The scout shrugged. 'Seems likely. According to some Malazan scholars, the discovery of iron occurred only half a thousand years ago—for the peoples of the Quon Tali continent, in any case. Before that, everyone used bronze. And before bronze we used unalloyed copper and tin. Before those, why not stone?'
'Ah, I knew you had been educated, Toc the Younger. Human scholars, alas, tend to think solely in terms of human accomplishments. Among the Elder Races, the forging of metals was quite sophisticated. Improvements on iron itself were known. My father's sword, for example.'
He grunted. 'Sorcery. Investment. It replaces technological advancement—it's often a means of supplanting the progress of mundane knowledge.'
'Why, soldier, you certainly do have particular views when it comes to sorcery. However, did I detect something of rote in your words? Which bitter scholar—some failed sorceror no doubt—has espoused such views?'
Despite himself, Toc grinned. 'Aye, fair enough. Not a scholar, in fact, but a High Priest.'
'Ah, well, cults see any advancement—sorcerous or, indeed, mundane—as potential threats. You must dismantle your sources, Toc the Younger, lest you do nothing but ape the prejudices of others.'
'You sound just like my father.'
'You should have heeded his wisdom.'
I should have. But I never did. Leave the Empire, he said. Find someplace beyond the reach of the court, beyond the commanders and the Claw. Keep your head low, son…
Finished with the last of the three tents, Toc made his way to Tool's side. Seventy paces away, on the summit of a nearby hill, Mok had assembled the wood-framed hide-lined bath-tub. Lady Envy, Thurule marching at her side with folded robe and bath-kit in his arms, made her way towards it. The wolf and dog sat close to Senu where he worked on the antelope. The Seguleh flung spare bits of meat to the animals every now and then.
Tool had completed four small stone tools—a backed blade; some kind of scraper, thumbnail-sized; a crescent-bladed piece with its inside edge finely worked; and a drill or punch. He now turned to the original three large flakes of obsidian.
Crouching down beside the T'lan Imass, Toc examined the finished items. 'All right,' he said after a few moments' examination, 'I'm starting to understand this. These ones are for working the shaft and the fletching, yes?'
Tool nodded. 'The antelope will provide us with the raw material. We need gut string for binding. Hide for the quiver and its straps.'
'What about this crescent-shaped one?'
'The bone-reed shafts must be trued.'
'Ah, yes, I see. Won't we need some kind of glue or pitch?'
'Ideally, yes. Since this is a treeless plain, however, we shall make do with what we possess. The fletching will be tied on with gut.'
'You make the fashioning of arrowheads look easy, Tool, but something tells me it isn't.'
'Some stone is sand, some is water. Edged tools can be made of the stone that is water. Crushing tools are made of the stone that is sand, but only the hardest of those.'
'And here I've gone through life thinking stone is stone.'
'In our language, we possess many names for stone. Names that tell of its nature, names that describe its function, names for what has happened to it and what will happen to it, names for the spirit residing within it, names—'
'All right, all right! I see your point. Why don't we talk about something else?'
'Such as?'
Toc glanced over at the other hill. Only Lady Envy's head and knees were visible above the tub's framework. The sunset blazed behind her. The two Seguleh, Mok and Thurule, stood guard over her, facing outward. 'Her.'
'Of Lady Envy, I know little more than what I have already said.'
'She was a… companion of Anomander Rake's?'
Tool resumed removing thin, translucent flakes of obsidian from what was quickly assuming the shape of a lanceolate arrowhead. 'At first, there were three others, who wandered together, for a time. Anomander Rake, Caladan Brood, and a sorceress who eventually ascended to become the Queen of Dreams. Following that event, dramas ensued—or so it is told. The Son of Darkness was joined by Lady Envy, and the Soletaken known as Osric. Another three who wandered together. Caladan Brood chose a solitary path at the time, and was not seen on this world for score centuries. When he finally returned—perhaps a thousand years ago—he carried the hammer he still carries: a weapon of the Sleeping Goddess.'
'And Rake, Envy and this Osric—what were they up to?'
The T'lan Imass shrugged. 'Of that, only they could tell you. There was a falling out. Osric is gone—where, no-one knows. Anomander Rake and Lady Envy remained companions. It is said they parted—argumentatively—in the days before the ascendants gathered to chain the Fallen One. Rake joined in that effort. The lady did not. Of her, this is the sum of my knowledge, soldier.'
'She's a mage.'
'The answer to that is before you.'
'The hot bathwater appearing from nowhere, you mean.'
Tool set the finished arrowhead down and reached for another blank. 'I meant the Seguleh, Toc the Younger.'
The scout grunted. 'Ensorcelled—forced to serve her—Hood's breath, she's made them slaves!'
The T'lan Imass paused to regard him. 'This bothers you? Are there not slaves in the Malazan Empire?'
'Aye. Debtors, petty criminals, spoils of war. But, Tool, these are Seguleh! The most feared warriors on this continent. Especially the way they attack without the slightest warning, for reasons only they know—'
'Their communication,' Tool said, 'is mostly non-verbal. They assert dominance with posture, faint gestures, direction of stance and tilt of head.'
Toc blinked. 'They do? Oh. Then why haven't I, in my ignorance, been cut down long ago?'
'Your unease in their presence conveys submission,' the T'lan Imass replied.
'A natural coward, that's me. I take it, then, that you show no… unease.'
'I yield to no-one, Toc the Younger.'
The Malazan was silent, thinking on Tool's words. Then he said, 'That oldest brother—Mok—his mask bears but twin scars. I think I know what that means, and if I'm right…' He slowly shook his head.
The undead warrior glanced up, shadowed gaze not wavering from the scout's face. 'The young one who challenged me—Senu—was… good. Had I not anticipated him, had I not prevented him from fully drawing his swords, our duel might well have been a long one.'
Toc scowled. 'How could you tell how good he was when he didn't even get his swords clear of their scabbards?'
'He parried my attacks with them none the less.'
Toc's lone eye slowly widened. 'He parried you with half-drawn blades?'
'The first two attacks, yes, but not the third. I need only to study the eldest's movements, the lightness of his steps on the earth—his grace—to sense the full measure of his skill. Senu and Thurule both acknowledge him as their master. Clearly you believe, by virtue of his mask, that he is highly ranked among his own kind.'
'Third, I think. Third highest. There's supposed to be a legendary Seguleh with an unmarked mask. White porcelain. Not that anyone has ever seen him, except the Seguleh themselves, I suppose. They are a warrior caste. Ruled by the champion.' Toc turned to study the two distant warriors, then glanced over a shoulder at Senu, who still knelt over the antelope not ten paces away. 'So what has brought them to the mainland, I wonder?'
'You might ask the youngest, Toc.'
The scout grinned at Tool. 'Meaning you're as curious as I am. Well, I am afraid I can't do your dirty work for you, since I rank below him. He may choose to speak with me, but I cannot initiate. If you want answers, it is up to you to ask the questions.'
Tool set down the antler and blank, then rose to his feet in a muted clack of bones. He strode towards Senu. Toc followed.
'Warrior,' the T'lan Imass said.
The Seguleh paused in his butchering, dipped his head slightly.
'What has driven you to leave your homeland? What has b
rought you and your brothers to this place?'
Senu's reply was a dialect of Daru, slightly archaic to Toc's ears. 'Master Stoneblade, we are the punitive army of the Seguleh.'
Had anyone other than a Seguleh made such a claim, Toc would have laughed outright. As it was, he clamped his jaw tight.
Tool seemed as taken aback as was the scout, for it was a long moment before he spoke again. 'Punitive. Whom does the Seguleh seek to punish?'
'Invaders to our island. We kill all that come, yet the flow does not cease. The task is left to our Blackmasks—the First Level Initiates in the schooling of weapons—for the enemy comes unarmed and so are not worthy of duelling. But such slaughter disrupts the discipline of training, stains the mind and so damages the rigours of mindfulness. It was decided to travel to the homeland of these invaders, to slay the one who sends his people to our island. I have given you answer, Master Stoneblade.'
'Do you know the name of these people? The name by which they call themselves?'
'Priests of Pannion. They come seeking to convert. We are not interested. They do not listen. And now they warn of sending an army to our island. To show our eagerness for such an event, we sent them many gifts. They chose to be insulted by our invitation to war. We admit we do not understand, and have therefore grown weary of discourse with these Pannions. From now on, only our blades will speak for the Seguleh.'
'Yet Lady Envy has ensnared you with her charms.'
Toc's breath caught.
Senu dipped his head again, said nothing.
'Fortunately,' Tool continued in his dry, uninflected tone, 'we are now travelling towards the Pannion Domin.'
'The decision pleased us,' Senu grated.
'How many years since your birth, Senu?' the T'lan Imass asked.
'Fourteen, Master Stoneblade. I am Eleventh Level Initiate.'
Square-cut pieces of meat on skewers dripped sizzling fat into the flames. Lady Envy appeared from the gloom with her entourage in tow. She was dressed in a thick, midnight blue robe that hung down to brush the dew-laden grasses. Her hair was tied back into a single braid.
'A delicious aroma—I am famished!'
Toc caught Thurule's casual turn, gloved hands lifting. The unsheathing of his two swords was faster than the scout's eye could track, as was the whirling attack. Sparks flashed as bright steel struck flint. Tool was driven back a half-dozen paces as blow after blow rained down on his own blurred weapon. The two warriors vanished into the darkness beyond the hearth's lurid glow.
Wolf and dog barked, plunging after them.
'This is infuriating!' Lady Envy snapped.
Sparks exploded ten paces away, insufficient light for Toc to discern anything more than the vague twisting of arms and shoulders. He shot a glance at Mok and Senu. The latter still crouched at the hearth, studiously tending to the supper. The twin-scarred eldest stood motionless, watching the duel—though it seemed unlikely he could see any better than Toc could. Maybe he doesn't need to…
More sparks rained through the night.
Lady Envy stifled a giggle, one hand to her mouth.
'I take it you can see in the dark, Lady,' Toc murmured.
'Oh yes. This is an extraordinary duel—I have never… no, it's more complicated. An old memory, dredged free when you first identified these as Seguleh. Anomander Rake once crossed blades with a score of Seguleh, one after the other. He'd paid an unannounced visit to the island—knowing nothing of the inhabitants. Taking human form and fashioning a mask for himself, he elected to walk down the city's main thoroughfare. Being naturally arrogant, he showed no deference to any who crossed his path…'
Another clash lit up the night, the exchange followed by a loud, solid grunt. Then the blades collided once again.
'Two bells. That was the full duration of Rake's visit to the island and its people. He described the ferocity of that short time, and his dismay and exhaustion which led him to withdraw into his warren if only to slow the hammering of his heart.'
A new voice, rasping and cold, now spoke. 'Blacksword.'
They turned to see Mok facing them.
'That was centuries ago,' Lady Envy said.
'The memory of worthy opponents does not fade among the Seguleh, mistress.'
'Rake said the last swordsman he faced wore a mask with seven symbols.'
Mok tilted his head. 'That mask still awaits him. Blacksword holds the Seventh position. Mistress, we would have him claim it.'
She smiled. 'Perhaps soon you can extend to him the invitation in person.'
'It is not an invitation, mistress. It is a demand.'
Her laugh was sweet and full-throated. 'Dear servant, there is no-one whom the Lord of Darkness will not meet with a steady, unwavering eye. Consider that a warning.'
'Then shall our swords cross, mistress. He is the Seventh. I am the Third.'
She turned on him, arms folded. 'Oh, really! Do you know where that score of Seguleh souls ended up when he killed them… including the Seventh? Chained within the sword Dragnipur, that's where. For eternity. Do you truly wish to join them, Mok?'
There was another loud thud from the darkness beyond the firelight, then silence.
'Seguleh who die, fail,' Mok said. 'We spare no thoughts for the failed among us.'
'Does that,' Toc softly enquired, 'include your brother?'
Tool had reappeared, his flint sword in his left hand, dragging Thurule's body by the collar with his right. The Seguleh's head lolled. Dog and wolf trailed the two, tails wagging.
'Have you killed my servant, T'lan Imass?' Lady Envy asked.
'I have not,' Tool replied. 'Broken wrist, broken ribs, a half-dozen blows to the head. I believe he will recover. Eventually.'
'Well, that won't do at all, I'm afraid. Bring him here, please. To me.'
'He is not to be healed magically,' Mok said.
The Lady's temper snapped then. She spun, a wave of argent power surging out from her. It struck Mok, threw him back through the air. He landed with a heavy thud. The coruscating glare vanished. 'Servants do not make demands of me! I remind you of your place, Mok. I trust once is enough.' She swung her attention back to Thurule; 'Heal him I shall. After all,' she continued in a milder tone, 'as any lady of culture knows, three is the absolute minimum when it comes to servants.' She laid a hand on the Seguleh's chest.
Thurule groaned.
Toc glanced at Tool. 'Hood's breath, you're all chopped up!'
'It has been a long time since I last faced such a worthy opponent,' Tool said. 'All the more challenging for using the flat of my blade.'
Mok was slowly climbing to his feet. At the T'lan Imass's last words, he went still, then slowly faced the undead warrior.
I'll be damned, Tool, you gave the Third pause.
There will be no more duels this night,' Lady Envy said in a stern voice. 'I'll not constrain my wrath the next time.'
Mok casually slid his attention away from the T'lan Imass.
Straightening, Lady Envy sighed. 'Thurule is mended. I am almost weary! Senu, dear, get out the plates and utensils. And the Elin Red. A nice quiet meal is called for, I should say.' She flashed Toc a smile. 'And witty discourse, yes?'
It was now Toc's turn to groan.
The three horsemen drew rein to halt on the low hill's summit. Pulling his mount around to face the city of Pale, Whiskeyjack stared for a time, jaw muscles bunching.
Quick Ben said nothing, watching the grey-bearded commander, his old friend, with fullest understanding. Upon this hill, we came to retrieve Hairlock. Amidst piles of empty armour—gods, they're still here, rotting in the grasses—and the sorceress Tattersail, the last left standing of the cadre. We'd just crawled out of the collapsed tunnels, leaving hundreds of brothers and sisters buried behind us. We burned with rage… we burned with the knowledge of betrayal.
Here … on this sorcery-blasted hill, we were ready to commit murder. With cold, cold hands… The wizard glanced over at Mallet. The healer's small eyes were
narrowed on Whiskeyjack, and Quick Ben knew that he too was reliving bitter memories.
There is no burying the history of our lives. Yellow nails and fingers of bone claw up from the ground at our feet, and hold us fast.
'Summarize,' Whiskeyjack growled, his grey eyes on the empty sky above the city.
Mallet cleared his throat. 'Who starts?'
The commander swung his head to the healer.
'Right,' Mallet said. 'Paran's… affliction. His mortal flesh has the taint of ascendant blood… and ascendant places… but as Quick will tell you, neither one should be manifesting as illness. No, that blood, and those places, are like shoves down a corridor.'
'And he keeps crawling back,' Quick Ben added. 'Trying to escape. And the more he tries—'
'The sicker he gets,' Mallet finished.
Whiskeyjack, eyes once again on Pale, grimaced wryly. 'The last time I stood on this hill I had to listen to Quick and Kalam finishing each other's sentences. Turns out less has changed than I'd thought. Is the captain himself ascendant?'
'As near as,' the wizard admitted. And, needless to say, that's worrying. But it'd be even more worrying if Paran… wanted it. Then again, who knows what ambitions lie hidden beneath that reluctant visage?
'What do you two make of his tale of the Hounds and Rake's sword?'
'Troubling,' Mallet replied.
'That's an understatement,' Quick Ben said. 'Damned scary.'
Whiskeyjack scowled at him. 'Why?'
'Dragnipur's not Rake's sword—he didn't forge it. How much does the bastard know about it? How much should he know? And where in Hood's name did those Hounds go? Wherever it is, Paran's linked by blood with one of them—'
'And that makes him… unpredictable,' Mallet interjected.
'What's at the end of this corridor you described?'
'I don't know.'
'Me neither,' Quick Ben said regretfully. 'But I think we should add a few shoves of our own. If only to save Paran from himself.'
'And how do you propose we do that?'
The wizard grinned. 'It's already started, Commander. Connecting him to Silverfox. She reads him like Tattersail did a Deck of Dragons, sees more every time she rests eyes on him.'