Kellanved's Reach

It was a small stone arrowhead, knapped of dark flint.

He was incredulous. What might be the odds? On impulse, he showed it to Kellanved and was about to speak when the mage himself bent and lifted an object from the ground: it was a leaf-shaped spearhead as wide across as his hand.

Dancer halted in wonder, his words forgotten. Kellanved’s gaze rose to his, wide and brimming with not only a similar wonder, but a strong colouring of dread. The mage staggered off as if drunk. He stooped now and then, scooping up objects as he went, and his sputtering reached Dancer: ‘How … No! … What is this? … What …?’

Dancer let his arrowhead fall. It clattered among a litter of similar weapons and tools that lay among the larger rocks like a layer of fallen leaves that carried on even to the dried riverbed, and here he wandered, picking up a scraper, or a gouge, or what might be an awl. It was appalling, but it also struck him as strangely funny.

Somewhere out of sight Kellanved screamed his frustration and rage.

Dancer sat on a particularly large rock in the ancient riverbed and kicked at the clutter of knapped objects at his feet. Most were manufactured from some sort of native flint, but others shone a creamy white, like chalcedony, while a few gleamed blue-grey.

Eventually, the crunch of footsteps announced Kellanved’s approach. Dancer looked up, not daring to speak; even the smallest hint of smugness or self-satisfaction from him would arouse an explosion of resentment from the fellow.

Kellanved held his walking stick behind his back in both hands. He was staring off into the distance as if unable to look at him. After a time he dipped his head and, taking a deep breath, announced, ‘Very well. You were right. Let us return.’

Dancer couldn’t imagine how much that admission must have cost the man. He nodded, gestured to the trove of countless tools surrounding them. ‘It seems it just wanted to join its brethren here.’

But the mage was shaking his head. ‘No, Dancer. You do not understand. Every one of these arrowheads and spear-points, scrapers and gouges – all were brought here by someone like us. All like us searching for something that is here – but isn’t.’ He continued shaking his head. ‘It is a mystery. And whatever it is isn’t in Shadow, either. I know, I checked.’

‘Then it remains a mystery.’

Kellanved nodded his agreement. ‘Yes. For now, it remains a mystery.’

Dancer rose, stretching. ‘Well … it was worth a look, my friend.’

Kellanved winced as if pained, then hung his head. ‘Let us leave this place.’

Chapter 6

In the main hall of Mock’s Hold, Malaz City, a battle raged back and forth across the central dining table. It shook and echoed from the thick tarred timbers that crossed the hall’s ceiling and rattled its closed and locked doors.

At the long table where so many Malazan pirate admirals and captains once sat were now gathered Surly and the Napans who happened to be on the isle that day: Choss, Tocaras and Urko, together with Nedurian, Dujek, Jack, the mage Tayschrenn and the Dal Hon swordsman Dassem.

Nedurian sat in stunned silence, his brows rising higher and higher as the fight wore on unrelenting all through what was meant to be a dinner of consolidation and organization. He exchanged a look of amazement with Dassem at his side.

‘No, I will not be the commander of this military,’ Tocaras emphasized for the twentieth time.

‘Then who?’ Surly pushed once more. ‘Give me a name.’

‘Amaron,’ Urko supplied.

Surly looked to the ceiling. ‘He is not available for that.’

Urko jabbed a finger. ‘Aha! So he is still alive!’

Surly’s already sour expression deepened even further.

Nedurian noted that so far no one had offered the position to Urko.

Surly’s impatient gaze shifted to Tayschrenn. ‘And what have you to report? How goes the organization of our vaunted mage cadre?’

The lean Kartoolian cleared his throat, leaning back. ‘Ah … well, the organization is that there’s no organization.’

Surly pressed her hands to the table – its wood much scarred and abused by centuries of fights, stabbings, feuds and murders. ‘Clarify,’ she fairly snarled.

‘We have agreed that there will be no encumbrance of a hierarchy, nor the awkward delaying hindrance of a chain of command. Each elected cadre mage will report directly to Kellanved, or any one of a very few chosen representatives.’

Nedurian couldn’t resist leaning to the Kartoolian and murmuring, ‘I like the positive light you cast that in …’

Tayschrenn shot him a glare.

‘And these “chosen representatives”?’ Surly enquired, brow arched. ‘They are …?’

The mage cleared his throat once more. ‘Ah. So far? Well … myself.’

‘I see. So, as command grade of one of our departments, you need a title.’

The young mage appeared rather taken aback by the suggestion. ‘Well,’ he managed, ‘I suppose so …’

Surly’s sour expression crooked upwards as she considered this. ‘You are the highest of the mages – so to speak. So, you are the High Mage.’

Tayschrenn lifted a brow. ‘Really? High Mage? You’re going to—’