Kellanved's Reach

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.’

This time Silk did gape. Then he burst out with a high laugh. Somewhere the gods were holding their stomachs in hilarity; they had done their job and completely and utterly destroyed the complacent, prideful, comfortable and recently getting fat Silk. He was frankly almost in awe of their thoroughness – right down to the poetic end.

He just laughed, and kept laughing, chuckling on and on and shaking his head, until the point when all those around him exchanged knowing looks and touched fingers to their temples in pity.

Chapter 21

What Orjin and his remaining troop were doing now could no longer be described as fighting. Fleeing was more like it. Whenever they encountered a column of Quon Talian soldiers they ran westward, and the enemy commander Renquill, no fool, was happy to drive them onwards towards the coast.

The word ‘remaining’ was the one Orjin adopted as his force dwindled before his eyes. Understandably so, as exhaustion and hunger became unbearable, and injuries worsened. Desertions increased as well, admittedly, as hopes faded.

Still, those remaining jogged onward, and Orjin constantly checked in with the hill-tribe guides, who would shake their heads, rather embarrassed. ‘Found it?’ he constantly asked, and they would look away, lowering their gazes.

‘It is a very narrow opening. Difficult to locate.’

‘Well … keep looking.’ And they would nod and run off to search anew.

That night, the western ocean in sight from the slope occupied by Orjin and his troops, word came of the sighting of the gorge entrance. He signed for everyone to move out.

Word also came that the rear elements were in running contact with Talian forces. Orjin and Orhan both jogged for the rear, but Prevost Jeral intercepted them, urging them forward and running ahead. Cursing, Orjin turned for the front.

He found the Wickan, Arkady, together with the guides guarding a slash in the steep slope less than two paces across – more of a hole than any sort of gorge.

‘This is it?’ he demanded of the hill youths, incredulous.

‘No one ventures here any more,’ one explained.

‘Fine! I’ll go.’ Orjin started forward.

But Arkady edged down ahead of him. ‘We will explore – wave down the troops.’

Orjin snarled his frustration, but complied, waving the men and women forward. Below, Arkady struck a torch and its light blossomed. Orjin urged the stragglers onward.

Arrows now came flying out of the darkness surrounding them, and he hunched. More and more of his remaining troops emerged from the dark and he pushed them on and down, clapping shoulders, pressing them forward.

Last of all came Prevost Jeral with a band of some twenty. ‘The Talians are hot on our heels,’ she announced, panting, her blade bared.

He gestured her down the crevasse. ‘Get going!’

‘After you.’

‘No. No rearguard. They won’t come chasing after us into this cave. They’ll think us cornered. Now go on!’

‘Fine.’ She waved her band down among the brush-choked rocks.

Torches now waved about them and Orjin caught the glint of starlight from blades and armour. He pushed Jeral down and followed, backwards, feeling his way.

Within, the ground continued downward in a slope of loose broken rock. He could hear it clattering and sloughing underfoot as the men and women descended. Torches shone below, showing a narrow stone throat.

After some stumbling and sliding on the loose debris, he reached the bottom to end up standing ankle-deep in frigid water along with everyone else. Arkady was waiting here, together with one of the hill-tribe lads.

‘This is an old underground riverbed,’ the lad explained. ‘We follow this for a time.’

Orjin nodded. ‘Fair enough. Let’s take the van.’ He turned to Jeral nearby. ‘Will you watch the rear now?’

She nodded – a touch sourly, as both knew the danger now resided ahead. Renquill would no doubt take his time above, calling for them to surrender, perhaps even tossing combustibles down.

Orjin now passed the long file of his surviving troops to the fore, where three of their guides waited together with the giant Orhan. He was uneasy to see these habitually sombre and guarded youths appearing nervous. He nodded a greeting, took a torch, and advanced up the narrow course of the waterway.