The Teblor settled his head against the stone wall and closed his eyes.
Some time later he opened them again. He had slept. The sky was overcast, the compound a mottled pattern of light and darkness. Something had awoken him. He made to stand but a hand stayed him. He looked over to see the native huddled motionless beside him-head lowered as if still asleep. The hand on the Teblor’s arm tightened a moment, then withdrew.
Frowning, Karsa settled back. And then he saw.
The guards at the gate were gone, as were those outside the headquarters. Along the wall walkways… no-one.
Then, alongside a nearby building-movement, a figure sliding through shadows in silence, followed by another, padding along with far less stealth, one gloved hand reaching up to steady itself every now and then.
The two were making directly for Karsa.
Swathed in black cloth, the lead figure halted a few paces from the wall. The other moved up alongside it, then edged past. Hands lifted, slipped back a black hood-
Torvald Nom.
Bloodstained bandages encircling his neck, the face above it deathly pale and gleaming with sweat, but the Daru was grinning.
He drew up to Karsa’s side. ‘Time to go, friend,’ he whispered, raising something that looked very much like a shackle key.
‘Who is with you?’ Karsa whispered back.
‘Oh, a motley collection indeed. Gral tribesmen here doing the sneaky work, and agents from their main trading partner here in Ehrlitan…’ His eyes glittered. ‘The House of Nom, no less. Oh, aye, the thread of blood between us is thin as a virgin’s hair, but it is being honoured none the less. Indeed, with delighted vigour. Now, enough words-as you are wont to say-we don’t want to wake anyone else-’
‘Too late,’ murmured the man chained beside Karsa.
The Gral behind Torvald moved forward, but halted at a strange, elaborate series of gestures from the prisoner.
Torvald grunted. ‘That damned silent language.’
‘It is agreed,’ the prisoner said. ‘I will be going with you.’
‘And if you wasn’t, you’d be sounding the alarm.’
The man said nothing.
After a moment, Torvald shrugged. ‘So be it. All this talk and I’m surprised everyone else in this line isn’t awake-’
‘They would be, only they’re all dead.’ The prisoner beside Karsa slowly straightened. ‘No-one likes criminals. Gral have a particular hatred for them, it seems.’
A second tribesman, who had been moving along the line, reached them. A large, curved knife was in one hand, slick with blood. More hand gestures, then the newcomer sheathed his weapon.
Muttering under his breath, Torvald crouched to unlock Karsa’s shackles.
‘You are as hard to kill as a Teblor,’ Karsa murmured.
‘Thank Hood that Arak was distracted at the time. Even so, if not for the Gral, I’d have bled to death.’
‘Why did they save you?’
‘The Gral like to ransom people. Of course, if they turn out worthless, they kill them. The trading partnership with the House of Nom took precedence over all that, of course.’
Torvald moved on to the other prisoner.
Karsa stood, rubbing his wrists. ‘What kind of trade?’
The Daru flashed a grin. ‘Brokering the ransoms.’
Moments later they were moving through the darkness towards the front gate, skirting the patches of light. Near the gatehouse a half-dozen bodies had been dragged up against the wall. The ground was soaked black with blood.
Three more Gral joined them. One by one, the group slipped through the gateway and into the street beyond. They crossed to an alley and made their way down to the far end, where they halted.
Torvald laid a hand on Karsa’s arm. ‘Friend, where would you go now? My own return to Genabackis will be delayed awhile. My kin here have embraced me with open arms-a unique experience for me, and I plan on savouring it. Alas, the Gral won’t take you-you’re too recognizable.’
‘He will come with me,’ the blue-eyed native said. ‘To a place of safety.’
Torvald looked up at Karsa, brows rising.
The Teblor shrugged. ‘It is clear that I cannot be hidden in this city; nor will I further endanger you or your kin, Torvald Nom. If this man proves unworthy I need only kill him.’
‘How long until the compound guards are changed?’ the blue-eyed man asked.
‘A bell at least, so you will have plenty-’
Sudden alarms shattered the night, from the direction of the Malazan garrison.
The Gral seemed to vanish before Karsa’s eyes, so quickly did they scatter. ‘Torvald Nom, for all you have done for me, I thank you-’
The Daru scurried over to a pile of rubbish in the alley. He swept it aside, then lifted into view Karsa’s bloodsword. ‘Here, friend.’ He tossed the sword into the Teblor’s hands. ‘Come to Darujhistan in a few years’ time.’
A final wave, then the Daru was gone.
The blue-eyed man-who had collected a sword from one of the dead guards-now gestured. ‘Stay close. There are ways out of Ehrlitan the Malazans know nothing of. Follow, and quietly.’ He set off. Karsa slipped into his wake.
Their route twisted through the lower city, down countless alleys, some so narrow that the Teblor was forced to sidle sideways along their crooked lengths. Karsa had thought that his guide would lead them towards the docks, or perhaps the outer walls facing onto the wasteland to the south. Instead, they climbed towards the single massive hill at Ehrlitan’s heart, and before long were moving through the rubble of countless collapsed buildings.
They arrived at the battered base of a tower, the native not hesitating as he ducked in through the gaping, dark doorway. Following, Karsa found himself in a cramped chamber, its floor uneven with heaved flagstones. A second portal was barely visible opposite the entrance, and at its threshold the man paused. ‘Mebra!’ he hissed.
There was movement, then: ‘Is it you? Dryjhna bless us, I had heard that you had been captured-ah, the alarms down below… well done-’
‘Enough of that. Do the provisions remain in the tunnels?’
‘Of course! Always. Including your own cache-’
‘Good, now move aside. I’ve someone with me.’
Beyond the portal was a rough series of stone steps, descending into even deeper darkness. Karsa sensed the man Mebra’s presence as he edged past, heard his sharp intake of breath.
The blue-eyed man below the Teblor halted suddenly. ‘Oh, and Mebra, tell no-one you have seen us-not even your fellow servants to the cause. Understand?’
‘Of course.’
The two fugitives continued on, leaving Mebra behind. The stairs continued down, until Karsa had begun to think that they were approaching the bowels of the earth. When it finally levelled out, the air was heavy with damp, smelling of salt, and the stones underfoot were wet and streaked in slime. At the tunnel’s mouth a number of niches had been carved into the limestone walls, each one holding leather packs and travel gear.
Karsa watched as his companion strode quickly to one niche in particular. After a moment’s examination, he dropped the Malazan sword he had been carrying and drew forth a pair of objects that moved with the sound of rustling chain.
‘Take that food-pack,’ the man instructed, nodding towards a nearby niche. ‘And you will find a telaba or two-clothes-and weapon-belts and harnesses-leave the lanterns, the tunnel ahead is long but has no branches.’
‘Where does it lead?’
‘Out,’ the man replied.
Karsa fell silent. He disliked the extent to which his life was in this native’s hands, but it seemed that, for the time being, there was nothing he could do about it. Seven Cities was a stranger place than even the Genabackan cities of Malyntaeas and Genabaris. The lowlanders filled this world like vermin-more tribes than the Teblor had thought possible, and it was clear that none liked each other. While that was a sentiment Karsa well understood-for tribes should dislike each other-it was also obvious that, among the lowlanders, there was no sense of any other sort of loyalty. Karsa was Uryd, but he was also Teblor. The lowlanders seemed so obsessed with their differences that they had no comprehension of what unified them.