Bars blinked his surprise. Jemain, who had also come, turned the body over. A sheathed long-knife remained tucked at his belt. He snorted. He'd forgotten Tillin always carried two. He looked up, but the Seguleh who'd spoken had moved. ‘Where'd he go?’
‘I'm not sure I can find him,’ Jemain said.
‘Just ask!’
Jemain's laugh sounded a touch crazed. ‘No. You don't understand. The one who spoke is the only one who will. He's actually forced to speak to us because he's the lowest ranked here. It is shameful for him to have to.’
‘Well, find him!’
Jemain raised his hands helplessly. ‘I'll try, but I can't read their masks.’
Read their masks? What was the man on about? Bars scanned the deck. Six. Two had gone below. Hood take them – what had he just done to his men? Lamb, he saw, had not moved from where he'd dropped his swords. Bars gave him a wait. Lamb responded with ‘extreme impatience’. Bars caught Corlo's eye, nodded. Corlo edged his hands up to his shirt-front, took a deep breath, then froze. A gleaming sword-blade had appeared at his neck.
‘Who speaks for this vessel?’ called out the Seguleh who'd spoken before.
Bars pushed his way forward. ‘I do.’
‘You have a mage among you. Either he refrains from his arts or he will be slain. Is this clear?’
‘Yeah – That is, yes, that's clear.’ Bars closed upon the spokesman until he stood face to face, or mask. He studied the mask in a furious effort to memorize the identity. For now he understood Jemain's comment: everything was there on the mask for all to see – provided you could understand the signs. Dark vermillion curls, he noted, low on the cheeks.
The spokesman turned away to face other Seguleh. Some subtle signs or body language was exchanged between them – neither said a word. The spokesman returned his attention to Bars. ‘We require your stores of food and drinkable water,’ he said in his curious high voice. ‘You will provide the labour to move the requisite cargo. Further, our oarsmen are tired. We will take the strongest among you to replace them.’
Bars just stared at the mask, the dark-brown eyes almost hidden wkhin. ‘You'll do what?’
The mask tilted fractionally to one side. ‘Our instructions are not clear? Perhaps we should speak to another? One capable of understanding?’
Jemain appeared at Bars’ side. ‘Yes, honoured sir. We understand. We will comply.’ With an effort, he pulled a disbelieving Bars aside. ‘We have no choice now,’ he whispered. ‘At least they'll let us live.’
‘To die!’ Bars snarled, glaring, but he needn't have made the effort. The spokesman now ignored him as thoroughly as if he'd disappeared. Furious, Bars snapped a hand around Jemain's throat. ‘I got my men into this and I will get them outl Give me an option, anything … something.’
The first mate pulled at Bars’ fingers, his eyes bulging. ‘There is only one thing,’ he gasped, ‘but it will just get you killed!’
Bars released him. ‘What? Name it.’
Falling to his knees, Jemain panted to regain his breath. ‘Challenge the spokesman.’
Bars grunted his understanding; something had told him it would come down to that. ‘How?’
‘Pick up a weapon – but you must keep your eyes on the spokesman! Do not look at anyone else. He is the one you are challenging.’
‘Right.’ Bars cast about the deck for the nearest weapon, found a straight Free City sword and a sturdy sailor's dirk. These he picked up, then, keeping his head down, turned to the Seguleh spokesman. Everyone, he noted from the edges of his vision, had gone quite still. One Seguleh happened to stand in the way. As Bars approached this one drew a weapon, touched it to Bars’ chest. Head resolutely held down, Bars paused, then pushed on. He watched the blade's keen edge slice a gash in his leather hauberk as he edged past. Moving with deliberate care, he approached the spokesman and stopped before the man, who had gone immobile. He raised his gaze, travelling up the leather hauberk, the neckscarf, to his mask and the eyes behind. The instant their gazes met the mask inclined minutely – acceptance?
As quick as a hunting cat the man stepped back, his bare foot lightly touching the deck, and hurtled forward attacking. Bars immediately gave ground parrying frantically. The attacks came so swift and unrelenting there was no time to think, no time to plan. He retreated fully half the length of the vessel before he succeeded in wrenching a fraction of a second for a counter-attack to find his own footing and forestall the man's advance. He was appalled; no one had ever done such a thing to him before.
But his relief did not last long. Parrying an elegant series of ripostes overextended him and he saw it even as it came: a thrust high in the thigh. He twisted just in time for the blade to fail its flensing withdrawal. An unfamiliar chill of cold dread took Bars, something he thought Assail had squeezed entirely out of him. This man was not simply trying for a kill – he was choosing his targets! That had been a precise attempt at the femoral artery. If he did not do something right away he would be cut to pieces. All he could think of was his friend Jup's laughter – Iron Bars, finally beaten by some masked jackass!
Less than six of his heartbeats had passed.
Yet while the attacks came as swiftly as Blues’– the Guard's preeminent finesse swordsman – they lacked power. More like surgical touches than blows. Having gathered himself – and he suspected few ever remained alive long enough to do so – he leaned in using all his fury to counter-attack with full strength. Batting aside one blade he surprised the man and got inside to rake the dirk across the forearm. The man's other blade sliced his face in a disengaging move but Bars bore on regardless, backhanding the dirk to the hilt through the man's light leather armour just above the heart. The power of the thrust threw the Seguleh backwards off his feet but even as he fell he flicked his other blade up to kiss Bars’ neck. It sawed deep under his chin. Bars lurched away, bellowing his pain.
He fell to his knees, wet warmth pulsed between his fingers. A hand clasped tightly over his. ‘Let me see. Let me see.’ Corlo. Bars relaxed. A cloth wrapped his neck. ‘OK,’ Corlo said. ‘It's OK. You'll live.’
Panting, Bars choked, could not speak.
Corlo took his arm and he straightened, weaving. He saw Jemain staring at him, incredulous. He waved him close. He tried to speak, failed. He glanced down to see how his front glistened in a red wash. ‘Now what?’ he croaked to Jemain.
Swallowing, the first mate remained motionless. ‘They said it could never be done …’ he breathed, awed.
‘It almost wasn't,’ Bars said, speaking as softly as he could.
Jemain motioned to another Seguleh who was now bent over the dead spokesman. Hood on his dead horse. Not another one! Do I have to duel every last blasted one?
This Seguleh straightened, faced Bars. ‘What is your name that we may enter it among the Agatii.’
The Agatii?’
‘The Thousand,’ the Seguleh said.
Bars could only stare. There's a thousand of these swordsmen? ‘Bars. Iron Bars, Fourth Company, Second Blade, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’
All remaining Seguleh turned to stare. Bars returned the glances then remembered Jemain's warning and looked away. The one Seguleh who had kept the most apart from everyone, standing far at the bow, walked back to face him. His mask was far less decorated than the others, marked by just a few lines. But of course Bars could not make any sense of its design. Then he again recalled Jemain's words and he quickly pulled his gaze from the man's face. ‘Word of you Avowed have reached us,’ this one said. ‘Why did you not identify yourself before?’
Bars shrugged. ‘I saw no reason to.’
The Seguleh seemed to understand such reasoning. ‘You are a stranger to our ways, so I will be plain. I challenge you.’
‘Don't accept!’ Jemain blurted.
Bars gently touched the wet dressing at his neck, wiped his forearm across his mouth to come away with a slick of drying blood from the gash down his face. The pain of his pierced leg w
as a roar in his ears. It twitched, hardly able to support him. ‘I, ah, respectfully decline,’ he murmured, his voice a gurgle.
The Seguleh inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Another time, then.’ He glanced to his men and as one they moved to the ship's side. ‘We go now.’
Bars stared again. Gods, these people. They were constantly wrong-footing him. ‘Wait. Where are you going? What're you doing out here? Twin's Turning, man. Why're you even talking to me now?’
As the others carried the dead spokesman to the side, their leader, so Bars assumed, faced him again. ‘You have standing now. I am named Oru. I am now your, how is it … Yovenai…’
‘Patron, or commander – something like teacher, too,’ Jemain supplied.
Oru did not dispute Jemain's translation.
Bars gestured to the dead Seguleh. ‘And his name?’
‘Leal. Her name was Leal.’
‘Her? Her!’
‘Yes.’
Gods Below. He'd no idea. But he would remember her name; he'd rarely come so close to being overborne. Oru had jumped down lithely to the galley. Bars leaned over the side. Holding his neck he croaked, ‘What are you doing out here? Why are you just going like this?’
‘You are of the Agatii. You have your mission. We have ours. We search for something … something that was stolen from us long ago.’
‘Well … may the Gods go with you.’
‘Not with us,’ Oru replied flatly.
Crewmen pushed off with poles. As the oars were readied, Bars did a quick head-count and came up with fifteen. Burn's Mercy, fifteen of them. Then the fog swallowed the vessel leaving only the echoes of wood banging wood and the splash of water.
Turning from the side Bars found Jemain studying him once more. ‘What?’
‘I would never have believed it.’
‘Yeah. Well, the Lady favoured me.’
‘The Seguleh don't believe in luck.’
‘There you go. Now, let's get to rowing. You give the orders, first mate. I can hardly speak.’
‘Aye, Captain. And Captain … ?’
‘Yes?’
‘I tried to get a good look at Oru's mask. If I'm right, he's ranked among the top twenty.’
* * *
On the second day of their flight from the fallen Border Fort, Rillish awoke to find five Wickan children staring down at him with the runny noses and direct unfiltered curiosity of youths. Rillish sat up on his elbows and stared back. The children did not blink.
‘Yes? Are you going to help me up, or not?’ The gruelling demands of their escape had worsened Rillish's leg wound. Yesterday soldiers took turns carrying him. His dressings stank and were stained yellow-green.
‘No,’ said the eldest, their guide, a girl who might just be into puberty.
‘No?’ Rillish gave a thoughtful frown. Then you're planning to put me out of my misery they way you do your wounded.’
The girl's disdain was total. ‘A townsman lie. We do no such thing.’
‘No,’ Rillish echoed. It occurred to him that he was now being studied by what passed for the ruling council of the band of youths he'd rescued – the five eldest. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Mane,’ said the girl. A sheathed, antler-handled long-knife stood tall from the rope of woven horsehair that served as the belt holding the girl's rags together – all of which amounted to nothing more than a frayed blanket pulled over her head. The blade would have been laughable had the girl's face not carried the tempered edge to match it. It also occurred to Rillish that he knew that blade.
Then may I ask the purpose of this council meeting?’
‘This is not one of your townsman council meetings, the girl sneered. This is a command meeting. I command.’
‘You command? No, I think I—’
‘Think as you like. Here on the plains if you wish to live you'll do as I say …’
‘Mane, I command the soldiers who guard you and who rescued you and your—’
‘Rescued us?’ the girl barked. ‘No, Malazan. From where I stand we rescued you …’
It occurred to Rillish that he was arguing with a ten-year-old girl; and that the girl was right. He glanced up to study the shading branches of their copse of trees. ‘Very well. So, I will do you the courtesy of assuming all this is leading somewhere …’
‘Good. He said you would.’
‘Who?’
A grimace of self-castigation. ‘Never mind. The point is that we've decided you will ride in a travois from now on.’
‘A travois. How kind of you.’
‘It's not kindness. You're slowing us down.’
I see. The party already burdened by one – a young boy, no more than a toddler, wrapped in blankets and doted on by the children. ‘I'll get my men—’
‘Your men will not pull it. They are needed to fight. Three of our strongest boys will pull it.’
‘Now wait a minute—’
Mane waved him silent. ‘It has been decided.’ She and the four youths abruptly walked off.
Well. He'd just been dismissed by a gang of brats. ‘Sergeant Chord!’
A touch at his shoulder woke him to a golden afternoon light. Sergeant Chord was there jog-trotting beside the travois. The tall grass shushed as it parted to either side and Rillish had the dislocating impression of being drawn through shallow water. ‘Lieutenant, sir?’
‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘Trouble ahead, sir. Small band of armed settlers. The scouts say we have to take them. Strong chance they'll spot us.’
For some reason Rillish found it difficult to speak. ‘Scouts, Sergeant?’
A blush. ‘Ah, the lads and lasses, sir.’
Their movement slowed, halted. Sergeant Chord crouched low. Rillish squinted at him, trying to focus; there was something wrong with his vision. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Surround the party, a volley, then move in. None must escape.’
‘Yes, sir. That's just what she ordered as well.’
‘She, Sergeant?’
Another blush. ‘Mane, sir.’
‘Isn't that your knife at her belt?’
‘It is, sir.’
‘Doesn't that have some kind of significance here among the Wickans?’
His sergeant was looking away, distracted. ‘Ah, yes, it does, sir. Didn't know at the time. Have to go now, sir.’
‘Very well, Sergeant,’ but the man was already gone. He felt a vague sort of annoyance but already wasn't certain why. Behind him, the other travois sat disguised in the tall grass, its band of carriers kneeling all around it, anxious. Rillish had the distinct impression the older youths, boys and girls, were guarding the travois. While he watched, youths appeared as if by magic from the grass, talked with the toddler on the travois, then sped away. It appeared as if they were relaying information and receiving orders from the child. He chuckled at the image. The hand of one of his youthful carriers rocked his shoulder. ‘Quiet, Malazan,’ the boy said.
Quiet! How dare he! Rillish struggled to sit up; he would show him the proper use of respect. A lance of lightning shot up his leg. The pain blackened his vision to tunnels, roared in his ears like a landslide, and he felt nothing more.
‘Lieutenant, sir? Lieutenant!’
Someone was calling him. He was on board a troop transport north-east of Fist in a rainstorm. Giant swells rocked the awkward tub. He felt like a flea holding on to a rabid dog. The captain was yelling, pointing starboard. Out of the dark sped a long Mare war-galley, black-hulled, riding down upon them like Hood's own wrath. Its ram shot a curl of spray taller than the sleek galley's own freeboard.
‘Hard starboard!’ the captain roared.
Rillish scanned the deck jammed full of standing Malazan regulars – reinforcements on the way to the stranded 6th. He spotted a sergeant bellowing at his men to form ranks. ‘Ready crossbows!’ he shouted down.
‘Aye, sir!’ the sergeant called.
Before he could turn back, the Mare war-galley struck. The stern-castle deck pun
ched up to smack the breath from him. Men screamed, wood tore with a crunching slow grinding. A split mast struck the deck.
Entangled beneath fallen rigging, Rillish simply bellowed, ‘Fire! Fire at will!’
‘Aye, sir!’ came the answering yell. Rillish imagined the punishment of rank after rank of Malazan crossbowmen firing down into the low open galley. He hacked his way free, one eye blinded by blood streaming from a head cut. ‘Where's the cadre mage, damn her!’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 37