Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

mages, the old woman and the fat man, eyeing him all the way across the chamber. He tried his best to ignore them.

Within, Orchid turned quickly on him, asking, ‘How is it going?’

Antsy lay down on a pile of gathered cloaks and odd clothing and threw an arm over his eyes. ‘Damned slow.’

‘They keep coming round — peering at us. Like they’re sizing us up for a meal. Gives me the shivers.’

‘Who does?’

‘All of them.’

‘Orchid,’ Corien warned gently from across the room.

‘What? Oh.’

A light kick woke Antsy and he blinked, squinting in the bluish magelight. It was Corien. The lad waved him up. One of the mercenaries was there; the man gestured him out. After pulling together his gear Antsy followed. Something about the mercenaries struck him then as he walked: they were all damned big fellows, wide and tall, unusually so. And they all had the same broad heavy faces, as if they were related by blood.

The blond man, Cull, motioned to the chiselled-out gap. ‘Good, yes?’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Antsy lay on his stomach to measure the space. Still too tight for his cusser. He pushed himself up to his knees. ‘A touch more yet.’ He reached for the hammer.

‘No, no. We do more. You watch.’

‘It’s all right. I should …’

Cull held up a bloodied hand. ‘No. You need your fingers to get us out, yes? We do this.’

Hunh. How do you like that? He peered around at all the sweaty glistening faces watching from the dark walkways and portals: the tall woman, Seris; the old mage, Hemper; Hesta and Ogule. Typical. They want out but don’t even consider lending a hand. Privileged shits. And as for the Malazans, well, at least they were standing guard down the hall.

While Antsy was crouched, watching the chiselling, Orchid emerged from the dark to come to his side. ‘You should see this,’ she said, sounding unusually subdued.

‘We’re close here, Orchid.’

‘It’ll only take a moment.’

He saw the wonder on her face and grunted. ‘All right. But quick.’

‘This way.’

She led him up an unlit side passage; his mage-sight allowed him to see here away from the lanterns in the main chamber. Through doorways and a short set of stairs down she brought him into another large cavern, this one low-ceilinged and filled with undecorated stone pillars. Crystals glistened on the uneven black rock walls and from where he stood he could see a sort of natural set of terraces descending into the distance. Dirt lay under his feet along with brown withered plant stalks. ‘What’s this?’ he breathed, sharing Orchid’s wonder.

A figure emerged from the gloom: Malakai. He carried a bunch of stalks gathered up in one hand like a bouquet. He sat on the ledge of one of the low terraces, which Antsy now recognized as a kind of planting bed. ‘A garden,’ the man said, inspecting the dead stalks.

Antsy stared, amazed. ‘Not …’

‘Yes,’ Orchid whispered, awed. ‘The legends were true. A garden.’

‘There were flowers here that scholars tell had never seen the sun,’ Malakai said, and he shook his head. ‘Imagine what a single such blossom would have bought. All dead now. This is what Apsalar sought when she came to the Spawn so long ago. The Lady of Thieves came to steal a rose. A black rose. One that poets claimed had been touched by the tears of Mother Dark herself.’ Shrugging, he let the handful of chaff fall. ‘And I sought to best her. To succeed where she had failed.’ He motioned to encompass the wrecked cavern, the spilled soil and overturned beds. ‘So much for my ambitions.’

Antsy kicked at the black dirt underfoot. ‘We still need to get out, Malakai. You can lend a hand.’

The man drew a heavy breath. ‘Yes. Well … we shall see.’

Antsy motioned to Orchid. ‘I have to go,’ he said, low.

She nodded and waved him out.

Back in the main chamber the chiselling had stopped. On the way to the throne-room doors Antsy heard ominous popping and cracking that reverberated up through the stone beneath his feet. Time’s runnin’ out, I swear.

The mercenaries were all crouched inspecting the pocket they’d worked. They were arguing. The blond man, Cull, was cuffing the other two and shouting them down. Antsy picked up his pace.

‘What’s this?’

‘Ah, Malazan. I tell these fools no more. We wait for you.’

Antsy pushed through them — a hard task in that each seemed as solid and immobile as the rock itself — and studied the gap beneath the stone doors. ‘Looks good. Let’s try the fit.’ He swung his pannier forward.

The three mercenaries backed away. Antsy took a moment to study them. ‘Who are you anyway? What do I call you?’

Cull thumped his broad armoured chest. ‘We are the Heels!’

Antsy just stared. Right. The Heels. Okay … He waved them off and returned his attention to the pocket. The fit was too wide in places and too tight in one spot. A last few touches of the chisel fixed that. Stone chips helped keep the cusser in place, then Antsy pulled out a stone of rough unpolished granite. With this he started to abrade the keratin shell of the cusser as close to the top of it as he could reach.

Fiddler and Hedge had perfected this technique — skimming. They used it to time charges. Problem was, he’d never actually had call to do it himself. But they’d all talked it over pretty thoroughly. All the squad saboteurs. Come to think of it — none of them had ever done it themselves neither!

Shit.

He pulled away the granite grinding stone. Well then, he decided. Maybe that’s good enough. Lying on his stomach he turned back to the chamber, yelled: ‘Seris! Get your people ready!’

The tall woman emerged from the gloom. ‘Now? You are prepared?’

‘Yes.’ And he shouted louder. ‘Munitions! Ware!’

He pulled out a small hard case, opened it. Inside rested a glass tube. This he unstoppered, and, reaching awkwardly under the lip of the door’s bottom, let three drops fall into the scar he’d scraped into the shell of the munition.

He pushed himself away as quickly as he could and ran. Across the chamber he spotted Orchid and Corien behind a thick pillar and joined them.

‘How long?’ Corien whispered.

‘Don’t know. Shouldn’t be too-’

The entire structure juddered around them, groaning and snapping in an agony of tortured rock. A stone arch burst overhead, sending shards pattering down. The Spawn began to tilt. Equipment, rubbish and broken rubble slid across the floor. Antsy grabbed hold of the pillar together with Orchid and Corien.

He watched, horrified, as something came tumbling out from the tilting threshold before the doors and rolled down the shallow stairs. The cusser. Sweet Soliel, no!

Even as he stared it bounced once, twice, three times, then slid down the polished smooth stone floor to disappear into the great yawning hole in the middle of the chamber.

Hood’s laughter!

Everyone was screaming and shouting and cursing. A piece of what looked like expensive travelling baggage came sliding out of the darkness to follow the cusser down the well. An old man yelled his despair.

Then the stone of the Spawn kicked Antsy. At least that’s what it felt like. The floor jerked, punishing his ankles and knees. A great gust of air came shooting from the well. It stank of the acrid smoke of expended munitions and was heavy with water vapour.

Ponderously, among bursting and grinding complaints of stone, the Spawn began to tilt back in the opposite direction, righting itself. The old woman, Hesta, came staggering out of the dark. Her ribbons and hair had gone, revealing a wrinkled bald scalp. With her pale head and scrawny body she more than ever resembled a vulture.

‘You fool!’ she shrieked, pointing. ‘You’ve killed us all!’ Wordless with fury, she threw her hands up and