Standing as well, Mallick put on a stiff smile. He and Taya shared a quick anxious glance. ‘Yes? You do?’
‘Yes, of course I do!’
Leaning close, she leered. ‘You would steal this young flower from my side, you rake! My companion who has been my only solace through my long exile from civilization at sweet Darujhistan.’ She raised a hand in mock surrender. ‘But who am I to stand between youth and passion!’
Bowing, Mallick waved aside any such intentions. ‘Never, m’Lady.’
‘So you say, Confounder of the Seven Cities Insurrection. But do not despair.’ Lady Batevari winked broadly. ‘She may yet yield. Do not abandon the siege.’ Taya lowered her face, covering her mouth.
Stifling her laughter, Mallick knew, feeling, oddly, a flash of irritation.
‘And so I am off to my quarters – to meditate upon the Ineffable. Hernon! Come!’
The footman returned and escorted Lady Batevari from the parlour. Mallick bowed and Taya curtsied. From the hall she called, ‘Remember, child, Hernon shall be just within should our guest forget himself and in the heat of passion press his suit too forcefully.’
Taya covered her mouth again – this time failing to completely mask a giggle. Mallick reflected with surprise on his spasm of anger. If only he knew for certain – senility or malicious insult? He poured himself another glass of the local Untan white.
Taya threw herself into the chair, laughing into both hands.
Mallick waited until certain the old hag was gone. He swirled the wine, noting the dregs gyring like a mist at the bottom. ‘Were not I so sure the waters shallow,’ he breathed, ‘profound depths I would sometime suspect.’
Smiling wickedly, Taya curled her legs beneath her. ‘It’s her job to appear profound, Mallick. And she really is rather good – wouldn’t you say?’
Mallick sipped the wine. Too dry for his liking. ‘And this speech? These current prophetic mouthings?’
‘Her most recent line.’ Taya rearranged the wispy dancer’s scarves to expose her long arms. ‘Nothing too daring, when you think about it, what with Fener’s fall, Trake’s rise, eager new Houses in the Deck and swarms of new cards. Rather conventional, really.’
‘Yet a certain elegance haunts…’
Taya pulled back her long black hair, knotted it through itself. ‘If there is any elegance, Mallick, dear,’ she smiled, ‘it is all due to you.’
Mallick bowed.
‘So. The Crimson Guard.’ Taya stroked her fingers over the chair’s padded rests. ‘I heard much of them in Darujhistan, of course. How I wish we had seen them there. They are coming?’
Mallick pursed his lips, thought about sitting opposite the girl, then decided against it. He paced while pretending to examine the artwork, cleared his throat. ‘Like the tide, they are close and cannot be forestalled. Their vow – it drags them ever onward. As always, their greatest strength and greatest weakness. And so standing idly by I do not see them.’
Taya’s gaze flicked to Mallick. ‘Standing idly by during what?’
‘Why, during the current times of trouble, of course,’ he smiled blandly.
Affecting a pout, Taya blew an errant strand of hair from her face. ‘I do not like it when you hold out, Mallick. But never mind. I too have my sources, and I listen in on every one of the old bat’s consultations. You would be surprised who comes to see her – then again, I suppose you wouldn’t – and no one has such information. Do not tell me you have a source within the Guard.’
Mallick smiled as if at the quaintness of the suggestion and shook his head. ‘No, child. If you knew anything about the Guard such a thought would never occur. It is an impossibility.’
The girl shrugged. ‘Any organization can be penetrated. Especially a mercenary one.’
Mallick halted, faced Taya directly. ‘I must impress upon you the profoundness of your error. Do not think of the Guard as mercenaries. Think of them more as a military order.’
Exhaling, Taya looked skyward. ‘Gods, not like the ones out of Elingarth. So dreary.’ She stretched, raising her arms over her head. The thin fabric fell even more, revealing pale, muscular shoulders. ‘So, why the visit today, Mallick? Who is it now?’
Mallick watched the girl arc her back, stretching further, thrusting her high small breasts against the translucent cloth. Mock me also, would you, girl? I need your unmatched skills, child, but like the depths, I ever remember. Clearing his throat, Mallick topped up his glass and sat. ‘Assemblyman Imry, speaking for the Kan Confederacy, must step down. I suggest illness, personal, or in the family…’
‘Do not presume, Mallick, to tell me how to do my work. I do not tell you how to manoeuvre behind the Assembly.’
Mallick allowed his voice to diminish almost to nothing. ‘But you do, cherished.’
She giggled. ‘A woman’s prerogative, Mallick.’
He raised the glass, acknowledging such.
‘So, Councillor Imry…This will take a while.’
‘Soon.’
‘A while,’ Taya repeated, the sudden iron in her voice surprising from such a slip of a girl.
Mallick raised a placating hand. ‘Please, love. Listen. Time for subtlety and slyness is fast dissipating. Waters are rising and all indications tell it will soon be time to push our modest ship on to the current of events.’
Taya leaned back, plucked at the feather-like white cloth draped over one thigh. ‘I see. Very well. But it may be very messy. There may be…questions.’
Mallick set aside his glass, stood. ‘Such questions swept aside by the coming storm. Now, I shall leave you to your work.’
‘Am I to begin tonight, then? Dressed as I am?’ She spread her arms wide.
Mallick eyed her indifferently. ‘If you think it best. I would never presume to instruct you how to pursue your work.’
Taya’s slapped the plush cloth of the armrests. ‘Damn you, Mallick, to the Chained One’s own anguish. I don’t know why I put up with you.’
He bowed. ‘Perhaps because together we have chance of achieving mutual ambitions.’
Taya waved him away. ‘Yes. Perhaps. Why, in the last month alone I have frustrated two assassination attempts against you.’ She peered up at him from under lowered eyelids. ‘You must be gaining influence.’
Mallick hesitated, unsure. A mere reminder, or veiled threat? He decided to bow again – discretion, ever discretion. He had in her, after all, an extraordinary asset. A talent undetected by anyone in the capital. ‘You are too kind. And remember, mention the Guard to the old woman again. And the firm hand needed. She must speak of it more often now.’
Taya nodded without interest. ‘Yes, Mallick. As ever.’
Outside, Mallick pulled his robes tight against the cooling evening air and pursed his fleshy lips. How dispiriting it was to have to stoop to cajoling and unctuous flattery to gain his way. Still, it had proved a worthy investment. No one, not even Laseen and her Claws who used to have this city tied in silk ribbons, could suspect who it was that had so successfully secreted herself within striking distance of the Imperial Palace. It was only his own peculiar talents that revealed her to him. Taya Radok of Darujhistan. Daughter of Vorcan Radok herself, premier assassin of that city. Trained by her own mother in the arts of covert death since before she could walk. Come to Unta to exact revenge against the Empire that slew her mother. And what a delicious vengeance together they would inflict – though not the sort the child might have in mind.
Stepping down into the loud, lantern-lit street, thoughts of assassins and eliminations turned Mallick’s mind to his own safety. He glanced about, searching for his own minder but realized that of course he would never catch a glimpse of the man. He sensed him, however, nearby. Another of the orphans he seemed to have a talent for collecting: an old tattooed mage, long imprisoned in the gaol of Aren – how easy to effect his escape and gain his loyalty. And how valuable the man’s – how shall he put it – unconventional talents have proven.
Slipp
ing into the tide of citizens and servants crowding Diviner’s Way, Mallick allowed himself a tight satisfied grin. Only two, dearest Taya? He had lost count of the number of sorcerous assaults Oryan had deflected with the strange Elder magic of his Warren delvings. Taya and Oryan: two powerful servants, of a kind. And of course, Mael, his God – and something else as well. It was almost as if the fates had woven the pattern for him to trace all the way to…
Mallick stopped suddenly, almost tripping himself and those next to him within the flow of bodies. He thought of the old woman’s rantings. The Gods meddling? Him? No. It couldn’t be. None would dare. He was his own man. No one led him.
A hand hard and knotted with arthritis took his elbow, eyes as dark and flat as wet stones close at his side studying him – Oryan. Mallick shook him off. It could not be. He would have a word with Mael. Soon.
The first inkling Ghelel had of trouble was when the family fencing-master, Quinn, raised his dagger hand for a pause. She took the opportunity to squeeze her side where the pain of exertion threatened to double her over. ‘Why stop?’ she panted, breathless. ‘You had me there.’
Ignoring her, the old man crossed to the closed doors of the stable and used the point of his parrying blade to open one a slit.
‘What is it? Father come to frown at you again for training me?’ The stamp of many hooves reached her and she straightened, rolling one shoulder, wincing. ‘Who is it? The Adal family early from Tali? I should change.’
‘Quiet – m’Lady.’
She sheathed her parrying gauche and slim longsword, pushed back the long black hair pasted to her face. The front of her laced leather jerkin was dark with sweat. She picked up a rag to wipe her face. How properly horrified they would be to see her all dishevelled like this. But then, in the final count, her reputation didn’t really matter; she was only a ward of the Sellaths, not blood-related. She dropped the rag when raised voices sounded from the main house. Shouts? ‘What is it, Quinn?’
He turned from the main doors. Dust curled in the narrow shaft of light streaming into the stables. The horses nickered behind Ghelel, uneasy. He hadn’t sheathed either his narrow Kanian fencing longsword or his parrying weapon. Beneath the man’s mop of grey-shot hair his gaze darted about the stable, still ignoring her.
A crash of wood being kicked, hooves stamping, a clash of metal – swordplay! She started for the doors. Through the gap she glimpsed soldiers of the Malazan garrison. Damned Malazans! What could they want here? She took breath to yell but Quinn dropped his dagger and slapped a hand to her mouth.
How dare the man! What was this? Was he in league with them? She fought to force an elbow beneath his chin.
Somehow he twisted her around, lifted her at the waist and began backing down the length of the stable. All the while he was murmuring, ‘Quiet lass, m’Lady. Quiet now.’
Kidnapping! Was this all some kind of Malazan plot? But why her? What could they possibly want with her? Struggling, she managed to free a hand and drew her dagger. The man did something at her elbow – a pinch or thrust of his thumb – and the blade fell from her numb hand. How did he do that? He snapped up the blade and kept going.
He carried her to a stall, gently shushed the mare within, then kicked aside the straw and manure. Both her wrists in one hand he began feeling about the wood slats of the floor. ‘We have to hide,’ he whispered. ‘Hide from them. Do you understand?’
‘Hide? We have to help! Are you some kind of coward?’
He winced at her tone. ‘Lower your voice, Burn curse you! Or I’ll use this on you.’ He raised her dagger, pommel first.
‘I don’t have to hide. I’m not important.’
The sturdy blade of the gauche caught at an edge. A hidden trapdoor, no wider than a man’s shoulders, swung up. ‘Yes you are.’
Ghelel stared, bewildered. What? In that instant Quinn pushed her headfirst into the darkness.
She landed face down into piled damp rags that stank of rot. ‘Aw, Gods! Hood take you, you blasted oaf! Help! Anyone!’
Darkness as the trapdoor shut, a thump of Quinn jumping down. ‘Yell again and I’ll knock you out,’ he hissed, his voice low. ‘Your choice.’
‘Knock me out? Neither of us can see a thing!’
‘Your eyes will adjust.’
Silence, her own breath panting. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Shhh…’ The gentle slide of metal on leather and wood as he raised his longsword.
She could make out faint streams of light now slanting down from between the slats. ‘Are you going to…murder me?’
‘No, but I’ll stick whoever opens that trap.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Looks like the local Fist is rounding up hostages from all the first families.’
‘Hostages! Why?’
She could just make out the pale oval of his face studying her. ‘Not been paying attention to things, hey?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, why should you have, I suppose…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Insurrection. Secession. Call it what you will. The Talian noble houses never accepted Kellanved’s rule – certainly not Laseen’s.’
‘My father…’
‘Stepfather.’
‘Yes, I’m a ward! But he might as well be my father! Is he safe? What about Jhem? Little Darian?’
‘They may all have been taken.’
Ghelel threw herself at the ladder she could now just see. He pulled her down. She punched and kicked him while he held her to him. As he had to the mare above, he made soft shushing noises. Eventually she relaxed in his arms. ‘Quiet now, m’Lady,’ he whispered. ‘Or they’ll take you too.’
‘I’m not important.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘What—’
He put his finger to her mouth. She stilled. Listening, she kept her body motionless, but relaxed, not straining, worked to remain conscious of her breath which she kept deep, not shallowing – techniques Quinn himself had taught her.
A step above. A booted foot pressing down on straw. The scratching of a blade on wood. Quinn raised his longsword. He held her dagger out to her, which she took.
A pause of silence then boots retreating, distant muted talk. Quinn relaxed. ‘We’ll wait for night,’ he breathed. She felt awful about it but she nodded.
A nudge woke Ghelel to absolute darkness and she started, panicked. ‘Shhh,’ someone said from the dark and, remembering, she relaxed.
‘Gods, it’s dark.’
‘Yes. Let’s have a peek.’
She listened to him carefully ascending the ladder, push at the trapdoor. Starlight streamed down. Ghelel checked her sheathed weapons, adjusted her leather jerkin and trousers. Quinn stepped up out of sight. A moment later his hand appeared waving her up.
Someone had ransacked the stable but most of the horses remained. The double doors hung open. A light shone from the kitchens of the main house. Ghelel strained to listen but heard only the wind brushing through trees. It was more quiet this night at the country house than she could ever remember. Quinn signalled that he would go ahead for a look. She nodded.
Weapons ready, Quinn edged up to one door, leaned out. He was still for a long moment, then he gave a disdainful snort. ‘I can smell you,’ he called to the night.
Movement from all around: a scrape of gravel, a creak of leather armour. ‘Send the girl out,’ someone called, ‘Quinn, or whatever your name really is. She’s all we want. Walk out right now and keep walking.’
‘I’ll just go get her,’ and he hopped back inside, ducking. Crossbow bolts slammed into the timbers of the door, sending it swinging.
‘Cease fire, damn your hairless crotches! He’s only one man!’
Hunched, Quinn took her arm, nodded to the rear. They retreated as far back as was possible. ‘Now what?’ she whispered.
‘If this fellow knows what he’s doing this could get very ugly very quick. We’ll have to make a run for it – out the back.’
S
omething crashed just inside the front of the barn then three flaming brands arced through the doors. Blue flames spread like animals darting across the straw-littered floor. ‘Damn,’ said Quinn, ‘he knows what he’s doing.’ He clenched Ghelel’s arm. ‘Whatever you do, do not stop! Keep going, cut and run! Into the woods, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now, we dive out then come up running.’
He kicked open the rear door, waited an instant, then dived out, rolling. Ghelel followed without a thought as if this was just another exercise in all the years she’d spent training in swordplay and riding – there’d been little else for her to do as a mere ward. Something sang through the air above her, thudding into wood. Ahead, Quinn exchanged blows with two Malazan soldiers. Then he was off again even though the two men still stood. Coming abreast of them Ghelel raised her weapons but neither paid her any attention. One had a hand clenched to his neck where blood jetted between his fingers; the other was looking down and holding his chest as if pressing in his breath. Ghelel ran past them.
Shouts sounded behind. Boots stamped the ground. Quinn was making for the closest arm of woods, avoiding the nearby vineyards. Whistling announced crossbow fire. Distantly, horses’ hooves slammed the ground. Ghelel cursed; there was no way they could outrun mounted pursuit. What had Quinn been thinking? But then, there was no way they could have remained within.
Further missiles whipped the air nearby. She put them out of her mind, concentrated on running. All that remained ahead was the moonlit swath of a turned field then the cover of dense woods would be theirs. Ahead, Quinn gestured to the right: horsemen racing the treeline, all in Malazan greys. Fanderay take them! They’d been so close.
Quinn kept glancing back, ‘Keep going!’
Ghelel put everything she could into her speed but the soft uneven earth clung to her boots. The horsemen cut ahead of them. They turned their mounts side to side, swords bright in the cold light. Quinn made directly for the nearest. The man’s fearlessness almost brought a shout of admiration from Ghelel. He sloughed the man’s swing then did something to the horse that made it rear, shrieking. The man fell, tumbling sideways. Quinn ignored him to turn to the next. Ghelel reached their line. The nearest Malazan had already dismounted. He thrust as if she would obligingly impale herself but she stopped short, avoiding the jab, then spun putting everything she had into a thrust of the gauche. The blade caught him full in the stomach, was held by the mail. Perhaps only an inch of blade entered him. Yet she’d been trained to expect this – more importantly the man had just had the breath knocked from him. She knelt then straightened thrusting up with the short blade to feel it enter upwards behind his chin. It locked there so tightly the man’s convulsion tore it from her hand. She turned away to check the next threat, thinking, Burn forgive me – I have killed a man.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 37