Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

Darujhistan clashed. But then, is that not always the way between any two ascendant peoples?

He could not help but flinch as closer blasts sent invisible shock waves punching his chest. Now he knew something of what Gall had endured. A completely one-sided slaughter. Shameful, some of his brothers and sisters called it. But he did not share that view. Why submit to an opponent’s strengths? If at all possible one must work to avoid them.

As they did now, waiting beneath the protection of the Legate’s sorcery. Too bad such protection could not be removed.

The bursts lessened. The riders appeared to have exhausted their munitions.

Failure, Iralt signed. We have won.

No, Jan signed. They will come at us soon.

An assault? Iralt gestured her surprise. Surely not. They know us — they would not be so foolish.

Do not dismiss the enemy, Jan chided. They are brave. Remember: a challenging opponent is a blessing to one’s skill.

Iralt bowed her head. Thank you, Second.

Go now. Warn for readiness.

Iralt ran from his side. Jan raised his mask to the circling riders, the explosions few and far between now. So, they will land and we will win this engagement. But the war? He looked to the great unprotected spread of the city below and the fires glowing in nearby precincts. As to the war, he knew it was already lost.

Above, a massed flight of the quorl mounts came diving in upon them.

Ah. Now it is our turn.

‘What’s that?’ Yusek asked as something caught her eye from the north: a flickering and winking of lights. Like nothing she’d ever seen before. The Seventh halted, suddenly immobile. Everyone else stopped as well. Then she heard it: a thunderous murmur as of a storm far away.

They were passing through another town beyond the walls and people were leaning out of upper-storey windows, peering at the night sky.

‘A summer storm over the lake?’ she wondered aloud.

‘No,’ the Seventh grated. ‘Another kind of storm. We’ll head on to Worrytown.’

Yusek was outraged. ‘What? Aren’t we going in?’

‘Eventually.’ He headed off, striking a quicker pace.

Sall and Lo, she saw, shared a long look but followed without dispute.

She fell in next to Sall, whispered, ‘What’s going on?’

He answered, just as quietly, ‘I believe it is fighting.’

‘Fighting? Who?’

‘I — should not say yet.’

Oh, this is just great! I finally get to Darujhistan only there’s some kinda damned war on? Just my Twins-cursed luck! I mean, why does everything have to happen to me?

Spindle paused in his frantic digging. Straightening, he peered up over the lip of his and Fisher’s uneven pit. He glanced to the night sky, squinting. Yeah — looks like they’ve thrown the lot. Question is, what’s next?

‘What is it?’ Fisher whispered.

‘Winding down. Gotta hurry.’

He returned to thrusting his shovel into the dirt. Good thing they’d dug here already; the backfill was nice and loose. Moments later a distant staccato popping snapped Spindle’s head up again. Sharpers?

He peered round, keeping his eyes just over the dirt surface. He saw some way off in the grounds a flight of quorls come diving in to land and Moranth throw themselves from the saddles, unslinging heavy shields and forming small squares. In ones and twos Seguleh ran to engage with them.

Spindle flinched as salvos of tossed sharpers lacerated the charging Seguleh; but those that made it through wrought havoc among the squares.

Shit! This is not good. Not good at all. Things are gettin’ too crowded by far.

He returned to his digging.

‘What are you doing?’ a girl’s voice called down to them.

The hair on Spindle’s neck and all across his shirt stirred and straightened at that voice. Oh, Togg take it! He rose, taking hold of one of the bottles as he did so and holding it behind his back. Fisher moved to help conceal the motion. He found himself staring at a damned dancing girl; one who’d been in a fight, it seemed, as her wispy clothes were slashed down the front and speckled with blood. She arched a brow at him and her come-to-me lips lifted into an amused smirk.

Her Warren swirled around her, its aura a storm that nearly blinded Spindle’s mage-sight. Inhuman. No youth could possibly be this strong. Like a damned High Mage, this one is.

‘Ah — maintenance,’ he offered.

Her carmine-tinged eyes shifted, searching the pit and beyond. ‘There’s a witch here. I sense her. Sworn to Ardata, perhaps?’

Uh-oh, Ma’s gettin’ her hair up.

‘Leave while you can, child,’ Fisher said suddenly.

Her brow wrinkled, bemused. ‘What?’

‘Twelve their fell number,’ he sang as if reciting, ‘dragged and chained from Abyss’s deepest pits.’

Her gaze slitted on him. ‘Who are you?’

Spindle pulled the cork from the bottle and held it out. ‘Don’t make me use this!’

She stared, frowning. A girlish giggle escaped her. ‘Is the wine that bad here?’

As an answer he shook a splash on to the roots and grass at her feet. Smoke fumed and a hissing seared the air. The girl flinched an involuntary step away. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

He threatened her with the bottle. ‘I don’t want to — but I will! I mean it.’

She glared an inhuman fury. Her eyes flared as if aflame and she hissed a snarling gurgle of frustrated rage.

Spindle jerked the bottle, splashing more of the corroding chemical.

At that she spun, blurring, to disappear into her daemonic Warren.

Fisher, at his side, let out a long low breath. Spindle nodded his sincere agreement. They returned to their digging.

High Priestess of Shadow Sordiko Qualm sat cross-legged on her bed, elbows on knees and chin in her hands, intently studying the silk hangings that enclosed the broad four-poster as a wind passed through the chamber, causing the candles on the far walls to cast flickering shadows across the rippling cloth. Within these shifting shadows images and vistas seemed to form spontaneously, only to dissolve away almost instantly as she watched.

From the open window came hammering and flashes as of a summer thunderstorm.

Screams pulled her attention from the shifting hangings and she blinked, shaking her head. The play of shadows dispersed like shredding gauze. She drew a long curved knife from under a pillow, its blade so darkly blued as to be almost invisible, and padded from her chamber, barefoot, her silk shift so thin as to be nearly, well, invisible too.

The inner temple was crowded with men. The priestesses had retreated to the walls, cowering. Sordiko spotted Seguleh and Malazans among the crowd.

‘What is the meaning of this invasion?’ she cried.

The twenty or so men all looked at her. The expressions on their faces changed from suspicion and confusion to something much more familiar in Sordiko’s experience. She became conscious of her rather inadequate dress.