Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy) Read online

  KELLANVED’S REACH

  Path to Ascendancy

  Book 3

  Ian C. Esslemont

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Winnipeg, Ian Cameron Esslemont has studied and worked as an archaeologist, travelled extensively in South East Asia and lived in Thailand and Japan for several years. He now lives in Fairbanks, Alaska, with his wife and children. He has a creative writing degree and his novels are all set in the fantasy world of Malaz that he co-created with Steven Erikson. Kellanved’s Reach follows Dancer’s Lament and Deadhouse Landing and continues the story of the turbulent early history of this great imagined landscape. To find out more, visit www.malazanempire.com / www.ian-esslemont.com

  Also by Ian C. Esslemont

  NIGHT OF KNIVES

  RETURN OF THE CRIMSON GUARD

  STONEWIELDER

  ORB SCEPTRE THRONE

  BLOOD AND BONE

  ASSAIL

  DANCER’S LAMENT

  DEADHOUSE LANDING

  For more information on Ian C. Esslemont and his books, see his website at www.malazanempire.com and www.ian-esslemont.com

  To A.P. Canavan

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Once again, thanks to Gerri and the boys for their support and patience with my strange calling. Continued thanks and gratitude to Simon and all the people at Transworld Publishers, and the dedicated readers at the Malazanempire.com site.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Of Malaz

  Kellanved New ruler of the isle of Malaz

  Dancer A notorious assassin

  Surly A Napan aristocrat

  Cartheron Crust A Napan captain

  Urko Crust A Napan captain

  Choss A Napan admiral

  Tocaras A Napan archer

  Dassem Ultor A Dal Hon swordsman, whom some name ‘Sword of Hood’

  Tayschrenn A renegade mage of Kartool

  Dujek A recruit

  Jack A recruit

  Nedurian A veteran, and mage

  Of Nap

  Tarel King of the Napan Isles

  Lady Elaina Head of the Ravanna line

  Torlo Of the Torlo Trading House

  Lord Kobay Head of the Medalla line

  Karesh High Admiral, lord of all Napan fleets

  Of the Bloorian League

  Gareth The king of Vor, and a principal of the League

  Styvell The king of Rath, and a principal of the League

  Hret The king of Bloor, and a principal of the League

  Leah A corporal of the Yellows Regiment

  Teigan A sergeant of the Yellows Regiment

  Of Gris and its Allies

  Malle Ruler of the city state of Gris

  Ranel Baron of Nita

  Ap-Athlan Court sorcerer of Gris

  Of Nom Purge

  Elath Lallind High General of Nom Purge

  Ghenst Terrall Baron of the Coastal Provinces

  Jeral Prevost (captain) of Purge forces

  Of Orjin Samarr’s Troop

  Orjin Samarr A mercenary commander

  Terath A lieutenant

  Arkady A Wickan scout

  Orhan A fighter of possible giant blood, perhaps of Fenn

  Yune A Dal Hon shaman

  Of Itko Kan

  Leoto Head of family Kan, the Kan of Kan

  Jadeen A feared witch of the south

  Iko A Sword-Dancer guard to the king

  Of the Crimson Guard

  Courian D’Avore Commander of the Guard

  K’azz D’Avore His son, whom some name the Red Prince

  Surat Champion of the Guard

  Cal-Brinn A mage, and adviser to Courian

  Others

  Gregar An apprentice stonemason

  Haraj A prisoner

  Heboric A priest of Fener

  Hairlock A mage

  Prologue

  As it did every time, the odious Idryn mud sucked at his boots – touching, even, the hem of his fine midnight blue (not black, mind you!) silk trousers, though he’d pulled them up as high as he could as he tramped the river shore to find Liss. Halfway, amid the stink and disgusting sewer filth, he paused, and he raised his eyes to the sky to entreat the gods. Why must you punish me so? Where did I transgress? Was it those curvy Leparia twins? If so, have I not endured enough?

  Silk, city mage of Li Heng, lowered his gaze. Perhaps not. Those two had been so very delicious.

  He spotted her then, in her dirty rags, among the pilings where they stood exposed, for this had been a dry summer, and the Idryn was low.

  Once again Silk reflected that were it not for his strong suspicion that this hag was far more than a mere crazy witch, he would most certainly not be here.

  Sighing, he slogged onward until he was within hailing distance, and he set a hand to his mouth. ‘Hello! Crazy catfish lady? You called?’

  She straightened and turned his way, pushed snaggled tangled hair from her dirty face – which brightened. ‘Pretty boy! Decided to grow up, have you?’

  Silk rolled his eyes. ‘What is it you want, Liss? I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Oh yes! So much posturing and self-indulgence to pursue! Where indeed to start?’

  Silk peered about at the northern waterfront, the raised boardwalk and the inns and bars that fronted it. ‘You know, I could leave in any direction. Shall I choose?’

  Liss straightened among the rags heaped over her shoulders, her mocking smile falling, and Silk was momentarily taken aback to see that she was even taller than he – and he was considered a rather tall fellow. ‘I see a storm approaching, Silk. One you may not weather well.’

  ‘Really? A storm? You can’t do better than that? A storm?’ He laughed, shaking his head. ‘Any cheap Dragons Deck reader on any street corner could do better than that! You do realize that’s a cliché, don’t you?’ He slapped at the drying mud marring his fine trousers. ‘I can’t believe you dragged me here for this.’

  The old hag’s pinched mouth drew down and she cut a hand through the air as if to say, Very well! ‘I see a time of great upheaval approaching. One that may cost you in particular a great deal.’ She cocked a brow. ‘Dismiss that – if you will.’

  Silk crossed his arms. ‘Fine. Brass tacks, as they say. What sort of upheaval?’

  The old witch turned away, hunching once more. She probed the mud before her. ‘Ancient,’ she murmured. ‘Very ancient. That is all I can say, to my peril.’

  ‘Peril? You mean whatever this is – it threatens even you?’

  She turned upon him, suddenly, peering about. ‘Oh yes. Everyone. Even the Elders. None can escape this.’

  Despite his scepticism, Silk retreated a short distance from the woman. ‘Elders? You mean, even the … Tiste?’

  The hag shambled off. ‘I can say no more. It may come. Beware. That is all I dare say.’

  Silk remained – ankle-deep in the muck – watching the old witch as she wandered off. Madness perhaps? A sad need for attention? Nothing more? Or so much more than that? Who could sa
y?

  He set his hands to his hips and let out a great breath, nodding to himself.

  Fine! Time to talk to Ho …

  Chapter 1

  Dancer slipped silently into the main reception hall of Mock’s Hold and peered round. It was night and only the torches in their sconces lit the broad empty chamber. Turning, he nodded to Surly and indicated the stairs. ‘He’s in his rooms,’ he mouthed as quietly as possible.

  Surly, a Napan woman bearing the characteristic blue hue of those isles’ natives, turned to the two men hanging back, also Napans. Cartheron Crust and Urko Crust were brothers, but as unalike as night and day, since Cartheron stood short and wiry while Urko bulked as wide as an ox. ‘No one comes down or up,’ she ordered.

  Cartheron nodded, while his brother smacked one meaty fist into the other palm. Dancer and Surly glared at the loud slap of flesh and he grimaced, muttering, ‘Sorry.’

  Surly started up. Her bare feet were silent on the polished stone. Dancer glided with her almost as if he were floating up the steps. Together, they reached one particular door in the hall and took up positions to either side.

  They nodded in unison, then Dancer took the latch and threw open the door. Both stormed into the chamber.

  An aged, dark-skinned Dal Hon native snorted at the interruption, feet up on a desk, arms crossed over his paunch. He blinked, surprised, then frowned his displeasure. ‘So,’ he announced, ‘it has come to this.’

  ‘You leave us no choice, Kellanved,’ Dancer answered. ‘If you cooperate we’ll make it quick.’

  The wizened elder twisted up his lips and turned his face away. He crossed his arms. ‘Never. You wouldn’t dare.’

  With a gesture as graceful as his name, Dancer invited Surly forward. She leaned up against Kellanved’s desk. Crossing her arms, she cleared her throat and began, ‘Let me see … Nom Purge remains in perpetual warfare with Quon Tali. Dal Hon is currently probing a weakened Itko Kan’s borders. The Seti continue to attack anyone other than travellers who enters the central plains. The War Marshal of the Bloorian League, in secret connivance with Unta, is steadily isolating Gris from its surrounding principates and allies, while the city state of Cawn sells arms and provides mercenaries to all sides.’

  The wrinkled ancient had pressed his hands to his ears and was shaking his head. ‘No! Stop this horrible babble – you’re killing me!’

  ‘Then how are we to proceed?’ Dancer demanded. ‘Tell us what you have in mind. For once.’

  ‘Never! The element of surprise …’

  ‘Surprise our enemies,’ Dancer pleaded. ‘Not us!’ He nodded for the woman to continue. ‘Surly here has spent a great deal of time thinking about Nap.’

  The ancient mage rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, please. Who cares about Nap now? Dancer, a much more profound errand beckons …’

  The assassin glared a warning. ‘Hear her out, at the least.’

  Kellanved groaned and let his head fall to the desk.

  Ignoring this, Surly went on, ‘We should approach Dal Hon for an agreement exempting their shores and merchants from all attacks. We could ask for twenty ships with crews – or funding to the equivalent. For if we take Nap we will be the sole raiders of the Southern Seas. And they know this.’

  Kellanved’s head snapped up. ‘We? What is this we business?’ He eyed Dancer narrowly.

  Dancer pressed a hand to his brow in frustration. ‘That’s all you take away from that? This is sound strategy. I think we should listen.’

  The mage set his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers before his chin. He regarded Dancer with some scepticism. ‘And just which we are we talking about here?’

  ‘You, me, us – whoever! Just listen, dammit all to Burn!’

  Kellanved pursed his lips and bounced his steepled fingers from them then lowered his hands to grip the desk. ‘Very well. I shall reveal my plans! They are as follows … we shall take all our ships, attack Dariyal, and take Nap!’ He thrust a bent finger into the air. ‘Ha!’

  Surly and Dancer eyed one another, appalled. Dancer pulled a hand down his face. ‘Gods have mercy,’ he muttered, and turned away to pour a drink.

  ‘That’s just what Tarel would expect,’ Surly explained, rather acidly. ‘The same thing’s been tried again and again for hundreds of years.’ She pressed her hands together, almost at a loss for words. ‘Nap invading Malaz, Malaz invading Nap. It always fails in the end. We need an alliance. I suggest Dal Hon.’

  Kellanved waved that aside. ‘I need no damned allies. Duplicitous betrayers! Two-faced turncoats! I curse them all.’

  ‘Then what exactly do you suggest?’ Dancer demanded.

  ‘Exactly what I just outlined.’

  Dancer sipped his wine. He eyed the mage over the glass. ‘Haven’t you been listening?’

  Kellanved nodded. ‘Yes I have. I hear that my plan is exactly what Talen and his admirals would expect of a new impetuous leader such as myself.’ He cocked a brow at Surly. ‘Yes?’

  Now the Napan raider frowned, uncertain of the man’s tack. ‘Well, yes …’

  Kellanved gave a curt nod. ‘Excellent. Because said invasion will be a diversion to draw their forces out of the capital. The real attack will come from the landward side. I myself shall transport a small force on to the island, led perhaps by our friend Dassem, to take the palace and replace its ruler.’

  Surly snapped up a hand. ‘Agreed – so long as you swear to leave Tarel to me.’

  Kellanved inclined his head. ‘Agreed.’ He waved, shooing Surly from his chambers. ‘Very good. Now, make the same offer to Itko Kan and Cawn in secret. But we will renege on those – yes?’

  Dancer and Surly turned to eye one another, their brows rising: neither had thought of that.

  Kellanved waved Surly off. ‘Go on! Make the arrangements. Dancer and I have things to talk over.’

  Surly did not move. Her gaze slid between the two, suspicious. ‘If you disappear again how can I count on you being where you need to be?’

  ‘Tayschrenn should be able to contact us,’ Kellanved supplied, untroubled. ‘And in any case, I see your point. We shan’t be leaving for some time.’

  She backed away to the door. ‘Very well. But how can we know you’ll be there …’

  He fluttered a hand. ‘We shall. Do not worry.’

  She pulled the door open, and could not help but add a last, dark, muttered, ‘You’d better be.’

  The Crust brothers met her at the bottom of the stairs and Cartheron asked, ‘So? How’d it go? What’s the plan?’

  She eyed the upper rooms and ran her fingertips over the ridged calloused knuckles of her other hand. ‘Remind me to stop underestimating that damned fool mage.’

  * * *

  Baron Elath Lallind, Sentry of the Seti Marches and High General of Nom Purge, was very pleased with his prosecution of the campaign against Quon Tali to date. He’d taken over from General Yellen of the Agar family – now stripped of all rank and disgraced – two seasons ago, and since then had proved victor far more often than the reverse. The most recent retreat of Quon Talian forces had brought the contending armies to the very border of Quon lands, at the shore-side plains of Sighing Grasses. A victory here would open the way to the rich northern provinces of their traditional enemy, and not too inconsequentially seal his name as the greatest leader in the history of Nom Purge. So it was that confidence was high and the mood one of barely suppressed glee at this last meeting of his command staff before battle.

  ‘We will finally break them here and retake our ancient lands,’ Elath announced to the nobles, captains and aides gathered in his command tent. ‘So ends the last legacy of their vaunted hegemony.’

  All glasses rose in a toast. ‘To the general!’ All save one, Elath noticed, a young captain of heavy infantry, risen to prominence for his personal skill in battle. Hugely broad he was, and blunt-faced. An uncouth commoner with a thick length of prematurely grey hair.

  Elath lowered his glass, his satisfacti
on souring. ‘You are concerned?’ he asked this leader of one of their foreign contingents.

  The fellow rubbed a heavy paw over his jowls and let out a breath of unease. ‘It’s not like these Quon Talians to be so unprepared. Where are their reinforcements?’

  ‘Our sources tell us this is all they can muster at this time.’ He offered a shrug. ‘Quon and Tali are not what they once were.’

  ‘And they no doubt have sources among you who tell them you believe this.’

  Elath’s mood was now positively darkening. ‘And you are … Orjin Samarr? Yes? Well, come out with it, Captain Samarr. What is it you are suggesting?’

  The swordsman pointed to the east. ‘These deep wooded valleys flanking the plain. You could hide a whole army in there. I don’t like it.’

  Elath turned a raised brow upon Baron Ghenst Terrall of the Coastal Provinces. The baron bowed. ‘The woods are clear, lord marshal. My own personal scouts searched them.’

  Elath returned his attention to the foreign swordsman. ‘There you are. The baron assures us they are clear.’

  ‘Just the same, I’d feel a lot better if I could send a few of my own lads and lasses to—’

  The marshal snapped up a hand for silence. ‘Captain … if a noble of Nom Purge says something is so, then it is so. A gentleman does not question another gentleman’s word.’

  Many of the gathered nobility smirked at this particular phrasing, while the foreigner’s thick brows clenched as if he were too dense to parse the hidden insult behind the words. He nodded then, bowing to the general. ‘Too much drink, perhaps.’ He finished his cup and picked up the battered iron gauntlets on the table before him. He saluted the marshal, ‘To a glorious victory, sir,’ and brushed aside the heavy tent flap, exiting.