‘No we fucking won’t. You can. I won’t. I’m goin’. I’ve had it.’
Massaging his neck, Pon-lor squinted up at him. ‘No? I could compel you, you know.’
The lad straightened. He took the stick from his mouth, picked at his teeth. ‘And there’s a thousand ways I could get you killed in this jungle. I could feed you something that would eat you from the inside out. I could direct you into poisonous leaves. Lead you over a pit.’
Pon-lor flexed his neck, felt the vertebrae pop. ‘I get the idea.’
The lad was nodding vigorously. ‘Yeah. So … there you go. I’m leavin’.’
‘Would you like my advice? Before you go?’
Thet-mun scowled down at him, uncertain. ‘What? Advice? Whaddya mean?’
Pon-lor waved him off. ‘Go home, Thet. Go back to your village. Claim your quarter section of land. Take a wife. Raise some kids.’
The lad chuffed a laugh. ‘Yeah, right. That’s for losers. Farming! Ha!’ And he walked away, laughing and shaking his head. He disappeared almost immediately as if swallowed whole.
Pon-lor sat for a time. He massaged his neck. In the silence, the jungle noise of birds calling and insects whirring swelled to fill the air. The sun shafted down through the canopy raising steaming tendrils of mist where it touched. Ants swarmed over the disturbed rotting vegetation that littered the floor.
Sighing, he rose, dusted himself off. He tore a strip of cloth from the edge of his robe and used it to tie back his hair. He cast his awareness out upon the leagues surrounding him. Almost instantly he sensed her there. The signature of her aura was unmistakable. Suppressed for now, but present all the same.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he set off. Here and there amid the root-tangled dirt he discerned the hardened depression of the yakshaka’s heavy tread. Broken stems and brushed aside branches betrayed his lumbering progress. He nodded his satisfaction to himself. Yes, very good. All those days observing the bandits finding their way through the jungle. Following spoor. Identifying sign.
He reclasped his hands and rocked back and forth on his sandals in meditation. Yes. I do believe I’m getting the hang of it.
* * *
The priest had promised to drop them some way from the target so that they would have time to recover from the Crippled God’s magics. As it was, Mara found that her reaction was nowhere near as violent as before. She was shaken, dizzy and nauseous, yes, but far from her earlier experience of nearly blacking out. She wondered whether she should be relieved or alarmed by the development.
She staggered to a nearby tree to lean, panting, bent over, hands on knees. She caught her breath, swallowed stinging bile. Her vision had cleared and now she could see her fellows picking themselves up off the leaf-littered jungle floor. Some had vomited — the new ones: Shijel and Black. They straightened now, recovering. Shijel drew his longswords and Black spat to clear his mouth then dropped his visor and readied his wide shield.
This was a piece of work long delayed. The priest had been missing for a good week. Mara had been of the hopeful opinion that he’d died — succumbed to one of the many diseases he obviously carried. And good riddance. Yet eventually he’d surfaced again, accosting them last night, even more emaciated and insanely obsessed than before. And Skinner had surprised him, promising to go after the shard lost in Himatan. He said he’d return the next night to run the errand. And so he had. And here they were.
Skinner now looked to Petal, who motioned aside. ‘We’re close. It’s a large party — too large. We’ll have to try to snatch it.’
‘Very well. Get us as close as you can and we’ll make a lunge for it.’
The big man’s neck bulged as he gave a curt answering nod. Skinner pointed to the priest. ‘You. Be quiet or I’ll run you through.’
The priest’s response was a long low inarticulate snarl.
Petal gestured, raising his Warren, then motioned them on. The party advanced, Petal and Skinner leading, Shijel and Black with the priest, while Mara brought up the rear. Petal’s magics would obscure them — at least momentarily — perhaps enough to allow them to grab the prize then escape by way of the priest. Mara glimpsed the raiders through the trees and was surprised. At first she thought them locals who’d taken up arms and armour, dressed and painted as they were. But the stock differed, heavier, and darker or lighter of skin. The equipage troubled her; too familiar. A mercenary force out of Quon Tali? Perhaps.
Petal led them in a roundabout way towards their goal. It blazed unmistakable, like a lodestone of power in Mara’s vision. It lay wrapped on a makeshift litter of poles and cloth. They were almost at the shard when one of the painted raiders, a squat frog-like fellow with bulging mismatched eyes, stood up right before them and kicked Petal in his ample stomach.
Everything went to the Abyss after that. She instantly raised her Warren to blast away all those nearby. She unfortunately tossed aside Shijel and Black as well. Battle commands sounded amid the kicked-up dust and dead leaves and a thrill of recognition blazed through her. Malazans! Damned Malazans making their own play for the shard! It seemed this new emperor differed from his predecessors regarding the Shattered God. The others had been far too timid, to her mind.
The damned priest was right — this could not be allowed.
She turned for the litter but it wasn’t there. It had been spirited away somehow when she’d been distracted. Petal rose nearby, grasping his gut in both hands. He murmured, wincing, ‘The Enchantress herself works against us.’
Blast it! They’d been so close!
Skinner appeared, his bared Thaumaturg officer’s sword bloodied. He dragged the priest along by his shirt. ‘We startled them but they’re regrouping,’ he said, grimly. To Petal, ‘Where is it?’
The fat mage was rubbing his wide middle. ‘Hidden away.’
‘Well — find it!’
‘It will take time. This one is an inspired practitioner … his mind is particularly atypical.’
‘We don’t have time.’ Skinner restrained the priest like an uncooperative dog.
‘They will attack!’ the priest wailed.
‘Of course,’ Skinner answered, studying the surrounding jungle. ‘They’re Malazans.’
Black and Shijel came running up. ‘On their way,’ Black announced.
Skinner shook the gangly priest savagely, demanding, ‘Can you track it?’
The man yanked his rag shirt free and smoothed it down in a sad effort to regain his dignity. His gaze became sly as he peered past Mara. ‘Of course. Yes. No one can hide my master from me.’ He brushed past her closely, taking the opportunity to run a hand up her trousers over her buttock. He sped onward, her backhanded slap just missing his head.
Starting off, Skinner ordered, ‘Petal. Take these two and run these Malazans off our track. Mara, you’re with me.’ He chased after the priest.
Mara followed. As she left she heard a despairing Petal murmur, ‘Ah, running … Oh, dear.’
The chase was a confusing dash through a maze of immensely tall and wide tree trunks that almost touched one another. Thick roots writhed over the ground like ridged snakes, some nearly as tall as she. Ahead, Skinner jumped the roots, pushed through tall fronds of undergrowth and parted stands of stiff spear-like grasses. The nightly rain started falling from the canopy in fat drops. In his glittering black armour the man moved like a patch of deeper night amid the streamers of starlight and the Jade Banner’s glow. Unencumbered by heavy armour or weapons, Mara kept up.
She almost slammed into the priest who was standing stock still, poised as if listening to the night. Skinner stood nearby. ‘What is it?’ she asked him, her voice low. The big man’s shrug of contempt seemed to call a curse down on all this damned mummery.
‘Something new,’ the priest answered. He pointed to the darkness. ‘Another mage. Follower of that pathetic usurper, Shadowthrone.’