‘Sergeant. See to their billeting.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Girth closed, flanked by troopers. Antsy glared.
‘Thanks a lot!’
He shrugged his wide humped shoulders. ‘Sorry. Got over forty men and women who want out of this trap. That’s all I answer to. Maybe your friends can help.’
‘They’re dead.’
‘Hasn’t stopped others.’
‘Yeah, well. That’s the deal.’
The man spat again. ‘Too bad. Now, let’s take a walk, all of us. Nice an’ quiet.’
‘Him too!’ the woman yelled again, pointing from the distance. ‘The newcomer. The soldier. That one too!’
While he was sick inside Antsy made a point of arching a brow at the sergeant. ‘Gotta go. Things to do.’
Girth snorted. ‘Out of the frying pan, friend. Out of the pan.’
As Antsy walked away the man called: ‘We’ll just look after your friends here, right?’
Antsy raised a hand over his shoulder in a gesture that needed no explanation.
The ‘meeting’ was one of the oddest gatherings of fearsome individuals Antsy had ever attended. And that included a few command gatherings of Malazan Imperial mages and Claws. He took his place next to Lieutenant Palal. Opposite waited the tall slim woman who had called the meeting. Her complexion was olive-hued and her hair dark and straight, pinned up in a complex design. Her dark eyes watched Antsy with a look that seemed to enjoy his discomfort. The large loose circle also included the carmine-wearing old woman and her fat companion, together with Jallin, who glared his hatred. Antsy noted that the fat fellow seemed to spend most of his time with his gaze narrowed on the tall woman.
To one side waited the armoured figure of the blond-haired mercenary who had preceded them on to the Spawn. He was flanked by two of his men. All still carried canvas covers over their shields. Antsy wondered if these might be members of the Grey Swords. Yet they carried no symbols of the Wolves of Winter, nor any other god that he could recognize.
An old man, his thin hair a mussed cloud around his uneven skull, came shuffling up on his slippered feet. Also emerging from the gloom came the slim dark form of Malakai.
Antsy could not believe he was seeing him again. He thought the man dead, or long escaped from the Spawn. ‘Look what turned up,’ he drawled, giving him a hard stare.
The thief bowed, one brow quirked. ‘So you made it. Congratulations. I am
‘No thanks to you, you Hood-damned piece of-’
‘So you two know each other,’ the tall woman cut in, loud and firm. ‘How nice. Yet introductions are in order, I imagine.’
‘We are not yet all gathered,’ the old fellow observed in a quavering breathless wheeze.
‘Did someone call a meeting?’ a man’s voice enquired from the dark. ‘Is attendance mandatory?’ The owner of the smooth voice came forward: a man dressed in expensive silks over a fine blackened mail coat that hung to his shins. His midnight hair was slicked back and a goatee beard and moustache framed his mouth. A wide heavy two-handed sword hung at his side.
The tall woman, Antsy noted, eyed this well-dressed fellow with obvious distaste.
‘Introductions?’ the old woman squawked. She tossed her head, her ribbons rustling. ‘There need not be any introductions. I do not want introductions. Damn all of you. I care nothing for you.’
‘Quite,’ the fat fellow at her side supplied, like a punctuation ending her rant.
‘Thank you, Hesta and Ogule.’
‘Ogule Tolo Thermalamerkanerat,’ the fat fellow corrected. ‘Do please get it right. You know our dialect, Seris.’
The tall woman, Seris, smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Yes. Ogule.’
‘Hemberghin,’ the old man sneezed at Antsy.
Antsy leaned down to him. ‘What was that? Hemdergin?’
‘Hemper!’ the old man repeated angrily. ‘Hemper. Hemper Grin!’
Antsy flinched away from the spray of spittle. He wiped his sleeve. ‘Right. Hemper.’
The elegant fellow inclined his head to Antsy in an ironic salute. ‘Bauchelain.’ He gestured vaguely to his rear. ‘My companion, Korbal Broach, is, ah, currently … preoccupied.’
It may have been the poor light, but it appeared to Antsy as if at the man’s words everyone present turned a shade more pale. He cleared his throat in an effort to find his voice. ‘Ah, Antsy. Antsy’s the name.’
All this time Jallin had been whispering fiercely and pulling on the old woman’s rags. Whispering and pointing. She cuffed him now and shot out a withered crooked finger. ‘What is in your bag, soldier?’
‘To the Paths of the Dead with you, y’ damned hag.’
The woman jerked so sharply the ribbons hanging from her hair snapped like whips. Her eyes widened in disbelief then slitted almost closed. A sort of creamy smile came to her wrinkled lips. ‘So … you wish to challenge old Hesta, do you? Scream very prettily as you burn I think you will …’
‘Hesta …’ Seris warned. ‘Soldier. We know you carry munitions.’
Antsy glanced to Malakai. ‘How in the name of all the forgotten gods would you know that?’
The woman brought her long-fingered hands together to her lips then let out a loud breath as if exhausted. ‘Soldier. All of us here are close to many very great powers. Many of us have seen in the deck what you carry. We have terms to offer you for their use. For example — there are very many people here who wish to leave this crippled artefact. We will allow that … once our terms are met.’
‘What’s the job?’
Seris smiled behind her clasped hands. ‘This way, if you please.’ She led him across the wide assembly hall. The gang of mages followed. The one who gave his name as Bauchelain sauntered along last. Many of the others cast nervous glances back to the man.
A large scene of pastoral life decorated the polished floor they crossed. Hills, streams and mountains, all done in a mosaic of coloured stones. Antsy thought it odd that such a scene should be executed here within the heart of the Moon’s Spawn. It seemed all too … mundane.
Midway across they came to a large circular opening flush in the floor like a well or a pool. Antsy peered down only to throw himself backwards, his heart hammering. The opening sank bottomless into utter night and a cool breeze wafted up. The wind carried with it the distant lap and murmur of the sea.
They came to wide curving stairs cut from black glittering stone that led up to a tall set of double doors. The doors were cut from the same black stone, but set in panels of gold, bronze and silver. Similar vignettes of woods and fields decorated the panels. Scenes of some sort of homeland, Antsy wondered? Somehow it struck him as odd that the Tiste should possess any sort of homeland. They seemed to have simply appeared from the sky. But of course they had to have originated from
‘These doors are barred to us,’ Seris announced, slapping a hand to a silver panel. ‘We cannot broach them. Do so, soldier, and you will save the lives of your fellows — plus many more.’
Antsy nodded towards the doors. ‘What’s inside?’
‘That is none of your business!’ Hesta snarled.
‘Indeed,’ Ogule agreed.
‘Something its master thought destroyed,’ said old Hemper, with a wheezing laugh.
‘The dream of night unending,’ Malakai provided as if quoting a line.
‘What lies within, soldier,’ said Bauchelain, drawn close now, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze in the distance over Antsy’s head, ‘is nothing less than the Throne of Night.’
Bendan forced down a leather-like string of old horsemeat and helped it along with another mouthful of water. At least they had that: all the drink they needed thanks to the well the saboteur lads and lasses had dug almost overnight. But that was all they had. Most of the biscuits and beans went up with the wagons during the fire attacks. There was no firewood left to cook with anyway. Just dried horse and bits and pieces left now. He wiped one soot-blackened hand on his thigh only for it to come away just as dirty as before.
