Night of Knives

Temper’s fists clenched reflexively, but he took a deep breath, allowing the comment to pass. Dassem used to speak of that. Called himself the army’s lightning rod. And they’d all known it too: he, Ferrule, Point, and the rest. But they hadn’t minded at the time because they were young and believed Dassem couldn’t be beaten by anyone. So what did it matter? Let all comers try; the Sword would always prevail. Little thought or care did they give to those profiting from their blood and lives.

‘Strong words,’ Temper finally growled, staring off at the House, ‘from someone who expects my cooperation.’

‘Nothing we say now can change the past. And you gave your word.’

Temper snorted, pulled off a gauntlet frayed by hound’s teeth. He rubbed his index finger over the puckered scar at his chin, nodded. ‘Yeah. I suppose I did at that. All right. Let’s go’

Pralt invited him to walk to the gate. Temper slapped the gauntlet to his thigh, thinking: so, a diversionary sortie. A quick in and out. That meant the real assault would come from another direction, and run a much lower profile. He figured he knew who that would be.

Before the gate they joined the other cultists. Temper studied them. This was it? Just the six of them? Pralt and his companion spoke once more, hooded heads nearly touching. Temper, uneasy, rested his hands on the iron pommels of his swords. Was he just an extra hand or was something else in the offing? He didn’t have such an inflated opinion of himself to believe that they needed his participation. Or that they’d even planned for it. No, this had the feeling of something thrown together. A last-minute change. Now he was certain he hated it. But he’d given his word; he at least had his honour. He’d step in, but would back out once it got too hot for his liking. And he had the feeling it wouldn’t take long to attract that kind of heat.

Pralt and his friends broke off their talk. Hand signals flew between them. Temper couldn’t interpret the sign language — it was not Malazan standard. He didn’t like that at all. It made the back of his neck itch.

Pralt turned to him. ‘Get ready. You’ll take centre point between Jasmine and me.’

Temper nodded to Jasmine who answered with the slightest inclination of — her? — hood. He drew his longswords, eased his shoulders to loosen them. Pralt approached the plain wrought-iron gate.

A shout from behind made Temper start. ‘Do not enter those grounds! ’

He turned. There stood Faro Balkat and Trenech. They looked the same as they had ever looked: Faro frail, rheumy-eyed, and Trenech dull and bhederin-like. Only now Trenech carried a wicked pike-axe, its butt jammed into the ground, and Faro had clearly shaken off his drugged stupor. A number of cultists came running up, surrounded the two. Faro ignored them as he had the soldiers earlier at the Hanged Man.

Pralt faced them, gave a stiff bow. ‘Our mission does not cross yours,’ he called. ‘Why are you here?’

Faro’s mouth drew down in disgust. Temper had never seen the man looking so lively. ‘Do not play games with me, shadow-slave. By crossing the barriers you weaken them, and that is not to our liking.’

Pralt shrugged. ‘’Tis regretful, but I know the confines of your roles, and you cannot stop anyone from entering the grounds.’

Faro’s gnarled hands clenched at his sides. ‘That much is true.’ He stepped closer. ‘I ask you not to do this. You play with forces of which you have no conception.’

Shaking his hooded head, Pralt turned away. Temper stared at the man hard. What did this promise for him?

‘They are waiting,’ Jasmine whispered, urgent. ‘We must act now.’

Pralt faced the gate.

‘Soldier!’ Faro called. Temper turned. ‘Do not enter. You’ll not return.’

Temper raised a sword in a farewell salute. ‘Sorry, Faro. Gave my word.’ He spoke with as much bravura as he could muster, though his stomach was clenched in the certainty that he was already more committed than he wished.

The gate rasped under Pralt’s hand, rusted with disuse. Faro fell silent. Trenech hefted his long pike- axe.

A path of slate flags led to the front steps past bare mounds that reminded Temper of hastily dug battle graves. It was quiet so far, the House dark and lifeless. Pralt and Jasmine advanced to either side and Temper followed. They appeared unnaturally relaxed, without any weapons in evidence. About halfway up the walk they stopped. Pralt turned to him.

Temper stared back, uncertain, licked his dry lips.

‘This is as far as we go,’ Pralt said. He sounded strangely solemn. ‘This isn’t what I had in mind, and I’m sorry. Dancer’s orders. Goodbye, soldier.’

Pralt and Jasmine disappeared. Temper spun: the three others were also gone. It was as if he’d walked in alone. The ground to either side of the walk heaved. The moist bare earth crumbled and steamed while above the tree branches flailed, creaking. Blue-green flames like mast-fire danced over them and along the low stone walls. Trenech now blocked the gate, pike-axe lowered. Faro stood behind. Beyond, gathered together once more, stood the cultists — Pralt and Jasmine included — watching, arms folded.

Temper pointed a sword at them to shout that he’d have their hearts out, when a loud grinding rumbled from the House. He turned, flexing, weapons ready. The door scraped open, dust falling from its jambs. Darkness yawned within only to be filled by the advance of a giant figure.

Betrayed. The last assault on Y’Ghatan all over again. He hadn’t learned a damned thing. Temper threw back his head and howled an incandescent rage so consuming that every fibre of his body seemed to take flame.

Agayla and Obo occupied a point of rock suspended within a channel of raw streaming power. The surf had risen over the strand, punishing the rocks above. The wind lashed sleet at them, yet it parted before their small circle of calm like dust brushed aside. Overhead, a roof of clouds skimmed the hilltops, eclipsing the sky, and extended inland to enshroud the island. To the distant south thunderheads towered ever higher, roiling and billowing, lancing the seas in a constant discharge of lightning that lit the lunging dance of the distant Riders.

A sense of presence behind him brought Obo’s head around. He fixed his gaze on the bare hillside where two figures descended. One motioned for the other to remain among the rocks and continued down alone, his dark robes flapping in the wind. The second moved to shelter in the lee of a tall plinth of rock and squatted, elbows at his knees, his shirt shining wetly. ‘Someone’s comin’.’ Agayla did not respond. Obo turned to her: she sat hunched forward, hands clutched at her head as if to hold it from bursting. ‘Your boy, Agayla. Looks like I lose my bet.’

She looked up but with eyes empty of understanding. Slowly, awareness awoke within. She blinked, squared her shoulders and pushed herself upright. ‘Good. Very good.’

As the figure drew near, his bald scalp gleaming, Obo mouthed a curse. ‘So. It’s him. I don’t trust this one. The stink of the Worm clings to him.’

‘He is free from all bindings, Obo. I wouldn’t have approached him otherwise.’ She bowed to the newcomer. ‘Greetings, Tayschrenn.’

Tayschrenn answered the courtesy. ‘Obo,’ he offered. Obo turned his back. Tayschrenn gestured to the south. ‘This is incalculably worse than I imagined.’

Agayla nodded. ‘We are masking most from the island. Appalling, isn’t it?’

‘Reminds me of the Emperor at his most brutal.’

Obo barked, ‘He was a fool with a sharp stick compared to this!’ He glared at the two of them. When Tayschrenn returned his look, he jerked away to stare south once again. What he saw there made him flinch.

Tayschrenn took in Agayla’s exhaustion and Obo’s rigid stance; he invited her to sit. ‘You’re losing.’

Agayla merely gave a tired nod, too worn even to pretend. ‘Yes. Before the dawn we shall fail. That is… unless you commit yourself.’

‘Yet some force was forestalling this. Where are they?’

‘He has been overcome.’

‘He?’ One against all this? There is no one. Osserc, perhaps-’

Obo snorted again.

Agayla merely massaged her fingers across her brow. ‘Really, Tay. You, above all, should know there are ancient powers, those that see past your and Kellanved’s empire-building as just another pass of season. The paths to Ascendancy are far more varied than you imagine.’ Sighing, Agayla straightened. ‘But now is not the time for that. Surly’s campaign against magery had left him sorely diminished. A fraction of talent remained to draw upon