Karsa dragged his gaze from the scene of slaughter and looked over at Torvald’s slumped body. To his amazement, the Daru was still moving, feet kicking furrows in the pebbles, both hands up at his throat.
Silgar returned to Karsa’s position, his lean face gleaming with sweat. Damisk appeared behind him and the slavemaster gestured the tattooed guard forward.
Damisk held a knife. He quickly cut at the bindings holding Karsa to the travois. ‘No easy out for you,’ he hissed. ‘We’re leaving. By warren, and we’re taking you with us. Silgar’s decided to make you his plaything. A lifetime of torture-’
‘Enough babbling!’ Silgar snapped. ‘They’re almost all dead! Hurry!’
Damisk cut the last rope.
Karsa laughed, then managed to form words. ‘What would you have me do now? Run?’
Snarling, Silgar moved closer. There was a flare of blue light, then the three of them were plunging into fetid, warm water.
Unable to swim, the weight of his chains dragging him down, Karsa sank into the midnight depths. He felt a tug on his chains, then saw a second flash of lurid light.
His head, then his back, struck hard cobbles. Dazed, he rolled onto his side. Silgar and Damisk, both coughing, knelt nearby. They were on a street, flanked on one side by enormous warehouses, and on the other by stone jetties and moored ships. At the moment, there was no-one else in sight.
Silgar spat, then said, ‘Damisk, get those shackles off him-he bears no criminal brand, so the Malazans won’t see him as a slave. I won’t be arrested again-not after all this. The bastard is ours, but we’ve got to get him off the street. We’ve got to hide.’
Karsa watched Damisk crawl to his side, fumbling with keys. Watched as the Nathii unlocked the shackles on his wrists, then his ankles. A moment later, the pain struck as blood flowed back into near-dead flesh. The Teblor screamed.
Silgar unleashed magic once more, a wave that descended on the Teblor like a blanket-that he tore off with unthinking ease, his shrieks slicing into the night air, echoing back from nearby buildings, ringing out across the crowded harbour.
‘You there!’ Malazan words, a bellow, then the swiftly approaching clash and clatter of armoured soldiers.
‘An escaped slave, sirs!’ Silgar said hastily. ‘We have-as you can see-just recaptured him-’
‘Escaped slave? Let’s see his brand-’
The last words Karsa registered, as the pain in his hands and feet sent him plummeting into oblivion.
He awoke to Malazan words being spoken directly above him. ‘… extraordinary. I’ve never seen natural healing such as this. His hands and feet-those shackles were on for some time, Sergeant. On a normal man I’d be cutting them off right now.’
Another voice spoke, ‘Are all Fenn such as this one?’
‘Not that I’ve ever heard. Assuming he’s Fenn.’
‘Well, what else would he be? He’s as tall as two Dal Honese put together.’
‘I wouldn’t know, Sergeant. Before I was posted here, the only place I knew well was six twisting streets in Li Heng. Even the Fenn was just a name and some vague description about them being giants. Giants no-one’s seen for decades at that. The point is, this slave was in bad shape when you first brought him in. Beaten pretty fierce, and someone punched him in the ribs hard enough to crack bones-wouldn’t want to cross whoever that was. For all that, the swelling’s already down on his face-despite what I’ve just done to it-and the bruises are damned near fading in front of our eyes.’
Continuing to feign unconsciousness, Karsa listened to the speaker stepping back, then the sergeant asking, ‘So the bastard’s not in danger of dying, then.’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Good enough, Healer. You can return to the barracks.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Various movement, boots on flagstones, the clang of an iron-barred door; then, as these echoes dwindled, the Teblor heard, closer by, the sound of breathing.
In the distance there was some shouting, faint and muted by intervening walls of stone, yet Karsa thought he recognized the voice as belonging to the slavemaster, Silgar. The Teblor opened his eyes. A low, smoke-stained ceiling-not high enough to permit him to stand upright. He was lying on a straw-littered, greasy floor. There was virtually no light, apart from a dim glow reaching in from the walkway beyond the barred door.
His face hurt, a strange stinging sensation prickling on his cheeks, forehead and along his jaw.
Karsa sat up.
There was someone else in the small, windowless cell, hunched in a dark corner. The figure grunted and said something in one of the languages of the Seven Cities.
A dull ache remained in Karsa’s hands and feet. The inside of his mouth was dry and felt burnt, as if he’d just swallowed hot sand. He rubbed at his tingling face.
A moment later the man tried Malazan, ‘You’d likely understand me if you were Fenn.’
‘I understand you, but I am not one of these Fenn.’
‘I said it sounds like your master isn’t enjoying his stay in the stocks.’
‘He has been arrested?’
‘Of course. The Malazans like arresting people. You’d no brand. At the time. Keeping you as a slave is therefore illegal under imperial law.’
‘Then they should release me.’
‘Little chance of that. Your master confessed that you were being sent to the otataral mines. You were on a ship out of Genabaris that you’d cursed, said curse then leading to the ship’s destruction and the deaths of the crew and the marines. The local garrison is only half-convinced by that tale, but that’s sufficient-you’re on your way to the island. As am I.’
Karsa rose. The low ceiling forced him to stand hunched over. He made his way, hobbling, to the barred door.
‘Aye, you could probably batter it down,’ the stranger said. ‘But then you’ll be cut down before you manage three steps from this gaol. We’re in the middle of the Malazan compound. Besides, we’re about to be taken outside in any case, to join the prisoners’ line chained to a wall. In the morning, they’ll march us down to the imperial jetty and load us onto a transport.’
‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘The night you were carried in, the day after, the next night. It’s now midday.’
‘And the slavemaster has been in the stocks all this time?’
‘Most of it.’
‘Good,’ Karsa growled. ‘What of his companion? The same?’
‘The same.’
‘And what crime have you committed?’ Karsa asked.
‘I consort with dissidents. Of course,’ he added, ‘I am innocent.’
‘Can you not prove that?’
‘Prove what?’
‘Your innocence.’
‘I could if I was.’
The Teblor glanced back at the figure crouched in the corner. ‘Are you, by any chance, from Darujhistan?’
‘Darujhistan? No, why do you ask?’
Karsa shrugged. He thought back to Torvald Nom’s death. There was a coldness surrounding the memory, but he could sense all that it held at bay. The time for surrender, however, was not now.
The barred door was set in an iron frame, the frame fixed to the stone blocks with large iron bolts. The Teblor gave it a shake. Dust sifted out from around the bolts, pattered onto the floor.
‘I see you’re a man who ignores advice,’ the stranger observed.
‘These Malazans are careless.’
‘Overconfident, I’d suggest. Then again, perhaps not. They’ve had dealings with Fenn, with Trell, Barghast-a whole host of oversized barbarians. They’re tough, and sharper than they let on. They put an otataral anklet on that slavemaster-no magic from him any more-’
Karsa turned. ‘What is this “otataral” everyone speaks of?’
‘A bane to magic.’
‘And it must be mined.’
‘Yes. It’s usually a powder, found in layers, like sandstone. Resembles rust.’
‘We scrape a red powder from cliffsides to make our blood-oil,’ the Teblor murmured.