Orb Sceptre Throne

collapse — just as described in the catastrophe of their exile.

And the city itself, fair white-walled Darujhistan. White-walled no more. Oh, it appeared large and wealthy enough. But gone were the soaring towers of translucent white stone so clear one could see the sun through their walls. Gone the great Orb of the King, the Circle of Pure Justice. All destroyed in the Great Shattering and Fall.

Many of the inhabitants carried weapons, as well. There appeared to have been a proliferation of those willing to place themselves under the judgement of the sword. But that could wait. Ahead lay the Throne and the one who sent out the call. What would it be? The fulfilment of the long-held dream of his people? It seemed unreal that this should be achieved, now, in his lifetime. The last First had never spoken of it, had always deflected Jan’s probes. It was this uncharacteristic reluctance that troubled him now as he jogged up the Way of Justice. Such guardedness had all been too much for one Second, the one whose name had been stricken. Slaves to tradition, he had denounced them, as he threw away his sword.

And it was said the man had subsequently taken up a sword in the service of true slavery. But such were tales outside the testing circle and thus beneath attending.

In any case, they would soon know. Jan led the way. He hardly noticed the figures he brushed aside as he entered the Hall of Majesty. The body of their handed-down songs and stories contained many descriptions of the approach to the Throne, although it took a moment to sort through the subsequent alterations and additions to the rambling complex. That done, Jan directed those of the Fiftieth to guard the path, then walked up to the tall panelled doors — not even noting the two guards who stood ashen-faced to either side — and pushed them open.

It was dusk now, and the golden light of the sunset shone almost straight across the Great Hall, illuminating the gathered crowd in flames of argent. Jan paused, disconcerted to find a sea of plain golden masks directed his way. Though not all, he noted, wore them. And among those who did some now fell limp to crash to the floor.

He ignored them all as beneath his direct attention and strode for the Throne. His escort, the Twenty, followed him in. The crowd parted like torn cloth. Two of those insensate were dragged across the floor to clear the way.

The one on the throne rose to meet him.

He wore the template upon which all these others were obviously patterned. Jan recognized the power and authority radiating from it as if from the sun itself — but it was not the mask he had come all this way to meet. Halting, he met the man with his own masked head slightly inclined, eyes a shade downcast: the posture of uncertainty regarding rank.

The masked figure gestured, arms open, his thick burgundy robes wide.

‘Greetings, loyal children.’ A voice spoke from one side, quavering and breathless, almost choking. ‘You have answered the call of your master. Soon all shall be restored to what it was. The Circle of Perfect Rulership is near completion.’

The golden Father? First guide me! Was this the source of your silence? Ancestors forgive me … which do I choose? The knee or the blade? Which will it be? All now are watching, waiting upon me, the Second, to show the way. And yet … there it is. For am I not Second? And did not the last First ever instruct — the Second has but one task.

The Second follows.

And so he knelt before their ancient master reborn, his mask bent to the floor. And, leathers shifting and hissing, all the Twenty knelt in turn.

In the crowd yet another of those assembled crashed to the floor.

CHAPTER XIII

And the truth is not yet revealed

With the fall of the first gossamer veil

Nor does the second drifting shroud

Sent curling to the gold-dusted tiles

Bring the unthinking one step closer

To the necessary awareness of how

Close wafts the third clinging cowl

Troubling those fascinated as pure

White flashes yet promise and allure

Distracting the unwary from the

Fourth sheet unwound enlightening

All too late that only Death could

Dance so seductively

Song of the White Throne, Mad Ira Nuer

Antsy awoke to a hammering on the wall of their room. ‘Up and on your feet,’ someone growled. ‘Let’s go.’ The feeble yellow light of a lamp glowed through the burlap hanging. He sat up, stretched, and set to pulling on his gear. He and Corien stepped out first to give Orchid more privacy to squat over the chamber pot.

The motley crew in their mismatched armour, men mostly, all chuckled at the loud hiss of the liquid stream against metal that came echoing out from behind the hanging. In charge of this detachment was the fellow boasting the huge thick beard tied off in tails and the tattered dirty jupon over the banded iron hauberk, its heraldry rendered murky and indistinguishable. When Orchid stepped out he gestured impatiently. ‘This way.’

They were led through narrower and narrower private passages — what might have once been a large private dwelling — to a guarded room where tables stood crowded by scrolls and vellum sheets held down by countless statues of animals real and fantastic, some carved from semi-precious stone, others cast in silver and gold. Light was provided by a large candelabra so low it threatened to ignite the many sheets. A fat man sat with his boots up on one of the tables, leaning back, studying a document.

But what really caught Antsy’s attention was the wonderful scent of fresh fruit and cooked meat. His stomach lurched and grumbled and his mouth, dry for days, now flooded.

‘Prisoners, sir,’ their captor grunted.

The man did not look up from the document. ‘Very good, Lieutenant.’

The lieutenant promptly slouched into a chair, one of slung cured leather over carved dark wood that itself looked like a work of art. He helped himself to a cut-crystal jug of red wine, pouring it into a cup that appeared to have been carved from jade. He waved away the guards.

The man tossed down the sheet. He was unshaven, his face glistening in the candlelight. His hair hung in a tangled mess around a bald dome. He rubbed his sunken red-ringed eyes with a pudgy hand thick with gem-studded rings. He blinked at them. ‘A Darujhistan dandy, a Malazan deserter, and some rich merchant’s plaything. How can any of you be of use to me?’

‘Torbal Loat,’ Antsy blurted, the name suddenly coming to him.

The man cocked one bloodshot eye. ‘Met before, have we?’

‘This fellow carved out quite the territory for himself up north during the wars,’ Antsy told Corien and Orchid.

‘Before you Malazans drove me out.’

Antsy raised his hands. ‘Hey, I chucked that in. No percentage there.’

The man merely grunted. He raised his chin to Corien. ‘You can use a blade, I assume?’

The youth bowed. ‘At your service.’

The lieutenant laughed a harsh bray and raised his glass in salute.

‘And you?’ Torbal demanded of Orchid.

‘She’s a mage of Rashan,’ Antsy said before she could answer.

Torbal’s heavy mouth twisted his irritation. ‘This true? If not, I’ll kill you myself.’