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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘On behalf of the community I ask again that you not attempt to escape. It will bring reprisals. They'll cut off all food deliveries. They've done it before.’

  Grief stopped whittling, hung his hands. ‘And I ask again, Ho … What are you mages up to here anyway? What's keeping you here?’

  Ho wet his lips, found he could not hold Grief's gaze. He looked away. Grief sighed his disappointment. ‘Tell you what, Ho. I'll make me an educated guess. How about that?’ Without waiting for any reply he continued, ‘You lot are investigating the Otataral, aren't you? Researching how it deadens magic. Maybe experimenting with it. You've taken this opportunity to organize a damned academy on how the stuff works and maybe even how to circumvent it. Am I far from the truth?’

  Ho stared at Grief. Definitely more than what he seemed. The man was closer – and yet so much further – from the truth than he could possibly imagine. Better by far, though, for him and for them, that he suspect it was the Otataral they were investigating. And so Ho nodded. ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘OK. Now, since we're sharing our innermost secrets and such, I'll let you in on our secret. We can get out of here any time we wish. Believe me, we can. And we can arrange it so that all of you accompany us. What do you say to that?’

  The fellow must be mad. The only way that could be managed would be by Warren, which was clearly impossible. Yet Ho studied the fellow's Napan-blue features, his open expectant look and quirked brow; clearly the fellow believed what he was saying. But for the life of him Ho could not see how it could be done. He shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, but most of the inmates here would refuse to leave. The – research – is too important to be abandoned. Believe me, it is.’

  Grief almost threw the short wand, or baton, he was whittling. ‘Damn it to damned Fener! What is the matter with you people? Don't you want a chance to strike back against the Malazans?’

  ‘Certainly there are many here who would jump at the chance for revenge – if they can win free of the contamination – which I am not sure is possible now that we have been eating and breathing the dust for so long.’

  ‘In its raw unrefined form, yes …’

  Ho waved that aside. ‘I know the arguments. All academic, in any case.’

  Grief appeared ready to say more then decided against it. He dismissed Ho. ‘Thanks for the fruit. Think on the offer. It may be your only chance to get out of this place before you die.’

  Ho bowed his head in acknowledgment, stepped away. Returning to the main tunnels, he tried to make sense of what he'd learned. Could these two really escape whenever they wished? Even get everyone out as they promised? Seemed utterly fantastic. Why would they do such a thing? Who were they to them? And that word he'd overheard, Brethren. He'd heard it before, he was sure. Somewhere and in some strange context. He'd have to think about it.

  For the near future, though, he would have to work on keeping Yath and Sessin away. They mustn't suspect that these two had ideas that fell uncomfortably close to the truth of just what their community had discovered buried so far down within the Otataral-bearing formations.

  * * *

  Ghelel found the raft trip down the Idryn not nearly the ordeal she feared. In fact, it proved rather pleasant, what with the non-appearance of Molk. After the third day she relaxed into her role of pampered sightseer, served by her maid-in-waiting – only one servant? she'd chided Amaron – in a tent on her own river barge.

  She spent the days watching the treed shore pass, the distant rolling hills of the Seti plain, grassed but dotted with copses of trees. Seti outriders escorted the convoy from the north shore, yelling and yipping as they thundered past. Among them swooped the fetishes and pennants of the various soldier societies: wolf, dog, plains lion and jackal.

  It seemed to her that, as promised by Choss, the fleet moved with preternatural speed. A foaming wake actually curled from the bow of her barge. She had not spent much time around water, but even she knew that was unnatural. On the rafts around her Talian and allied soldiery talked and laughed. Fires burned in upturned shields and metal braziers to cook meals as the convoy did not once pull in to stop, even at night. Through the day soldiers, male and female, stripped down to linen tunics and loincloths and dived in, splashing and washing, and, hidden away on a few sheltered raft-sides, held on tight and made love in the warm water.

  On the seventh day they reached the falls. The great legendary falls of the Idryn. Broke Earth Falls. Ghelel had never been to it before. Soldiers and boatmen manoeuvred her raft to the shore and a tent was raised. For the meantime she continued to play along with her role as figurehead of the ‘Talian League’. She spent the day and night heavily guarded, but with a view of the falls and the equally amazing spectacle of the great convoy of rafts being unloaded, disassembled and carted down the trader road around the falls to be reassembled downstream. A masterpiece of logistical and administrative organization to which she supposed they owed Choss's decades of experience.

  In the morning she was carried by palanquin down to her awaiting raft for the rest of the river trip, which she understood to be the matter of only a few more days.

  The second evening on the river after that she was beginning to worry. She understood that they were supposed to leave the flotilla before they reached Heng; and Heng was close now. Very close. What had happened to this fellow Molk? Had he deserted? Part of her was glad to be rid of him. Another part was concerned; the man knew too much. When she entered her tent that night she found him sitting in her folding camp chair, his legs out before him.

  ‘I'll thank you to ask permission to enter next time.’

  ‘That would work against sneakin’ about, m'Lady.’ He leaned aside to spit but she jabbed a finger—

  ‘No! Don't you dare!’

  Mouth full, the man searched helplessly about. He picked up a crystal goblet and discharged a stream of dark red saliva that curled viscid in its depths. He set it back on to the table.

  ‘Gods, man!’ She picked up the goblet by the stem, opened the tent flap, and tossed it out into the dark.

  He scratched his tangled black hair. ‘Well, one way to clean the tableware, I suppose. Surprised you have any left.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He fingered the white silk tablecloth. ‘Thought you'd be pleased. Time to slip away.’ He raised his arms to gesture about the tent. ‘You do want to leave all this behind, don't you?’

  ‘Well, yes. I do. Just not with you.’

  He stood, sighing. ‘Well, life's just one vile chore after another, isn't it? Least that's what / think.’

  Ghelel eyed the rumpled greasy fellow. What was that supposed to mean? She looked him up and down again – he seemed dressed appropriately in his dirty quilted jacket, mud-spattered trousers and sandals. But what of her white dress? Not what Amaron had in mind, surely. She waved to her clothes. ‘Do I go out as this?’

  The man appeared ready to give one response but caught himself, swallowing and grimacing. ‘No, m'Lady. Strip.’

  ‘I'm sorry?’

  ‘Strip down to your royal undies.’

  She was still for a good few minutes, almost asked, what for? but managed to quell that – no sense giving the man any more openings. ‘Where's Heroul?’

  ‘She's keepin’ watch.’

  ‘I need her help.’

  ‘Nope. What she don't know she can't tell.’

  ‘Fine.’ Ghelel took a knife from the table, reached behind to her back and slit the lacing. His face flat, Molk turned away to open one of the broad wood travelling chests.

  ‘Looking for the silverware?’

  Rummaging, he didn't answer. Ghelel stripped down to a silk shirt and shorts.

  ‘Here we go!’ Molk pulled a heavy canvas bag from deep within the chest.

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘Your gear. Armour, weapons ‘n’ suchlike.’

  ‘I see. Won't that sink?’

  Molk hefted the bag. ‘Ye
ah. We'll have a moment or two.’

  ‘We?’

  He gave her a sideways, wall-eyed look. ‘Can't you swim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sweet Hood on his Bony Horse! I was told you were raised a regular tomboy ‘n’ such.’

  ‘Well, had I known I'd be jumping off rafts I'd have corrected the deficit!’

  Wincing, Molk raised a hand. ‘OK, OK! Quiet, please, your ladyship. OK. I'll manage.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Now, we just slip off the back, right? Think you can manage that?’

  ‘I can't swim at all.’

  Shoulders slumping even further in his slouch, Molk rolled his eyes to the tent ceiling. ‘Gods. I'll find something for you to hold on to. OK?’

  ‘If you don't want me to drown, you'll have to.’

  ‘I'll find something,’ he grumbled as he pulled the bag to the rear of the tent.

  Spluttering, flailing, Ghelel attempted to contain the panic that had risen to clench her chest like the hand of a possessing demon the instant she let go of the barge. Never had she known such helplessness and fear. She gripped the broad upturned pot so tightly to her she was afraid she might shatter it. The wake of the barge sent her spinning; the dark shores bobbed in her vision in a sickening way. Just hold on to this, Molk had told her, and the next raft will come to you. Grab hold!

  She almost laughed aloud thinking of the chance of her releasing one hand from the only thing keeping her alive. Where was the man, Hood take him! Taken straight to the bottom? Thinking of the bottom brought to mind images of the gigantic whiskered fish, chodren they're called, larger than any man, which the soldiers had been pulling from the Idryn. Ate anything that moved, she'd heard.

  The panic was rising near to the point where she could call out for help any moment. She kicked frantically to try to turn around. Or was she already turned around? Who could tell amid the darkness, the splashing grey-green waves? Something loomed, large and, from her vantage up to her chin in the river, impossibly tall above her: the cut timbers of a raft as they emerged from the dark. Come to her? It was about to plough over her!

  As the timbers neared, Ghelel threw up one hand to grab hold. She banged her head, her body and legs being sucked under. The object that had supported her across the gap of open river was pulled away and run over, tumbling – an upturned chamberpot. Ha! Very funny, Molk.

  She held for a time, washed by the churning waves, gathered her strength. After this she managed to pull herself up then sat, trailed her legs in water that felt warm now that the cold night air brushed her. Eventually, her breathing returned to normal. Movement, and a dripping wet Molk sat next to her and pulled the bag on to his lap. ‘Have a good dip, Captain?’

  Ghelel blinked at the man. Captain? ‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Molk.’ Lower, she murmured, ‘I was almost killed. And that's Captain Alil.’

  ‘Alil? Very good, Captain.’ He sliced the rope sealing the bag. ‘Let's see what we've got here for you.’

  The lack of personal space among the regulars was the first thing that struck Ghelel. That and the stink. Sitting on piled sacks, she was jammed shoulder to shoulder with Talian soldiery. One fellow even fell against her asleep until Molk straight-armed him down to the sodden logs; all much to the amusement of his squadmates. It was very confusing for Ghelel: these men and women were this fellow's friends yet they found it humorous when some stranger dumped him into the drink.

  And the language! If she heard one more time how much some fellow was looking forward to catching some Hengan snatch she'd scream. The farting, belching and spitting were all rather much as well. Every time she almost threw herself to her feet to abandon the whole thing she'd catch Molk's watchful amused gaze and she'd subside: there was no way she'd give the man the satisfaction.

  As it was she stayed awake the entire night and did not know what fed her tense muscles and the sharp sensory images from her surroundings: a soldier lighting a pipe from a lantern, a couple, a man and a woman, making out with only a plain camp blanket over their shoulders, a fight stopped by friends pulling the two men apart, the moon reflected bright silver from the rippling surface of the river. Was it excitement at doing what she'd always dreamed, or was it a plain and simple fear coming from the certainty that somewhere knives were being readied for her? She couldn't tell. In any case, she took some satisfaction from the knowledge that Molk also spent a sleepless night; every time she glanced to the man she'd found him watching the surroundings, his eyes scanning, watchful, glittering in the dark.

  She pulled at the hauberk of overlapping metal scales over leather, not the best fit. Her sword though – her old one! How did they get hold of it? She almost pulled off the helmet but remembered Molk's comment: the best place to carry that is on your damned head.

  The pre-dawn yellow and pink light gathered over the eastern horizon. It brought a strange optical illusion. A mountain rising all alone on the relatively flat plain. Ghelel squinted into the glow. She caught Molk's eye, gestured ahead. ‘What's that?’

  Again, that amused knowing look. ‘Li Heng.’

  ‘But that's impossible. Those walls must be enormous!’

  Wincing, Molk glanced around. Ghelel followed his gaze; soldiers nearby glared. Evidently she'd stuck her foot in it. He sidled closer, lowered his voice. ‘Yes. Strongest fortified city on the continent. Those walls have never been breached. Haven't you studied your histories?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Well then, you know they were built to keep out more than just humans.’

  Something in Ghelel shuddered. Of course! How could they possibly hope to succeed! Those walls were raised against the ancient enemy of the central plains, the rampaging demon – some said God – the man-jackal, brother of Treach, Ryllandaras, the man-eater. And they had never been overcome. Many say they would even have held against Kellanved's continent-sweeping armies. That is, without his dreaded undying T'lan Imass warriors. With their help Dancer assassinated the city's titular Goddess, the Protectress. Assassinated. Ghelel held Molk's gaze to let him know she understood his message. He nodded his slow acknowledgement.

  Towards midday it was their raft's turn to unload. Ghelel grabbed for a handhold as it bumped up against its neighbours. Poles banged wood, soldiers cursed. The sun glared down with a heat and weight exhausting to her; it was never this hot on the coast. Downriver, the walls of Heng loomed like a distant layered plateau.

  ‘How will we find the Sentries?’ she asked Molk.

  By way of answer Molk turned to a nearby soldier. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’ he asked.

  ‘How the Abyss should I know?’ the woman snorted.

  Surprising Ghelel, Molk simply shrugged. He invited Ghelel to try. She crossed to the woman. ‘The Sentries?’ she asked loudly.

  ‘I said—’ the woman turned, her gaze flicked to the silver gorget at Ghelel's neck. She straightened. ‘Sorry, sir. The quartermaster on shore, perhaps, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, soldier.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Molk gave Ghelel a small secretive nod. The gorget also worked wonders in getting them ashore. Ghelel merely stepped forward and everyone slipped from her path. Molk picked up a set of saddle-bags that at some time in the night he'd switched for the bag.

  Ghelel decided that she might come to like being an officer. Amid the chaos of the rafts and barges being unloaded she merely had to catch a soldier's eye, ask, ‘The quartermaster?’ and be pointed on her way. By the time she neared the quartermaster's tent she found she was staring down everyone she met.

  The tent possessed a floor of lain boards. Ghelel stamped the mud from the tall leather boots – the last item out of Molk's miraculous bag – and entered. Molk waited outside. Within, a man sat studying a slate in his hands amid piled crates and sacks that reached the tent's tall ceiling. Ghelel cleared her throat.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ the man replied without looking up.

  Well. So much for the talisman of rank. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’


  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘I didn't ask whether you'd heard of them – I asked to locate them.’

  ‘Don't know where they are. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Well, then, pray tell who might?’

  He looked up, blinked at her bleary-eyed, like a mole. ‘Try the Day Officer, Captain Leen.’

  ‘Thank you, soldier.’

  The man returned his attention to the slate, scratched at it with a small nubbin of chalk. Ghelel sighed, counted to ten, then asked the damned question. ‘And where might I find this Captain Leen?’