‘Does he? I heard he faced down the Warlord.’
Coll frowned, uneasy. He reached for the decanter then thought better of it. ‘Brood just sort of … missed him.’
‘Exactly. I’m thinking no one has ever managed to get a firm grip on that fellow. Including us.’
Coll knit his fingers across his gut. ‘So? You have a point?’
‘We should stay in this card game. Play the waiting hand. They want you out, yes? Well, all the more reason to remain.’
Platitudes. A tyrant is closing his fist on the city and this man offers me platitudes. He raised his gaze to the immense inverted mountain that was the chandelier hanging, unlit, above the table. She always liked that monstrous thing. Gods, how I loathe it. He lowered his eyes to the man opposite. The harsh monochrome light painted the angular face in even sharper planes of light and dark. The man is serious. A serious Rallick should not be discounted.
He took a deep breath that swelled his stomach against his entwined fingers, let it out. Beyond the walls, from the neglected estate grounds, the crickets continued their songs to the night. He cocked his head, thinking. ‘Is the guild under their control?’
‘No. I believe not. In fact, I believe they may have just reopened their contract against the Legate.’
Coll sat up, amazed. ‘What? Why didn’t you say so, man?’
‘Because I believe they will fail as they did before.’
‘Anyone can be killed,’ Coll mused. ‘If recent events in the city have taught us anything they have taught us that. It’s just a matter of finding the right way.’
Rallick swung his leg down, stood. ‘Very good. I’ll shadow the guild. You shadow the Council.’
‘It’s no longer a Council,’ Coll said, sour. ‘It’s become a court of sycophants and hangers-on.’
‘One more thing,’ Rallick said.
Coll peered up, brows raised. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you have an extra room? I need a place to sleep.’
Coll fought down a near-hysterical laugh. ‘Here? Gods, man, this is the first place they’ll look for you.’
‘No. You’re still a Council member. They won’t move against you unless they’re offered a contract.’
‘How can you be so sure they won’t act anyway — unilaterally, so to speak?’
Rallick smiled humourlessly and Coll reflected that even the man’s smiles resembled the unsheathing of a knife. ‘Guild rules,’ he said.
Across the clear summer night sky the long trailing banner of the Scimitar arced high while the moon cast its cold, emerald-tinged light upon the empty Dwelling Plain. A lone figure, dark cloak blowing in the weak wind, walked the dry eroded hills. His features were night dark, his hair touched with silver. He wore fine dark gloves and upon the breast of his dark green silk shirt rode a single visible piece of jewellery: an upright bird’s foot claw worked in silver, clutching an orb. The Imperial Sceptre of the Malazans.
Topper had only been to Darujhistan a few times. Personally, he did not understand its prominence. He thought it too vulnerable, relying as it did on such distant market gardens and fields to feed its populace. Yet he did detect among the dunes and wind-swept hills straight lines and foundations which hinted that things had not always been this way. Logic, however, rarely guided such choices. History and precedent ruled. His names for such forces in human activity were laziness and inertia.
He came across yet another wind-eaten ring of an abandoned well, and dutifully he knelt to examine the stones. Nothing here. That report had better be accurate or he’d have the head of that useless mage for wasting his night. He moved on.
Frankly, nothing of what he’d found here interested him over much. He was glad of the recent carnage to the south. In his opinion such disarray and expending of resources opened the way for Malazan expansion. So too here in Darujhistan. Anomander gone. The Spawn ruined. In all, things could not have worked out better for the Throne.
What worried him was his absence from Unta. Who knew what idiocy Mallick might be initiating? Like that adventurism in Korel. It had better work out, or the regional governors might start to wonder if perhaps they’d made a mistake in backing the man …
He reached another dry well and knelt to examine it. This time he grunted his satisfaction and turned his attention to the lock blocking its top. Under his touch it opened easily. He threw aside the wooden lid and jumped in. A hand lightly touching the side slowed his descent. As the bottom approached he spread his feet to either side and stopped himself. Here he noted the faintest remnant glimmers of ancient wards and Warren magics. To his eye the work appeared to bear the touch of an Elder’s or Other’s hand. In either case, not plain human Warren manipulation. This fitted with what he knew of what he faced.
All was simply more intelligence to help him build the profile that would guide him in his own possible action against this Legate. If it should come to that.
And he rather hoped it would. For it would allow him to indulge in a bit of personal vindication. For the description of this young female servant — the filmy white clothes, the bangles and long hair — resembled someone else. Someone he hoped to have the excuse to confront.
He launched himself into the slim tunnel and pushed himself along on elbows and knees to where it emptied into a larger chamber. Here he dusted himself off then peered about. Empty. Side vaults empty as well. He examined the skulls decorating the floor, the empty stone plinth. Then he found the one occupied side vault. Here he paused for a long time.
The lingering magery flickering about this corpse interested him the most. He rested his hands on the stone ledge the carcass lay upon to lean closely over the remains. Why had this one alone resisted, or failed, reconstitution and escape? It seemed a puzzle. A trap within a trap within a trap. Subtle weavings. Yet who was trapping whom? And could he be certain? According to those cretin marines there could be only one witness. Only one individual emerged from the well before this masked creature appeared. The one others called scholar, a small-time potterer here among the ruins.
He leaned back, brushed his fingertip across his lips. As before: one set apart. Why? There must be some significance. He simply couldn’t get a tight enough grip upon it yet. The lineaments of the castings held a cold sharp edge. They whispered of non-human origins. Not Tiste — he knew his own. Certainly not K’Chain nor Forkrul. That left Jaghut. So, the legends of the ancient Jaghut Tyrants. Returned? Didn’t the Finnest house finish that?
Reason enough for any other to be wary.
He brushed his gloved hands together, climbed from the narrow alcove. Too many players for things to be straightforward and clear. Have to watch and wait.
At least until the inevitable frantic recall to the capital comes.
While the cargo scow was slow, it made steady progress all through the day and on through the night and so far sooner than Torvald expected they drew up next to the sagging dilapidated pier at Dhavran. His travelling companions, he knew, would be disembarking here. He was saddened to see them go. They’d been extraordinarily informative regarding the political situation among the Free Cities and the Malazans to the north. From hints and details he gathered that the big fellow, Cal, had once been some sort of military commander far in the north.
In the dawn’s light, alongside all the other passengers preparing to leave, the two put together their meagre travelling gear. At the rail Torvald waited to say his farewells. Sailors readied the gangway.
‘Sorry to say goodbye,’ he told the old man, Tserig.
The fellow glanced up to his huge companion, who peered down at Torvald from amid his wild mane of blowing hair and beard, a half-smile at his lips, and rumbled, ‘Haven’t you been listening? You’re coming with us.’