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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  * * *

  Lurin, Amagin and Shurll were out throwing stones at the Deadhouse. That was what everyone in Malaz city called the old abandoned building in its creepy grounds of trees that never grew leaves in any season. They'd always thrown stones at it, and their mothers and fathers before them had tossed their share as well. This night the streets gleamed from a cold rain that had swept in from the south. Lurin, barefoot, felt the chill so he put an extra effort into his arm to warm himself up.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he called to Amagin and Shurll. ‘Went right in that window – I swear.’

  ‘Didn't,’ Amagin sniffed.

  ‘Did too!’ He looked to Shurll for support but the older girl was just hugging herself, staring off down the street where it descended to the waterfront, the wharf and the sea glimmering beyond. She'd been doing that more often these days. ‘It did too, Shurll,’ he called. She shrugged her bony shoulders.

  Amagin held out a stone, grinning, his nose wet and running. ‘No way you can hit that window.’

  Lurin snatched it from him. ‘You'll see.’

  He held the stone out before himself to sight on the window – heavier than he'd have chosen – Amagin always picked poor throwing stones which was why he couldn't hit any target to save his life. Tongue tucked firmly between his teeth, he drew back, raised one foot and threw.

  The instant he released something changed on the grounds. A man now stood where Lurin couldn't recall ever having seen anyone walk. The man's hand snapped up then held something to his pale face. While they gaped, dumbfounded, he walked up to the wall near them.

  Amagin was already sobbing. Shurll stared, immobile. Lurin flinched, tensed to run but unable. The man's clothes hung open in sliced folds. Dark wetness gleamed beneath down his torso and arms. Scars gleamed also at his neck like lines of pearl. He held up Lurin's stone between thumb and forefinger, leaned over the wall.

  ‘Run.’

  Blubbering, Amagin ran. Lurin threw himself at Shurll. She had not moved, perhaps not even blinked. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her chest, too terrified to look. They were dead. It was a spirit come to drag them away to the Abyss. He waited for that bony touch that was Hood's beckon.

  But after a time, heart in a frenzy, nothing happened. Shurll made quiet soothing sounds while her hands brushed his shoulders.

  ‘Welcome, Topper!’ Lurin heard the spirit call, his voice distant.

  He dared a glance: the spirit, or man, had moved away and now faced the low front wall.

  ‘Don't be a fool, Cowl,’ another voice answered.

  Lurin turned completely, pressed his back to Shurll, glanced up to her; she watched, avid, her eyes huge.

  Cowl, the one within the grounds of the Deadhouse, gestured an invitation to the other with his blades. ‘Come in – let us finish our debate here. Who will have the last word, do you think?’

  The other, Topper, stepped into view: long tangled white hair, dark-faced, clothes hanging rags. But his eyes! Angular and bright like lamps. He shrugged. ‘By my hand or the House's … is of no matter to me.’

  Cowl spread his arms wide. ‘I choose my own fate, Topper. I remain undefeated. You lack the will to challenge me? So be it – the defeat is yours.’

  ‘Dancer took you.’

  Cowl's eyes rolled as he made a show of considering. He pointed a blade to his neck. ‘I call this a draw.’

  ‘You are mistaking desperation for defiance. You only fool yourself.’

  ‘And you are a coward.’

  Topper motioned to the grounds. ‘Time is short. Flee while you can.’

  Lurin glanced across the yard and jerked, terrified. The tree branches were moving. Never had he seen those black limbs shiver or bend, even in the strongest of storms. Steam as of freshly turned earth climbed from the heaps that littered the grounds. The heavy mist gathered to carpet the yard.

  Cold like a winter morning bit at Lurin. He shivered uncontrollably.

  ‘Fool!’ Topper called. ‘It will have you! Flee, now!’

  Cowl stumbled as if something had yanked upon him. But his smile was fixed, his teeth bright and sharp. ‘I choose defiance!’ he yelled, wild fever in his voice.

  ‘You choose despair.’

  Falling, the one called Cowl went on one knee. He laughed, low at first, but climbing in pitch and volume until it rang so loud it drowned out a comment from Topper. And then Lurin's skin crawled in horror as the one named Cowl appeared to sink – yes, sink straight down into the steaming earth as if pulled. ‘Come join me!’ he shouted, laughing mockingly.

  Topper lunged forward to grip the top of the stone wall. ‘Fool! You are Avowed! You will never die!’ The man sounded genuinely horrified.

  Cowl's answer to that was to burst forth with even greater fevered, ardent laughter – exulting, darkly triumphant – the mirth of a man gone truly mad. Lurin buried his face once more in Shurll's chest. Eventually, the peals choked off, fell to silence. When Lurin looked back the grounds were empty.

  His gaze caught the one called Topper staring directly at them. Lurin's breath caught and he froze. The eyes burned in the night as he'd heard some jewels do. Then the man bowed, an arm across his stomach, the other held out. Stepping back he disappeared into darkness.

  Eventually, Lurin found he could breathe again. He peered up at Shurll, whispered: ‘What happened?’

  And she, looking off into the night, her gaze so distant, stroking his head, murmured repeatedly, ‘Nothing. It's all right. Nothing happened. It was nothing.’

  * * *

  In the morning Talia demanded he recite it all again – from the mad ride through the Abyss, to the battle, and Laseen's funeral cortege to Cawn – even the dull journey by coastal merchantman to Unta.

  ‘And the Imperial Funeral?’ she asked.

  Rillish laughed, sitting up. ‘Gods no. We aren't invited to that.’

  ‘But you're a member of the official Wickan delegation to the Throne!’

  Rillish leaned back, tucked a rolled blanket behind his back. ‘Believe me – I am no more welcome in Unta than the Wickans themselves. We are there on sufferance only.’

  ‘And this Mallick creature is to really succeed Laseen?’

  ‘By unanimous acclaim of the Assembly and all regional governors, Fists and all.’

  She shook her head, her brows crimping. ‘And I've never even heard of the man.’

  ‘You should get out more, sergeant.’

  She made a face. He pushed the sheets off her belly, eased his head on to her stomach. ‘Huh. Funny … You don't look pregnant.’

  ‘Not yet, you fool! Gods, you men.’

  ‘Humph … If you say so.’ He gently pressed a hand there on her belly. Son or daughter – you might grow up in a world where all this is hut an ugly memory. And perhaps those decades from now if I am still around I will be able to show you all that might be yours by right of your name. And perhaps I will be able to give you more than my love. Though I know that even that is precious enough. And more than some.

  * * *

  Proprietor, merchant, innkeeper and ex-Imperial sailor, Aron Hul knew a dangerous man when he saw one and this newcomer sent all his nerves jangling the moment he dismounted from his well-fed and well-shod horse that bore new, well-oiled tack. Aron noted the man's soft leather boots, the studded leather wrappings at his legs, his fitted armour of boiled cuirass, vambraces, the twin ivory-handled sabres worn high under his arms, and his rich travelling cloak. But what fixed his attention was the extraordinary scar running across the man's face from left temple, notching the bridge of his flattened nose, to mar his right cheek. The man stood for a time in front of his trading establishment, stared south to the Idryn flowing so brown and wide on its way to the Bay of Cawn, and the Nap Sea. Then he turned and entered the trading post.

  Aron quickly set out his most expensive wine and spirits. The man sat at one of his two tables. ‘Yes, sir?’ Aron asked from behind his counter.

  ‘A
drink.’

  ‘I have Talian winter wine, spirits of juniper berry from Bloor.’

  ‘The Talian.’

  ‘Excellent, sir.’ He brought out a glass and the bottle. The man pressed a gold Imperial to the gouged slats of the table. Aron almost tipped the bottle. An Imperial Sun – didn't see too many of those these days. ‘You don't have anything smaller, do you, sir? We're just a small river station, you know.’

  The man leaned back, smiled in a way that Aron knew was meant to reassure him. ‘I know. It's yours for the bottle and a little information.’

  Aron allowed his brows to rise as if in dubious surprise. ‘Really, sir? Information, you say? Out here? What could we possibly know out here?’

  He gestured vaguely to the river. ‘Oh, travel. Shipments and cargo. People coming and going. That sort of thing.’

  Aron's nerves now reached a screaming pitch; he kept his good-natured smile. ‘Really, sir? Such as?’

  ‘I'm looking for someone who may have come through here about a month ago. During the troubles. A young woman. She would have been travelling alone. You'd remember her if you saw her, if you know what I mean,’ and he winked.

  Aron walked back to his counter. ‘A woman, you say …’ He shook his head. ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Slim, dark hair. A pretty face. As I said, a woman men notice. Hear anything like that? She may have hired a boat to take her upriver.’

  That hired hand who came through on his run south to Cawn – what was his name? Jestan? Jeth? Damn it to Hood!

  Aron rubbed his stubbled cheeks; his gaze flicked to the gold Sun shining, winking, on the table. ‘I may have heard something about a female passenger on one of the riverboats …’

  The man's hand covered the coin. He lost his smile. Sighing, he pushed himself up from the table.

  Jhal! It was Jhal! What had he said? He'd been up at the Falls transferring cargo and he joked about a boatman fawning over some passenger of his—

  The man had come to the counter. He pushed the gold Sun across. ‘Think harder. Because you can stare all you like but this coin won't multiply itself.’

  Aron licked his lips, swallowed. He smiled nervously. ‘I'm trying to remember, sir.’

  ‘Good. Take your time.’ He returned to his table, came back with the glass and bottle, poured another drink and slid it across.

  Nodding his thanks Aron took it and tossed the entire glass back. He had to open his D'rek blasted mouth! Now there was no going back. This one doesn't care about the money. This is about more than coin. No one sends a man like this out when only money is in question. And the man was watching him carefully, his eyes lazy, calm … patient.

  Aron cleared his throat. He pressed a rag to his face. Who would have been going upriver then? Oddfoot? No, he's south. Cat? No, idiot! It was a man. Old Pick? He won't go past Heng. Tullen! Must've been Tullen. Been gone for ages now.

  ‘I heard something about a boatman who'd picked up a woman at about that time …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That he'd taken up past Heng.’

  The man nodded, frowning his appreciation. ‘And do you have a name for this boatman?’

  Ask, man. Those that don't ask don't get! ‘Well, sir. You wouldn't have another of those gold Suns on you somewhere, would you?’ and he tried his easiest smile.

  Sighing loudly, the man hung his head. Raising it, he peered about the shop for a time then his gaze returned to Aron's. ‘Tell me, Factor. When was the last time the Imperial assessors came through here?’

  Bastard! Aw, no. Not the assessors …

  The man gave a slow solemn nod.

  ‘Tullen. Old Tullen. Boats with his boys. A fine, quiet sort, never made any trouble for anyone.’

  ‘Thank you … ?’

  ‘Aron Hul. And you … sir?’

  Pausing at the door the man shrugged. ‘Moss. Eustan Moss. Good day to you, Factor.’

  Aron went to the oiled hide that served as his one window. The man, Moss – as if that was his real name – mounted, gently heeled his mount and rode off upriver. Oh, Tullen, what have I sent your way? I'm sorry, old fellow. Then he remembered the coin. He went back to the counter, snatched it up and examined it. Looked authentic. He bit at it, as he'd heard you could tell the purity of the gold by its softness. Problem was he'd only ever bitten one other. He quickly thrust it away in the pouch around his neck. Briefly, his thoughts touched on this woman. Who might she be? A runaway wife or daughter of some noble? Imagine that! Some noblewoman on Tullen's leaky old boat! How unlikely. No, probably just someone who knew something or had heard something she shouldn't have, and so she ran. Some serving girl probably, or governor's mistress. Best he keep his nose out of business like that.

  Thinking of serving girls … Aron corked the Talian and brought out a bottle of cheap Kanese red, filled the glass. Maybe he could swing one of them now. A young one. Not so bright and easy to intimidate. He drank the wine, smiling. With long hair.

  * * *

  Hand on the gunwale, feet spread for balance, Jemain made his way to the bow, a cup of steaming tea in one hand. The Ardent pitched suddenly in the savage high seas and the boiling liquid seared his hand but he carried on, teeth clamped against pain. He came to crouch next to a man who sat hunched, head in hands, fingers pushed through his dark filthy hair.

  ‘Drink this, Bars!’ Jemain shouted over the roar of waves and gusting wind. ‘It's hot! Come, you must have something!’

  But the man still would not look up, would not even drink, let alone eat. Three days and three nights now. How long could one of these Avowed go without food or water? Corlo had speculated perhaps forever.

  Jemain lowered his head once more. ‘We've entered the Cut, you know! A Westerly has taken us. Corlo says we may meet the demons who live in these waters!’

  No response, just slow anguished rocking.

  Shaking his head, Jemain set the cup down between the man's bare feet. He retreated to the companionway, went to talk to Corlo. He found him smoking a pipe in a hammock. ‘Still won't answer.’

  Corlo took the pipe from his mouth. ‘No. He won't.’

  ‘You're a mage – why don't you do something? Ease his madness?’

  A snort. ‘Not without his permission.’

  ‘So we can do nothing for him?’

  ‘We might pray for the Riders to come. That would bring him out of it.’

  Jemain couldn't tell if the man was serious or not. ‘No, thank you.’ He stared upwards for a time at the timbers overhead, listened to the storm batter the Ardent. ‘I don't understand. What happened?’

  ‘We're too late. Missed what we'd come all this way for. All we'd endured …’ He frowned, studied his white clay pipe. ‘We lost a lot of friends. He thinks he should've been there to help. Blames himself.’

  ‘And you?’

  A shrug from Corlo. ‘It's different for me. I'm not Avowed. The connection's not so strong.’

  ‘I thought you were – Avowed.’

  ‘No. Next best thing, though. I'm First Investiture. First round of recruiting after the Vow.’

  Oh, I see.’ Or thought he did – he wasn't sure, though he suspected that recruitment probably happened far longer ago than this man's seeming forty or so years would imply.

  Another of Bars’ party, Garren, thumped down the companion-way, shouted, ‘Ship sighted!’

  It was a vessel of a cut and design Jemain had never seen before – which wasn't surprising, given that he'd never sailed these seas before. But he was surprised at the ease with which it rode the high, steep waves here in the Sea of Storms – the Cut, Corlo called it. Long and low, hull tarred black. Square-sailed, single-masted, bearing a brutal ram below the waterline that breasted each wave, sloughing water and foam, as the vessel pitched. And, incredibly, the galley boasted four ranks of oarsmen. Surely it would've keeled over in such a sea.

  ‘Who are they?’ he shouted to Corlo.

  The mage's face was grim. ‘Looks like a ship
out of Mare. We have to run.’

  Jemain almost laughed, but wouldn't show the despair that vessel struck in his heart. No chance of outrunning that. He yelled: ‘Hard larboard! Put the stern to them, Watt!’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Man the deck! Ready crossbows!’

  The crew lurched from side to side, stowing equipment, distributing what few weapons they possessed. Jemain made his way to the stern; Corlo followed. There, he watched through the waves where the vessel appeared in glimpses between the grey waters and the equally grey overcast sky. It was swinging around them, nimble as a gull, while the Ardent, a single-banked slave galley, so battered by its long ocean crossing, wallowed like a log.