Once Lady Envy had turned from sight the Legate gestured and the tall double doors of the Great Hall slammed shut.
This broke whatever spell had been holding the court together. Everyone began yelling in an instant panic, running to find exits, grabbing at one another, trying make themselves understood. Over this Coll used his battlefield bellow to roar: ‘To the cellars!’
The crowd of courtiers and councillors surged after him.
Throughout it all the Legate calmly faced the doors, hands at his sides, immobile, gold oval cocked a touch to one side. As if expecting company.
On the street of the weaponsmiths in the Gadrobi district, a heavyset woman sat out on the steps of a duelling school, letting the cool night air brush her face while she flexed her hand and wrist, which were numb from a long practice session.
A strange sound stilled her and she lifted her head, listening for a time. Then, dismissing the noise, she returned to rolling her wrist. She pushed back her shoulders and edged her neck from side to side, grimacing at the pain of old tight tendons.
A blast rocked her, rattling all the nearby windows and shocking her to her feet. She glared up the street to where smoke and the orange flickering of flames climbed over the city. People screamed in their rooms; others ran out on to the street to peer about.
From the north flashes lit the night, followed shortly by thunder as in a storm. But Stonny knew that sound for no storm. She ran inside and woke a sleeping boy, who blinked up at her, confused.
‘Gather everyone together and come to the front now,’ she whispered, fierce.
‘What? Do what, Mother?’
‘Do it now, lad.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes! Go.’ After making certain the boy was on his way she ran to the practice hall and strapped on two weapons. Another window offered a view of the Third Tier and Majesty Hill and here she stopped, staring, her heart now hammering. Where were all the lights?
‘Fener’s curse,’ she whispered. Bursts of mage-fire illuminated her wide, blunt face. Then something that looked as fragile and tiny as a feather fell, spinning, from the sky further along in the Lakefront district and a blast rocked the school, sending her staggering back. When she returned to the window she saw that the glazing had cracked.
She ran, yelling, ‘Harllo!’
‘There we go,’ murmured Fist K’ess as a burst of light flashed over the north-east. Moments later a muted rumble sounded. Aragan nodded, realized he’d been holding his breath, and eased it out. Further multiple flashes blazed, followed by an eventual continual low rumbling.
And from the ranks came an answer. A low groan sounded up and down the lines as if every trooper felt each burst as a physical blow.
Aragan half raised his hand as if to sign for the advance.
‘We’ll be mobbed, sir,’ K’ess warned, his voice soft. ‘They’ll blame us.’
‘I agree,’ Torn added.
Aragan forced his hand down. ‘Yes. It’s just … Yes.’ He studied the flashes, urging the Moranth on. Get through! Get to him, damn you. Finish it!
K’ess watched the ambassador from the edge of his vision. Poor fellow. Hasn’t seen much direct action. Always coming in behind. Yet to his credit he has that necessary compassion for his fellow soldiers. The gesture speaks well of him.
He remembered the taking of Pale. Been a raw captain then, of the regulars. The memory of that enfilade had yet to let him go. He’d lost so many nights to those images his hope was that no similar cataclysm erupted here. Especially after what they’ve already witnessed. Could be too much. Could break ’em. Hood, have to have a heart of flint not to feel it.
Spindle tottered on the last section of the rising walk up Majesty Hill. He fell against a buttress, banging the crate so that bottles clanked, and winced, biting his lip. Stones clattered down around him and acrid smoke wafted past.
Damn close, that. Fallin’ like flies everywhere, the poor bastards!
He jerked his head to urge Fisher on. The bard straightened and jogged up.
Getting this far had been simple; everyone had run off. And K’rul’s hill was right next to Despot’s Barbican anyway. The district was pretty much entirely abandoned. Even the streetlights were unlit. Seemed the Greyfaces had taken the night off. Damned smart of them, considering. He peered over the wall to eye the nearest forest copse. Overhead the Moranth circled and swooped. A continuous barrage fell on Majesty Hall. Yet this magical barrier, this dome or circle, pretty much invisible up close and seemingly as delicate as a soap bubble, held back an entire war of punishment.
And Spindle knew what anchored it.
So loud were the near-continuous eruptions of munitions that he and Fisher could not speak. He caught the bard’s eye then jerked his head to the woods and ran. Hunched, bottles banging, they jogged through the park forest. At least Spindle knew exactly where he was headed.
He didn’t mean to slam down the crate of wine bottles but in the dark he tripped on a root and fell right on top of it. He rolled off immediately and brushed frantically at his front — which would have been a stupid thing to do if one of the bottles had broken and spilled on him. Should’ve just started yanking off the damn hauberk.
Through the trees he could see the Moranth arcing overhead on their quorls and tossing their charges over Majesty Hall.
Most of the cussers blew far overhead but a few landed now and then on the unprotected hilltop and shook the ground. Off to one side a crater smoked in a reminder of what might happen to them at any moment. The bard didn’t know Malazan hand signs so Spindle was forced to wave and point. He’d found the site of their old excavation.
He threw himself to his knees and started digging in a feverish panic. Fisher joined him.
To make things even worse, through the trees he could see that the Seguleh were out as well. They were keeping to the doors and walls of the many buildings of the Majesty Hall complex. Waiting, watching, masks tilted upwards to follow the Moranth in their circling.
Spindle thought he knew what they were waiting for and he prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Things would get far too crowded then.
Best to have a hidey-hole in that case. And he dug and dug.
Togg, things might get so desperate he might even have to raise his Warren! Gods, that it should come to that …
Barathol was out of bed with the first burst. He peered through the slats of the shutters.
‘What is it?’ Scillara asked from the dark.
A much closer blast; the house shook. A few things fell downstairs. Little Chaur set up a wail. ‘Get him,’ he said, pulling on trousers. ‘I’ll grab some food and water.’
She stood quickly, dressing as well. ‘You’re coming with us, yes?’ she said sharply.
He paused, glancing at her shadowed silhouette. ‘Yes. I’m coming with you.’
Outside, it was jarringly dark. He’d never seen the streets unlit. Now it was the Scimitar’s ill-omened glow that cast shadows across the shopfronts. They joined a swelling crowd jamming the street. He peered to the east, to the higher tiers where flashes lit the night. Flames rose from much closer, however.
Then something slashed overhead, raising shrieks of fear. It hissed arrow-straight up the road, lower than the rooftops. Moranth … attacking? Cover. It’s using the streets to hide. Hide from what?
Another close burst sent up a new wave of shrieks and panic through the pressing crowd.
Barathol turned to Scillara, who carried Chaur pressed against her chest. ‘I’m going to-’