ Antsy asked him.
The man pulled off his helmet and shook out long thick hair around his scarred and pitted face. ‘Otan.’
‘Otan of Genalle?’
‘The same.’
‘You gave us – ah, the Malazans – a lot of trouble.’
‘I still do,’ the man said, eyeing Antsy with obvious distaste. ‘Listen … Torbal says you live for now, but I don’t like you. Spy or deserter, whichever you are. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Be sure of that.’
‘That’ll keep me warm at night, friend.’
‘We’ll settle this. Don’t worry. We’ll settle up.’ He ambled off, his armour rattling and creaking.
It was a plain living chamber. A side room allowed the option of privacy for Orchid. They remained together in the main room talking in low voices while Corien kept a watch at the hanging.
‘What now?’ Orchid asked. ‘We’re captives.’
‘Are we at the top?’ Antsy asked.
‘No. According to all the descriptions I’ve heard there’s still a way to go.’
‘Thought so.’
‘Why?’
He gestured back the way they’d come. ‘I didn’t think this lot would be in charge.’
‘They have a lot of swords,’ Corien pointed out.
‘Yeah. But they’re fighting someone for control of the rock.’
‘Who?’
Antsy rubbed his slick forehead; his fingers came away greasy and sticky. He sighed. ‘I think maybe Malazans.’
‘Malazans?’ Orchid echoed in disbelief.
‘Yeah.’ Antsy sat on a stone sleeping ledge. ‘I heard that a while back a Malazan man-of-war bulled its way through to here. That would be maybe some two hundred fighting men. That’s why old Otan there’s accusing me of being a spy.’
Corien raised a hand for silence. Someone approached and he opened the hanging. It was a slave, a skinny crippled fellow with one hand and one bandaged eye. He was hugging a platter containing a hunk of cheese, dry hardtack, smoked meat, and a ceramic pot of water.
‘What’s your story, old man?’ Antsy asked him.
The man’s answer was the sad wreckage of a smile. A stream of clear fluid ran down his cheek from under the bandage. ‘Came out to make out my fortune. Like a gold rush, everyone said. Jewels to be plucked from the streets of the Spawn.’ With his remaining hand he gestured to himself. ‘But, as I found, riches don’t come cheap.’
‘I hear you, old man. What about weapons?’
‘When there’s an attack.’
Corien swore, then apologized to Orchid.
‘An attack?’ Antsy continued. ‘Who?’
The man shook his battered head. ‘Can’t say. Talk means punishment. ’
‘I understand. Thanks for the food.’
The old fellow bowed and padded off into the darkness. Antsy used his short eating knife to cut slices from the lump of cheese. Chewing, he squinted into the dark side room. ‘I think your night vision thing is still working, Orchid.’
‘Me too,’ Corien affirmed.
‘Good,’ she said bleakly.
Antsy turned his squint on her. ‘Could you give us darkness?’
‘There’s plenty of that.’
He cut and handed out slivers of the hard meat. Tasting it he wasn’t sure what it was. Horse? ‘No. Real darkness. The kind light can’t penetrate – would we still be able to see in that?’
‘I think so, yes. I believe you should.’
‘Good. That might be enough to get us out of here.’
‘Darkness?’ Corien said. ‘We have no weapons.’
‘Then we’ll bash people over the head and take theirs!’ Antsy answered, a touch irritated.
Corien inclined his head. ‘Of course. A sophisticated plan. When?’
Antsy scratched his own thickening beard. ‘Yeah. When. Common wisdom says we should wait a while – look like we’re fitting in. But I can’t shake the feeling that time’s not on our side. This whole rock is unstable. Who knows what might happen to it? Every day we’re stuck here we’re tempting Oponn and I don’t like that.’
‘So … we don’t wait?’
‘No.’ He wrapped the food to pack it away. ‘We go now.’
‘But our supplies. Your munitions!’
‘I’m happier keeping my head, thanks.’
Corien smiled his rueful admiration. ‘You’ve weathered more reversals than we have, Red.’
Antsy shoved the food into a roll of the tattered blankets and tied it off. ‘Aw, Hood. It ain’t Red. It’s Antsy.’
The youth and Orchid shared a glance of suppressed humour. ‘Well,’ Corien said, ‘we knew it wasn’t Red.’
‘So,’ Orchid whispered, facing Antsy. ‘What do we do?’
He moved to the hanging and motioned to Corien. ‘Snuff the light.’
Corien wet his fingers and pinched the wick of twisted hemp. In the bloom of utter dark Antsy waited for his vision to adjust. Eventually the faint blue glow returned and the walls and his companions slowly emerged from the gloom as if wavering into existence. He raised his hands to the Darujhistani aristocrat, who nodded his affirmation.
Orchid came up. ‘Now?’ she whispered.
He motioned a negative. ‘Let’s give it a while. Maybe they’ll think we’re sleeping.’
She was standing so close her thick mane of black hair brushed his ear, sending a shiver down his frame. He suddenly became very aware of the warmth of her body so close. The smell of her sweat was a pleasure to him. It reminded him of some rare spice. He turned his face away, clearing his throat. Ye gods, man. Get a grip.
‘So,’ he began, his voice thick and hoarse, ‘Morn thought you part Andii. What do you think?’
Her dark eyes sought his but he resolutely kept them on the hall. ‘It feels right. I guess I’d never thought about it until he said it. It explains a lot of things.’
He leaned back against the side of the portal. ‘Never thought about it? Who raised you, then?’
‘I grew up in what I know now was some sort of temple, or religious community. The priests and priestesses were my parents and teachers. I never left it. As I grew older I explored a bit and found that the temple was on an island. A very small island. After that I suppose I just contented myself with learning about the world through the stories and texts in the temple. That and my teachers.’
‘Who taught you the Andii tongue, and their letters.’
‘And their literature and legends and mythology.’
‘That didn’t make you wonder?’
She cocked her head aside in the darkness, considering. ‘No. Should it have? I just thought it was normal. I thought everyone learned these things. There was nothing to compare it to. Now, I suppose that must have been a temple to Elder Dark.’ She shook her head, a regretful smile at her lips. ‘I’m not the first to discover that most of what I’ve been taught was either wrong, irrelevant, or insane.’
Antsy nodded at that. Yeah. Parents and family work their craziness too. Gods, just look at Spindle.
‘There’s more, of course,’ she continued, sounding puzzled. ‘Other strange things that I still can’t understand. I seem to remember …’ She shifted, uneasy.
‘You don’t have to go on,’ Antsy murmured, keeping his gaze fixed on the dark hall. ‘I understand. But maybe I can help you sort through it.’
She let out a steadying breath, her lips clenched, then nodded. ‘I had many teachers. They seemed to come and go.’
‘Uh-huh. And this is strange?’
‘Antsy … They were young when they came and when they left … they were old.’
He forced himself to swallow to wet his suddenly dry throat. ‘Ah. That is strange. You sure … ?’
‘Yes. And I seem to remember it happening many times.’
Antsy let out a sound as if thinking that through. Queen release me! When will I learn to keep my damned mouth shut? ‘Well … Andii are long-lived, right? There you go.’ Hood! This ‘child’ is probably more than twice my age! What’s she been learning all that time? ‘Listen. Maybe that’s enough for—’
The jarring clanging of metal on metal blasted through the Spawn’s steady background noise of groans and clatterings. Corien leapt to his feet. Shouts sounded up the hall and quite a few screams as well. A figure stepped into the hall, shouted: ‘C’mon, you lot! It’s the alarm. Let’s go!’
Their watcher. Antsy nodded to Orchid. ‘Put a darkness here in the hall.’
She shut her eyes, murmuring, and all the faint glow of distant lights disappeared. The man peered about, panicked. ‘What in the Abyss …’
Antsy made for him. The fellow heard his approach and went for his sword but he was obviously blind so Antsy kicked him in the groin then kneed him in the face, shattering the cartilage of his nose and possibly killing him. He took the man’s weapons while he lay stunned.
‘Which way?’ he called to Orchid. She pointed up the other way. He gave the sword to Corien, kept a fighting dirk. ‘I’ll lead. Corien, watch the rear.’
As they traced halls and turned corners, it appeared to him that Orchid was attempting to lead them round the settlement. He was happy with that because occasional blasts and screams reached them from whatever was going on over at one side of the complex. But as Orchid took longer and longer to chose directions the noise steadily became louder with each length of empty hall or chamber traversed and the yellow glow of lanterns and lamps thickened. By the time she came to a full halt in a narrow chamber whose only other exit was an open portal, he could make out the thumping release of crossbows, the ringing of iron from stone, shouts, and, above all, an argument of some sort between a high strident harridan’s voice and a much lower, deeper and fainter man’s voice.
