The sound of weeping, coming from somewhere ahead, a sound of sheer despair that pierced through the fog and thrummed in his chest. He listened to the ragged cries, winced to hear how they seemed torn from a constricted throat, like a dam finally sundered by a flood of grief.
He shook himself, growing mindful once more of his surroundings. The ground beneath the thin skein of grasses was hard and warm beneath his knees. Insects buzzed and flitted through the dark. Only starlight illuminated the wastes stretching out to all sides. The encamped army was easily a thousand or more paces behind him. Strings drew a deep breath, then rose. He walked slowly towards the sound of the weeping.
A lad, lean—no, damn near scrawny, crouched down with arms wrapped about his knees, head sunk low. A single crow feather hung from a plain leather headband. A few paces beyond stood a mare, bearing a Wickan saddle, a tattered vellum scroll hanging from the horn. The horse was placidly tugging at the grass, her reins dangling.
Strings recognized the youth, though for the moment he could not recall his name. But Tavore had placed him in command of the Wickans.
After a long moment, the sergeant moved forward, making no effort to stay quiet, and sat down on a boulder a half-dozen paces from the lad.
The Wickan’s head snapped up. Tear-streaked warpaint made a twisted net of his narrow face. Venom flared in his dark eyes and he hissed, a hand unsheathing his long-knife as he staggered upright.
‘Relax,’ Strings muttered. ‘I’m in grief’s arms this night myself, though likely for an entirely different reason. Neither of us expected company, but here we are.’
The Wickan hesitated, then snapped the weapon back into its sheath and made to walk away.
‘Hold a moment, Horsewarrior. There’s no need to flee.’
The youth spun round, mouth twisting into a snarl.
‘Face me. I will be your witness this night, and we alone will know of it. Give me your words of sorrow, Wickan, and I will listen. Hood knows, it would serve me well right now.’
‘I flee no-one,’ the warrior rasped.
‘I know. I just wanted to get your attention.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Nobody. And that is how I will stay, if you like. Nor will I ask for your name—’
‘I am Temul.’
‘Ah, well. So your bravery puts me in my place. My name is Fiddler.’
‘Tell me,’ Temul’s voice was suddenly harsh, and he wiped angrily at his face, ‘did you think my grief a noble thing? Did I weep for Coltaine? For my fallen kin? I did not. My pity was for myself! And now you may go. Proclaim me—I am done with commanding, for I cannot command myself—’
‘Easy there, I’ve no intention of proclaiming anything, Temul. But I can guess at your reasons. Those wrinkled Wickans of the Crow, is my guess. Them and the survivors who walked off Gesler’s ship of wounded. They won’t accept you as their leader, will they? And so, like children, they blunt you at every turn. Defy you, displaying a mocking regard to your face then whispering behind your back. And where does that leave you? You can’t challenge them all, after all—’
‘Perhaps I can! I shall!’
‘Well, that will please them no end. Numbers alone will defeat your martial prowess. So you will die, sooner or later, and they will win.’
‘You tell me nothing I do not know, Fiddler.’
‘I know. I’m just reminding you that you’ve good reason to rail at the injustice, at the stupidity of those you would lead. I had a commander once, Temul, who was faced with the same thing you’re facing. He was in charge of a bunch of children. Nasty children at that.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘Not much, and ended up with a knife in his back.’ There was a moment of silence, then Temul barked a laugh. Fiddler nodded. ‘Aye, I’m not one for stories with lessons in life, Temul. My mind bends to more practical choices.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I would imagine that the Adjunct shares your frustration. She wants you to lead, and would help you do so—but not so you lose face. She’s too clever for that. No, the key here is deflection. Tell me, where are their horses right now?’
Temul frowned. ‘Their horses?’
‘Aye. I would think the Seti outriders could do without the Crow Clan for a day, don’t you think? I’m sure the Adjunct would agree—those Seti are young, by and large, and untested. They need the room to find themselves. There’s good reason, then, militarily, to keep the Wickans from their horses come tomorrow. Let them walk with the rest of us. Barring your loyal retinue, of course. And who knows, a day might not be enough. Could end up being three, or even four.’
Temul spoke softly, thoughtfully. ‘To get to their horses, we would need to be quiet . . .’
‘Another challenge for the Seti, or so I’m sure the Adjunct would note. If children your kin must be, then take away their favoured playthings—their horses. Hard to look tall and imperious when you’re spitting dust behind a wagon. In any case, you’d best hurry, so as not to awaken the Adjunct—’
‘She may already be asleep—’
‘No, she isn’t, Temul. I am certain of it. Now, before you leave, answer me a question, please. You’ve a scroll hanging from your mare’s saddle. Why? What is written on it?’
‘The horse belonged to Duiker,’ Temul answered, turning to the animal. ‘He was a man who knew how to read and write. I rode with him, Fiddler.’ He spun back with a glare. ‘I rode with him!’
‘And the scroll?’
The young Wickan waved a hand. ‘Men such as Duiker carried such things! Indeed, I believe it once belonged to him, was once in his very hands.’
‘And the feather you wear . . . to honour Coltaine?’
‘To honour Coltaine, yes. But that is because I must. Coltaine did what he was expected to do. He did nothing that was beyond his abilities. I honour him, yes, but Duiker . . . Duiker was different.’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘He was old, older than you. Yet he fought. When fighting was not even expected of him—I know this to be true, for I knew Coltaine and Bult and I heard them speak of it, of the historian. I was there when Coltaine drew the others together, all but Duiker. Lull, Bult, Chenned, Mincer. And all spoke true and with certainty. Duiker would lead the refugees. Coltaine even gave him the stone the traders brought—’
‘The stone? What stone?’
‘To wear about his neck, a saving stone, Nil called it. A soul trapper, delivered from afar. Duiker wore it, though he liked it not, for it was meant for Coltaine, so that he would not be lost. Of course, we Wickans knew he would not be lost. We knew the crows would come for his soul. The elders who have come, who hound me so, they speak of a child born to the tribe, a child once empty, then filled, for the crows came. They came.’
‘Coltaine has been reborn?’
‘He has been reborn.’
‘And Duiker’s body disappeared,’ Strings muttered. ‘From the tree.’
‘Yes! And so I keep his horse for him, for when he returns. I rode with him, Fiddler!’
‘And he looked to you and your handful of warriors to guard the refugees. To you, Temul—not just Nil and Nether.’
Temul’s dark eyes hardened as he studied Strings, then he nodded. ‘I go now to the Adjunct.’
‘The Lady’s pull on you, Commander.’
Temul hesitated, then said, ‘This night . . . you saw . . .’
‘I saw nothing,’ Strings replied.
A sharp nod, then the lad was swinging onto the mare, the reins in one long-fingered, knife-scarred hand.
Strings watched him ride into the darkness. He sat motionless on the boulder for a time, then slowly lowered his head into his hands.
The three were seated now, in the lantern-glow of the tent’s chamber. Topper’s tale was done, and it seemed that all that remained was silence. Gamet stared down at his cup, saw that it was empty, and reached for the jug. Only to find that it too was empty.
Even as exhaustion tugged at him, Gamet knew
he would not leave, not yet. Tavore had been told of, first, her brother’s heroism, then his death. Not a single Bridgeburner left alive. Tayschrenn himself saw their bodies, witnessed their interment in Moon’s Spawn. But lass, Ganoes redeemed himself—redeemed the family name. He did that much at least. But that was where the knife probably dug deepest. She had made harrowing sacrifices, after all, to resurrect the family’s honour. Yet all along, Ganoes was no renegade; nor had he been responsible for Lorn’s death. Like Dujek, like Whiskeyjack, his outlawry was nothing but a deception. There had been no dishonour. Thus, the sacrifice of young Felisin might have, in the end, proved . . . unnecessary.
And there was more. Jarring revelations. It had, Topper explained, been the hope of the Empress to land Onearm’s Host on the north coast, in time to deliver a double blow to the Army of the Apocalypse. Indeed, the expectation all along had been for Dujek to assume overall command. Gamet could understand Laseen’s thinking—to place the fate of the imperial presence on Seven Cities in the hands of a new, young and untested Adjunct was far too long a reach of faith.
Though Tavore had believed the Empress had done just that. Now, to find this measure of confidence so lacking . . . gods, this had been a Hood-damned night indeed.
Dujek Onearm was still coming, with a scant three thousand remaining in his Host, but he would arrive late, and, by both Topper’s and Tayschrenn’s unforgiving assessments, the man’s spirit was broken. By the death of his oldest friend. Gamet wondered what else had happened in that distant land, in that nightmarish empire called the Pannion.
Was it worth it, Empress? Was it worth the devastating loss? Topper had said too much, Gamet decided. Details of Laseen’s plans should have been filtered through a more circumspect, less emotionally damaged agent. If the truth was so important, after all, then it should have been laid out for the Adjunct long before now—when it actually mattered. To tell Tavore that the Empress had no confidence in her, then follow that with the brutal assertion that she was now the empire’s last hope for Seven Cities . . . well, few were the men or women who would not be rocked to their knees by that.
The Adjunct’s expression revealed nothing. She cleared her throat. ‘Very well, Topper. Is there more?’
The Clawmaster’s oddly shaped eyes widened momentarily, then he shook his head and rose. ‘No. Do you wish me to convey a message to the Empress?’
Tavore frowned. ‘A message? No, there is no message. We have begun our march to the Holy Desert. Nothing more need be said.’
Gamet saw Topper hesitate, then the Clawmaster said, ‘There is one more thing, Adjunct. There are probably worshippers of Fener among your army. I do not think the truth of the god’s . . . fall . . . can be hidden. It seems the Tiger of Summer is the lord of war, now. It does an army little good to mourn; indeed, grief is anathema to an army as we all well know. There may prove some period of difficult adjustment—it would be well to anticipate and prepare for desertions—’
‘There will be no desertions,’ Tavore said, the flat assertion silencing Topper. ‘The portal is weakening, Clawmaster—even a box of basalt cannot entirely block the effects of my sword. If you would leave this night, I suggest you do so now.’
Topper stared down at her. ‘We are badly hurt, Adjunct. And hurting. It is the hope of the Empress that you will exercise due caution, and make no precipitous actions. Suffer no distraction on your march to Raraku—there will be attempts to draw you from the trail, to wear you down with skirmishes and pursuits—’
‘You are a Clawmaster,’ Tavore said, sudden iron in her tone. ‘Dujek’s advice I will listen to, for he is a soldier, a commander. Until such time as he arrives, I shall follow my own instincts. If the Empress is dissatisfied, she is welcome to replace me. Now, that is all. Goodbye, Topper.’
Scowling, the Clawmaster swung about and strode without ceremony into the Imperial Warren. The gate collapsed behind him, leaving only a sour smell of dust.
Gamet let out a long sigh, pushed himself gingerly from the rickety camp chair. ‘You have my sorrow, Adjunct, on the loss of your brother.’
‘Thank you, Gamet. Now, get some sleep. And stop by—’
‘T’amber’s tent, aye, Adjunct.’
She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Is that disapproval I hear?’
‘It is. I’m not the only one in need of sleep. Hood take us, we haven’t even eaten this night.’
‘Until tomorrow, Fist.’
He nodded. ‘Aye. Goodnight, Adjunct.’
There was but one figure seated at the ebbing fire when Strings returned.
‘What are you doing up, Cuttle?’
‘I’ve done my sleep. You’ll be dragging your feet tomorrow Sergeant.’
‘I don’t think rest will come to me this night,’ Strings muttered, sitting down cross-legged opposite the burly sapper.
‘It’s all far away,’ Cuttle rumbled, tossing a last scrap of dung onto the flames.
‘But it feels close.’
‘At least you’re not walking in the footprints of your fallen companions, Fiddler. But even so, it’s all far away.’
‘Well, I’m not sure what you mean but I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Thanks for the munitions, by the way.’
Strings grunted. ‘It’s the damnedest thing, Cuttle. We always find more, and they’re meant to be used, but instead we hoard them, tell no-one we have them—in case they order us to put them to use—’
‘The bastards.’
‘Aye, the bastards.’
‘I’ll use the ones you’ve given me,’ Cuttle avowed. ‘Once I’ve crawled under Korbolo Dom’s feet. I don’t mind going to Hood at the same time, either.’
‘Something tells me that’s what Hedge did, in his last moment. He always threw them too close—that man had so many pieces of clay in him you could’ve made a row of pots from his insides.’ He slowly shook his head, eyes on the dying fire. ‘I wish I could have been there. That’s all. Whiskeyjack, Trotts, Mallet, Picker, Quick Ben—’
‘Quick’s not dead,’ Cuttle said. ‘There was more after you’d left—I heard from my tent. Tayschrenn’s made your wizard a High Mage.’
‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me, actually. That he’d survive, somehow. I wonder if Paran was still the company’s captain—’
‘He was. Died with them.’
‘The Adjunct’s brother. I wonder if she grieves this night.’
‘Wondering’s a waste of time, Fiddler. We got lads and lasses that need taking care of, right here. Korbolo Dom’s warriors know how to fight. My guess is, we’ll get whipped and sent back with our tails between our legs—and it’ll be another chain, as we stagger back to Aren, only this time we won’t get even close.’
‘Well, that’s a cheering prediction, Cuttle.’
‘It don’t matter. So long as I kill that Napan traitor—and his mage, too, if possible.’
‘And what if you can’t get close?’
‘Then I take as many of them with me as I can. I ain’t walking back, Fid, not again.’
‘I’ll remember that if the moment arrives. But what about taking care of these recruits of ours, Cuttle?’
‘Well, that’s the walk, isn’t it? This march. We deliver them to that battle, we do that much, if we can. Then we see what kind of iron they’re holding.’
‘Iron,’ Strings smiled. ‘It’s been a long time since I last heard that saying. Since we’re looking for revenge, you’ll want it hot, I expect.’
‘You expect wrong. Look at Tavore—there won’t be any heat from her. In that she’s just like Coltaine. It’s obvious, Fiddler. The iron needs to be cold. Cold. We get it cold enough, who knows, we might earn ourselves a name.’
Strings reached across the fire and tapped the finger bone hanging from Cuttle’s belt. ‘We’ve made a start, I think.’
‘We might have at that, Sergeant. Them and the standards. A start. She knows what’s in her, give her that. She knows what’s in her.’
�
��And it’s for us to bring it out into view.’
‘Aye, Fid, it is at that. Now, go away. These are the hours I spend alone.’
Nodding, the sergeant climbed to his feet. ‘Seems I might be able to sleep after all.’
‘It’s my scintillating conversation what’s done you in.’
‘So it was.’
As Strings made his way to his small tent, something of Cuttle’s words came back to him. Iron. Cold iron. Yes, it’s in her. And now I’d better search and search hard . . . to find it in me.
Book Three
Something Breaches
The art of Rashan is found in the tension that binds the games of light, yet its aspect is one of dissipation—the creation of shadow and of dark, although in this case the dark is not absolute, such as is the aspect of the ancient warren, Kurald Galain. No, this dark is particular, for it exists, not through an absence of light, but by virtue of being seen.
The Mysteries of Rashan
A Madman’s Discourse
Untural of Lato Revae
Chapter Twelve
Light, shadow and dark—This is a war unending.
Fisher
GLISTENING SILVER, THE ARMOUR LAY OVER A T-SHAPED STAND. OIL had dripped down from the ragged knee-length tassels to form a pool on the flagstoned floor beneath. The sleeves were not loose, but appeared intended to be worn almost skin-tight. It had seen much use, and where mended the rings appeared to be a darker, carbon-stained iron.
Beside it, on a free-standing iron frame with horizontal hooks, waited a two-handed sword, the scabbard parallel directly beneath it on another pair of hooks. The sword was extraordinarily thin, with a long, tapered tip, edges on both sides, twin-fluted. Its surface was a strangely mottled oily blue, magenta and silver. The grip was round instead of flat, banded in gut, the pommel a single, large oblong sphere of polished haematite. The scabbard was of black wood, banded at the point and at the mouth in silver but otherwise unadorned. The harness belt attached to it was of small, almost delicate, black chain links.
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