Kellanved's Reach

The majority of the youths left the main gathering, all but some twelve. These lads and lasses all stood silent, steadily regarding Dancer, who, in turn, studied them. One came forward and extended his hand, palm upwards, exposing the inner wrist. Here Dancer saw crudely tattooed, perhaps by a sharp iron point with charcoal for ink, a small arc, or curve. Anyone could have mistaken it for a sickle moon, but Dancer recognized it. A talon.

‘We heard of your sigil,’ said the lad. ‘Will you have us?’

He did not know what to say. To agree would be to take advantage; to say no almost inhumanly cruel. He set a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘You do not have to do this. You could leave, go anywhere, do anything with your lives. The choice is yours.’

The girls and boys exchanged glances. ‘All our lives we have fought for each other,’ a girl said. ‘Everyone we’ve met has tried to enslave us, beat us, rape us, sell us. We’ve fought everyone. Everyone but you and the magister. Only you and he treated us fair. Home is here with each other. Where else would we go? Who could we trust? Who would defend us?’

‘We serve each other,’ the lad affirmed. ‘Give us our orders.’

Dancer nodded; this he understood. ‘Very well. Join with the others. Serve Kellanved, go where you are sent. But in each city seek out the underworld, the thieves and killers. Learn your trade. And wait. A time will come when I will call upon you.’

The twelve inclined their heads in acceptance.

‘What of recruitment?’ one asked. ‘We are few.’

Hearing the youth’s voice, Dancer remembered his name. ‘Baudin, isn’t it?’

The lad blushed. ‘Yes.’

‘Wherever you go watch for those skilled and trustworthy. These may join – but it must be their choice. There can be no coercion.’ He motioned to where Kellanved sat surrounded by the rest of the orphans. He appeared to be regaling them with a tale of how he personally conquered Malaz. ‘Go ahead and join them.’

The twelve bowed, then slipped in among the others. Dancer propped his shoulders against the side of a crude lean-to dwelling and watched. The mage certainly had a way with mongrels and misfits … like himself, perhaps? Dancer thought about it. Like them both, apparently, from what the girl had revealed of their childhood.

A fire was started and a simple meal of flatbread and boiled lentils was prepared. Guards were changed at the walls, light crossbows at their hips. Then a troop of the orphans descended with Kellanved into the works below. The mage will be showing them the Scar – how to transition into it and how to move about, Dancer reflected. It would be their personal circuit of communications no matter where they may travel.

Since he was awake, he stood a watch at the wall. The mineworks stretched mostly north and south, in a thin line tracing the base of the Escarpment. Each claim was sectioned off by fences or armed guards, every one standing careful vigil against their neighbours, watchful for any attempt to steal the bounty they’d dug. Beyond this stretched a wide tent town of hangers-on, hopefuls, and those who preyed upon the miners, selling supplies, food, wine, and themselves. He wondered, idly, how these lads and lasses had come into a claim, then decided that they’d probably secretly studied them all and simply taken the richest. At least that’s what he’d have done.

After his watch, he bedded down for the night. Before sleep took him he lay for a time staring up at the stars wondering just what Kellanved had in mind for the morrow, and beyond.

*   *   *

Nedurian leaned on a gritty granite battlement of the keep above Malaz City, overlooking the Inner Bailey. Just what to name the old fortress had been aired briefly, what with Mock’s death and all. But the question answered itself, as everyone simply continued calling it Mock’s Hold. And so it was now, formally. There were even rumours of a ‘Mock’s Barrow’, as funds were being raised to construct one.

He watched a class of Malazan marines, mixed recruits and veterans, training under the watchful eye of their swordmaster and champion, Dassem UItor.

It was a wonder to watch the man work. How, with a simple adjustment of an elbow here, or the widening of a stance there, he transformed men and women into far more balanced and effective fighters.

And the rankers knew it too. Nedurian could even tell when the man simply entered the training field: backs straightened, chatter died away. It was almost comical to see the youth holding forth among a crowd of scarred and grizzled veterans of decades of sea-raiding and see them all nodding sombrely at his words and taking his advice to heart.

It was a wonder. But it was also a danger.

He’d seen what such regard could do to a person. The power it offered. This man might be a favourite of Hood, but all those around him, and following him, certainly weren’t. He’d seen blind worship lead a lot of people to their deaths.

He hoped this swordsman would prove able to resist its seductive call.