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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Ho shared the man's astonishment; no matter how often he came down to look it stupefied, and humbled, every time. The oval cave, taller than two men, now transformed itself in his mind's eye to a mouth, yawning – or screaming. The bulge below, the chin. One then scaled this lower half of the face to the upper, then face to head, head to neck, and … and that was as far as Ho's imagination could carry the exercise. It became absurd. Unimaginable. How could such a thing possibly be constructed? Would it not collapse under its own colossal weight?

  But of course, they come from elsewhere. Yet would not such a Realm, no matter how alien, possess its own properties, its own set of physical laws which could not be contravened? It was too much for Ho – as it had proved for this entire battalion of professional mages, scholars and theurgical researchers who had made the mystery their primary fixation for the last three decades.

  All these revelations were lost on Treat who nudged Grief. ‘What is it?’

  Grief just shrugged. ‘A fucking big statue.’

  ‘Come, come,’ urged Yath, starting up the walkway. ‘Come for a better look.’ He waved Grief to follow. The man's eyes were narrow in open distrust, but he clearly could not turn down such an opportunity. One of us after all. Ho decided.

  Grief followed the Seven Cities priest up the walkway of beaten dirt. It ended at the edge of the dark cave, the open gaping mouth. Yath gestured within and backed away. Keeping a wary eye on the priest, Grief leant forward, cast a quick glance in and flinched back, stunned. ‘A throat!’ he called down. ‘They carved a throat!’

  Ho, his eyes closed, nodded, almost despairing. Yes, a throat. And none of our sounding stones have yet to reach bottom. There is not enough rope in all the island to descend the innards of this statue. And so the mystery only confounds us further: as there is a throat, what of a stomach? Intestines? Ought one continue deeper into this route of inquiry? Perhaps not. What would a giant statue of jade eat? More reasonably, it would have no need for sustenance. Why then a throat?

  ‘And what do you hear?’ Yath urged, a hand clutched at his own throat, his eyes feverishly bright.

  Grief cocked his head, crouched, silent for a time. Everyone below stilled as well. ‘I hear a breeze … sighing, or whispering … like the wind through a forest in the fall.’

  ‘He's a strong one,’ Su whispered to Ho. Edging her head sideways, she glanced up. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Screams of the insane. You?’

  She dropped her head. ‘Inconsolable weeping.’

  Yath now spread both his hands over the carved jade face, his long fingers splayed. He pressed the side of his own face to it, his mouth moving silently.

  ‘What in Oponn's name is the fool doing now?’ Ho murmured in wonder.

  Sensing something, Grief peered up. ‘What?’ He shifted to the lip of the walkway, glanced down to them uncertainly. ‘I am amazed, I'll grant you that. And if we had—’

  ‘Wait,’ Yath interrupted, moving away from the opening.

  Something drew Grief around. Ho felt it as well, in the stirring of his own thin hair, the pressing of the cloth of his shirt against his chest. A hiss of alarm escaped Su's lips.

  Roaring burst from the mouth in a rushing torrent. Grief ducked but an explosion of air erupted from the mouth like the giant's own exhalation of breath. It plucked the man from the landing and threw him flying across the cavern. Everyone clapped hands to their heads as their ears popped. Several fell, screaming excruciating pain. A storm of dust roiled about the cavern blocking all vision, while above them Yath laughed and howled like a madman possessed.

  As the dust settled Ho found the knot of inmates who had gathered around the fallen Malazan. He pushed his way through; Treat was there, kneeling at the side of his friend, who lay motionless.

  ‘Bring the next one!’ Yath ordered from the walkway, but no one listened. Everyone was shouting at him at once: when did he discover this capability? Why hadn't he shared his knowledge? How had he come to it? Was it conscious, or merely reflexive? What of the qualities of the air?

  Ho stood silent, looking down at the dead man. The fellow had been difficult, brusque, highhanded even, but he had liked him. And none of them had even suspected what Yath had intended. That is, none except Su.

  Treat raised a hand and slapped it hard across his dead friend's face. Inmates took hold of the man to pull him away, but Grief coughed, wincing, and covered his face with both hands. He groaned. ‘Hood take me, that hurt.’

  Ho gaped – this was impossible! The man flew right over their heads! How … without magic … how? Treat pulled Grief upright and he stood swaying, brushed the dust from his leathers. He cupped his neck in both hands, twisted his head side to side. ‘Well, now that that's out of the way maybe we can get out of here.’

  ‘What!’ came a bellow of consternation from above.

  The inmates flinched away leaving a broad empty circle around the three Malazans. Su burst out laughing her contempt. ‘Difficult to kill, these two.’ She cocked her head, addressed Grief. ‘Come recruiting?’

  Grief examined her up and down. ‘Wickan? Definitely.’

  Yath arrived, his eyes wild. ‘What is this? Still alive?’ He gestured to the spearmen. ‘What are you waiting for? They are obviously a threat! Kill them now.’

  Treat snatched a spear from the nearest, levelled it against Yath. Sessin was suddenly there to slap his hands on the haft just short of the knapped stone point. The two men yanked back and forth, spear between them, sandalled feet shifting in the dry dirt. ‘Stop this now!’ Ho shouted. Yath waved everyone back. The tug of war continued, Sessin grinning, his back hunched, Treat's mouth tight, eyes gauging. They strained, motionless, as if engaged in a pantomime of effort, until with an explosive report the spear burst in half between them. Each staggered backwards.

  Yath raised a hand, shouted something in the Seven Cities dialect. He addressed Grief: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘An ally.’ Grief raised his voice to address everyone. ‘We've come to bring you all back to Quon to fight the Empire. What say you? Revenge against those who imprisoned you?’

  Yath stared, eyes bulging, then he laughed his madman's laugh. ‘You idiot! What use can any of these old men and women be? What of the Otataral?’

  Grief shrugged. ‘The Pit has long since been mined out. It's just a prison now. The little ore that remains that you have been digging out contains the barest trace element. And that raw, unrefined. It can be cleaned off.’

  ‘It's in the food!’ someone called out.

  Again the shrug. ‘A change of diet. It will pass.’

  Yath smoothed his beard, thinking. ‘If its presence is as mild as you say – then why can none of us draw upon the Warrens? Why is all theurgy closed to us?’

  ‘Proximity. It's our location here on the island. Once we get away it will come back.’

  ‘But we've been breathing it in!’ a voice objected.

  ‘There are many alchemical treatments, expectorants.’

  ‘That's true,’ someone said. ‘D'bayang powder inhaled with sufficient force can—’

  ‘Will you shut up!’ Yath snarled. He clasped his staff in both hands across his middle. ‘Believe me, Mezla, I want revenge upon your Empire more than you can possibly imagine. But we are down here in this – prison – as you name it and I do not see how you propose to get us out!’

  Grief was rubbing and rolling a shoulder, grimacing. ‘Fair enough.’ He glanced around. ‘What time of day is it above?’

  ‘Before dawn,’ someone answered, nods all around.

  ‘OK. Let's go up to the mine-head and we'll have you lot out by dawn.’

  Yath sneered. ‘Lies! Once there you'll call for the guards to rescue you.’

  ‘So stick us with your spears.’

  Yath subsided, glowering, his mouth working. Su laughed her scorn. The two headed to the tunnel; everyone moved from their path.

  Ho brought up the rear, waiting for Su. Once the rest of the inmat
es were sufficiently ahead he asked, ‘So, who are they then?’

  The witch cast him a creamy self-satisfied look. ‘Have you not guessed by now?’

  ‘No. So, they're not Malazan.’

  Her stick lashed him across his shin and he danced away, wincing. ‘Please! Of course they are Malazan. But then there are Malazans and then there are Malazans.’

  ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  They walked along in silence for a time. ‘So they're with this secessionist movement we've been hearing of.’

  Su waved him away like an annoying insect and headed off. At the long ascending tunnel he waited while she caught her breath. ‘I am old,’ she said suddenly. ‘Strange how those of us who have benefited from manipulating the Warrens, or by ritual, to linger on – continue to do so here in the mines?’ Ho did not answer; what was there to say? That it was a mystery? For a time I feared I would spend eternity here. Or until the wind eroded the island down around me and I could simply walk away. Do you have no such fears?’

  Ho shook his head. ‘I've never thought about it.’

  She studied him keenly once more, frowning. ‘You have no imagination, Ho. In fact, you lack many things that would make a man whole.’

  ‘Is that an insult?’

  ‘A temper, for example. I don't recall ever seeing you angry. Where did your temper walk off to, magus? Your ambition? Your drive?’

  ‘That subject's closed, Su,’ he growled and headed off.

  He waited for her where the sloping tunnel met the side gallery. From here they walked along side by side, though quiet. They met no one. Coming to the main gallery they found this deserted as well. Ho wondered if Grief and Treat had already whisked everyone off – perhaps they'd dug a tunnel climbing all the way to the surface, with toothpicks.

  The murmur of many voices, however, reached them from the round mine-head. A milling mass of what appeared to be the entire Pit's population, all talking, mixing, exchanging opinions and rumours. Ho caught the eye of the nearest. ‘What's going on?’

  ‘Two of the newcomers climbed the wall.’

  Ho's brows rose. ‘Really.’ Just as they'd said. ‘But everyone's tried that.’

  A helpless wave. ‘Apparently one had two short sticks that he jabbed into the wall, climbing like that, one then the other. The second followed along his path, punching and kicking the holes deeper.’ Ho thought of the short batons he'd seen Grief whittling. So not weapons after all.

  ‘Since then?’ Su asked.

  ‘Nothing. Silence. Yath says they've run off.’

  ‘He would say that.’ There was something pathological about that man's hatred. If they did get out he'd have to keep an eye on him. Who knew what he might try; he'd already attempted murder.

  Grating and ratcheting above announced the hanging platform moving. All talking stopped. A number of inmates fled the mine-head, perhaps afraid it was the guards on their way to bash heads. Ho thought it possible, but unlikely. Why come down here to dirty their hands when they could just withhold food?

  As the platform descended it became obvious that it held only one occupant, Grief. After it touched down, rather clumsily, he unclipped a safety rope and waved an invitation. ‘Five at a time, please.’

  No one spoke, or moved. Faces turned to examine one another in wonderment as if searching for some clue as to what next to do. Grief frowned his disappointment. ‘Well, aren't you all an eager lot. Don't trample anyone.’

  Taking a steadying breath, Ho stepped forward. ‘What happened up there, Grief?’

  ‘C'mon up. Take a look around.’

  ‘I'll come,’ said a female inmate, stepping up. Ho recognized her as another of the latest newcomers who had arrived with Grief and Treat. Three other inmates joined them. On the platform, Ho asked the woman, ‘You know each other?’

  She looked Grief up and down. ‘No.’

  Grief pulled a cord strung among the fat hemp rope suspending the platform and shortly afterwards the mechanism jerked upwards, climbing. Ho saw that two mismatched swords now hung at the man's belt.

  The grey, yellow and gold sedimentary layers of the excavated rock edged past as they rose. The rope creaked alarmingly. Ho glanced down, thinking, how many decades kicking through that dust? Six? Seven? Had he simply lost count? Somehow the future now alarmed him. What would he do? Where would he go? He'd gone too long now without even having to consider such questions. He eyed Grief; not a mark on the man and how many guards? Twenty-five, or thereabouts. How had the two accomplished this? All without any Warren magics either. The achievement irked Ho in a way – he felt as if he'd been rendered obsolete. What need for mages if they can manage this?

  The platform bumped to a stop, swinging. With a screeching of wood on wood, the cantilevered solid tree-trunk supporting them began turning aside, carrying the platform over to rest on the dirt beside the opening. Grief unhitched the safety rope. Ho blinked in the unaccustomed dawn light, shaded his eyes. The Pit's infrastructure had not changed much since he'd last seen it. A long clapboard house looking like a guard barracks stood where, when Ho had been processed, had only been a tent. A lean-to blacksmith's shop, a corral for donkeys, a dusty heap of open piled barrels and a squat officer's house completed the penal station. Broken barrels and rusted pieces of metal littered the landscape. Beyond, dunes tufted by brittle grasses led off in all directions. Curtains of wind-blown dust obscured the distances. Treat was busy watering the four donkeys hooked to the spokes of the broad, circular lifting mechanism. ‘Where is everyone?’

  Grief raised his chin to the barracks. ‘Inside.’

  Ho wet his lips, forced himself to ask, ‘Alive?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  Ho decided that, yes, he would. But he could not bring himself to step from the platform. The others had walked off immediately. He looked down, edged a sandalled foot forward, brought it down on the surface, shifted some weight on to it, bounced slightly up and down as if testing its soundness. Only after this could he bring his other foot from the wood slats.

  Grief watched all this without comment, his lips pursed. ‘I'm sorry,’ he finally said as they walked along to the barracks.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I hadn't thought about just how hard this might be for some of you.’

  ‘For most of us, I think you'll find.’ Then Ho stopped. Something had been bothering him about the installation. He glanced around again, thinking. ‘Where are the wagons? Where's the track to the coast to deliver the ore?’ He pointed to the haphazardly piled barrels. ‘Those are empty. Where are all the full ones?’

  Grief was looking away, squinting into the distance, the wrinkles around his eyes almost hiding them. ‘I'm sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? You're sorry? What do you mean, Hood take you!’

  ‘He means they've been dumping them,’ said the woman. Ho spun; she'd followed along.

  ‘Dumping them? They dump them!’ Ho raised his dirty, broken-nailed hands to Grief. ‘Seventy years of scraping and gouging – halved rations when we missed our quotas – and they … they just…’ Ho lurched off for the barracks.

  Grief hurried to catch up. ‘Not at first, I understand. Only the last few, ah, decades. It was all played out, not worth refining. I'm sorry, Ho.’

  The door wouldn't open. When Ho turned his shoulder to it as if he would batter it down, Grief stepped in front, pulled out two wedges. Ho pushed it open. He found the guards on the floor, lying down and sitting. Seeing Ho, those who could, stood. Seeing Grief they flinched. Almost all carried bloody head wounds, bruising blossoming deep black and purple. Ho thought again of the short batons Grief had whittled. So, yes, weapons after all. ‘Who is the senior officer?’

  A short, broad fellow with a blond beard stood forward. He straightened his linen shirt. ‘I am Captain Galith. Who in the Abyss are you?’

  ‘Am I to understand that you have been dumping the ore that we have been sending up?’

  A smile of
understanding crept up the man's mouth. ‘Yes, it was policy when I arrived five years ago. We tested each delivery and dumped anything below refinable traces.’

  Ho ran a hand through his short hair and found drops of sweat running down his temples. ‘And tell me when … how often were these standards met?’

  The smile turned down into mocking defiance. ‘Never.’

  Ho grasped a handful of the man's shirt. ‘Come with me.’ He walked the man out towards the gaping ledge.

  Grief followed along. ‘What are you going to do, Ho? Toss him in? I can't allow that.’

  ‘You can't—’ Ho stopped, faced the short, muscular Napan. ‘Who do you think you are? You hang around for a few months and you know everything? This goes way back.’