Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  Rillish found himself a touch frightened of the man. ‘What do you mean, ours?’

  ‘I mean that Greymane – Stonewielder – goes to face his enemy while we must confront ours here. If we do not, then there can be no victory for us.’

  ‘This is what you told Greymane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he agreed?’

  ‘Yes. He agreed by leaving you here.’

  The sudden urge to flee gripped Rillish. He paced instead, his heart hammering. ‘You asked that I be left behind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Why me?’

  The man sat on a low stool – perhaps only to set Rillish at ease. ‘I’m sorry, Fist. I wish I could say that it was because of some innate quality you possess. That you were born to fulfil this role. That there was a prophecy foretelling you would be the one. Or that your father’s father was one of the ousted rightful kings of Rool – one of a series of them, actually. Or some such nonsense.’ He leaned forward on his crossed knees. ‘But no. I’m sorry, there’s nothing special about you. There you are. It’s disappointing, I know, but that’s how it is for everyone.’ His wide, thick-lipped mouth drew down. ‘And that just makes it all the harder, doesn’t it? Not being special. Not having that funny mark or that omen at your birth. Just an ordinary person asked to step up to do the extraordinary.’

  Rillish had been pacing the empty room, kicking at the litter. ‘If this is your way of persuading me to help I can well understand your reputation as a difficult fellow. Just what is it you are asking?’

  The man pressed his hands together as if praying. He set them to his lips. ‘To help slay the metaphorical dragon, Fist.’

  Rillish gaped. All the gods, no. That was impossible. Yet this man obviously thought there was a chance. And he and Greymane were in agreement – or so he claimed. What evidence has he shown? None. Yet, Ipshank … he was one of those who remained loyal through to the bloody end. He stopped pacing. ‘I’ll listen. That’s all I can promise right now.’

  Ipshank opened his hands wide and bowed his head. ‘Good enough. That will do for a start.’ He stood, took the lamp to the gaping doorway and shone it out. ‘First, there are some papers here I’d like you to go through.’

  Shambling steps approached and two men entered, burdened by the large heavy chest they carried between them. Rillish thought one, a big fellow sporting a ridiculous long moustache, very familiar. An officer of the City Watch? They set the chest down. Ipshank invited Rillish to the low table and stool. He sat and the men opened the chest to hand over the first packet of an intimidating collection.

  He read slowly, rather reluctantly. Then, with each document, he sat forward further, scanned each with greater intensity. He read through the entire night.

  Come the dawn the guards were gone, and Ipshank sat leaning up against a wall, apparently asleep. Rillish sat back, pinched his gritty eyes and blinked repeatedly. Gods, he was thirsty. A lifetime’s work and dedication here. An amazing story to be pieced together.

  He eyed Ipshank. ‘Should we let the man out?’

  The priest shook his bullet head from side to side. ‘No. He’s already damned as a collaborator. If you release him you’ll only confirm those suspicions and he’ll be killed, or completely discredited. Every day he stays in the gaol is another day of rehabilitation for him.’

  ‘Rehabilitation? I don’t want to create a local leader here.’

  One eye cracked open. ‘Just who do you want as one?’

  Rillish grunted, conceding the point. He stretched, yawning. ‘So. What was it you wanted me to see? The Cloister and Hospice have been destroyed. Burned to the ground.’ He eyed the priest anew. ‘You didn’t …’

  Again, the head shake. ‘No. Local adherents to the Lady. They wanted to incite hatred against you Malazans, so they torched it. Where else would the blame fall?’ The man set his thick arms over his knees. ‘No. Mainly, I wanted you to see evidence. Proof. Mixed in there are a series of interviews with minor workers for the Hospice: grounds keepers, cleaners and such. In those interviews are reports of a chest, a kind of box, brought out of the Cloister and loaded on to a wagon about a month ago.’

  ‘Around the time of the landings.’

  ‘Yes. I believe I know what was on that wagon, and where it went.’

  ‘Yes?’

  The priest took out a skin of water, tossed it to Rillish. ‘Let me tell you a story, Fist. An old story whose particulars I have spent most of my life tracking down. Legends of this region tell of the three most precious relics of the Lady – the Holy Trilogy. Three sacred icons housed in chests. One, according to tradition, was lost in the great sinkhole, the Ring, far back during the attacks of the Stormriders. The greatest, as most know, was reportedly used to bless and sanctify the foundations of the wall itself. After which it was hidden away by the Korelri Stormguard. Most consider it to be housed in the great tower on Remnant Isle, the Sky Tower, guarded by hundreds of Stormguard. And they would be right.

  ‘The third was the most difficult. After eliminating countless holy shrines, sacred cairns, monasteries and temples, I narrowed down its location to here, the great Cloister of Banith. It has since been moved – and I know where.’

  ‘Paliss?’ Rillish said, rousing himself from the hypnotic tale. He took a drink of the warm water.

  ‘No. The caves of the mountain ascetics at Thol on the shores of Fist Sea.’

  ‘Thol? That’s more than ten days’ journey by horse. You can’t be asking me to pack up the army and march across the country to besiege Thol.’

  The man shook his head, unperturbed by how outrageous Rillish made the request sound. ‘No. This is for a small party only. And we must be there within the next few days, or so I believe.’

  ‘Impossible. You know that. Only a mage travelling through Warren could manage that.’

  ‘Or a shaman. And there’s one here, nearby. A descendant of the native peoples of this region, tribes that can trace their roots to the ancient Imass themselves. The Lady scorns them, views their practices as beneath her. But all this time they have maintained their ancient ways, employed their Warren – a version of Tellann, I believe – quietly, without notice. Him we have to convince to help us.’

  Rillish stared, amazed. Gods, the man’s actually thought all this through. Outrageous. ‘And,’ he began, his mouth dry, ‘what would you require of me?’

  ‘Select a small party. Some twenty or so. And be ready for me.’

  Rillish slowly shook his head in denial. An expression almost of horror clenched his face. ‘Ipshank. Greymane ordered me to remain here. I cannot abandon my command. If I go I would be …’ He could not finish the thought. ‘Hood forgive me. I cannot betray his trust again.’

  The priest displayed no sympathy. ‘You have to. You have no choice.’

  * * *

  The Liosan were, if anything, rigidly formal and strict observers of manners and rules. Tight-arses, Jheval called them. Good to their word, they’d allowed the three of them the freedom of the camp. Kiska wanted to get away, of course, but not without her equipment. And so far their tiny guide had yet to show itself; that was either very reassuring, or very worrying. The huge lumbering ravens, however, were quite insolent in showing themselves, depositing great white smears as indelible signs of their presence.

  After two days, or what large hourglasses housed in a main mess tent artificially dictated to be two days, they were invited to dine with the army’s commander, Jayashul. They were escorted to her private quarters, and she met her at the hangings that separated off the rooms. A Liosan man waited within, sour-faced, his expression openly hostile. Jayashul invited Kiska to sit, then Warran, then Jheval. The Liosan male, introduced as Brother Jorrude, sat last.

  Dinner came in numerous small courses of soup, bread and vegetables, none of which struck Kiska as particularly tasty or well prepared. Bland, serious and practical. Like these people themselves. She longed to escape this encampment and return to her m
ission. The only amusement of the night came from the faces Jheval made when tasting the food.

  An after dinner tea was served, a watery green infusion utterly without flavour, and Jayashul announced: ‘We are now prepared to mount an assault upon the Devourer.’

  Kiska thrust aside her tea, spilling it. ‘An assault? Shouldn’t we determine just … what it is, first?’

  Jayashul was undeterred. ‘We know it is a powerful magus, or what some would name an Ascendant. No doubt quite mad. Perhaps brought on by exposure to your otataral dust, or some form of mental attack or breakdown. Merely visiting Chaos can induce such a reaction – it is not uncommon.’ She turned to Warran. ‘What say you, priest of Shadow?’

  The priest had been very eager for dinner, and now he sat looking quite defeated by what had appeared on his plate. Kiska imagined he’d been expecting fish. ‘It would be best, would it not, to examine this anomaly more closely first to determine all its particulars, before striking?’

  Jayashul shook her head rather condescendingly. ‘My dear priest … if one of our white hounds were to launch itself upon you with an intent to consume you utterly, would you take the time to enquire as to his pedigree or antecedents? No, you would strike! Defend yourself!’

  Warran offered a thin smile. ‘The hound would find in me a rather insubstantial meal.’

  Jayashul thought nothing of the comment but Kiska shot the little man a sharp look. Insubstantial? Was the fellow playing games? Mocking this Liosan Ascendant. Perhaps mocking everyone, the entire situation?

  A guard brushed aside the cloth hanging, and Jayashul looked up. ‘He is here?’ The guard nodded. ‘Good.’ She stood and everyone followed suit. ‘The one we have been waiting for has arrived.’ A man entered. He wore his long pale hair loose, and layered green robes. ‘My brother. L’oric.’

  The man’s gaze swept them all. Then, as he was about to bow to Jayashul, he straightened, stunned surprise almost comical on his face, and his eyes returned to Jheval. ‘Blood of my father …’ he breathed. ‘Leoman?’

  Jheval’s mouth twisted his chagrin and embarrassment. He bowed ironically. ‘L’oric. As soon as I saw these Liosan I was afraid you would show up.’

  ‘Show up?’ L’oric echoed, disbelief in his voice. ‘Leoman, your arrogance remains undiluted, I see.’

  Leoman? The name was familiar to Kiska but she couldn’t quite place it. L’oric turned his attention to her. Brother to Jayashul, but at first Kiska saw almost no similarity. His face was thin, but there was a certain haughtiness in its expression in which she saw the relationship. This man should speak of arrogance! It marches emblazoned across his face completely unbeknownst to him.

  ‘Malazan, I see,’ he mused. ‘Claw, no doubt. Come to spy.’ He turned to Warran. ‘And a priest of that Shadow usurper. He is worried about the integrity of his stolen Realm, yes?’

  Warran arched a brow. ‘Stolen? The house was empty, unclaimed.’

  L’oric’s mouth pursed with distaste. ‘The problem, I should think, is that by far too many claim that house.’

  Warran’s gaze narrowed in the first betrayal of annoyance Kiska had yet seen from him.

  L’oric now bowed to his sister. ‘Jayashul.’ He indicated Jheval. ‘What reason has this man given for coming here?’

  ‘They say they came to investigate the Anomaly, the Devourer.’

  L’oric’s gaze was openly sceptical as he studied them in turn. Kiska felt as if she’d been mentally frisked for stolen goods. ‘For what reason, I wonder,’ he mused. ‘All three must be arrested.’

  ‘I have extended the status of guest to them.’

  ‘Then you did so too quickly – you should have waited for me.’

  It was now Jayashul’s turn to reveal annoyance. Jheval laughed. ‘Still the diplomat, I see, L’oric.’

  The man frowned, completely unable to penetrate Jheval’s taunt. ‘This one, at least, must be chained. If only for our safety.’

  Kiska couldn’t contain herself any longer. It was stunning how these two could stand here speaking of them in the third person. ‘We have done nothing!’

  L’oric regarded her, bemused. ‘How strange to hear a Malazan defending Leoman of the Flails.’

  Leoman of the Flails! Kiska gaped at Jheval. The man at least had the scruples to appear ashamed.

  ‘I am sorry, Kiska,’ he said.

  ‘Ah!’ L’oric snorted, as if vindicated. ‘He lied to you. Typical.’

  ‘I believe we’ve established that,’ Warran commented, arching a brow.

  Leoman of the Flails. Follower of Sha’ik, and the last commander of the Seven Cities insurrection. The man who lured the Malazan Seventh Army to its greatest tragedy in the city of Y’Ghatan, where a firestorm consumed thousands. Possibly the greatest living threat to the Empire.

  And a man she would have brought to Tayschrenn! Whom the Queen of Dreams pressed upon her! Could he have deceived her? Surely not. But then … gods turn away! What was she to do?

  Kiska sat heavily, gazing at nothing.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Warran suggested, ‘you might settle this on your own.’

  L’oric gave a curt nod. ‘Yes.’ He snapped his fingers and a guard edged aside the cloth hanging. ‘Take these three back to their quarters and put them under close watch.’

  The guard’s gaze flicked to Jayashul. Though obviously irked by her brother’s infringement on her prerogative as commander, she gestured her agreement.

  Kiska remained sitting until hands urged her up and guided her back to her tent.

  She sat on her pallet, staring at the blank cloth walls long into the night. Leoman. Had he planned assassination? The Queen of Dreams could not have been fooled. Did she then … approve?

  Her gaze fell to her hands. Impotent. Deluded. Abetting!

  The hands clenched into white fists.

  No. Never. I will kill him.

  She stood, threw off her loose cloak and travelling jacket. She rewound her sash wider and tighter, pulled on her gloves. Only now did she notice the noise without the tent. Many men and women moving about. She glanced out of a gap in the cloth opening: the Liosan were readying for their assault. Utter insanity! What can an army do against a Void?

  She saw a detachment of five Liosan marching towards her tent, led by the man from the dinner, Brother Jorrude. Damn! They might be …

  She pulled on her cloak, wrapped it around her and sat on the pallet, hands tucked within the folds.

  A sharp knock on the tent’s front pole. ‘Yes?’ she called.

  ‘We must enter. Dress yourself.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I will give you one more moment.’

  ‘Enter, then. If you must.’

  The flap was pulled aside and three Liosan stepped in, Brother Jorrude and two female soldiers. They peered about the empty interior of her tent.

  ‘What is it?’

  Brother Jorrude ignored her.

  ‘Courtesy—’

  ‘Courtesy?’ the man cut in. ‘You Malazans are not deserving of courtesy. I find your manners … offensive.’

  Kiska smiled. ‘Came away poorly from a previous meeting, did you?’

  The man glared, gestured the others out, then followed.

  Kiska gave them a moment then peered out of the gap in the cloth. They appeared to be gone. She bent to examine the cot. Two legs came off, giving her short batons as weapons. These she tucked into her sash at the rear. She went to the flap, tucked her fingers round the edge and waited for the alley in front to clear.

  ‘There’s too many for that,’ a voice said at her back and she nearly jumped from the tent. It was Warran; the man was standing directly behind her.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ she hissed.

  ‘It looks as if we’ve all decided it’s time to go.’

  She eyed him, not liking that. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jheval – that is, Leoman – has escaped.’

  ‘I knew it! That was why they came here!’ She re
garded him anew. ‘And you as well, it would seem.’

  A modest shrug. ‘I come and go as I please. These Tiste Liosan truly do not understand Shadow. To them it is merely some sort of bastard hybrid. A crippled, or inferior, Liosan. But it is not that at all. It is its own Realm. Separate and equally legitimate.’

  In that speech she heard something new in the priest: pride, yes, but the touchy insecure pride of the outsider, or newcomer, to a very old and long-running game. ‘Will you help me get away?’

  The priest’s answering grin was unnervingly sly. ‘Of course.’

  * * *

  Pyke choked on his beer when Lard and Wess thumped down at his table. He finished drinking from the heavy tankard and wiped his mouth. ‘What do you two want?’

  ‘We’re waitin’ for Suth.’

  Pyke snorted. ‘Then I’m goin’.’ He moved to rise but Lard grabbed his forearm. ‘What’s this shit?’

  Suth entered, peered round, then sat at the table. He nodded to Wess, who yanked something from Pyke’s waist – his money pouch. Wess upended it over the table. Silver and copper coins tumbled over the uneven planks and on to the floor. Pyke writhed to escape Lard’s grip. ‘You guys crazy? That’s mine!’

  Suth shook his head. ‘I wasted my entire day following you, Pyke, from one shop to the next. Guess what I saw?’

  Pyke wrenched his arm free and rubbed it, sneering. ‘What’s the matter with you guys? It’s the routine. Why should we miss out?’

  ‘We get paid,’ Lard said.

  A laugh from Pyke. ‘When was the last time you saw any Malazan coin?’

  ‘Coin or not,’ Lard ground out. ‘I signed on to fight, not steal.’

  ‘Well then, you’re just a stupid fucker, ain’t you?’

  Lard surged forward but Suth pulled him back, saying, ‘You’re digging a grave with that mouth of yours, Pyke. Consider this the warning it is. No more giving us a bad name, or we’ll put you in the infirmary.’

  Pyke bared his teeth in a derisive smirk. ‘You can try.’