Arfan expanded his chest, taking in a good breath of the cool air wafting in from the lake. It was a good sinecure, this post. If certain parties wanted an eye kept on these dusty ruined monuments to the city’s past, then so be it. This retired city Warden was happy to offer his services. There was nothing here to tempt any thief. The hilltop was abandoned. Not like Hinter’s Tower. Those ruins gave him chills. Everyone was right to think that place haunted. But not here. The tumbled weed-dotted white stone foundations were silent. On the darkest of nights he could even sometimes see the distant glow of the blue flames flickering through parts of the white stone walls. It was actually rather pretty.
This evening the weather was unusually chill. He hugged himself, shuddering. Very unseasonal. He paced his rounds, stamping his sandalled feet to warm them. In the twilight, over the hilltop ruins, the air seemed to shimmer. Stopping, he rested his spear against the base of a broken wall to rub his hands together. The air seemed to be full of vapour, as after a summer’s rain. Yet it hadn’t rained in days. He retrieved the spear, then yelped and dropped it. The wood haft was as chill as ice.
Tatters of clouds now flew overhead, sending a confusing riot of shadows over the hill and the city beyond. He squinted in the shifting glow of starlight, seeing something. He wanted to flee but also knew it was his duty to remain, and so he crouched, advancing behind the cover of a ruined curving wall. Up close he saw how condensation beaded the wall, running in drops down the smooth flesh-like stone.
A sudden wind blew up, lifting a storm of dust and litter. Arfan shielded his eyes; it was like one of those sudden dust-devils that arise in the summer’s heat. He peered up, eyes slit, and in the shifting shadows and blowing dust he thought he saw something … a ghostly image, a watery shimmering mirage: it was as if he stood next to an immense structure. A building, a palace, tall and ornate, which overlooked the city there on the next mound, Majesty Hill. All overtopped by what appeared to be an immense dome.
Then a stronger gust of air and the ghost-image wavered, shredding, to waft away into tatters that disappeared like mist. And he ran … well, jogged really, as fast as he could, puffing and gasping, down the hill to bring word to his contact, an agent of the one who styled himself ‘circle-breaker’.
Nearby in the old city estate district, among the ruins of Hinter’s Tower Hill, the arched entrance to said ruined tower glowed with a ghostly presence. The image of a tall man in torn clothes. His eyes were nothing more than dark empty sockets yet they stared, narrowed, towards Majesty Hill. He mouthed one short word. Only someone within a hand’s breath would have heard his cursed, ‘Damn.’
His empty gaze edged slant-wise to where a fat winged demon lay snoring among the stones, a half-eaten fish in each thorny claw. The ghost raised a gossamer hand to his chin and tapped a finger to his lips.
Antsy jerked awake to surf rustling over smoothed shingle, the cawing of seabirds, and a poke in the ribs. He lay among tall rocks just up from the shore of the Rivan Sea. Two kids, a boy and a girl, peered down at him. The boy held a stick.
‘See,’ the boy announced, triumphant, ‘he is alive!’
‘G’away,’ Antsy croaked, and he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and spat aside. His clothes stuck to him, chilled and wet with dew, and he shuddered. Too damned old for this bivouacking crap.
‘You want food? I got fish — one crescent each!’
He probed the crusted bloodied cloth he’d pressed to the side of his neck. That had been one damned thin and sharp blade. He wondered whether he’d ever see the young nobleman again. He certainly owed him one.
‘Where you from? Darujhistan? You heading out to the Spawns?’
‘Why’s your hair red?’ the girl asked.
‘’Cause I’m half demon.’
That quietened them. He decided to try to stand. First he leaned on the knuckles of one hand. Then he got to his knees. Next, he brought up a foot and pushed up to lever himself erect. His ankles, fingers and wrists all burned with the morning joint-fire. Too damned old.
The girl said in a sing-song voice: ‘If you’re heading out you’re gonna be too late.’
He was scratching the bristles of his chin. ‘What?’
‘They’re already linin’ up.’
‘Shit … ah, pardon my Malazan.’ He headed for the beach.
The kids trailed him. ‘I have vinegared water too. You sure you don’t want any fish?’
A crowd had gathered on the far end of the curving strand. Launches rested there, pulled up from the surf. He angled that way while chewing on a slice of smoked meat taken from one pannier bag.
‘I got a map of the Spawns too,’ the lad said, jumping up in front of him.
Antsy eyed the boy in complete disbelief. ‘Thanks, kid, but I can’t read.’
The boy shrugged. ‘That’s okay. The map’s still good.’
Antsy barked a laugh. Had he any coin to spare he might’ve purchased the rag as reward for the lad’s salesmanship.
Confederation soldiers guarded the boats. A table stood aslant on the gravel beach. The crowd consisted of men and women apparently waiting their turn to pay the transport fee. Most, Antsy figured, couldn’t and were just hanging around. He decided to join the spectators for a while to get a feel for how things worked.
Here, a simple picket of soldiers was barrier enough to keep everyone back. An armed man, he reflected, might be able to fight his way to the boats, but then what? It took at least ten people to handle such huge launches. An armed party then. Ten to twenty to take the boat and oar it out through the surf. But again, then what? Free Cities Confederation ships waited beyond the bay. Your own ship then. But that had been tried. Four private armies had apparently made the attempt — and failed. Only a Malazan warship had forced its way through, and none had seen it since.
A party of five pushed through the crowd of onlookers. They were well accoutred in cloth-wrapped helmets, banded iron armour. They carried longswords, crossbows, and large bags and satchels presumably containing supplies. Four carried large round shields, their fronts covered in canvas slips. The leader wore a long grey tabard over his mail coat. He had a commanding presence, with a great beak of a nose, broken, and a mane of wild blond hair that whipped in the wind.
‘You’re going?’ someone said to Antsy.
He looked over, then up. A dark-skinned young woman stood at his side, slim, and a good two hands taller than he. She wore a dirty cloak over layered shirts and skirting that might have once been fashionable but were now shredded and grimed. Her thick black hair hung in kinked curls, unwashed and matted. Her dark eyes were bruised from hunger and lack of sleep.
‘What’s the price?’ he asked. The girl stiffened and her dark eyes flashed in shocked anger until Antsy raised his chin to indicate the table and the fee-collector.
She relaxed, almost blushing. ‘Oh. I thought … never mind. About fifty gold councils a head.’
Antsy gaped. ‘That’s … that’s pure theft! How can they ask that much?’
She indicated the party. ‘Because they get it.’
A price appeared to have been agreed as the fee-collector gestured to the guards. The party of five was allowed to pass.
‘Mercenaries from the southern archipelago,’ the girl sneered.
‘You’re from Darujhistan?’
The sneer disappeared and she hunched self-consciously. ‘No. The north.’
Her manner struck him as very young and very sheltered. A rich kid out of her element. ‘And you don’t have the price …’
She gave a wry grin. ‘You’ve wangled the truth out of me.’
‘You came down on your own?’
‘Yes.’