Orb Sceptre Throne

try again. But it will take some time to prepare.’

‘I understand. Time you have. This chamber will remain sealed until you succeed. And should we both die in what comes — it will remain sealed for ever.’

‘We have an agreement then, Humble Measure.’

On a rooftop across the broad avenue facing the main doors of the Eldra Iron Mongers, Rallick Nom lay prone, chin resting on a fist, crossbow cradled in an elbow. He’d watched while Krute entered the closed and now quiet works, and he kept watch until, many hours later, the man exited as well.

So, Humble Measure wasn’t a man to abandon a task half finished. Rallick could tell from the character of his old friend’s thoughtful and distracted walk that he was already planning ahead, considering the coming job.

What to do? Too late to kill the client now. An agreement’s already been struck. The guild will follow through regardless. A matter of reputation. And I’m in the crosshairs. Have to find a place to lie low; somewhere no one’s going to come hunting. And there’s only one place comes to mind … Hope he won’t object to house guests.

Rallick pushed himself backwards along the slate-shake roof.

A knock at the door to his offices drew Ambassador Aragan out of his thoughts as he stood at the window overlooking the city. He’d been thinking of the troubling lack of word from the north — it wasn’t like K’ess to be out of touch for this long. Nor had word come from the south, either, for that matter. It was oddly as if events outside the city were somehow unreal, or suspended in time. A bizarre sensation.

He turned at the knock, growling, ‘Yes?’

A trooper, one of his personal guard, opened the door. ‘Trouble downstairs, sir.’

Coming down, Aragan found a city Warden in the open doorway, the rest of his detachment waiting outside. His own guard was ranged across the bottom of the stairs, tensed, awaiting his command.

‘Ambassador Aragan,’ the city Warden officer called, ‘you are summoned to an audience with the Legate.’

At least this Legate sent an escort of twenty … Anything less would have been an insult.

‘Stand down ranks,’ he ordered. Passing the sergeant, he murmured, ‘Remain until I return.’

‘Sir.’

Aragan stopped before the Warden, gestured to invite the man outside. ‘After you.’

The man’s gaze slid over the solid front of Malazan veterans and his lips compressed. He backed up then aside to allow Aragan to exit. The detachment formed up to either side of the ambassador and the officer waved a hand. They marched off, heading, Aragan knew, for Majesty Hill.

Along the way, the only thing of interest Aragan noted was the scar of recent construction that marred the grounds atop the hill. A broad trench had been dug up and back-filled. It cut through crushed gravel walkways, ornamental hedges and beds of flowering perennials. He only caught a glimpse as they passed, but it appeared to describe an immense arc heading off round the buildings. Some sort of defensive installation? Pits?

Then he was hurried along through the interminable stone halls of the complex. To his surprise and growing discomfort, he was not escorted as he’d expected straight to Council. Rather, he was taken into older dusty halls where they met almost no one save for the odd harried-looking clerk. Was he to be imprisoned? Questioned?

The way led to what he recognized from formal gatherings as the Great Hall. The largest of the surviving ancient wings of Majesty Hall. Guards pushed open one of the immense copper and bronze panelled doors and Aragan was escorted in.

The long hall was, for the most part, empty. The only light entered in long shafts from openings high up where the pale marble of the walls met the arched roof. A small scattering of people waited at the far end, where one fellow sat on a large seat, or throne, of white stone blocks: the Legate. As Aragan had heard rumoured, the man had indeed taken to wearing a gold mask. However, a few of the gathered coterie also sported gold masks — slim things that encircled their eyes and covered only the upper half of their faces.

The escort stopped Aragan directly before what he guessed he ought to consider a ‘throne’. He crossed his arms, waiting. In time the Legate ceased his low conversation with an old man — a rather jarring figure in his old tattered clothes amid the glittering finery and riches on display among the coterie. This fellow stepped forward, hunched, hands clasped to his chest as if hugging himself.

‘Ambassador Aragan,’ he began, almost cringing, ‘I speak for the Legate.’

Aragan ignored the ridiculous figure and addressed the Legate. ‘You speak to the Imperium when you speak to me … You should show proper respect.’

The old man glanced backwards to the Legate — like a dog to its master, Aragan thought. ‘Invaders, thieves and murderers deserve no respect,’ he said, gulping as if in horror of what he’d just announced.

‘Darujhistan was more than eager to cooperate with us in the crushing of the Pannions,’ Aragan observed as drily as he could manage given his growing anger.

‘Self-interest guided us both in that,’ the old man said. ‘Now, that same self-interest should guide your diminished forces north to Cat in a withdrawal and complete abandonment of the lands of South Genabackis.’

‘That is your demand?’

‘Such is our generous offer.’

Aragan couldn’t help himself; he had to drawl, ‘Or what?’

The figure on the throne gave one lazy flick of a hand. ‘Or they will be annihilated,’ the old man said, disbelief in his hoarse voice.

A number of the gathered crowd hissed their anxiety at that announcement; clearly it was far beyond anything they anticipated. All faces, masked and otherwise, now turned to study Aragan. He squinted his scepticism and opened his hands. ‘With what? By whom? You have no army worth the name.’

‘We need no army,’ said the old man, rubbing his chest. ‘We merely speak for all the peoples of the south. It is they who will throw off your foreign yoke.’

‘Or trade a new one for an old one, I suspect,’ Aragan answered, now eyeing the masked figure with new suspicion.

‘We merely advise and guide … just as a caring parent wishes the best for his children.’

Aragan cocked a brow. ‘What?’ Where did that come from?

One of the masked followers — a tall fellow with a great mane of salted hair — motioned curtly then, and the spokesman bowed. ‘The audience is at an end. You have our terms. Follow them or many will die.’

The Wardens urged Aragan back. He retreated, eyeing the masked Legate who sat so immobile on his throne. Was that even the Lim in truth, he wondered. Yet he’d recognized a number of councillors among the crowd. They would know him. Surely they would not put up with some impostor.

His thoughts elsewhere, Aragan allowed himself to be ushered out and back down Majesty Hill. So, it was all out in the open now. War had been declared. Yet a war against what, or whom? He felt as if he was facing a ghost, a shadow. Who is our enemy? This masked would-be king? If Darujhistan wants a king in all but name then that is up to them — we never controlled the city.

But if the army is attacked … well, that is another matter entirely.

Back in the manor house Aragan entered his offices to find the emissary from the Imperial Throne sitting on his couch, legs outstretched, waiting for him.

In the plain light of day he saw more clearly whom he faced: the tall thin frame, the oddly shaped eyes, silvered hair. So this was Topper — true to his descriptions. The once and returned Clawmaster.

‘You witnessed?’ Aragan grunted, and headed to a sideboard to pour a drink.

‘From a distance, yes.’

‘A distance?’

‘There are some very powerful magi gathered together on that hilltop.’

Aragan gulped down his drink, studied the lanky, unnerving man. ‘Too much for you?’

A thin humourless smile. ‘Let’s just say it would be counterproductive for me to tip my hand as yet.’ The man’s gaze roved about the room as if uninterested in him. ‘And what ridiculous demands were made?’

‘Very ridiculous ones. We’re to withdraw to the north. Relinquish all territory south of Cat.’