Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘I … that is,‘ something struggled on the face of the boy. ‘So many wrestle here, drawn by the one close to you! I see the ancient past threatening to prove a future preordained. I see fear promising blindness to opportunities – as ever, self-interest threatens to prevent natural fulfilment. For you: only one card remains. Tell him, tell the Soldier of Light – fear none but the Chained.’ These last words rushed out, stopping abruptly as the boy drew one last card that he held up before his face, silenced by its appearance. ‘No,’ he breathed. ‘It cannot be …’ He pitched forward, scattering the cards.

  The old woman came and picked up the insensate boy and carried him to a pallet. She crooned over him, caressed his gleaming face. Lying face-up on the beaten earth was the last card: King of Night – the most ill-omened of all stations and attributes. Ereko left without a word. It was as he'd suspected, the fates were done with him; scarcely any of the reading regarded him. He was close now – one card could only mean one remaining path for his future. As he walked back to the keel lain on its rollers and set with its ribs, he wondered: who was the Soldier of Light? And King of Night? That card had always carried symbolic meaning only. How could it have become active? What could it mean? Were they related? And what, if anything, had it all to do with him or Traveller?

  * * *

  The clanging of the iron bar suspended over the mine-head roused Ho from his mid-afternoon doze. Wincing at joints stiff and swollen, he swung his feet down from the sleeping ledge and fumbled about for his tunic and leggings. New arrivals. Surprising, that. Shipments of prisoners to the Otataral mines had thinned to a trickle these last few years. Seemed Laseen was at last running out of enemies. He snorted: not too bloody likely.

  Though decades had passed since he'd been the Pit's unofficial mayor and inmate spokesman to the Warder – and who was the damned Warder these days anyway? – Ho still felt obliged to put in a showing at the welcoming ceremony.

  He nodded to familiar faces as he tramped the twisting narrow tunnels – shafts themselves once – each following a promising vein of Otataral. Most of those he met returned his nod; it was a small world down here among those exiled for life in these poisonous mines. Poison indeed, for Otataral is anathema to Warren manipulation and magery, and they were all of them down here mages. Each condemned by the emperor, or the Empress in her turn. And Ho had been among the first.

  Mine-head was the ragged base of an open cylinder hacked from the rock, about forty paces in diameter and more than twenty man-heights deep. Harsh blue sky glared above, traced by wisps of cloud. A wood platform, cantilevered out over the opening and suspended from rope, was noisily creaking its way up. It was drawn and lowered from above by oxen and a winch at the surface.

  The new arrivals stood in a ragged line, four men and one female. The man at one end carried the look of a scholar, emaciated, bearded, blinking at his surroundings in stunned disbelief. The woman was older and dumpy, her mouth tight with disgust. The next man shared her sour disapproval, though tinged with apprehension. All three were older individuals and all three conformed to the norm of those consigned to the Pit: all Talents who have garnered the displeasure of the Throne. The remaining two stood slightly apart, however; their appearance sent alarm bells ringing through Ho's thoughts. Younger, fit men, scarred and tanned – one even carrying the faint blue skin hue of the island of Nap. Battle mages, army cadre possibly. Veterans no doubt. The community would not like this.

  The current mayor of the Pit, a Seven Cities mage named Yathengar, swept up before the arrivals, his long robes tattered and rust-stained in Otataral dust. He leaned on a staff trimmed down from a shoring timber.

  ‘Greetings, newcomers,’ he said in Talian. ‘We speak the Malazan tongue down here as a common language between us Seven Cities natives, Genabackans, Falarans and others. Perversely,’ he added, sliding a glance to Ho, ‘there are precious few Malazans left down here.’

  Ho gave the man a thin smile – ex-Faladan of Ehrlitan. Never did forgive us for that. Never did explain why he failed to die defending his city-god, either. Ho watched the newcomers take in the tall bearded patriarch, how their gazes lingered on the stains of his robes. Yath noted the fascination as well; one hand, knotted, dark as the stave's wood, brushed at the cloth.

  ‘Oh yes, newcomers. It cannot be avoided. It is in the air you are breathing now. The water you will drink, the food you will eat. Your hair, every wrinkle.’

  ‘Queen protect me,’ breathed the scholar at the far end, appalled.

  Yath turned on him. ‘No, she won't.’

  ‘So what now?’ the woman demanded in strongly accented Talian. ‘You beat us? Search us for valuables? Are we newcomers to be slaves to you thug survivors down here?’

  Yath gave a bow of his head. ‘Good points. No, no. No rule of violence here – unlike Skullcap – or Unta, for that matter. We are all scholars and mages here, educated men and women. We have a council. Food is distributed evenly. The sick are cared for—’

  ‘Sounds like paradise.’ This from the tall veteran cadre mage at the opposite end.

  The wood of the stave creaked in Yath's hands. He paced to stand before the two. ‘You three,’ he said to the others, ‘can go.’

  Members of the welcoming committee took these three aside to be assigned quarters, receive food bowls and such. Ho remained. Yath held his stave lengthwise across his front, silent until distance from the other newcomers allowed some privacy. The two remained motionless as well, waiting without discussion between them. Companions, Ho decided. Very unusual. Counter to prison procedure, in fact.

  ‘Do not think that because we are learned men and women down here we will be helpless before you,’ said Yath, his voice low. ‘There are exiles here who do not need the Warrens to kill.’

  ‘Those stains,’ said the shorter of the two, the Napan, ‘we'd heard the Pit was all mined out.’

  Ho swore he could hear Yath's teeth grinding. ‘A few live veins remain,’ he allowed.

  ‘And let me guess,’ continued the Napan. ‘Everyone gets a turn.’

  Straightening, Yath stamped the stave to the sandy ground. He thrust his face forward, his long grey beard bristling. ‘And do you refuse?’

  The muscles around the Napan cadre mage's mouth bunched. He examined his hands. ‘No.’

  Yath slowly nodded. ‘Good. Your names then?’

  ‘Grief,’ gave the Napan.

  ‘Treat,’ said the tall one.

  ‘Very well. Go and get quarters assigned.’

  Ho watched the two leave, guided by old exiles. He'd keep an eye on them; why send two obvious fighting men down here among all us fossils? To dig up information, Ho answered himself. Yath's gaze followed the two as well. Ho translated the man's glower: more damned Malazans.

  * * *

  Amaron was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs beneath the old Tayliin fortress. My family's ancestral keep. My keep. Ghelel still had trouble believing it. Yet all agreed. She was the third generation in hiding of the old Tayliin family. The clan that hundreds of years ago had extended Quon Talian hegemony across the continent. The troika that had taken power invoked her name; General Choss had been granted command – in her name. Yet she had no illusions: still a puppet. A figurehead needed to lend the veneer of legitimacy to their insurrection. That was all. Yet strings go both ways and even a puppet, should it gather enough strength to itself, can reverse the pull. Or even cut the strings if need be. In any event, she certainly intended to find the full extent of their slack.

  Such as now; demanding to see the captive she'd heard languished within her keep. A true Claw captured by Amaron's counter-intelligence. A Claw such as those who slew her family so long ago. All great aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces; all except her grandfather, then a boy, who escaped. She had to meet this murderer. Had to see who it was, what it was, she faced.

  The tall and, Ghelel could now see, rather wide around the middle Amaron bowed. ‘M'Lady. I am against this. It's an unne
cessary danger.’

  ‘Surely the Claw didn't get himself captured on the chance of getting to me.’

  ‘That is not my suggestion. A tiger, though captured, is still a danger.’

  ‘Perhaps instead you could reassign Quinn to me.’

  In the dark the man's deep-blue Napan face was almost unreadable. He shook his head. ‘No, m'Lady. He has duties elsewhere. His work with you is done.’

  ‘Then at least assign someone other than this Molk fellow. He is completely inappropriate.’

  A low rumbling chuckle. ‘I assure you he is completely appropriate.’

  Ghelel allowed herself a sigh of exasperation. ‘If this is your idea of negotiation, Amaron, I am not impressed.’

  ‘I am greatly saddened, m'Lady.’

  ‘Let's see him.’

  ‘Please, m'Lady, reconsider. He will only take the opportunity to lie and undermine your trust and confidence.’

  ‘I understand, Amaron.’

  The man was silent, thinking. His presence before her in the dark gave her the impression of a wall of stone; many she'd met in the fortress were in awe of Choss's reputation and were elated to have a military commander of such standing. But those same people were also obviously wary, if not fearful, of this man. Amaron let out a long hard breath. ‘Very well. Do not approach him, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned, walked up the dark stone corridor. She followed wondering whether she'd just won a victory of a sort, or had just expended vital goodwill on a useless whim. Amaron unlocked a door and preceeded her into the surprisingly large chamber within. A man sat fettered to a chair at the room's centre.

  ‘Ghelel Rhik Tayliin!’ the fellow announced once Amaron stood aside. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

  Ghelel strove to suppress a shudder – of fear or disgust – she didn't know. Or the cold: the room was damp and chilly. She took a slow step forward. ‘So you know my name. What is your name?’

  The man shrugged, or made a show of it to reveal that his wrists were secured behind his back. ‘What matter names? For example, Claw or Talon? All the same, hey, Amaron?’

  Ghelel slid her gaze between the two. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘M'Lady …’ Amaron began.

  ‘I mean that Laseen instituted the Claws, yes, but who was in charge of Dancer's own killers, the Talons, way back then? Hmm?’

  Ghelel settled her attention on Amaron. ‘So you are a murderer as well.’

  The big man rested his hands at his belt. ‘I prefer the term political agent.’

  ‘There you are,’ the Claw said. ‘You have picked up the very knives that wiped out – or very nearly wiped out – your own family.’

  ‘We had nothing to do with those killings.’

  ‘So you say, Amaron … So you say.’

  Ghelel again glanced from one to the other, shocked. Why had Amaron allowed her to interview this man knowing what he would no doubt reveal? Was this some sort of a test? But why bother? She suddenly found she could not draw breath; the cell felt as if it had slammed shut upon her. She backed away to the door, searching blindly behind her for the jamb. ‘I will not allow such things,’ she managed, her voice hardly audible to her.

  The Claw arched a brow. ‘Not even for those who deserve it? Laseen, perhaps? Be assured, Tayliin, that list, once begun, will grow long and long …’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘So be it. You will fail then. And all those soldiers who will die for your cause will have died in vain.’

  Ghelel felt as if the man had stabbed her then and there. ‘What are you doing?’ She wiped wetness from her eyes.

  ‘Educating you,’ he said. But his eyes were on Amaron and the smile that had been playing about his mouth was gone. It seemed to Ghelel that the man was now uncertain of something. He's wondering why Amaron is letting him talk! Yes, she had been wondering as well. She drew strength from the man's doubt.

  ‘Yes? To what end?’

  The Claw laughed his derision. ‘You stupid child! Can't you see you'll end up exactly like her? You say you hate Laseen yet to succeed in the path you have chosen you must pick up the tools of power – the very tools you pretend to scorn!’

  Amaron cleared his throat. ‘That's enough, I think. M'Lady … ?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ghelel pulled a hand across her face. Yes, more than enough. She turned and left the cell. The Claw did not call after her. Amaron locked the cell and followed. At the stairs, she stopped and stood waiting, hugging herself. He stopped as well and studied her with what she thought a dispassionate evaluative gaze.

  ‘Why did you allow that? Why not have him killed?’

  A slow thoughtful shrug. ‘You would have heard this accusation eventually. Better directly now than whisperings later when you might wonder if I had tried to cover it up. This way there is a chance – a small chance – that you might come to trust me.’

  Right now she could hardly trust herself to speak. ‘You play a dangerous game, Amaron,’ she managed, her voice dry and hoarse. He was a solid shape in the darkness, silent for a time.

  ‘That is the only kind worth playing.’

  Ghelel studied the man, his aged, lined dark face that had seen, what, a century of service? Yes, she could see how the old ogre must've liked this one. ‘No killings in my name, Amaron. That I will not allow.’ He frowned, considering.

  ‘Hard to guarantee. But I will promise this – I'll ask first.’

  Ghelel hugged herself even more tightly, as if afraid of what might happen should she let go. ‘Yes. You can ask. But I swear. Not the way it used to be. It will not be like that.’

  Amaron nodded. And as Ghelel climbed the stairs, still hugging herself, it seemed to her that in the man's slow assent she read the surety on his part that, eventually, things would slide that way – if only through their own accumulating weight. Please Burn and Fanderay preserve her from that! Please preserve her!

  * * *

  The night of the meeting, Hurl watched Storo push himself from his seat in the Rod and Sceptre after the gongs of the wandering street watch rang the half-night call. The squad had all cleared out long before then. No sense hanging around exactly where anyone watching would want you to be. She and Sunny had a corner across the way, eyeing the Cap'n as he wandered – well, swayed, really – drunk as a Dal Hon trader up the street. They followed far back.

  Sunny and me, we're army sappers, she reflected. What in Hood's name do we know about following people and bein’ sneaky ‘n’ all? Truth is – nothing. Zilch. But then we're not supposed to be successful. We're the stalking horse. Leastways, that was how Silk explained it once. We're here because the people watching expect someone to be here, and so here we are. Simple. Ha. Truth is, she wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for the fact that Sunny was the meanest saboteur in a fight any of them knew and she's the only one he'll listen to.

  Sunny tapped Hurl on the arm, motioned ahead; the Captain was heading west around the main curve of the Outer Round to the Idryn River. They slowed their pace to keep the distance. The Round wasn't nearly as quiet or deserted as Hurl imagined it would be at this hour. This section of the way was a run-down night market. Torches burned at stalls and at the open doors of inns and taverns. Benches and stools spilled out across the cobbles holding the most resilient drunks while she and Sunny stepped over the less hardy. Whores called from fires at tall iron braziers. Their ages looked to Hurl to vary directly with their distance from the light. Some shops appeared to never close: a blacksmith hammered on into the night. The lonesome ringing reminded Hurl of her youth in Cawn, her own father downstairs hunched over, tapping at his smithing. A sound that ached of sadness and waste to her. A lifetime of sweat and scrimping wiped away by a noble who refused his debts, leaving her family imprisoned. Joining up or whoring had been the only two legal choices left for her – that was, if she didn't want to starve.

  They passed a Seti horse-minder standing watch with his sons over his charges all roped together while a
pack of the mongrel Seti dogs roamed the Round snarling at everyone. In the chaos it seemed a miracle to Hurl that they didn't lose the Captain, but the man was making no effort to hide.

  All around them in the dark she imagined a constant dance of positions and vantages. Silk was out there in the night, maybe overhead on the domed rooftops these Heng architects seemed to favour. Jalor and Rell were also following, but on a far lower profile – Jalor because that son of the Seven Cities could move like a cat, while Rell, well, that guy was just amazing – none of the squad could figure out why he was wasting his time with them. Storo had tried to promote him more times than Hurl could recall but he wasn't having it. The young fellow would just look away all shamefaced whenever the subject of promotion or commendation came up. As for Shaky, Hurl suspected the bastard had just plain slunk off on everyone like he always did.