Orb Sceptre Throne

of.’

Jan tilted his head and Ira continued, ‘The orders were given. All have been notified.’

The man saluted once more. ‘That’s all as you say for sure, sirs and madams. Me ’n’ Leff here, we don’t dispute any of that.’

‘Then what is your claim?’ Ira demanded.

Jan gave Palla a sign and she released them. They straightened their armour.

‘Well, ma’am,’ began the spokesman — though not necessarily the lower of the pair. Frankly, between these two, any gradation at all was difficult to tell. ‘It’s just that we’re not your usual run o’ the mill Majesty Hall guards. No, sir …’

‘They work for me,’ breathed a weak voice.

Jan peered at the bedraggled figure of the Mouthpiece of the Legate. He inclined his head in respect. ‘This is so?’ he asked. ‘They answer to you?’

The man’s eyes darted, haunted and bloodshot; his features had sunk to a sweaty pasty pallor. Clearly this fellow found his duties far outmatched the strength of his nerves. Jan’s gaze shifted to the masked Legate, motionless on his throne. He appeared unaware. Yet always he demonstrated preternatural knowledge of all that went on around him. And this man spoke his will. Jan wondered at such an unlikely choice. However, again, it was not for him to wonder.

‘Yes,’ the man affirmed, a new certainty entering his quavering voice. ‘I remember them. I hired them.’

Jan signed his assent. ‘Very well. It shall be as you say.’ He turned away, dismissing them from his thoughts. He scanned the court, searching for potential dangers or threats and found only one. The sorceress, Envy, with her flowing green dress and curled oiled hair. How he longed to part her head from her body for the debasement she brought to his brother and two followers. But she was an honoured guest of the Legate and so must he swallow her presence.

Oh, certainly some members here of the court obviously longed to challenge the Legate. Their posture, breaths and sweat shouted it — especially one older ex-soldier councillor who looked as though he might have been a potential threat, a decade ago. And hints had come to him of assassination attempts, which the Legate and his pet mages handled.

All very well. So why then this unease? This discomfort? Perhaps it is the loss of Cant. I miss its green mountain slopes. Peace of mind slipped away with it beyond the horizon. Soon Gall will sense this and he will challenge. Then there will be a new Second and all of this will no longer be my concern. I almost welcome it. Is this what cowardice feels like?

The Legate stood then and descended the throne of pale white stone. He gestured and Jan moved to join him. The members of the court, masked councillors, their wives and masked mistresses, aristocrats and wealthy merchants, all parted at his approach. He stopped before the Legate and inclined his masked head in obeisance.

‘Second.’ The Mouthpiece had come to his side. ‘Our enemies await to the west. You Seguleh are my blade and anvil. Crush them and Darujhistan shall rule all these lands unrivalled, as before.’

‘I understand, Legate. These invading Malazans shall be removed from our shores.’

The Legate gestured impatiently. Though the beaten gold features could not change, cast for ever into their secretive half-smile, the shifting light and shadow enlivened the lips and empty eyes with expression. Now they appeared angered.

‘The invaders are but a nuisance. They mean nothing. No. I speak of the true threat. This city’s eternal enemy … the Moranth.’ The Mouthpiece let out a strangled gasp as he spoke these words and clamped a hand to his mouth as if he were about to be sick.

Jan dared glance up more fully, as if he could discern some intent from the golden oval before him. ‘The Moranth, Legate? I do not understand.’

‘Always they forestalled us,’ the Mouthpiece began again, his voice ghostly faint. ‘They alone defied us when all others fell. Now we shall finish them.’

‘The Moranth wars ended a millennium ago.’

‘With the fall of the last of the Tyrants and the breaking of the Circle, yes.’ The oval turned to address Jan more directly. ‘Now that Darujhistan arises renewed we must answer that crime against us, yes?’

And what could Jan do but bow when commanded by his First? For the gold mask was the legendary progenitor, the Father of them all. Attack the Moranth? Bring them low? An entire people? Was this what we were forged to accomplish? Our noble purpose?

And you in your cracked wooden mask who told me so little. Was this the burden you sought to spare me? Well do I understand it now. No wonder we hide our faces.

That burden is shame.

Captain Dreshen found Ambassador Aragan in the stables, currying the two remaining horses. Catching his breath he reported: ‘Sir! The majority of the Seguleh have marched from the city.’

Aragan straightened to peer over the back of the black bay, Doan, his favourite. He rested his hands there, a brush in each. ‘Out of the city?’ His gaze slitted. ‘Which way?’

Dreshen nodded their shared understanding. ‘West.’

‘Dead Hood’s own grin. We have to warn them.’

‘The mounts won’t make it all the way.’

‘No.’ Aragan wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘A boat. Fastest one we can find. Then we’ll ride.’

‘Yes. And … can we count on reinforcements?’

‘No. No reinforcements. No recruits. Nothing. Everything’s been committed to another theatre.’

Dreshen could not believe it. ‘But what of our gains here?’

Aragan threw a blanket over Doan’s back. ‘Seems Unta considers us overextended. And I have to say I’m inclined to agree.’ He eyed Dreshen up and down. ‘Now get the Sceptre and our armour, Captain. In that order.’

The Untan nobleman drew himself up straight, grinning and saluting. ‘Aye, sir. With pleasure.’

The two horsemen rode to the waterfront. Large bundles lay tied behind the cantles of their saddles. They led their mounts down to the private wharves. Here a grossly exaggerated price was paid in rare silver councils for immediate passage west. A gangway was readied and the mounts were guided down on to the deck of the low, sleek vessel. Hands threw off lines and picked up oars. The vessel made its slow way out of the harbour to the larger bay, where the freshening wind caught the sails. The pilot threw the side rudder over and they churned a course along the coast to the west.

*

The Great Barrow of the Son of Darkness, Lord of Moon’s Spawn, Anomander Rake, now rose almost within sight of the ever-creeping edge of the Maiten shanty town. Here a bear of a man sat in the grass and eyed the late afternoon glow of distant Darujhistan.

The lake air had cooled his temper, and now he recognized his vow to squeeze some sense into this creature who paraded as the Legate as foolish and unrealistic in the extreme. What was he to do? Use the hammer there? In the city? Kill tens of thousands? No. And this Legate knew it. So what was he to do?

For the first time in many years no responsibilities weighed upon his shoulders. No cause to champion. He turned back to the barrow. Nearby, the pilgrims and worshippers who congregated here were erecting a tent for him. He hadn’t asked. But they knew him as the one who had raised the barrow and so he shared in their worship and regard.

He was not unaccustomed to it. All who worshipped Burn knew him as her champion. Caladan Brood, Warlord of the north. Yet war was far from his chosen vocation. Oh, he revelled in the individual challenge. Wrestling and trials of strength and skill. But war? Organized slaughter? No. That was the field of cold-hearted weighers of options such as Kallor. Or the opposite, those who inspired from all-embracing hearts, such as Dujek.

And what of him? Did he have this quality? He supposed he did, but in another way. Like Anomander, he inspired by example.

So he would wait. As before, eventually someone would be needed to settle things one way or the other. That was what he did best. Have the last word. The final say. The finishing blow.