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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Don't know for certain, of course. Some kind of an army will be organized, I imagine. They obviously intend to swoop down and clear the invaders out.’ Rillish caught the eye of the soldier who had helped him escape from the fort and nodded his greeting. Smiling broadly, she saluted.

  As they walked along, Rillish asked his sergeant, ‘What is her name, anyway, Chord?’

  ‘Ah, that would be Corporal Talia, sir. Designated instructor in swordsmanship. The lads, they don't care a fart for technique. They think a thick arm and a thick head will see them through. But the lasses, sir, they know it's their edge.’

  ‘True enough, Chord. Thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps we could arrange some training, sir. While we rest and regroup. You've been on your back for some time now.’

  ‘Thank you, Chord. But you know regulations. Only commissioned ranks can spar together.’ Rillish rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Too many officers found run through, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘As you say, sir. But it seems to me that command is far away now, and there's some as might question whether we're really even in the army now, sir, if you follow my thinking.’

  Rillish stopped outside the yurt the Wickans had given for his use – though obviously desperately short of shelter themselves. ‘Thank you, Chord. But the day I follow your thinking is the day I tear off all my clothes and jump into the ice of the Cut.’

  ‘I blame the drink, sir.’

  ‘You wouldn't have any of it left, would you?’

  ‘Used it to poison the enemy, sir.’

  ‘And a sad waste it was too.’

  ‘The bottle got a promotion out of it though, sir.’

  ‘True enough – wait, don't tell me – it's now known as Korbottle Dom.’

  Looking away, Chord grinned. ‘Heard that one before have you, sir?’

  ‘Many times. And about this yurt…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Give it back to the Wickans tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Later that night Chord stopped beside Corporal Talia's bedroll. He tapped her awake with a foot. She opened an eye. He produced a bottle from under his cloak. ‘Why don't you go offer to share this with the lieutenant?’

  ‘Why isn't he here instead of sorry-arsed you?’

  ‘All traditional, he is. Thinks rank's a problem.’

  She sat up on one elbow. ‘Oho, so that's the way of it. Questions of coercion.’ She took the bottle from Chord. ‘Well, we'll just have to hammer that out.’

  Chord offered a mock salute. ‘Don't take too long. That yurt's disappearing tomorrow.’ He walked away thinking that it was good to see the lieutenant up on his feet again, but that it was the duty of any sergeant to see to the fullest recovery of his commanding officer … at least those worth saving.

  Over the next few days Rillish saw little of any of the Wickan youths he'd got to know during the march. They had all been adopted into families of their clans while Mane, Nil and Nether were absorbed in the furious debates that swirled night and day around the central ring of yurts as participants came and went, sometimes sleeping then returning to pick up old arguments where they'd left off. He was glad to have no part in it. What part awaited him now troubled him enough. Resignation seemed increasingly the compelling path. Especially now with his new-found intimacy with Corporal Talia. To his mind it was too complicated for the command structure. What if an opening for promotion came up and he gave the sergeancy to her? Grumblings of favouritism? What if he did not? Unfairly penalizing her? There was no way either of them could win. Unless he was no longer her superior officer.

  That settled it then; problem was, there was no one to resign before.

  Sitting cross-legged on his bedding, Untan duelling swords across his lap, Rillish wrapped his sharpening stone in a rag and sheathed the blades. Unless he could report to someone who – technically – outranked him. He stood, gestured a soldier to him. ‘Find Nil or Nether and tell them I wish to speak with them.’ The soldier saluted, jogged off.

  A formal letter might be necessary. Rillish picked up his kitbag of bits and pieces that he'd pulled together since losing everything at the fort. Perhaps he had a scrap of vellum or two.

  The soldier returned. ‘Sir, Nil and Nether wish to speak to you at the central ring.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Rillish straightened his torn and faded surcoat, belted on his swords, pushed back his hair that had grown too wild and long of late and carried more grey in it than he wished. He crossed to the main ring. As he went, the constitution of the population of Wickans here in the plateau impressed him once again – so many youths and elders and almost no one of middle age. All those had gone away to fight in foreign wars and precious few had returned. As he neared the ring he noticed the quiet; things had apparently finally been settled. Only Wickan elders faced him – no youths had the stomach, or patience, for these sorts of interminable disputes. Or perhaps they had things to do with their time. Many of the elders wore torn and dirty leathers, and many betrayed the gaunt and ashen pallor of hunger, that grim companion of all refugees. They parted to let him pass. Some glared open hostility. Fists even rested near the bone handles of long-knives.

  So fares the reputation of the Malazans now in the company of Wickans. And deservedly so, too. He found the twins next to that special youth's yurt. Here he got his first good look at the child who sat cross-legged on a blanket, a small sheep's wool cap high on his domed head. It was true that the youth's black eyes held an unusual amount of self-awareness for one of his age.

  ‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ began Nil, ‘it has been decided. My sister and I are now guardians and councillors to this youth who since his birth has been unquestionably recognized as Coltaine reborn. In this capacity we wish to enlist you as captain and military adviser to the Head of All Clans. Do you accept?’

  Rillish stared. Had he correctly understood? He came to offer his resignation and this is what he hears? Shocked outrage had taken the crowd – everyone was awaiting his reply. Many now glared open hatred. Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘Adviser? I? Surely there must be a Wickan officer among you—’

  ‘There are a number. But we have chosen you.’

  As the moments passed, a wall of objections now firmed up in his mind. ‘With all due respect, a Wickan would be more suitable, would know the land better—’

  ‘That is all true, assuming we intend to fight a war of defence,’ said Nether. ‘We do not. Foreigners have invaded our lands and brought war to us and so we intend to return the favour. We will not ride down into the steppes to drive them off. No, that we leave to Temul who commands on the steppes. We, instead, will lead the counter-offensive. We shall ride south into Untan lands bringing war and invasion to them. What say you to that, Malazan?’

  Rillish felt as if he couldn't breathe. Good Gods, the two mean it. Could it be done? How many could they muster? A few thousand at least, many old veterans to steady and instruct the young bloods. The finest skirmishers and horse raiders anyone knew of. And last he'd heard there weren't enough soldiers left in Unta to hold a drinking party. Still, there remained questions of loyalty. ‘To what end, Nether? Nil? To what end?’

  Angry calls sounded from all around. ‘He spits in our faces!’ someone shouted in Talian. Nil raised his arms for silence. The twins exchanged glances, their eyes glittering like sharp stones. ‘To force a renegotiation of our treaties with the Empire.’

  ‘I see. Then I can only answer in one way – I offer my resignation. Do you, Nil or Nether, as senior officers, accept?’

  A roar as the crowd of enraged elders surged inward, raised blades flashed orange in the afternoon light. A clot of dirt struck Rillish's chest. Both twins threw their arms up for silence, shouting down the crowd.

  ‘Yes,’ sounded a piping voice that cut through the din like a whistle. The elders were silenced instantly, almost as if abashed. The twins stared down, astonished.

  ‘Accepted,’ said the toddler
, grinning up at Rillish.

  It occurred to Rillish then that in the view of many, the twins were not the senior officers present. ‘Very good,’ he stammered, shaken despite his scepticism. ‘Then I, Rillish Jal Keth, accept your commission.’

  The child clapped his hands, clearly delighted. The twins quickly, and loudly, swore their confidence. After a long tense silence, the surrounding elders shuffled forward one by one, taking turns to bow and acknowledge his selection.

  At the end of the ceremony Rillish was left with the twins, an old woman and the toddler, who had fallen asleep. The old woman picked him up and nestled him in her arms. As she did so his eyes popped open and he said something to her. She gestured Rillish to her with an impatient twist of her wrist.

  ‘Yes?’

  She was looking down at the child who now rested, eyes closed. ‘He said, “Turn their swords. Turn them.’”

  ‘Turn their swords?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Turn their swords? Had the old woman heard correctly? Perhaps he'd just babbled some gibberish. But she had ducked into the yurt, taking the child with her, and pulled the flap shut. He turned to Nil. The young man had pressed both hands to his face as if to cool it.

  ‘That went better than I'd hoped,’ the youth said through his fingers.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. No one was hurt.’ He tucked his hands under his arms, grinning.

  ‘You set high standards.’ ‘I know my people. We're a fractious lot.‘ ‘Well, now it's my turn.’ ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Now I have to explain to my people why and how we've just switched armies.’

  * * *

  When his worthless nephew stuck his head between the cloth hangings of his palanquin shouting, ‘Ships, Uncle! Hundreds of ships!’ Nevall Od’ Orr, Chief Factor of Cawn, nearly had a heart attack. Not from the prospect of Cawn being sacked by some fleet out of nowhere – invaders can be milked just as easily as anyone – but rather from the fact that his nephew had managed to get within arm's reach of him.

  ‘Groten!’ he bellowed, massaging his chest with one hand and smoothing his beard with the other.

  The captain of his bodyguard thrust his shaven blue-black bullet head through the cloth hangings, ‘Yes?’

  ‘That's “Yes, Chief Factor”.’

  A nod of agreement. ‘Yes?’

  Nevall stared at Groten; Groten stared back. Sighing, Nevall covered his face. ‘Groten,’ he began, speaking through his hands, ‘how did my idiot nephew get through your oh-so-vigilant cordon of guards?’

  ‘He's your nephew.’

  Nevall threw his arms down to slap his thin crossed legs. ‘I know he's my Lady-damned nephew! I myself hired the mage who through no mistake of mine actually reported honestly on his paternity. Now, because of the egregious oversight of allowing one of my relations near me I penalize you one month's wages.’

  Groten's thick brows pressed together. A large meaty hand rubbed his sweaty pate. ‘A month's?’

  ‘Yes. That is, unless you'd prefer to go back to whipping slaves on one of my merchantmen?’

  The hulking Dal-Honese frowned his assent. As he did so the palanquin jerked from side to side and Nevall braced himself with a hand at the low roof. ‘What was that? What's going on out there?’

  ‘Ah, the crowd, sir. All headed to the waterfront.’

  ‘Well? Why aren't we?’

  The captain of the bodyguard opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut. The head withdrew. Soon after that orders sounded and the palanquin rocked as Nevall's bearers started up again. He found the paper fan he'd dropped when the terrifying apparition of his nephew's head had assaulted him and he set to cooling himself. Gods above and below, did any of the smelly populace of Cawn have the least idea of what he had to endure as their Chief Factor?

  Comforted by the crack of his bodyguard's whips and the thump of their truncheons clearing the way, Nevall turned his thoughts to this fleet of mystery ships. Could it be the Empress's forces? His sources spoke of her intent to sail after the disastrous assault of those mercenary raiders. And where else would she sail but for Cawn? Port of choice for any inland expedition. Yet how could she have arrived so soon? It would take more than two weeks for a fleet of that size to make its way from Unta – and that barring any of the usual delays. No, logic compelled that this must be some other force. Therefore, eliminating the possible but improbable invasion from Korel, Genabaris, storied Perish, enigmatic Nemill, legendary Assail or that empire his most distant trading partners whisper about – Lethery, or some such absurd name – that left the rumours his field agents had been picking up of a massing of ships in Western Falar. But an invasion fleet from Falar? To what end?

  The stink of the waterfront, old sun-rotted fish and human excrement, penetrated the palanquin and Nevall scrambled to find his pomander; he dug it out of one of the small drawers and pressed it to his nose. Dead Poliel! How could anyone live like this? How could he be expected even to think? The palanquin slowed. Voices all around babbled. ‘Groten!’

  The captain of the bodyguard stuck his head between the hangings. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What is it? What's to be seen?’

  ‘Lots of ships. All kinds. Even Moranth Blue merchantmen.’

  ‘Moranth Blue vessels? How could you possibly know a Moranth Blue vessel from any other?’

  The captain of the bodyguard shrugged his wide shoulders, shaking the palanquin. ‘Because the sails are blue?’

  Nevall stroked his beard. ‘Oh, yes. Flags? Any flags? Did you think to look for those?’

  An uncertain frown. ‘Well, they're still pretty distant. But there's an old woman here who claims to be a witch. Says she can see though the eyes of birds. Says she'll look for a half-silver.’

  ‘A half-silver! Tell the hag I'd look through the anus of a mole for half a silver. No, wait, let me guess what she'd see looking through the eyes of a bird – fish! Fish and water! What else would a blasted bird look at!’

  Groten flinched away, hurt. ‘It was just a suggestion. Anyway—’ he looked out, spoke with someone, glanced in again. ‘Tali. They're flying the blue of Tali.’

  Nevall hissed a breath while pulling at his beard. Tali. The old hegemonic power itself. So much for these rumours of a return to independent states. Looked like they'd merely be changing one hat for another. So be it. The Cawnese were famous for their pragmatism. They would join – until fortunes changed.

  ‘Very well. Groten, take me to whoever's in charge down there when they arrive.’

  ‘Yes, ah, Chief Factor.’

  Even as the sullen dockworkers kicked at the mooring ropes thrown from the Keth's Loss, a palanquin carried by six extraordinarily tall men and escorted by ten cudgel- and whip-wielding bodyguards bulled its way down to the dockside. At the railing, Ullen clenched his teeth, knowing who that would be: the current Chief Grasper and Extorter of Cawn, whoever that was this year. While he watched, members of the bodyguard stood on the gangway planking where the dockworkers were lazily sifting, and name-calling led to pushing which led to punching and soon a gorgeous, indiscriminate row erupted between labourers, dockhands, general onlookers and the bodyguards. Caught in the brawl the yellow-clothed palanquin pitched about like a ship in a storm while its occupant screeched, ‘Cawn welcomes … its liberators! Long … live the Talian forces! We open our doors … to your noble … warriors!’

  Ullen could only hang his head. Gods, Cawn, how he hated the city.

  That night Urko rode west with a force on all the horses that had survived the crossing in serviceable health. He claimed to be scouting the trader road to Heng, but Ullen knew he was fleeing any dealings with the Cawnese authorities. He also knew why – Urko would have throttled the lot of them. The warehouses Ullen leased were falling-down ruins awash with a fetid sludge of rotted fish. The wagons he rented fell apart even as they were loaded. The horses were either diseased or broken or both, not one animal among them fit even for light sc
outing. Meanwhile, the fees, tithes and bills piled up in the wallets of his secretaries, exaggerated, inflated and outright false. He had bills for material and labour for repair of ships he didn't even recognize.

  Meanwhile, V'thell had formed his Moranth Gold into columns and marched off without speaking to anyone and Bala had somehow claimed a fine carriage – probably threatening to curse a family – and attached herself to that brigade. By the time Ullen was organizing the rearguard and supply trains Urko's entire campaign chest was emptied. Toward the end of his stay Ullen was handing out scrip and referring bills to Tali's ruling Troika. Nevall Od’ Orr and Seega Vull, the richest factors in Cawn, sent him on his way with a sneer and the fluttering of handfuls of his scrip to the wind.