Orb Sceptre Throne

immediately given over to the manufacture-’

‘Of arms and armour,’ said Humble.

The clerk frowned at the scroll in his hands. ‘No … to the manufacture of construction materiel. Namely chain, bars, quarrying implements and such.’

Humble Measure stared at the fellow as if he hadn’t spoken, then said, very softly, ‘What was that? Construction materiel?’

‘Yes. And half your labour force is to be transferred to the salvage works at-’

The clerk broke off as Humble stalked round the desk to snatch the papers from his hand. The Watch guards pressed forward, wary. Humble read through the official pronouncement, and looked up to blink wonderingly. ‘This was not our — that is, I will take this up with the Legate.’

The clerk found himself on familiar ground and this emboldened him to gently take back the nested scrolls. ‘You are of course free to register for an appointment with the city court.’ He waited for a response, but the burly merchant seemed to ignore him as he returned to his position behind his formidable desk. ‘Official copies of this notification will remain on file with the court.’

The merchant waved him away. His job completed in any case, the clerk found no difficulty in bowing and withdrawing. He was relieved: he would now have time to stop at a street stall for steamed dumplings.

Humble Measure sat for some time staring off at the empty darkness of his shadowed office. His secretary watched from the shattered doors, not certain whether he should withdraw or not. Then the man let go a long hissed breath as if releasing something held deep within, something held for a very long time indeed. His hands were fists on the desk before him.

The secretary bowed, tentatively, ‘Your orders, sir?’

‘Cancel today’s schedule, Mister Shiff. I am … planning.’

‘Perhaps I should request an appointment with the office of the Legate, sir?’

‘No. No need for that, Mister Shiff.’

‘You do not desire an appointment?’

‘Oh, he’ll see me,’ said Humble. ‘You can be assured of that. He will see me.’

Out on the Dwelling Plain the wind snapped the tattered edges of the awning Scorch and Leff huddled beneath for protection against the glaring sun. In all directions scarves of dust and sand blew about the low, desiccated hills. Leff raised the earthenware jug he was holding to his cracked lips.

‘Ain’t no more water,’ Scorch said, watching him. ‘Ran out day b’fore yesterday.’ He blinked his eyes sleepily. ‘I think.’

Leff looked at the jug as if just noticing it. ‘Oh — right. F’got again.’ He heaved a tired sigh and set down the jug in the sand next to him, though he retained a firm grip at its neck. ‘You know,’ he mumbled, forcing himself to swallow, ‘I don’t think they’re comin’ back.’

‘Who’s not comin’ back? The lads? That Gadrobi hag?’

‘Naw. Not them. They stole everything they could carry, didn’t they? Naw … I mean what’s-his-name. The chubby guy. Our employer.’

‘Not comin’ back?’ Scorch repeated, his face revealing his customary astonishment. ‘But he ain’t paid us!’

Leff’s long face paled in surprise. ‘Whaddya mean he ain’t paid us? Y’r supposed to take care of all that paperwork an’ such.’

Scorch shook his head in vigorous denial until he blinked, dizzy, and nearly toppled over. ‘That’s your side of the partnership.’

‘No. I clearly remember-’ Leff stopped because he discovered he’d once more raised the jug to his mouth. He let it fall. ‘Damn. Well, I guess we gotta find him.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Right. Find him.’ Then a sly look came to his bleary eyes and he touched a finger to the side of his nose. ‘But … come to think of it, he didn’t really fire us neither, did he?’

Scorch’s expression held its usual utter lack of comprehension. He slowly blinked again. ‘Hunh?’

‘I mean every day that passes he has to pay us for, right?’

Scorch drew breath to speak, stopped himself. His eyes widened and his lips formed a silent O of understanding. He eyed Leff, who nodded.

They started chuckling. Then they started laughing. They guffawed and slapped their thighs for a long time before they quietened down.

A shepherd minding his flock across the hills nearby heard the wind-borne crazy laughter of evil spirits and hurried his charges on with swift strikes of his staff. The fat gourds of water slung over his shoulders sloshed and rubbed his back raw.

He swore to the Mother Goddess he would never try this short cut through the hills again.

Ephren was by trade a fisherman in a nameless village on the coast where the Mengal mountains sweep down to the shores of the Meningalle Ocean. He was inspecting the caulking of his skiff which he had drawn up on the strand when six long vessels eased silently into the bay. He was curious, but not alarmed, since pirates and raiders were hardly known on this coast. While he watched, the vessels stepped their masts and sweeps ran out to drive them, with surprising speed, to shore.

As they drew closer he saw that the vessels’ lines were unlike those of any he knew: very long and low open galleys, their sides lined by rows of shields. These were not from Mengal, Oach, or distant Genabaris. Nor were they the fat carracks of the distant south, Callows, and the far-off Confederacy beyond.

When the shields resolved into oval painted masks Ephren’s skin shivered as if he had seen a shade and his heart lurched, almost failing. Once before he’d seen a similar vessel. He’d been trading in the south and such a ship had been drawn up on the shore for repairs. Its crew had been the talk of Callows; everyone stared though none had dared approach.

Seguleh, they’d whispered. Disarm yourself to approach — wait for one to address you then speak only to him or her.

And there had been some trading; the strangers’ amphorae of rare oils for food, sweet water, and timber. No one was wounded or killed. Indeed, the Seguleh had seemed just as curious as their hosts, wandering the markets and walking the fish wharves, if extraordinarily prideful and utterly aloof.

Others further up the shore were pointing now; word of the vessels’ arrival was spreading. Ephren studied the hammer and awl in his hands, then set them down and walked — never run! — to the hamlet to warn everyone.

All six longships were drawn up side by side. Ephren made certain everyone in the settlement was unarmed and warned them to just go about their normal business. But of course none did. Everyone gathered on the edge of the small curve of beach the Seguleh had landed upon.

There were more of them than he’d ever heard tell of. Down in Callows there’d been some four, together with a regular crew of hired Confederacy sailors — many of the latter outlawed men and women with blood-prices on their heads and nowhere else to turn. Here, all hands and crew were masked Seguleh; hundreds of them. It was an army. An invading army of Seguleh. Ephren almost fainted at the thought. Hoary Sea-Father! Who could withstand such a force? Why had they come? Was it in response to these other invaders — the foreign Malazans from across the sea? Perhaps that was the answer; the legendary Seguleh ire, finally provoked.

In any case they ignored Ephren and his family and neighbours. And instead of trading, or setting up camp to overnight, out came the amphorae of rare oils, which to Ephren’s astonishment and growing dread they upended over their vessels, splashing the contents all over the open holds and over the sides.

A single torch was lit. One of their number silently held it aloft. From a distance this one’s mask was very pale. He, or she, touched it to the nearest of the vessels and the yellow flames leapt quickly from one to the next. A great cloud of black smoke arose and billowed out to sea. The gathered Seguleh stood as still as statues, and as silent, watching.

Then, just as silently, they set out, two abreast, running inland. They took the track Ephren, his neighbours and their parents and grandparents before them had tramped up into the Mengal range, onward to Rushing River pass, then even further, twisting downslope towards the dusty Dwelling Plain far below.