Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

Brood found himself again appreciating the old man. He allowed himself a grin.

A servant handed each a tiny bronze cup then poured tea in long hissing streams from the slim pot. Tserig raised his cup to the Warlord. ‘To wise counsel.’

‘Wise counsel.’

The old man smacked his lips, sucking in the tea. ‘I ask then, again. What will you do?’

Brood grimaced his awkwardness. He looked off to the west. ‘I’ve become convinced that we shouldn’t confront these Malazans any longer. It will be a disaster for the Rhivi, in the long run.’

Distaste wrinkled Tserig’s pursed lips. ‘Yet they hem us in on all sides. Trespass across our lands. Kill all the animals they find. They are like a plague. Are we to abandon our way of life?’

‘Tserig,’ Brood’s voice was low and hoarse with emotion, ‘that will happen anyway. It is inevitable. Question is, then, how best to mitigate the damage of it all? The answer is ugly and brutal, but it is plain … You get better terms in a peace treaty than you get when you’re conquered — which is to say, no terms whatsoever.’

That stung the old man’s pride and he straightened, offended. ‘You question our spirit!’

The Warlord raised a placating hand. ‘No. Never that. I am not talking about the brief season of war … I am talking about the generations that follow.’

Tserig’s gaze sank to the fire. His face was pained as if he were studying such a future within the dying embers. ‘Treaties,’ he finally spat. ‘Never honoured by the powerful. I place no faith in such agreements.’

‘They will be honoured,’ Brood grated, ‘if I witness them.’

Tserig’s greying brows rose as he considered this, then he bowed his head almost in salute. ‘I accept your plan, Warlord, as the best course for my people. How then do we proceed?’

Brood, who had been eyeing the west before, raised his chin to the distant horizon, the brown hills, and Lake Azur beyond. ‘Have you ever been on a boat, Tserig?’

The old man shuddered. ‘Ancient hearth-goddess, no. My feet have never left touch with our Mother.’

The Warlord’s beast-like eyes swung to him, held steady.

Tserig hunched beneath the weight of that gaze, gummed his lips. ‘Please … Great One. Have mercy on an old man.’

In Darujhistan’s guild hall of guards, sentinels, wardens and gate-men, Captain Soen of the Legate’s bodyguard looked these two most recent applicants up and down and didn’t bother hiding his disgust. Clothes no better than rags, dirt-smeared faces, cracked sandals. Not even a scrap of armour or a weapon showing anywhere. Must have pawned the lot to buy booze. And must be alive with fleas. Trake’s tail, I’m here to hire guards — not beggars.

‘Names?’ he demanded, and grimaced as a wafting hint of their stink reached him.

‘Scorch, sir,’ said one.

‘Leff.’

‘You’re in the lists, I assume?’

The two appeared to pale where they stood before him. They exchanged terrified glances. ‘Ah, beggin’ yer pardon,’ said the one who had given his name as Scorch, ‘but did you say list, sir?’

Soen rolled his eyes. ‘Gods, man. Yes. The lists. The record of all certified members in good standing with the guild in the city!’ At their expressions of complete blankness the captain leaned forward to explain, more slowly, ‘Your references.’

The one named Leff made a great show of understanding, nodding vigorously. ‘Oh sure, Cap’n, sir. O’ course.’

His friend goggled what resembled complete surprise. Un-convinced, but required to be thorough, Soen walked over to the record keeper where he sat in the rear of the hall. ‘Scorch and Leff,’ he said.

The clerk immediately began scrolling through a long rolled sheet, winding the document down and down. ‘Now there’s a list,’ one of these new applicants murmured to his companion.

After searching for a time the clerk appeared to have found his place, for he stopped and began to read. His brows shot up and he went back to the beginning once again. His brows continued to rise, almost touching his slicked-flat hair. He looked up, amazement plain on his face. ‘Their references are impeccable!’

Soen, who had leaned his elbows on the counter, flinched straight. ‘What?’

‘These two are in excellent standing.’

‘Let me see that.’ He reached for the scroll.

The clerk backed away, hugging the roll to his chest. ‘This is proprietary information, I’ll have you know! Try that again and you’ll be blacklisted.’

Soen turned on the two applicants, who stood shifting from foot to foot like eunuchs in a brothel. Gods. Guild rules are that I have to hire them now. Damn their stranglehold. He marched up to them, as close as their stink would allow. ‘Okay. Your references are in order. Fine.’ He held up a finger. ‘But before I see you tomorrow you’d better be cleaned up and fit for duty — or I’ll have some ex-Urdomen I know scrub you all over with rayskin brushes. How would you like that?’

The one who had given his name as Scorch raised a hand.

‘Yes? What?’

‘Ah … does this mean we’re hired, Captain, sir?’

‘Does this …’ Soen dragged a hand down his face, took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Yes,’ he hissed, ‘you’re hired. Report to the Legate’s manor tomorrow.’ He eyed them up and down once more. ‘Mind you,’ and he raised a warning finger, ‘you two report to the servants’ gate — is that understood?’

Scorch nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, sir. Understood.’ He saluted multiple times.

Soen waved a dismissal and stalked off, muttering. Elder gods, look away! How standards have fallen from the old days. Damned embarrassing it is. Still, these two could free up a couple of good men I could use elsewhere …

Once the Captain was gone Leff cuffed Scorch. ‘There! Y’see? Wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘I thought I said we should try here.’

Leff appeared not to have heard. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

Leff made a great show of looking to the sky. ‘Well, you heard the Captain! It’s as obvious as Moon’s Spawn in full-on daylight, o’ course.’

‘What is?’

‘Where we have t’go!’

‘An’ that’s …’

‘To the lake, man!’

Scorch’s permanent scowl of uncertainty deepened into stunned incomprehension. ‘The lake?’

Leff sighed his impatience. ‘Yes! Can’t you hear? The man told us to get cleaned up. So it’s a wash in the lake for us.’ He stomped out.

Scorch was slow to follow. He scratched the thick grime caking one cheek, muttering, bemused, ‘People do that? They wash? In the lake …?’

Yusek guided her two charges north up the slopes of the coastal Mengal range. She was aware that these peaks were also known as the Mountains of Rain and she mused, bitterly, that they were damned well living up to that title. This wide pass in particular led all the way to the coast. Her leathers were rotting off her; the skin of her toes was peeling off like bark; and she had a constant racking cough, spitting up great wads of thick green catarrh.

She took out her frustrations on the two Seguleh. Their silence and impenetrable calm only sharpened her tongue. Think they’re so damned superior. Nothing more than smug arseholes is what they are!

This day she was off ahead alone, if only to give herself a break from her constant snarling and sniping. She studied the lower slopes where the banners of sinking mist were burning away, leaving shallow rivulets and gullies that would eventually come together to form the headwaters of the Maiten River.

She glanced back and her shoulders fell as she saw that the two had stopped far back up the rocky path and were awaiting her return in their typical complete silence. Brainless idiots! Could at least give me a