exquisitely understated dress and cut of hair. It was dispiriting. Even here parochialism reigned. These young beauties of the noble families: what did they know of true elegance and natural grace? Nothing at all! Empty- headed adornments, they!
She’d tried engaging the Legate in conversation. ‘Legate’ indeed! How amusing. But only the sweaty little fellow would answer. It was almost embarrassing.
Then that young upstart approached her. Here! In front of everyone!
‘You are Lady Envy,’ she said, and she curtsied in her floating dancing scarves prettily enough.
‘And you are Vorcan’s daughter.’
‘I am.’
‘You … dance, I take it?’
A smile, revealing small sharp teeth. ‘And much more.’
‘I’m sure …’
‘Had you met my mother?’
‘No. But I was a great admirer of hers.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘She knew her place.’
The smile disappeared into a straight colourless slit pulled back over teeth. ‘Careful. This court tolerates you now but that may change.’
‘I’d rather thought it was the other way round, myself.’
A confused clenching of the eyes as the girl tried to work out Envy’s meaning.
West of the Maiten River Ambassador Aragan called a halt to any further advance and ordered K’ess to dig a defensive line against any possible attack. Darujhistan’s sapphire glow was just visible yet strangely dim, muted, and Aragan wondered if perhaps smoke obscured it. Here they would wait while their temporary allies, the Moranth, proceeded with their plans.
Negotiations had been nerve-racking to say the least. The Moranth wanted to end things with a finality that was terrifying; and Aragan was hard pressed to blame them. His heart also went out to this Councillor Nom. The poor fellow, having to stand by while the fate of his city was debated by outsiders.
After much back and forth, with Mallick himself speaking through the Sceptre, an accord was reached, backed up by Malazan assurances. This was as far as they would go while the Moranth launched the fought-for compromise. But if this first gambit failed, the Moranth were firm, they would unleash a full assault. Then would come the firestorm. A city consumed. Y’Ghatan all over again.
Aragan prayed to all the Elder Gods it would not come to that. And he pondered yet again on the question that so tormented him: what would he do? If the fires should start — what would he do? Order the troops in to help the citizenry escape, thus endangering them? Or merely stand by and watch while countless thousands were consumed in flames? How could he live with himself then? How could any of them?
*
Just inland from Lake Azur, in his tent next to the barrow of the Son of Darkness, Caladan Brood, the Warlord, pushed aside the cloth flap of his tent to face the darkening evening. He frowned, revealing even more of his prominent canines, and sniffed the air. His glance went to the west, then over to the city, and a low growl sounded deep within his throat.
He ducked back within to put on his leathers and strap on his hammer.
*
South of the city, heading up what was named Cutter Lake Road, Yusek gaped at every building they passed.
The Seventh led though his pace was glacially slow, almost reluctant. A permanent grimace of pain seemed fixed on his face. He’d muttered that no one seemed to be about.
Yet she’d seen more people than she’d ever seen since her refugee days. And these people certainly weren’t ragged drifters. Many were finely dressed. Some were even plump. Imagine, having so much to eat that you could get fat! Now
Then abruptly the Seventh raised a hand for a halt. He regarded the darkening sky, the glow Yusek knew was the fabled gas lighting of Darujhistan. That glow struck her as far less than the green blaze of the Scimitar above and she thought it probably overrated.
‘Will you challenge?’ Sall asked.
The man flinched, anguished. ‘No! It’s not my place … yet something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.’
‘But … you will help, yes?’ Sall asked. It was the closest the youth had come to a plea that Yusek had heard.
The Seventh’s mouth worked with suppressed emotion as he looked away. Finally, he ground out: ‘My record isn’t that encouraging.’ But he did start walking once more, his head lowered.
*
Spindle was dead asleep when he heard his ma’s voice calling him down in its old familiar cadence:
The sound of bottles clanking together.
He flew to the door, rebounded from the jamb, then threw it open and tumbled out into the hall to pound to the common room, yelling: ‘It’s poison! Don’t drink it!’
Blend spat out a great mouthful of drink over the bar and down her front. ‘Gaah! What?
Spindle hurried over to yank the bottle from her hand and sniff it.
‘Fisher just brought it!’ she complained, wiping her shirt. ‘Kanese red.’
Spindle nodded to the bard, then examined the bottle. ‘Red? Really? Sorry.’ He handed back the bottle. ‘Sorry.’
Blend gave him the withering glare she reserved for hopeless idiots. The one he always got. He gestured to the kitchens. ‘Thought you was using those other bottles, from the back. They’re not wine.’
‘So they’re wine bottles without wine in them.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Paid extra for that, did you?’
‘No! I mean, shut the Abyss up.’ He faced Fisher and poured himself a glass of red. ‘So, what’s the news?’
The bard nodded. He was a tall man, rangy, yet from what Spindle had seen surprisingly strong. Even leaning on a high stool he was still taller than Spindle. Something in the mage resented that. ‘I was just telling Blend,’ the bard said. ‘Whispers from the court. The Seguleh have been defeated out west. The Moranth. And maybe … the Malazans.’
Spindle and Blend shared a look.
‘Word is they may be expecting an attack.’
Blend waved a hand. ‘Ridiculous. No one has an army big enough to enter Darujhistan, let alone pacify
