The grip fell away.
They found an empty room, once used to store items on hooks fixed three-quarters of the way up all four walls. The air smelled of lanolin.
‘Time’s come,’ Blistig said without preamble. ‘We cannot march in two days’ time, Gamet, and you know it. We cannot march at all. There will be a mutiny at worst, at best an endless bleeding of desertions. The Fourteenth is finished.’
The satisfied gleam in the man’s eyes triggered a boiling rage in Gamet. He struggled for a moment then managed to clamp down on his emotions, sufficient to lock gazes with Blistig and ask, ‘Was that child’s arrival set up between you and Keneb?’
Blistig recoiled as if struck, then his face darkened. ‘What do you take me for-’
‘Right now,’ Gamet snapped, ‘I am not sure.’
The once-commander of the Aren garrison tugged the peace-loop from his sword’s hilt, but Tene Baralta stepped between the two men, armour clanking. Taller and broader than either Malazan, the dusk-skinned warrior reached out to set a gloved hand on each chest, then slowly pushed the men apart. ‘We are here to reach agreement, not kill one another,’ he rumbled. ‘Besides,’ he added, facing Blistig, ‘Gamet’s suspicion had occurred to me as well.’
‘Keneb would not do such a thing,’ Blistig rasped, ‘even if you two imagine that I might.’
Gamet pulled away and strode to face the far wall, back to the others. His mind raced, then he finally shook his head. Without turning round, he said, ‘She asked for two days-’
‘Asked? I heard an order-’
‘Then you were not listening carefully enough, Blistig. The Adjunct, young and untested though she may be, is not a fool. She sees what you see-what we all see. But she has asked for two days. Come the moment to march… well, a final decision will become obvious, either way, at that moment. Trust her.’ He swung round. ‘For this and this alone, if need be. Two days.’
After a long moment, Baralta nodded. ‘So be it.’
‘Very well,’ Blistig allowed.
‘Cagey? No, Tene Baralta. Private. The Adjunct is simply a private woman.’
The ex-Red Blade persisted, ‘What is this T’amber like? Does she exercise undue influence on our commander?’
‘I have no idea, to answer your latter question. What is she like? She was a concubine, I believe, in the Grand Temple of the Queen of Dreams, in Unta. Other than that, my only words with her have been at the Adjunct’s behest. Nor is T’amber particularly talkative…’
At the door he paused and glanced back at Blistig. ‘You gave good answer, Blistig. I no longer suspect you.’ In reply, the man simply nodded.
Lostara Yil placed the last of her Red Blade accoutrements into the chest then lowered the lid and locked it. She straightened and stepped back, feeling bereft. There had been a vast comfort in belonging to that dreaded company. That the Red Blades were hated by their tribal kin, reviled in their own land, had proved surprisingly satisfying. For she hated them in turn.
Born a daughter instead of the desired son in a Pardu family, as a child she had lived on the streets of Ehrlitan. It had been common practice-before the Malazans came with their laws for families-among many tribes to cast out their unwanted children once they reached the fifth year of life. Acolytes from numerous temples-followers of mystery cults-regularly rounded up such abandoned children. No-one knew what was done with them. The hopeful among the rough circle of fellow urchins Lostara had known had believed that, among the cults, there could be found a kind of salvation. Schooling, food, safety, all leading to eventually becoming an acolyte in turn. But the majority of children suspected otherwise. They’d heard tales of-or had themselves seen-the occasional nightly foray of shrouded figures emerging from the backs of temples, wending down alleyways with a covered cart, on their way to the crab-infested tidal pools east of the city, pools not so deep that one could not see the glimmer of small picked bones at the bottom.
One thing all could agree on. The hunger of the temples was insatiable.
Optimistic or pessimistic, the children of Ehrlitan’s streets did all they could to evade the hunters with their nets and pole-ropes. A life could be eked out, a kind of freedom won, bitter though it might be.
Midway through her seventh year, Lostara was dragged down to the greasy cobbles by an acolyte’s net. Her shrieks went unheeded by the citizens who stepped aside as the silent priest dragged his prize back to the temple. Impassive eyes met hers every now and then on that horrible journey, and those eyes Lostara would never forget.
Rashan had proved less bloodthirsty than most of the other cults in the habit of hunting children. She had found herself among a handful of new arrivals, all tasked with maintenance of the temple grounds, destined, it seemed, for a lifetime of menial servitude. The drudgery continued until her ninth year, when for reasons unknown to Lostara she was selected for schooling in the Shadow Dance. She had caught rare and brief glimpses of the dancers-a hidden and secretive group of men and women for whom worship was an elaborate, intricate dance. Their only audience were priests and priestesses-none of whom would watch the actual dancers, only their shadows.
Years of discipline, of limb-stretching training that loosened every joint, that drew out the spine, that would allow the Caster to flow with seamless movement-and all for naught.
The world had been changing outside the temple’s high walls. Events unknown to Lostara were systematically crushing their entire civilization. The Malazan Empire had invaded. Cities were falling. Foreign ships had blockaded Ehrlitan’s harbour.
The cult of Rashan was spared the purges of the new, harsh masters of Seven Cities, for it was a recognized religion. Other temples did not fare as well. She recalled seeing smoke in the sky above Ehrlitan and wondering at its source, and she was awakened at night by terrible sounds of chaos in the streets.
Lostara was a middling Caster. Her shadow seemed to have a mind of its own and was a recalcitrant, halting partner in the training. She did not ask herself if she was happy or otherwise. Rashan’s Empty Throne did not draw her faith as it did the other students’. She lived, but it was an unquestioning life. Neither circular nor linear, for in her mind there was no movement at all, and the notion of progress was measured only in terms of mastering the exercises forced upon her.
The cult’s destruction was sudden, unexpected, and it came from within.
She recalled the night when it had all begun. Great excitement in the temple. A High Priest from another city was visiting. Come to speak with Master Bidithal on matters of vast importance. There would be a dance in the stranger’s honour, for which Lostara and her fellow students would provide a background sequence of rhythms to complement the Shadow Dancers.
Lostara herself had been indifferent to the whole affair, and had been nowhere close to the best of the students in their minor role in the performance. But she remembered the stranger.
So unlike sour old Bidithal. Tall, thin, a laughing face, remarkably long-fingered, almost effeminate hands- hands the sight of which awakened in her new emotions.
Emotions that stuttered her mechanical dancing, that sent her shadow twisting into a rhythm that was counterpoint to that cast by not only her fellow students, but the Shadow Dancers themselves-as if a third strain had slipped into the main chamber.
Too striking to remain unnoticed.
Bidithal himself, his face darkening, had half risen-but the stranger spoke first.
