As he returned carrying a brazier he’d taken from the front of another house, the noise of fighting erupted into the night. Angry shouts and the reports of crossbows reached him together with the clash of iron and yells of pain. A large fire arose to brighten the darkness towards the middle of town. Smoke billowed black into the night sky, obscuring the stars. Blasts of magery sounded, punching the air and flashing like munitions. Fisher recognized the Warrens of Serc and Telas, and wondered which of the three parties had brought such powerful attendants.
He sat on a stool in the doorway while his charge warmed under blankets next to the brazier. Soon Letherii soldiery emerged from the night, retreating, casting fierce glances back, stopping and turning to fire their crossbows, then running on. Marshal Teal’s men.
After them a troop of Enguf’s raiders appeared. They came jogging up the street, axes and swords loose, hugging the buildings, keeping a watchful eye behind. Spotting Fisher, a small band broke off to run his way. A voice burst out, bellowing and dismissive: ‘He’s with us, damn you all! Halt here!’
The raiders jogged past. Many bore minor wounds. Fisher took out his pipe to examine it and Enguf, sweating and puffing, came running up. ‘Bard,’ he greeted Fisher. ‘Wondered what happened to you. Thought maybe you ate a sword during the dust-up.’
‘What happened at the meet?’
The pirate angrily sheathed his sword. ‘Monumental stupidity is what happened. This Countess’s damned fool men tried to arrest us!’ The idea seemed to fill him with outrage. ‘I’m a lettered privateer. Have certificates from Elingarth! All quite legal, I assure you.’
‘I’m sure,’ Fisher supplied. Enguf ran his fingers through his beard and squinted off into the night. ‘And now you are fleeing.’
‘Fleeing!’ the man echoed, offended. He pulled at his beard, considering. ‘Ach – they got the drop on us, didn’t they? We didn’t come to sack them.’ He called to his crew members: ‘Go on! Head out!’
‘No looting?’ a woman answered scornfully.
The big man offered Fisher an apologetic shrug and said, his voice low: ‘We were leaving anyway …’
‘The arrest …?’ Fisher prompted.
The man regained his indignation. ‘Hood’s dead hand, yes! That dried up Malazan crone – she came with two mages! They’re damned pricey.’
Fisher pointed his pipe to where Enguf’s crew now kicked down doors and were in the process of throwing burning brands and lanterns into shops and houses. ‘And the fires?’
Enguf pulled at his beard again, even more offended. ‘Well … they started it, didn’t they? Set our ships on fire.’
‘I see.’
The Genabackan waved a paw. ‘It’ll slow them down. Now, we should go.’ He peered in past Fisher then leered, elbowing him. ‘Caught a pretty gal already, have you?’
‘No. A shipwreck survivor.’
Enguf grunted his disappointment. ‘Blasted wreckers. Like to hang the lot of them.’
‘It’s an Andii.’
The pirate’s bushy russet brows rose. ‘Really? That’s damned unusual. Still, good in a fight – when they fight.’
The flickering glow of flames leapt up over them and Enguf spun, cursing. He charged off, bellowing: ‘Not yet! What about the Malazans! They’re still— Oh, Mael’s damned balls!’
Fisher put away his pipe and rose. Time to find some kind of transportation – one that hadn’t yet been taken, that was. He wasn’t surprised that these Lether soldiers and Genabackans had found the locals tougher to handle than they’d anticipated. Such was the story of Assail. And it would only get worse inland.
Later, Fisher followed Teal, Malle and Enguf along a trail that wound up into woods and the rising slopes of the coastal Bone range. His donkey drew a travois on which the still unconscious Andii lay securely bound. Behind, smoke and the lurid glow of flames pockmarked Holly. The Countess’s men-at-arms now had greater worries than a small army of foreigners invading their town. Fisher was encouraged to see few soldiers and raiders carrying wounds. Clearly, these commanders knew not to fight when it wasn’t necessary. They might have been routed out of Holly, but they didn’t hang about plotting vengeance.
Ahead, the only mounted figure awaited him: Malle of Gris. She sat sidesaddle astride a donkey that could have been the sister of the one he’d found. A bodyguard of hardened old Malazan veterans in leather and mail surrounded her. They parted for him and he could well imagine every one of them once having carried a sergeant’s armband.
‘So this is our mystery Andii,’ Malle said as she fell in behind the travois. ‘Has he woken at all?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Ah. Well, on the morrow perhaps.’
‘Yes. And you, m’lady? May I impose upon you to speak?’
The woman wore a dress that consisted of many layers of severe black. Her greying hair was high on the top of her head and tumbled down her back, rather like spun iron. He imagined she must have been very handsome years ago. Black sheepskin riding gloves completed her costume. She smiled, amused, and gave Fisher a wave as if to dismiss his question. ‘Speak? Whatever of?’
‘Your reasons for embarking upon this perilous quest.’
Her hand went to her mouth to cover a quiet laugh. ‘“Perilous quest”? Now I am certain you are a bard. There is nothing perilous about this. Nor is this a quest. A mere business trip … the acquisition of operating capital, only. Nothing more. Rather boring, really.’
‘Capital for what operation – if I may ask?’
Again a courtly wave. ‘Nothing worth telling, I assure you. However, since you ask.’ She adjusted the sleeves over her slim wiry arms. As hard as pulled iron this one, Fisher reflected. The sort of widow who could outlive any number of men. ‘I come from an ancient and proud family,’ she began as they started up a rise of rock and packed mud that would take them up into the first of the coastal slopes. ‘However, our fortunes have not prospered under the Empire. What we require are funds for a new beginning. I do not know if you understand politics, bard, but it all comes down to money. Coin to purchase loyalty, to influence votes, to put seats on councils and bodies into local senates. That is why I am here. I would see my family name returned to the prestige and power it once held.’
As the trail steepened and the forest pressed in on both sides, Fisher took a moment to check on the balance of the travois and its passenger. Malle rode behind with ease, sidesaddle on the donkey, her short black boots peeping out from beneath the layered edges of her skirts. ‘And what name is that, good lady?’ he asked.
Her plucked brows rose in shock and surprise. ‘You do not know?’ Then she tilted her head, considering. ‘No – how could you? Singer, I am not Malle of Gris. I am Gris.’
Fisher bowed his head. ‘Ah. An honour.’
Again, a modest wave set aside such considerations. ‘Gris lost its self-rule long ago.’ She sighed, crossing her gloved hands on the slack leather leads of the donkey. ‘Now we are merely citizens of the Empire – free to strive to improve our station.’
‘Of course.’
The old woman’s sharp gaze now studied him. ‘And what of you? Why be here?’
He shrugged at what should be the obviousness of it. ‘I would witness how all this unfolds.’ He offered his half-roguish smile. ‘And I will be paid in gold.’
Malle did not appear impressed. Her steady gaze did not lighten. When it shifted away to examine the front of the column, he felt quite relieved: he’d faced a great number of cunning and powerful men and women but this one struck him as particularly shrewd. He wondered now at her reasons for being here; there was gold to be had, yes, and coin can be leveraged into status and influence. Yet this was also Assail, and many stories told of what else lurked in these mist-shrouded mountain forests. Stories that he knew contained a terrifying truth at their root: raw power itself.
And perhaps this was what the representative of an ancient proud family pursued in order to regain the status of ruler.
>
Malle now inclined her head to him in farewell and urged her donkey onward. Her guard of some ten men and women moved on with her. There came abreast of him a man in old patched clothes much travel-stained, limping and walking with the aid of a staff. His face was a patchwork of scars, the nose a mere knob of tissue and his lips twisted. Fisher realized he knew him: Holden of Cawn, mage of Serc, and a man he knew to also be an imperial Claw – a spy and operative for the throne.
Holden grinned his mutual recognition. ‘Fisher. Come for the show, hey? Count on you to be where the action is.’
Fisher shot his glance forward to Malle’s back. ‘Count on the Empire to keep an eye on its prominent citizens.’
‘Bah.’ The man spat, then grimaced as he struggled to keep up with the column. ‘Retired now. Forcefully. “Served honourably”, they said. “More than earned your time of ease.”’ He thrust a finger to his ruined face. ‘Too shop-worn and mangled to be of any more use, I say.’
Fisher smiled indulgently. ‘Yet here you are.’
‘Job’s a job. An’ this one might provide damnably well, hey?’ Fisher said nothing more. The man wasn’t about to admit to anything – if there was anything to admit. Holden gestured to the travois. ‘What’s this one’s story?’
‘Don’t know yet.’ Just on the off chance, he motioned the mage over. ‘Recognize him?’
Holden limped closer to bend down. ‘No. Got some silver in his hair. Not too many of ’em have that, I believe. Though – what do we really know ’bout the Andii anyways, hey?’
True enough. Their society and ways were alien to humans. And he, Fisher, knew all about alienness. He steadied the travois as it jerked and clattered over the stones. ‘We’d better stop soon – unless our self-appointed leader plans to march us into the ground?’
‘Naw. Just a half-hike to put some room ’tween us and Holly. We’ll set up camp soon enough, I imagine.’ He rubbed his leg, wincing. ‘Better be, anyways. M’pin’s killing me an’ us hardly started.’
The travois almost tipped as one branch climbed a large rock. Fisher saw that he’d have to spend much more attention on it. He nodded his farewell to Holden. ‘I hope to sit down for a long talk.’
The mage nodded. ‘Till then.’
Walking alongside the travois, Fisher studied his unconscious charge while the Andii rocked and jerked in the bindings that held him wrapped in place. And what of you, friend? What if you never regain consciousness? He’d heard of such cases – men and women half drowned who never awoke. Theirs was a slow death of starvation. How many days should he wait before granting the mercy of a hand pressed over the nose and mouth?
Do not make me wait so long that I grow tired of all my poetic speculation, friend.
* * *
In the end it was all so very much easier than Shimmer had imagined. She simply gave commands and they were carried out. At first she was loath to give any orders at all; her tone and wording was far from commanding. She almost winced as she spoke, as if expecting at any moment to be challenged, or defied.
Yet none of these imaginings arose. Guardsmen and women saluted and things got done. No one asked where K’azz was, or why he was not here to voice the commands himself. Still, whenever a Guard answered, ‘Yes, Commander,’ she could not help but almost glance behind, as if expecting to find him there.
Blues crossed the Sea of Chimes to the other main Guard fortress, Recluse, to ready his command for transport. Shimmer organized things here in Haven. Of the Guard, she had her usual command, the Second Company. However, she remained sensitive to the First Company, Skinner’s old unit, once disavowed by K’azz but now returned to the Guard. To show she bore no grudges she selected Black the Lesser to accompany her. And so was he reunited with his brother, Black the Elder. And Bars, of course, of Cal-Brinn’s command, would guide them. Jacinth, once Skinner’s lieutenant, was now in command of the First and would remain behind to work with Tarkhan.
Of the remaining Guard mages, she would take Petal and Gwynn. Blues himself was of course a skilled mage of D’riss, the Warren of stone and earth. And there was always Cowl, once High Mage of the Guard, though she knew she could not count upon the man. Mara, Lor-sinn, Red, Shell and Sour would remain, leaving her confident that Stratem would be well defended. She also understood that Blues planned to leave Recluse under Fingers’ command. The decision left her uneasy; she’d always considered Fingers a touch unreliable. And his sojourn in Korel seemed to have only worsened his … eccentricities. But it was Blues’ call and so she did not object.
She sent messenger after messenger into the vast interior of Stratem, searching for K’azz to inform him of the impending journey, and still no answer came. She sent another message via the fallen brothers and sisters of the Guard, the Brethren. Her unease mounted with each day that passed without word. How could they journey without him? Moreover, the best vessel to be had was hardly adequate: a fat merchantman more suited to hauling cargoes of lumber or pots of wine. Yet it was all that was available – she ordered it loaded and victualled.
The day before they were to depart K’azz had still not appeared. All the messengers had returned; none had found him. That night Shimmer laid out her replacement coat of mail on a table and oiled it thoroughly, as she did her whipsword, in preparation for the ocean crossing. Once they landed it would be back to simple rubbing with sand and such to remove any rust.
She worked well into the night, the wide front of the fortress smithy open to the cool night. The candles of tallow burned down around her, providing no more light than the dim fading coals of the forge. She was rolling up the coat in its covering of oiled leather when a voice spoke from the darkness: ‘You should get some sleep.’
She spun. The name on her tongue faded away when she saw Petal come shuffling forward out of the night. His heavy lips were pursed and his gaze was directed down at his hands clasped across his wide girth.
‘Not whom you were expecting,’ he murmured, embarrassed.
She smiled despite her disappointment and anger at herself for her reaction. ‘No – but always welcome, Petal. What brings you round?’
The big man sighed. ‘It is my fate to always be the man women aren’t expecting.’
She had heard that he and the fiery-tempered Mara, recently united, were now not getting along. She turned to her gear to hide her smile, and said, ‘Women are allowed to be just as great fools as men.’
‘You are too kind, Shimmer.’
Straightening her expression, she turned back to him. ‘So – cannot sleep?’
‘No. Sleep, and dreaming, is always problematic for us practitioners of Mockra.’
Mockra was the Warren of manipulating thoughts and the mind. ‘I understand.’
‘So – you may sleep. I will keep watch. And if … anything should happen I will send for you, of course.’
She tipped her head in acceptance. ‘How can I refuse such a kind offer? My thanks, Petal.’
He leaned back against a post then jumped when the horseshoes and chains hung there jangled and rang. ‘Certainly,’ he managed, and smoothed the front of his dark robes.
Shimmer felt the urge to give the sweet fellow a peck on the cheek. ‘Good night.’
‘Ah, yes. Good night.’
The next morning she found her best shirts, gambeson, and long tabard laid out by her servants. This would be the last day of such pampering, as they would be leaving all the servants, grooms, and maids behind in the fortress. She splashed her face, saw to her toilet, then dressed. Gwynn, who had somehow fallen into the role of her unofficial second-in-command, awaited her in the Great Hall.
The dour white-haired mage had returned to his typical dress of hues of charcoal: a long coal-black shirt over midnight trousers. And his expression was in keeping with a priest of Hood, though he was not.
‘How are we doing?’ she asked, and took a bite from a scrap of yesterday’s bread.
‘We are behind, of course.’
Taking up a gl
ass of watered wine, she invited him to follow her out. ‘Oh? What is it now?’
‘The water casks. We are still short. More were promised by the cooper but they haven’t arrived.’
‘We’ll just have to make do.’
‘We are too low on salted meat as well.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘And dyed red cloth.’
‘Red cloth?’
‘For the tabards,’ he explained.
‘Well, some will have to go without.’
They descended the stone and dirt way that led from the fortress to Haven Town. Shimmer nodded to tradesmen, labourers and farmers as they passed. Guardsmen and women saluted her. She cast a glance sidelong to the elder mage. Did the man enjoy being the bearer of ill tidings? Did he relish failure and gloom? Or was he perhaps merely excruciatingly careful? In all the time spent with him in Jacuruku and since, she had yet to decide.
‘We’ll take whatever we can get,’ she told him.
‘Which, I must point out again, is not enough.’
‘Are there enough casks and nails in all of Haven Town?’
The mage contented himself with rubbing his jowls and grumbling into his hand. Shimmer smiled tightly; that should hold him for a time.
She found a crowd of the Avowed of the Crimson Guard awaiting her at the waterfront. The sight sent a flush of gratitude and affection through her. At first she’d feared she’d been too selfish in her choice of those would accompany the expedition: personnel from her old command predominated. No doubt, however, the other Avowed understood her preference for the men and women she had commanded for decades and knew so well. And here they all were, assembled to see them off.
She embraced many as she passed and saluted old soldiers of the Second Investiture like Ambrose and Trench. She shook hands with a glum Tarkhan, formally handing over command of Fortress Haven.
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