The woman dipped her mask in compliance and stood. ‘Of a full and happy life I can give no accounting,’ she replied. ‘But we Seguleh believe that the gods give men and women glimpses of happiness only to reach again to take them away. Therefore, it seems to us that it is only at the very end, at one’s death, that any such measure can be made.’
And the king bade the woman depart without any largesse or honour, for he thought it utter foolishness to withhold measure until the end. Yet it is said that afterwards all peace of mind fled the ruler as he fretted without cease over when his many advantages might slip from him and in the end he died tormented and mad.
Jan had grown up knowing an old saying among the seguleh: certainty is the spine of the blade. And he accepted this, making it part of his own bones. For were they not the sword of truth? The anvil of its testing? Yet nothing since the Call was as he thought it would be. Nothing in the shining glory of service to the First in their songs and stories had prepared him for the truth to be found here, in their original home, Darujhistan.
Doubts assailed the others. That much was obvious. Therefore the duty was upon him to shoulder the weight of those doubts. To take them all upon himself and show there need be no concern. For was he not the Second? Did not all their eyes turn to him for guidance, for assurance? Let the purity of the cut lie in the steadiness of the blade.
So shall it be. Let it not be said that the Second bent from his responsibilities.
Only the First can call. And they answered. What need be complicated in that? And what do they find but the ancient mask that is a circle of gold? As storied and as fearsome as in their legends of old. What can he do but obey?
Why, then, this need to dwell upon any of this at all?
Perhaps because they were warriors. Not guards. Not warders of people or of the peace. The transition was easily accomplished; these local authorities, these Wardens, acquiesced immediately. Challenges were minimal. Only two deaths. One, a local simpleton, the other far too stubborn to pass by unanswered.
Now, perhaps now, began the truly difficult part as mundane daily trivia intruded upon their purpose.
Such as now, confronted by these two shabby would-be guards in the hands of Palla, Sixth, here in the court. Jan signed to Ira, Twentieth, who demanded: ‘Why have you returned? The hired guards have all been dismissed.’
One knuckled his dirty sweaty brow. ‘Your pardons, sirs and madams. We’ve not been let go that we know of.’
Jan tilted his head and Ira continued, ‘The orders were given. All have been notified.’
The man saluted once more. ‘That’s all as you say for sure, sirs and madams. Me ’n’ Leff here, we don’t dispute any of that.’
‘Then what is your claim?’ Ira demanded.
Jan gave Palla a sign and she released them. They straightened their armour.
‘Well, ma’am,’ began the spokesman — though not necessarily the lower of the pair. Frankly, between these two, any gradation at all was difficult to tell. ‘It’s just that we’re not your usual run o’ the mill Majesty Hall guards. No, sir …’
‘They work for me,’ breathed a weak voice.
Jan peered at the bedraggled figure of the Mouthpiece of the Legate. He inclined his head in respect. ‘This is so?’ he asked. ‘They answer to you?’
The man’s eyes darted, haunted and bloodshot; his features had sunk to a sweaty pasty pallor. Clearly this fellow found his duties far outmatched the strength of his nerves. Jan’s gaze shifted to the masked Legate, motionless on his throne. He appeared unaware. Yet always he demonstrated preternatural knowledge of all that went on around him. And this man spoke his will. Jan wondered at such an unlikely choice. However, again, it was not for him to wonder.
‘Yes,’ the man affirmed, a new certainty entering his quavering voice. ‘I remember them. I hired them.’
Jan signed his assent. ‘Very well. It shall be as you say.’ He turned away, dismissing them from his thoughts. He scanned the court, searching for potential dangers or threats and found only one. The sorceress, Envy, with her flowing green dress and curled oiled hair. How he longed to part her head from her body for the debasement she brought to his brother and two followers. But she was an honoured guest of the Legate and so must he swallow her presence.
Oh, certainly some members here of the court obviously longed to challenge the Legate. Their posture, breaths and sweat shouted it — especially one older ex-soldier councillor who looked as though he might have been a potential threat, a decade ago. And hints had come to him of assassination attempts, which the Legate and his pet mages handled.
All very well. So why then this unease? This discomfort? Perhaps it is the loss of Cant. I miss its green mountain slopes. Peace of mind slipped away with it beyond the horizon. Soon Gall will sense this and he will challenge. Then there will be a new Second and all of this will no longer be my concern. I almost welcome it. Is this what cowardice feels like?
The Legate stood then and descended the throne of pale white stone. He gestured and Jan moved to join him. The members of the court, masked councillors, their wives and masked mistresses, aristocrats and wealthy merchants, all parted at his approach. He stopped before the Legate and inclined his masked head in obeisance.
‘Second.’ The Mouthpiece had come to his side. ‘Our enemies await to the west. You Seguleh are my blade and anvil. Crush them and Darujhistan shall rule all these lands unrivalled, as before.’
‘I understand, Legate. These invading Malazans shall be removed from our shores.’
The Legate gestured impatiently. Though the beaten gold features could not change, cast for ever into their secretive half-smile, the shifting light and shadow enlivened the lips and empty eyes with expression. Now they appeared angered.
‘The invaders are but a nuisance. They mean nothing. No. I speak of the true threat. This city’s eternal enemy … the Moranth.’ The Mouthpiece let out a strangled gasp as he spoke these words and clamped a hand to his mouth as if he were about to be sick.
Jan dared glance up more fully, as if he could discern some intent from the golden oval before him. ‘The Moranth, Legate? I do not understand.’
‘Always they forestalled us,’ the Mouthpiece began again, his voice ghostly faint. ‘They alone defied us when all others fell. Now we shall finish them.’
‘The Moranth wars ended a millennium ago.’
‘With the fall of the last of the Tyrants and the breaking of the Circle, yes.’ The oval turned to address Jan more directly. ‘Now that Darujhistan arises renewed we must answer that crime against us, yes?’
And what could Jan do but bow when commanded by his First? For the gold mask was the legendary progenitor, the Father of them all. Attack the Moranth? Bring them low? An entire people? Was this what we were forged to accomplish? Our noble purpose?
And you in your cracked wooden mask who told me so little. Was this the burden you sought to spare me? Well do I understand it now. No wonder we hide our faces.
That burden is shame.
Captain Dreshen found Ambassador Aragan in the stables, currying the two remaining horses. Catching his breath he reported: ‘Sir! The majority of the Seguleh have marched from the city.’
Aragan straightened to peer over the back of the black bay, Doan, his favourite. He rested his hands there, a brush in each. ‘Out of the city?’ His gaze slitted. ‘Which way?’
Dreshen nodded their shared understanding. ‘West.’
‘Dead Hood’s own grin. We have to warn them.’