Yusek jerked a thumb to the other. ‘And him?’
Sall was silent for a time, perhaps searching for the right words. ‘In the rankings of the Seguleh I am of the Three Hundredth-’
‘Three hundredth what?’ she cut in.
Again, he was silent for a while. The rain had let up and now the streams of run-off trickled across the track. Heavy drops pattered amid the woods. The morning’s mist was gone with the rain.
‘The Three Hundredth I refer to means among the Seguleh fighters,’ Sall said, his tone now quite icy. It seemed he wasn’t used to being interrupted.
She eyed him sidelong. He’d raised his hood again. ‘So … you mean that you’re among the top three hundred fighters of all you Seguleh?’
‘Among all those who choose to pursue the rankings, yes. Not all need do so.’
‘Yusek’ — he spoke much more quietly now — ‘I can give you his name … but it will be of no use to you. You might address him but he will never speak to you. He is Lo. And he is Eighth.’
‘As I said, we are looking for a monastery that is supposed to be somewhere here in these mountains.’
Yusek snorted. Damned foolishness. Here she was guiding a couple of fanatics off to some temple so they could bow to some dusty piece of bone, or a sacred statue on a wall, or have a senile old man wave his hand over their heads. What a fucking waste of her time!
She decided to ditch them right away.
She simply didn’t stop walking. So far that tactic had never failed her. She’d lost everyone she’d ever walked away from. As the day progressed, sure enough they fell back just as everyone always did. Once they were far enough behind on the trail she shucked the pack from her shoulders, took the best of the dried staples and a skin of water, and just kept right on going without looking back. In fact, she decided to run.
She made for an overhang she knew of, a kind of unofficial way-station along the trail. It was much further than an average day’s travel but she’d push on into the night.
For all the rest of the day, into the long twilight of evening, until the light failed entirely and she couldn’t make out the track ahead, she saw no more sign of them. The combined light of the mottled moon and the ill- omened green night sky visitor allowed her to find the narrow path up the rocks to the overhang and here she crouched down on her hams, in the dirt and rotting leaves, and chewed on a strip of dried venison. Her legs were trembling and numb, her chest aflame, but she’d made it. And she was rid of them. She was rid of them all! Fat Orbern, leering Ezzen, slow-witted Henst with his clumsy paws. She’d done it again! Shaken the useless dust from her heels. Just like her ma and pa that day in the worst stretch of the Dwelling Plain when it was them or her and damned if it was gonna be her!
She stiffened, listening. Rocks were falling down on the trail. She slowly straightened, a hand going to the fighting knife at her hip, her heart thudding.
The hooded and cloaked figure of Sall climbed up into the overhang. He brushed dirt from himself. He dropped the pack to the dry dust and leaves. She lowered her hand.
‘A fair first day’s travel, Yusek.’ The hood rose as he peered about. ‘I approve. You may rest. I will take first watch.’
Lo joined them, rising as silently as a ghost from the murk. He crossed to the rear of the overhang and sat without a word.
‘Who are you people …?’ she breathed, awed despite herself.
‘We are the Seguleh, Yusek. And all these lands will soon come to know us again.’
Spindle sat on a stone bench in the Circle of Faiths. It was a paved plaza in the Daru district that through the years, building by building and yard by yard, had been invaded then annexed by the worshippers of foreign, emerging, or even discredited religions. A sort of unofficial bazaar to any god, spirit or ascendant you’d care to name. Tall prayer sticks burned next to him as votive offerings to some obscure northern deity, possibly Barghast ancestor spirits. He waved the thick smoke from his face. Across the plaza a tiny stone building looking unnervingly like a sepulchre housed a priest of the new cult of the Shattered God. The man sat gabbling on to all who passed but was rather hard to understand, speaking as he was through broken teeth and a swollen jaw from the many beatings the local toughs meted out. Spindle had to hand it to the fellow, though. The man was undeterred. He even seemed to relish the extra challenge to his devotion and perseverance.
But then, he knew all about persecution. He and his ma together had watched the world succeed in its persecution of his father, uncles, brothers, aunts, sisters and uncounted cousins. ‘Ain’t gonna lose you, little ’un,’ she’d always told him. She repeated it yet again when word came of the loss of his last brother, fallen overboard in rough seas off the coast of Delanss. ‘That’s my sworn vow, that is.’ And he’d looked up from where he sat next to her chair to watch her brushing her hair — hair so long it would drag along the ground behind her should she ever let it down. ‘Hold you in my arms, I will. Bind you up in protection. Keep you safe. Your mama’s gonna keep you safe. You’ll see.’
He rubbed his shirt over his chest. She was close now. He could feel her next to him the way he could when trouble was coming.
‘You look like a brother,’ someone addressed him in Daru.
Spindle shaded his eyes to blink up at a young swell-sword all done up in mock Malazan officer gear complete with torcs and Quonstyle longsword. On his silk surcoat the lad bore the sword symbol of the cult of Dessembrae. ‘Whazzat? Brother?’
‘One of the initiate. The Elite. Recognized by Dessembrae.’
‘What in Osserc’s smothering warmth are you going on about?’
The young man’s ingratiating smile slipped into a stung haughtiness as he looked Spindle up and down. ‘My apology. Clearly I am mistaken. Obviously you do not possess the requisite dignity.’
Spindle hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat. ‘Dignity, my arse. If he saw you now he wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry.’
‘So those found unworthy may grumble.’
Spindle considered rousing himself to teach the pup a lesson, but he was feeling at ease on the bench and decided not to let the ignorant fool ruin his day. He waved the lad away. ‘Take your rubbish elsewhere.’
The aristocratic youth actually tossed his head as he walked off. Spindle snorted at the absurdity of it all, then realized he was no longer alone on the bench. He eyed the fellow sidelong: tall and rangy, wrapped in an old travelling cloak. Long black wavy hair. Looked Talian in profile.
‘If that lad knew he was talking to a Bridgeburner he’d have pissed himself,’ the man said.
Spindle cursed under his breath. ‘Took your own damned time, didn’t you?’ He rubbed his hand over his chest, listening for guidance, heard nothing. This man was no mage. ‘Who are you anyway? Where’s Filless?’
‘Filless is no longer with us. Someone’s made a sport of hunting Imperial mages and Claws.’ He turned to address him directly. ‘If I were you I’d keep my head down.’
‘Hunh. That’s me. Question still stands. Who’re you?’
‘I’m with the Imperial delegation.’
Spindle snorted again. ‘Military intelligence. Shoulda known.’
‘We learned long ago not to depend entirely on the Claw.’
‘Hood’s cautionary finger to that, my friend.’
‘So — your report?’
‘Some kinda spook’s entered the city. Drug his arse outta the burial grounds to the south. Wasn’t alone neither. Has servants. And they ain’t entirely human, if you know what I mean.’
