A half-dozen small, virtually smokeless fires had been lit by the Arak, using some sort of dung for fuel. Karsa saw, twenty paces distant, the slavemaster and Damisk seated among a group of the tribesmen. The hearth closest to the Teblor was being used to cook suspended skewers of tubers and meat.
Torvald sat nearby, working on something in the gloom. None of the Arak seemed to be paying the two slaves any attention.
Karsa hissed.
The Daru glanced over. ‘Don’t know about you,’ he whispered, ‘but I’m damned hot. Got to get out of these clothes. I’m sure you are as well. I’ll come over and help you in a moment.’ There was the faint sound of ripping seams. ‘At last,’ Torvald murmured, dragging his tunic free. Naked, he began edging closer to Karsa. ‘Don’t bother trying to say anything, friend. I’m surprised you can even breathe, with the way they beat you. In any case, I need your clothes.’
He came up alongside the Teblor, spared a glance towards the tribesmen-none of whom had noticed him- then reached up and began tugging at Karsa’s tunic. There was but a single seam, and it had already been stretched and sundered in places. As he worked, Torvald continued whispering. ‘Small fires. Smokeless. Camping in a basin, despite the insects. Talking in mumbles, very quiet. And Silgar’s words earlier, that stupid gloat-had the Arak understood him they would probably have skinned the idiot on the spot. Well, from his stupidity was born my brilliance, as you’ll soon see. It’ll likely cost me my life, but I swear I’ll be here even as a ghost, just to see what comes. Ah, done. Stop shivering, you’re not helping things at all.’
He pulled the tattered tunic from Karsa, then took it with him back to his original position. He then tore handfuls of grasses from the ground, until he had two large piles. Bundling both pieces of tunic, he then stuffed them with the grass. Flashing Karsa a grin, he crawled over to the nearest hearth, bundles in tow.
He pushed them up against the glowing fragments of dung, then retreated.
Karsa watched as first one caught fire, then the other. Flames flared into the night, a roar of sparks and snake-like blades of grass lifting high. Shouts from the Arak, figures rushing over, scrambling for handfuls of earth, but there was little of that in the basin, only pebbles and hard, sun-dried clay. Horse-blankets were found, thrown over the roaring flames.
The panic that then swept through the tribesmen left the two slaves virtually ignored, as the Arak rushed to break camp, repack supplies, saddle their horses. Through it all, Karsa heard a single word repeated numerous times, a word filled with fear.
Silgar appeared as the Arak gathered their horses. His face was filled with fury. ‘For that, Torvald Nom, you have just forfeited your life-’
‘You won’t make it to Ehrlitan,’ the Daru predicted with a hard grin.
Three tribesmen were approaching, hook-bladed knives in their hands.
‘I will enjoy watching your throat cut,’ Silgar said.
‘The Gral have been after these bastards all this time, Slavemaster. Hadn’t you realized that? Now, I’ve never heard of the Gral, but your Arak friends have one and all pissed onto their hearths, and even a Daru like me knows what that means-they don’t expect to live through the night, and not one of them wants to spill his bladder when he dies. Seven Cities taboo, I gather-’
The first Arak reached Torvald, one hand snapping out to take the Daru by the hair, pushing Torvald’s head back and lifting the knife.
The ridgeline behind the Arak was suddenly swarming with dark figures, silently sweeping down into the camp.
The night was broken by screams.
The Arak crouched before Torvald snarled and tore the knife across the Daru’s throat. Blood spattered the hard clay. Straightening, the tribesman wheeled to run for his horse. He managed not a single step, for a half-dozen shapes came out of the darkness, silent as wraiths. There was a strange whipping sound, and Karsa saw the Arak’s head roll from his shoulders. His two companions were both down.
Silgar was already fleeing. As a figure rose before him, he lashed out. A wave of sorcery struck the attacker, dropped the man to the ground, where he writhed in the grip of crackling magic for a moment, before his flesh exploded.
Ululating cries pealed through the air. The same whipping sound sang in the darkness from all sides. Horses screamed.
Karsa dragged his gaze from the scene of slaughter and looked over at Torvald’s slumped body. To his amazement, the Daru was still moving, feet kicking furrows in the pebbles, both hands up at his throat.
Silgar returned to Karsa’s position, his lean face gleaming with sweat. Damisk appeared behind him and the slavemaster gestured the tattooed guard forward.
Damisk held a knife. He quickly cut at the bindings holding Karsa to the travois. ‘No easy out for you,’ he hissed. ‘We’re leaving. By warren, and we’re taking you with us. Silgar’s decided to make you his plaything. A lifetime of torture-’
‘Enough babbling!’ Silgar snapped. ‘They’re almost all dead! Hurry!’
Damisk cut the last rope.
Karsa laughed, then managed to form words. ‘What would you have me do now? Run?’
Snarling, Silgar moved closer. There was a flare of blue light, then the three of them were plunging into fetid, warm water.
Unable to swim, the weight of his chains dragging him down, Karsa sank into the midnight depths. He felt a tug on his chains, then saw a second flash of lurid light.
His head, then his back, struck hard cobbles. Dazed, he rolled onto his side. Silgar and Damisk, both coughing, knelt nearby. They were on a street, flanked on one side by enormous warehouses, and on the other by stone jetties and moored ships. At the moment, there was no-one else in sight.
Silgar spat, then said, ‘Damisk, get those shackles off him-he bears no criminal brand, so the Malazans won’t see him as a slave. I won’t be arrested again-not after all this. The bastard is ours, but we’ve got to get him off the street. We’ve got to hide.’
Karsa watched Damisk crawl to his side, fumbling with keys. Watched as the Nathii unlocked the shackles on his wrists, then his ankles. A moment later, the pain struck as blood flowed back into near-dead flesh. The Teblor screamed.
Silgar unleashed magic once more, a wave that descended on the Teblor like a blanket-that he tore off with unthinking ease, his shrieks slicing into the night air, echoing back from nearby buildings, ringing out across the crowded harbour.
‘You there!’ Malazan words, a bellow, then the swiftly approaching clash and clatter of armoured soldiers.
‘An escaped slave, sirs!’ Silgar said hastily. ‘We have-as you can see-just recaptured him-’
‘Escaped slave? Let’s see his brand-’
The last words Karsa registered, as the pain in his hands and feet sent him plummeting into oblivion.
He awoke to Malazan words being spoken directly above him. ‘… extraordinary. I’ve never seen natural healing such as this. His hands and feet-those shackles were on for some time, Sergeant. On a normal man I’d be cutting them off right now.’
Another voice spoke, ‘Are all Fenn such as this one?’
‘Not that I’ve ever heard. Assuming he’s Fenn.’
‘Well, what else would he be? He’s as tall as two Dal Honese put together.’
‘I wouldn’t know, Sergeant. Before I was posted here, the only place I knew well was six twisting streets in Li Heng. Even the Fenn was just a name and some vague description about them being giants. Giants no-one’s seen for decades at that. The point is, this slave was in bad shape when you first brought him in. Beaten pretty fierce, and someone punched him in the ribs hard enough to crack bones-wouldn’t want to cross whoever that was. For all that, the swelling’s already down on his face-despite what I’ve just done to it-and the bruises are damned near fading in front of our eyes.’
Continuing to feign unconsciousness, Karsa listened to the speaker stepping back, then the sergeant asking, ‘So the bastard’s not in danger of dying, then.’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Good enough, Healer. You can return to the barracks.’
