Night of Knives (27 page)

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t give me that nothing crap.’ He crooked a finger at the helmet under Temper’s arm. ‘You’ve had your head down for a long time friend. Raise it now and you’ll get it chopped off.’

Temper replied with a fatalistic shrug, then said, ‘You’re the second one to tell me that tonight.’

Lubben shook his head sadly. He waved the skin; wine sloshed within. ‘Well, be gone with you then. You sorry-assed fool. Listen,’ and he looked up, his eye bloodshot, screwed nearly shut. ‘I thought we had an understanding. You and I. We were gonna hang around long enough to piss on all their graves.’ He waved the skin up to the ceiling.

Temper laughed. ‘And I still mean to.’

Lubben snorted his scorn, shook his head. ‘You’re being used again.’ He pointed the skin at Temper. ‘Used like before. They don’t care if you live or die, so why should you give a damn for them?’ He drained the skin and threw it, limp, into a corner.

Temper had nothing to say to that. He knew it. He pulled a dirty wool blanket over Corinn. ‘Keep her here, Lubben. Till dawn.’

Lubben nodded tartly.

Temper turned to the door. ‘See you later.’

‘You say she’s mage cadre?’ Temper turned back. Lubben sat scratching his chin, eyeing Corinn.

‘Aye.’

‘What outfit?’

‘Bridgeburners.’

Lubben arched the grizzled brow over his one good eye. ‘Well I’ll be damned.’

Temper hesitated, wondering what the battered old hunchback
was getting at, then shrugged it off. ‘Right. So watch yourself.’

Sitting back in the creaking chair, Lubben answered with a crooked smile. ‘Oh, yes. I mean to.’

Temper pointed one last warning at Lubben, then ducked out of the low doorway.

F
ROM KISKA’S SIDE ARTAN SIGNALLED THROUGH THE
darkness to Hattar, who obviously couldn’t believe what he was being told. Artan signed again, insistent. Furious, Hattar slammed his weapons into their sheaths and stepped away from the door.

A soft laugh echoed all around the room; it whispered from every shadow. Kiska felt a familiar prickling at her neck and recognized the feeling for what it must be: the accessing of a Warren. She’d felt it a number of times with Agayla, when her Aunt sat with her legs curled under her as she dealt the Dragons deck. This time, however, the sensation was much more intense: dislocating and eerily sentient.

Beside her, Artan breathed deeply and shifted his stance, obviously readying for a confrontation he hadn’t expected or wanted.

‘A wise decision, Tay,’ murmured a voice like fine cloth brushing across itself.

Kiska bit back a yelp as the voice seemed to whisper from every shadow – even from over her shoulder, though her back touched the cold stone wall.

Standing in the open hall, the cultist pushed back his hood. The face and head were unremarkable: bristly short black hair, narrow fine features. No scars. The eyes, though, shone like jewels of jet. He stepped into the room, glanced at Hattar and smiled. The expression, dismissive, set Kiska’s teeth on edge.

Artan’s –
Tay’s?
– hands clenched into fists at his sides. ‘Evening, Tay’.

‘Evening.’

Kiska shot Artan a quick glance. Tay? Surely not Tay, as in Tayschrenn? Imperial High Mage, greatest of all talents aligned with the Empire!

The robed man chuckled lightly. His one-sided smile deepened. He seemed barely able to contain himself, as if at any moment he’d break out laughing at a joke known only to himself. ‘And what brings you here this night?’

‘As always,’ Artan replied, ‘concern for the Empire.’

The man cocked a brow. ‘So you still cling to that worn conceit of neutrality. Always the dutiful one.’

‘I serve the long term, as always.’

‘The long term? You serve yourself, Tay.’ The eyes flicked to Kiska. ‘And who is this?’

The dark pits of his eyes fascinated Kiska; she wanted to answer. Suddenly she wished to tell this man everything about her. Artan’s hand snatched painfully at her forearm. She winced, kept quiet.

‘She’s with me.’

The smile broadened. ‘Always an eye for talent, hmm, Tay?’

Artan remained silent, clenching his jaw as if hardening himself to the baiting. At that, the man’s smile dulled to a bored expression, the edges set into disappointment. He sighed. ‘Stay here if you mean to stand aside, Tay. Don’t move until it’s over. Anyone upstairs is a participant . . . understood?’ Artan nodded. The man inclined his head. ‘Till morning, then.’

‘Perhaps.’

The secret smile reappeared. ‘Yes. Of course. Perhaps.’ He turned and walked away, through the door and around the corner, as if to ascend the stairs.

Kiska stared at where he’d disappeared. She yearned to check if he’d really gone. ‘Was that really
him?
’ she whispered to Artan.

Signing to Hattar, Artan pulled out a chair and sat wearily at the long dining table. Hattar closed the door.

‘We should be safe here,’ he said while massaging his brow. The confrontation seemed to have left him exhausted, which surprised Kiska, as earlier she’d witnessed mere irritation and contempt when faced with over fifty cultists.

He gestured for Kiska to sit. ‘Really him?’ he repeated. ‘Not in the flesh, if that’s what you mean. That was a sending . . . an image. He’s obviously stretched very thin tonight. Understandably so.’

‘He called you Tay.’

‘He did.’

Kiska licked her lips. ‘As in
Tayschrenn
?’

‘No,’ growled Hattar.

Artan – Tay—waved a tired hand at Hattar. ‘Yes.’

By the gods! Here she was, sitting next to one of the greatest sorcerers of the age. Greater, many said, than the Emperor himself. There was so much she wanted to ask, yet how could she, a nobody from nowhere, dare to address such a personage? Kiska reflected with growing horror on her behaviour towards him. How had he put up with her? She watched him side-long: suddenly he’d become something alien, utterly separate from her own life.

A candle flamed to life at the door. Hattar touched it to a candelabra at the dining table and warm candlelight brought the room’s centre to life. Wide tapestries – war booty probably – insulated the walls, interspersed with shields, banners, and a multitude of pre-Imperium ships’ flags in a riot of colours and
designs. Tayschrenn sat at the end of the table furthest from the door, in a high-backed, dark wood chair. Kiska took a chair along the side, situated between the table and the wall. Hattar returned to watching the door.

Kiska cleared her throat, whispered, ‘So what now?’

‘Now?’ Tayschrenn sat back, let out a long slow exhalation. His eyes appeared bruised and sunken. ‘Now we wait.’

Kiska nodded, glanced to the ceiling. ‘It’s quiet.’

Tayschrenn’s shoulders tightened at that. ‘The Malazan way,’ he breathed. ‘The murderer’s touch. A brush of cloth. A sip of wine. The gleam of a blade as fine as a snake’s tooth. Your name whispered just as you fall into sleep.’ He shook his head as if sad or regretful. The candlelight reflected gold from his eyes. He asked abruptly, ‘What of you, then?’

Kiska started. ‘What? Me?’

‘Yes. Tell me about yourself.’

Kiska’s cheeks burned in embarrassment. She lowered her head. How could he be so relaxed when, just overhead, the Abyss itself seemed ready to open up? ‘Me? Nothing. There’s nothing to tell. I was born here. My father died at sea when I was young. I hardly knew him. He was a sailor. My mother is a seamstress.’ Kiska glanced up. Tayschrenn was watching her over steepled fingers. The sight dried her throat.

‘And your mentoring?’ he asked. ‘How did that start?’

She swallowed, blushing again, but couldn’t help smiling. ‘By accident, you might say. I broke into Agayla’s shop and she caught me.’

Tayschrenn leaned back and laughed. His shoulders lowered as tension drained from them. He grinned and Kiska suddenly couldn’t be sure of his age. His guarded features bespoke a lifetime of watchfulness and calculation. The laugh and smile melted decades from the man.

‘I was very young,’ Kiska added, piqued.

‘You must have been, to try to steal from her.’

‘You said you’d met. You know her?’ The idea fascinated Kiska. Agayla, familiar with such heady circles of power – like a secret other life.

Tayschrenn shook his head. ‘Really only by reputation. You could say we’re colleagues.’

Kiska sat back. Well, colleagues; that was something! Amazing that she knew someone Tayschrenn considered a colleague. What would Agayla think of being called an associate? Actually, knowing her, she might not be pleased. She rarely spoke of politics, but whenever the subject came up the heat of her scorn could curl the dried roots hanging from the rafters.

Out of the corner of her eyes Kiska watched this man as he sat separated by mere breadths of dressed stone from the encounter that might well decide his fate. He seemed unnaturally calm, even contemplative: one long index finger stroked the bridge of his hatchet-sharp nose. His gaze appeared directed inward. Perhaps he pondered the outcome and his own personal fortunes. But then, perhaps not – he’d named himself neutral in the matter. Agayla sometimes called the Imperial mage cadre – which Tayschrenn veritably ran-the Empire’s glorified clerks. As such, he should be indifferent to whoever actually occupied the Throne. That is, short of his own personal ambitions.

Despite the tension, Kiska felt herself becoming restless. She fought an urge to fidget and looked at Hattar. Even he, the savage, flat-featured son of the steppes, had succumbed to the charged atmosphere. Kiska watched his gaze rise to the square-cut stones above them. His eyes glistened as he examined the cracks for some hint of what was happening above.

Kiska licked her dry lips, cleared her throat. ‘What,’ she whispered to the High Mage, ‘what are you thinking?’

Tayschrenn’s eyes, gold in the candlelight, shifted to her.
From deep within them awareness swam to the surface. ‘I am wondering,’ he began, his voice low, puzzled, ‘just who is trapping whom. Surly has set a trap above for Kellanved. But he picked the time and place long ago – who knows how long – and has been preparing all the while. So perhaps this trap is for her. One she likely recognizes, but one she cannot avoid. She
had
to come. They
both
had to come.’ Then he frowned. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened into furrows. ‘And what could he and Dancer hope to gain? Their followers have been killed or scattered. No organized support remains but for Dancer’s Shadow cult, and they gone to ground and so few. Their authority would not be accepted by the Claws – or the governing Fists – should they return.’

‘And Oleg. What of his message?’

The magus actually grimaced, touched one temple as if to still a throbbing vein. ‘Yes. Oleg. Our hermit mystic. A self-mortifier and flagellant. Driven insane, perhaps, by his own blunted ambition? Or a prophet foolishly ignored?’ He sighed. ‘If I follow the lines of his reasoning accurately, they lead to suicide for Kellanved and Dancer. That I simply cannot accept. I know those two and neither would allow that.’

Suicide? No, she couldn’t imagine that either. Not those two. Kellanved had clawed his way to power over too many obstacles. He would destroy anyone or anything in his path. It was his signature.

Tayschrenn stirred, his head rising like a hound at a scent. ‘Listen,’ he whispered, glancing up.

Kiska bit her lip, scanned the ceiling. The waiting, the dread and uncertainty, had stiffened her shoulders and neck. Immobile for so long, her bad leg felt as if it had fused at the knee. Shifting, she flexed it and eased the tension from her back. What was happening now? Peripherally, she noticed Hattar gliding cat-like and protective ever closer to them, his weapons bared.

‘How will we—’

Tayschrenn raised a finger to his lips. ‘
Listen
.’

Kiska strained to penetrate the quiet. The subtle throb of the surf shuddered through the rock. Dust falling and the stones losing heat to the night brought ticks and trickled motes from the walls.

Then she heard it. A distinct tap and faint shush – tap-shush, tap-shush – crossing the ceiling, side to side.

Kellanved.

She’d never seen him of course, but had heard many descriptions – some contrary, most vague. Many mentioned his walking stick and his slow gait, but all told of his extreme age and the black skin and curled silver hair of a Dal Honese elder from the savannah of south-western Quon Tali. And, of course, there was his taste for grey and black clothing.

As if to confirm Kiska’s suspicions, Tayschrenn and Hattar caught each other’s gaze.

An overpowering sensation of pressure bore down upon her like an invisible hand. She sensed something enormous nearby, silent in the dark, like a Talian man-of-war passing within arm’s reach. A gravid deadly presence too huge to grant her notice. She glanced to Tayschrenn and saw him grimace, fingertips pressed against his temples. A droplet of blood fell from his nose.

It’s
him
, she thought, amazed.
Even I can feel it.