That evening Blues joined Smoky and Gwynn in the commander’s quarters on the top floor of the tower. Once he arrived Gwynn had them pull the large heavy table to the wall, to clear the centre of the room. He then had them stand together facing west. At Blues’s quizzical look the dour mage explained, ‘I believe he’s in that direction.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘Smoky and I shall reach out as we have had more experience at this. You, however, must be ready to lend your strength.’

  Blues nodded, and together they raised their Warrens to their furthest height. The table juddered on the stones of the floor as the room began to vibrate with the power it contained. Dust swept up all about and a wind now rushed past Blues from behind, as if being sucked into some sort of gap in the air before them. Darkness gathered at the room’s centre and Blues recalled that Gwynn’s Warren was that of Rashan – Night itself.

  Smoky grunted then as if gut-punched, hissing, ‘There’s a powerful aura near. Shielding this place.’

  Gwynn cut a hand through air and the darkness parted, revealing a scene as if through a window: large green leaves dripping water, a thick jungle, as of southern Dal Hon. Then came the clash of battle nearby.

  Blues now sensed something behind him, approaching. Something immense and very powerful. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Skinner!’ Gwynn yelled. ‘Your brothers and sisters seek you!’

  ‘Come!’ a voice commanded from the dense leaves and hanging ropy vines. The view shifted as they seemed to jump, then there stood Skinner, wearing now a coat of fine dark mail armour, and at his feet the tangled coils of a snake, its girth as great as Blues’s thigh. Nearby, half-hidden amid the jungle, there fought other brothers and sisters of the Guard. Skinner drew off his full helm and pushed back his long sweat-soaked hair and seemed to glare right through them. ‘You should not be here,’ he growled. ‘You must go.’

  ‘The Malazans are coming for the fort!’ Blues shouted.

  ‘Then slay them all,’ Skinner answered.

  Somehow, Blues wasn’t surprised.

  ‘We need reinforcements,’ Gwynn ground out, his teeth gritted with effort.

  Skinner shook his head. ‘I am sorry. We are hard-pressed here. I have accepted a challenging contract.’

  ‘And just where is this?’ Smoky gasped, sounding as if he were drowning.

  The man’s slash of a mouth crooked at some hidden joke. ‘Jacuruku.’

  The darkness wavered then, Gwynn perhaps losing his focus in shock. ‘And your patron?’ he grated, renewing his effort.

  Skinner waved them off. ‘Go now! She comes and allows none to trespass on her demesnes.’

  ‘But—’ Gwynn began, only to grunt in psychic pain, as some thing tore the connection from him and Smoky and was now in the process of brushing aside all their frantic efforts to sever the link.

  Blues had one last glimpse of a renewed attack on his brothers and sisters as what looked like gigantic butterflies came hovering down upon them, before Smoky, tottering, clutched his arm and he had to throw all he had against the titanic tsunami of power about to smother them.

  An instant’s hesitation of surprise, or uncertainty, was all he bought with his entire might but it was enough for Gwynn to cut the connection. The three of them collapsed, while the room rocked as if slapped by a giant.

  Black the Lesser, Lean and Jacinth burst in, swords bared. ‘What is it?’ Black demanded.

  Blues could only lie blinking to refocus his vision. The big swordswoman Lean yanked him to his feet and he nodded his gratitude then went to see to the others. Black raised Smoky who stood dazed, blood running from his nose and eyes. Gwynn was on his feet, and strangely his clothes now smoked as if he’d just emerged from a potter’s kiln. The mage of Rashan dabbed at his own bleeding nose.

  ‘Well,’ he croaked, ‘I believe we now know who Skinner’s patron is.’

  ‘Who?’ Blues demanded; his ears still rang from that blow of stupendous power.

  Gwynn appeared amused by Blues’s lack of knowledge. ‘Why, Ardata, of course. Whom some name the Witch Queen of Jacuruku.’

  Blues managed to stifle his laugh of derision; after all, they’d just had a demonstration that this Ardata was no myth.

  ‘Will there be any relieving force?’ Jacinth demanded. Her thick mane of red hair was all a tangle, and she wore only a thin linen shirt and cotton trousers. Blues found himself admiring the curved musculature of her shoulders.

  Gwynn drew out a handkerchief that he pressed to his nose. He shook his head. ‘No. There will be no relieving force for us. We are on our own.’

  ‘And our orders?’ she asked, her gaze narrowing.

  ‘We are to resist.’

  Jacinth snorted, ‘Against twenty thousand?’ and she stormed from the chamber.

  Black scabbarded his sword, saying, ‘Well, they’ll sing a song of the engagement … but it will be a very short song.’

  Blues wiped his wet nose and tearing eyes and silently agreed with that sentiment.

  * * *

  The Golat family villa stood upon a cliff on Cabil Isle, with a view of the Old Guando Sea. This day, Trehan Golat, patriarch of the family, had been surprised by a noontime announcement from a servant that Mallick Rel, priest of Mael and Overseer of Coin, had arrived for a visit.

  This was quite surprising to him as no such arrangements had been made between his secretary and this fellow’s servants. Nevertheless, while the Golat family was very old and possessed a permanent seat upon the island’s guiding council, this Mallick Rel was an important priest of the cult of Mael and had risen very fast within that organization to now be in charge of all its finances.

  Also, troubling rumours circulated concerning the man and the numerous deaths and disappearances of individuals who happened to stand in the way of his advancement.

  So, that noon, Trehan stood waiting in the villa’s gardens overlooking the sea, waiting and wondering what possible reason could lie behind the visit.

  The priest’s rather large party came filing along the cobbled walk that led from the front main entrance to twist its way between pools, plantings of rare flowers, and twinned fountains. All wore the long flowing blue robes of the cult of Mael. The man himself was by far the shortest of the group, nearly all the others being his personal guard of burly priests.

  Trehan bowed, calling out, ‘Welcome to the Golat family villa. To what do we owe the privilege of your visit, honoured priest?’

  At a small wave from the short and chubby priest his escort of guards and servants dispersed, leaving the two of them alone. The priest crossed his arms across his wide stomach, slipping his hands into the robe’s broad sleeves. He peered about the gardens, blinking in the sunlight like some underwater creature drawn up from his accustomed darkness. ‘I have heard much of the beauty of these grounds and would see for myself,’ he said, his voice so faint Trehan could barely hear his words.

  Trehan beamed, inwardly relieved, and raised his arms wide. ‘Of course, sir. A tour perhaps, before a meal?’

  The suggestion of further physical activity made the priest wince. His greased flat hair and pale skin made Trehan think there was something slimy and lizard-like about the man. ‘Later, perhaps,’ Mallick said. ‘I have decided that I do indeed like the grounds and the villa, and that they will do just fine.’

  Trehan stood blinking his uncertainty. ‘Ah, fine, sir? Fine for what?’

  ‘For myself, of course.’

  After staring for a time Trehan offered up a nervous laugh. ‘You must be misinformed, sir. The villa is not for sale.’

  Mallick sighed heavily, as if already exhausted by the day’s efforts. ‘Patriarch Trehan. I have recently come into a position of some responsibility with our good faith and now require a residence reflecting said position.’

  Trehan was now losing his patience; this was all just too outrageous – even for the high-handed priests of Mael. ‘Well, I wish you luck with your search, father priest, but this villa has been in our family for generations and is not for sale.’ He pointed to the front. ‘You know the way out.’

  The priest did not move; his gaze did not even shift from Trehan – who became a touch uneasy beneath the man’s odd slit-eyed stare. ‘It is my humble duty to know the finances of the Faith, and it sorrows me to say that your family has fallen into debt in this regard.’

  ‘Ridiculous! We have kept up in all tithes and taxes.’

  ‘Said duties have been your son’s, yes?’

  Trehan now frowned, troubled by the man’s direction. ‘Yes … what of it?’

  The priest raised a pale stubby hand and studied his blunt nails. ‘Sadly, none of such monies have reached the temple’s coffers. While your son has hosted many extravagant parties of late, has he not? And gambled a great deal. And lost a great deal.’

  ‘These are lies, sir. I will thank you to leave.’

  The squat priest merely stared back with his half-lidded eyes. ‘Said debt must be covered and the Faith shall accept this property – in lieu of other payments. In kind or chattel.’

  Trehan found his hand going to his throat. ‘Chattel?’ he managed, his voice hoarse. ‘What other payments could you mean?’

  Mallick slid his hand back into a wide sleeve. ‘Your younger children – all daughters, I understand? They could be accepted into the Faith. Such a service would be an honour to the family, yes? Scullery maid, or floor scrubber, or prostitute. No doubt some use could be found for them.’

  Trehan could not find any words; he gaped, stunned. Finally, he hissed, ‘You little shit. The council will hear of this outrage! You cannot simply—’

  The priest had waved and strong hands took Trehan by the shoulders and marched him up the walk. He shouted as he went, all abuse and insults. Mallick sighed, peering round the gardens. One of the priest’s servants approached and bowed. Ignoring the servant, Mallick mused aloud, ‘It suits, but I doubt I shall spend much time here.’

  ‘And the council, father?’ the servant enquired.

  The priest blinked at the servant. ‘The council only listens to men or women of property. And Trehan Golat is no longer a man of property.’ He waved the servant off. ‘Now go prepare a bath. I am much in need of one.’ He extended a limp beringed hand.

  The servant bent to one knee, kissed the ringed fingers, and backed away, murmuring, ‘Of course, good father.’

  CHAPTER 4

  ABOUT TWICE EVERY MOON A RITUAL OF SORTS WAS OBSERVED on a pier of Cabil’s enclosed harbour. An elderly washerwoman of the temple, her hair all a tangle, would arrive at the waterfront to sit with her equally unlikely paramour, a greying, heavy-set carpenter. Together they spent the evening, he smoking a pipe, she mending bits of cloth, as they shared one another’s company.

  For observers and other passers-by it was a test of one’s character and outlook on life. Those without compassion or any generosity in their souls found the sight revolting. Those labouring under an excess of optimism or a romantic inclination were warmed by the example of enduring loyalty and friendship. Realists saw few other options available for either. As was usual, none saw the entire truth. The two were not lovers – though they did love one another – nor were they even of Falar.

  ‘They are coming,’ Janelle announced to her brother, Janul.

  ‘It’s about time,’ he grumbled. ‘We’ve been saying this place was ripe.’

  ‘The same was said about Korel,’ Janelle put in.

  Janul blew out a snorted gout of smoke. ‘Different. How could anyone predict they’d be so stubborn?’

  ‘People are always stubborn in the face of change. Especially change from the outside.’

  Janul began, ‘I’m sure this—’

  Footsteps on the boards sounded behind and a voice snapped, ‘Don’t you two have duties?’

  Janul peered up over his shoulder where a priest of Mael in his deep sea-blue robes stood glaring down. ‘After this dinner hour, good father,’ he answered round his pipe.

  The priest’s glare turned even more sour and he wheeled away in disgust. ‘Well, see to them! Don’t fritter all your time away here,’ and he marched off.

  ‘Fritter?’ Janul murmured. ‘Did he say fritter?’

  ‘Indeed he did.’

  ‘Hunh. People say the oddest things …’

  ‘A black heart in that one,’ Janelle observed. ‘No generosity of spirit.’

  ‘A characteristic of the order, I’d say. No one will miss them.’

  ‘That’s what they said about—’

  Janul threw his hands up in surrender. ‘I know! I know.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Janelle continued, ‘anything to report?’

  ‘Another quake. Quite strong. Shacks nearly collapsed. A big wave took out a dock.’

  ‘I felt it too. Pots and pans fell everywhere.’

  ‘Burn fighting her captivity,’ Janul sighed.

  ‘Mael,’ Janelle corrected. ‘They say it’s Mael here.’

  ‘Hunh. They would, wouldn’t they.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Well …’ Janul answered thoughtfully, drawing on the pipe. ‘Heard some strange talk on the waterfront. Parties sent into the southern mainland wilderness are overdue. Some say they’ve disappeared. Natives, or something.’

  ‘But the southern wilds are unpopulated.’

  Janul shrugged. ‘So they say.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not that I can think of right now.’

  ‘All right then.’ Janelle pressed her hands to her thighs. ‘Next week. I tell you, I’ll be glad to finish this assignment and move on.’

  Janul shook his head; his greying brush-cut hair gleamed in the sunset. ‘Not me. I kinda like it here. I sense … possibilities.’

  Now Janelle shook her head and, rising, flexed her back with a groan. ‘Gods! Getting old is not for the faint of heart.’

  ‘We’ve lived twice over, you and I.’

  She grunted a laugh. ‘Hunh. Maybe so. Magister protect you, brother.’

  ‘And you, sister.’

  A woman’s voice called loudly from along the pier: ‘Oh, look at you two lovebirds!’ A very wide woman in a cook’s apron came over to smother Janelle’s hands in her own. She beamed down at Janul. ‘It warms the heart, it does! Gives us all such hope.’

  Janelle ducked her head shyly while Janul looked away.

  ‘Here you are, you two!’ and the woman produced two buns from pockets in her apron. ‘Fresh from the oven, stuffed with sweetmeats.’

  Janelle curtsied, taking them. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Janul, she saw, was hiding a wide grin behind his hand.

  * * *

  It was Hyde and Ayal’s turn to pull the sledge. Hessa scouted ahead with Corbin, while Turnagin lagged behind as always: the cold, the poor fare, the constant labour of struggling on, all was taking a toll on a man not used to hardship.

  Hessa herself was feeling the strain, and she a toughened veteran. She paused amid the snow to hug herself and rest for a moment. The roiling plume of what was obviously a giant volcano now churned overhead. Large flakes of ash and soot fell as if new snow, and here and there amid the ice and bare black rock steam curled and vented. At least they no longer froze at night; they merely had to select one of these hot flues to huddle about. Sleep could come then, without the fear of never awakening again – if one could sleep with the now near-constant rumblings and shakings that juddered the land beneath their feet.

  And as usual, when she paused she began to think and with thought the doubts came rushing in. It was bad enough the way they all looked at her – as if she’d condemned them to die – though none said a thing of it. At least not to her face. But what had been their choices? Being marooned on the shore or marooned inland? Did it matter at all? At least they had the promise of warmth here, which was sent by the gods, as their wood was running out.

  Corbin appeared from scouting far ahead. He was wrapped from head to foot in a long canvas cloak. His thick beard and wild shaggy hair glittered white in frost.

  ‘Any sign or spoor?’ Hessa called, as they all did every day.

  The big man came close, rearing taller than Hessa who was considered unusually large – especially for a woman. His face held a strange expression as he studied her for a time silently, then he spoke, his voice hoarse and faint. ‘Aye.’

  Hessa was actually surprised, and she sighed, feeling the enormous pressure upon her relenting a fraction. At long last. ‘What game?’

  ‘The big shaggy ones, like oxen.’

  ‘Really? Close?’

  Corbin nodded. ‘Just beyond the rise ahead.’

  Now she frowned, a touch puzzled. They’d heard nothing. ‘Did they catch wind of you?’

  Again the man’s strange haunted expression, but tinged by a dark humour. ‘No. They did not.’ He gestured ahead. ‘You’ll see.’

  Turning, Hessa waved to the distant figures of Hyde and Ayal, each leaning forward, lashed to the sledge, and she gestured for a halt. They eased up and Hessa nodded to Corbin. Together, they advanced to the slight rise ahead.

  Once they made the high ground Hessa had to pause to let what was confronting her sink in. A valley of white snow and black rock misted by steaming flues stretched out before them; dotting it lay a swath of dark shaggy bodies, an entire herd perhaps. All dead.

  After a time Hessa managed, her voice a croak, ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘All left to rot,’ Corbin added. ‘No meat taken.’

  That, she had to admit, shocked her the most. Thinking of her duties, she turned and waved the rest forward. They stood silently studying the slaughter while the others gathered with them, Turnagin the last. After a few gasps and muttered curses Ayal started forward only to halt as Turnagin thrust an arm in front of her.

  ‘Wait!’ he commanded, then he turned to Corbin. ‘This mist – was it always here?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you entered into it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Any dizziness? Shortness of breath? What did it smell of?’

  The hulking fighter pulled a sour face. ‘The usual stink. Shit and rot and farts.’

 

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