The young man’s face was etched deep with exhaustion. His long-fingered, elegant hands trembled despite being knitted together just above his robe’s belt. His gaze was fixed on the swirling activity in the compound as he said, ‘I must know, Shield Anvil, what Brukhalian intends. He holds what you soldiers call a shaved knuckle in the hole – that much is clear. And so I have come, once again, seeking audience with the man in my employ.’ He made no effort to hide the sardonic bitterness of that statement. ‘To no avail. The Mortal Sword has no time for me. No time for the Prince of Capustan.’
‘Sir,’ Itkovian said, ‘you may ask your questions of me, and I shall do all I can to answer you.’
The young Capan swung to the Shield Anvil. ‘Brukhalian has given you leave to speak?’
‘He has.’
‘Very well. The Kron T’lan Imass and their undead wolves. They have destroyed the Septarch’s K’Chain demons.’
‘They have.’
‘Yet the Pannion Domin has more. Hundreds more.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why do the T’lan Imass not march into the empire? An assault into the Seer’s territory may well achieve the withdrawal of Kulpath’s besieging forces. The Seer would have no choice but to pull them back across the river.’
‘Were the T’lan Imass a mortal army, the choice would indeed be obvious, and consequently beneficial to our own needs,’ Itkovian replied. ‘Alas, Kron and his undead kin are bound by unearthly demands, of which we know virtually nothing. We have been told of a gathering, a silent summoning for purposes unknown. This, for the moment, takes precedence over all else. Kron and the T’lan Ay destroyed the Septarch’s K’Chain Che’Malle because their presence was deemed a direct threat to the gathering.’
‘Why? That explanation is insufficient, Shield Anvil.’
‘I do not disagree with your assessment, sir. There does appear to be another reason – for Kron’s reluctance to march southward. A mystery concerning the Seer himself. It seems the word “Pannion” is Jaghut. The Jaghut were the mortal enemies of the T’lan Imass, as you may know. It is my personal belief that Kron awaits the arrival of … allies. Other T’lan Imass, come to this impending gathering.’
‘You are suggesting that Kron is intimidated by the Pannion Seer—’
‘Aye, in his belief that the Seer is Jaghut.’
The prince was silent for a long moment, then he shook his head. ‘Even should the T’lan Imass decide to march upon the Pannion Domin, the decision will come too late for us.’
‘That seems likely.’
‘Very well. Now, another question. Why is this gathering occurring here?’
Itkovian hesitated, then slowly nodded to himself. ‘Prince Jelarkan, the one who has summoned the T’lan Imass is approaching Capustan … in the company of an army.’
‘An army?’
‘An army marching to wage war against the Pannion Domin; indeed, with the additional aim of relieving the siege here at Capustan.’
‘What?’
‘Sir, they are five weeks away.’
‘We cannot hold—’
‘This truth is known, Prince.’
‘And does this summoner command that army?’
‘No. Command is shared between two men. Caladan Brood and Dujek Onearm.’
‘Dujek – High Fist Onearm? The Malazan? Lords below, Itkovian! How long have you known this?’
The Shield Anvil cleared his throat. ‘Preliminary contact was established some time ago, Prince. Through sorcerous avenues. These have since grown impassable—’
‘Yes, yes, I know that well enough. Continue, damn you.’
‘The presence of the summoner among their company was news only recently told us – by a Bonecaster of the Kron T’lan Imass—’
‘The army, Itkovian! Tell me more of this army!’
‘Dujek and his legions have been outlawed by Empress Laseen. They are now acting independently. His complement numbers perhaps ten thousand. Caladan Brood has under his command a number of small mercenary companies, three Barghast clans, the Rhivi nation and the Tiste Andii – a total number of combatants of thirty thousand.’
Prince Jelarkan’s eyes were wide. Itkovian watched the information breach the man’s inner defences, watched as the host of hopes flowered then withered in swift succession.
‘On the surface,’ the Shield Anvil said quietly, ‘all that I have told you seems of vital import. Yet, as I see you now comprehend, it is in truth all meaningless. Five weeks, Prince. Leave them to their vengeance, if you will, for that is all they might manage. And even then, given their limited numbers—’
‘Are these Brukhalian’s conclusions, or yours?’
‘Both, I regret to say.’
‘You fools,’ the young man grated. ‘You Hood-damned fools.’
‘Sire, we cannot withstand the Pannions for five weeks.’
‘I know that, damn you! The question now is: why do we even try?’
Itkovian frowned. ‘Sir, such was the contract. The defence of the city—’
‘Idiot – what do I care about your damned contract? You’ve already concluded you will fail in any case! My concern is for the lives of my people. This army comes from the west? It must Marching beside the river—’
‘We cannot break out, Prince. We would be annihilated.’
‘We concentrate everything to the west. A sudden sortie, that flows into an exodus. Shield Anvil—’
‘We will be slaughtered,’ Itkovian cut in. ‘Sire, we have considered this. It will not work. The Septarch’s wings of horsemen will surround us, grind us to a halt. Then the Beklites and Tenescowri will arrive. We will have yielded a defensible position for an indefensible one. It would all be over within the span of a single bell.’
Prince Jelarkan stared at the Shield Anvil with undisguised contempt and, indeed, hatred. ‘Inform Brukhalian of the following,’ he rasped. ‘In the future, it is not the task of the Grey Swords to do the prince’s thinking for him. It is not their task to decide what he needs to know and what he doesn’t The prince is to be informed of all matters, regardless of how you judge their relevance. Is this understood, Shield Anvil?’
‘I shall convey your words precisely, sire.’
‘I must presume,’ the prince continued, ‘that the Mask Council knows even less than I did a bell ago.’
‘That would be an accurate assumption. Sire, their interests—’
‘Save me from any more of your learned opinions, Itkovian. Good day.’
Itkovian watched the prince stalk away, towards the compound’s exit, his gait too stiff to be regal. Yet noble in its own way. You have my regret, dear prince, though I would not presume to voice it. I am the will of the Mortal Sword. My own desires are irrelevant. He pushed away the surge of bitter anger that rose beneath these thoughts, returned his gaze to the two Barghast still seated on the rug.
The trance had broken. Hetan and Cafal were now leaning close to the brazier, where white smoke rose in twisting coils into the sunlit air.
Startled, it was a moment before Itkovian stepped forward.
As he approached, he saw that an object had been placed on the brazier’s coals. Red-tinged on its edges, flat and milky white in the centre. A fresh scapula, too light to be from a bhederin, yet thinner and longer than a human’s. A deer’s shoulder blade, perhaps, or an antelope’s. The Barghast had begun a divination, employing the object that gave meaning to the tribal name of their shamans.
More than just warriors, then. I should have guessed. Cafal’s chant in the Thrall. He is a shoulderman; and Hetan is his female counterpart.
He stopped just beyond the edge of the rug, slightly to Cafal’s left. The shoulder blade had begun to show cracks. Fat bubbled up along the thick edges of the bone, sizzled and flared like a ring of fire.
The simplest divination was the interpretation of the cracks as a map, a means of finding wild herds for the tribe’s hunters. In this instance, Itkovian well knew, the sorcery unde
r way was far more complex, the cracks more than simply a map of the physical world. The Shield Anvil stayed silent, tried to catch the mumbled conversation between Hetan and her brother.
They were speaking Barghast, a language of which Itkovian had but passing knowledge. Even stranger, it seemed the conversation was three-way, the siblings cocking their heads or nodding at replies only they could hear.
The scapula was a maze of cracks now, the bone showing blue, beige and calcined white. Before too long it would begin to crumble, as the creature’s spirit surrendered to the overwhelming power flowing through its dwindling life force.
The eerie conversation ended. As Cafal fell back into a trance, Hetan sat back, looked up and met Itkovian’s eyes. ‘Ah, wolf, I am pleased by the sight of you. There have been changes to the world. Surprising changes.’
‘And are these changes pleasing to you, Hetan?’
She smiled. ‘Would it give you pleasure if they were?’
Do I step over this precipice? ‘That possibility exists.’
The woman laughed, slowly climbed to her feet. She winced as she stretched her limbs. ‘Spirits take me, my bones ache. My muscles cry out for caring hands.’
‘There are limbering exercises—’
‘Don’t I know it, wolf. Will you join me in such endeavours?’
‘What news do you have, Hetan?’
She grinned, hands on her hips. ‘By the Abyss,’ she drawled, ‘you are clumsy. Yield to me and learn all my secrets, is that the task set before you? It is a game you should be wary of playing. Especially with me.’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said, drawing himself up and turning away.
‘Hold, man!’ Hetan laughed. ‘You flee like a rabbit? And I called you wolf? I should change that name.’
‘That is your choice,’ he replied over a shoulder as he set off.
Her laugh rang out behind him once more. ‘Ah, now this is a game worth playing! Go on, then, dear rabbit! My elusive quarry, ha!’
Itkovian re-entered the headquarters, walked down the hallway skirting the outer wall until he came to the tower entrance. His armour shifted and clanked as he made his way up the steep stone stairs. He tried to drive out images of Hetan, her laughing face and bright, dancing eyes, the runnels of sweat tracking her brow through the layer of ash, the way she stood, back arched, chest thrown out in deliberate, provocative invitation. He resented the rebirth of long-buried desires now plaguing him. His vows were crumbling, his every prayer to Fener meeting with naught but silence, as if his god was indifferent to the sacrifices Itkovian had made in his name.
And perhaps that is the final, most devastating truth. The gods care nothing for ascetic impositions on mortal behaviour. Care nothing for rules of conduct, for the twisted morals of temple priests and monks. Perhaps indeed they laugh at the chains we wrap around ourselves – our endless, insatiable need to find flaws within the demands of life. Or perhaps they do not laugh, but rage at us. Perhaps our denial of life’s celebration is our greatest insult to those whom we worship and serve.
He reached the arms room at the top of the circular stairs, nodded distractedly at the two soldiers stationed there, then made his way up the ladder to the roof platform.
The Destriant was already there. Karnadas studied Itkovian as the Shield Anvil joined him. ‘Yours, sir, is a troubled mien.’
‘Aye, I do not deny it. I have had discourse with Prince Jelarkan, which closed with his displeasure. Subsequently, I spoke with Hetan. Destriant, my faith is assailed.’
‘You question your vows.’
‘I do, sir. I admit to doubting their veracity.’
‘Has it been your belief, Shield Anvil, that your rules of conduct existed to appease Fener?’
Itkovian frowned as he leaned on the merlon and stared out at the smoke-wreathed enemy camps. ‘Well, yes—’
‘Then you have lived under a misapprehension, sir.’
‘Explain, please.’
‘Very well. You found a need to chain yourself, a need to enforce upon your own soul the strictures as defined by your vows. In other words, Itkovian, your vows were born of a dialogue with yourself – not with Fener. The chains are your own, as is the possession of the keys with which to unlock them when they are no longer required.’
‘No longer required?’
‘Aye. When all that is encompassed by living ceases to threaten your faith.’
‘You suggest, then, that my crisis is not with my faith, but with my vows. That I have blurred the distinction.’
‘I do, Shield Anvil.’
‘Destriant,’ Itkovian said, eyes still on the Pannion encampments, ‘your words invite a carnal flood.’
The High Priest burst out laughing. ‘And with it a dramatic collapse of your dour disposition, one hopes!’
Itkovian’s mouth twitched. ‘Now you speak of miracles, sir.’
‘I would hope—’
‘Hold.’ The Shield Anvil raised a gauntleted hand. ‘There is movement among the Beklites.’
Karnadas joined him, suddenly sober.
‘And there,’ Itkovian pointed, ‘Urdomen. Scalandi to their flanks. Seerdomin moving to positions of command.’
‘They will assail the redoubts first,’ the Destriant predicted. ‘The Mask Council’s vaunted Gidrath in their strongholds. That may earn us more time—’
‘Find me my messenger corps, sir. Alert the officers. And a word to the prince.’
‘Aye, Shield Anvil. Will you stay here?’
Itkovian nodded. ‘A worthy vantage point. Go, then, sir.’
Beklite troops were massing in a ring around the Gidrath stronghold out on the killing ground. Spearpoints glittered in the sunlight.
Now alone, Itkovian’s eyes narrowed as he studied the preparations. ‘Ah, well, it has begun.’
* * *
The streets of Capustan were silent, virtually empty beneath a cloudless sky, as Gruntle made his way down Calmanark Alley. He came to the curved wall of the self-contained Camp known as Ulden, kicked through the rubbish cluttering a stairwell leading down below street level and hammered a fist on the solid door cut into the wall’s foundations.
After a moment it creaked open.
Gruntle stepped through into a narrow corridor, its floor a sharply angled ramp leading back up to ground level twenty paces ahead, where bright sunlight showed, revealing a central, circular courtyard.
Buke shut the massive door behind him, struggled beneath the weight of the bar as he lowered it back into the slots. The gaunt, grey-haired man then faced Gruntle. ‘That was quick. Well?’
‘What do you think?’ the caravan captain growled. ‘There’s been movement. The Pannions are marshalling. Messengers riding this way and that—’
‘Which wall were you on?’
‘North, just this side of Lektar House, as if it makes any difference. And you? I forgot to ask earlier. Did the bastard go hunting the streets last night?’
‘No. I told you, the Camps are helping. I think he’s still trying to figure out why he came up empty the night before last – it’s got him rattled, enough for Bauchelain to notice.’
‘Not good news. He’ll start probing, Buke.’
‘Aye. I said there’d be risks, didn’t I?’
Aye, trying to keep an insane murderer from finding victims – without his noticing – with a siege about to begin … Abyss take you, Buke, what you’re trying to drag me into. Gruntle glanced up the ramp. ‘Help, you said. How are your new friends taking this?’
The old man shrugged. ‘Korbal Broach prefers healthy organs when collecting for his experiments. It’s their children at risk.’
‘Less so if they’d been left ignorant.’
‘They know that.’
‘Did you say children?’
‘Aye, we’ve got at least four of the little watchers on the house at all times. Homeless urchins – there’s plenty enough of the real kind for them to blend in. They’re keeping their eyes on the sky, too
—’ He stopped abruptly, and a strangely furtive look came into his eyes.
The man, Gruntle realized, had a secret. ‘On the sky? What for?’
‘Uh, in case Korbal Broach tries the rooftops.’
In a city of widely spaced domes?
‘The point I was trying to make,’ Buke continued, ‘is that there’s eyes on the house. Luckily, Bauchelain’s still holed up in the cellar, which he’s turned into some kind of laboratory. He never leaves. And Korbal sleeps during the day. Gruntle, what I said earlier—’
Gruntle cut him off with a sharply raised hand. ‘Listen,’ he said.
The two men stood unmoving.
Distant thunder beneath their feet, a slowly rising roar from beyond the city’s walls.
Buke, suddenly pale, cursed and asked, ‘Where’s Stonny? And don’t try telling me you don’t know.’
‘Port Road Gate. Five squads of Grey Swords, a company of Gidrath, a dozen or so Lestari Guard—’
‘It’s loudest there—’
Scowling, he grunted. ‘She figured it’d start with that gate. Stupid woman.’
Buke stepped close and gripped his arm. ‘Then why,’ he hissed, ‘in Hood’s name are you still standing here? The assault’s begun, and Stonny’s got herself right in the middle of it!’
Gruntle pulled free. ‘Sing me the Abyss, old man. The woman’s all grown up, you know – I told her – I told you! This isn’t my war!’
‘Won’t stop the Tenescowri from lopping off your head for the pot!’
Sneering, Gruntle pushed Buke clear of the door. He gripped the weighted bar in his right hand and in a single surge lifted it clear of the slots and let it drop with a clang that echoed up the corridor. He pulled the door open, ducking to step through onto the stairwell.
The sound of the assault was a thunderous roar once he reached street level and emerged to stand in the alley. Amidst the muted clangour of weapons were screams, bellows and that indefinable, stuttering shiver that came from thousands of armoured bodies in motion – outside the walls, along the battlements, on either side of the gate – which he knew would be groaning beneath repeated impacts from battering rams.
The Malazan Empire Page 207