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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘What?’ Nait blurted. ‘That's stupid, splitting up.’

  Master Sergeant Temp just watched Nait for a time, saying nothing. He turned to Hands. ‘The recruits are too green to see what's ahead. It might break them. We need to get them back.’

  ‘Aye.’

  While Braven Tooth was ordering the column, a troop of Imperial cavalry came riding out of the dark, torches sputtering. It was led by none other than Korbolo Dom, High Fist and Sword of the Empire, in full regalia of layered iron-banded armour and iron-scaled sleeves and hose. A black jupon displayed the silver Imperial sceptre while his mount supported long black and silver trappings that brushed the trampled grass. Master Sergeant Temp and Commander Braven Tooth saluted.

  The High Fist pulled off his helmet. ‘You are wasting time here, Commander. You should give pursuit!’

  Braven Tooth frowned thoughtfully as if considering the proposition. ‘We were thinking that if we did that he might just swing around and take a bite outta our arses.’

  The Sword's bluish Napan features darkened even further. ‘You have been long from the front, Commander. You have perhaps lost the proper fighting spirit. Very well, stay hidden among your men. I go to hunt him down!’

  ‘I wouldn't go out there if I were you,’ Master Sergeant Temp said. ‘He'll just string you along then turn on you.’

  The Sword sawed his mount over to look down at the man. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Master Sergeant Temp,’ and he saluted.

  ‘Then that, Master Sergeant,’ Korbolo explained loftily, ‘is why I am the Sword and you are not.’ And he kicked his mount to lunge away into the night, followed by his troop. Commander Braven Tooth and the master sergeant exchanged glances of arched brows.

  ‘Think we'll ever see him again?’ Braven Tooth asked.

  ‘With his luck and ours? Yes.’

  After more cajoling and cuffing the commander led the main column of skirmishers, escorted by regulars, back to camp. Master Sergeant Temp led the smaller column of ex-guards and Malazan regulars, including the cadre mage Heuk, onward, tracking the way the beast had come. As they walked through the night Nait complained, ‘Jumpy? I ain't jumpy. Who in the Abyss does he think he is? It ain't even a name. Might as well call someone Stone, or Stick.’ He cuffed the fellow marching ahead of him who, from his size, must be a heavy. ‘Hey, what's your name?’

  The fellow turned, blinking slowly. ‘Fish.’

  ‘Fish? Your name is Fish? What in the Abyss kind of name is that?’

  A shrug. ‘I dunno. The commander gave it to me.’

  ‘Hey, Jumpy,’ someone shouted, ‘Shut the Abyss up.’

  They backtracked the beast until they lost the trail along the rocky bed of a dry creek that wended across the plain. Straightening, Master Sergeant Temp waved Heuk forward. The old man came puffing up, looking as if he was about to pass out. His curly brown mop of hair hung stringy and sweaty. He hugged his earthenware jug as if it held his deliverance – which, Nait presumed, wasn't too far from the truth. ‘Well?’ the master sergeant demanded. ‘Try your Warren – track him down!’

  The old man raised the jug and took a long pull then wiped his mouth with a greasy sleeve. He squinted blearily at the trail, shook his head in a long drawn out negative. ‘No, Temp— that is, Master Sergeant. I'm not a Warren-mage. Blood and the Elders is my path. And you don't want me opening it. Not yet.’

  The master sergeant looked like he was about to savage the man with a few good curses, but then he stopped. He scratched his stubbled cheeks while studying the old mage and actually appeared unnerved. He tilted his head, accepting the explanation. ‘Yeah. Let's hope it don't come to that.’ He raised a hand to sign a return. It was dawn before they sighted camp and when they returned they found everyone packing for another day's march.

  * * *

  Ho came and kicked Grief – that is, Blues – awake where he dozed in the shade under canvas hung at the bow of the Forlorn. ‘Yath's drowning another of us.’

  The man cracked open one eye. ‘Why're you telling me? I'm not his keeper. You lot can rule yourselves – like you were so proud of.’

  ‘We're on board your ship! If you can call this rotting wreck a ship. You have authority.’

  Blues groaned, fumbled to his feet. Ho still could not get used to calling the man by his real name. Real? More like his earlier alias. Who knew what his real name was? To him, he'd always be Grief. Ho chuckled aloud – he liked that. Blues gave him a puzzled glance. ‘The stern.’

  ‘Right. The stern.’ He motioned to two of his companions. ‘Get Fingers.’ Grumbling, the two headed below.

  The Seven Cities cargo ship Forlorn boasted two decks, the main and a raised second stern deck. The gap between was tall enough for most save the tallest of the men. At the very stern, where the keel rose up tall and curving, Yath and Sessin were overseeing a party of his most enthusiastic supporters teamed on a rope. Seeing so many of the inmates all crowded together almost made Ho laugh aloud again; what a ragged, seedy and just plain scrofulous spectacle they all presented! Most had hacked their hair to brush-cut length to rid themselves of the clinging dust; most wore no more than blankets or rags taken from the ship's stores. All the pale-skinned ones were sun-burnt red with cracked, bleeding skin. Ho ran a hand over his own shaved head and winced as he was sun-burnt just as badly. And to make it worse, they were already nearly out of water.

  ‘That's enough,’ Blues called.

  The men looked to Blues then glanced at Yath. After a moment the Seven Cities priest allowed an indifferent shrug. The men hauled on the rope. It was amazing, Ho reflected, how the revelations that followed the arrival of the Forlorn with the rest of Blues’ squad, or blade, had instilled a spirit of cooperation among the fractious band of inmate mages. The truth that Blues and Treat and his squad were not just secessionists working against the Empress, but in fact were Crimson Guardsmen, and not only that, all six were of the Avowed: well – it certainly ended the talk of throwing them overboard.

  The rope team pulled an old man up over the railing to splay naked and unconscious on to the deck. He had tightly curled greying hair and brown skin, and scars of swirling designs covered him. Ho recognized him as Jain, a Dal Hon warlock. ‘Yath! You idiot!’ Blues snarled. He knelt over Jain, listened at his chest, then tilted his head back and blew into his mouth. The man coughed, spluttered, inhaled a great gasping breath.

  ‘Wasted effort,’ sneered a voice from behind Ho and he turned to see the skinny, almost skeletal shape of Fingers, the mage, with Treat and Dim. While of the Avowed, the mage had the appearance of a gangly apprentice.

  ‘He must be cleansed of the taint,’ Yath said. ‘All of us must be.’

  ‘Have you gone under?’ Blues snapped.

  ‘I have.’

  Blues waved curtly to the grinning Sessin. ‘Has he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you're finished. Everyone's gone.’

  Yath stepped closer. He appeared even more hungry and wiry now that he'd shaved his beard. He leant forward on his staff – a new staff he'd found on board – to tower over Blues. ‘Not everyone …’

  ‘Now wait a minute. Why should we—’

  ‘You were in the Pit.’ Yath raised a brow to Fingers. ‘Your friends nearby were exposed to the dust. Your continuing contamination spreads dust anew. All of you must wash. Cut your hair. Scour your skin with stones. Just as we have. And wash again. Your people and the women inmates as well – all, Su, Inese and that Korelan sea-witch.’

  Blues eyed the man as if he was insane. ‘Why in the Abyss would we do that right now, right away? I mean, I plan on getting cleaned up – eventually. What's your rush?’

  The Seven Cities priest's dark wrinkled face broke into a self-satisfied grin. He caught Ho's gaze and Ho realized that the man knew – that somehow he'd sensed what was going on – or had been informed by one of those he'd browbeaten into following him. ‘Tell him, Ho,’ Yath invited.

  Blues tur
ned to him. Ho rubbed his scalp and winced again. He pulled his hand away. ‘Something's going on at Heng. A lot of us can sense it – bits and pieces – glimpses, now that we're far from the islands. Something important. And Laseen is there.’

  ‘This insurrection you're talking about?’

  ‘ … Yes … and more.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Your mercenary company is involved,’ Yath said.

  Blues’ gaze narrowed on Ho. ‘Is that true?’

  Ho was unable to meet the man's eyes. He lowered his head. ‘Yes. They've come back. They are in the field near Heng.’

  Blues was silent for some time. Jain continued coughing. Waves washed the sides of the Forlorn. Cordage creaked and rubbed overhead. ‘Why didn't you say anything?’

  Ho raised his eyes, tried to plead for understanding. ‘I said nothing because I do not agree with Yath's proposal. What he is talking of is too dangerous. Far too risky for all of us. We will most likely all be killed.’

  Blues’ mouth twisted in his clenched anger. He took his hands from the twin blades he now carried at his sides – his own swords had been left behind when he came to the Pit. Without moving his gaze he said, ‘Talk, old man.’

  The Seven Cities priest made no effort to conceal his triumph. He bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘A ritual, mercenary. We have among us more than thirty mages of considerable power. We will enact a ritual of movement through warren by ship. It is more common than you might imagine. Ask our Korelan friend – with her aid we are assured of success.’

  ‘Provided we can cleanse ourselves of the Otataral.’

  ‘Yes. Provided.’

  Blues’ gaze slid past Ho to question Fingers. ‘Interesting …’ the mage said.

  ‘Now I'm definitely nervous,’ Blues muttered. But he waved a hand. ‘All right, Yath. We'll get cleaned up. In the meantime, set your people to scrubbing the deck.’

  The Seven Cities mage actually bowed. ‘Excellent – Captain.’

  Blues ignored the man, pointed to Treat. ‘Take down the sails, wash ‘em.’

  Treat just rolled his eyes.

  *

  That night Ho sat with Su in the empty cargo hold. ‘If you don't go, they'll come down and carry you up.’

  ‘I'd curse their manhoods – if they still had them.’

  ‘It's just water. A quick dunk and they'll leave you alone.’

  ‘I'm too old for too many things, including dunking.’ The hull groaned around them. Rat claws scratched on wood. Ho felt the dark pressing in upon him, damp and gravid. ‘And what of you,’ Su said, tilting her head back to eye him. ‘They are all so much less than you – why fear them at all?’

  ‘We're not talking about that, Su. We could lower you in a net.’

  ‘A net? Am I a fish? Does your friend Blues know the real reason why you did not tell him of Heng? Why you are so frightened to return?’

  ‘Quiet, witch.’

  ‘Let us make a pact, magus—’

  ‘No pacts, witch. Just washing.’

  ‘A washing for me and a reunion for you.’

  ‘You're going under regardless, witch. It's just a question of coercion.’

  ‘Yes, it is always a question of coercion in the end, is it not?’

  Ho sighed his impatience. ‘Su, I told you already I'm not impressed by these vague empty pronouncements you toss off hoping people will think they're wise.’

  She smiled. ‘Is that what I do?’

  ‘Su …’

  The old woman lifted a crooked finger. ‘Wisdom lives only in hindsight.’

  Ho pushed his head back to hit the hull planking.

  ‘Is that anger I'm seeing, Ho? A temper, perhaps?’

  ‘Right, that's it.’ He stood, gestured Su up. ‘Let's go. On deck. Right now. There's something going on you should see. C'mon.’

  She stared up at him, fiddled with her walking stick. ‘What? Right this minute?’

  ‘Yes. Come on!’

  ‘Well! Give an old woman a moment, would you?’ She struggled to rise, slapped away his offered hand. ‘As if anything could be so pressing! You would think Hood's Paths themselves had opened up above vomiting up all the dead!’ She grasped the steep gangway in one gnarled hand. ‘Just a trick, I'm sure,’ she grumbled, climbing.

  On deck, torches and a bright moon in a clear night sky lit a crowd of inmates gathered around the Avowed at the larboard side of the Forlorn. Fingers sat gripping the sides of a slat seat perched atop the gunwale. By turns he peered down with pure dread and at Blues with pure venom. Treat and another of the Avowed, Reed, were tying ropes to the seat and to Fingers – who was already tightly strapped in.

  ‘It ain't gonna work!’ Fingers was shouting. ‘You're taking advantage of me right now is what you're doing! I'll drown.’

  ‘We'll keep a close watch,’ Dim assured him. ‘Don't you worry now.’

  Fingers glared bloody fury at the man.

  ‘OK,’ Blues said. ‘All secure?’

  Treat slapped Fingers’ back. ‘All secure.’

  ‘Bastards!’

  ‘Over we go,’ Blues ordered.

  Treat and Reed lowered the stretcher by the ropes, backed up by Blues and Dim. Fingers had stopped cursing them all and, sinking out of sight, his pale white face stretched even tauter over his sharp cheekbones. The crowd of inmates pressed forward to line the side.

  ‘Room, dammit,’ Blues complained, raising his elbows. ‘Room!’

  Ho observed aside to Su, ‘We're a little short on entertainment out here.’

  ‘Somehow this is not reassuring, Ho.’

  ‘Don't worry.’ He waved to a solid woman, her greying hair hacked short, who had come to his side. ‘Su, this is Devaleth. She's been over already but she and you and Inese – and Opal also – can wash at the stern. We'll put up a spare canvas or blankets. It's that or they'll throw you over in a net.’

  The old witch's thin mouth curled in condescension. ‘If I must.’

  Whoops and laughter sounded from the gathered inmates. Treat and Dim were hauling on the ropes. A sodden, shivering Fingers appeared at the gunwale. His torn linen shirt hung from his lank form. He stuttered something – curses probably – as they lowered his stretcher to the deck. Dim held out a blanket that he snatched and wrapped around himself. Ho watched, wondering, how could anyone be so skinny?

  ‘This does nothing for the traces we've ingested, or are ground into our calluses, or under our nails, or such,’ Su observed.

  ‘We've used the pumice stones on our flesh and knives under our nails,’ Devaleth said. ‘Myself, I would cut off my left hand to regain my gifts.’

  ‘Yes, well, let us hope it does not come to that,’ Su observed, turning away to limp to the stern.

  * * *

  From the broken wall of what was once one of a series of outlying gatehouses, hostelries and pilgrim inns for the sprawling complex that was the Great Sanctuary of Burn, Shimmer watched the envoy of the Talian League mount and ride off. The doubts and small suspicions that had gnawed at her since their return had lately coalesced into one dark, smothering feeling of wrongness that seemed to choke her. She turned back to the other two occupants of the room, Skinner and Cowl. ‘Was that wise?’ she asked, though she knew nothing would come of her objection – yet again the sensation struck her of being a player in a charade, of merely going through the motions in some tired play. Had she been here before? Done this countless times? Whence came this mood?

  Skinner, his helm under one arm, revealing his scarred face and matted reddish-blond hair, waved her concerns aside. ‘This League is no different from the Malazans. I no more credit their offers of territory than I would any from Laseen.’

  ‘They may unite against us.’

  The swordsman's gaze slid aside to Cowl. The High Mage, who had been looking off across the plain to the south, frowned a negative. ‘Unlikely for the near future – but a growing threat admittedly. Yet more forces are approaching.’

  ‘Laseen's?�
� Shimmer asked.

  A sly smile pulled at the curled tattoos beneath his mouth. ‘Who is to say? The choice is their commander's, I should think.’

  ‘It would precipitate matters, would it not,’ Skinner rumbled, ‘if Choss believed them Laseen's?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Skinner waved Cowl away. ‘I leave it to you.’