The elder’s brows climbed in appreciation of this address, and he shifted to look to the woman. ‘There! You see? Our priest of Fener understands. ‘So … am I not entitled to style myself emperor after the historical precedents?’
Heboric bowed his head. ‘Indeed. If one is the ruler of more than one kingdom, principate, or protectorate, then one may claim the title emperor or empress.’
The elder opened his arms wide. ‘There we have it. Emperor Kellanved.’
The Napan woman, Heboric noted, looked to the ceiling at this announcement. But he was obliged to continue. ‘However, after these ancient precedents, the date of assumption of said emperor or empress must be set at their birth.’ He raised his gaze to address the fellow directly. ‘Therefore – may I enquire as to the year you were born?’
The Dal Hon ancient snorted at this, glancing about rather as if he’d been cornered. He gestured peremptorily. ‘What a ridiculous request! As if I can remember! And who knows which dating system to follow?’
‘Nevertheless …?’
The elder huffed, puffing and shifting uncomfortably on the throne. ‘Whatever! Very well. The fifth year of the rule of Gorashel of the Eastern Dal Hon savannas – if you must!’
It just so happened that Heboric had been briefed on all the dynasties of the continent. He eyed the wrinkled elder and could not help but raise a brow in scepticism. ‘Are you saying that you are less than twenty years old?’
The presumed ancient gaped at him, astonished, only to recover quickly and wave a hand in dismissal. ‘That is not what I meant at all! Absurd! No – what I meant was one hundred years prior to that year, of course!’
He may have been mistaken, but the slim youth with him, presumably the purported assassin Heboric had heard of, covered his mouth, perhaps to disguise a smirk.
‘That was not what you said,’ Heboric persisted.
Now the grey-haired Dal Hon mage urged him closer, leaning in, and whispered, ‘Very well – what say you we split the difference? Seventy? Yes? Can you work with that?’
Heboric could not drop his lifted brow. ‘I’m sorry, but I heard what I heard.’
The presumed elder threw himself back into the throne, gesturing aside. ‘Guards! Take this fool away! He is wilfully misinterpreting my meaning.’
The only guards present were Malazan troops. These respectfully motioned Heboric away, he being a priest of Fener after all.
‘Find a deep cell!’ Kellanved shouted after them. ‘Where he may reconsider his wilfulness, and recant his errors.’ Addressing the gathered court, the wizened Dal Hon announced, ‘Seventy! Did you hear that? The official imperial count shall be seventy years! So begins the rule of Emperor Kellanved! Now, any other historians or scholars present? Anyone?’
On his way out of the throne room with the guards, Heboric was hardly surprised when no one else spoke up.
*
Close to the river gate of the Inner Round, Smokey dug through the wreckage of the raiders’ passage, heaving aside planks, a shattered cart, dust and rubble of broken rock to pull a woman from beneath the heap. Dust sifted from her thick mane of wild kinky hair as she staggered upright, clutching his arm. ‘I was doing fine,’ she insisted, ‘until that Kartoolian waded in.’
Smokey nodded, guiding her to the gates. ‘They came with more than five.’
‘And Shalmanat?’
‘Stories are the T’lan Imass themselves returned to murder her.’
Mara spat blood and grit from her mouth. ‘The T’lan Imass, in truth? Hard to believe. So this dark wizard cut a deal with these Elders?’
‘So it would seem.’
She touched gingerly at a bleeding cut along her scalp. ‘Fucking bastard!’
‘We’re all that’s left,’ Smokey said.
‘Silk?’
‘Probably cut down by the Imass – he was with her.’
‘Ho?’
‘Witnesses say he was dragged down by replicas of him. Sounds unbelievable, but there you are.’
She held her head. ‘None of this makes any sense! Why here? Why now?’
He shrugged as he dragged her along through the ruined gate. ‘Had to strike somewhere, I suppose. As good a place as any. Now we have to go before those mages return looking for you.’
‘Did you see that gargoyle Hairlock among them?’
Smokey scowled his disgust. ‘Wanted from coast to coast, that one.’
She limped along, blinking, perhaps trying to focus her eyes. ‘Find a cart or a mule – I can’t walk. That Kartoolian is a powerful bastard.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll find something.’
‘Then what?’
‘Don’t know. Wasn’t joking earlier when I said I was thinking of joining the Crimson Guard.’
Mara laughed her scorn at that. Laughed, then held her head, groaning.
*
Silk didn’t remember descending the tower and making his way out of the palace. Everything seemed blacked out, an unreal blur, but now that he was at the waterfront he realized that he was about to be captured. These raider mages, their Warrens raised and sizzling, were still hunting for the last remnants of the Five, himself included.
Frankly, he didn’t care what happened to him any more. It was all over. But the idea of submitting to these murderers repulsed him. He kept ducking away, moving on, and his retreat brought him to the wharves and piers crowded by the invaders’ riverboats. Here Silk spotted one of the hunting mages, a squat and hairless nut-brown fellow, his Warren a bright aura about him, scanning the crowds of milling citizenry, and he jumped down to a lower floating dock where a mass of men stood jammed together, their clothes just as dirty and torn as his own. A fat fellow armed with a truncheon pushed through the crowd to wave him off.
‘You’re not allowed here!’
Hand at his side, Silk turned his cupped palm to show his coin-purse. The fellow’s thick black brows narrowed as he peered right and left, then he brushed past Silk, taking it. ‘Name?’ he demanded.
‘Yusen,’ Silk offered, borrowing a friend’s name.
The fellow pointed his truncheon. ‘Get in line … Yusen.’
The line filled a long twisting gangway up on to one of the larger riverboats – a trireme galley. Here armed sailors pushed the file of men down into the narrow alleys of its rowing benches. Silk held back, alarmed, but he could not resist the long line of men behind him, pushing him forward, and so eventually he ended up next to an empty berth and his companions gestured forcefully that he should sit on the filthy bench.
The last thing he wanted to do at this point was bring any attention to himself and so he complied, all the while straining for a glimpse of the pier through the oar-port, searching for his pursuers. He spotted the squat, scowling fellow now talking with another mage, this one tall and lean, in dark severe robes, his raised aura particularly intense. He hunched back down among the ranks of rowers.
‘This is a Cawnese vessel, yes?’ he asked the fellow next to him.
‘A privateer vessel,’ was the answer. ‘Under hire.’
Silk studied the interior once more, a touch confused. ‘We are not fettered?’
His companion on the bench appeared quite startled. ‘Of course not. We made our agreements, signed our papers.’
‘Papers? Agreement?’
His companion looked him up and down. ‘Are you all right? Did you take a fall?’
Silk touched his head to find there dried crusted blood. He didn’t remember falling, but he must have at some point, probably on the stairs. ‘It’s nothing. Please – papers, you say?’
‘Yes. Service to cover your debts in Cawn, of course.’
Silk stared, though somehow he managed not to gape. ‘So,’ he said, nodding, ‘this vessel is contracted to the Cawnese.’
‘Oh, no,’ the fellow answered. ‘It’s not. It’s contracted to the Malazans. You are in their service now.’