*
Rillish went to Devaleth’s tent to await delivery of the Adjunct. He eased himself down into a chair and said to the Marese water-witch, ‘Thank you for your support.’
The woman was readying pots and cloths. ‘Certainly,’ she replied, distracted. ‘The man is too harsh. Too unforgiving.’
‘He is a storied commander …’ he began.
‘With much to prove?’ she suggested, peering over a shoulder. ‘… for whom men and women will fight. But, yes, there is a history there. A history I was a part of.’
Turning, wiping her hands on a cloth, the stocky woman eyed him. ‘You need not wait here. There’s nothing you can do. As,’ and she sighed, ‘I suspect there will be nothing I can do, either.’ She waved to the open flaps. ‘Go on.’
He offered her an ironic courtier’s bow, then, straightening, he waved to a guard. ‘Bring my armour.’
Too weak to walk steadily, Rillish ordered a horse. Armoured, with the help of two grooms, he mounted. He felt much better sitting well supported between the tall cantle and the pommel. He hooked his helmet on the latter and eased on his gauntlets. The day was overcast and cool. Good weather for a protracted engagement – though he doubted Greymane had any patience for such. He regarded the bridge and the column of heavies jamming it, all eager to press forward, and frowned. He signed to a messenger. ‘Bring me the saboteur lieutenant.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
He kneed his mount to start it walking down to the bridge. Not much later a mud-spattered gangly woman jogged up to his guards and pushed her way through. She gaped up at him, grinning with snaggled discoloured teeth, and her bulging eyes appeared to stare in two directions at once. ‘You asked f’r me, Fist?’
Oh yes, Lieutenant Urfa – once met, never forgotten. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. The bridge … should it be so … burdened?’
The woman squinted at the structure. She turned her head to stare first with one eye, then the other. Then she burst out with a string of the most unladylike curses Rillish had ever heard and charged off down the slope without even saluting. Rillish watched her go, and leaned forward on his pommel, sighing. ‘Send word to Captain Betteries – no more than four abreast across the bridge.’
‘Aye, Fist.’ Another staffer charged away.
Gods! Did he have to tell them not to jump up and down too? Just what they needed, collapsing the bridge now after all this time. He saw an unattached lieutenant, a messenger. ‘Where is the High Fist?’
‘At the barriers, sir, organizing the assault.’
‘I see. He’s waiting for sufficient troops, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I believe so, Fist. You have a communiqué?’
‘No. We shan’t bother him.’
He and his guards had reached the jam of infantry choking the bridge mouth. Swearing under his breath, Rillish kneed his mount forward, shouldering the armoured men and women aside. ‘Captain Betteries!’ he shouted.
‘On the bridge, sir,’ a sergeant answered from the press, saluting. ‘Held up a touch.’
Rillish sawed his reins ruthlessly to stand his mount across the bridge mouth, blocking it. ‘You! Sergeant … ?’
‘Ah. Sergeant Tight, sir.’
Tight? Oh well … Rillish pointed to his horse. ‘Form up your squad here – four abreast!’
‘Aye, sir.’
Tensing his legs, Rillish rose up high in his saddle to bellow so loud and with such force that his vision momentarily blackened: ‘Next squad form up behind!’ Weaving, he grasped hold of the pommel.
A hand steadied him from behind – Captain Betteries. Rillish nodded to the officer, who acknowledged the thanks and then turned to the soldiers. ‘Scouts we sent across report they have livestock on the other side!’ he shouted. ‘Full larders. Even beer.’
Sergeant Tight rubbed at his tearing eyes. ‘Bless ’em.’
‘But no one advances until we’re all formed up right and proper!’
‘Aye, sir!’ came the shouted response. The captain turned back to Rillish.
‘My apologies, Fist,’ he murmured, his face pale.
‘Quite all right. Something of a whim this … deciding to cross today.’
A fierce smile from the company commander. ‘Yes. Good day for a walk.’
‘Sergeant,’ Rillish called over the shouting and barked orders.
‘Aye, Fist?’
‘A word of advice. If you ever make Fist grade, change your name.’ And he kneed his mount out of the way, leaving the man behind frowning and scratching his head.
Captain Betteries held back the press with his bared sword. He waited until the mass that already jammed the length of the bridge had filed across, then allowed on one squad at a time. Rillish scanned the far shore. The Roolians had raised barricades – overturned wagons, heaped logs and stones. Greymane had his forces forming up short of the barriers, waiting.
The Roolians were also forming up. More and more of their forces were converging. This assault held the promise of eventually embroiling all combatants from both sides. Greymane, he imagined, would not withdraw or let up until he’d broken through – perhaps even if it meant fighting on into the night. Rillish cast about and found a messenger. ‘For Captain Betteries. Have a quarter of our forces held back.’
The messenger saluted and ran off.
Shortly later the man returned, saluting. ‘Compliments of Captain Betteries, Fist. He responds – a quarter of our forces? That would be the sick-list.’
Damn Soliel! True enough. They don’t have the resources. It’s today, or never.
A great thundering animal roar of rage swelled then from the barriers and the Fourth Army arose at the command of a giant of a man in banded iron armour raising two swords, and charged.
*
Suth could not believe his eyes and ears as he stumbled along the east shore of the Ancy, far behind his rescuers. Columns crowded the bridge, horns sounded orders, and already there was clashing at the barriers on the west shore. They were attacking! And it was happening without him!
Once they’d been helped across the Ancy, Suth had waved the squad on: they were burdened enough carrying the still unconscious Adjunct and Newhorse, who was too weak to walk. He could make it on his own. Waving good luck, the rescuers had jogged off, leaving him to follow as best he could.
Now they were attacking without him! And he exhausted and without his armour. He was never going to live this down. Footsore, his head throbbing, he went to find his gear.
*
Devaleth thanked the squad that had carried in the Adjunct, yet wasted no time in hurrying them out. Closing the flaps, she turned to the young man lying on the pallet. It was far worse than she’d imagined. She cut away the leather and cloth around savage bites in thigh and arm – already they festered. A compound of leaves steeped in a tincture that cleaned wounds went on those. As to his mind – she pressed a hand to his hot brow and reached out, ever so tentatively, to his thoughts, then yanked her hand away as if stung.
Chaos and confusion, yes, but not shattered. Astounding. His mind ought to be irrevocably crushed – so much so that it would be a mercy to let him slip away. Perhaps it was because the man was no mage. No talent, as they said among these Malazans. Not cursed, as she’d say herself.
Yet … something else. Something deeper, more troubling. Her brow furrowing, she bent closer to the man’s eyes. Reaching, she lifted one lid with a finger then flinched away. Ancient One protect her! For an instant … but no. Impossible. It must have been the light. That could not have been an amber glow.
*
They’d left his gear at their camp. Wincing and hissing his pain, he pulled on his long padded gambeson then laced up his hauberk and grieves. Helmet high on his head, he limped down to the bridge. A mounted officer, an unattached lieutenant acting for Command, thundered past then reared, halting.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
Suth saluted. ‘Just returned from scouting up north, sir.’
The officer grunted, accepting this. ‘You’re wounded.’
Suth wiped his face, finding a layer of flaking dried blood. ‘It’s nothing, sir. I can fight …’
‘Report to the infirmary.’
‘Sir, no. I—’
‘No?’ The officer wheeled his mount to face him directly. ‘I order you to the infirmary!’
Suth bit his tongue. Fuck! Should’ve just saluted, dumbass! ‘Yes … sir.’
Nodding a warning, the officer kicked his mount and raced off, dirt flying. Suth glared at the ash-grey overcast sky then headed for the infirmary tents.
*
Envoy Enesh-jer watched the engagement from a narrow window in the top floor of the Three Sisters stone tower. Some time ago he’d summoned the field commander, Duke Kherran, and now impatiently awaited the man’s arrival.
Far later than he expected, the man appeared, helmet in hand, cloak dragging in dirt behind. His round moon face gleamed with sweat. Mud spattered his fine mail and Roolian brown surcoat. ‘With all due respect, Envoy, it is unadvisable to summon me from the—’
‘Duke Kherran!’ Enesh-jer cut in. ‘Last I knew I was the Overlord’s chosen and so you shall treat me as such.’
Stiffening, the Duke clamped his lips shut. He knelt on one knee, bowed, then straightened.
Enesh-jer nodded. ‘That is better. Now … I have been watching the engagement and I am rather surprised to see that our lines have in fact retreated. Why is that, Duke, when I gave strict orders that these invaders were to be swept from the bridge?’
The Duke blinked at Enesh-jer, utterly at a loss. At last he cleared his throat and said, ‘Of course, Envoy. I will see to it myself.’
‘Good. Do so. And Duke …’ Enesh-jer bent closely to him. ‘If you cannot fulfil my expectations then remember – there are many others here awaiting their chance.’
Duke Kherran bowed again, his face held rigid. ‘Envoy.’ He marched out. Enesh-jer eyed the mud the man had tramped into the room, his mouth sour, then returned to the window.
Behind him the thick doors swung closed and the lock rattled shut. The Envoy whirled round. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’
A man all in black stepped out from behind a display of carved ivory icons of the Lady. He was quite short and he smiled with small pointed teeth. The Envoy backed away. The man plucked an icon from a shelf, studied it. ‘You remember enough, don’t you, Enesh-jer, to know who I am.’
The Envoy reached behind him to touch a wall, pressed his back to it. ‘I will call for the guards.’
The man waved the icon towards the entrance. ‘Those doors are built to resist a siege.’
The Envoy raised his chin, ran a hand down the front of his robes, straightening their folds. ‘I am not afraid to die. The Lady will welcome me.’
‘A true believer.’ The man tossed the icon over a shoulder to shatter on the flagstones. The Envoy winced. ‘You come across them … now and then.’ The man walked to one of the slit windows, peered out. ‘Ah! He’s broken through. Took him longer than I thought.’ He offered a wink. ‘Guess he’s out of practice.’
Enesh-jer slid along the wall to a window, glanced out. His face paled even further. It was the invaders who had broken through. Leading the charge came an armoured giant. Even as the Envoy watched, the man heaved aside an overturned cart, knocked soldiers from their feet with raking blows.
‘In a rare fury, he is,’ the assassin commented.
‘Both his swords are broken,’ Enesh-jer said, wonder in his voice.
‘Breaks all his swords, he does.’ The man glanced at him again and bared his pointed teeth. ‘All ’cept one.’
The Envoy raised a hand to clutch at his throat. ‘No. I refuse to believe it. Lies.’
The little man’s smile was a leer. ‘Yes, it’s him. Your old friend, Greymane. I hear he carries a grudge for all you betrayers. Voted to oust him, didn’t you?’
Enesh-jer was shaking his head in denial. ‘Yeull would have told me.’
‘Or not.’ The man leaned back against the window slit. ‘Question is then … do I kill you or not? Who’s it going to be? Me or him?’
The Envoy straightened, adjusted his rich silver-threaded robes yet again, jerked his chin to the assassin. ‘You.’
The man smiled. Long thin daggers slid into his hands. ‘Good.’
*
Devaleth reached the end of her options quite quickly with the wounded Adjunct. She’d cleaned the wounds as best she could and studied the man to diagnose what afflicted him. The problem was that what had happened to him was far beyond her own quite minor expertise. Some sort of fever coursed through his blood, probably inflicted by the animal bites. As to what his contact with the apparition of the Lady might have done to his mind – she had no hope of ameliorating that.
Someone spoke from the front of the tent. ‘Mage of Ruse. May I enter?’
She straightened, reached out to her Warren. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Carfin, of the Synod of Stygg.’
The Synod of Stygg? She’d thought that mere legend, stories. An association of mages who met despite the Lady’s best efforts to stamp them out. She relaxed, slightly, calling out, ‘You may enter.’
‘My thanks.’
Devaleth flinched, spinning: the mage had spoken behind her.
He was tall and skeletally thin, wearing tattered dark finery: trousers, vest and shirt. Arms clasped behind his back, he was studying the Adjunct. ‘You seek to heal him.’
‘Yes.’
‘We in the Synod agree that he must be healed. Certain of us foresee a role for him.’
‘A role? In what?’
His gaze had not left the Adjunct. He pursed his lips distastefully. ‘This one is foreign indeed.’
‘What do you mean? Foreign – how?’
‘Unfortunately … what ails him cannot be treated in any mundane way.’
She let out a long breath. ‘I see.’
He lowered his head to study her from under his stringy black hair. ‘Yes. One or both of us must access our Warren.’
‘Ah.’ And bring down the Lady upon them. They may heal the Adjunct, but then one or both of them would be dead or no better off than the Adjunct was now. ‘I don’t know if I’m ready for that.’
‘No one is,’ said someone from the flaps and both Carfin and Devaleth jumped sideways to regard the newcomer. He was an older man, bearded, in battered, travel-stained clothes.
‘Totsin?’ Carfin said, his gaze narrowed. ‘What in the name of the ancients are you doing here?’
The man entered, pulling the flaps closed behind him. ‘I’ve come to see what I can do here.’
Carfin returned his gaze to the Adjunct. ‘Well. Damned late, but welcome, I suppose.’
The man, Totsin, bowed to Devaleth. ‘Mage of Ruse. Not many of the Marese have joined the invaders, I presume?’
Devaleth offered him a thin smile. ‘Not many. You are with this Synod?’
‘From very far back, yes.’ He gestured to the Adjunct. ‘What do you intend?’
‘He must be healed by Warren.’
‘Ah …’
Devaleth nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Who?’ Totsin asked.
‘We are … considering,’ Carfin answered. He sniffed the Adjunct and wrinkled his nose. ‘Terribly foreign.’
Totsin smoothed his greying beard. ‘If it must be done, then, well, no option to flee exists for me. As to our host, well, we are not at sea …’
Carfin cocked his head, looking like a tall emaciated crow. ‘You are suggesting … ?’
The older man raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘Well – if now is the time to commit fully, as the Synod appears to have voted …’
The tall mage ran a hand down the edge of the pallet, the other going to his chest. ‘True enough, Totsin. Though coming from you that is a surprise.’
Devaleth cast a look between the two. ‘What are you getting at?’ she demanded.
Totsin bow
ed. ‘Carfin here is a mage of Darkness – Rashan, I believe the Malazans name it.’
‘I see.’ So, Carfin could heal the Adjunct then flee into the Warren of Rashan, hoping to shake off the Lady. Seemed straightforward enough. ‘Yet … you are reluctant … you fear the Lady’s attack, of course …’
Carfin was shaking his head, almost blushing. The man’s not afraid – he actually looks embarrassed! He cleared his throat. ‘Unlike Ruse, madam, we here under the thumb of the Lady rarely dare to exercise our, ah, talent. The truth is – though I know how to do it – I have never actually entered Rashan …’
Oh. Oh dear.
‘And so having entered …’ Carfin continued, ‘I have no way of knowing whether I’ll ever be able to return – if you see the dilemma.’
‘Yes,’ Devaleth breathed. She touched his arm. ‘I understand fully.’ She regarded Totsin. ‘What of you? You seem ready enough to push others forward.’
He raised his hands apologetically. ‘My talents run in, ah, other directions.’
The tall pale mage took Devaleth’s hand, kissed the back of it. ‘Madam, it is of no concern. I will do this. It is something I should have done long ago, in any case.’ He looked to the older man. ‘Totsin. My thanks. You, of all of us, stepping forward has emboldened me. My thanks.’
The older mage was dragging his fingers through his ragged beard, his gaze fixed on the Adjunct. ‘Yes. Now is certainly the time to act.’
‘You should both wait outside.’
Devaleth nodded. She clasped the man’s hands in hers. ‘My thanks.’ He bowed very formally.
Outside, Devaleth focused on emptying her mind of all concern for what was going on within. She turned her back to watch the engagement on the far shore. It appeared that the infantry, even with the aid of Greymane, had yet to break through. Just as before. Too narrow a front to assault. And they were all so weak – famished, sick.
Totsin had walked off to one side and was kicking at the dirt, hands clasped at his front.
Though Devaleth was prepared for it subconsciously, the sudden levelling of the Lady’s awareness and ferocity left her staggered. Behind her the tent cloth billowed and tore as if a silent explosion of munitions had been unleashed within. One pole yanked free, falling crooked. She sent an alarmed glance to Totsin, who had turned, his gaze hooded. He raised his thin shoulders in a shrug.
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