Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(32)

‘Oh, I know that,’ the first said. ‘Heard them played. Broke every one of them I saw after that.’

‘You wasn’t in Seven Cities,’ the one on the right objected.

‘Was so.’

‘Yes, he was,’ said the one in the middle. ‘I remember it distinctly – he was advertised as the famous Malazan dancing boy.’

The one on the right now nodded his agreement. ‘Oh, I remember now. His bum was everywhere.’

The first joined in the nodding. ‘I distracted them and you stuck your knives in – or something like that.’

Fisher struggled to keep his face straight. ‘Gentlemen … your mistress?’

‘Now I know she wasn’t in Seven Cities,’ the middle one said.

The one on the right rubbed his jaw with a gnarled paw. ‘She mighta bin.’

‘Would you announce me?’ Fisher asked.

‘As what?’ the first asked, looking him up and down. Fisher raised his eyes to the night sky. The guard nudged the one in the middle. ‘Your turn.’

This one kicked the one on his right. ‘Your turn.’

The last dropped his hand from his jaw and sighed his annoyance. ‘I can’t believe I have to be the one to go to all the trouble.’ He lifted his head and shouted: ‘Hey, Malle! It’s that foreign bandolier here to see you!’

‘That’s balladeer, Riley dear,’ Malle called from within. ‘Now send him in.’

‘What’s the difference?’ Riley asked out of the side of his mouth.

‘He wouldn’t fit so well across your chest,’ the one in the middle answered.

‘Oh, I dunno about that,’ Riley answered, eyeing Fisher up and down. ‘He just might.’

Fisher sketched a salute and edged between them.

Inside, a number of lamps cast a warm yellow glow. Tables and stools cluttered the outer half of the tent. Hangings concealed a private rear sleeping chamber. With Malle were her two hired mages, one of whom he knew: the old and battered Holden of Cawn, mage of Serc. The other was new to him: a young plain lass, obviously the mage of Telas he’d sensed earlier. A low table between them lay cluttered with scraps of food, glasses, and rolled sheets of parchment he recognized as charts and maps.

Malle waved to a stool. ‘Fisher Kel Tath,’ she invited. ‘Please be seated.’

‘I thank you, m’lady.’

She waved a black-gloved hand to Holden. ‘Holden of Cawn.’

‘The songster and I know each other of old, ma’am,’ Holden explained.

‘Oh. How convenient.’ She indicated the girl. ‘This is Alca of Cat, new to my service.’

Fisher bowed to the girl, whose pale lipless mouth drew down as if anticipating some sort of insult from him. He merely inclined his head in greeting once more, and indicated the rolled parchments. ‘You come well prepared.’

‘These?’ Malle snorted her scorn and tossed back a tiny glass of some thick blood-red liqueur. ‘Mere traveller’s tales. Might as well draw monsters on their borders.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘You, however, have travelled through here before.’

‘Along the coast only, ma’am. Never inland.’

‘And why not?’

‘Very dangerous.’

She eyed her mages. ‘How very encouraging. Dangerous in what manner?’

He shrugged, extended his legs. ‘I do not know exactly. All I can say is that those who attempt to cross the spine of the Bone range are never seen again. There are stories, of course. Many rumours.’

Malle refilled her tumbler from a tall thin crystal decanter. ‘And have these stories a common theme?’

‘A monster. A threat. A price to be paid.’

The woman held the tiny glass between the fingertips of both hands and studied him over the rim. Under her steady gaze he was thankful that he had told the truth.

‘Interesting …’ she said at last.

Fisher frowned at that. ‘How so?’

‘Holden?’

The old mage cleared his throat and spat into a bronze pot next to his feet. ‘The oldest accounts have a road that tracks the top of the Bone Peninsula. Know you of that?’

Now Fisher regarded Malle steadily. ‘I have heard stories of such an ancient traveller’s account. It is said that the imperial archive in Unta possesses it.’

Behind the glass a small tight-lipped smile came and went from the old woman’s mouth. ‘Archivists can get into debt as easily as anyone.’ She waved to invite him to speak. ‘What have you heard?’

Fisher wasn’t certain that he believed the woman’s explanation, but outwardly he gave the appearance of not particularly caring either way. ‘I am a singer, a collector of songs and tales. And there are very old ones from this region that speak variously of the Bone Road, the Bridge of Bone, or the Way of Bone.’

‘Colourful,’ the old woman commented dryly. ‘Any other hazards we should be mindful of?’

Fisher opened his arms. ‘Well, there are always bandits, thieves, and mountain tribes.’

‘I doubt that any ragged bandits would attack a party of some hundred armed men and women,’ the girl sneered. ‘Hard knocks for poor rewards.’

Fisher shifted his gaze to her. ‘Some might fight to defend their territory.’ The girl just snorted, looking sour.