‘And give my apologies to Rillish. He proved himself. He deserved better.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. My thanks.’ He started up the beach, turned back. ‘Tomorrow. You’ll have till tomorrow. Get everyone into the hills – and see Nok through this. It’s up to you.’
‘Yes. I’d say good luck, but I can’t bring myself to. I’m sorry.’
The High Fist nodded. ‘Goodbye. Good luck to you.’ And he bowed his head in a kind of salute.
Devaleth watched till he disappeared into the forest of this unremarkable length of coast. A forest soon to be swept utterly away should the man succeed – which isn’t guaranteed, either.
She summoned Ruse and returned to the Warren.
Her return journey was uneventful. The shallow wash remained, either the remnant of a flood, or a flood from an earth tremor, or some such thing. She could not tell. She avoided the moraine but bumped up against waterlogged corpses sunk in the water. Though their flesh was disintegrating in a cloud around their bones, these bodies appeared unusual: very gracile, the bones curved oddly, the skull narrow, limbs elongated. Very pale, of course, as the bleaching of the water accomplishes that. But still, very pale indeed.
Unnerved, she hurried on. When her sense of the Warren told her she’d found the place of her entrance she reached out once more to step through.
And she entered a maelstrom of noise and smoke and screaming. Malazan dead carpeted the tidal interzone of algae-skirted rocks and pools. Troopers hunched for cover among those rocks. Arrows and crossbow bolts whipped past her and she quickly raised a shield from Ruse to deflect them. Launches and jolly boats choked the shore, abandoned or half sunk.
What was going on? Why were they still here?
Furious, she slogged over to the nearest crowd of soldiers. ‘What are you doing!’ she demanded.
The troopers gaped at her. One, a sergeant by his armband, offered a hasty salute. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, High Mage, ma’am. It’s them shoreward cliffs. Their archers beat back every charge.’
She studied the cliffs: some three fathoms of loamy soil, no handholds, no gaps. ‘Very well. Looks like you can use some help.’
The sergeant nudged the troopers near him. ‘Yes, ma’am. An even exchange, every time.’
‘Prepare yourselves …’
Ruse called to her. It practically sang. Yes, yes, she answered. So be it. She extended her arms to reach out over as wide a front as possible. Come. Rush through. Rise. She tugged the waters behind her, urging them into a swelling, a great roll or front that came surging upward. She sensed the enormous Blue dromonds and men-of-war anchored behind in the bay as tiny toys bouncing far above her consciousness. And she pushed.
Yells of alarm rang out around her but she did not turn.
An immensity now leaning forward behind her, rising inexorably. The weight was impossible, but she allowed it to flow through her, onward, promising release just ahead. A wave took her from behind, climbed her body and kept mounting ever higher. She sensed the launches and jolly boats surging overhead, men and women momentarily suspended, counter-balanced in their weight, kicked forward.
The surge struck the cliff like a tidal bore and was pushed upward, bulging, rising. It washed over the lip, taking with it everyone along this stretch of the landing, to burst outward in a great release of pressure, washing onwards, diminishing.
The surge sank around her, leaving her sodden, exhausted, and she slouched on to a rock. Water rushed round her knees, charging back to the sea, dragging the loamy soil with it, and peering up she saw the cliff eroded into draws that ran now like small waterfalls. A huge launch, some two fathoms in length itself, tottered on the lip of the cliff before sliding backwards, empty.
Troopers of the Fourth and Eighth splashed in from either side, charging, cheering, urging one another on. The charge thickened into a constant stream of soldiers as the entire landing converged on this gap to claw themselves up the slope. When next she raised her head for a look, a guard of troopers had her covered in a barrier of overlapping shields. She rubbed at a sticky wetness over her mouth and her hand came away clotted in blood. Nosebleed – of course.
Some time later the self-appointed honour-guard straightened, saluting, and, after bowing to her, jogged off. Devaleth turned to see the Blue Admiral, Swirl. The Moranth draped a blanket over her shoulders.
‘High Mage,’ he began, wonder in his voice, ‘I am amazed. Had I known – we would have merely stood aside to let you clear the way.’
She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t me. I just tapped something abiding within Ruse. Something so immense the mere possibility of it allowed this.’
The Blue Admiral tilted his helm. ‘I confess I do not understand. Does this bear on the High Fist’s last orders?’
‘What were they?’
‘Fist Shul is to strike inland, take high ground. The fleet is to withdraw from the coast.’
She jumped up, tottering, clutching the blanket. ‘Yes! That is it. We must withdraw to the centre of the Narrows. Shul will take the troops. He, all of us, we have until tomorrow.’
The Admiral bowed. ‘We will complete the unloading as soon as possible, then. Will you not return to the flagship?’
She nodded her relief. Gods, yes. I can feel her pushing against me. Raging. Full of hate and poison. Best to get away as soon as possible.
She took a step and would have collapsed but for the Admiral’s catching at her arm. Dizzy, she thanked him. He waved guards to him, ordered them to return her to the flagship. Despite her distaste for displaying weakness, she allowed them to walk her to the nearest boat.
*
‘What do you mean he isn’t here?’ Overlord Yeull stared at Ussü as if he were somehow responsible. ‘This is his landing! His moment! Why wouldn’t he be here?’ The man’s gaze darted about the tent, feverish, wild. ‘Where is he? He must be found!’ The eyes, white all round, found Ussü. ‘You! Find him! I command you! Find him and destroy him!’
Ussü drew breath to disagree but one look at the man hunched over the brazier, blankets and a fur cloak draped over his shoulders, hands practically sizzling over the embers, convinced him not to argue. He bowed. ‘I am your servant.’
The man glanced to him as if startled by his presence. ‘What? Yes! Go!’ He waved Ussü out.
Outside the darkened command tent, Ussü adjusted his robes and considered the Overlord’s degenerating condition. He always was unreliable – now, who knows what whim might take him? Things did not look promising.
Still, they were here in Korelri. Should these Malazans even gain a foothold, like a shallow wave they would break against the wall. He crossed to his tent, ducked within. His Roolian soldier attendants were still wiping up the blood from his earlier efforts. One was casting sawdust on the bare ground. The corpse had been wrapped and carried off. How the Lady mocked him for clinging to such crutches. Still, he remained reluctant to throw himself entirely into her hands.
‘Another prisoner, magus?’ an attendant asked.
‘No. That is all for now.’ No need to scry anew. Greymane was not here, that much was certain. Still, where was the man? It troubled him also that he could not find him. What was he up to? If he had sufficient power at his disposal he could locate the fellow – but not power pulled from the Lady, not yet. He wasn’t that desperate yet. But perhaps from another source …
‘I have need of a horse,’ he told an attendant. ‘Have we any?’
‘We brought a few across, sir. For messages.’
‘Very good. Prepare one.’
The man bowed and left. Ussü began packing a set of panniers. Should the Malazans gain a foothold then it would be an infantry battle, hedge-jumping and door-to-door skirmishing. Not his campaign. It seemed the Overlord had given him his mission, and thinking on it, he did believe it important. This man, Greymane, Stonewielder, must be planning something, and he, Ussü, the Lady’s erstwhile High Mage, was the only one with the slightest chance of locating him.
Outside, the horse was brought up and he mounted. Wishing the men good luck, he urged his mount inland. He was a good few leagues off, climbing the gentle rolling hillside, when something tugged at him from the Strait. Something’s gathering. He reined in and turned. Shading his eyes, he could just make out the distant Blue and Talian men-of-war anchored in the bay. What were they up to? Then he felt it: the puissance literally pushed him backwards. Ye gods, what was this? Ruse, awakening? Had an Ascendant taken to the field?
A great wave bulged in the bay, heaving shoreward. That renegade Mare mage! Sweeping the shore clear! Where came she by such might? Too much. Far too much for him to contest. That was one battle he had to concede. She could have the shore – but this was her one and only throw. He still had many more. He sawed the reins around and made inland as fast as he could urge the horse.
* * *
Warran took Kiska through Shadow – just how he did it she wasn’t sure. He simply invited her to walk to the darkened rear of the tent and she found herself stepping on much farther than its dimensions. The gloom then brightened to the familiar haziness of the Chaos region and she turned to him. ‘Where are we?’
‘Within the boundary threshold of the Whorl itself.’ The short fellow clasped his hands at his front. ‘Myself, I have no wish to go any farther.’
‘But it was dark …’
‘To those looking from the outside, yes. It would appear that those within create their own local conditions.’
Kiska peered around, dubious. ‘I don’t think I understand …’
The old priest cocked his head. ‘Some say every consciousness is like a seed. Perhaps that is true. I know of small pocket realms that act in this manner. Perhaps we create our own – for a time. Now I understand why the Liosan would come in such numbers. Their local conditions would be that much stronger, and more enduring.’
‘Enduring?’
Warran gave a serious nod. ‘You don’t really think you can forestall the eroding effects for ever, do you? Eventually you will be consumed.’ He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Or perhaps you will drift in nothingness dreaming for ever … Hmm. An interesting problem …’
Kiska stared at the ragged fellow. ‘That’s supposed to reassure me?’
Warran blinked. ‘Does it? It certainly wouldn’t reassure me.’
Exasperated, she raised her arms to turn full circle. ‘Well, which direction should I go?’
‘I really do not think it matters. Here, all directions lead to the centre.’
‘All directions lead – that doesn’t make any sense!’
The priest pursed his lips, head cocked. ‘You could say it has its own kind of logic … you just have to learn to think a different way.’
‘You sound as if you’ve done this before.’
The greying tangled brows rose in surprise. ‘Time is wasting. You’d better start searching.’ He raised a finger. ‘Oh! I took the liberty …’ He reached into his dirty torn robes and pulled out Kiska’s staff.
Mute with wonder, she accepted it, then stared from it to him: it was taller than he. ‘How …’
He waved goodbye, started off. Over his shoulder he called, ‘Take care. Remember the logic!’ He’d taken only a few steps when he disappeared.
Kiska stared, squinting. Was that the border of her own personal space? The thought unnerved her utterly. She squeezed the staff in her hands, feeling emboldened by its familiarity, and started off in the opposite direction from the one in which the priest had gone.
She had no sense of time passing, of course. It might have been a moment, or a day, but eventually the sky darkened, seeming to close in until she jogged beneath a night sky blazing with stars that showed no constellation she knew. The ground to either side fell away in steep slopes down to an equally dark abyss, leaving a narrow walk, and here someone was waiting for her.
It was Jheval-Leoman, arms crossed, an almost embarrassed look on his wind-tanned face. Kiska noted he once more wore his morningstars on his belt – that damned priest! She lowered her staff. ‘Keep your distance.’
He held up his opened hands. ‘Kiska. I have no vendetta. Believe me. My only motive is to get you damned Malazans off my back.’
She motioned him to walk ahead of her. ‘So you say. But I can’t trust that, can I?’
He let out a long breath, his arms slowly falling. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He walked ahead of her. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me of this manifestation, and I’m worried. You said Tayschrenn didn’t create this—’
‘Agayla would not deceive me! I trust her completely!’
He turned, walking backwards. ‘Kiska. She did not object to me …’
She stopped. Objections crowded her throat but none could escape. Agayla was deceived? Hardly. She didn’t know? The Queen of Dreams, ignorant? Even less likely. And yet … how could she accept this criminal? Nothing less than a mass murderer?
A dark shape caught her eye ahead. A figure, prone, wearing dark torn robes. Tayschrenn! She dashed ahead.
‘Kiska! Wait!’
She dropped to her knees next to the figure, an old man on his back, thin, with long grey hair. ‘Tayschrenn!’ She touched a shoulder. ‘It’s me …’
The figure stirred, turning over. A hand grasped her wrist. Kiska stared, stunned. For it was not Tayschrenn. The man stood, his grip on her wrist inhumanly strong. He was sun-darkened, with a great hooked nose and black glittering eyes. ‘And you are?’ he grated in accented Talian.
Kiska could not speak, couldn’t think. Impossible. All this … impossible …
The avid eyes slid aside, narrowing. ‘And who is this?’
Kiska followed his gaze to Leoman, kneeling, bowed.
‘Arise,’ the man growled.
Leoman straightened, inclined his head in obeisance. ‘Greetings, Yathengar. Faladan, priest of Ehrlitan. The Seven bless us.’
The man, Yathengar, pushed Kiska away. He took an uncertain step, his gaze furrowed. ‘Leoman? In truth? Leoman – Champion of Sha’ik?’ He clasped Leoman’s shoulders and laughed. ‘The Seven Gods are not so easily swept aside, yes? How they must have schemed to bring us together! We shall return, you and I. All Seven Cities will rise aflamed! You shall be my general. We will destroy them.’
Leoman bowed again. ‘I am yours to command.’
To one side a brightening disturbed the uniformity of this island, or eye of calm, at the centre of the Whorl. Yathengar peered aside, frowning. ‘What is this?’
Leoman shot Kiska a warning glance. ‘Tiste Liosan, m’lord. This place touches upon their Realm and they are here to destroy it.’
‘Fools to challenge me here. I will sweep them aside like chaff.’
Leoman had backed away a step. ‘No doubt, m’lord.’
Kiska eyed him – what was the bastard up to? Has he deceived everyone? Every friend or loyalty he has ever established, he has betrayed. And now he would whip this madman upon the Liosan? Was there no limit to his debasement? Was it all nothing more than gleeful nihilism?
Leoman looked up, directing her gaze to the sky. Unwilling to cooperate, she reluctantly glanced up anyway. And she saw it. A tiny bat-like dot flapping overhead.
Her gaze snapped back to him, her heart lurching. The man took another careful step away from Yathengar. She followed suit.
‘Watch, Leoman,’ the priest commanded. ‘See how I have grown in might here.’
Leoman bowed again. ‘Yes, m’lord.’
Kiska cast quick furtive glances to their little guide. It descended to the rear, behind them, where the ground fell away to the dark abyss that seemed to surround them. It disappeared, arcing down into the gulf, and Kiska’s gaze rose to Leoman, appalled.
He nodded, his gaze steady, insistent.
And she, hardly able to breathe, terrified, nodded back.
Leoman kicked her staff over the edge. Yathengar turned. ‘What?’
Kiska leapt into the black emptiness. A surprised roar burst behind
her. Then, a bellow of pure outrage: ‘Leoman!’
It seemed Leoman could not help but remain true to his character.
* * *
Bakune imagined himself the most coddled prisoner in the history of Banith’s Carceral Quarters. Guards smuggled food and wine to him; guards’ wives whispered news from the countryside through the grate of his door. Even the commander of the quarters, Ibarth, a man who once openly scorned his judgements from the bench, appeared at his door to express his horror at the Malazans’ treatment of him.
‘Imagine,’ the man had huffed, ‘after all your efforts to be civil. These Malazans are barbarians!’ He assured Bakune that he’d have him out in an instant if it was up to him – but that the Malazans had his hands tied.
Bakune gave his understanding and the man fairly fainted his relief; he wiped his flushed sweating face and bowed his gratitude. News came only later via a guard’s wife that the Roolian resistance had named Bakune a patriot of the freedom struggle – a title he personally could not make any sense of.
The next night he was startled awake by a rattling at his door. A guard holding a lantern gently swung it open to wink and touch the side of his nose in a sort of comical pantomime. Bakune stared sleepily at the man. Whatever was he up to?
Another fellow slipped inside, wrapped in a cloak, hood up, a heavyset great lump of a fellow who sat on the end of his pallet. The guard set the lantern on a hook and backed away.
Bakune eyed the figure. ‘And who are you?’
The man threw back his hood. ‘Really, Assessor. Don’t you recognize old friends?’
It was Karien’el, just as fat, nose just as swollen, if a touch more tanned. Bakune jumped up. ‘Whatever are you doing here? You’re a wanted man!’
‘I was here in town so I thought I’d break you out.’
That silenced Bakune for a moment. He flexed his arm, massaging it and wincing. ‘Here? In town? Why? I told Hyuke there was to be no trouble here.’
Chuckling, Karien’el raised his hands. ‘Granted. The Malazans can have this pimple.’ He pointed to Bakune. ‘It’s you I want.’
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