Deadhouse Landing

She reached out across the counter to take his hands; hers were warm, dry, and hard. ‘Nedurian. What can I do for you?’

‘I bring … disturbing news.’

She released his hands. ‘I see … well, come in.’ She lifted a portion of the counter for him and retreated to the rear. He followed. In the back room she motioned to a chair along one wall next to a small table. A massive homemade loom filled almost the entire room. She sat at the intricate mechanism of wooden slats and strung thread and pushed the sleeves of her dress up over her lean arms, then depressed the wide foot pedal. The twin leaves of strung thread spread apart with a loud shush.

He watched her work for a time, admiring the economy of her movements, the play of the musculature of her arms, and her swift nimble fingers.

‘What is the news?’ she asked.

‘I’m fairly certain that someone’s meddling in Meanas here on the island.’

The loom slapped to a halt. She held the shuttle in one fist, glaring his way. ‘That’s what’s been bothering me of late! I knew there was something…’ She tossed the shuttle through the weave, shaking her head. ‘On this island, of all places. The fool.’ She raised her gaze to a narrow window high on one wall; her arms, hands and feet worked automatically for a while, shifting and plucking, as she cast her awareness elsewhere.

Eventually, her gaze shifted to him, sidelong. ‘He’s a sly one,’ she murmured in grudging appreciation.

‘I agree. I couldn’t get a fix on him.’

‘Perhaps he just wants to be left alone.’

‘Sadly not. Worse is, he’s making a play for Geffen’s job.’

Agayla threw herself entirely from the loom to press her hands to her thighs in frustration. ‘Blood and tar! That’s the last thing we need right now. War for control of the streets.’

‘Is there any chance Mock—’

‘Mock cares nothing for whoever runs things in town so long as he gets his cut.’

‘Thought so.’

She sighed, then returned her attention to her work. ‘Well, we’ll just have to keep an eye on things. If it gets out of hand, we’ll put an end to it.’

He blew out a long breath. Oh-kayyy … ‘And who is this “we”?’

‘Obo and I.’

The name rocked Nedurian. She can reach through to Obo? Belatedly, he realized that his name wasn’t on her list. I don’t even rate a mention in that company.

‘In the meantime you’ll sniff round, yes? See if you can pin down our foolish friend.’

He nodded his assent.

Agayla returned to work and he returned to watching her. It occurred to him that the finished portion of this particular piece – carpet or tapestry, call it what you will – was very short indeed. He asked, ‘Is this a new work?’

She nodded absently. ‘Yes.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘As always – what is to come.’

From the assurance of that simple comment he felt again the preternatural shiver that this woman raised on the nape of his neck. While no Ascendant herself, she was a potent agent to powers, said to be favoured not only by the Enchantress, but by Jhess the Weaver as well. Powers that he, even as an Adept, could only sense distantly.

He studied the colours of the thread gathered in a basket next to the loom: deep aquamarine blue, blood carmines, gleaming night-black, pewter greys, and sunset purples.

‘The future looks dark,’ he said.

Agayla merely pursed her thin lips colourless and bent to her work.

*   *   *

To Cartheron, everything on board the Honest Avarice was slack-ass and sloppy. But then, it was a Malazan raider. Not a Napan one. Twin-masted, the fore raked far forward, lean-beamed and shallow-draughted, she was damned fast; that he had to admit. But still … not Napan.

It was the night watch and they were anchored in a tiny cove on the Vorian coast. He kept to the stern deck, rearward of the mast. Here at least he had some peace; forward, it was another situation altogether. Constant elbows and thumps that had to be endured with gritted teeth. ‘Watch it, Napan,’ was the sneering refrain, or, ‘Don’t you Napans know how to sail?’

All this despite the fact that the ship’s officers damn well knew he was here because of his unparalleled knowledge of the south coast. Well, expecting any fairness in the world was something he’d given up on as a child.

Even worse, this cove had been one of his family’s favourite hiding-holes for generations, and now he had been forced to share it with these wretched Malazans. The western arm of the headland curved well over, its shore more than deep enough for this shallow corsair.

And not even one word of thanks from the captain, Bezil, a Bloorian renegade who seemed to think he was some sort of nobleman. Just a grunt, as of a job done to minimal satisfaction.