Antsy turned to the others, crossbow still resting on his hip. ‘Is it just me or doesn’t that sound like stealing too?’
‘Red …’ Corien warned.
‘No — c’mon.’ He waved to the two Seguleh. ‘Here they are pretending to be so superior to everyone yet what they’re doing is no better than any highwayman threatening travellers in the woods.’
‘Just swear,’ Orchid ground through clenched teeth. ‘You’re being an ass.’
‘No. Let’s hear their answer.’ He turned back to the young Seguleh. ‘What do you say? You’re the ones with the masks, after all.’
The youth glanced back to the short wiry female sentry. She yanked a bag from her belt and tossed to him. He upended it, sending a cascade of gems bouncing and clattering over the stone floor. ‘We’ve been here for some time,’ he said airily. ‘We’ve collected many of these gems for their beauty. Yet whoever brings the mask may have them all.’
Antsy stared at the scattered stones: the dark ones must be rubies, the pale ones possibly sapphires or emeralds. He saw countless pearls as well, white and black.
The youth crossed his arms. ‘Few have challenged our terms.’
Orchid jabbed Antsy in the side. ‘Right. Well, fine. I swear too, then.’
Both Seguleh inclined their heads fractionally. ‘We thought so. You may pass.’
Morn led them on. A few turns and lengths of corridors later Antsy noted that all the scattered riches were now gone. These halls had been picked clean.
‘Why didn’t you just swear back there?’ Orchid demanded. ‘What’s it to you? This thing they want has probably just sunk to the bottom by now anyway.’
‘Matter of principle,’ Antsy answered, distracted. The inlay of blue stones and the chandeliers and glowing faces still lit their way, but a side portal ahead remained dark. As if no light could penetrate it. He motioned ahead. ‘You see that?’
Orchid peered and frowned. ‘It’s utterly dark to me — and that’s strange.’
Antsy signed
There was a rustle of heavy cloth being thrust aside and blinding yellow lanternlight burst from the opening, dazzling Antsy’s vision. ‘Don’t move!’ a voice bellowed in accented Daru.
‘Drop your weapons or die!’
‘Hands up!’
‘Yes,’ said Corien.
Antsy could now make out some eight crossbowmen crouched in two ranks within the room, all aiming their weapons at them. He knelt to set down his.
‘Drop your weapon belts,’ the voice ordered.
Antsy undid his to set it down with its sheathed long-knives and heavy dirk. Corien let his fall as well. A man pushed forward through the crossbowmen. He wore a slashed long jupon over a banded iron hauberk. His sleeves and leggings were mail and a blackened helmet, visor raised, rode high on his full head of dense brown curls. A thick beard was braided and tied off with strips of leather, lace and cloth. Antsy thought there was something vaguely familiar about him.
He hooked his thumbs in his wide belt and looked them over. ‘So who’s in charge of this sorry group?’
‘I am,’ Corien said.
The man shook his head. ‘No, mister fancy-boots. I don’t believe you are. Not that it matters any more. Turn round and put your hands behind your back.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ Antsy said.
‘Oho! I know that accent. A damned Malazan spy!’
Antsy just ground his teeth. Orchid turned round and clenched her hands behind her back. Corien followed suit. Teeth almost cracking, Antsy snarled and lurched round as well.
They were marched through a sprawling, well-lit complex of living quarters, halls, guard chambers and large assemblage rooms. Antsy counted some fifty armed and armoured men and women, though their equipment was all mismatched and ill kept. Looted and scavenged from one dead fortune-hunter after another, no doubt. He wondered, idly, just how many had worn the hacked mail or used the battered blades around him. Also present were obvious slaves: dressed in rags, carrying out errands, fanning fires, cooking, mending. They passed one very pregnant woman cooking at a fire.
The collected loot of an entire section of the Spawn glittered here as well: heaped gold artwork and plates, silver jewellery. Statuettes of semi-precious stone cluttered the corners of rooms; circlets of gems hung at the necks and wrists of almost all. Antsy recognized this for what it was, having seen its like in every war. Call these people what you would — raiders, scavengers, bandits, looters — they were the jackals who gather wherever laws break down, or never reach.
Just as below, in Pearl Town, this lot had simply moved into living quarters now empty of their prior owners. The three of them were pushed into one such narrow cell. Two guards remained at the opening. A simple cloth hanging was yanked across the portal.
‘Are you all right?’ Corien asked Orchid. She nodded, rubbing her wrists. ‘Where’s-’ he began, but Orchid signed for silence. He nodded his understanding.
‘Now what?’ she whispered to Antsy.
He sat on a plain stone ledge that might or might not have been intended as a bed. ‘An interview of a kind, I suppose. They either need us or want us, or not.’
‘If not?’ Corien asked.
Antsy shook his head.
‘Well, shouldn’t we-’
Antsy held up a hand. ‘Sleep, for now. There’s nothing else we can do.’
Disbelieving, Corien looked to Orchid for support but she nodded her agreement. ‘Yes. We need to rest. Who knows how long it’s been — or will be?’
Sighing, Antsy lay back and threw an arm across his eyes.
CHAPTER XII
A tale is told of a distant city where, when its exalted ruler wishes to travel, it is the custom of its inhabitants to lie down in the dirt before him so that his feet need not be sullied. When travellers ask the why of this custom they are told that the inhabitants willingly and gladly lay themselves down for their ruler as he protects them from the countless threats of raiders and bandit armies surrounding their peaceful settlement.
And these travellers go their way shaking their heads, for all those surrounding the city have no interest in such a wretched place.
Coll walked the empty unlit rooms of his manor house, gloriously drunk. He carried a cut crystal decanter loosely in one hand. It was late in the night, long past the mid-hour, and he was waiting to be killed.
How better, it was his considered opinion, to die than carefree and thus beyond the reach of all pain? For it had always been care that brought him pain. He stopped, weaving, before one particular stretch of empty whitewashed wall. He knew what used to hang here … during that all too short anomaly in his life he knew as
