Ho gave the man a thin smile – ex-Faladan of Ehrlitan. Never did forgive us for that. Never did explain why he failed to die defending his city-god, either. Ho watched the newcomers take in the tall bearded patriarch, how their gazes lingered on the stains of his robes. Yath noted the fascination as well; one hand, knotted, dark as the stave's wood, brushed at the cloth.
‘Oh yes, newcomers. It cannot be avoided. It is in the air you are breathing now. The water you will drink, the food you will eat. Your hair, every wrinkle.’
‘Queen protect me,’ breathed the scholar at the far end, appalled.
Yath turned on him. ‘No, she won't.’
‘So what now?’ the woman demanded in strongly accented Talian. ‘You beat us? Search us for valuables? Are we newcomers to be slaves to you thug survivors down here?’
Yath gave a bow of his head. ‘Good points. No, no. No rule of violence here – unlike Skullcap – or Unta, for that matter. We are all scholars and mages here, educated men and women. We have a council. Food is distributed evenly. The sick are cared for-’
‘Sounds like paradise.’ This from the tall veteran cadre mage at the opposite end.
The wood of the stave creaked in Yath's hands. He paced to stand before the two. ‘You three,’ he said to the others, ‘can go.’
Members of the welcoming committee took these three aside to be assigned quarters, receive food bowls and such. Ho remained. Yath held his stave lengthwise across his front, silent until distance from the other newcomers allowed some privacy. The two remained motionless as well, waiting without discussion between them. Companions, Ho decided. Very unusual. Counter to prison procedure, in fact.
‘Do not think that because we are learned men and women down here we will be helpless before you,’ said Yath, his voice low. ‘There are exiles here who do not need the Warrens to kill.’
‘Those stains,’ said the shorter of the two, the Napan, ‘we'd heard the Pit was all mined out.’
Ho swore he could hear Yath's teeth grinding. ‘A few live veins remain,’ he allowed.
‘And let me guess,’ continued the Napan. ‘Everyone gets a turn.’
Straightening, Yath stamped the stave to the sandy ground. He thrust his face forward, his long grey beard bristling. ‘And do you refuse?’
The muscles around the Napan cadre mage's mouth bunched. He examined his hands. ‘No.’
Yath slowly nodded. ‘Good. Your names then?’
‘Grief,’ gave the Napan.
‘Treat,’ said the tall one.
‘Very well. Go and get quarters assigned.’
Ho watched the two leave, guided by old exiles. He'd keep an eye on them; why send two obvious fighting men down here among all us fossils? To dig up information, Ho answered himself. Yath's gaze followed the two as well. Ho translated the man's glower: more damned Malazans.
Amaron was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs beneath the old Tayliin fortress. My family's ancestral keep. My keep. Ghelel still had trouble believing it. Yet all agreed. She was the third generation in hiding of the old Tayliin family. The clan that hundreds of years ago had extended Quon Talian hegemony across the continent. The troika that had taken power invoked her name; General Choss had been granted command – in her name. Yet she had no illusions: still a puppet. A figurehead needed to lend the veneer of legitimacy to their insurrection. That was all. Yet strings go both ways and even a puppet, should it gather enough strength to itself, can reverse the pull. Or even cut the strings if need be. In any event, she certainly intended to find the full extent of their slack.
Such as now; demanding to see the captive she'd heard languished within her keep. A true Claw captured by Amaron's counter-intelligence. A Claw such as those who slew her family so long ago. All great aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces; all except her grandfather, then a boy, who escaped. She had to meet this murderer. Had to see who it was, what it was, she faced.
The tall and, Ghelel could now see, rather wide around the middle Amaron bowed. ‘M'Lady. I am against this. It's an unnecessary danger.’
‘Surely the Claw didn't get himself captured on the chance of getting to me.’
‘That is not my suggestion. A tiger, though captured, is still a danger.’
‘Perhaps instead you could reassign Quinn to me.’
In the dark the man's deep-blue Napan face was almost unreadable. He shook his head. ‘No, m'Lady. He has duties elsewhere. His work with you is done.’
‘Then at least assign someone other than this Molk fellow. He is completely inappropriate.’
A low rumbling chuckle. ‘I assure you he is completely appropriate.’
Ghelel allowed herself a sigh of exasperation. ‘If this is your idea of negotiation, Amaron, I am not impressed.’
‘I am greatly saddened, m'Lady.’
‘Let's see him.’
‘Please, m'Lady, reconsider. He will only take the opportunity to lie and undermine your trust and confidence.’
‘I understand, Amaron.’
The man was silent, thinking. His presence before her in the dark gave her the impression of a wall of stone; many she'd met in the fortress were in awe of Choss's reputation and were elated to have a military commander of such standing. But those same people were also obviously wary, if not fearful, of this man. Amaron let out a long hard breath. ‘Very well. Do not approach him, yes?’
‘Yes.’
He turned, walked up the dark stone corridor. She followed wondering whether she'd just won a victory of a sort, or had just expended vital goodwill on a useless whim. Amaron unlocked a door and preceeded her into the surprisingly large chamber within. A man sat fettered to a chair at the room's centre.
‘Ghelel Rhik Tayliin!’ the fellow announced once Amaron stood aside. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
Ghelel strove to suppress a shudder – of fear or disgust – she didn't know. Or the cold: the room was damp and chilly. She took a slow step forward. ‘So you know my name. What is your name?’
The man shrugged, or made a show of it to reveal that his wrists were secured behind his back. ‘What matter names? For example, Claw or Talon? All the same, hey, Amaron?’
Ghelel slid her gaze between the two. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘M'Lady…’ Amaron began.
‘I mean that Laseen instituted the Claws, yes, but who was in charge of Dancer's own killers, the Talons, way back then? Hmm?’
Ghelel settled her attention on Amaron. ‘So you are a murderer as well.’
The big man rested his hands at his belt. ‘I prefer the term political agent.’
‘There you are,’ the Claw said. ‘You have picked up the very knives that wiped out – or very nearly wiped out – your own family.’
‘We had nothing to do with those killings.’
‘So you say, Amaron… So you say.’
Ghelel again glanced from one to the other, shocked. Why had Amaron allowed her to interview this man knowing what he would no doubt reveal? Was this some sort of a test? But why bother? She suddenly found she could not draw breath; the cell felt as if it had slammed shut upon her. She backed away to the door, searching blindly behind her for the jamb. ‘I will not allow such things,’ she managed, her voice hardly audible to her.
The Claw arched a brow. ‘Not even for those who deserve it? Laseen, perhaps? Be assured, Tayliin, that list, once begun, will grow long and long…’
‘Never.’
‘So be it. You will fail then. And all those soldiers who will die for your cause will have died in vain.’
Ghelel felt as if the man had stabbed her then and there. ‘What are you doing?’ She wiped wetness from her eyes.
‘Educating you,’ he said. But his eyes were on Amaron and the smile that had been playing about his mouth was gone. It seemed to Ghelel that the man was now uncertain of something. He's wondering why Amaron is letting him talk! Yes, she had been wondering as well. She drew strength from the man's doubt.