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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  As he rode along, he spotted operatives standing alongside the road. From signs from them he learned that Cawn had been secured, that spies left behind by Urko had been identified, and that the deal that Ranath, the region's old chief of intelligence, had proposed to Possum had been accepted. The deal was a sweet one and would double Laseen's forces – eventually – but its appearance out of seemingly nowhere troubled him. What had Ranath been up to lately? Where had the intelligence behind the deal come from? And yet, was it not the man's job? Why question him for being competent and resourceful? Was he, Possum, now the sort of leader who dreaded talent among his subordinates? Had he not in fact deliberately cultivated the opposite managerial style? Did he not signal in so many ways to his subordinates that ways and means were of no interest to him so long as the job got done? That they could count on him appearing only when things got botched up? He forced himself to ease back further into his role, flexed his neck and glanced – scornfully – around at the efforts the Cawnese were making in demolishing and rebuilding their city. His gaze fell on the rider next to him and he was startled to see there, dressed in the cream flowing robes and headscarf of a Seven Cities noblewoman, Coil, the most insolent of the five commanders who constituted his second echelon.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  An arched brow, a regal wave to the surroundings. ‘Is this not delicious? Is it not bracing to be out in the field once again?’

  Glancing about, Possum smiled thinly. ‘Indeed it is. I am reminded of the old days, my more active times.’

  The woman's painted lips could just be made out curling behind the sheer scarf. ‘It seems to me that you should have been getting out much more often all this time.’

  It seems to me that both of us were damned lucky not to have been on Malaz just recently. But he inclined his head in assent to the point. Whatever it is she's getting at – yet more useless taunting, no doubt. ‘But we are not here on a pleasure outing.’

  ‘No. Sadly not. We have the Guard before us and the insurrectionists and their traitor ringleaders. A tall order for anyone, yes?’

  What was the fool getting at? She knew as well as he that Laseen in no way intended to actually fight the Guard if she could avoid it. So, the ringleaders. He glanced away, touched a silk handkerchief to his nose. Yes, a tall order. And what order? Or orders? ‘Our primary concern is the safety of the Empress, of course.’

  For a mounted rider, Coil performed an admirable curtsied bow, and reined to fall back. Possum turned away. So – has she just announced herself as the source of all these initiatives and unexplained actions on the part of so many of the Claw? All running through here? Sadly for her I cannot risk not acting. There cannot be a parallel command structure. I should strike now, but I cannot forget what lies ahead. After all that, woman, should you still be alive … I'll kill you myself.

  * * *

  Captain Tazal, career soldier, of no famous family, newly installed, marched up to the Throne room of Unta, helmet under one arm, hand on the grip of his sword, and sweat slick on his brow. Guards opened the doors and entering he bowed just within the threshold. Raising his head he saw the throne empty, draped in a white satin cloth – of course, fool! He glanced about. Aside, rinsing his hands in a washbowl, he saw the current authority in the absence of the Empress, Mallick Rel, spokesperson of the Assembly.

  Mallick turned from the bowl, dried his hands in a white cloth. ‘You have news, Captain, of this barbarian stain offending our lands?’

  Our lands? But Tazal carefully held all emotion from his bearded face. ‘Fortress Jurda has capitulated. Insufficient garrison to withstand an assault.’

  The Assemblyman held out the cloth and a servant took it. He clasped his hands across his wide stomach. He glanced down as if studying them. ‘I see. And whose decision was this to make?’

  The captain sought to disguise a frown. What was this? Retribution? ‘The commander, the current Lord Jurda.’

  ‘Competent?’

  ‘In my view? Yes.’

  ‘Unfortunate …’

  How so unfortunate? Unfortunate that the fortress has capitulated? Or unfortunate for the commander that he capitulated without permission? Or unfortunate for you that thousands of Wickan were now storming down upon you howling for your blood? Or, to give the Assemblyman some credit, unfortunate that a competent military commander viewed the situation so hopeless he capitulated? The captain wiped a sleeve across his brow, striving to keep his face flat. The man did appear admirably calm given the hole he'd dug for himself. Made of strong stuff, this fat conniver.

  Still lowered, the Assemblyman's gaze slanted aside to the unoccupied throne. His pale round face appeared even more bloated. The Sword of the Empire has left for the west, Captain. What advice would you offer us?’

  Us? From all accounts the captain had heard of this self-proclaimed Sword it was damned lucky the man was in the west and not with them. Then the captain realized the enormity of what had just been requested. Good Soliel! Here he was, a mere garrison commander just raised to captain, never dreaming of seeing the inside of the throneroom, being asked for advice from the most powerful man in the Empire? Well, at least his wife will be pleased. Yet what on Burn's Earth should he, or could he, say to the man? Perhaps, as his father used to say, if you're going to get drunk, might as well throw in the whole deck. He coughed into a fist to clear his throat. One war at a time, sir. Their timing is exquisite. We can't beat them. We must negotiate. Buy them off. Deal with them later.’

  Sallow eyes still on the throne, the Assemblyman's thick lips pursed. His fingers, entwined across his stomach, stirred restlessly, reminding the captain of some sort of pale undersea creature. The urge to lash out is almost overwhelming,‘ the man muttered almost as if he'd forgotten the captain's presence. ‘Exterminating these vermin from the face of the world my most dear wish …’ Tazal wondered if he ought to hear any of this yet he dared not say anything, or even breathe. Mallick announced more loudly: Tactical frankness is like a smooth clean cut in battle, captain – much appreciated. I cannot dispute the straight thrust of your thinking. Ruthless cold pragmatism. Refreshing.’ He nodded to himself as if what he'd heard confirmed his own thoughts. ‘Yes. We will send an envoy to open negotiations.’

  Tazal clashed a fist to his newly fitted cuirass. The envoy, Assemblyman?’

  The fingers stopped weaving. ‘Why, yourself, of course. Promoted under my authority to the rank of Fist.’

  After the captain exited the Throne room and the doors closed Mallick also left, but by a small side door, leaving behind the court functionaries, clerks and servants for a small private audience chamber. After a moment Oryan entered the room by another door. Mallick fixed the dark-skinned, tattooed man with a long hard stare. ‘Why, servant of mine, are you still here?’

  The old man remained unperturbed, his long dark face impassive. The Wickans are not important enough.’

  Tight-lipped, Mallick grated, ‘I gave you strict orders.’

  ‘Your problem in the past has been your nurturing of grudges and your predilection for vendetta.’ The slim old man, limbs no more than bone and writhing, faded blue tattoos, made a casting away gesture. ‘You must learn to abandon such urges if you wish to actually succeed.’

  Mallick's eyes bulged his outrage, hissed splutterings escaped his lips bringing spittle with them. He brought his pudgy fisted hands to his face. ‘You would dare!’

  Again, unperturbed, the Seven Cities shaman's eyes remained bland. ‘Which do you wish? Petty satisfaction or achievement of your ambitions? Choose!’

  Mallick sucked in a great shuddering breath, forced his hands down. ‘Past failures would indicate flaws in my choices, yes. Though I dearly wish them utterly destroyed they are currently no dire threat, true. No fearsome Wickan curses winging my way. Yes, Oryan. At this time attention to them would be counter to productive, yes? Very well. Annoying distractions, they are, from the main stage. Like a loud man at the theatre
. An irritation to be endured by us – the more cultured.’ Mallick crossed an arm over his chest then propped his other upon it and pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead. ‘And so further insult is to be endured from these unwashed illiterates, as my advisers suggest.’

  An insouciant shrug. ‘As I say. They are of no importance.’

  ‘Very good. So, the west, then. And speaking of the west – any word from our beautiful murderess?’

  ‘None since she left with the fleet. I believe she secured a position as an officer's whore.’

  ‘Careful, Oryan. Your biases are showing. No doubt she has the man enslaved.’

  ‘As I said – a whore.’

  ‘Yes, well. You may have a point there.’

  A discreet knock at one door. Mallick gestured Oryan out, crossed to it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Matter of a property dispute, Assemblyman,’ a voice quavered through the door. Mallick pulled it open. ‘A what?’

  A court clerk bowed extremely low. ‘As the authority present in the capital, sir. A property dispute has arisen out of the rebuilding efforts

  Mallick stared at the man, his bulging eyes blinked. ‘And this is a matter you bring to me now?’

  ‘The parties involved are most insistent, and of the highest rank and most prestigious families …’

  ‘Then perhaps a city magistrate would no doubt be appropriate.’

  The clerk bowed again. ‘Sadly, said magistrate's family has been proven to be distantly related to one of the claimants …’

  Mallick clasped his hands at his stomach, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘Very well, court clerk. Here is my judgment upon the case that said self-important appellants are so keen to bring before me to the exclusion of all else I may have to attend to. Said plot of land or property is to be divided exactly in half and fifty per cent given to each party – even if said property constitutes a slave. Am I understood?’

  The clerk bowed deeply again – perhaps to hide the tight grin that he fought to disguise. ‘Excellent, sir. I shall write up the papers immediately.’

  ‘That should winnow the line of petitioners, do you not think?’

  ‘Most drastically, sir.’

  * * *

  For the next few days while they skirted the Jacuruku north coast, Traveller lay at the bow gripped in a fever of sweats and shuddering chills. Ereko guided the Kite while Kyle and the Lost brothers slept in turns. The third night Traveller suddenly cried out, weeping in-consolably, his body wrenched with the violence of his convulsions. Kyle went to the Thel Akai's side. ‘What did they do to him, those mages?’

  Ereko was surprised. Under their broad bone ridge, his argent eyes flicked to Kyle, smiled their reassurance, then returned to scanning the shore. ‘They? Nothing. He carries his illness with him. It has been whispering to him all these months. I have seen it growing upon him day by day. Those fools with their interference have weakened him and now he feels its pull keenly.’

  ‘You cannot cure it?’

  A shake of his shaggy head. ‘You have not guessed, Kyle? It is the sword he carries. That is not a blade meant for any human, no matter who. It brings with it the memories of terrible things. Bloodshed, yes. But much worse – acts of cruelty and of soul-corroding anguish. It was forged ages ago by the one known as the Son of Darkness, Anomandaris. Know you of him?’

  ‘Yes. We have legends of him. Stories of the Moon itself floating overhead and dragons soaring.’ Those fireside tales no longer sounded so incredible to Kyle.

  ‘It has held many names over the ages. Anger. Rage. Vengeance. Of them all, he chose for himself vengeance. A choice we should perhaps be grateful for. Now that choice eats at him like acid. I pray it will not taint his spirit.’

  Kyle watched the man, curled up under a cloak, hands clenched in his sweat-slick hair, his face hidden behind his forearms. ‘Then we should take it from him.’

  The giant grasped Kyle's upper arm in his massive grip. ‘No. You mustn't. He would strike without thought. Would you add yet another burden to his conscience?’

  ‘Then what can we do?’

  Without turning his head, Ereko slid his bright gaze to Kyle in a strange sort of sideways regard. He bared his tusk-like teeth in a one-sided grin. ‘You can pray, Kyle.’

  Kyle flinched away. Pray? Is there so little hope? He moved off to lie down next to the Lost brothers wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Pray? To who? He thought of the bewildering array of Gods, spirits and heroes he'd heard mentioned since leaving Bael lands. None appealed to him. That left his old guardian and tribal ancestral spirits going back all the way to their legendary progenitor, Father Wind. Perhaps that very entity taken from him by the very company he joined? Yet, as time has passed, it all seemed so unreal to him.

  The gentle night waves rocked the Kite, and the susurration of the nearby surf whispered rhythmically. Kyle eventually did slip into an uneasy sleep. He repeated his people's ancient invocation:

  Great All Father,

  Whose breath cleanses, brings life,

  Guide me. Show me my path.

  Kyle awoke, spluttering and coughing on a mouthful of smoke. He lay in a tent made of roughly sewn hides. But not a tent like the one he'd recently slept in; this one was cramped and dark, its ceiling low. A hunched figure, a man or a woman, occupied half the sagging quarters. A brazier next to the occupant sent out gouts of smoke that made Kyle's eyes water and his breath catch in his throat. Outside, a strong wind blew, gusting at the sides of the frail construction. The figure waved a hand wrapped in tatters of cloth. Its shape was unnervingly strange and distorted. ‘Apologies for the poor domestic arrangements. Recent setbacks have reduced my circumstances.’

  ‘Where am I? Where is everyone?’

  ‘You are not so far away from your ship and your friends, Kyle.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Who am I?’ The shape rocked back and forth, cackling. ‘A friend, of course. One who has, how shall I put it – intervened – to help.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Yes. Help you. Whereas those you erroneously pray to ignore your pleas, I, however, am always responsive.’

  Kyle attempted to wave the choking fumes from his face. ‘How did I get here?’

  A great gust of wind kicked the frail tent and the figure hissed indistinct mouthings under its breath. ‘Never mind that, Kyle. Time is pressing. Your friend is ill. It lies within my power to ease his sufferings. What say you? For a small price I will sooth his misery, calm his nightmares. Do you not wish to see him revive?’

  ‘Yes, of course – but what price?’

  ‘Oh, nothing awful, I assure you. Nothing like your blood or your spirit or anything absurd like that. No. However, I am interested in that sword you carry. It has unusual characteristics. You could say I have an interest in uncommon weapons.’ The arms opened in a shrug. ‘There you have it. Nothing unreasonable. Surely you do not value this blade above your friend's health and recovery?’

  Kyle blinked to clear his blurring vision, coughed into a fist. ‘No, of course not. But why—’

  A wind slammed the tent with a thundering boom, completely flattening one side. The figure pressed both hands against the bulging hides, snarling, ‘No! I am master here! Be gone!’

  A woman's voice came cutting through the howling wind then. It rose and fell as if calling from a great distance. Kyle cocked his head, straining to listen. ‘You are not the master here. Chained One,’ the voice seemed to scold. ‘Come, Kyle. Come away.’

  Unable to stand, Kyle crawled on his hands and knees towards the entry. ‘You!’ the figure roared. ‘How dare you! There will be retribution! I will remember this!’ Kyle reached the flap, scrabbled under it. ‘Wait! I can tell you what you carry – don't you want to know? Aren't you curious? How you've been betrayed? Used?’

  ‘Speak not of using others, great deceiver,’ the voice answered.

  On his elbows, Kyle pulled himself out from under the hide into the night to find himself before
the bare feet of a woman. She stood above him, her pale slim body wrapped in loose gossamer scarves the colour of darkest night that whipped sinuous in the wind. The long veil over her face flicked like a banner and her black hair lashed about her face. She turned and walked away.