‘These men surrendered to me. Not you. They're under my protection.’
Facing the Malazan officer, Ho took a deep steadying breath then forced his fist open; Captain Galith pulled his bunched shirt free. ‘You didn't have the guts anyway,’ he grated.
Ho swung a backhanded slap that caught the man across the side of his head, sending him off his feet to lie motionless. Grief leapt backwards clasping the grip of one sword. ‘How did you do that!’ he demanded, eyes slitted.
‘How did you have Treat defeat some twenty guards?’
Grief straightened, inclining his head in acknowledgement of the point. He smiled in a wicked humour. ‘We surprised them.’
‘If you two have finished your pissing contest then perhaps we can discuss how we're getting off this island?’
Grief and Ho turned to the dumpy, grey-haired female inmate. ‘Listen,’ Ho said impatiently, ‘what in the Lady's Favour is your name anyway?’
She crossed her thick arms across her wide chest. ‘Devaleth Omptol.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘It wouldn't mean anything to you.’
Ho rolled his eyes. ‘Gods, woman, there are over forty scholars, historians and archivists here.’
‘Mare. Ship's mage, out of Black City.’
‘You're from Fist, then.’
The woman's brows rose, surprised. ‘Yes. That name's not in common usage.’
Grief took the feet of the unconscious captain, began dragging him back to the barracks. ‘Ship's mage, hey? That'll be damned useful.’
‘If either of you think I'm going to summon my Warren with all this Otataral around you're the insane ones.’ She shouted after Grief, ‘How are we getting off this blasted island anyway?’
‘Treat's going to get the rest of our, ah, team, tonight. We have a ship.’
Devaleth snorted something that sounded like ‘Fine!’ and walked away.
‘Where are you going?’ Ho called after her.
She pointed to the dunes. ‘There's an ocean out there. I'm going to wash my clothes, scrub my skin with sand, scrub my hair, and then I'm going to do it all over again!’
Ho plucked at his threadbare, dirty jerkin, lifted a foot in its worn leather sandal. All impregnated with the ore. He looked to the barracks, his eyes widening, and he ran after Grief. ‘Wait a moment!’
* * *
Ghelel wanted to curry her own mount. It was an eager mare she'd grown quite fond of, but Molk had warned against it saying that the regulars took care of such things and that she, as a Prevost, ought not to lower herself. She personally saw nothing odd in an officer caring for his or her own horse; Molk, however, was insistent. And so she found herself facing another empty evening of waiting – waiting for intelligence from Li Heng on any development in the siege, which appeared to have settled into a sullen stalemate despite the early victories. Or waiting for intelligence from the east on the progress of the Empress's armada. Or of a new development: the coastal raids of a significant pirate navy that had coalesced to take advantage of the chaos, pillaging Unta and now Cawn. Just two days ago word reached them that these raiders had become so emboldened they were actually marching inland. The betting around the tents was on how far they dared go. Raids on Telo or Ipras were the odds-on favourites.
She therefore faced the same choice that wasn't really a choice this last week since General Urko's army had marched through: lie staring at the roof of her tent, sitting at the main campfire or visiting the command tent. Spending another useless evening at the campfire meant watching the Falaran cavalrymen led by their fat captain, Tonley, share barbs and boasts with the Seti while swilling enormous quantities of whatever alcohol his men had most recently ‘liberated’. Most often beer, though the occasional cask of distilled spirits appeared, and even skins of mead. Visiting the command tent meant, well, getting even closer to Commander Ullen. Something she found frighteningly easy to do.
What would the Marquis think? Or Choss? Would they approve? Ghelel pulled her gloves tighter against the chill night air, glanced to the east where the land fell away into the Idryn's flat, rich floodplain. Somewhere there just days away marched a ragged horde of pirate raiders. Idly, she wondered why Ullen didn't simply uproot his rearguard battalion together with the Falaran lancers, the Seti scouts and the Marshland cavalry and wipe the brigands from the face of the continent. Well, damn them anyway; they maintained she was the heir of the Talian Hegemony, the Tali of Quon Tali. Therefore she outranked the Marquis and Choss wasn't here. She headed to the command tent.
Reaching a main alley in the encampment, she saw ahead the torches and the posted guards, Malazan regulars of the Falaran brigades, and she slowed. If the League should win the coming confrontation and she were installed as the Tali of Quon Tali … how would her behaviour here now come to reflect upon her in the eyes of these regulars everywhere? The thought of their mockery burned upon her face.
The eyes of those guards had her now, glittering in the dark beneath their helmets, and she forced herself to keep moving. Well, damn them too; right now she was nothing more than a lowly cavalry captain, a Prevost. Lowly, and lonely.
As she approached, the guards inclined their heads in acknowledgement and one pushed aside the flap. Ghelel gave as courteous a response as she dared and ducked within. It was warm inside. The golden light of lanterns lit a cluttered table, a scattering of chairs and a low table littered with fruit, meats and carafes of wine. Commander Ullen straightened from pouring wine at the table and bowed. The Marquis Jhardin straightened and bowed as well, though more slowly and perfunctorily – a mere observance of aristocratic courtesy. For her part, Ghelel saluted two superior officers.
Ullen waved the salute aside. ‘Please, Alil. How many times must I ask?’
‘Every time, sir.’ Ghelel drew off her gloves and cloak, draped them over a chair.
‘We were just talking of this pirate army,’ the Marquis said, easing himself back down. ‘They say that at Unta they must have tried to rob the Imperial Arsenal. Blew up half the city and themselves for their trouble.’
‘There's enough of them left,’ Ullen growled into his cup, and sat, stretching out his legs. Ghelel liked the way he did that; and liked the way he watched her from the corner of his pale-blue eyes, almost shyly. She sat at the table, picked up a carafe. ‘I quite understand why we aren't swatting them. I mean, since they number so many …’
A smile from Ullen. One that held no mockery at all, only a bright amusement shared by his eyes. ‘How gigantic have they become now?’
‘I overheard one trooper swear them to be at least thirty thousand.’
The Marquis whistled. ‘Prodigious multiplying indeed. Forget them, Alil. They're just a mob of looters. We don't care about the vultures. We've come for a lioness.’
But Ullen frowned, the lines of care around his mouth deepening. Ghelel caught his eye, arched a questioning brow. ‘We aren't ignoring them, Alil. I have Seti scouts watching from a distance. There have been some rather disturbing, admittedly contrary, rumours about them. But they are – how shall I put it? Difficult to credit. And our mage with Urko, Bala, has sent the message that she is troubled. She suspects powerful mages shielding themselves from her questings.’
‘There must be one or two forceful personalities keeping the horde together,’ the Marquis opined. ‘We'll spot them and eliminate them and the mob will evaporate. They should not have come inland – they are obviously overconfident.’
‘Was Kellanved overconfident?’ Ullen mused aloud, eyeing his glass, ‘when he marched inland with his pirate raiders from Malaz? And Heng was one of his first conquests.’
Neither the Marquis nor Ghelel spoke for a time. The Marquis inclined his head to concede the point. ‘I suppose you could say he was the exception that proves the rule.’
Ghelel studied her wine glass. ‘Speaking of the Throne … why don't we go to meet her? Excuse me for asking, but as new to the command – could we not stop her in the narro
w plains west of Cawn?’
Another smile from Ullen. ‘True.’ He stretched, ran both hands through his short blond hair. ‘But then she would simply withdraw to Cawn and wait for us. That we cannot have. As an advocate would say, the burden of proof lies with us. We have to beat her; she merely has to stand back and wait for our support to erode.’
For all Ghelel knew Ullen was patronizing her just as Choss and Amaron had, only his manners were smoother. But there was nothing in it that felt that way to her; they were merely talking through the options together and he was giving the benefit of his greater experience. She wondered again just how much the man knew of her, how much Urko or the Marquis had told him. It could mean a great deal to know that. ‘Why should our support be eroding – not hers?’
‘Because if we can't take Heng, how can we take anything?’
Ghelel pursed her lips at the truth of that sobering evaluation. Indeed. Why should any of the League's supporters stay with them if they should fail here? They would face wholesale desertions. A return to independent kingdoms with the old war of all against all not far behind. Continent-wide strife, the inevitable dissolution into chaos with starvation, brutality and petty warlordism. Something Ghelel would do anything to avoid.
The Marquis drained his glass and stood. ‘If the Empress commits to the field then Heng can hang itself.’ He saluted Ullen: ‘Commander.’ Bowed to Ghelel: ‘Prevost. I will leave you two to sort out the rest of the problems facing our army and will expect appropriate orders tomorrow. Good night.’
Laughing, Ullen waved the Marquis out. When the heavy canvas flap closed Ghelel faced Ullen alone. For a time neither spoke. Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Did the Marquis tell you I am new to his command?’
Ullen nodded. ‘Yes … Your family goes back quite far in Tali?’
Ghelel felt her face reddening and damned the reaction. To cover it, she shrugged. ‘Rich in ancestry, poor in cash. Yourself?’
An edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Like you. Rich in experience, poor in cash. I have served in the military all my life.’
‘Then you have been overseas? Genabackis? Seven Cities?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Unless Falar counts?’
She answered his smile. ‘Oh, I suppose we could allow that – just for this one night.’
Ullen raised his glass. ‘My thanks. Now I possess a more soldierly exotic flair.’
But Ghelel was troubled. The man looked to be in his late forties, yet had never served overseas. Where had he been all these years?
Had he seen only garrison duty for the last twenty years? Yet Urko seemed to have every confidence in him; could he be nothing more than a competent manager, more clerk than soldier?
A knock at the front post. ‘Yes?’ Ullen called.
A guard edged aside the thick canvas. ‘Seti scout here, sir, with word from the raiders.’
Sighing, Ullen pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the work table. ‘Send him in, sergeant.’
A slight wisp of a figure slipped through the opening and Ghelel stared. A child! What had they come to, sending children into the field? The girl-child's deerskin trousers were torn and muddied, her moccasins worn through. A sleeveless leather jerkin was all else she wore despite the bitter cold night. Her long hair hung in a tangle of sweat, knots and lengths of leather and beads, and a sheathed long-knife hung from a rope tied round one shoulder. Despite her bedraggled and hard-travelled appearance the girl-child surveyed the contents of the tent with the scorn of a princess.
‘Ullar yesh ‘ap?’ she addressed Ullen in obvious disapproval.
‘Aya,’ he replied easily in Seti. ‘Tahian heshar?’
‘Nyeh.’
Ullen looked to Ghelel. ‘Excuse us, please.’ To the girl-child, ‘Bergar, sho.’
The child launched into a long report in Seti. When she gestured Ghelel was wrenched to see that her fingertips were blue with cold, as were her lips. Gods! This child was half-frozen with exposure from riding through the night. The Seti youth tossed a fold of torn cloth on to Ullen's table and turned to go. Ghelel intervened, ‘Wait! Please!’
A hand went to the grip of the long-knife and the girl glared an accusation at Ullen. ‘What is it?’ he asked of Ghelel.
‘Ask her to stay. To warm herself – anything.’
He spoke to her and the tone of the girl's reply told Ghelel all she needed to know. She offered her own cloak. ‘She can take this.’
Ullen translated; the girl responded, shooting Ghelel a glare of ferocious pride that would be humorous if it were not so obviously heartfelt. Ullen translated, ‘She thanks you but says she would only be burdened by such a possession.’
Ghelel squeezed the thick rich cloth in both hands. ‘Then will she not stay?’
‘No. I'm sure she means to return immediately to her scouting party.’
‘She'll die of exposure! Can't you order her to stay until tomorrow?’
Ullen passed a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Alil … her party probably consists of her own brothers, sisters and cousins.’
Ghelel leant her weight into the chair, let the cloak fall over its back. ‘I … see. Tell her … tell her, I'm sorry.’
In answer the girl reached out a hand to cover Ghelel's who hissed, shocked, so cold was the girl's grip. She left then, and Ghelel could not raise her head to watch her go.
After some moments Ullen cleared his throat and came around the table. He squeezed Ghelel's arm. ‘Your concern does you credit, Alil. But it is misplaced. She was born to this. Grew up with it, and is used to it.’
Ghelel flinched away, shocked by the man's words. ‘So they are less than us, are they? Coarser? They feel less than we do?’
Ullen's face froze. He dropped his arm. ‘That is not what I meant at all.’ He returned to the table, picked up the scrap of cloth the messenger had left. ‘Ehra – that's her name by the way. Named for a tiny blue flower you can find everywhere here – she reports that her party captured a runaway from the raiders. And since they're under my orders to find out what they can about these pirates, they questioned him. The fellow claimed the sigil they wear is important.’ Ullen waved the fold of cloth. ‘He sketched it here.’
Sitting heavily, Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Commander … I'm sorry. I forgot myself. No doubt you meant that she was used to such privation; that she's grown up riding in such weather all year round. You are no doubt right. I'm sorry. It's just that we Talians border on the Seti. There is a long history of antagonism and I have grown up hearing much that is … how shall I put it – bigoted – against them. You have my apology, commander.’ Hearing nothing from him, she glanced up, ‘Commander?’
Ullen had backed away from the table. His gaze was fixed upon the opened cloth. He appeared to have had a vision of Hood himself; his face was sickly pale from shock. His hands had fisted white. Ghelel threw aside her glass and came to his side. ‘What is it?’
‘Gods no … it's true,’ he breathed.
She picked up the scrap. Sketched in charcoal and ochre dust was a long rust smear bearing a weaving undulating line. ‘What is it?’
Ullen swallowed, wiped a hand across his glistening brow. ‘Something I prayed I'd never see again. Sergeant!’
The guard stepped in. ‘Sir?’
‘Summon the Marquis and Captain Tonley, quickly.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Ullen went to the low table and poured himself a glass of wine.
‘What is it?’ Ghelel asked again.
Downing the drink, Ullen said, ‘It means nothing to you? A red field, a long sinuous beast – a dragon perhaps?’
‘No.’
He spoke into the depths of his empty glass. ‘How quickly so much is forgotten.’
The Marquis threw open the tent flap; he wore only an open felt shirt, trousers and boots. ‘What news?’
Ullen nodded to Ghelel, who held out the torn strip. The Marquis took it. ‘Surely
you are versed in liveries, Marquis. What do you make of that insignia?’
‘A red field, a long beast or perhaps a weapon – it could be any number of things.’
‘And if the thing were a dragon?’
‘What would that mean?’ Ghelel asked.
‘Then—’ Snorting, he tossed the cloth to the table. ‘Imposture, surely. An empty boast.’
‘I think not. This confirms rumours out of Unta.’
‘What rumours?’ Ghelel asked more loudly.
‘You cannot be certain though,’ said the Marquis.
‘No, but certain enough to treat them more warily. I ask that you return to your command south of the Idryn.’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 56