"Return of the Crimson Guard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Esslemont Ian C.)*The next week Kyle was kicked awake in the middle of the night. He squinted into the blackness of a moonless night barely able to make out someone standing over him. ‘Get up. Assemble at the beach. Double-time.’ It was Trench, his sergeant. ‘Aye, aye.’ He collected his armour and equipment by the dim glow of a fire's embers then stumbled down to the beach to find a mixture of recruits and veteran Guardsmen assembled in knots. Trench, wearing only pantaloons and a vest of leather, shook all of his equipment from his hands. ‘Won't be needing that.’ Trench moved on to the other recruits. Stalker appeared at Kyle's side, knelt with him to sort through his gear. ‘Take the knife,’ he whispered. ‘Keep it at your neck.’ He examined Kyle's mishmash of armour. ‘Wear the leather alone – no padding – and the skirting's OK. Go barefoot.’ ‘What's going on?’ ‘We're swimming out to the ships. I hear negotiations have gone sour.’ Kyle pulled on his leathers. ‘Gone sour? Looks like this has been in the works for some time.’ ‘An option. Shimmer seems cunning. I'll give her that.’ Squinting out over the water, Kyle could see nothing. The Narrows were calm and smooth, not a breath of air stirred, but it was as dark as the inside of a cave. ‘I can't see a damned thing.’ ‘Don't you worry. There'll be plenty of light.’ Kyle hefted his tulwar – more than a stone's weight of iron. ‘Don't take it,’ Stalker said. ‘I want to take it.’ ‘Then at least get rid of the blasted sheath. Hang it on a strap over your neck. If it looks like you can't make it – cut it loose.’ ‘I'll never part with this.’ A spasm of irritation crossed Stalker's brow. ‘Dark Hunter take you! It's your burial.’ The tall scout stormed away. Kyle found the bladders in baskets. Men and women were strapping them to their chests. He hung the freshly re-gripped tulwar by a leather strap at its hilts and ran the strap under one shoulder and up around his neck. Mercenaries pushed out past him into the placid, nearly motionless surf. ‘Where are we going?’ Kyle asked them. ‘Quiet,’ someone hissed. ‘Hood take your tongue.’ Kyle bit back a retort. He joined the ranks of almost naked men and women pushing out into the water. The water was cold, terrifyingly so. Kyle felt his toes and fingers already tingling. What use might he be when he eventually reached a ship, too numb to swing a weapon? Had anyone thought of that? He pulled up short as the water reached his waist. He turned to speak to someone – anyone – but was pushed on. ‘Let's go.’ ‘Ain't got much time.’ ‘Time till what?’ he hissed. A hand like a shovel took him by his hauberk and pushed him along. He spun to see the wide shape of Greymane in the dark. Kyle had never seen him without his mail and banded armour, and out of it the man was, if anything, even more impressive. His chest was massive, covered in a pelt of grey hair plastered down by water. Black hair covered his thick arms. ‘Swim to the fourth ship,’ he rumbled to Kyle, and shook him by his hauberk. ‘Fourth?’ ‘The fourth most distant, lad.’ ‘Oh, right. Yes. What about the cold?’ The renegade blinked, puzzled. ‘What cold?’ ‘Ship? Treach's teeth, I'm not going.’ ‘You're not?’ ‘No. Water ‘n’ me – we don't get along.’ The renegade pushed Kyle on before he could wonder whether he was being serious or not. He swam, kicked with his legs in a steady rhythm as he had been taught. He hugged the bladder to his chest, but didn't squeeze it, kept his arms and legs as loose as possible, conserving his strength. Soon he was surrounded by shapeless night. The stars shone overhead and from all around, reflecting from the bay's eerily still surface. Men kicked and splashed. Curses and gasps sounded from all sides. Squinting ahead, Kyle could see no sign of ships, the first let alone the fourth. He kicked and kicked. The cold seeped up his legs and arms in a gathering numbness. He wondered if he was swimming in circles; how would he know? How could any of them know? Yet he lacked the strength to call out. His teeth chattered and his shoulders cramped. From the middle distance shouting reached him. A cry for help, a plea. A recruit: the voice was a youth's. He had panicked, or was cramped. Splashing sounded followed by a sharp gasp, then, terrifyingly, a long silence. Kyle stopped kicking. He floated, listening to the night. Gods all around! What kind of a brotherhood had he entered into? Did they… could they have killed one of their own? Someone bumped him and he flinched, the bladder almost slipped from his grasp like a greased pig and he nearly screamed, ‘Get a move on.’ Kyle didn't know the voice, though he recognized the accent: north Genabackan. ‘Can't see a damned thing,’ he gasped. ‘Never mind. Keep moving. Keep warm.’ Kyle couldn't argue with that. The dark form swam past. Kyle kicked himself into motion and tried to keep the Guardsman in sight. The cold took his legs. At least that was how it felt; the water's frigid grasp had somehow cut him off at the waist. He still kicked but he could no longer feel his legs. His arms were likewise numb wrappings clasped around the bladder at his chest. The sword's weight pulling on his left threatened to swamp him. His teeth chattered continuously and so loudly he was sure he would be next to be pushed under the surface. ‘Close now,’ someone whispered behind. Kyle could only grunt an acknowledgement. ‘Right,’ the voice warned. ‘The fourth ship?’ he stammered. ‘Hood kiss that. It's a ship ain't it? Take it! Sharpish, turn. There, reach up.’ Kyle raised his numb arm, found slimy cold timbers. ‘How…?’ ‘A rope ladder ahead.’ He bumped his way forward and managed to entangle his arm in the ladder and slowly, laboriously, dragged himself up the first few wood rungs. Hands from above heaved him up the rest of the way and he lay on the warm deck gasping. There's another – help him.’ The dark shape peered down over the side. ‘There's no one there,’ and the man padded off silent. The ship had already been taken. Kyle warmed himself at coals simmering in an iron brazier at mid-deck. Two Guardsmen hurried about, clearing the ship's deck. ‘We're leaving now?’ Kyle asked of one. This one paused, eyed him up and down. ‘A new hand, hey?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Who swore you in?’ ‘Stoop.’ This fellow nodded, impressed by the name. Kyle wondered what could possibly be impressive about the broken-down one-handed saboteur. ‘Know ships?’ ‘No.’ Then you are now officially a marine. Scrounge armour and weapons – especially missile weapons. Ready for blockade.’ ‘Blockade?’ ‘Aye. We'll need all their ships.’ Kyle forced down a laugh of disbelief. ‘But that's an entire city!’ The Guardsman's smile shone bright in the dark. ‘Just their best ships then.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Below, collect equipment.’ ‘Yes sir.’ Kyle expected blood-spattered slaughter belowdecks and so descended the set of steep stairs slowly. But what he found disturbed him in a far worse way; all the holds and bunk-lined ways he explored he found completely empty. Not one person, dead or alive. Where was everyone? What had happened? He could find no arms or armour anywhere. The rattling of metal sounded from sternward. Kyle readied his tulwar and edged forward. The narrow corridor ended at a room cramped by benches and tables. An open door led further to the stern. The noise of metal rattling continued. Kyle peeked in to see the back of a man, barefoot, in a wet shirt and trousers, struggling with a closed and chained cabinet door. ‘Wait a moment,’ the man said in Talian without turning around. Kyle wondered how he could have possibly known he was here. The noise of the vessel's rocking and creaking had covered his approach, he was sure. ‘Aye.’ More rattling, then the chains fell from the door. ‘Ha!’ The man pulled open the metal-bolted and barred door. Kyle glimpsed racks of spears and bows and swords within. ‘Help me bring these up.’ ‘Where is everyone? The crew, I mean.’ The Guardsman began unlocking the racks. Kyle now saw that he carried an immense ring of keys. ‘Merchants,’ the man sighed. ‘They want weapons locked away yet they expect to be protected at all times.’ His thick black hair, hacked short, shone like wet fur and the lines of his face appeared ready to creep up into a constant grin. ‘The crew? Just a skeleton watch. Some fought, some dived overboard.’ ‘What's the plan?’ The man stopped short, gave an exaggerated frown then returned to his grin. ‘The plan? Ah, you're a new hand. Capture the ships.’ ‘Right. Capture ships.’ Thunder rolled over and through the vessel, a burst from the middle distance. Kyle frowned, puzzled – it was a clear night. The Guardsman's grin turned eager. ‘It's started. Let's go.’ He collected an armful of weapons. A faint orange glow flickered over the deck. Flames now engulfed the Kurzan waterfront. While Kyle watched, a fresh burst of yellow and white flame rocked one harbour tower. It hunched, then, with an awful slow grace, toppled sideways, flattening as it went. More thunder rolled up the inlet. ‘Something's got Smoky all in a froth,’ murmured the Guardsman. ‘What about the ships?’ ‘Naw. Don't worry about them. Cowl would murder him.’ ‘They're on their way!’ someone shouted from the bows. The Guardsman laughed. ‘You see? All they needed was a little encouragement.’ ‘And just what do we do when they get here?’ Kyle asked. Surprised, the mercenary looked to Kyle. ‘Sorry. I keep forgetting. It's hard for us old-timers. My name is Cole. You?’ ‘Kyle. Are you – Avowed?’ ‘Yes.’ Cole gestured to two others with him. ‘I'll hold the deck. You two flank me. You,’ he pointed to Kyle, ‘can you use a bow?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Good. Get up on the foredeck with the man there – follow his orders.’ ‘Aye, aye.’ Kyle gathered all the arrow sheaths he could hold. The man at the raised bow deck was pale, skinny and obviously freezing cold as he stood in a soaked linen shirt and hide trousers hugging himself and stamping his feet. ‘You an archer?’ the Guardsman asked Kyle in accented Talian. ‘I can shoot.’ ‘OK. Try out those. Find one you like.’ Kyle strung one bow, took a test shot out into the darkness. Weak, he judged, but true. ‘What's the plan?’ ‘I'll pick out targets. You hit them.’ ‘OK.’ To get a better feel for the bow, Kyle shot more arrows into the dark. ‘You a local recruit?’ the man asked. ‘Yes. Kyle. You?’ ‘Parsell, Lurgman Parsell. Genabackis.’ Distracted, the man peered out over the dark waves of the inlet glimmering with reflected flames. ‘Less than one league now,’ he called to mid-ship. ‘I mark them,’ Cole answered. Kyle squinted out over the calm waters. He could barely discern dark shapes approaching, pale lines at their bows, let alone any possible target. How was he to hit anything? ‘Ah, there's a problem. I can't see a thing.’ ‘You can't-’ Lurgman sighed, pulled a leather pouch from under his shirt, took out a slip of oiled cloth. ‘There might be enough left on this, try it.’ ‘What do I do with it?’ ‘You rub it over your eyes. Open, mind you – they have to be open.’ ‘Doesn't that hurt?’ ‘Like a rasp.’ Kyle studied the parchment, dubious. ‘Do I have to?’ The thump of distant crossbows and catapults echoed across the inlet. Incendiaries shot high up into the night, arced to reveal scores of vessels bearing down upon them. ‘No choice now.’ Kyle opened one eye wide and pressed the cloth to it then flinched, snarling and cursing as acid ate at his eye. ‘Wind take you! Gods, man! Gods!’ ‘The other one – quick.’ Cole roared, ‘Get rid of those two war-galleys! We don't want them.’ ‘Aye, aye.’ Blinking, eyes watering, Kyle straightened to a near monochrome half-light of blindingly bright flames, searing stars in the night sky, and a clear vision of ships, all under oar, making slow progress towards them. Distantly, the clash of battle sounded as ship met ship. Lurgman was grunting and hissing his effort, eyes shut, hands held out before him, and the hair on Kyle's neck and arms tingled as he realized he stood with a mage, possibly another Avowed. ‘Are they in range?’ Lurgman ground through clenched teeth. The nearest vessels, two broad-bellied cargo ships, had been attempting to pass to either side of their ship. Both had lost all headway and rocked as if rudderless. The decks of both swarmed with soldiers. Kyle was surprised to see how all their oars were warped and curled – utterly useless. ‘Now, yes.’ Arrows pelted down and Kyle hunched low for cover behind the gunwale. Lurgman didn't move. ‘Stand up. We won't get hit.’ Then he flinched as if slapped. ‘’Ware a mage!’ he bellowed. At that moment a ball of actinic-bright energy burst alight on deck. It spun about randomly, striking a mast with a flash then ricocheting to a barrel that it consumed in a deafening eruption. ‘Bring that man down!’ Cole bellowed, outraged. ‘Aye,’ Lurgman answered. He scanned the ships. Grapnels struck the gunwales. The cargo ships drew closer, one to either side. Beyond, two long and low war-galleys foundered in the relatively calm waters, sinking for no reason Kyle could see. Soldiers jammed the decks. They wrestled frantically with their armour. Some fell overboard to disappear instantly. For the first time Kyle felt safe in his thin leathers. ‘There!’ Lurgman shouted, catching Kyle's arm. ‘The stern. The old fellow in the dark hat like a hood. Gold at his neck.‘ Kyle spotted him, sighted and loosed. The arrow hung in the dark as if suspended then took the throat of a man at the mage's side. His gaze darted to Kyle, narrowed to luminous slits. His hands rose, gestured. Gold and jewellery glittered at the fingers. ‘’Ware your back,’ someone called behind Kyle who spun to see a darkening and swirling like oil-smoke at the far side of the bow deck. ‘Lurgman!’ he warned. The mage turned and gaped. ‘Hood's curse! Cole! A summoning!’ Kyle snapped a glimpse to the deck to see Cole and his two flankers encircled by a sea of Kurzan soldiery. The mage pushed Kyle forward. ‘Buy me time. Time!’ A scaled and clawed foot emerged from the Warren portal. A long face, scaled olive-green like that of an insect, peered out. Kyle pressed the blade of his tulwar to his lips. The demon, or sending, or whatever it was, reached out as if to simply grasp Kyle in one taloned hand and so he swung. The tulwar severed the forearm sending the hand spinning out overboard. The fiend shrieked. A hot stream of ichor gushed over Kyle who jerked back, stung, blinking to clear his eyes. Kurzan soldiers appeared at the stairs up from the mid-deck, took in the battle scene at the upper deck, and flinched away. The fiend grasped the end of his forearm. Smoke fumed from the wound. It withdrew its hand revealing a hardened, cauterized stump. Its jaws moved, crackling and snapping, and somehow Kyle understood the words: ‘Just a soldier,’ he answered because he himself had no idea what had just happened. Arrows stormed down around the vessel, deflected somehow. Flames spread across the waves engulfing a ship as it rammed the vessel next to Kyle's. The fiend straightened. ‘J Then, and Kyle could only understand it this way, the fiend melted. Its scaled keratin or bone skeleton, or armour, melted and ran, buckling and twisting. It fell to its knees and before its skull collapsed like heated wax Kyle thought he saw horror and astonishment in its black eyes. Kyle retreated to the ship's side, saw Lurgman slumped, one arm hooked over the gunwale. He helped the mage up. ‘How did you do that?’ he whispered, awed. ‘I could very well ask you the same question,’ the mage anwered, his voice ragged. Blood ran from his nose and blotched his eyes carmine. Those eyes narrowed and Lurgman turned to glare out over the water. Kyle looked – men now supported the Kurzan mage. His hat was gone, his bald head shining. ‘So, it's going to be the hard way is it?’ Lurgman growled beneath his breath. ‘Can you throw better than you shoot?’ ‘From this distance, yes.’ ‘Then throw this.’ The mage passed Kyle a small ball like a slingstone. Kyle hefted it, nodded. He aimed, reached back and threw. The stone landed, unseen, somewhere near the mage. While Kyle watched, the men at the stern deck suddenly clutched at their faces. Their mouths gaped into dark ovals. Their eyes bulged. Clawed fingers gouged into flesh and all crowding the stern of the vessel fell. The mage toppled among them. Kyle turned away, feeling his stomach rising into his throat. Lurgman eased himself down to sit with his back to the ship's side. Queasy, his limbs quivering with unspent energy, Kyle threw himself down beside the man. ‘So this is the way you Avowed finish your arguments.’ ‘Avowed? Me? Gods no. I'm not in Kurzan soldiers edged warily up the stairs. Lurgman raised a menacing hand to them and they flinched away. ‘No, I was just a healer in Cat when the Malazans invaded. A Bone Mage we're called back there. Was a damned good one too. I healed breaks, straightened bones, cleaned infections. So, as you saw, I'm really not much of a battle mage.’ ‘Could've fooled me.’ The clash of steel and thump and rattle of armour subsided below. Lurgman eyed Kyle sidelong. ‘What of you? What's the story on that blade?’ Kyle shrugged. ‘Smoky inscribed it, if that's what you mean.’ Cole appeared at the top of one stairway; his tunic hung in bloody shreds about his waist. Shallow cuts crisscrossed his arms and chest. Sweat ran from his soaked hair. He peered around the bow, frowned his surprise. ‘I thought a demon ate you two.’ ‘We got lucky,’ said Lurgman. ‘Well, get down here, Twisty. My flankers need healing and more ships are coming.’ He thumped back down the stairs. Kyle helped Lurgman to his feet. ‘Twisty?’ The mage's mouth curled wryly. ‘Twisty. They insist on calling me Twisty.’ At night in a barren stone valley a man sat wrapped in a thick cloak next to a roaring bonfire. The firelight flickered against surrounding stone cliffs. He sat listening to the distant roar of ocean surf, tossed sticks into the blaze. Presently, a whirring noise echoed about the valley and the man stood, squinted into the night sky. A winged insect much like a giant dragonfly descended to land amid the brush and rock to one side. An armoured figure slowly and stiffly dismounted. Cloak cast aside, the man approached. His arms hung at his sides, long and thick and knotted with muscle. His sun-browned and aged face wrinkled in pleasure. Grinning, he called, ‘You're late, Hunchell. But it does my heart good to see you again.’ The flames reflected gold from the figure's armour. ‘My father, Hunchell, is too old for such long flights now, Shatterer. But he sends his continued loyalty and regards. I am first son, V'thell.’ ‘Welcome to my humble island.’ The two clasped forearms. ‘Will this then be our marshalling point?’ ‘Yes. The island is secure. It will serve as one of our depots and staging grounds.’ ‘I understand.’ The Gold Moranth, come by all the distance from far northern Genabackis, regarded the man for a time in silence, the chitinous visor of his full helm unreadable. ‘Go ahead, ask it,’ the man ground out. ‘Very well. Why do you pursue this course? You risk – shattering – it all.’ ‘We can't stand idly by any longer, V'thell. Everything's slipping away bit by bit. Everything we struggled to raise. She doesn't understand how the machine we built must run.’ ‘Yet she had a hand in that building.’ The man's mouth clenched into a hard line. ‘Yeah, that's true. I didn't say it was easy.’ He waved the topic aside. ‘But what about the Silver. Are they with us?’ ‘Yes. We can count on a flight of Silver quorl. Some Green are with us as well. The Black and the Red… well, we shall see. As for the Blue – they tender transport contracts with everyone. I suspect it is they who will come out ahead after all this.’ ‘Ain't that always the way. Will you rest here?’ ‘No, I must go immediately.’ ‘Well, give my regards to your father. Tell him to begin moving materiel. Contract all the Blue vessels you can.’ V'thell inclined his armoured head. ‘Very well.’ The man watched as the Gold Moranth remounted. The wings of the insect quorl became a blur. He ducked his head against the dust and thrown sand, watched the creature rise and disappear into the night. After a time another figure emerged from the darkness. He wore a long dark cloak and hood. ‘Can we trust them?’ The man named Shatterer by the Moranth barked a laugh at that. ‘Yeah, so long as there remains a chance we might win. Then they will renegotiate. What of you?’ Shatterer smiled thinly. ‘There are rumours of the return of the Crimson Guard.’ A derisive snort. ‘Every year you hear that. Especially with bad times. I wouldn't give that any weight.’ The cloaked man's hood rose, yet the absolute darkness within was unchanged. ‘Have you considered the possibility that they might actually return? There are, after all, names among them that echo like nightmares.’ ‘There are nightmare names among us too.’ ‘When you say us – whom do you mean? Dassem is gone. Kellanved and Dancer are gone. Who remains to face them?’ ‘We've always beaten them.’ ‘In the past, yes.’ Shatterer rubbed the back of his neck. ‘If you're lookin’ for a sure thing you've come to the wrong place. You toss your bones and the Twins decide.’ ‘I'm not one to leave anything to chance.’ ‘Everything's a chance. But if you haven't learned that by now then I suppose you never will.’ ‘Why should I, when I leave nothing to chance?’ ‘Anything else?’ ‘No. I am convinced of this Moranth connection. I will report appropriately.’ ‘Then do so.’ The cloaked figure inclined its head. ‘We will remain in touch through the usual channels.’ ‘Yeah. Those.’ The man – or woman – strolled away into the night. Shatterer watched the flames for a time, sighed, cracked his knuckles. Dealing with traitors always set his teeth on edge. Especially a Claw traitor. But then, he now fell within that same category as well. He remembered the first contacts with the Moranth and how he had crushed the torso armour of one in a bear hug. They insisted on that ridiculous name after that. Easier if they'd just call him Crust, or Urko. The traitor Claw's worries returned to him and he recalled the image of Skinner striding across ravaged battlefields, shrugging off the worst anyone could throw at him and killing, killing. He shuddered. Hood help her should he show up again. But no, all analysis said she would simply send the entirety of the Claw lists at them until only the regulars remained. It might take hundreds but eventually superior numbers would tell. In any case, they would act regardless. It was cruel and hard but they meant to win and this was their best chance this generation. In a way he felt sorry for her; she was caught in a nightmare of her own making – Abyss, she might even thank them for it. Yet he knew in the end she would accept it. Laseen understood exigencies. She'd always understood those. ‘It won't stand.’ ‘Sure it will.’ ‘No – not enough support on the right. It'll give on that side and bring the whole thing down.’ ‘No, it won't. We packed it tight. There's enough counter-strain.’ The two Malazan marines, a man and a woman, sat on a heap of bricks outside Li Heng's east-facing Dawn Gate. They studied the towering outer arch of the massive gatehouse. To the north and south stretched the curtain walls of Li Heng's legendary ten man-heights of near-invincible defences. A robed man edged his way out of the gate – a shadowed entrance broad enough to swallow four chariots side by side. He peered about, a hand shading his gaze, and spotted the two. He turned and bellowed something that the acoustics of the long tunnel echoed and magnified into an unintelligible roar. Another man came running out, raced up to the first and extended an umbrella over him. This one straightened his robes, adjusted his wide sleeves, and approached. The second kept pace, umbrella high. ‘You there – you two! Where is your commander?’ The two eyed one another. The woman, wearing a mangled leather cap, touched a finger to it. ‘Magistrate Ehrlann. What brings you out to the construction project you're in charge of? Bad news, I'd wager.’ Ehrlann dabbed a white silk handkerchief to his face, smiled thinly. ‘Your disrespect has long been noted, you, ah, engineers. Criminal conviction, I think, will see a due improvement in manners.’ ‘Did you hear that, Sunny?’ said the woman. ‘We're engineers. But how are we gonna keep your walls built for you if you take us to court?’ ‘In chains, I imagine,’ smiled the magistrate. ‘Your commander?’ ‘Working.’ Ehrlann waved flies away. ‘Drunk, you mean. Jamaer! Switch!’ ‘Switch what?’ asked Sunny. ‘Not you fools.’ With his free hand the umbrella-holder extended a stick tied at one end with a tuft of bhederin hair. Ehrlann took it and waved it before his face. ‘Don't bother yourselves. I see him now.’ Ehrlann marched off, stumbling over the loose tumbled brick and rock. Jamaer followed, umbrella held high. The two eyed one another. ‘Should we go along?’ asked the female saboteur and she adjusted the leather cap on her hacked-short brown hair. ‘Storo might kill him. That'd look bad when we're in court.’ ‘You're right.’ They followed. Ehrlann had stopped at an awning made from a military cloak roped from the side of a towering block of limestone half-buried in the ground. A man was straightening out from under it, weaving, coughing, wiping his hands down the front of his stained loose jerkin. The two engineers saluted crisply. ‘Captain Storo, sir!’ Storo shot them a dark look, swallowed and grimaced at what he tasted. ‘That's sergeant. What is it now, Ehrlann?’ ‘I have come to demand the opening of Dawn Gate, sir. Demand it. Our builders tell us that restorations are long complete. They say the structure is now sound and that commercial access is long overdue.’ Storo scratched his sallow stubbled cheeks, shaded his eyes from the sun. ‘Would those be the same builders the Fist ordered you to fire for turning a blind eye to the wall's dismantling?’ ‘Mere nuisance pilfering over the years carried out by these undesirables.’ The magistrate waved his switch to the squatter camp spread out from both sides of the east road. Storo squinted at the camp. ‘They live in tents, Ehrlann.’ ‘Nevertheless, you can delay no longer. Work here is done. Your contract is over. Finished. If we must, the court will report to High Fist Anand that we no longer require the services of his military engineers and that the defences of Li Heng have been returned to their ancient bright glory.’ Sunlight shone on Ehrlann and he winced, snapping, ‘Higher, you fool!’ Jamaer raised the umbrella higher. ‘You can report all you like.’ Storo said. He crouched to retrieve a helmet from under the awning, pulled it on. ‘But the only report Anand will listen to is mine.’ Ehrlann dabbed at the sweat beading his face, took hold of the robes at his front. ‘Do not force the Court of Magistrates to bring formal charges, commander.’ Storo's gaze narrowed. ‘Such as?’ ‘There have been unfortunate assaults upon citizens, commander. Harassment of officials in the course of their duties.’ Storo snorted. ‘If I were you, Ehrlann, I would not try to arrest any of my men. Jalor, for one, is a tribesman from Seven Cities. He wouldn't take to it. And Rell -’ Storo shook his head. ‘I'd hate to think of what he'd do. In any case, Fist Rheena wouldn't honour any of your civil writs.’ ‘Yes. She would. The city garrison is not behind you, commander.’ ‘Meaning you've bought them.’ ‘Commander! I object to that language!’ ‘Don't bother, Ehrlann. Hurl, Sunny… what's your opinion on the gate fortress, the tunnel, the arches?’ ‘Good for fifty years,’ said Hurl. ‘It will fall – sooner than later,’ said Sunny. ‘There you go,’ Storo told Ehrlann. The magistrate waved the switch before his face, eyed Storo. ‘Meaning…?’ ‘Meaning you have your gate. Open it to traffic tomorrow.’ The magistrate beamed, threw his arms wide as if he would embrace Storo. ‘Excellent, commander. I knew you would listen. All finished then. I must admit it has been an education dealing with you veterans – we do not see too many here in the interior. Tell me, just what was the name of those barbarian lands you conquered all to the glory of the Empress? Gangabaka? Bena-gagan?’ ‘Genabackis,’ Storo sighed. ‘And we're not finished. Not yet.’ Ehrlann frowned warily. ‘I'm sorry, commander?’ ‘That hill over there,’ Storo lifted his chin to the north. ‘Yes? Executioner's Hill?’ ‘I want to take one man's height-’ ‘Two,’ said Hurl. ‘Two man-heights off it.’ The switch stopped moving. ‘You are joking, commander.’ Ehrlann pointed the switch. ‘It's not ancient tradition.’ ‘Claims whom?’ ‘My mage, Silk. He says it only goes back seventy years and that's good enough for me. In any case, you can strangle your starving poor elsewhere, Ehrlann. After you provide the labour to lower the profile of that hill we'll start on the moat.’ ‘The moat? A moat? Where is that, pray?’ ‘Right where you're standing.’ Storo picked up his weapon belt and dusty hauberk. ‘Good day, magistrate. Hurl, Sunny. I need a drink.’ Magistrate Ehrlann watched the veterans head to Dawn Gate. He peered down to the loose dirt, broken brick and trampled rubbish at his feet. Sunlight struck the top of his head and he flinched. ‘Jamaer! Umbrella!’ The fat man in ocean-blue robes walked Unta's street of Dragons deck readers, Wax Witches and Warren Seers – Diviner's Row – with the patient air of a beachcomber searching a deserted shore for lost treasure. Yet Diviner's Row was far from deserted. As the Imperial capital, Unta was the lodestone, the vortex, drawing to it all manner of Divination was the current Imperial fashion. As the day cooled and the blue sky darkened to purple, the Row seethed with crowds from all stations of life, each seeking a hint of – or protection against – Twin Oponn's capricious turns: the Lad's push, or the Lady's pull. Amid the jostling evening crowd charm-sellers touted the vitality of their clattering relics, icons and amulets. Stallkeepers hectored passersby. ‘Your fortune this night, gracious one!’ ‘Chart the influences of the Many Realms upon your Path!’ ‘The Mysteries of Ascension revealed, noble sir.’ ‘A great many enemies oppose you.‘ The plump man in blue robes froze. He peered down at a dirty street-urchin just shorter than he. ‘You risk all,’ the youth continued, his eyes squeezed shut, ‘but for a prize beyond your imaginings.’ The man's brows climbed his seamed forehead and his thick lips tightened, then he threw back his head and guffawed. His laughter revealed teeth stained a fading green that rendered them dingy and ill-looking. Of course!‘ he agreed. ‘But of course! The future you have right. A great talent is yours, lad.’ He mussed the youth's greasy hair then handed him a coin. Waving to the nearest stallkeeper, he called, ‘A great future I foretell for that bold one!’ then he continued on, leaving a confused foreteller of Dead Poliel's visitations squinting into the crowd. Hawkers of Dragons decks thrust their wares at the man. He turned a tolerant eye upon all. The merits of each ancient velvet-wrapped stack of cards he queried until finally purchasing one at a greatly reduced sum due to sudden misfortune within the family that had held it for generations. Passing a stall offering relics, invested jewellery and stacks of charms, he paused and returned. The man beside the cart straightened from his stool, noted the fat, expensively-robed man's gaze fixed upon a sheath of necklaces. He smiled knowingly. ‘Yes. You have a discriminating eye, noble sir.’ The vendor took down the knotted necklaces, offered them to the man who flinched away. ‘Note the links, sir, chains in miniature. And the pendants! Guaranteed slivers of bone from the very remains of the poor victims of that fiend Coltaine's death march.’ The fat man's eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets. He swallowed with difficulty. ‘My Lord is familiar with that sad episode?’ Mastering himself, Mallick Rel found his voice, croaked, ‘Yes.’ ‘A most disgraceful tragedy, was it not?’ Mallick straightened his shoulders. His lips drew back from his stained teeth. ‘Yes. An awful failure. Hauntings of it ever return to me like waves.’ ‘Thank the wisdom of the Empress in her call for all Quon to rise against the traitorous Wickans.’ ‘Yes. Thank her.’ ‘Then my Lord must have this relic – may we all learn from what it carries.’ Bowing, the vendor missed Mallick's eyes, deep within their pockets of fat, dart to him with a strange intensity. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A lesson ever to be heeded.’ Then he smiled beatifically. ‘Of course I shall purchase your excellent relic – and is that a charm to deflect Hood's eternal hunger I see next to it?’ |
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