* * *
The clanging of the iron bar suspended over the mine-head roused Ho from his mid-afternoon doze. Wincing at joints stiff and swollen, he swung his feet down from the sleeping ledge and fumbled about for his tunic and leggings. New arrivals. Surprising, that. Shipments of prisoners to the Otataral mines had thinned to a trickle these last few years. Seemed Laseen was at last running out of enemies. He snorted: not too bloody likely.
Though decades had passed since he'd been the Pit's unofficial mayor and inmate spokesman to the Warder – and who was the damned Warder these days anyway? – Ho still felt obliged to put in a showing at the welcoming ceremony.
He nodded to familiar faces as he tramped the twisting narrow tunnels – shafts themselves once – each following a promising vein of Otataral. Most of those he met returned his nod; it was a small world down here among those exiled for life in these poisonous mines. Poison indeed, for Otataral is anathema to Warren manipulation and magery, and they were all of them down here mages. Each condemned by the emperor, or the Empress in her turn. And Ho had been among the first.
Mine-head was the ragged base of an open cylinder hacked from the rock, about forty paces in diameter and more than twenty man-heights deep. Harsh blue sky glared above, traced by wisps of cloud. A wood platform, cantilevered out over the opening and suspended from rope, was noisily creaking its way up. It was drawn and lowered from above by oxen and a winch at the surface.
The new arrivals stood in a ragged line, four men and one female. The man at one end carried the look of a scholar, emaciated, bearded, blinking at his surroundings in stunned disbelief. The woman was older and dumpy, her mouth tight with disgust. The next man shared her sour disapproval, though tinged with apprehension. All three were older individuals and all three conformed to the norm of those consigned to the Pit: all Talents who have garnered the displeasure of the Throne. The remaining two stood slightly apart, however; their appearance sent alarm bells ringing through Ho's thoughts. Younger, fit men, scarred and tanned – one even carrying the faint blue skin hue of the island of Nap. Battle mages, army cadre possibly. Veterans no doubt. The community would not like this.
The current mayor of the Pit, a Seven Cities mage named Yathengar, swept up before the arrivals, his long robes tattered and rust-stained in Otataral dust. He leaned on a staff trimmed down from a shoring timber.
‘Greetings, newcomers,’ he said in Talian. ‘We speak the Malazan tongue down here as a common language between us Seven Cities natives, Genabackans, Falarans and others. Perversely,’ he added, sliding a glance to Ho, ‘there are precious few Malazans left down here.’
Ho gave the man a thin smile – ex-Faladan of Ehrlitan. Never did forgive us for that. Never did explain why he failed to die defending his city-god, either. Ho watched the newcomers take in the tall bearded patriarch, how their gazes lingered on the stains of his robes. Yath noted the fascination as well; one hand, knotted, dark as the stave's wood, brushed at the cloth.
‘Oh yes, newcomers. It cannot be avoided. It is in the air you are breathing now. The water you will drink, the food you will eat. Your hair, every wrinkle.’
‘Queen protect me,’ breathed the scholar at the far end, appalled.
Yath turned on him. ‘No, she won't.’
‘So what now?’ the woman demanded in strongly accented Talian. ‘You beat us? Search us for valuables? Are we newcomers to be slaves to you thug survivors down here?’
Yath gave a bow of his head. ‘Good points. No, no. No rule of violence here – unlike Skullcap – or Unta, for that matter. We are all scholars and mages here, educated men and women. We have a council. Food is distributed evenly. The sick are cared for—’
‘Sounds like paradise.’ This from the tall veteran cadre mage at the opposite end.
The wood of the stave creaked in Yath's hands. He paced to stand before the two. ‘You three,’ he said to the others, ‘can go.’
Members of the welcoming committee took these three aside to be assigned quarters, receive food bowls and such. Ho remained. Yath held his stave lengthwise across his front, silent until distance from the other newcomers allowed some privacy. The two remained motionless as well, waiting without discussion between them. Companions, Ho decided. Very unusual. Counter to prison procedure, in fact.
‘Do not think that because we are learned men and women down here we will be helpless before you,’ said Yath, his voice low. ‘There are exiles here who do not need the Warrens to kill.’
‘Those stains,’ said the shorter of the two, the Napan, ‘we'd heard the Pit was all mined out.’
Ho swore he could hear Yath's teeth grinding. ‘A few live veins remain,’ he allowed.
‘And let me guess,’ continued the Napan. ‘Everyone gets a turn.’
Straightening, Yath stamped the stave to the sandy ground. He thrust his face forward, his long grey beard bristling. ‘And do you refuse?’
The muscles around the Napan cadre mage's mouth bunched. He examined his hands. ‘No.’
Yath slowly nodded. ‘Good. Your names then?’
‘Grief,’ gave the Napan.
‘Treat,’ said the tall one.
‘Very well. Go and get quarters assigned.’
Ho watched the two leave, guided by old exiles. He'd keep an eye on them; why send two obvious fighting men down here among all us fossils? To dig up information, Ho answered himself. Yath's gaze followed the two as well. Ho translated the man's glower: more damned Malazans.