Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  Ivanr nodded his assent. ‘Good night. It is an honour to meet you, none the less.’

  ‘The honour is mine, Ivanr.’

  Once the Thel had quit the tent, the Jourilan aristocrat cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes, Hegil,’ Beneth said, somehow conveying an exact knowledge of what the man would say.

  ‘You did not tell him.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘That would have been too cruel.’

  ‘He will find out eventually – perhaps in a worse way,’ Martal warned, her voice rough and flat, perhaps from her mashed nose.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the old man allowed. ‘Yet he will hardly bandy his name about, nor will we. And few of the cult have reached us as yet.’

  Hegil snorted. ‘The cult of Ivanr. A pacifist cult in the name of a bloodthirsty Grand Champion! Surely things have gone too far in this proliferation of schisms and sects, Beneth.’

  ‘Hundreds have been inspired to refuse service. How many more have been imprisoned, or tortured to death? All in his name.’ The old man shook his head in rigid finality. ‘No. I would spare him that burden. At least for as long as we dare.’

  * * *

  When frost glittered on the hinges of his cell door, Corlo knew it was time for them to come for him. This season the wait was not long. He was meditating. Though the otataral torc at his neck precluded all access to the Warrens, as did the malign watchful presence of the Lady, he could still practise the mental disciplines that facilitated and deepened his reach.

  The lock clattered and the door grated open to reveal the usual Chosen guard, backed by crossbowmen. The man motioned him up. ‘Time to go.’

  Corlo eased himself from the cold stone floor, straightened his jerkin. ‘Time to move him?’

  As usual, the Korelri did not answer. They marched him through the rambling tunnels of cells and storerooms; this time they passed many open doors, doors normally shut and locked at any other time of the year. What he saw puzzled him greatly: empty … so many empty rooms!

  Outside, the cold clasped his throat like an enemy and Corlo gasped. Hood take them, but the Riders were upon them with a vengeance. His guards pushed him on to the stone stairs up to the barracks behind the jumbled rock slope at the wall’s base. It was a familiar path, the way to Bars’ chambers, and Corlo dragged his heels to enjoy the too brief period of relative freedom.

  A troop of impressed guardsmen – shackled veterans of the wall – was coming down. A man came abreast and Corlo’s breath caught in recognition even as the man’s mouth opened in shocked mute surprise. Halfpeck! Corlo craned his neck to watch the man descend. Shackled at the ankles, the fellow Crimson Guardsman thrust up a fist, defiant, waving.

  Corlo answered that fist with his own. The stock of a crossbow struck his head, sending him stumbling on. Halfpeck living! How many more might there still be? Last he’d been sure there were seven including him and Bars. All of the Blade alone. Of the fate of the crew, he knew little. Bars insisted on treating the surviving crew of their ship, the Ardent, as part of his command. But for his part, Corlo really only counted the Blade. Perhaps Halfpeck knew of others … where was that contingent headed?

  Corlo climbed the stairs, his mind seething. And where might each survivor be? Where among the thousands of bodies and leagues of wall could they be hidden? Should he slip free of the otataral he might know in an instant – but so too would the Lady become aware of him. And he’d seen too much of the cruel insanity that resulted from her touch to risk that.

  At the door to Bars’ quarters the Chosen ordered the crossbow be pressed against Corlo’s head, then banged the pommel of his sword to the boards. No one answered.

  After a time the Chosen motioned for Corlo to speak. ‘It’s me, Corlo. They’re here to move you.’

  Nothing from the other side. The Chosen unlatched the bar that crossed the door, lowered it, and stepped back. The door swung open, pushed from within.

  Corlo stared, appalled. His commander’s hair hung in a ropy unwashed tangle. His eyes glared beneath, red-rimmed and bleary. A grey beard added decades to his appearance, not to mention the stained and torn linen shirt hanging loose. He held an earthenware jug in one fist. This he threw over a shoulder to fall somewhere with a crash. ‘Off to winter quarters, are we?’

  The crossbow rammed its warning hard against the back of Corlo’s head. Corlo raised his hands. ‘Take it easy, Commander. Just a short walk.’

  Weaving, Bars waved his reassurances. ‘Yes, yes. A nice ocean view for me, hey?’

  The Chosen pointed the way with his naked blade.

  The entire march up to the main walk of the wall Corlo wrestled with the decision whether to tell or not. He’d seen Halfpeck! How many more survivors might there be? Yet how much of a favour would the news be?

  They walked a stretch of the main marshalling pavement, the top of the wall proper, just behind the raised walkways of the outer machicolations. Corlo felt the waves pounding up through his boots and icy drops burned his cheeks. Pennants hung heavy and stiff, already sheathed in frozen spray. Soldiers from all parts of the subcontinent came and went: Jourilan, Dourkan, Styggian, and others. These were honoured veterans, but not true Korelri Chosen of the Stormguard. Those could be seen up on the walls. Every twenty paces stood an erect figure wrapped in its deep-blue cloak, tall silver-chased spear held upright, facing the sea.

  The Chosen assigned to lead their party directed them along the curve of the curtain wall to the nearby tower, the Tower of Stars, the main garrison of this section of the Stormwall.

  As they entered its narrow stone passages and stairways, again Corlo was stricken. Should he tell? Opportunities were rapidly dwindling. Soon they would reach Bars’ holding cell. Indeed, it was not long before the Chosen called a halt and unlatched an ironbound door.

  Bars stood eyeing the man, a crooked, almost fey grin on his lips. Corlo’s breath caught. Gods, no – don’t do it! The Chosen stepped away, gestured him in with his blade. Bars’ glacier-blue eyes shifted to Corlo and the mage winced to see seething rage, yes, and a bright fevered tinge of madness, but no despair. No flat resignation. He made his decision then.

  Bars entered and the door was pushed shut behind him.

  Corlo would wait for despair.

  * * *

  As he and Captain Peles rode through Unta’s yawning north gate, Rillish had to admit that the capital’s rebuilding was coming along well. One had to give this new Emperor his due. In the wake of the emergencies and chaos of the Insurrection – as it had come to be known – the plenipotentiary authorities the man so generously granted himself had allowed him to brush aside any resistance to his plans. He probably now had more personal authority than the old Emperor ever did.

  And the capital’s old attitude of arrogant superiority was, if anything, even greater now. Captain Peles and he at the van of their troop had to press their way forward through an indifferent – even dismissive – mass of foot traffic and general cartage. It was an experience of the capital new to Rillish, who most recently had been a member of the Wickan delegation to the throne. Then, he had travelled with an honour guard of the Clans. Then, much scowling and moustache-brushing from his escort had met the harsh stares and glowers of the citizens. The veterans assigned as his bodyguard had savoured it. But Rillish had been disheartened. Was there to be no accord between these mistrusting neighbours?

  Now, he couldn’t even urge aside a runny-nosed youth yanking a bow-legged donkey. He hunched forward to rest his leather and bronze vambraces on the pommel of his saddle and cast an ironic glance to Captain Peles. The woman held her helm under one arm, her long snow-white hair pulled back in a single tight braid. Sweat shone on her neck and she was scanning the crowd, her pale eyes narrowed. A large silver earring caught Rillish’s eye, a wolf, rampant, paws outstretched, loping, tongue lolling. He recalled the twin silver wolfheads, jaws interlocking, that was the clip of her weapon belt.

  ‘You are an adherent of the Wolves of War, Captain
?’

  Her head snapped around, startled, then she smiled shyly. ‘Yes, sir. “The Wolves of Winter”, we name them. I am sworn.’

  Rillish waved aside a bundle of scented sticks a spice hawker thrust at him. ‘Sworn, Captain?’

  The smile faltered and the woman looked away. ‘Our local faith.’

  Much more there, of course – but any business of his?

  ‘Fist Rillish?’ a voice called from the press. ‘Rillish Jal Keth?’

  He scanned the crowd, caught a face upturned, arm raised, straining. ‘Yes?’

  It was a young woman, a servant. She offered a folded slip of paper. ‘For you, sir.’

  ‘My thanks.’ He opened the missive and found himself confronting runes – the written glyphs of the Wickan tongue. Dear Mowri spare him! Hours spent cracking his skull over these as a member of the Wickan delegation returned to him. He frowned over the symbols.

  Come. Su.

  Ah. One did not refuse the imperative form issued by the shaman Su. Especially when that elder was so respected – or feared – that she ordered about the most potent and famed Wickan witch and warlock, the twins Nil and Nether, as if they were her own children. A relationship not too far from the truth, Rillish mused, in a culture that named all elders ‘father’ and ‘mother’.

  And that message conveyed in a manner assuring secrecy as well. He imagined no one else in the entire Imperial capital, other than a Wickan, could parse their runes. He tucked the slip into his glove, regarded Captain Peles. ‘We part ways here, Captain. I have an errand.’

  She frowned, disapproving.

  A worrier this one, always earnest.

  ‘My orders …’

  ‘Were to convey me to the capital. You have done so. Now I have business to attend to.’

  A cool inclination of the head: ‘Very good, Fist.’

  Rillish reined his mount aside. Not happy, this one, that I should wander off on my own. Perhaps to some tryst … He stopped, turned back on his saddle. ‘Captain, perhaps you would like to accompany me. Have an officer lead the troop to the garrison.’

  The woman saluted, the surprise and confusion obvious on her broad open face.

  Always wrong-foot them – keeps them on their toes.

  Rillish led the captain to the east quarter of the city, a rich estate district. Just last year during the days of the Insurrection the mercenary army the Crimson Guard, an old enemy of the Empire, had attempted to destroy the capital by blowing up the Imperial arsenal. The firestorms that arose after that great blast had raged for days through several of the great family holdings: D’Arl, Isuneth, Harad ’Ul, Paran, and his own, Jal Keth. The devastation had been so widespread because, frankly, the general populace had not been particularly motivated to help out.

  And so we reap what we sow.

  He hooked a leg around the high pommel of his saddle, easing into a Wickan sitting style – though with a twinge as an old wound cramped his thigh. ‘My family is from here, you know, Captain.’

  ‘Is that so, Fist.’

  ‘Yes.’ Not too loquacious this one, either. ‘And what of you? Where are your people from?’

  The broad jaws clenched, bunching. Then, reluctantly, ‘A land west of the region you name Seven Cities. A mountainous land of steep coasts.’

  ‘And does this land have a name?’

  The woman actually appeared to blush. Or was it the heat beneath all that armour? ‘Perish, Fist.’

  Perish? Don’t know it – though, somehow familiar. ‘Not an Imperial holding, then.’

  Now a confident, amused smile curled the lips, almost wolfish.

  ‘No. And I would counsel against the Empire ever making the attempt.’

  ‘It seems we may get along well after all, Captain. The Wickans feel the same way – Imperial claims to the contrary.’ Rillish pulled up before the remains of a fire-eaten gateway. ‘And here we are.’

  The woman wrinkled her nose at the lingering stink of old fire damage. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

  Two figures straightened from the waist-tall weeds choking the gateway: two old veteran Wickans. One was missing an arm, the other an eye. Both offered Rillish savage grins and waved him in. He urged his mount up the bricked approach.

  ‘They seemed to know you well, sir,’ Peles noted.

  ‘We shared a long difficult ride once.’

  Ahead, the fire-gutted stone walls of a manor house loomed in the deepening afternoon light. Already vines had climbed some galleries. In his mind’s eye Rillish saw those empty gaping windows glowing lantern-lit, carriages arriving up this very approach bearing guests for evening fêtes. He could almost hear the clack of wooden swords in the countless wars he and his cousins had fought through these once manicured grounds. He shook his head to clear it of all the old echoes. Now weeds tangled the blackened brick. Fountains stood silent, the water scummed. Outbuildings, guesthouses, stables, stood as empty stone hulks. And in the midst of it all, smoke rising from cook fires, like conquerors amid the ruins, lay an encampment of Wickan yurts.

  Rillish swung a leg over his saddle to slide easily down. The captain struggled with her mount, which seemed disgusted by her inexperience and just as determined to let her know it. Wickan youths ran up to yank its bit. ‘What is this?’ she asked, amazed.

  ‘Welcome to the Wickan delegation. This estate is now the property of the throne. I suggested that perhaps they could be housed here.’ Not that anyone else would take them. ‘Wan ma Su?’ he asked a girl.

  She pointed. ‘Othre.’

  ‘This way, Captain.’ He led Peles across the grounds to the base of a towering ironwood tree, the only survivor of the firestorm that had raged through the district. The Wickan Elder and shaman, Su, seemed to live here, tucked in amid its exposed roots. The giant had been a favourite of his youth, though its limbs stood too tall for climbing. Rillish wondered whether the tree owed its continuing survival to her presence, or, judging from the woman’s extraordinary age, perhaps it was the other way round.

  In either case he found the old woman’s gaze as sharp as ever, following their approach with a hawk-like measure. ‘And who is this great giant of a woman?’ she demanded, displaying all her usual tact.

  But Rillish only smiled. He remembered achieving certain difficult clauses in the Wickan treaty of alliance merely by bringing Su into the chambers – how Mallick squirmed under her gaze! Whereas the Emperor still made his skin crawl. ‘Su, may I introduce Captain Peles of Perish.’

  Su cocked her head, her black eyes sharpening even further. ‘Perish, you say? Interesting … Come here, child.’

  Rillish wondered whether Su had ever heard of Perish; the woman had an annoying way of acting as if her every utterance or act was pregnant with meaning. Yet he’d learned to keep his doubts to himself as any questioning earned a terrifying tongue-lashing. And Peles, to her credit, knelt obediently.

  ‘Yes,’ Su murmured, peering up at the woman. ‘I see the wolves running in your eyes. Whatever you do, Peleshar Arkoveneth, you must not abandon hope. Hold to it! Do not give in to despair.’ She waved the captain off. ‘That is my warning for you. Now go.’ Peles straightened, bowing. She appeared, if anything, even more pale than before. Those sharp eyes now dug into Rillish. ‘And what of you? How many children have you now?’

  ‘Another on the way.’

  The old shaman sniffed. ‘Very well. At least you are good for something still.’

  ‘You have some news then? Or did you ask me here just for the pleasantries?’

  A crooked finger rose. ‘Careful, friend of my people. You remind me of a fellow I know from Li Heng. My patience is not boundless. You are off for Korel, that tortured land. Here is my warning. You Malazans go to fight a war in the name of the Emperor, but you go to fight the wrong war. Swords cannot win this war. Though the Empire sends many swords, perhaps even the most potent of all its swords, peace can never be brought to that land through force of arms. As the Sixth has discovered to its own shamed failure.�
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  She gestured to one side, snapping her fingers. ‘I have arranged to have attached to your command this woman as cadre mage …’

  A figure emerged from a nearby yurt, a woman, middle-aged, thick-waisted, her hair a mousy brown tangle. ‘This is Devaleth. She is of Korel. From Fist, actually.’

  Rillish was surprised. ‘A Korel mage? How can we possibly—’

  ‘Trust her? Rillish Jal Keth! As an Untan noble who negotiated a treaty for the Wickans I am disappointed in you. No, we have spoken long and she is concerned, Rillish. Concerned for her people and for her land. She will not betray you.’

  He offered the woman a guarded nod.

  ‘So this is the fellow,’ the woman said to Su, her accent thick.

  ‘Yes. The best that could be arranged. Time was short, after all.’

  Rillish glanced between them. ‘Now wait a moment …’

  ‘He has been apprised?’

  ‘Yes. To the extent that he is capable of understanding.’

  ‘Su!’ Rillish looked to Peles to find the woman hiding a grin behind her hand. He gave the Wickan shaman a curt nod and turned away. ‘It would seem I am outnumbered.’

  ‘A prudent withdrawal, sir?’ Peles offered, following.

  ‘Indeed, Captain. Indeed.’

  At Imperial Command, Rillish’s honorary Fist rank could not even win him an audience with the secretary to the High Fist D’Ebbin. Instead, a clerk lieutenant studied the packet of orders supplied by Captain Peles and pursed his lips in disbelief. ‘You should have been through here weeks ago.’

  Already Rillish’s teeth ached from clenching them. ‘That’s Fist, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Yes, Fist.’ The lieutenant’s stress made it clear that such a commonplace rank could not possibly impress anyone here at Command. He flipped shut the leather satchel and held it out. ‘Report to the West Tower.’

  ‘The Tower of Dust? Hasn’t that been given over to the mage cadre?’ The clerk’s tired look told Rillish that he had just been demoted to village idiot. He took the packet from the man’s limp hand.