He led them up stairs that were no more than flows of ice cascading down from a higher wall, a machicolation perhaps. Here the cut stones sloped downward, no doubt to cast the wash of the crashing waves back over the face of the wall.
Shell reached the top and had her breath stolen from her. The sea raged beneath a horizon-wide ceiling of black cloud. White caps tossed up scarves of spume while overhead curtains of blue-green bands shimmered and danced.
The Stormguard was hammering their chain to a pin close to the lip of the wall. Shell’s partner stared at her, horror and despair in his eyes. Past him, through a gap in the blowing snow, she caught two figures crouched in the middle distance.
Straightening, the Stormguard faced them. ‘Fight, and there’s a good chance you’ll live. Refuse to fight and I’ll slit you like a dog. Remember that.’ And he jogged away down the stairs.
The man with her threw down his spear.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Give me the shield!’ he demanded, shivering as if palsied.
‘What?’
‘Give me the shield!’
She considered breaking his neck right then and there, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She thrust the shield at him and retrieved the spear. ‘You cover me with that blasted thing,’ she told him, but he didn’t seem to be listening.
They didn’t have long to wait. From the east came a distant rumbling as of a roll of thunder. A wave’s coming. The Riders come with the crest, probing for weaknesses. She readied the spear, opted for a broad stance, the haft extended out as far ahead as possible. Best then not appear weak.
The sea appeared to swell as a great rolling comber heaved itself shoreward. It came at an angle, striking to the east first, rumbling down the wall like an avalanche. Phosphorescent light gleamed within, shimmering and winking. The Riders.
As the wave drew abreast it crested the wall to send a wash over her numb feet and legs up to her knees. Some thing flowed past, a shape, gleaming in oily rainbow shades of mother-of-pearl. Her partner recoiled, bumping her – for a moment she was afraid he was going to try to clutch her.
‘You saw it!’ he stammered. ‘They are daemons!’ He threw down the shield to claw at the ring and pin imprisoning them.
‘Pick up the shield,’ she told him, fighting to keep her voice calm. A secondary swell grew following the main crest. ‘Hurry.’
He yanked, sobbing. Blood from his frozen, torn fingers smeared the naked iron.
‘Pick it up.’
The swell rolled abreast of them. The man reached out to her. ‘Use the spear! Lever—’
A slim jagged weapon thrust from the face of the water to burst through the man’s chest. It withdrew before Shell could respond. Something reared, lunging, a humanoid figure, armoured, helmed. Steam plumed from it as it thrust at her. Despite her shock Shell parried, then the Rider’s own momentum carried it off and away with the receding wave.
Shell was left alone, chained to a corpse in the blowing snow. To the west she watched another pair engage the wave as it passed their station, then all was quiet as the sea withdrew. It seemed to be readying itself as lesser waves hammered and clashed. She shivered; her feet were now far beyond any feeling whatsoever. She wondered whether she could walk even if she had the chance.
It seemed she would have to wait. She considered the body hardening at her feet, the chain linked to its ankle fetter, the razor edge of the spear. A lever, he had suggested … but no. He wasn’t impeding her. Not yet.
No relief came. Shell knelt down on her haunches, blew on her fingers while hugging her frigid legs to her. Damn the shield; she’d use the spear two-handed.
The temptation to reach out to her Warren was almost irresistible. Just the quickest summoning of power and she would be free – but then where would she go? And the Lady would sear her mind more surely than these Riders might skewer her. She might be a mage foremost … but she was also an Avowed of the Crimson Guard, and she would show these Riders what that meant.
The huge cut stones of the wall shuddering beneath her feet announced the arrival of another wave. She watched its ice-skeined bulge as it came rolling in from the north-east. Flashes of lightning accompanied it, and greenish light danced above. Like mast-fire it was … the brilliance that sometimes possessed a vessel.
Shell readied herself, searched for purchase over the treacherous ice-sheathed stone. Her hands, she noticed, alarmed, were now frozen to the spear’s haft. The wave rolled along the fortifications, cresting over the top as it came. When it swelled abreast of her a figure seemed to lift itself from the water, carrying lance and shield. It reared, heaved the lance at her. She parried. As it went for the sword sheathed at its side she thrust with her spear, taking him, or it, on the shield. In a practised move the Rider took hold of her spear haft then threw itself backwards into the water, taking the weapon with it. Her hands flamed as skin was torn in strips.
She cursed in a blind white fury worse than any she had known before. Damn these scum! I will not die here! The vow I swore was against the Malazans! A second Rider reared before her on whatever it was they rode – water animate as half wave, half beast-like mount. Weaponless, there was nothing for it but to hammer an arm across the front of the attacker, unhorsing him. As he fell she grabbed the pommel of his sheathed sword but the touch burned her hand as if she’d sunk it into embers and she cried out, recoiling.
Thankfully, the wave subsided, rolling on. She sank to her knees, cradling her numb hand to her chest. Damn them all! Stupid fucking waste!
Still no relief came. She knelt, panting; blood froze in a sheath on her hands. She felt so sluggish, utterly numb. Strangely, there was no pain. It was as if she were floating. Maybe if I just lie down for a moment …
Rattling shook her to wakefulness. Someone was hammering at the ice-encrusted ring and pin imprisoning her. Her chains came free and he reached for her. Standing, she straight-armed the man from her. She swore at him but her lips were numb and she could only mumble. He seemed to study her for a time through the narrow vision slit of his helm, then he grasped the chains and dragged them, pulling her and the corpse off the wall.
They knocked the fetters from her in the tiny marshalling room, then she was prodded back down the stairs. A guard kept her moving, a bared blade levelled against her. In the prison chamber she was reattached to the main gang-chain and she allowed herself to slide down the wall in what felt like the most luxurious warmth imaginable.
Almost immediately she fell asleep. Some time later she awoke to a touch on her foot. It was the prisoner who’d fed them earlier, Jemain. He knelt to rub a greasy unguent on her face, arms, legs and hands. ‘It will prevent infection and aid healing,’ he told her.
She saw his bare ankles. ‘You’re not chained,’ she noted belatedly.
‘I’m a trustee.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘That was quite a show you put on. Be careful or they will move you to a hot spot.’
She laughed, hurting her cracked lips. ‘That wasn’t hot?’
He smiled. ‘Oh no. First they put you on a slow station – see what you can do.’
A new Chosen entered the chamber, blue cloak wrapped tight about him. He spoke in low tones with the two Stormguard. Jemain lowered his head to mutter, ‘Too late.’
The two posted guards marched down the line to Shell. While one watched, hand on swordgrip, the other struck her from the chain. This one then freed the older Malazan soldier as well, and linked her and him together.
‘She needs time to heal,’ Jemain told them. ‘Her hands—’
The nearest Stormguard struck him a blow that sent him tumbling. Shell lashed out but the Chosen slipped the blow, drawing his weapon to strike her in the gut with the pommel. She grunted without falling and the man fell back one step, his eyes widening behind the narrow vision slit. The old Malazan veteran threw an arm across Shell to draw her back as well.
She knocked his arm aside. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Malazan scum.’
The veteran let his arm fall to look her up and down, wonder on his face. ‘Togg take me …’ he breathed. The trustee, Jemain, also stared up at her – he looked about to say something. The Stormguard drew his blade, gestured to the exit.
Glaring her fury, Shell gave the faintest of nods. She edged her way through the narrow chamber. The eyes of all those chained along both walls watched her pass. As she came to Jemain he raised an arm and she helped him up. Hugging her close, he whispered, ‘Do you know Bars?’ Then he gasped as her grip tightened convulsively.
‘Where is he?’ she grated.
‘I know.’
‘Come to me.’
‘Get a move on,’ the Stormguard ordered.
Pulling away, he murmured, ‘I’ll try.’
She let him go, forcing her burning hands to open, then shuffled on. The Malazan veteran, she noted, also gave the trustee a long hard stare as he passed.
So this Jemain knew Bars. But then, here on the wall, who did not? Perhaps it was nothing. But the Malazan appeared close to guessing her identity as well. And she was now paired with him. Well, as before … she may be better off alone …
BOOK III
And All the Shores Between
He stands watching the Chosen on the wall
Gripping the stone in both hands
Staring down into the blur of sickle blades,
Clouds of spray and snow blow behind
And all to the horizon, to the curve
Of wall that marks the shore,
Nothing but men swinging.
When the sea fills the gap
His cousins raise their spears.
For twelve hours the sun strives
And the reaper reaps.
The boy stares down into that sweep
Of hot oiled blade and tempered ice,
And I hope he will not fall.
Epic lay, The Wall
Derak Ranathaj
CHAPTER IX
Looking back
is a flame in the eyes.
Best not to linger like flies
on the refuse we have made.
No, I know nothing of what came before.
Nor do I care.
It is much easier to worship the future
that will never come.
Occasional Rhymes
Jhen Karen’ul of Stygg
BAKUNE SAT IN THE HIGH CHAIR OF THE BANITH COURTS CIVIL AND listened to the advocate for the aggrieved finish his argument. It was all he could do to force himself to pay attention. Outside, an occupying army patrolled the streets and blockaded the harbour, while here within these walls advocates and agents connived and conspired with as much unashamed greed as before.
Something within the Assessor wanted to scream. Under his robes he pinched his fingers into his palms to force himself to follow the advocate’s unlikely, and contrived, line of reasoning. After the summing up Bakune quickly hammered his desk. ‘Advocate, I see no clear and compelling evidence here to support your claims of collaboration and war profiteering.’
The advocate rose anew, swept his robes back from his arms. ‘Assessor … it is clear from this merchant’s sale of goods to the enemy …’
‘Sir, if I were to prosecute every merchant who has dealt with these Moranth then the Carceral Quarters would be full to bursting. That alone is no evidence of collusion or traitorous behaviour as your client contends. Meanwhile the accused, your client’s main rival in the timber concession, I understand, suffers under this cloud of doubt, his reputation stained, his business eviscerated. I suggest you work towards assembling compelling and material evidence to support your charges. Until then – case dismissed.’ Bakune hammered the desk again, and the foremost of the crowd jamming the court rose, half of them relieved, the other half muttering their dissatisfaction.
The Assessor turned to the next packet of documents, but somehow he could not muster the energy to face them. He hammered the desk a third time. ‘Court closed for the morning.’
An eruption of protest, shouting, papers waved in fists, the court bailiffs struggling to hold back the mob. Bakune swept out of the court; he simply no longer gave a damn. Where were these urgent calls to action, the public outrage, when youths were disappearing from the streets? He frankly had no sympathy for this sudden new passion for litigation. Our country is invaded by a foreign power, alien troops walk our streets, and our reaction? We attempt to sue them and each other. Bakune was ashamed that his countrymen would see in all this nothing more than an opportunity to make a quick profit.
He gathered up a few files then headed out to return to his offices. His guards took up positions around him – a precaution pressed upon him by Hyuke, now Captain Hyuke of the City Watch. The surviving members of the Lady’s priesthood had damned him for meeting with the enemy – as if they could just ignore them and hope they’d go away.
It was so frustrating he was tempted to walk away. Damn them all for their sudden newfound concern for ‘justice’ and the self-righteous aggrieved umbrage only the selfish can muster. At least no new murder following the characteristics of all those that had come before had yet surfaced. Certainly there had been killings: drunken stabbings, crimes of passion, spousal murders – oddly enough from those most vocally concerned with ‘traditional Roolian values’, it seemed. But no bodies of youths turning up in the tide. For that Bakune was grateful, and chose to take some small measure of credit. He’d even had a word with Boneyman, and Soon, the young servant girl, now worked as an apprentice cook in the kitchens.
He found Hyuke awaiting him outside his office, looking no different from before with his ridiculous fat moustache and lazy manner. Only his uniform had changed; Bakune did not think much of the epaulettes. He opened the door and waved him in. ‘What is it?’
The new Watch captain slumped in a chair, his eyes sleepy. ‘Them Blues want a warehouse and grounds to set up quarters on the waterfront. No one’s volunteering.’
‘Surely that’s a matter for the Lord Mayor’s office.’
A tired nod. ‘True enough. Except the Lord Mayor’s scarpered.’
‘What?’
‘Last night. Run off. City treasury’s empty too.’
‘You’re implying a connection?’
The man rolled his eyes. ‘What’re we gonna do?’
‘What do you mean “we”? The Vice-Mayor must step in.’
A shake of the head.
‘The Lieutenant-Mayor?’
A disappointed pursing of the lips.
‘The city treasurer?’
‘Arrested. A person of interest.’
‘Ah. That leaves … ?’
‘You.’
‘Me? Lady forfend, no.’
‘Sorry, but we’ve ’bout run out of all other contenders. The Abbot’s dead, the Lord Mayor’s gone. That leaves you. Congratulations – this mess is yours.’
Bastard Mayor Gorlings. Never did like the pompous ass. Now he’s run off and left me to clean up. And I don’t want any of it. Bakune eyed his Watch captain. At least the fellow seemed willing to do whatever he told him. He supposed it was time one of the deputy assessors sat the bench. ‘Confiscate the necessary property. Tell them they’ll be paid in script.’
Hyuke’s long face lit up in a grin and he stroked his moustache. ‘That I like to hear.’ He stood. ‘They’ll hate you.’
‘They’ll hate me anyway.’
‘That they will.’ The man gave a brief bow. ‘Lord Mayor.’
Late that night as he was walking home, he was struck once more by how quiet the city was. The seemingly endless tide of pilgrims had ebbed. Countless citizens had fled the coast for the dubious safety of the inland towns. The capital, Paliss, was apparently choked with refugees. And the Overlord? Strange rumours circulated concerning him and his seeming non-response to this invasion.
Bakune’s housekeeper opened the door for him, curtsying – this too was new. Everyone treated him with either far more respect or far more hostility, depending
upon where their particular interests happened to lie. His guards took up positions before his door. His cook was in the kitchen preparing an evening meal – another new addition. He hung his cloak then poured a drink. Entering his parlour he found the priest, Ipshank, sitting in his most comfortable chair.
Bakune nodded and sat, reminding himself to have a word with the housekeeper, who, apparently, was a convert to this priest’s strange new religion.
‘Nice place,’ the priest said.
‘A previous visitor called it wretchedly small.’
‘How our perceptions can change.’
‘Ipshank … perhaps you shouldn’t …’
‘No one knows I’m here.’
Bakune rubbed his pained brow. ‘It’s just that I’m already being labelled a traitor …’
The priest sat forward. The beast tattoos on his face darkened in the dim light. ‘I’m here to let you know things are going to get much worse.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘You’ve heard the rumours regarding our Overlord, Yeull? The Roolian Army?’
‘Which? I’ve heard twenty contrary stories.’
The man sat back. ‘Well, there’s to be no counter-offensive. No effort to free Banith.’
Bakune nodded. Already he’d come to that reluctant conclusion. It had been more than ten days and still no Roolian forces had arrived. What’s more, he’d heard some very alarming rumours regarding the disposition of that army. He sipped his liqueur. ‘I’d heard a rumour that Paliss was being abandoned.’
The priest nodded. ‘The official word is that the Overlord will hold the north then retake the south.’
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