Kellanved's Reach

Now that they had reached the higher floors of the rambling fortress, the dull roar of the battle beyond reached them. The assault on the harbour continued, at least for now.

At the fore, Urko and Cartheron eventually reached tall double doors, plated in gold, and bearing scenes of past naval glories of the island. These they pushed open to reveal a long reception hall, apparently empty. Dancer looked to the arched ceiling – also gilt – and shook his head. A godsdamned set-up, for certain. He set Dujek, Jack, and four other Malazans at the doors while everyone else advanced.

Doors opening ahead confirmed Dancer’s suspicions. Palace guards filed in, followed by a slight younger fellow, richly dressed in velvet trousers, silk shirt, and brocaded jacket. His Napan bluish hue was flushed very dark with emotion.

Dassem ordered his troop to surround Surly. Footsteps from the rear brought Dancer’s attention there and he glimpsed more soldiers approaching up the hall. Dujek sent him a questioning look. ‘Bar the doors,’ Dancer ordered, then slipped forward up to Kellanved’s side.

‘We don’t have to do this,’ Surly was saying to the young fellow.

‘You know we do,’ he answered. ‘And you are losing.’ He laughed then, rather nervously. ‘You think I don’t have my allies? Well, I do. And they warned me. Your wretched little handful of ships is being overrun as we speak – what a waste!’

‘I did not come alone.’

The fellow, King Tarel, Dancer assumed, daubed a cloth to his sweaty face. ‘Oh, yes.’ He laughed again, a touch strained. ‘The fearsome dark mage, ruler of Malaz – him, I assume?’

Kellanved stepped forward, shaking his head as if disappointed. ‘This confrontation is very ill-advised. You really should capitulate.’

‘First things first. There is someone here who would very much like to meet you.’

Kellanved made a show of peering round, ‘Oh?’

But the near-glee in Tarel’s voice put Dancer’s nerves on alert and he clenched his weapons at his back. Black opaque tendrils gathered at one edge of the room, and coalesced to a pool out of which stepped a woman in black, her hair a long, full mane of iron grey that fell all down her back. Tayschrenn, at Dancer’s side, hissed a breath of recognition.

‘Who is it?’ Dancer whispered.

‘I know her by reputation. The Witch Jadeen. A near Ascendant, some say.’

Dancer mouthed a curse: this Tarel had prepared well.

The witch pointed to Kellanved and crooked the black-nailed finger in a ‘come-hither’ motion. ‘You have poked your nose up too high, little one. Time for a true match of powers.’ Tayschrenn stepped up to Kellanved’s side, and the woman sneered. ‘What is this? Hiding behind lackeys?’

Kellanved urged Tayschrenn back, but his other hand, Dancer noted, was in his pocket, worrying that ridiculous stone. ‘This is my responsibility,’ he told Tayschrenn. The Kartoolian mage adjusted the clip of his long black hair, musing aloud, ‘Jadeen, they say you have walked the lands of Quon Tali for centuries. Plumbed many mysteries of the Warrens …’

The witch showed her teeth. ‘I will whisper all that into your ears … after I have removed them from your head.’ And she threw down a hand and both she and Kellanved disappeared in bursts of darkness and a rush of dry air.

Dancer clenched Tayschrenn’s arm in a fierce grip. ‘Follow them!’

‘I – I will try,’ he stammered, and, inclining his head to Surly as if in apology, he gestured and the chamber disappeared round Dancer.

*

Nedurian had long ago exhausted himself using his Warren to protect the Insufferable

and the men and women of her crew. Now he merely fought with sword and shield, defending the deck against a constant rush of boarders as vessel after Napan vessel stormed alongside.

It was clear that they were losing by attrition and that there was nothing to be done about it. He stepped back, untangling himself from the melee, and went to find Choss.

The Napan admiral had seen fighting himself, his shirt hacked and bloodied. He was busy directing communication between the Malazan ships – those not yet taken, nor withdrawn from the harbour. ‘We must go!’ Nedurian shouted to him.

In answer, Choss gestured to the harbour mouth. ‘They got past us!’

Nedurian peered into the gathering dark of the evening. It looked as though a few vessels, Napans, had sneaked past to choke the narrow harbour mouth, and were probably lashing themselves together there. He mouthed a curse to Mael. Now what was to be done? Ram them? There was not enough wind here.

A release of enormous power rocked him then. Of the Rashan Warren, his own, and from the direction of the palace. He stood blinking, staring in wonderment. Familiar too. The witch he had duelled with so long ago, who had defeated every mage in Quon Tali who dared face her. Himself included.

He nodded. Only one thing would bring her here. A challenger. She’d come for Kellanved, gods help him.