"Return of the Crimson Guard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Esslemont Ian C.)*As the evening darkened into night and moths and bats came out, servants lit lanterns outside the shops of the more enduring fortunetellers and deck-readers. Mallick entered the premises of one Lady Batevari. A recent arrival in the capital herself, Lady Batevari had, in a short space of time, established a formidable reputation as a most profound sensitive to the hints and future patterns to be glimpsed within the controlling influences of the Warrens. Known throughout the streets as the High Priestess of the Queen of Dreams, her official position within the cult remained uncertain since she and the Grand Temple on God's Round determinedly ignored each other. Some dismissed her as a charlatan, citing her claim to be from Darujhistan where no one who had ever been there could remember hearing her name mentioned. Others named her the true practitioner of the cult and pointed to her record of undeniably accurate prophecies and predictions. Both sides of the debate noted Mallick Rel's devotion as proof positive of their position. Unaware of the debate, or perhaps keenly aware, Mallick entered the foyer. He was met by a servant dressed in the traditional leggings and tunic of a resident of Pale in northern Genabackis – for it had become fashionable for wealthy households to hire such emigrants and refugees from the Imperial conquests to serve as footmen, guards and maids in waiting. Mallick handed the man his ocean-blue travelling robes and the man bowed, waving an arm to the parlour. At the portal, Mallick froze, wincing. A phantasmagoric assemblage of furniture, textiles and artwork from all the provinces of the Empire and beyond assaulted him. It was as if a cyclone such as those that occasionally struck his Falaran homeland had torn through the main Bazaar of Aren and he now viewed the resultant carnage. Entering, he sneered at a Falaran rug – cheap tourist tat, sniffed at a Barghast totem – an obvious fake, and grimaced at the clashing colours of a Letherii board-painting – a copy unfortunate in its accuracy. A frail old woman's voice quavered from the portal, ‘Is that you, young Mallick?’ He turned to a grey-haired, stick-limbed old woman shorter even than he. A slip of a girl, Taya, in white dancing robes steadied the old woman at one arm. Mallick bowed reverently. ‘M'Lady.’ Taya steered Lady Batevari to the plushest chair and arranged herself on the carpeted floor beside, feet tucked under the robes that pooled around her. Her kohl-ringed eyes sparkled impishly up at Mallick from above her transparent dancer's veil. The footman entered carrying a tray of sweetmeats and drinks in tall crystal glasses. Mallick and Lady Batevari each took a glass. ‘The turmoil among the ranks of these so-called gods continues, Mallick,’ Batevari announced with clear relish. ‘And it is, of course, reflected here with appropriate turmoil in our mundane Realm.’ Mallick beamed his agreement. ‘Most certainly,’ he murmured. She straightened, hands clenching like claws at the armrests. ‘They scurry like rats caught in a house aflame!’ Mallick choked into his drink. Lady Batevari fell back into her chair. She emptied her glass in one long swallow. Taya gave Mallick a dramatic wink. ‘So, Hero of the crushing of the Seven Cities rebellion,’ the old woman intoned, her black eyes now slitted, ‘what can this poor vessel offer you? You, who have so far to go – and you will go far, Mallick. Very far indeed, as I have said many times…’ ‘M'Lady is too kind.’ ‘That was not a Mallick exchanged quick glances with Taya who rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘I am reassured,’ he answered, struggling to keep his naturally soft voice loud. ‘Should you be?’ Mallick fought a glare. ‘In any case,’ she continued, perhaps not noticing, ‘we were talking of the so-called gods.’ The woman stared off into the distance, silent for a long time. Mallick examined her wrinkled face, her eyes almost lost in their puckered crow's-feet. Not more of her insufferable posing? ‘I see a mighty clash of wills closing upon us sooner than anyone imagines,‘ she crooned, dreamily. ‘I see schemes within schemes and a scurrying hither and thither! I see the New colliding against the Old and a Usurpation! Order inverted! And as the Houses collapse the powers turn upon one another like the rats they are. Brother ‘gainst sister. They all eye the injured but he is not the weakest. No, yet his time will come. The ones who seem the strongest are… Too long have they stood unchallenged! One hides in the dark while they all contend… Yet does he see his Path truly – if at all? The darkest – he-’ She gasped, coughing and hacking into a fist. ‘His Doom is so close at hand! As for the brightest… He is ever the most exposed while She who watches will miss her chance and the beasts arise to chase one last chance to survive this coming translation. So the Pantheon shall perish. And from the ashes will arise… will arise…’ Mallick, staring, drink forgotten despite his utter scepticism, raised a brow, ‘Yes? What?’ Lady Batevari blinked her sunken eyes. ‘Yes? What indeed?’ She held up her empty glass, frowned at it. ‘Hernon! More refreshments!’ Mallick pushed down an impulse to throttle the crone. Sometimes he, who should know better than anyone, sometimes even he wondered… he glanced to Taya. Her gaze on the old woman appeared uncharacteristically troubled. ‘Your presentiments and prophecies astonish me as always,’ he announced while Hernon, the servant, refilled the Lady's glass. She merely smiled loftily. ‘Your predictions regarding the Crimson Guard, for example,’ he said, watching Hernon leave the room. ‘They are definitely close now. Much closer than any know. As you foresaw. And a firm hand will be needed to forestall them…’ Draining her glass of wine in one long draught, Lady Batevari murmured dreamily, ‘As I foresaw… And now,’ she announced, struggling to rise while Taya hurried to help her. ‘I will leave you two to speak in private.’ A clawed hand swung to Mallick. ‘For I know your true motives for coming here to my humble home in exile, Mallick, Scourge of the Rebellion.’ Standing as well, Mallick put on a stiff smile. He and Taya shared a quick anxious glance. ‘Yes? You do?’ ‘Yes, of course I do!’ Leaning close, she leered. ‘You would steal this young flower from my side, you rake! My companion who has been my only solace through my long exile from civilization at sweet Darujhistan.’ She raised a hand in mock surrender. ‘But who am I to stand between youth and passion!’ Bowing, Mallick waved aside any such intentions. ‘Never, m'Lady.’ ‘So you say, Confounder of the Seven Cities Insurrection. But do not despair.’ Lady Batevari winked broadly. ‘She may yet yield. Do not abandon the siege.’ Taya lowered her face, covering her mouth. Stifling her laughter, Mallick knew, feeling, oddly, a flash of irritation. ‘And so I am off to my quarters – to meditate upon the Ineffable. Hernon! Come!’ The footman returned and escorted Lady Batevari from the parlour. Mallick bowed and Taya curtsied. From the hall she called, ‘Remember, child, Hernon shall be just within should our guest forget himself and in the heat of passion press his suit too forcefully.’ Taya covered her mouth again – this time failing to completely mask a giggle. Mallick reflected with surprise on his spasm of anger. If only he knew for certain – senility or malicious insult? He poured himself another glass of the local Untan white. Taya threw herself into the chair, laughing into both hands. Mallick waited until certain the old hag was gone. He swirled the wine, noting the dregs gyring like a mist at the bottom. ‘Were not I so sure the waters shallow,’ he breathed, ‘profound depths I would sometime suspect.’ Smiling wickedly, Taya curled her legs beneath her. ‘It's her job to appear profound, Mallick. And she really is rather good – wouldn't you say?’ Mallick sipped the wine. Too dry for his liking. ‘And this speech? These current prophetic mouthings?’ ‘Her most recent line.’ Taya rearranged the wispy dancer's scarves to expose her long arms. ‘Nothing too daring, when you think about it, what with Fener's fall, Trake's rise, eager new Houses in the Deck and swarms of new cards. Rather conventional, really.’ ‘Yet a certain elegance haunts Taya pulled back her long black hair, knotted it through itself. ‘If there is any elegance, Mallick, dear,’ she smiled, ‘it is all due to you.’ Mallick bowed. ‘So. The Crimson Guard.’ Taya stroked her fingers over the chair's padded rests. ‘I heard much of them in Darujhistan, of course. How I wish we had seen them there. They are coming?’ Mallick pursed his lips, thought about sitting opposite the girl, then decided against it. He paced while pretending to examine the artwork, cleared his throat. ‘Like the tide, they are close and cannot be forestalled. Their vow – it drags them ever onward. As always, their greatest strength and greatest weakness. And so standing idly by I do not see them.’ Taya's gaze flicked to Mallick. ‘Standing idly by during what?’ ‘Why, during the current times of trouble, of course,’ he smiled blandly. Affecting a pout, Taya blew an errant strand of hair from her face. ‘I do not like it when you hold out, Mallick. But never mind. I too have my sources, and I listen in on every one of the old bat's consultations. You would be surprised who comes to see her – then again, I suppose you wouldn't – and no one has such information. Do not tell me you have a source within the Guard.’ Mallick smiled as if at the quaintness of the suggestion and shook his head. ‘No, child. If you knew anything about the Guard such a thought would never occur. It is an impossibility.’ The girl shrugged. ‘Any organization can be penetrated. Especially a mercenary one.’ Mallick halted, faced Taya directly. ‘I must impress upon you the profoundness of your error. Do not think of the Guard as mercenaries. Think of them more as a military Exhaling, Taya looked skyward. ‘Gods, not like the ones out of Elingarth. Mallick watched the girl arc her back, stretching further, thrusting her high small breasts against the translucent cloth. ‘Do not presume, Mallick, to tell me how to do my work. I do not tell you how to manoeuvre behind the Assembly.’ Mallick allowed his voice to diminish almost to nothing. ‘But you do, cherished.’ She giggled. ‘A woman's prerogative, Mallick.’ He raised the glass, acknowledging such. ‘So, Councillor Imry… This will take a while.’ ‘Soon.’ Mallick raised a placating hand. ‘Please, love. Listen. Time for subtlety and slyness is fast dissipating. Waters are rising and all indications tell it will soon be time to push our modest ship on to the current of events.’ Taya leaned back, plucked at the feather-like white cloth draped over one thigh. ‘I see. Very well. But it may be very messy. There may be… questions.’ Mallick set aside his glass, stood. ‘Such questions swept aside by the coming storm. Now, I shall leave you to your work.’ ‘Am I to begin tonight, then? Dressed as I am?’ She spread her arms wide. Mallick eyed her indifferently. ‘If you think it best. I would never presume to instruct you how to pursue your work.’ Taya's slapped the plush cloth of the armrests. ‘Damn you, Mallick, to the Chained One's own anguish. I don't know why I put up with you.’ He bowed. ‘Perhaps because together we have chance of achieving mutual ambitions.’ Taya waved him away. ‘Yes. Perhaps. Why, in the last month alone I have frustrated two assassination attempts against you.’ She peered up at him from under lowered eyelids. ‘You must be gaining influence.’ Mallick hesitated, unsure. Taya nodded without interest. ‘Yes, Mallick. As ever.’ Outside, Mallick pulled his robes tight against the cooling evening air and pursed his fleshy lips. How dispiriting it was to have to stoop to cajoling and unctuous flattery to gain his way. Still, it had proved a worthy investment. No one, not even Laseen and her Claws who used to have this city tied in silk ribbons, could suspect who it was that had so successfully secreted herself within striking distance of the Imperial Palace. It was only his own Stepping down into the loud, lantern-lit street, thoughts of assassins and eliminations turned Mallick's mind to his own safety. He glanced about, searching for his own minder but realized that of course he would never catch a glimpse of the man. He sensed him, however, nearby. Another of the orphans he seemed to have a talent for collecting: an old tattooed mage, long imprisoned in the gaol of Aren – how easy to effect his escape and gain his loyalty. And how valuable the man's – how shall he put it – Slipping into the tide of citizens and servants crowding Diviner's Way, Mallick allowed himself a tight satisfied grin. Only two, dearest Taya? He had lost count of the number of sorcerous assaults Oryan had deflected with the strange Elder magic of his Warren delvings. Taya and Oryan: two powerful servants, of a kind. And of course, Mael, his God – and something else as well. It was almost as if the fates had woven the pattern for him to trace all the way to… Mallick stopped suddenly, almost tripping himself and those next to him within the flow of bodies. He thought of the old woman's rantings. The Gods meddling? A hand hard and knotted with arthritis took his elbow, eyes as dark and flat as wet stones close at his side studying him – Oryan. Mallick shook him off. It could not be. He would have a word with Mael. Soon. The first inkling Ghelel had of trouble was when the family fencing-master, Quinn, raised his dagger hand for a pause. She took the opportunity to squeeze her side where the pain of exertion threatened to double her over. ‘Why stop?’ she panted, breathless. ‘You had me there.’ Ignoring her, the old man crossed to the closed doors of the stable and used the point of his parrying blade to open one a slit. ‘What is it? Father come to frown at you again for training me?’ The stamp of many hooves reached her and she straightened, rolling one shoulder, wincing. ‘Who is it? The Adal family early from Tali? I should change.’ ‘Quiet – m'Lady.’ She sheathed her parrying gauche and slim longsword, pushed back the long black hair pasted to her face. The front of her laced leather jerkin was dark with sweat. She picked up a rag to wipe her face. How properly horrified they would be to see her all dishevelled like this. But then, in the final count, her reputation didn't really matter; she was only a ward of the Sellaths, not blood-related. She dropped the rag when raised voices sounded from the main house. Shouts? ‘What is it, Quinn?’ He turned from the main doors. Dust curled in the narrow shaft of light streaming into the stables. The horses nickered behind Ghelel, uneasy. He hadn't sheathed either his narrow Kanian fencing longsword or his parrying weapon. Beneath the man's mop of grey-shot hair his gaze darted about the stable, still ignoring her. A crash of wood being kicked, hooves stamping, a clash of metal – swordplay! She started for the doors. Through the gap she glimpsed soldiers of the Malazan garrison. Damned Malazans! What could they want here? She took breath to yell but Quinn dropped his dagger and slapped a hand to her mouth. Somehow he twisted her around, lifted her at the waist and began backing down the length of the stable. All the while he was murmuring, ‘Quiet lass, m'Lady. Quiet now.’ Kidnapping! Was this all some kind of Malazan plot? But why her? What could they possibly want with her? Struggling, she managed to free a hand and drew her dagger. The man did something at her elbow – a pinch or thrust of his thumb – and the blade fell from her numb hand. He carried her to a stall, gently shushed the mare within, then kicked aside the straw and manure. Both her wrists in one hand he began feeling about the wood slats of the floor. ‘We have to hide,’ he whispered. ‘Hide from them. Do you understand?’ He winced at her tone. ‘Lower your voice, Burn curse you! Or I'll use this on you.’ He raised her dagger, pommel first. ‘I don't have to hide. I'm not important.’ The sturdy blade of the gauche caught at an edge. A hidden trapdoor, no wider than a man's shoulders, swung up. ‘Yes you are.’ Ghelel stared, bewildered. She landed face down into piled damp rags that stank of rot. ‘Aw, Gods! Hood take you, you blasted oaf! Help! Anyone!’ Darkness as the trapdoor shut, a thump of Quinn jumping down. ‘Yell again and I'll knock you out,’ he hissed, his voice low. ‘Your choice.’ ‘Knock me out? Neither of us can see a thing!’ ‘Your eyes will adjust.’ Silence, her own breath panting. ‘What's going on?’ ‘Shhh…’ The gentle slide of metal on leather and wood as he raised his longsword. She could make out faint streams of light now slanting down from between the slats. ‘Are you going to… murder me?’ ‘No, but I'll stick whoever opens that trap.’ ‘What's going on?’ ‘Looks like the local Fist is rounding up hostages from all the first families.’ ‘Hostages! Why?’ She could just make out the pale oval of his face studying her. ‘Not been paying attention to things, hey?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, why should you have, I suppose…’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Insurrection. Secession. Call it what you will. The Talian noble houses never accepted Kellanved's rule – certainly not Laseen's.’ ‘My father ‘Stepfather.’ ‘Yes, I'm a ward! But he might as well be my father! Is he safe? What about Jhem? Little Darian?’ ‘They may all have been taken.’ Ghelel threw herself at the ladder she could now just see. He pulled her down. She punched and kicked him while he held her to him. As he had to the mare above, he made soft shushing noises. Eventually she relaxed in his arms. ‘Quiet now, m'Lady,’ he whispered. ‘Or they'll take you too.’ ‘I'm not important.’ ‘Yes you are.’ ‘What-’ He put his finger to her mouth. She stilled. Listening, she kept her body motionless, but relaxed, not straining, worked to remain conscious of her breath which she kept deep, not shallowing – techniques Quinn himself had taught her. A step above. A booted foot pressing down on straw. The scratching of a blade on wood. Quinn raised his longsword. He held her dagger out to her, which she took. A pause of silence then boots retreating, distant muted talk. Quinn relaxed. ‘We'll wait for night,’ he breathed. She felt awful about it but she nodded. A nudge woke Ghelel to absolute darkness and she started, panicked. ‘Shhh,’ someone said from the dark and, remembering, she relaxed. ‘Gods, it's dark.’ ‘Yes. Let's have a peek.’ She listened to him carefully ascending the ladder, push at the trapdoor. Starlight streamed down. Ghelel checked her sheathed weapons, adjusted her leather jerkin and trousers. Quinn stepped up out of sight. A moment later his hand appeared waving her up. Someone had ransacked the stable but most of the horses remained. The double doors hung open. A light shone from the kitchens of the main house. Ghelel strained to listen but heard only the wind brushing through trees. It was more quiet this night at the country house than she could ever remember. Quinn signalled that he would go ahead for a look. She nodded. Weapons ready, Quinn edged up to one door, leaned out. He was still for a long moment, then he gave a disdainful snort. ‘I can smell you,’ he called to the night. Movement from all around: a scrape of gravel, a creak of leather armour. ‘Send the girl out,’ someone called, ‘Quinn, or whatever your name really is. She's all we want. Walk out right now and keep walking.’ ‘I'll just go get her,’ and he hopped back inside, ducking. Crossbow bolts slammed into the timbers of the door, sending it swinging. ‘Cease fire, damn your hairless crotches! He's only one man!’ Hunched, Quinn took her arm, nodded to the rear. They retreated as far back as was possible. ‘Now what?’ she whispered. ‘If this fellow knows what he's doing this could get very ugly very quick. We'll have to make a run for it – out the back.’ Something crashed just inside the front of the barn then three flaming brands arced through the doors. Blue flames spread like animals darting across the straw-littered floor. ‘Damn,’ said Quinn, ‘he knows what he's doing.’ He clenched Ghelel's arm. ‘Whatever you do, do ‘Yes.’ ‘Good. Now, we dive out then come up running.’ He kicked open the rear door, waited an instant, then dived out, rolling. Ghelel followed without a thought as if this was just another exercise in all the years she'd spent training in swordplay and riding – there'd been little else for her to do as a mere ward. Something sang through the air above her, thudding into wood. Ahead, Quinn exchanged blows with two Malazan soldiers. Then he was off again even though the two men still stood. Coming abreast of them Ghelel raised her weapons but neither paid her any attention. One had a hand clenched to his neck where blood jetted between his fingers; the other was looking down and holding his chest as if pressing in his breath. Ghelel ran past them. Shouts sounded behind. Boots stamped the ground. Quinn was making for the closest arm of woods, avoiding the nearby vineyards. Whistling announced crossbow fire. Distantly, horses’ hooves slammed the ground. Ghelel cursed; there was no way they could outrun mounted pursuit. What had Quinn been thinking? But then, there was no way they could have remained within. Further missiles whipped the air nearby. She put them out of her mind, concentrated on running. All that remained ahead was the moonlit swath of a turned field then the cover of dense woods would be theirs. Ahead, Quinn gestured to the right: horsemen racing the treeline, all in Malazan greys. Fanderay take them! They'd been so Quinn kept glancing back, ‘Keep going!’ Ghelel put everything she could into her speed but the soft uneven earth clung to her boots. The horsemen cut ahead of them. They turned their mounts side to side, swords bright in the cold light. Quinn made directly for the nearest. The man's fearlessness almost brought a shout of admiration from Ghelel. He sloughed the man's swing then did something to the horse that made it rear, shrieking. The man fell, tumbling sideways. Quinn ignored him to turn to the next. Ghelel reached their line. The nearest Malazan had already dismounted. He thrust as if she would obligingly impale herself but she stopped short, avoiding the jab, then spun putting everything she had into a thrust of the gauche. The blade caught him full in the stomach, was held by the mail. Perhaps only an inch of blade entered him. Yet she'd been trained to expect this – more importantly the man had just had the breath knocked from him. She knelt then straightened thrusting up with the short blade to feel it enter upwards behind his chin. It locked there so tightly the man's convulsion tore it from her hand. She turned away to check the next threat, thinking, Quinn was engaging two opponents, the rest were closing. ‘Run, damn you!’ he yelled. Yelling came dimly through her ringing ears; rearing horses kicked up mud around her. Her breath steamed in the cold night air. She climbed to her feet, weaving, blinking. Quinn still stood, dodging, parrying blows from above. She bent to retrieve her longsword from the churned mud. Another horse reared, shrieking, stumbled backwards into the brush and Quinn thrust her after it. She fell, clawing at the struggling animal. Its rider was pinned beneath; she ignored him. Quinn forced her on. Together they fell into the thick brush. Branches slashed her face, cutting her cheeks, tore at her hair. She pushed forward. They burst out into low brush and the thick entangled branches of young pines. Quinn took her arm and suddenly she found she had to support him. Longsword still in her grip, she held him up. Bright blood smeared his left side where his shirt hung open, sliced. He smiled blearily at her, his grey hair wet with sweat. ‘Gave them a good run we did. Proud of you.’ ‘Shh, now. We'll be all right.’ ‘No, no. You go on. Leave me. Run.’ ‘No.’ He raised his hilt to her, saluting. ‘Proud of you. You did well, Ghelel Rhik Tayliin. A pleasure to serve.’ Hooves pounded the treeline, shouts for the crossbowmen. ‘We're not done yet.’ What did he mean, Tayliin? The only Tayliins she knew of had ruled during the last Hegemony. Kellanved and Dancer had the last of them slain when they took Tali. They heard more horses thundering up the slope of the field. Quinn urged her on. Just pushing her away made him fall to his knees. She couldn't leave him like that and put an arm around him to raise him up. ‘Apologies,’ he mumbled. ‘What did you mean, Tayliin?’ The old man just smiled, his face as pale as sun-bleached cloth. Shouts snapped her head around – angry yelling – the clash of weaponry. What in the name of the Queen of Mysteries was going on out there? Why hadn't they come for them? Silence but for the thumping of hooves and horses’ nickering. ‘Hello within! Are you there, Quinn?’ someone bellowed from the field. The weaponmaster raised a finger to his lips, gave Ghelel a wink. ‘It's me, damn you! You know my voice!’ Quinn struggled to sheathe his longsword. Ghelel helped him. ‘Very well!’ came a vexed call. ‘It's me, Amaron!’ Quinn smiled. ‘What are you doing here!’ he called back and winced in pain. He finished, softer, ‘Haven't you heard of delegating?’ ‘Yes, yes. Came as quick as I could. Come on down, will you.’ Quinn waved her forward. ‘It's safe, m'Lady. Amaron was my commander.’ ‘Your commander?’ ‘In the, ah, military. I served under him.’ He tried to walk but stumbled. She held him up. ‘My thanks – apologies.’ ‘Here.’ Arm around him, Ghelel guided him forward. ‘Thank you. Not the impression I wish to give.’ ‘Togg can take that.’ ‘You curse like a marine now, m'Lady. I despair.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Do not apologize. Offer sarcasm.’ ‘Always teaching, hey?’ ‘Touche.’ They pushed their way through to stumble out on to the field and into a unit of some thirty cavalry, the horses’ breath clouding the night air. Almost all Quinn's weight now rested on Ghelel's arm. Dismounted soldiers immediately took him from her. Calls sounded for a healer. They laid him on a horse blanket. ‘Who of you is Amaron?’ she asked. ‘I.’ A man dismounted, his boots thumping to the mud. He was a giant of a fellow, Napan, in blackened unadorned mail beneath dark-green riding cloaks. ‘He's lost a lot of blood.’ ‘He's in good hands.’ ‘What of the Sellaths? Can you take me to them?’ Amaron rested his gauntleted hands at his waist, studied her. He dropped his gaze. ‘I'm sorry – Ghelel. They've been taken. Fist Kal'il will no doubt be using them, and others, as guarantors of safe passage.’ ‘Safe passage?’ ‘Out of Tali. By ship, probably. The capital is now under the control of a troika of Talian noble families.’ Ghelel glanced about at the men; none wore Malazan greys. Amaron himself wore no insignia or sigil at all. In fact the calvarymen wore dark blue – the old Talian colours. ‘Who commands?’ ‘Choss. General Choss has been granted military command.’ ‘Not the same Choss who was High Fist for a time?’ ‘Yes, the same.’ ‘I thought he was dead.’ ‘That was the general idea.’ Ghelel found herself studying this man; Quinn had called him his old commander. ‘What of you? May I ask what you do?’ A shrug. ‘Whatever needs be done. You could say I'm in charge of intelligence gathering.’ ‘Certainly. We'll take him to the manor house, yes? There we can have a private conversation.’ Twelve days after descending from the mountains they reached the squalid village Traveller named Canton's Landing – no more than a collection of straw-roofed huts next to a slumped moat and ancient burned-down palisade overlooking the tidal flats of the Explorer's Sea. ‘We must wait here?’ Ereko asked. He nodded, his guarded, lined brown face revealing nothing. Ereko sighed. It was close to evening and they claimed an abandoned hut. Ereko attempted to stretch his cramped arms and legs and failed. Human dwellings simply did not agree with him. He'd always been better off sleeping under the stars. A villager, an old woman, came hobbling up with a basket under one arm. ‘A meal approaches,’ he told Traveller. ‘I wish they wouldn't. From the look of them they need the food more than us.’ ‘They are afraid of us and it's all that they have to offer. I also believe they want us to do something for them.’ Grinning a mouth empty of teeth, bowing, the old woman set out bowls of fish mush and hard-baked bread. ‘Send your headman,’ Traveller said to her in Talian. ‘We would speak with him.’ ‘The headman is dead. His nephew will speak with you. I will send him tomorrow.’ Later, while Traveller slept, Ereko stared out over the embers of the fire to the phosphor-glow of the waves rolling in to the strand. He saw another sea in his thoughts, a far angrier and savage sea, this one iron-grey and heaving with cliff-tall breakers. That last season the Riders had arrived early at the Stormwall. The section of curtain wall he faced remained quiet as the Riders no longer challenged him. Indeed, these last few years his time upon the wall had actually been boring. Of course this pleased his Korelan captors no end; one more portion of the wall they need not worry about. Ereko had watched the distant figure as he was chained as all were at the ankle. Watched as he'd been lowered to his station, a narrow stone ledge, without commotion or resistance. The man sat unperturbed as the ice-skeined waves smashed the wall and the spray obscured him. Many pointed as Riders surfaced far out in the strait. Some screamed, begged for release. His man remained sitting and the whisper of a fearful suspicion touched Ereko: might this fellow be one of those brave enough to refrain from defending their piece of the wall, sacrificing themselves to contribute in a small way to the enormous structure's erosion? A file of the Riders closed, distant dark shapes upon the waves. The otherworldly cold that accompanied them gripped even Ereko's limbs. Frost limned the leathers of his sleeves and trousers. Ice thickened over the stones making the footing slick and treacherous. As the Riders neared, the Korelan Chosen tossed down weapons to those lost souls lowest and most exposed. He was relieved when his man stood, sword in hand. The waves breasted ever higher. Their foaming crests entirely submerged some defenders. He watched closely now; the first rank would strike soon. Arrows and bolts shot from above arced down among the broaching Riders. Ice-jagged lances couched at hips, they rolled forward mounted upon what seemed half wave, half ice-sculpted horse. Armour of ice-scales glittered opalescent and emerald among the whitecaps. Spray obscured the first strike. When the waters pulled back his man still stood. Up and down the curtain wall men clashed against wave-born Riders. Most failed, of course, for what mere man or woman could oppose such eldritch alien sorcery? Auroras played like waves themselves across the night sky. The lights of another world, or so claimed the Korelri. In the pause between ranks of attacking Riders the waters withdrew revealing most stations empty or supporting fallen prisoners hanging by their ankle fetters like grotesque fruit. Korelri Chosen descended on ropes to clear away the dead. New prisoners were lowered, arms flailing. These the Chosen did not bother securing by the ankles. His man remained. He'd sat again, not out of bravado, Ereko realized, but for warmth as he hugged his legs to his chest. The Chosen used knots that pulled in a certain way released their burden and in this fashion the prisoners were stranded at their landings. Some grabbed hold of the ropes in a futile effort to regain the heights but archers shot these and the lesson was not lost on the others. The surf of the strait regathered its power. The Riders who had been circling far out swung landward once again. And so it would go for days on end until the storm blew itself out. Then would come a week or two of relative calm when the wall faced mere mundane weather. During this time the incomprehensible presence deep within the strait regenerated its strength. That night the second wave came swiftly. As it closed, a Malazan prisoner of war farther along the curving wall bellowed a challenge or prayer and launched himself from his landing. A Korelri Chosen was swiftly lowered to take his place. The crest struck, shuddering the stone of the Stormwall as if the force of an entire sea were launching itself against the land. When the waters and ice slabs sloughed away from the scarred stone, his man remained. Another, a fellow Malazan prisoner by his rags, was shouting to him, calling, one arm out entreating. His man saluted him and the fellow straightened and gravely responded in kind. As the storm continued through the night Ereko's man was the only original left within his line of sight. Prisoners continued to be lowered from above – the Korelri considered it a favour to offer these men and women the chance to regain their dignity by falling in defence of the wall. The prisoners obviously held other opinions. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pattern of Rider attacks at this section of wall changed. Pressure eased along the curtain as the Riders circled and withdrew. Korelri Chosen gathered above, watching, pointing excitedly. Ereko peered out to sea: darker smears had emerged from the depths, the Wandwielders, Stormrider mages. He raised himself higher; rarely did he see these beings. Night-black ice was their armour, forged perhaps within the lightless utter depths of the sea. They carried rods and wands of precious stone and crystal, olivine, garnet and serpentine, with which they lashed the wall with summoned power and shattering cold during the most hard-pressed and ferocious assaults. The Riders circled out amid the whitecaps; one approached, headed directly for the man the Enchantress had pointed out to Ereko as being the instrument of his deliverance. The Rider closed, rearing as his wave crested and smashed upon the wall. When the spume and mist cleared his man still stood and the Rider was gone. A bloodthirsty, triumphant cheer went up among the Korelri Chosen gathered above. It seemed to Ereko to shake the wall just as ferociously as the waves themselves. His man peered up for a time, then pointedly turned his back. Another single Rider rolled forward, lance raised. Ereko was horrified to see his man toss his sword aside to stand unarmed, waiting. The Rider pulled up short, lance couched. It rose and fell with the waves and it seemed to Ereko that the two spoke. Then the Rider leaned to one side and withdrew. Far out, the Wandwielders lowered their staves of glittering crystal and all withdrew to the right and left of this course of the broad Stormwall curtain. For this section of wall, the attack was over. The Korelri Chosen left Ereko's man chained to his landing. That night Ereko yanked open the corroded fetter at his ankle, climbed the wall, descended to the fellow's station, tore the fetter from him and carried him numb with cold up and over the wall. He swam the warmer inner Crack Narrows behind the wall with him held high at his shoulder. He reached the abandoned shores of what the Korelri name Remnant Isle before dawn touched the uppermost pennants of the wall's watchtowers. Within the shelter of boulders he sat and waited for sunrise. The man lay insensate, almost dead from exposure. Yet he was undoubtely much more than a man. Ereko's sight, while nowhere as penetrating as that of his ancestors, told him that. And then there was the attention of his Enchantress, whom some now named the Queen of Dreams. The fellow was fit, certainly. But not overly broad or large, which so many mistakenly equate with prowess in combat. No, it was more an aura about him – even in repose. A great burden and a great danger. Not in the mere physical sense. Rather, a spirituality. Potential. Great potential to create. Or to destroy. And there the danger. After the sun warmed the fellow sufficiently he wakened and Ereko greeted him. ‘My name is Ereko.’ ‘Traveller.’ He peered around at the weed-encrusted rocks of the shore. ‘Why have you done this?’ ‘I have been planning my own escape for some time. Yet I knew I would have a much better chance were I not alone. Your performance yesterday convinced me that with you my chances would be much greater.’ The man laughed. ‘It looks like I wasn't much help.’ ‘Do not be fooled. We are far from free. We are in the centre of the Korelan subcontinent. The Korelri Chosen have no doubt alerted everyone to hunt for us. We have far to go yet.’ He nodded at that; accepting the story or merely disinclined to pursue it. Ereko could not be certain. ‘And who are you? You are no Jaghut – you are taller. You are not Toblakai either, nor Trell. But there is something of them about you.’ ‘We called ourselves “The People” – Traveller stared, confused. ‘Tarthinoe… or Thelomen, you mean?’ ‘No, Thel Akai. Those you name are descendants of my people.’ ‘Their ancestor? But that is impossible. I have never heard of your kind.’ ‘All have been gone for ages – save myself. That is, I have met no others.’ ‘I am sorry.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘And I am sorry for something else as well.’ ‘What is that?’ ‘I must return to the wall. They have my sword.’ Ereko took a long deep breath. The next morning at’ Canton's Landing they marked trees for the ship. At noon they returned to the hut to find an old man crouched there in the shade awaiting them. This was the nephew? The man nodded and smiled and nodded and smiled, stopping only when Traveller knelt beside him and rested a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘You have suffered a tragedy here,’ he said, startling the man. ‘Yes, honoured sir. We are afflicted. Death from the seas. Slavers and raiders. Again and again they come. Soon there will be none of us left.’ ‘Move inland,’ Ereko suggested. The old man's smile was gap-toothed. ‘We are fisher folk here. We know of no other way of life.’ ‘We are very sorry but we cannot-’ Ereko began, but Traveller raised a hand. ‘Do you have any possessions from these raiders? Weapons? Armour?’ The old man nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, yes… old gear can be found here and there.’ ‘Show us.’ Mystified, Ereko accompanied Traveller and the old man as they patrolled the strand. They picked up a piece of corroded metal here, a fragment of broken stone there. Traveller knelt to pull a length of sun-bleached wood from the sand; the broken handle of a war club. A tassel of some sort hung from its grip. He rubbed the ragged feathers and dried leather in his fingers then stood. ‘I will help you,’ he said, and he brushed his hands clean. Ereko stared, astonished. ‘Yes, yes,’ the old man repeated. ‘Yes. Thank you, honoured sir. We can never-’ ‘Help us build our boat.’ ‘Yes. Of course. Whatever you need.’ As they walked Traveller asked over the loud susurrus of the waves, ‘You are expecting them soon, aren't you?’ The old man flinched, startled again. ‘Yes. Soon. They come this season. The grey raiders from the sea.’ A patrol of Malazan regulars posted to the Wickan frontier spotted the smoke in the distance and altered their route to investigate. They found a burnt camp of the Crow Clan. The Wickan dead lay where they had fallen. The patrol sergeant, Chord, took in the Crow bodies: elders wrapped in prayer blankets, three obvious cripples and an assortment of youths. He studied the trampled wreckage of pennants, flag-staves, a covered cart and painted yurts. All hinted at some sort of a Wickan religious pilgrimage or ceremonial procession. Seated around a roaring fire, a gang of invaders, more of the tide of self-styled ‘settlers’, feasted on slaughtered Crow horses in front of bound Wickan captives. As they gorged themselves on horseflesh they ignored the regulars. ‘Ran out of supplies on your long march, hey?’ Chord called to the closest man. This one smiled, continued to eat. A felt blanket flew back and a man straightened from one squat dwelling, cinching up his pants. Chord glimpsed a small pale figure curling beneath blankets. ‘Greetings, brother Malazans,’ this one called. ‘We ain't your brothers.’ ‘Well, thank you for coming by, but we're safe now from these barbarians.’ ‘They attacked us.’ ‘You invaded their lands.’ ‘Wickans regard their horses like members of their own family. They'd no more sell one of them than their own son or daughter.’ ‘We offered fair price. They refused us out of plain obstinacy.’ Chord leaned to one side, spat a brown stream of rustleaf juice. ‘So you helped yourself.’ The man gestured his confusion. ‘We set down a fair price in coin and took the worst of the herd. Lame, useless to anyone. And they attacked! All of them. Children! Crones! Like rabid beasts they are. Less than human.’ The sergeant looked to the bound youths, pushed a handful of leaves into his mouth. ‘And these?’ ‘Ours. Captives of war. We'll sell them.’ ‘Hey? What's that you say? Captives of ‘Aye. A war of cleansing. These Wickan riff-raff have squatted on the plains long enough. All this good land uncultivated. Wasted.’ Adjusting his crossbow, the sergeant pressed a hand to his side, fingers splayed. As one, the men of the patrol levelled their crossbows on the gang of settlers. The men gaped, strips of flesh in their hands. Their spokesman paused but then calmly resumed straightening his clothes. ‘What's this? We've broken no laws. The Empress has promised this land to all who would come to farmstead. Put up your weapons and go.’ ‘We will, once we've taken what's ours.’ ‘Yours? What's that?’ ‘Just so happens I'm also a student of Imperial law, an’ those laws say that any captives of war are the property of the Throne. An’ as a duly sanctioned representative of the Throne I will now take possession of the captives.’ ‘You'll ‘I have, an’ that's good enough. Now stand aside.’ A skinny shape exploded from the tent, a waif in an oversized torn shirt. She yelled a torrent of Wickan at the sergeant, who cocked a brow. ‘Well, well. Seems everyone's a damned lawyer these days.’ ‘What's she on about?’ the spokesman asked. ‘This lass here has invoked Wickan law ‘gainst you. A blood cleansing.’ ‘What in the name of Burn does that mean?’ ‘Knives. Usually to the death.’ The man gaped at Chord. ‘What? The men at the bonfire slowly climbed to their feet. ‘Cover them, Junior,’ Chord said aside. ‘Aye.’ The patrol spread out, crossbows still levelled. ‘You can't be serious. You're listening to this Wickan brat?’ ‘I am.’ ‘She's just a child!’ The sergeant stilled, his eyes hard on the spokesman. ‘Seein’ as she's old enough for you to rape, maybe she's old enough to hold you accountable for it, don't you think?’ The man eased back into a fighting stance, shrugging. He drew a knife from his belt sheath. ‘Fine. I'll just have to kill her too.’ Chord tossed the girl his own knife. She took it, screamed a Wickan curse and leapt. It was over even more swiftly than Chord had assumed. In the end he had to pull the girl off the hacked body. The patrol lined up the youths and marched them off to the fort. As they went the men swore that word of this would spread and that they'd see the fort burnt to the ground. Part of Chord hoped they'd try; the other part worried that maybe he'd just bought his lieutenant more trouble than their garrison of one undersized company could handle. Kyle lay in his bunk on board the The tag-end of his dream eluded his efforts to grasp it and he groaned, giving in to wakefulness. For the fleetest moment the sweet scent of perfume had seemed to tease his nose and the soft warmth of a hand seemed to linger at his brow. But now he was still in his bunk aboard the A land that meant nothing to Kyle. Tarred wood shivered and creaked two hand-widths from his nose. Beaded condensation edged down the curved wall of planking to further soak the clammy burlap and straw padding he lay upon. The wood shivered visibly, pounded by the storm that threatened to shake the vessel into wreckage. His eyes watered in the smoke of rustleaf and D'bayang poppy that drifted in layers in the narrow companionway. The stink of old vomit, oil, sweat and stagnant sea-water all combined to make his stomach clench even tighter. Below him, Guardsmen talked, gambled and studied the Dragons deck. He rolled on to his side. The curved plainsman's knife that he kept on a thong around his neck gouged into his shoulder. Blocking the narrow passage, the men were gathered in a knot around a small wood board on which the Dragon cards lay arranged. Slate was the Talent for this reading – everyone agreed Slate was one of the most accurate in the Guard. Stoop's grizzled face appeared; he'd climbed the four berths to Kyle's topmost slot. He hooked the stump of his elbow over the cot's lip and winked, motioning down to the reading. ‘Slate's angry as Hood. Says the Queen of the House of Life dominates. Says that's damned odd and the reading's about as useful as a D'rek priest in a whorehouse.’ Kyle sighed and lay back on his berth. ‘Hood's bones, it's just a bunch of cards.’ Since joining the Guard he'd been confronted by more superstitions and gods than he'd ever imagined could exist, let alone keep straight or even believe. Stoop scratched his grimed fingers through his patchy beard. ‘Lot more'n that,’ he said, mostly to himself. ‘Try again,’ someone urged Slate. ‘Can't,’ he answered. ‘Once a day.’ The thin, painted wood cards clicked as Slate gathered them together. ‘Try anyway.’ ‘Bad luck.’ ‘You mean maybe we'd see through your horseshit?’ ‘I mean I could bring all kinds a trouble down on our heads.’ From the corner of his eye, Kyle saw Stoop nod seriously at that. Once a day, not near a shrine or sanctified ground, burial grounds or a recent battle. Kyle couldn't believe all the folklore and ritual that surrounded the deck. The cards were supposed to reveal the future but how could they if you couldn't use them half the time? He thought that too convenient for whoever sold the damned things. Bored, weak and nauseous from the constant roll and bucking of the ship, he shut his eyes against the smoke and tried to seek out that dream once more. It eluded him; he attempted to doze again. The door of the companionway crashed open allowing a rush of water down the stairs and a gust of frigid damp air that pulled at the lanterns. Everyone cursed the man coming down the stairs. It was one of the hired Kurzan sailors. His bare feet slapped the boards and his woollen shirt dripped sea-water on to the planks. Beneath black hair, plastered down by rain and spray, his bearded face was pale. ‘The captain wants you all on deck, armed,’ he announced in Nabrajan, and stood aside. Everyone pulled on what leathers or gambesons they had; most metal armour had been greased in animal fat and stowed against rusting. Besides, it was more a danger than protection at sea. They asked questions of the sailor but he would say no more, only make signs against evil at his chest while his eyes, resigned and haunted, avoided them all. Kyle dressed in his gambeson shirt. He pulled on the leather cap he wore beneath his helmet and cinched his weapon belt as everyone lined up. They climbed the stairs passing the sailor, who shivered and wouldn't raise his eyes. On deck, Kyle found a guide-rope and covered his eyes from the spray. He took in the reefed sails and the white-capped, churning seas. Men pointed, shouting, their words torn away by the wind. Kyle followed their gazes and couldn't believe what he saw: among the waves and blowing spume moved human figures. What appeared to be armour upon them gleamed sapphire and rainbow opalescent. They seemed to ride the waves. White foam flew about them. While he watched, some of the waves curled into horse-like shapes and dived, carrying their riders with them only to broach the rough waters further along. The armour shone like frost and they carried jagged-edged lances. Kyle searched the horizons. Of the Guard's fleet of twenty ships, he could only see the Kyle's immediate reaction was one of awe and numb fear. Two months ago, near the beginning of the journey, Stoop had explained something of the strange convoluted archipelago and continents that the Crimson Guard called home. Quon Tali, and to the north, Falar. To the south, Korel. A deep ocean trench of unpredictable storms and contrary currents, Stoop explained, separated Quon Tali from Korel, or Fist, as it was sometimes known. The Stormriders had claimed this passage for as long as anyone could recall. Twice the Malazans had tried to push through to reach Korel, and twice the Riders sank the fleets. They allowed none to trespass and warred continuously with the Korelans over the coastline of their lands. Kyle went to the gunwale. Through the spray he could make out a number of Riders circling the ship. While he watched, incredulous, the ones nearest the ‘That Rider saluted you.’ Kyle turned. There stood Greymane, the only person fully armoured in banded iron, his legs planted wide apart, yet steadying himself at a guide-rope. Kyle remembered the Malazan renegade's words at Kurzan: ‘water ‘n’ me, we don't get along.’ The veteran's eyes held a calculation Kyle had never seen before. ‘Or he was saluting you.’ A tight sardonic smile reached the man's sky-pale eyes. ‘No. I told them to cut that out long ago.’ Kyle turned away; this was not what he wanted to hear from this strange Malazan turncoat. Jokes! This renegade had torn something irreplacable from him – something that drove him to his own vow – but not one in sympathy to the Guard's. He gripped the gunwale. It was numbing cold, yet any change from the rank enclosed quarters below was welcome for a time. They were packed tight on all the ships. Every Guardsman squeezed shoulder to shoulder. ‘You've been through here before, haven't you?’ Kyle asked, facing the slate-grey sea. He watched the Riders circling, submerging one by one. A few mercenaries remained on deck, their faces hardened now that panic had passed. He reminded himself some of these men had witnessed wonders far greater than this. For some time Greymane didn't answer, but Kyle could feel him there, close. He heard the man's layered banding grating at his shoulders and arms as he shifted his stance with the lurching of the ship. ‘Aye. Many times. I grew up on Geni – an island south of Quon. My father fished the Cut. Saw them many times I did, as a boy. Before my father went out and never came back. Taken by them, some said. I swore off the sea then. Joined the army.’ The renegade paused and Kyle could imagine him offering a rueful grin – fat lot of good that choice had done! But Kyle refused to look. This man had taken all that was precious from him. Murdered a guiding spirit of his people! He did not want to hear this. ‘Command thought my familiarity with the Cut would be an asset for the Korel invasion,’ Greymane continued. ‘And for a time they were right. But as the years passed the stalemate drove me to try something no one had ever tried The last of the Riders disappeared in swirls of pale emerald froth. Kyle shivered. Despite himself, he turned. ‘What? What did you do?’ The renegade was frowning, his pale gaze fixed on the waters. He wiped the spray from his face then made a gesture as if throwing something away. ‘Well, let's just say it lit a fire under the Korelri like nothing else ever before and got me arrested by command. I made a mistake – misjudged the situation – and a lot of people got killed that didn't have to.’ ‘I'm sorry.’ ‘Yeah, so was I. But I accept it. Now I'm just plain fed up.’ A crooked smile, the eyes bright as the ice that clings to the mountain-tops in the north of Kyle's homeland. Or these Riders’ own glimmering armour. Kyle's face grew hot despite the frigid wind, and he turned away. This was not what he wanted: an opening up, confessions. Not from this man. A man of the company he had vowed to… ‘Well, better go below. Gotta re-oil everything thanks to these blasted Riders.’ Kyle said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. When he glanced back he was alone. Evening darkened; the low overcast horizon to the west glowed deep pink and orange. The water lost its chop, the troughs shallowing and the wind dropping. The Stoop examined the pipe, tamped the bowl with his thumb, pushed it back into his mouth. ‘You can relax, lad. Be more at ease. You're home now.’ ‘Home?’ ‘Certainly! You're of the Guard now, son.’ ‘Am I?’ ‘Aye. Swore you in m'self.’ ‘What about you? Where's your home?’ An impatient snort. ‘The soldier's home is his or her company, lad. You should know that by now. Sure, there's always gonna be longing an’ drippy honey memories of the places we've left behind but what happens to us when we go back to those places, hey?’ The old saboteur didn't wait for an answer, ‘We find out something we don't want to know – that they ain't home no more. No one there recognizes us no more. We don't fit in. No one understands. An’ after a while you realize that you made a mistake. You can't go back.’ The saboteur sighed, pulled the horse-blanket tighter. ‘No, those of us who take to soldiering, our home is the Guard, or the brigade, or whichever. That's our true home. An’ there's those who'd sneer at what I'm sayin’ and dismiss it all as maudlin, sayin’ they'd heard it all before so many times – but that don't change the truth of it for us, do it?’ Kyle couldn't help smiling at the saboteur's pet conviction – how they're all brothers and sisters in the Guard. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He looked down at the old veteran, his veined red eyes, grey-shot ragged beard, seamed sun-burnished face. ‘You've been with the Guard for a long time then?’ A broad smile. ‘I've seen about a hundred and sixty years of battle. All of them under this Duke and his father and grandfather afore him.’ Kyle stared, unable to breathe. ‘You're ‘Aye.’ He drew hard on the pipe. ‘You should've been there, lad. Some six hundred swords were raised that evening under a clear sky, and six hundred voices spoke as one. We vowed eternal loyalty and servitude to our Duke so long as he should live and the Empire stand. And he still lives, somewhere.’ The saboteur examined his pipe, pushed it back into the corner of his mouth. The Duke, now he was a man to follow. We stopped them for a time, you know. The only ones that ever did. Skinner fought Dassem, the Sword of the Empire, to a standstill. But it broke us. We were tired, so tired. And the Duke disappeared soon after that. So we divided into companies and went our separate ways.’ ‘And now the wandering's over,’ Kyle said, his voice tight, and he felt a searing anger burning in his chest. ‘Then why? Why the contracts? Why come to Bael lands?’ Stoop sighed. ‘Aye. The Diaspora's ended. We're going back to reclaim our land. We weren't just wandering though. We searched everywhere – for the Duke. We didn't find him. But maybe one of the other companies… I don't know.’ They remained side by side in silence for a time. Kurzan sailors clambered around them, raising sail. The embers of Stoop's pipe died. The saboteur roused himself, stood. ‘I don't know about you but I'm freezing my arse out here.’ He pulled the blanket higher and went below. Kyle stayed for a while longer on the deck, watching the waves without really seeing them. His thoughts kept returning to Stoop's words that day on the Spur, The next day the storm broke and the Kyle lay in his berth, sick from the storm-cursed crossing. He was a tribesman, for Hood's sake! What was he doing in a damned ship? Earlier in the voyage he'd laughed at the fat mercenary and his readings but now he welcomed any distraction, no matter how ridiculous. Slate was pleased, he'd done all the other men more times than he could count. Kyle was his last chance for something new. ‘The Field, or Realm, as some call it, can be divided into four parts,’ Slate began, brushing off the square of wood. Kyle knelt opposite him on one knee. A lantern hung above swinging wildly as the ship bucked and heaved. The fat Guardsman wore a felt shirt, its lacing open at the front revealing numerous scars and a thick mat of black hair. He took out the cards. These were tied by white silk ribbon and wrapped in black leather. Kyle knew that the corporal carried them in a thin wood box rolled into his blanket. Claimed they'd been in his family for generations. Slate searched through the deck. ‘Right now I'm using what we call the “short deck”. These four cards, the Houses, rule the Field.’ He held them up, one after the other. ‘Light, Dark, Life and Death.’ He then held up one other. ‘But when I was young this new House appeared: Shadow.’ He laid the five cards down and began taking out others as he explained them. ‘Each of the four old Houses possess their High Attendants: King, Queen, Knight or Champion, and Low Attendants, or Servants. In some they're known as Herald, Magi, Soldier, Seamstress, Mason and Wife an’ such. Shadow has its own attendant cards: King, Queen, Knight, Assassin – some say Rope – Priest or Magi, and Hound. In some spreads the Houses each have assigned quarters, or directions, where their influence is greatest. Shadow has no such allocation. It can appear anywhere at any time.’ ‘There are also these six cards.’ Slate sorted through them. ‘These serve no House: Oponn, signifying chance or odds; Obelisk, meaning the past or future; and these four: Crown, Sceptre, Orb and Throne.’ ‘And the rest?’ Kyle asked, looking at the cards still in Slate's hands. The mercenary grimaced. ‘These are new additions – they go with a house that appeared just recently. New powers, striving influences, these come and go all the time… don't know if these'll last any longer.’ He laid down a card very different from the others. Like those of Shadow House, it differed in manufacture – the rest were obviously a set, cut after the same pattern, painted by the same hand. The Shadow cards were cut from slightly thicker wood, but smoothed now from much handling. Their faces were smoky dark, black almost, hinting at vague shapes and movement. This new card wasn't even squared like the others. Ragged-edged, its plain unfinished wood face bore a design that had obviously been scored there by a knife-blade. It was of a hut or a shack, some sort of shabby dwelling, and it struck Kyle as a kind of mockery of what Slate had named the others, ‘This new presence is called the House of Chains,’ Slate continued. ‘So far, it supports these Attendants: King, Consort, Reaver, Knight, The Seven, Cripple, Leper and Fool.’ While Slate talked Kyle eyed the card signifying the King of House of Chains. Like its House card, it was of an unfinished wood. Gouged on its face – perhaps by Slate's amateur hand – was a high-backed heavy seat, a throne. Drying, the wood of the card had shrunk, cracking from top to bottom through the solid, imposing chair. Compared to the richly varnished and detailed deck, these additions struck Kyle as ridiculous. Yet he could not deny that the clumsy image held a certain strange menace. The splitting wood was blood-red beneath its bleached surface, giving the appearance of streams of blood running down the surface of the throne. Somehow, Kyle would have felt much more at ease had the throne been occupied; at least then he would know where its occupant was. The face of the card appeared to shift and blur in the swinging lantern light; its uneven grain suggested to Kyle blowing dust, such as over the dune fields one can encounter on the steppes. The throne appeared closer now, dominating much more of the face. No, it was as if he or it were moving together, drawing closer, the dunes blurred by speed. A hand interposed itself, turned over the card. Kyle pulled his gaze up to Slate's close, gleaming face, the man's eyes hooded. A chilling sweat was clammy on his back and arms and he felt strangely dizzy. ‘Ain't good, starin’ like that,’ Slate said, his voice low and tight. He appeared to want to say more, but collected the cards instead, looking down at them. ‘Maybe we'll give this a try later.’ The Talent's thick hands shook as he tucked the cards away. Kyle went to his berth, clutched his sword and stared at the beads of moisture running down the tarred wood. He pulled the blade a handbreadth from its wood and leather sheath and rubbed at the symbols etched in its iron. Their depth, cut as if the tempered blade were wax, always surprised him. He breathed a short prayer to the Wind King, prayed trying to believe that somehow he was close and watching over him. But could that magus, or Ascendant, have been the one? It was too outrageous. His world had been turned upside down and with every month he saw how naive and impossible was the vow he swore upon the iron of this blade to somehow avenge what had occurred atop that jutting finger of stone. That night he tried to dream of a woman's hand and a fountain that no doubt held the sweetest water he had ever tasted. If he succeeded, he couldn't remember. Nait Simal ‘Ap Url, of the Untan harbour guard, sat in the warm afternoon light watching yet another wallowing merchantman loaded with the collected loot of an empire lumber its way from the wharf pulled along by oared launches. But where could they expect safe refuge if not here in the capital? Malaz? He chuckled, almost gagged on the wad of leaves tucked into one cheek. Hood no! Maybe a small anchorage somewheres, an isolated bay. Out of the way. Maybe buy protection from the fortified harbours of Nap or Kartool… Leaning back, he banged on the wall of the harbour guard shack. ‘Sarge?’ ‘What?’ ‘I was thinkin’-’ ‘How many times I gotta tell you not to do that, son. Bad for your health.’ ‘I was just thinkin’ that maybe we oughta charge an exit fee. You know, like a departure tax. Somethin’ fancy like that. There's a whole flock o’ sheep skippin’ out unsheared.’ ‘You think those merchant houses aren't paid up already? You want a visit from the Claw?’ The Claw? What've they got to do with anything? We got our thing goin’ as do others. Everyone gets a piece of the pie, no one gets hurt. Always been that way.’ ‘Some folks want to run the bakery,’ his sergeant said so low Nait barely caught it. The gold afternoon light warming Nait was occluded. Squinting, he made out a pair of polished black leather boots that climbed all the way up to wide hips, ending under the canted weaponbelt and broad heavy bosom of the corporal of the guard, Hands. ‘You're chewin’ that outland filth again, Nait,’ she said. ‘Yes, ma'am.’ ‘That's “sir” to you, skinny.’ ‘Yes – ‘Spit it out.’ ‘Aw, Hands-’ ‘It cost me my last-’ ‘I don't give a dead rat to Hood what you choose to waste your money on. You're on duty.’ ‘That's right,’ came Sergeant Tinsmith's voice. Scowling, Nait leaned forward opening his mouth wide and pushed out the wad with his tongue. It landed on the grey slats of the pier with a spray of red spit that dappled Hands’ boots. ‘Damn you to Fener!’ Nait wiped his sleeve across his mouth. ‘Sorry – Hands reached up to straighten the braid of auburn hair tucked down the back of her scaled hauberk. Raising her chin to the shack she said, low, ‘We'll talk later, soldier.’ As she walked away Nait blew a kiss. ‘Like I said, soldier,’ said his sergeant, ‘bad for your health.’ ‘I'm not scared of her.’ ‘You should be.’ Bending down again, Nait picked up the wet lump and shoved it back into his mouth. Ha! He could take her. Maybe that's what she's been holding out for all this time – for him to show her who was the boss. Nait smiled again. Then he frowned, puzzled. What the Abyss had that been? He peered out over the edge of the slats. Little pads, like leaves, floating out on the waves. Some appeared to hold copper coins, twists of ribbon, rice, fruit and the stubs of candles, a few still burning. They bobbed along together like some kind of flotilla. It was more of those damned offerings to that ruddy sea god cult. He'd been seeing more of that lately. He spat out a stream, upending a swath of the pads. Ha! Stupid superstitions for fearful times. He could understand such things out in the backwaters of Nap or Geni, but here in Unta? People were supposed to be sophisticated here. He shook his head. What was civilization coming to? Fist Genist D'Irdrel of Cawn took one glance at Fort Saran and despaired. A four-year stint in this sore on the hind of a mule? Why couldn't command have been moved to the settlement of Seti? Pitiable though it may be. He wiped the sweat-caked sleeve of his grey Malazan jupon once more across his face. Squinting against the glare of the sun, he studied the burnt umber of the low rolling grassland hills, the clumps of faded greenery here and there in cut streams and slumps. But what most caught his attention was the surprisingly large number of Seti camps, collections of their felt and hide tents, gathered around the fort in slums of cookfires, corralled horses and mongrel dogs. By the Gods, he vowed, someone back at staff headquarters was going to pay for this insult. ‘Not so bad if you squint real hard,’ the man riding behind remarked. Genist swung in his saddle, glared. ‘You said something, The captain, newly transferred to the 15th Horse, shrugged in a way that annoyed Genist. In fact, everything about the man annoyed Genist. The man had only been with the regiment for a few weeks yet almost immediately the sergeants deferred to him – he'd seen how when he gave orders their eyes shifted edge-wise to this captain, Moss, he called himself, for confirmation. Yet there was also something about his sharp eyes, worn gloves and the equally worn sheaths of the two ivory-gripped sabres at his sides that blunted Genist's usual treatment of his subordinates. Behind them, the double-ranked column of two thousand Malazan cavalry waited silent under the beating sun. ‘Sign the advance,’ Genist snarled to the signaller. Captain Moss cleared his throat. The scouts haven't returned from the fort, Commander.’ ‘Well, what of it? There it is! The fort! What do we need scouts for, by Hood's own eyes!’ ‘It's not regulation.’ ‘Regulation!’ Genist blinked, lowered his voice. ‘We're not at the front, you damned fool. This is the centre of the continent.’ Genist took a low breath, turned on the signaller. ‘The advance.’ As they rode, for once Captain Moss said nothing. The man's slowly learning his place, Genist decided. In the distance, cresting the hillocks, groups of mounted Seti cavalry raised plumes of dust into the still hot air. Ahead, the tall double doors of Fort Saran opened. The officer of the gate saluted Genist, who nodded his acknowledgement. Within, the central marshalling grounds lay empty. A stone tower stood a squat and broad three storeys at the fort's north palisade wall. Thank the Lady for that, Genist allowed. A delegation awaited before it. ‘Order the assembly,’ he told the signaller, and urged his mount forward. To his irritation, Moss accompanied him. ‘I do not see Fist Darlat.’ Behind them, the cavalry formed up ranks on the grounds. ‘Never met her,’ said Moss. Instead of Fist Darlat, all that awaited Genist and formal transfer of command was a motley gang of scruffy officers in faded, worn surcoats. Surely they could not be serious! True, Saran was only a fort, but command here was putative Malazan military governor of the entire Seti plains! A region as large as Dal Hon itself to the south. Was this some kind of calculated insult? Genist pulled up his mount before the gathered officers, examined them for some sign of who was in charge, but failed. He saw no rank insignia or emblems, nothing to distinguish one from the other. They looked alike in their tanned, wind-raw faces and worn equipage. Veterans, one and all. Why here, in the middle of nowhere? Had they been recently rotated in from Seven Cities? As some of his staff suggested Moss may have been? Damn them for staring like that! How dare they? ‘Who commands here? Where is Fist Darlat?’ ‘Fist Darlat is indisposed,’ said the eldest of the lot, standing on the extreme left. Whoever this man was, he had seen many years of hard service. His hacked-short hair stood tufted in all directions. Burn wounding, perhaps. It was sun-bleached pale and grey-shot. His eyes were mere slits in a seamed, wind-scoured face. A black Seti-style recurve bow stood tall at his back. ‘And who are you?’ ‘Name's Toc. Toc the Elder.’ After a moment of silence, Genist burst out laughing. ‘Surely you are joking. Not ‘Only one I know of.’ Genist glanced to the assembled officers – none were laughing. None, in fact, were smiling. Even Moss now suddenly wore the hardest face Genist had ever seen on the man. ‘But this is fantastic, unheard of. I thought, that is, everyone assumed… you were dead.’ ‘Good.’ The man stepped up and stroked the neck of Genist's mount. ‘Fist Genist Urdrel – might I borrow your horse for a few moments?’ Genist gaped at the man. ‘I'm sorry? You'd like to Captain Moss quickly dismounted. ‘Take mine, sir.’ Toc turned away from Genist. ‘Name, soldier?’ ‘Moss. Captain Moss.’ ‘Well, thank you, Captain Moss, for the use of your horse.’ Toc the Elder mounted, nodded to the assembled officers and cantered out to the marshalling grounds. Two of the officers closed on Genist and pulled the reins from his hands. Genist reached for his sword. ‘Wouldn't do that,’ Moss murmured from his side. ‘We're rather outnumbered.’ Genist glared down at him. ‘I have two thousand-’ ‘Do you? We'll see.’ ‘What by Beru's beard do you mean by that?’ Moss lifted his chin to the grounds behind Genist who turned to stare. Toc the Elder now walked his mount back and forth before the marshalled ranks. ‘Any veterans among you?’ he shouted in a voice that carried all the way to Genist. ‘Any old-timers from the campaigns? Sergeants? Bannermen? Do you know me? Do you recognize me? Who am I? Shout it out!’ Genist heard responses called but couldn't make out the words. A general mutter swelled among the ranks. Heads turned to exchange words. ‘Do you know me?’ Toc shouted. ‘I was flank commander under Dassem at Valan when Tali fell! I scoured Nom Purge! I brought the Seti into the fold!’ Genist's blood ran cold as he began to consider the possibility that this man could indeed be Toc himself, not some opportunist outlaw trying to exploit the name. Hood's breath! Toc the Elder, the greatest cavalry commander the Empire ever produced! Abyss, there was no Imperial cavalry before this man. Then the man's words brought a shiver to Genist; he recalled who it was that had negotiated the Seti tribal treaties and whom columns of thousands of Seti lancers had followed from these plains across Quon, even into Falar, and he turned, dreading what he might see, to the open fort gates. There, astride their mounts, five tribal elders watched, white furs at their shoulders, lances tufted by fetishes of white fur. A call rose from the ranks, gathered cadence to a mounting chant. Toc the Elder! Toc the Elder!’ Blades hissed from sheaths and waved in salute to the sky. Even Moss, standing beside Genist's mount, thumb brushing his lips, breathed musingly, ‘Toc the Elder…’ |
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