The lieutenant, it turned out, was a very young fellow with the heavy build and curly hair of a north Genabackan. After Girth spoke to him he approached to give Antsy a welcoming nod. ‘A veteran, yes?’ Antsy nodded. ‘Good. Could use your help.’ He looked to Corien. ‘Darujhistani. Trained?’
Corien bowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Very good.’
He bowed to Orchid. ‘You are Dal Honese? A talent, perhaps?’
She waved a hand, embarrassed. ‘Dal Honese? No. But I do have some small skills.’
The lieutenant returned to Antsy. ‘Girth reported another with you. Someone in dark robes.’
‘A mage. He joined us partway up. Comes and goes as he pleases. We are not answerable for him.’
‘Ah. A shame. We could use the help. Welcome, regardless. I am Lieutenant Palal. Hengeth Palal.’
They introduced themselves. Then Antsy said, ‘We’ve come for the Gap. That’s all. We just want to get out of here.’
‘I understand. Truth be told, so do we. Problem is, that lot bar the way.’
Antsy stroked his jaw with the back of his fingers. ‘Block the way? Why’re they doing that?’
The lieutenant crossed his arms. It was clear he was rather overwhelmed, but it was also equally clear that he was aware of it and accepted it. No bluster or denial here, Antsy reflected. Just doing what he can.
‘What are their terms?’ Antsy asked.
‘Terms? Their terms are … frankly insane.’ The young officer shook his head, mystified. ‘I’ve told them again and again — we have no munitions. None at all. We can’t blow their damned door for them.’
Orchid gasped. Or at least Antsy thought she did; he was having trouble hearing over the roaring gathering in his ears. Hands steadied him and above the wind he thought he heard someone laughing. He recognized the mad laughter: it was his own. He was having a good time at his own expense. Forgot your philosophy, Ants. They’ll get ya. In the end they’ll always find a way to get ya.
‘All right?’ Corien asked, his head close. Blinking, Antsy squeezed the youth’s hand. ‘Yeah. Just thrown. That’s all.’
From the centre of the large cavern came the sharp slap of hands clapping. The explosive reports echoed from the walls and distant ceiling. A woman’s voice shouted: ‘A meeting! Everyone! I call a general meeting! Now!’
Palal uncrossed his arms, sighing. ‘Well, best see what the witch wants.’ He raised his chin, calling, ‘Sergeant. See to their billeting.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Girth closed, flanked by troopers. Antsy glared.
‘Thanks a lot!’
He shrugged his wide humped shoulders. ‘Sorry. Got over forty men and women who want out of this trap. That’s all I answer to. Maybe your friends can help.’
‘They’re dead.’
‘Hasn’t stopped others.’
‘Yeah, well. That’s the deal.’
The man spat again. ‘Too bad. Now, let’s take a walk, all of us. Nice an’ quiet.’
‘Him too!’ the woman yelled again, pointing from the distance. ‘The newcomer. The soldier. That one too!’
While he was sick inside Antsy made a point of arching a brow at the sergeant. ‘Gotta go. Things to do.’
Girth snorted. ‘Out of the frying pan, friend. Out of the pan.’
As Antsy walked away the man called: ‘We’ll just look after your friends here, right?’
Antsy raised a hand over his shoulder in a gesture that needed no explanation.
The ‘meeting’ was one of the oddest gatherings of fearsome individuals Antsy had ever attended. And that included a few command gatherings of Malazan Imperial mages and Claws. He took his place next to Lieutenant Palal. Opposite waited the tall slim woman who had called the meeting. Her complexion was olive-hued and her hair dark and straight, pinned up in a complex design. Her dark eyes watched Antsy with a look that seemed to enjoy his discomfort. The large loose circle also included the carmine-wearing old woman and her fat companion, together with Jallin, who glared his hatred. Antsy noted that the fat fellow seemed to spend most of his time with his gaze narrowed on the tall woman.
To one side waited the armoured figure of the blond-haired mercenary who had preceded them on to the Spawn. He was flanked by two of his men. All still carried canvas covers over their shields. Antsy wondered if these might be members of the Grey Swords. Yet they carried no symbols of the Wolves of Winter, nor any other god that he could recognize.
An old man, his thin hair a mussed cloud around his uneven skull, came shuffling up on his slippered feet. Also emerging from the gloom came the slim dark form of Malakai.
Antsy could not believe he was seeing him again. He thought the man dead, or long escaped from the Spawn. ‘Look what turned up,’ he drawled, giving him a hard stare.
The thief bowed, one brow quirked. ‘So you made it. Congratulations. I am very surprised.’
‘No thanks to you, you Hood-damned piece of-’
‘So you two know each other,’ the tall woman cut in, loud and firm. ‘How nice. Yet introductions are in order, I imagine.’
‘We are not yet all gathered,’ the old fellow observed in a quavering breathless wheeze.
‘Did someone call a meeting?’ a man’s voice enquired from the dark. ‘Is attendance mandatory?’ The owner of the smooth voice came forward: a man dressed in expensive silks over a fine blackened mail coat that hung to his shins. His midnight hair was slicked back and a goatee beard and moustache framed his mouth. A wide heavy two-handed sword hung at his side.
The tall woman, Antsy noted, eyed this well-dressed fellow with obvious distaste.
‘Introductions?’ the old woman squawked. She tossed her head, her ribbons rustling. ‘There need not be any introductions. I do not want introductions. Damn all of you. I care nothing for you.’
‘Quite,’ the fat fellow at her side supplied, like a punctuation ending her rant.
‘Thank you, Hesta and Ogule.’
‘Ogule Tolo Thermalamerkanerat,’ the fat fellow corrected. ‘Do please get it right. You know our dialect, Seris.’
The tall woman, Seris, smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Yes. Ogule.’
‘Hemberghin,’ the old man sneezed at Antsy.
Antsy leaned down to him. ‘What was that? Hemdergin?’
‘Hemper!’ the old man repeated angrily. ‘Hemper. Hemper Grin!’
Antsy flinched away from the spray of spittle. He wiped his sleeve. ‘Right. Hemper.’
The elegant fellow inclined his head to Antsy in an ironic salute. ‘Bauchelain.’ He gestured vaguely to his rear. ‘My companion, Korbal Broach, is, ah, currently … preoccupied.’
It may have been the poor light, but it appeared to Antsy as if at the man’s words everyone present turned a shade more pale. He cleared his throat in an effort to find his voice. ‘Ah, Antsy. Antsy’s the name.’
All this time Jallin had been whispering fiercely and pulling on the old woman’s rags. Whispering and pointing. She cuffed him now and shot out a withered crooked finger. ‘What is in your bag, soldier?’
‘To the Paths of the Dead with you, y’ damned hag.’
The woman jerked so sharply the ribbons hanging from her hair snapped like whips. Her eyes widened in disbelief then slitted almost closed. A sort of creamy smile came to her wrinkled lips. ‘So … you wish to challenge old Hesta, do you? Scream very prettily as you burn I think you will …’
‘Hesta …’ Seris warned. ‘Soldier. We know you carry munitions.’
Antsy glanced to Malakai. ‘How in the name of all the forgotten gods would you know that?’
The woman brought her long-fingered hands together to her lips then let out a loud breath as if exhausted. ‘Soldier. All of us here are close to many very great powers. Many of us have seen in the deck what you carry. We have terms to offer you for their use. For example — there are very many people here who wish to leave this crippled artefact. We will allow that … once our terms are met.’
‘What’s the job?’
Seris smiled behind her clasped hands. ‘This way, if you please.’ She led him across the wide assembly hall. The gang of mages followed. The one who gave his name as Bauchelain sauntered along last. Many of the others cast nervous glances back to the man.