Orb Sceptre Throne

breathing to observe dispassionately, ‘You are returned to us. I am pleased — but you should not have come here.’

The Eleventh stood. His eyes shone now with even greater passion than Jan remembered from years ago. ‘I believe it was fated that I should do so, Second.’ He drew from his waist a small object wrapped in a fine black cloth. ‘Just as I believed it was my fate to one day find this.’

Jan stared at the flat object held so delicately in Oru’s hands. This is it? The Unmarred? It seems so small. His arms remained petrified at his sides. His eyes rose to meet Oru’s eager, avid gaze. ‘There can be no doubt?’

‘None, Second.’

‘Then call everyone. All must witness this.’

Oru bowed. ‘Yes … Second.’

They assembled in the main entrance foyer, all remaining of the Five Hundred. Jan was stricken through the heart to count less than one hundred. Of the Eldrii, the Ten, only he, Gall and Palla yet lived.

He raised his chin for their attention. Through the windows the sky was lightening to the dark blue and violet of a coming predawn. Please, all our Ancestors, he invoked, eyes on the coming day, allow me the strength to see this through! Grant me that and you shall have me.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ he started, his voice thick with emotion — and more. ‘In this time of our greatest testing, one who has been gone from us on a long journey has returned — with the object he vowed never to return without.’

The gathered stirred, masks shifting to the Eleventh at his side. ‘Oru,’ Jan went on, ‘hold up the Mask of our Ancestors. The Pure One crafted by the First who led us on our exile …’ Even as he repeated the traditional words of invocation a sudden new realization came to Jan and their meaning shifted, taking on an utterly new significance. His breath caught at the truth of this new formulation. Everything made sense now: his people’s fate, their exile. It came to him that this must be what others describe as a religious awakening.

He took a renewing breath and continued, louder, his voice rough. ‘… on our exile … which was in truth a deliverance. A flight from slavery and a flight from our shame. Crafted in the hope of an eventual redemption, a cleansing of our past.’

Oru pulled off the black covering and held up above his head a pure unmarred mask carved from the same translucent bright stone as the Legate’s throne. In the gathering brightness of dawn it seemed to glow with an inner light. All those present stared immobile. It seemed to Jan that a great easing of some long-held breath escaped from them all, and as one they bowed to one knee, heads lowered.

‘A sign,’ he continued. ‘A promise. An offering sent from our past to our future. One we hope to one day be worthy of. One which belongs to all our people and must be returned to await that future safe in the temple at Cant.’

At these words the Third, Gall, straightened. ‘Nay! Take it, Second. Don it! With you at our head we will sweep these Moranth before us and return triumphant!’

‘No! It must not be taken up in anger or bloodshed. That would taint it beyond redemption. No, this artefact is too important for us few here to risk its destruction. We shall accede to the Moranth demands so that we may see it brought safely home.’

‘To that decision I give my fullest support.’ A new voice spoke up from the back of the assembly — which parted swiftly as Seguleh drew blades against the newcomer.

Jan and Gall both peered, squinting. Jan recognized Lo first, then his son and some girl. And with them one other, and as soon as he looked at this man he recognized him and knew him for what he was, and what he could be, all in one transfiguring instant. He knew then what he must do.

Gall turned his back on Lo, the Eighth, and the man who all knew must be the slayer of Blacksword, the presumed Seventh. He faced Jan. ‘We must not put down our swords. How can we abandon what it means to be Seguleh? It is not for you to propose such a thing.’

Jan felt remarkably calm in the face of what all others present must see as an inexcusable insult. The Third’s behaviour was nothing less than a direct challenge. Jan knew that was exactly what Gall intended. Yet I am not strong enough! I will fall and all I have just glimpsed will be lost to us! Please, Gall, my old friend. Stand aside just this once …

After a long bracing breath Jan’s answer emerged level and strong: ‘I propose it because I have seen what we could all too easily become — what we must never become.’

The Third reached out as if begging something of him. In his gaze Jan saw the reluctance, the torment of his position. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Do not drive me to what duty demands of me …’

‘I have spoken, Third,’ Jan said. ‘It shall be as I say.’

And Gall said what Jan knew he felt he must as Third: ‘Then I challenge you.’

*

After the Seguleh left to return inside, Torvald waited with Galene. She tapped the red baton in her palm, shaking her helmed head. ‘I fear we have our answer,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry. But once word comes that your fellow councillors are clear, I am compelled to act.’

Gods protect us! Torvald turned away to study the vista of Darujhistan spread out below in the coming light of the east. The various fires appeared to have been mastered, the looming threat of a firestorm feeding gas eruptions circumvented. For that he gave thanks. One miracle. Dare he hope for another?

‘Couldn’t you-’

‘No.’ She rubbed her leg, hissing with pain. ‘If it were up to me alone … perhaps. But I am not here on my own. I must think of my people. We cannot allow this threat to exist.’

‘Then I am sorry as well, because I have no idea how the Council will take this. There may be war between us.’

‘Perhaps.’

A party of Black troopers jogged up. One saluted Galene. ‘A small group that contained Seguleh were allowed through the cordon.’

Galene straightened, outraged. ‘Allowed through? On whose authority?’

Another of the troopers saluted. ‘Mine, Commander.’

Torvald studied the last speaker. He appeared to be the oldest Moranth he’d seen yet. The chitinous plates of his armour were thick, cracked and lined. He bore the countless scarifications and gouges of a veteran of many battles.

Galene nodded to the trooper. ‘Master Sergeant. Your record is beyond reproach. Why have you done this?’

The veteran bowed. ‘M’lady. You know I was among the first contingent serving alongside the Malazans. I fought with them for decades. I allowed that party through because of the man who was with them. Though it has been many years, I recognized him. I would know him anywhere. He was Dassem, the First Sword of the Empire.’

Torvald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The First Sword? Here? Was this credible?

Galene’s voice was barely audible: ‘That is impossible.’

‘Elect,’ the veteran continued, a new edge in his voice, ‘must I remind you that our treaty of alliance with the Malazans included Dassem as a signatory?’

‘And if he lives …’

‘Exactly, Elect. If he lives … then contrary to what we had assumed, that treaty is not void.’

*

Crowded within the rear of the hall, Yusek whispered to Sall, ‘What’s goin’ on?’

‘A challenge for leadership,’ he answered just as low.

‘If this is how things get resolved then I’m surprised there’s any of you above Fiftieth.’

He turned to regard her more closely. ‘Yusek — no one will be hurt. At this level it will all be over before you or I notice.’

‘And if someone was hurt?’

‘Then, consider. I see only the Sixth and Third with us now. That means this man, the Seventh, could be within one or two ranks of Second.’