Pearl smiled once more. ‘Wonderful. My faith in you was absolute.’
‘What is this mission we are to embark upon?’
‘Details will be forthcoming once we have our personal interview with the Adjunct this evening.’
She straightened. ‘You have no idea, do you?’
His smile broadened. ‘Exciting, yes?’
‘So you don’t know if it will involve assassination—’
‘Assassination? Who knows? But murder? Assuredly not. Now, drink up, lass. We must needs march to the palace of the late High Fist. I have heard that the Adjunct has little toleration for tardiness.’
Everyone had arrived early. Gamet stood near the door through which the Adjunct would appear, his back to the wall, his arms crossed. Before him, stationed in the long, low-ceilinged council chamber, were the three commanders who had been assembled for this evening’s first set of meetings. The next few bells, with all the orchestration directing them, promised to be interesting. None the less, the once-captain of House Paran was feeling somewhat intimidated.
He had been a common soldier years back, not one to find himself in councils of war. There was little comfort in this new mantle of Fist, for he knew that merit had had nothing to do with acquiring the title. Tavore knew him, had grown used to commanding him, to leaving to him the tasks of organization, the arranging of schedules…but for a noble household. Yet it seemed she intended to use him in an identical manner, this time for the entire Fourteenth Army. Which made him an administrator, not a Fist. A fact of which no-one present in this room was unaware.
He was unused to the embarrassment he felt, and recognized that the bluster he often displayed was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to his own sense of inadequacy. For the moment, however, he did not feel capable of managing even so much as diffidence, much less bluster.
Admiral Nok was standing a half-dozen paces away, in quiet conversation with the imposing commander of the Red Blades, Tene Baralta. Blistig sat sprawled in a chair at the far end of the map table, farthest from where the Adjunct would seat herself once the meeting commenced.
Gamet’s eyes were drawn again and again to the tall admiral. Apart from Dujek Onearm, Nok was the last of the commanders from the Emperor’s time. The only admiral who didn’t drown. With the sudden deaths of the Napan brothers, Urko and Crust, Nok had been given overall command of the imperial fleets. The Empress had sent him and a hundred and seven of his ships to Seven Cities when the rumours of rebellion had reached fever pitch. Had the High Fist in Aren not effectively impounded that fleet in the harbour, Coltaine’s Chain of Dogs could have been prevented; indeed, the rebellion might well be over. Now, the task of reconquest promised to be a drawn-out, bloody endeavour. Whatever feelings the admiral might have regarding all that had occurred and all that was likely to come, he gave no outward indication, his expression remaining cold and impersonal.
Tene Baralta had his own grievances. The Red Blades had been charged with treason by Pormqual, even as one of their companies fought under Coltaine’s command—fought, and was annihilated. Blistig’s first order once the High Fist left the city had been their release. As with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs and the Aren Guard, the Adjunct had inherited their presence. The question of what to do with them—what to do with them all—was about to be answered.
Gamet wished he could allay their concerns, but the truth was, Tavore had never been free with her thoughts. The Fist had no idea what this evening would bring.
The door opened.
As was her style, Tavore’s clothes were well made, but plain and virtually colourless. A match to her eyes, to the streaks of grey in her reddish, short-cropped hair, to her unyielding, unprepossessing features. She was tall, somewhat broad in the hips, her breasts slightly oversized for her frame. The otataral sword of her office was scabbarded at her belt—the only indication of her imperial title. A half-dozen scrolls were tucked under one arm.
‘Stand or sit as you like,’ were her first words as she strode to the High Fist’s ornate chair.
Gamet watched Nok and Tene Baralta move to chairs at the table, then followed suit.
Back straight, the Adjunct sat. She set the scrolls down. ‘The disposition of the Fourteenth Army is the subject of this meeting. Remain in our company, Admiral Nok, please.’ She reached for the first scroll and slipped its ties. ‘Three legions. The 8th, 9th and 10th. Fist Gamet shall command the 8th. Fist Blistig, the 9th, and Fist Tene Baralta, the 10th. The choice of officers under each respective command is at the discretion of each Fist. I advise you to select wisely. Admiral Nok, detach Commander Alardis from your flagship. She is now in charge of the Aren Guard.’ Without pause she reached for a second scroll. ‘As to the survivors of the Chain of Dogs and sundry unattached elements at our disposal, their units are now dissolved. They have been reassigned and dispersed throughout the three legions.’ She finally looked up—and if she took note of the shock on the faces that Gamet saw, a shock he shared, she hid it well. ‘In three days’ time, I will review your troops. That is all.’
In numbed silence, the four men slowly rose.
The Adjunct gestured at the two scrolls she had laid out. ‘Fist Blistig, take these please. You and Tene Baralta might wish to reconvene in one of the side chambers, in order to discuss the details of your new commands. Fist Gamet, you can join them later. For now, remain with me. Admiral Nok, I wish to speak with you privately later this evening. Please ensure that you are at my disposal.’
The tall, elderly man cleared his throat. ‘I shall be in the mess hall, Adjunct.’
‘Very good.’
Gamet watched the three men depart.
As soon as the doors closed, the Adjunct rose from her chair. She walked over to the ancient, woven tapestries running the length of one of the walls. ‘Extraordinary patterns, Gamet, don’t you think? A culture obsessed with intricacies. Well,’ she faced him, ‘that was concluded with unexpected ease. It seems we have a few moments before our next guests.’
‘I believe they were all too shocked to respond, Adjunct. The imperial style of command usually includes discussion, argument, compromise—’
Her only reply was a brief half-smile, then she returned her attention to the weavings. ‘What officers will Tene Baralta choose, do you imagine?’
‘Red Blades, Adjunct. How the Malazan recruits will take—’
‘And Blistig?’
‘Only one seemed worthy of his rank—and he’s now in the Aren Guard and so not available to Blistig,’ Gamet replied. ‘A captain, Keneb—’
‘Malazan?’
‘Yes, though stationed here in Seven Cities. He lost his troops, Adjunct, to the renegade, Korbolo Dom. It was Keneb who warned Blistig about Mallick Rel—’
‘Indeed. So, apart from Captain Keneb?’
Gamet shook his head. ‘I feel for Blistig at the moment.’
‘Do you?’
‘Well, I didn’t say what I was feeling, Adjunct.’
She faced him again. ‘Pity?’
‘Some of that,’ he allowed after a moment.
‘Do you know what bothers Blistig the most, Fist?’
‘Witnessing the slaughter—’
‘He may well claim that and hope that you believe it, but you are wrong to do so. Blistig disobeyed a High Fist’s order. He stands before me, his new commander, and believes I hold no faith in him. From that, he concludes that it would be best for everyone concerned if I were to send him to Unta, to face the Empress.’ She turned away again, was silent.
Gamet’s thoughts raced, but he finally had to conclude that Tavore’s thoughts proceeded on levels too deep for him to fathom. ‘What is it you wish me to tell him?’
‘You think I wish you to tell him something from me? Very well. He may have Captain Keneb.’
A side door swung open and Gamet turned to see three Wickans enter. Two were children, the third one not much older. While the Fist had yet to meet them, he knew who they must be. Nethe
r and Nil. The witch and the warlock. And the lad with them is Temul, the eldest among the warrior youths Coltaine sent with the historian.
Only Temul seemed pleased at having been summoned into the Adjunct’s presence. Nil and Nether were both unkempt, their feet bare and almost grey with layers of dirt. Nether’s long black hair hung in greasy ropes. Nil’s deer-hide tunic was scarred and torn. Both held expressions of disinterest. In contrast, Temul’s war gear was immaculate, as was the mask of deep red face paint denoting his grief, and his dark eyes glittered like sharp stones as he drew himself to attention before the Adjunct.
But Tavore’s attention was on Nil and Nether. ‘The Fourteenth Army lacks mages,’ she said. ‘Therefore, you will now be acting in that capacity.’
‘No, Adjunct,’ Nether replied.
‘This matter is not open for discussion—’
Nil spoke. ‘We want to go home,’ he said. ‘To the Wickan plains.’
The Adjunct studied them for a moment, then, gaze unwavering, said, ‘Temul, Coltaine placed you in charge of the Wickan youths from the three tribes present in the Chain of Dogs. What is the complement?’
‘Thirty,’ the youth replied.
‘And how many Wickans were among the wounded delivered by ship to Aren?’
‘Eleven survived.’
‘Thus, forty-one in all. Are there any warlocks among your company?’
‘No, Adjunct.’
‘When Coltaine sent you with the historian Duiker, did he attach warlocks to your company at that time?’
Temul’s eyes flicked to Nil and Nether for a moment, then his head jerked in a nod. ‘Yes.’
‘And has your company been officially dissolved, Temul?’
‘No.’
‘In other words, Coltaine’s last command to you still obtains.’ She addressed Nil and Nether once more. ‘Your request is denied. I have need of both you and Captain Temul’s Wickan lancers.’
‘We can give you nothing,’ Nether replied.
‘The warlock spirits within us are silent,’ Nil added.
Tavore slowly blinked as she continued to regard them. Then she said, ‘You shall have to find a means of awakening them once more. The day we close to battle with Sha’ik and the Whirlwind, I expect you to employ your sorcery to defend the legions. Captain Temul, are you the eldest among the Wickans in your company?’
‘No, Adjunct. There are four warriors of the Foolish Dog, who were on the ship bearing the wounded.’
‘Do they resent your command?’
The youth drew himself straighter. ‘They do not,’ he replied, his right hand settling on the grip of one of his long knives.
Gamet winced and looked away.
‘You three are dismissed,’ the Adjunct said after a moment.
Temul hesitated, then spoke. ‘Adjunct, my company wishes to fight. Are we to be attached to the legions?’
Tavore tilted her head. ‘Captain Temul, how many summers have you seen?’
‘Fourteen.’
The Adjunct nodded. ‘At present, Captain, our mounted troops are limited to a company of Seti volunteers, five hundred in all. In military terms, they are light cavalry at best, scouts and outriders at worst. None have seen battle, and none are much older than you. Your own command consists of forty Wickans, all but four younger than you. For our march northward, Captain Temul, your company will be attached to my entourage. As bodyguards. The ablest riders among the Seti will act as messengers and scouts. Understand, I have not the forces to mount a cavalry engagement. The Fourteenth Army is predominantly infantry.’
‘Coltaine’s tactics—’
‘This is no longer Coltaine’s war,’ Tavore snapped.
Temul flinched as if struck. He managed a stiff nod, then turned on his heel and departed the chamber. Nil and Nether followed a moment later.
Gamet let out a shaky breath. ‘The lad wanted to bring good news to his Wickans.’
‘To silence the grumbling from the four Foolish Dog warriors,’ the Adjunct said, her voice still holding a tone of irritation. ‘Aptly named indeed. Tell me, Fist, how do you think the discussion between Blistig and Tene Baralta is proceeding at this moment?’
The old veteran grunted. ‘Heatedly, I would imagine, Adjunct. Tene Baralta likely expected to retain his Red Blades as a discrete regiment. I doubt he has much interest in commanding four thousand Malazan recruits.’
‘And the admiral, who waits below in the mess hall?’
‘To that, I have no idea, Adjunct. His taciturnity is legend.’
‘Why, do you think, did he not simply usurp High Fist Pormqual? Why did he permit the annihilation of Coltaine and the Seventh, then of the High Fist’s own army?’
Gamet could only shake his head.
Tavore studied him for another half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly made her way to the scrolls lying on the tabletop. She drew one out and removed its ties. ‘The Empress never had cause to question Admiral Nok’s loyalty.’
‘Nor Dujek Onearm’s,’ Gamet muttered under his breath.
She heard and looked up, then offered a tight, momentary smile. ‘Indeed. One meeting remains to us.’ Tucking the scroll under one arm, she strode towards a small side door. ‘Come.’
The room beyond was low-ceilinged, its walls virtually covered in tapestries. Thick rugs silenced their steps as they entered. A modest round table occupied the centre, beneath an ornate oil lamp that was the only source of light. There was a second door opposite, low and narrow. The table was the chamber’s sole piece of furniture.
Tavore dropped the scroll onto its battered top as Gamet shut the door behind him. When he turned he saw that she was facing him. There was a sudden vulnerability in her eyes that triggered a clutching anxiety in his gut—for it was something he had never before seen from this daughter of House Paran. ‘Adjunct?’
She broke the contact, visibly recovered. ‘In this room,’ she quietly said, ‘the Empress is not present.’
Gamet’s breath caught, then he jerked his head in a nod.
The smaller door opened, and the Fist turned to see a tall, almost effeminate man, clothed in grey, a placid smile on his handsome features as he took a step into the chamber. An armoured woman followed—an officer of the Red Blades. Her skin was dark and tattooed in Pardu style, her eyes black and large, set wide above high cheekbones, her nose narrow and aquiline. She seemed anything but pleased, her gaze fixing on the Adjunct with an air of calculating arrogance.
‘Close the door behind you, Captain,’ Tavore said to the Red Blade.
The grey-clad man was regarding Gamet, his smile turning faintly quizzical. ‘Fist Gamet,’ he said. ‘I imagine you are wishing you were still in Unta, that bustling heart of the empire, arguing with horse-traders on behalf of House Paran. Instead, here you are, a soldier once more—’
Gamet scowled and said, ‘I am afraid I do not know you—’
‘You may call me Pearl,’ the man replied, hesitating on the name as if its revelation was the core of some vast joke of which only he was aware. ‘And my lovely companion is Captain Lostara Yil, late of the Red Blades but now—happily—seconded into my care.’ He swung to the Adjunct and elaborately bowed. ‘At your service.’
Gamet could see Tavore’s expression tighten fractionally. ‘That remains to be seen.’
Pearl slowly straightened, the mockery in his face gone. ‘Adjunct, you have quietly—very quietly—arranged this meeting. This stage has no audience. While I am a Claw, you and I are both aware that I have—lately—incurred my master Topper’s—and the Empress’s—displeasure, resulting in my hasty journey through the Imperial Warren. A temporary situation, of course, but none the less, the consequence is that I am at something of a loose end at the moment.’
‘Then one might conclude,’ the Adjunct said carefully, ‘that you are available, as it were, for a rather more…private enterprise.’
Gamet shot her a glance. Gods below! What is this about?
‘One might,’ Pearl
replied, shrugging.
There was silence, broken at last by the Red Blade, Lostara Yil. ‘I am made uneasy by the direction of this conversation,’ she grated. ‘As a loyal subject of the empire—’
‘Nothing of what follows will impugn your honour, Captain,’ the Adjunct replied, her gaze unwavering on Pearl. She added nothing more.
The Claw half smiled then. ‘Ah, now you’ve made me curious. I delight in being curious, did you know that? You fear that I will bargain my way back into Laseen’s favour, for the mission you would propose to the captain and me is, to be precise, not on behalf of the Empress, nor, indeed, of the empire. An extraordinary departure from the role of Imperial Adjunct. Unprecedented, in fact.’
Gamet took a step forward, ‘Adjunct—’
She raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Pearl, the task I would set to you and the captain may well contribute, ultimately, to the well-being of the empire—’
‘Oh well,’ the Claw smiled, ‘that is what a good imagination is for, isn’t it? One can scrape patterns in the blood no matter how dried it’s become. I admit to no small skill in attributing sound justification for whatever I’ve just done. By all means, proceed—’
‘Not yet!’ Lostara Yil snapped, her exasperation plain. ‘In serving the Adjunct I expect to serve the empire. She is the will of the Empress. No other considerations are permitted her—’
‘You speak true,’ Tavore said. She faced Pearl again. ‘Claw, how fares the Talon?’
Pearl’s eyes went wide and he almost rocked back a step. ‘They no longer exist,’ he whispered.
The Adjunct frowned. ‘Disappointing. We are all, at the moment, in a precarious position. If you are to expect honesty from me, then can I not do so in return?’
‘They remain,’ Pearl muttered, distaste twisting his features. ‘Like bot-fly larvae beneath the imperial hide. When we probe, they simply dig deeper.’
‘They none the less serve a certain…function,’ Tavore said. ‘Unfortunately, not as competently as I would have hoped.’
‘The Talons have found support among the nobility?’ Pearl asked, a sheen of sweat now visible on his high brow.
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