table nearby, both staring sullenly out into the day’s last slanting yellow rays. One elegantly dressed young man, a scion of some aristocratic family or other, commanded another table. He was with three others, all of whom Jallin knew as local thugs and would-be guides, like himself.
The young man leaned back suddenly and announced: ‘Then there’s no sense heading out. It’s too late by far. The place has been picked clean by now.’
The old soldier, Red, turned to watch him.
One of the local guides said something to which the nobleman answered, dismissively, ‘Well, who’s come back recently? Has anyone?’
Another of the companions offered, ‘If I found anything out there I sure as death wouldn’t come back
Jallin leaned forward, murmured, ‘That’s all just sour talk. He’s afraid to head out.’
‘So,’ the veteran drawled, ‘where are all the ships?’
Two more tankards arrived care of a shuffling serving boy. ‘Anchored off shore. Launches put in at dawn and you buy your berth. But,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘it’s possible to slip out past them at night. For a fee.’
The soldier nodded his understanding. ‘At dawn, when the boats put in. Why doesn’t everyone just rush ’em?’
‘Southern Free Cities Confederation soldiers, my friend. They got things wrapped up.’
‘So what’s to stop others from showing up with their own boats?’
Jallin laughed. ‘Oh, they’ve tried. They’ve tried. But these Confederation boys are pirates and wreckers like none other. Sank the lot of them.’
‘But a warship maybe? Malazan?’
Jallin drained his tankard. ‘Yeah. A couple months back. A Malazan warship bulled its way through. Ain’t been seen since.’ He grinned toothily. ‘Maybe they all got done in.’
The old soldier took a long pull from his tankard. ‘Just like the guy said. No one’s come back. Is that right?’
Jallin did his best to laugh good-naturedly. ‘What? You want someone else to get out with a boatload of loot? Listen, the main isle is damned huge. It takes a lot of time to search through all that. You don’t just arrive and trip over some kinda chest of gold.’ He pretended to take a deep sip of his second tankard, unconcerned, but damned the loudmouth, whoever he was. Anyway, all that mattered was that the old guy accompany him down to the shore to meet his ‘friend’. He would meet him all right.
The veteran sucked his teeth then brushed at his moustache. ‘Right. Well, that’s about all I need to hear. Thanks for the drink.’ He stood, draped the bags over one shoulder.
Jallin stood with him. ‘But I could get you out tonight. My friend-’
‘Would bash me over the head,’ the soldier finished.
Jallin caught Akien’s eye, spread his hands. ‘Fine. You don’t want my help? To Hood with you.’
From the bar, Akien nodded to his two guards, who stood and blocked the door. The soldier pulled up short. He glanced to the big bull-like owner who was crossing the floor, tapping a truncheon in one hand. ‘What’s the problem?’ the old guy asked.
‘The problem, sir, is of the bill.’
Jallin had kept his distance, waiting for his chance, and the veteran motioned directly to him. ‘This one here. He’ll pay.’
Akien stopped before his guards, which put Jallin directly to the soldier’s rear. Jallin curled his fingers around his belt, close to the worn grips of his daggers. ‘No,’ Akien said, slow and stubborn, like the bull he resembled. ‘It is plain to me that you ordered the drinks, sir.’
The old soldier bit back any further argument; everyone knew he hadn’t ordered the drinks but the claim had to be made for the sake of appearances. It was the dance of the clip joint — free to enter, but damned expensive to leave. ‘All right,’ he growled, resigned. ‘How much is it then?’
Akien raised his brows, figuring. ‘Four tankards of Elingarth ale, sir? That would be two Darujhistani gold councils.’
An awed whistle sounded through the inn. Everyone looked to the young nobleman. He had an arm hooked over the rear of his chair, leaning back. ‘That, good innkeeper, is a ruinous price.’
Akien hunched his fat rounded shoulders, glowering. ‘Cartage.’
The nobleman eyed the veteran, cocked a brow.
The soldier grasped a nearby chair to support himself. ‘I don’t have that kind of money!’
Jallin touched his shoulder to indicate the bags. Akien nodded. ‘Then your bags, sir, in payment.’
The soldier’s other hand went to the pannier. ‘No.’
The two guards started forward, their truncheons ready. At that instant the soldier exploded into action: the chair flew into one guard while a boot hammered into the second. The veteran’s speed surprised Jallin but he knew he was faster. Akien’s bulk in the doorway caused the man to ease his rush and Jallin had him.
A voice barked: ‘Your rear!’ and the veteran twisted aside. Jallin’s razor-honed friend missed the artery in a shallow slice. Then a blur at the edge of Jallin’s vision smacked his head backwards and he fell. The last he heard was Akien’s bellow of pain and outrage as the soldier dealt with him.
‘The Moranth attache awaits you, Ambassador.’
Ambassador Aragan of the Imperial Malazan delegation in Darujhistan held his head and groaned over his steaming infusion of koru nut. ‘Burn’s mercy, man. Can’t it wait?’
His aide, Captain Dreshen Harad ’Ul, a younger son of one of the noble houses of Unta, stood spear-straight, his maroon and black Imperial dress uniform enviably crisp. ‘The attache is most insistent.’
Aragan tossed back the thimble of black liquid and winced.
His aide saluted.
He spread Rhivi honey on the bread.
The Moranth attache was shown into Aragan’s chambers, the outer of which he chose to use as a meeting room and office. He liked the view from the terrace overlooking the estate’s rear gardens. The attache was a Red veteran. His blood-hued chitinous armour bore a skein of scars and gouges from combat. Aragan rose, dabbed at his mouth. ‘Commander Torn.’
The attache bowed stiffly. ‘Ambassador.’
Aragan sat, gesturing to the chair opposite. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
The attache declined the invitation with a small wave of a gauntleted hand. He straightened and clasped those armoured gauntlets behind his back. ‘We of the Moranth delegation request a favour from our old allies.’
Aragan’s brows rose.
It was hard to tell with the man’s full helm and body-hugging armour, but the attache appeared uncomfortable. He paced to the threshold of the double doors that opened on to the terrace, his back to Aragan. ‘We request that you press the Council into interdicting the burial grounds to the south of the city.’
Aragan choked on his mouthful of toasted flatbread. The aide rushed forward to pour a glass of watered wine, which Aragan gulped down. ‘Gods, man!’ he gasped. ‘You do not ask much!’ He cleared his throat. ‘I suggest you press them yourself.’
‘We have been. For months. They will not listen to us. There is a … history … between us.’
Aragan raised the small cup to his aide, who nodded and exited. He edged his chair round to face the attache’s stiff back. ‘So, what is it? Why the burial grounds?’
‘There are those among us-’ The attache stopped himself, shook his helmed head. ‘No, that will not do.’ He turned, took a long bracing breath. ‘You name our colours clans, so we understand. Yet “guilds” would really be a more accurate description. In any case, among us those you name the Silvers you could think of as closest to your mages. Though they are more like mystics, in truth.’
