He touched the cold blade to his forehead and invoked a prayer to Wind. He'd have to get it re-gripped. And he'd name it Tcharka. Gift of Wind. And he'd never forget what happened here this day.
‘Have a rest,’ Stoop advised. ‘It'll be a while yet.’
Kyle let his head fall back to the stone wall. Through slitted eyes he spotted Stalker crouched against a pillar next to two Guardsmen he didn't know; one extraordinarily hairy and ferociously scarred; the other an older man whose beard was braided and tied off in small tails. Both were nut brown, as burly as bears, and reminded Kyle of the men of the Stone Mountains to the far west of his lands. The scout watched him with his startling bright hazel eyes while murmuring aside to the men. Exhausted, Kyle drowsed in the fitful weak wind.
Near dawn came Kyle's turn in the basket. He and four others stepped in while the wicker, hemp and wood construction hung extended out over empty yawning space. Eight Guardsmen manned the iron arms of the winch. A gusting wind pulled and tossed Kyle's hair as he now carried his helmet under an arm.
‘How will they get down?’ he asked a man with him in the basket as the crew started edging the winch on its first revolution.
The Guardsman swung a lazy glance up to the men at the winch. A smile of cruellest humour touched his lips. ‘Poor bastards. Better them than us. They'll have to come down the ropes.’
The wind rose as the basket descended close to the naked cliffs. It batted at the frail construction and pulled at Kyle's Crimson Guard surcoat. Us, the Guardsman had said. Kyle knew now he was one of them yet could never be one with them. He was part of the brotherhood but that same brotherhood had killed something like his God: one of his people's ancestors, progenitors, guides or protectors – perhaps even an avatar of the one great Father Wind himself. He knew now it would be easier for him to use the weapon at his side. To turn flat, unresponsive eyes upon death and killing. To do what must be done. He studied the men suspended with him over what could be their own deaths. Two watched the clouds above, perhaps searching for hints of the coming weather. Another peered down, curious perhaps as to where they might disembark. The last stared ahead at nothing. Their eyes, surrounded by a hatching of wrinkles, appeared flat and empty. These were the ones who could not be touched. Kyle felt drawn to them, sensed now that he shared something of the dead world they inhabited. He watched their sweaty, scarred, boiled-leather faces and felt his own hardening into that mask. He could stare at them now, at anyone dead or alive, and not see them.
CHAPTER II
For generations the poles of the Quon Talian continent stood as the province of Unta in the east and the province of Quon Tali (which gave the land its name) in the west. Each in turn dominated mercantile trade and strove to crush its distant rival while the lesser states, Itko Kan, Cawn, Gris and Dal Hon, danced in a myriad of alliances, trade combines and Troikas marshalled against one or both of these poles. Who could have predicted that these two major capitals would fall to the invader while poorer states would resist for years?
Chronicler Denoshen
South Kan Hermitages
UNDER A BLAZING NOON SUN THE CROWD JOSTLING ITS WAY UP Unta's street of Opals thickened to an immovable clamouring mass. Ahead, the thoroughfare debouched into Reacher's Square where the animal roar of tens of thousands of voices buffeted those straining for entrance. Second-storey balconies facing the street sagged with the weight of more paying spectators than good sense should allow.
For the frustrated citizens caught in the street, advance was impossible. Possum, however, easily slipped his way forward, edging from slim gap to slim gap, passing with a brush here or a well-placed elbow there. Those of his profession were trained to use crowds and this was one reason why he enjoyed them so much. Anonymity, it seemed to him, was assured as one among so many. But it was also his opinion of human nature that with so many people gathered together no one could possibly organize anything.
He stepped out on to the littered bricks of Reacher's Square to find it a heaving sea of citizens of the Empire; for today was execution day. The Empress was dispatching her enemies in as messy and public a manner as possible. All to serve as salutary warnings to those contemplating any such crimes. And of course to entertain her loyal masses. Edging his way around the perimeter of the huge square, Possum kept close to one enclosing wall. He estimated the crowd at some fifty thousand, all peering and straining their attention to the central platform where various minor criminals had already met their ends in beheadings, evisceratings and impalings.
This month's crowd was above average and Possum had no doubt the extra numbers were lured by the star prisoner scheduled to meet his excruciating and bloody end this day: Janul of Gris Province. Mage, once High Fist, who, during the recent times of unrest had named himself Tyrant of Delanss and was only brought to heel by a rather expensive diversion of resources. For this Janul rightly earned the Empress's ire and thus this very public venue for his expiration. Yet it could also be that all these citizens crammed into Reacher's Square – and, Possum could admit, himself as well – wondered that perhaps another reason lay behind this particular execution: that long ago Janul had been of the emperor's select cadre. He was Old Guard.
As Possum slipped behind the backs of men and women, someone addressed him. This alone was not unusual as he had through the Warren of Mockra altered his appearance only slightly while dressing as a common labourer. In the jostling crowd all around him people gossipped, yelled their wares and made bets on the fates of the condemned. This voice, however, had spoken from Hood's Paths. Possum straightened, turned and peered about. No one seemed to be paying him any particular attention.
‘Up,’ the voice urged. ‘Up here’
Possum looked up. The enclosing wall rose featureless, constructed of close-fitted stone blocks mottled by mould and lichen. There, at the very top nearly four man-lengths above, rested small balls resembling some joker of Oponn's idea of battlements: a row of spiked human heads.
He turned away, glanced about – could it be?
‘Yes. Up here.’
Possum leaned against the wall, his face to the rear of the crowd. ‘You can hear me?’ he whispered low.
‘I have ears.’
That's about all.’
Possum sensed exasperation glowing from the other side of Hood's Paths. ‘Fine. Let's have them – get them all over with.’
‘What?’
‘The head jokes. I can tell you re just aching to try one. Like, ended up ahead, didn't you?’
Possum snorted. A few men and women glanced his way. He coughed, hawked up phlegm and spat. The faces turned away.
‘Hood forefend! I would never be so insensitive.’
‘Sure. Like I was spiked yesterday.’
‘Why are we talking then? Poor company up there? Cat got their tongues?’
‘I have a message for you.’
Despite his control, Possum stiffened. Such a message could only be from one source. ‘Yes,’ he managed, his voice even fainter.
‘They are returning.’
‘Who are?’
‘The death-cheaters. The defiers. All the withholders and arrogators.’
‘Who?’
‘Ah – here comes one now.’
Possum lurched forward into a ready crouch, weapons slipping into his palms. He scanned the nearest backs. Who? What was this spirit on about? A woman stepped out from the crowd. Short, athletic with dishevelled tightly cropped grey-shot hair, dressed as a servant in a plain shirt and frayed linen trousers, her feet bare and dirty.
His superior, Empress Laseen.
Possum straightened. ‘I didn't think you'd come.’
Laseen regarded him through half-lidded eyes. ‘Who were you speaking with just now?’
‘No one. I was talking to myself.’
‘How very boring for you.’
Rage flashed hot across Possum's vision. He exhaled, unclenched his shoulders. In time. In due time.
Laseen continued her lazy
regard. Always judging, it seemed to Possum. How far could she push? How much does he fear me?
She laughed then, suddenly. ‘Poor Urdren. How transparent you are.’
Possum stared, uncertain. Urdren? How could she know his first name? He'd left it behind – along with the corpse of his father.
Laseen turned away. ‘She's here. I'm sure of it. Keep an eye out. I'll circulate.’
Possum almost bowed but caught himself in time. Laseen disappeared into the crowd. He returned to leaning against the wall.
‘He told me you wouldn't tell her.’
‘Who told you?’
A sigh from the other side. ‘Think about it.’
‘What do you mean, “death-cheaters”?’
‘How do I know? I'm just the messenger boy.’
‘What do you—’
‘Here he is. The main attraction.’
A sussurant wave of anticipation swept through the crowd, surged to a deafening roar. Possum, at the very rear, could see nothing of the stage. ‘Have a good view, do you?’
‘Best seat in the house.’
In many ways Possum was indifferent to the show; it wasn't why he was here. While he scanned the backs of heads, watching for movement or the blooming of Warren magics, he asked, ‘So, what's happening?’
‘Janul's been led out. Looks like he's been worked over already. His hands are tied behind his back, his clothes are torn. Might be doped. We used to do that in the old days before the emperor. But then, I don't recall a Talent ever being up there. How does one manage that anyway?’
‘Otataral dust.’
‘Ah. 1 see.’
‘What about you? You're obviously a Talent. Weren't you executed?’
‘We up here along this wall are all that's left of the last ruling council of Unta.’
Possum was impressed. That was long before his time.
‘When Kellanved's fleet took the harbour I fled inland with half the city's treasury. The horses panicked and the blasted carriage toppled over. Broke my neck.’
The crowd roared, shouting all at once. Fists shook in the air. ‘What is it?’
‘They're reading out the charges. A brazier's been set up. Knives are being sharpened. Looks like they're going to cook his entrails right in front of him while keeping him alive as long as possible. Never seen it work:
‘It will this time.’
‘How so?’
‘A Denul healer will sustain him.’
‘But the Otataral?’
‘Precious little is used. The strain of the opposing forces of the magic-deadening Otataral and the healing magics would kill him, of course – if he lived long enough.’
‘I see. He is being restrained, standing, head forced down to watch. His shirts have been torn away. A cut is being made side to side across his lower abdomen. Another cut, this one vertical down his front. The brazier's being moved closer. Now they're—‘
The crowd thundered a roar that to Possum sounded of commingled disgust, fear, awe and fascination. Yet the mass pressed even closer to the stage, confirming for Possum his opinion of human nature.
‘They've set his viscera on to the hot coals in front of him – he's still standing! – though I cannot say for certain that he is conscious. What is this? A large axe?’
‘They will dismember him now, starting at the hands, cauterizing each cut.’
‘I'll give you this – you Malazans put on better shows than we ever did. A hand is gone. He must be unconscious, supported by the executioner's assistants. No, I see his mouth moving. Here comes another of the defters.’
Startled, Possum flinched from the wall, crouching, scanning the backs of the crowd before him. A woman edged into view, faced him. Not a slim athletic figure such as the Empress but a stocky older woman, grey-haired, mouth wrinkled tight and frowning her displeasure. Their target this night: Janul's sister and partner, Janelle.
‘You,’ she spat. ‘The lap-dog. I'd hoped for the lap itself.’
Possum smiled. ‘I like to think of myself as a lap-guard-dog.’
‘Save your poor wit.’ The woman straightened, crossed her arms. ‘I know what you want and I'm not going to give it to you.’
Edging one foot forward, Possum scanned her carefully. A dangerous mage, an adept of the D'riss Warren. Together the two siblings had run many dangerous missions for Kellanved. Yet he detected no active magics. What was this?
She hissed a long breath through her clamped teeth. ‘Hurry, damn you. I'm losing my nerve.’
Possum darted forward. He hugged her to him, slipped his longest stiletto up through her abdominal cavity. She clung to him with that startled look they always get when cold iron pricks the heart.
‘At least you can stab straight,’ she gasped huskily into his ear.
Faces nearby turned to them. ‘The heat,’ Possum said. ‘Poor woman.’ They turned away. He brought his face close to hers. ‘Why?’
The woman's expression relaxed into a kind of wistfulness. ‘There he goes, they will say,’ she whispered. ‘He took Janelle, they will say … but you'll know. You'll know what you have always known,’ she took a shuddering wet breath, ‘… that you are nothing more than … a fraud.’
Possum lowered her to the ground, kneeling over her. Damn the bitch! This was not how things were supposed to go. He stepped away from the body, slipped behind bystanders, edged his way slowly to the opening of the street of Opals. As he went he relaxed his limbs, allowed himself to merge with the crowd streaming from the square. Behind him the meat that had been Janul was being chopped to pieces and those pieces thrown into a fire to be burned to ashes. Ashes that would then be tossed into Unta Bay.
He walked as just another of the crowd, jostled, head down. But all the while he wondered at the iron self-control it would take, when all that mattered was lost and there was nothing left, to somehow turn even one's death into a kind of victory. Could he manage the same when his time came? Denying one's killer everything; even the least satisfaction of a professional challenge. He couldn't imagine it. A fool might dismiss the act as despair but he saw it as defiance. And was the difference so fine as to reside in the eye of the beholder?
He recognized the calloused bare dirty feet walking along beside his and straightened from his musings.
Laseen too was quiet. Her hands were clasped behind her back. He imagined she too was thinking of the dead woman – dead compatriot – Possum corrected himself. And thinking of that, how far back together might the three of them have known each other? Something not to forget, he decided.
Glancing about, he noted the bodyguard now walking with them ahead and behind. A bodyguard selected by me since Pearl's disaster on Malaz took so many.
After a time Laseen nodded to herself as if ending an internal conversation. She cleared her throat. ‘I want you to personally look into a number of recent things that have been troubling me. Domestic disturbances. Reports of strengthened regional voices.’
‘And the disappearances in the Imperial Warren … ?’ He'd heard much talk of this from the Claw ranks.
‘No. I'm sending no more into that Abyss.’
‘I believe it's haunted. We know almost nothing of it, truth be told.’
‘It's always been unreliable. It's these rumours from the provinces that trouble me. Is anyone behind all the troubles? Who? Put as many on it as it takes. I must know who it is.’
Possum gave a slight bow of the head. So, internal dissent. Rising graft and perhaps even feuding within the administrative ranks. An emboldened nationalist voice here. A large border raid there. Old tribal animosities rekindled. And the Imperial Warren becoming increasingly dangerous. Connected? By whom? She is worried. She is wondering. Could it be them? After so long? Was it now because she is alone?
Or, Possum considered with an internal sneer, could it simply be plain old boredom on their part?
He stopped because Laseen had slowed and halted. She glanced to him. ‘We once were friends you know,’ she said, almo
st reflective. ‘That is, I thought we understood each other …’ She looked away, the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes tight.
So why did she do it? Why did she betray you? Is that what you're wondering? Or, what did they know that you do not?
Laseen's jaw line hardened. ‘So. You brought her down. Very good. I didn't think—’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 5