Bakune heard it as well. Roaring, yelling. A mob — a riot. ‘Things have gotten out of control,’ he murmured.
‘No. Worse than that. That’s real terror. Come.’ He started to head for the stairs, but stopped and turned to the girl. ‘Leave town now. Speak to no one. Farewell, and may the gods overlook you.’
‘Farewell,’ she managed huskily, barely able to speak.
At the street Hyuke and Puller were waiting for them. ‘Somethin’s up,’ Hyuke drawled. The two ex-Watchmen were eyeing Manask, their truncheons in their hands.
Townsfolk ran past, coming up the street from the waterfront in an ever-thickening torrent. Screaming was clearer now, rising from downslope. ‘What’s going on?’ the priest asked.
Hyuke thrust out a leg, tripping a man, who fell without a sound. He lay on his back struggling to rise while Hyuke held him down with his foot. ‘What’s going on!’ Hyuke demanded.
‘I like your way of tricking information out of people,’ Manask said. ‘Reminds me of my own techniques.’
‘They’re coming!’ the man gasped, his eyes fixed downslope.
‘Who?’
‘The Stormriders! They’re here! In the harbour! Run! It’s the end of the world!’ And the man brushed Hyuke’s foot aside to scramble away.
‘Riders here?’ the priest muttered. ‘Absurd.’
The crowd thickened; all rushed past, ignoring them. Bakune heard more shouts warning of Stormriders. The priest headed down against the rising tide of humanity. Bakune followed. Manask clomped away into a side street. A number of distracted townsfolk ran into the priest, only to rebound as if having encountered an iron post; Bakune kept in his wake. Several shops were aflame on the waterfront — perhaps from abandoned bonfires. And out past the pilgrim ships at anchor, further out on the dark azure blue of the bay, rested a score of far larger vessels.
They were nothing like any ships Bakune had ever seen before, and he’d grown up next to the sea. Three-masted, extraordinarily large, with dark-painted hulls and tall castles at the fore. ‘What are they?’ he asked of the priest.
For the first time Bakune heard awe in the man’s voice as he answered, ‘I’ve never seen them myself, but they match descriptions I’ve heard. Moranth vessels. Moranth Blue.’ The priest faced him, his expression amazed. ‘The Malazans are here, Bakune. This means they’ve completely broken Mare. Passed through Black Water Strait.’
Bakune could only stare at the man while townsfolk pushed past. Some carried snatched precious goods wrapped in cloths or in baskets. He knew where all were fleeing; where the entirety of Banith’s population plus thousands of pilgrims would end up: clamouring before the doors to the Cloister. The very place he had to go. ‘I must speak to the Abbot.’
‘I imagine the man’s rather busy right now.’
Bakune pointed to the harbour. ‘We must decide how to respond to this. We don’t even have a militia!’
‘No doubt the Guardians will order everyone to fight to the death.’
Bakune turned away to head with the tide. ‘Don’t be foolish.’
He just caught the priest’s dark: ‘I wasn’t.’
Long before they were far enough up the Way of Obtestation to glimpse the tall copper doors of the Cloister it became clear that the night’s panic and confusion had degenerated into open terror and riot. Looting had begun, citizens breaking into shops to snatch what provisions or supplies they could before heading for the presumed safety of the Cloister, or striking inland to flee the coast.
Bakune’s two guards now walked at his sides, truncheons at the ready, which they swung at the slightest provocation. The priest went ahead; so far no one had become so drunk on panic as to attack him. Of the giant Manask, he’d seen no sign. This must be his night — the night the thief dreamed of all his life. Law and order shattered. All households and shops open to plunder. This must be what a sacking is like. Something we in Rool hadn’t witnessed in generations.
Pushing round a turn in the Way, they saw ahead a milling press of humanity filling the narrow path like a solid wedge that ran fully up to the distant torchlit — and now firmly closed — copper doors. Before the entrance massed Guardians fought to keep back the mob. Staves rose and fell like scythes. Everyone begged for entry, arms raised, hands beseeching. Bakune leaned to the priest to shout: ‘This is impossible! I know another way!’
Nodding, the priest forced a path through the press to a side alley. Once within he turned to Bakune and invited him to lead. Bakune caught Hyuke’s eye. ‘The gardens.’
‘That low wall?’
Bakune nodded.
Hyuke heaved Puller forward by his soft leather hauberk. ‘Let’s go.’
Bakune and the priest hurried side by side behind. ‘Where are we headed?’ the priest asked.
‘There’s a large garden within the grounds. Parts of it touch upon an exterior wall. We’ll try there. And your friend,’ Bakune added. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s with us.’
‘Really? On a night like this? Any building would be open to him. Gem merchants, goldsmiths.’
‘He’s convinced the Cloister sits on a mountain of riches. Nothing will keep him from it.’
Bakune could not resist asking the question that had been on his mind since first encountering the astonishing fellow: ‘So — he really is a thief?’
The priest eyed him, one brow raised. ‘He takes money from others. Does that make him a thief? So too then are most advocates and bankers.’
Bakune did not think that explanation entirely convincing but he said nothing. Personally, he thought the fellow would come away empty-handed from any search of the Cloister. Still, all those contributions from so many thousands of pilgrims and devout over all these generations… but no, the operating costs of such a huge establishment no doubt consumed all of it.
Once they reached the length of street where one wall ran alongside the Cloister gardens it became clear that Bakune was not the only resident to think of this alternative route. Makeshift ladders leaned against the brick wall; abandoned possessions cluttered the street. The foreign pilgrims might come bashing against the main gates, but the Banith residents had headed for the back entrance. Hyuke took hold of a ladder and shook it to test its solidity.
‘Don’t go in,’ a hoarse voice warned from nearby.
Everyone turned; an old woman sat in the shadow of the wall.
‘Why not?’ Hyuke asked.
The woman pointed up. ‘No one’s come back. I’ve called and called. And there were screams. Terrible, they were.’
‘There’s panic all over,’ Hyuke said dismissively.
‘Where is everyone, mother?’ Bakune asked.
‘Run off. Fled when the screaming started.’
Bakune caught the priest nodding. ‘Stay here, mother,’ the man said gently. ‘Warn everyone away.’
Then a great voice boomed from an alleyway: ‘Touch nothing! It may be a trap!’
The priest flinched as if he’d been stabbed and he cursed beneath his breath. Manask came lumbering from the darkness. The two ex-Watchmen smacked their truncheons in their palms, jaws clenched.
‘Silence now, everyone!’ he shouted. ‘This is my particular specialty. I will climb the wall!’ The huge man took hold of the ladder, and with much grunting and fumbling dragged himself up its length. The wooden poles bent like bows under his weight. From beneath, Bakune saw that the man’s boots were thick platforms, perhaps solid wood or iron. No wonder he could kick down doors! They must weigh as much as mattocks.
Gasping and grunting, the man levered himself up on top of the wall and sat panting. In this awkward position his thick padded armour puffed up around him like a globe. ‘Ha ha! I have ascended the wall! From here I will secretly scout ahead!’
‘No!’ the priest hissed. ‘Wait, damn you!’
But Manask had swung his feet over and dropped from view. A great thump sounded from the far side. Followed, shortly, by a bellowed: ‘Hello? Anyone there? Hello?’