Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1
ABOUT THE BOOK
It was once a land ravaged by war – minor city states, baronies and principalities fighting for supremacy. But then the rival cities of Tali and Quon formed an alliance and so Quon Tali came into being and with it came a peace of sorts.
That was, however, long ago and the regional powers are once more at each other’s throats.
At Quon Tali’s heart sits Li Heng – a city state that has for centuries enjoyed relative stability under the iron rule of the sorceress they call the ‘Protectress’. She and her cabal of five mage servants held back the Quon Tali Iron Legions but now her domain is under threat as never before . . .
Two young men have recently arrived. One is determined to prove he is the most skilled assassin of his age, while the other is his quarry – a Dal Hon mage who is proving annoyingly difficult to kill.
And then, from the south, the forces of Itko Kan are on the march, led by an ambitious new king. He has sent his assassins, the Nightblades, into Li Heng, and there are rumours that he has inhuman, nightmarish forces at his command. As shadows and mistrust grow, and monstrous beasts that appear from nowhere rampage through the beleaguered city’s streets, it seems chaos is come. But in chaos, as a certain young Dal Hon mage would say, there is opportunity . . .
Taking readers back to before the Malazan Empire came into being, here is the opening chapter in Ian C. Esslemont’s awesome new epic fantasy, chronicling this troubled continent’s turbulent history.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Maps
Dramatis Personae
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Ian C. Esslemont
Copyright
For Gerri and the boys
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I offer my deepest appreciation to A. P. Canavan, pre-reader and editor extraordinaire. Also, thanks as always to Simon Taylor and everyone at Transworld for their support; and to Peter and Nicky Crowther, and Howard Morhaim.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Dorin Rav
A youth out of Tali
Wu
Pseudonym of a young Dal Hon mage
In Heng
Shalmanat
A sorceress, given the title of ‘Protectress of Li Heng’
Silk
A city mage
Mister Ho
A city mage, also known as Hothalar
Mara
A city mage
Smokey
A city mage
Koroll
A city mage
Ullara
Daughter of a stabler, and a collector of birds
Pung the child-stealer
A Hengan crime boss
Greneth/Gren
Pung’s lieutenant
Tran
One of Pung’s underbosses
Urquart Rafalljara
A Hengan crime boss
Undath’al Brunn
A Hengan master thief in Urquart’s gang, known as ‘Rafall’
Rheena
A thief
Shreth
A thief
Loor
A thief
Of the Kanese Sword-Dancers
Hallens
Captain of King Chulalorn the Third’s bodyguard
Iko
A new recruit to the king’s bodyguard
Yuna
A member of the king’s bodyguard
Torral
A member of the king’s bodyguard
Sareh
A member of the king’s bodyguard
Rei
A member of the king’s bodyguard
Yvonna
A member of the king’s bodyguard
Others
Ryllandaras
The White Jackal, also known as the man-beast
Sister Night
A powerful and ancient sorceress
Dassem
An acolyte of Hood, named by some the ‘Sword of Hood’
Liss
A resident mage of Li Heng
K’rul
An elder god
Prelude
THE PRIZE WAS his and none would rob him of it. A recent shudder of the earth had exposed it here on the Seti Plains, close by the Great Cliff, south of the river Idryn, near to where Burn herself is said to rest.
Uneasily, most obviously.
A small twinge, or minor itch, or passing flatulence from the Great Goddess had shaken the ground not more than a fortnight ago. And now this tunnel, or cave, revealed here in this narrow rocky cleft. His find. True, he’d only come across it because he’d caught a hint of movement out there on the plains and so had clambered down into the gorge out of prudent care. The plains curse, the man-eating beast Ryllandaras, was never far.
So it was his. Yet not his alone.
Someone else was lurking about: a sneaky fellow hard to pin down. And coming from him, from Dorin Rav, that was saying a lot. Not in all Quon or Tali had he met his match in stealth or murder. The so-called ‘Assassin Guilds’ he’d dug up these last years had proved themselves no more than gangs of brutes and thugs for hire. Not one true practitioner among them.
He’d been disgusted.
So much for the exploits of the thief queen Lady Apsalar, or daring Topaz, the favourites of so many jongleur songs. Petty greed, sadistic cruelty, and a kind of slope-browed cunning were all he’d found among the criminal underworld – if that was what you could call it. All of which, he had to allow, was at least the minimal requirement for extortion, blackmail, theft, and murder for hire.
Not that that had stopped him from profiting from their ineptitude. A few well-placed thrusts and their stashes of coin rode tightly wrapped in a baldric across his chest – a baldric that also supported a selection of graded blades and lengths of rope.
He was of the opinion that one can never carry too much rope.
He passed the best of the night crouched on his haunches in a thick stand of desert tall-grass, patiently watching that dark opening, and saw nothing. A hunting snake slithered over one sandalled foot. Midges and chiggers feasted upon him. A lizard climbed his shirt, lost its footing on his sweat-slick neck and fell inside the padded, cloth-covered armour vest he wore next to his skin.
Yet he hadn’t twitched. And still his rival had not revealed himself. Then, just as the sun kissed the lips of the narrow crevice ridge high above, a rock clattered close to the shadowed gap.
He ground his teeth. Somehow the bastard had slipped past. Very well. He’d follow. Dog the man until whatever lay ahead was revealed. The least the fellow could do was make himself useful by falling first into any hidden dangers.
He edged out to the mouth of the gap and, hunched, a blade ready, felt his way down. Just within, he paused to press himself against one wall of jagged broken rock. He listened and waited for his vision to adjust. A brush of cloth on stone sighed ahead. He felt his way onward.
A descending slope of loose br
oken rock ended at a narrow corridor of set blocks. Ancient, these, gigantic and of a dark stone he didn’t recognize. He searched the gloom; where had the Hood-damned bastard gone? Then a dim ringing ahead as of metal on stone, quickly muted. He pressed himself to a wall – could he be seen outlined by the faint light behind? He darted forward.
The corridor ended at a wall that supported a door in the form of a slab of rock of similar origin. The slab stood at an angle aslant of the portal, a slim opening running top to bottom, at the foot a gap where a slim man or woman might just squirm within.
Damn the fellow for winning through first!
He knelt at the fissure, only to flinch away from the mouldy stink of things long dead. The still air was cold too, unaccountably so. Crystals of frost glittered on the rock. Wincing, he slipped one arm through. His other hand brushed the thick door slab. A nest of symbols carved in the naked rock writhed beneath his fingers.
Wards. Glyphs. A tomb. Or hoard. Out here? In the middle of nowhere?
Yet this had not stopped his rival.
He slid onward. Rising, brushing away the accumulated dust of centuries, it seemed to him passing strange that fine sand and grit should still choke the gap. Such speculations, however, were driven away by a wan golden glow coming from further ahead. There’s the bastard and now’s your chance.
He drew another blade and slid along the wall. His breath plumed in the oddly chill air.
It was a low-roofed chamber: a lost cellar or tomb, perhaps. Gloom swallowed its exact size and shape, which might have been circular. The low flame from a single clay oil-lamp provided the only faint light. Hoar frost glittered on what of the walls he could see. The lamp rested on a monolithic raised stone platform at the chamber’s centre. A large figure, a near giant, sat at the block, slouched forward, arms resting on the surface. Its hair was long and iron-grey and hung in tangled lengths that obscured its features. Before it on the slab sat the remains of a mummified animal of some sort – possibly a monkey, Dorin thought.
Where was his rival? Hiding behind the stone? Must have nerves of iron.
He drew a breath to call the fellow out, but almost bit his tongue as the mummified animal moved. The thing reached out to sort among the dusty objects cluttering the stone. With a nimble long-fingered hand, it picked up what looked like a slim wooden tile and waved it through the air, showering dust and bright crystals of ice everywhere.
The corpse lashed out to slam the tile to the slab and Dorin grunted his shock.
‘Don’t meddle,’ the corpse breathed in a voice like creaking wood. It raised its head, revealing outsized canines and bright gleaming eyes. ‘I smell a breeze,’ it said. ‘That crack that lets in mice and cockroaches . . . and other pests . . .’
The tall figure shifted its head to fix those unnatural eyes upon Dorin. ‘Come in, then – since you have already.’ The being’s gaze shifted slightly to the left. ‘You too.’
Dorin spun to see his rival there just to one side.
Behind him all this time! A damned mage!
The fellow was short and young, dark-skinned – Dal Honese. Young? Well, no older than I. And he was an ugly lad with a scrunched-up face and a sad patchy attempt at a beard and moustache. He wore loose dark robes, dirty and tattered, and carried a walking stick – though he didn’t grip it like a warrior. In answer to Dorin’s scowl he flashed uneven yellow teeth.
Dorin shifted aside to face them both.
‘You are Jaghut,’ the newcomer called to their host, pleased with himself.
The huge man’s expression remained unchanged. He lowered his head. ‘I should think that obvious.’
Dorin took satisfaction from the fall of the smirk from the Dal Hon’s face.
The creature – a Jaghut, or Jag, such as Dorin had heard of in stories – waved them in. ‘Come, come. Make yourselves at home. We have all the time in the world.’
That gave Dorin pause. But not so his rival, who pushed in without hesitation. The youth bent over the huge block to study the scattered wooden tiles. ‘You are doing a reading,’ he announced.
‘Another stunning deduction,’ the Jag observed, acidly.
Dorin edged up behind his rival. Why so bravely, or foolishly, offer his back now? Because he knows I’ll not act in front of the Jag. Cheap courage, that. He made a point of standing close to the Dal Hon’s side. Let him sweat.
Squinting in the dim lamplight the young fellow was studying the dust-covered cards, tapping a thin finger to his lips. ‘This casting has defeated you for some time.’
One thick brow arched ever so slightly. The lips drew back further from the sallow canines. ‘Indeed.’
Dorin swept a quick glance over the wooden cards – artefacts as oversized as their host. The shadowed figures and images painted on their faces held little interest for him. His mother had once hired a reader to foretell his future . . . the woman’s screams had woken all the neighbours. After that, there’d been no more readings for Dorin Rav.
The dark-skinned youth reached out for the nearest wooden slat but the animal – more than a monkey or diminutive ape, Dorin now saw; possibly, then, a nacht of the southern isles – batted his arm aside. It chattered something that sounded eerily like ‘Doan medo’. The Dal Hon answered by hitting its hand away. The two then actually fell into a slapping fight there over the stone, until the Jag snarled his irritation and pushed the creature out of the youth’s reach, from where it busied itself making faces at the lad, who responded with scrunched-up leers of his own.
Dorin mustered his courage to clear his throat and ask, ‘What did you mean by “all the time in the world”?’
The Jag inclined his head as if acknowledging the justness of the question. ‘This structure is my retreat. None may be allowed to know of its existence.’ He raised a hand in a near apology. ‘Now that you are here . . . you may never leave.’
Dorin did his best to keep his expression neutral – to hide his thoughts – but a smile crept over the being’s wide mouth, entirely baring his canines, and he laughed, low and sardonic. ‘You would not succeed, my friend.’ He tapped a thick yellow nail, more like a talon, to the platform.
Squinting, Dorin examined the solid block of dark rock, some three paces in length. The surface was inscribed in an intricate pattern of swirls and those grooves were inlaid with silver. A humanoid shape lying flat, encircled by a series of complicated wards and sigils . . .
Dorin stepped away from what had resolved itself into a stone sarcophagus. This one’s?
The Dal Hon meanwhile had set out exploring the chamber, poking his stick into the distant edges. ‘Well then,’ the lad mused from the dark, ‘I suppose we should make ourselves at home.’ He found a shelf along one wall, jabbed the stick at it, and objects tumbled, crashing loudly in the confined quarters.
The Jag scowled his annoyance. ‘Must you?’
‘Sorry.’ The youth raised a small pot fashioned of plain brown earthenware, now cracked. He held it out. ‘Your most precious treasures, I assume?’
The Jag growled from somewhere deep within his throat. ‘Grave offerings, I’ll have you know.’
The Dal Hon returned to his explorations. The nacht had jumped from the sarcophagus and now stalked along behind the youth, mimicking his every move. Dorin put his back to one wall next to where the tunnel entered the chamber. Should I try the door? Might as well. He retreated up the tunnel. In the almost absolute dark, he felt along the door slab; the gap was there, but it now seemed far too slim for his shoulders. He’d slipped through that? How in the name of the Queen of Mystery . . .
Returning to the chamber, he found the Jag once more bent over the wooden cards. A frown of puzzlement now creased his long face.
‘Is this your bed?’ the Dal Hon called from somewhere in the darkness.
The Jag let out a long hissed breath and pressed his fingers to his temples, his elbows on the stone sarcophagus. He growled, ‘I suppose I shall have to kill you now.’
The youth
emerged from the gloom, his walking stick tapping. He spoke lightly, as if disinterested, ‘But then you would just be alone again, wouldn’t you?’
The fellow came alongside, and Dorin whispered, heated, ‘What have you got us into?’
A vexed look from the lad – no younger than he, Dorin had to remind himself. ‘I was following you.’
Dorin clenched his teeth. ‘I thought I was following you—’
‘Please,’ the Jag rumbled, ‘must I now endure your bickering?’
Dorin edged open his cloak to reveal his many knives.
The Dal Hon’s brows rose. ‘You could?’
‘If anyone.’
‘If you say so. Not my field.’
‘And just what is your field?’
‘Oh, a little of this, a little of that . . . Here, I found this.’ He slipped a thin wooden box between them.
Dorin tucked it away. ‘What is it?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ And he wandered off again.
Dorin found himself becoming just as irritated by the skinny fellow as their host.
The Dal Hon now gazed over the hunched Jag’s shoulder, studying the cards. As Dorin watched, the nacht scampered up the young man’s back until its wizened ugly hairy face peered over the youth’s own shoulder. The sight of those three serried faces, each uglier and smaller than the one below, made Dorin feel dizzy, and rather queasy.
‘The cards are unsettled,’ the Dal Hon announced.
Massaging his brow with his fingertips, the Jag stifled his annoyance. ‘Indeed.’
‘You have ones here I have never seen.’
‘My manufacture.’
‘They appear not to be assigned.’
The Jag slapped his hands to the sarcophagus lid with a crack of bone on stone. ‘Do you mind!’