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)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Someone will piece it together.’

  He sighed. ‘They’ll all piece something or other together – that’s how they are in the unit. The important thing is that if they accept you, they’ll defend you.’

  She turned to study the man. ‘What do you mean if they accept me…?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just, ah, don’t give any silly orders and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ve never given an order in all my life!’

  ‘Really? I find that difficult to believe.’

  Ghelel let that pass. ‘How am I supposed to know what’s silly and what’s not?’

  He pulled a hand through his tangle of unruly black hair. ‘Well, don’t give any then.’

  ‘None? But I’m supposed to command!’

  The nose of the boat stuck into the mud of the shore. Molk jumped down. ‘Our thanks,’ he called to the fellow who’d paddled them across.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Ghelel called.

  Throwing the saddle-bags across one shoulder, Molk immediately climbed the steep embankment. He pulled himself up by tree roots and handholds of brush. Ghelel followed. Past the screen of trees, she emerged once more on to the prairie of thick stiff grass. The sharp blades slashed at her mailed sleeves and leather greaves, hissed in the wind. Eastward, past the curve of the Idryn, the walls of Heng reared through a haze of smoke from the countless fires within. Ghelel took the opportunity to study the walls; they appeared to run in three ranks, the outermost the lowest, each rank increasing in height as one moved inward, so that even if one were to capture the outermost defences, one would still be subject to fire from further in. The gates too, she’d heard, ran in staggered openings around the circumferences of the various encircling walls – there was no straight run into the heart of the city. She was no student of siegecraft, but the prospect of investing this city seemed a chancy thing. What if they exhausted themselves taking Heng and had nothing left for Unta? Couldn’t they have simply ignored it? Let the Seti continue to isolate it? She had all these questions for Choss and Amaron after they’d gotten rid of her. How convenient for them. She hurried to catch up to Molk. ‘Is this it?’ she called.

  He stopped. ‘What?’

  She waved hungry wasps from her face. ‘Is this it? No escort or mounts or directions – just the two of us wandering across a blasted plain that goes on for thousands of leagues?’

  The man made a show of turning full circle to peer in all directions. ‘Seems so.’ He started off again.

  She threw her arms in the air. ‘This is ridiculous!’

  ‘Why?’ he called back.

  ‘Because…’ She refused to move another step, watched him walk away. ‘Because we’ll get lost!’

  He turned around, walking backwards. ‘No, we won’t. I know exactly where I’m headed.’

  ‘Oh? Where’s that?’

  Molk pointed over his shoulder. ‘That way.’

  Ghelel glared about the open expanse of wind-swept grasslands – if only to find some sort of alternative, any at all. Completely alone, it seemed the only thing she could do was jog after the crazed fool whom Amaron, in his senile idiocy, had actually set to guard her.

  ‘They say Burn sleeps beneath us,’ Molk was saying while Ghelel had been thinking of her youth, the dinners at Sellath House in Quon. What she had then taken as such selfless generosity – raising her as a ward from some distantly related family – seemed poisoned by what she now knew. Damn these noble families and their ambitions; not only had they stolen her future, they’d twisted her past as well.

  ‘Have you heard that?’ Molk asked.

  ‘Heard what?’ she said absently.

  ‘That Burn sleeps beneath us.’

  ‘She sleeps beneath all of us,’ she recited, bored.

  ‘No, I mean right here, beneath the Seti Plains. That’s the local legend.’

  ‘No, I hadn’t heard that. No doubt every tribe and community has similar myths. All of them equally true.’

  Molk stopped short, gestured aside. ‘If you don’t mind, Captain, I’d like to have a moment in the brush there. Call of nature.’

  ‘What? All of sudden you’re all shy? What happened to the cursing, spitting lout I’d come to know? You’re all just show after all, hey?’ She crossed her arms, waiting.

  Molk had ducked into the brush. Invisible, he answered: ‘No female officer would allow that kind of behaviour from her servant. Don’t you think?’

  Ghelel threw her arms wide once more. ‘Gods, man! Who in the Abyss is going to know! We’re in the middle of an empty wasteland if you haven’t noticed.’

  Molk appeared, doing up the tie of his trousers. ‘You know, that’s a false assumption.’

  ‘What is?’

  He shouldered the bags. ‘That the land of others is a wasteland. Just because they don’t use the land in a way familiar to you doesn’t make it useless or wasted.’

  Ghelel started off. ‘I don’t know what in Hood’s name you’re talking about.’

  ‘Obviously. For instance – this is prairie lion pasturage we’re trespassing on right now.’

  She laughed her scorn. ‘How in the Abyss would you know that?’

  ‘Didn’t see the markers? I thought they were rather obvious. Anyway, it takes a lot more land to raise animals to support a family than it does tilled land. To a society such as ours based on tillage any open pasture’s gonna look like wasteland. And I shouldn’t say open either – that’s misleading. Grazing rights are very carefully controlled and apportioned, you can be sure of that.’

  Ghelel just rolled her eyes. ‘Why are you going on about all this horseshit?’

  Molk nodded. ‘Good point. I just thought you might want to know a few things about the Seti riders who’ve been shadowing us since we left the river.’

  Ghelel spun, scanned the shadow-swept hillsides. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘They’re good at what they do.’

  ‘Pardon me for saying this, but as I heard the soldiers say – you’re shitting me.’

  ‘Now who’s the foul-mouthed lout?’

  ‘I’d rather be a foul-mouthed lout than a gullible fool.’

  ‘You said it.’

  Though fuming, Ghelel walked on in silence. Perhaps she should just keep going south – walk away from all this. Clearly the only thing this fool could accomplish was get her killed. Didn’t he realize this was serious? Still, at least no one was going to find her out here in the middle of nowhere! That was for certain. She stopped, drew off her scaled gauntlets, tucked them into her belt. ‘Did you at least bring water?’

  ‘Of course.’ Kneeling, he rummaged in the bags, pulled out a waterskin.

  ‘Thank you,’ she allowed, grudgingly. She took a deep pull then gagged, spitting. ‘Gods! What’s this?’

  ‘River water, laced with a distillation of juniper berries. Makes it healthy.’

  ‘Distilled juniper berry? That’s strong stuff.’

  ‘I find it has a calming effect.’

  She tossed the skin back. ‘You can keep it. So, what happens tonight?’

  Molk, who was drinking at the moment, gagged and spluttered out his own mouthful.

  ‘Touch too much distillate?’

  Coughing, he wiped his mouth. ‘Ah, the Captain should be more careful with her language in the future, I think.’

  She eyed the hunched, goggle-eyed hireling – what did Amaron possibly see in this fellow? ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘More’s the pity – well, I’ve brought food, blankets. We’ll bivouac under the stars this one night. That is, if we have any say in the matter…’

  ‘Any say?’

  He raised his chin to indicate behind her. ‘Our friends – they’ve made up their minds about us.’

  Ghelel spun. Five horsemen were lazily angling in upon them, single-file. Where in Hood’s Paths had they come from? Grey and brown fur pennants dangled from their lances. Recurved bows stood tall at their backs. They rode on th
in leather saddles, no more than blankets, with thin leather strap stirrups and reins.

  ‘Wolf Soldiers,’ Molk said.

  ‘Like I give a damn.’

  The Seti encircled them while one kneed his mount closer.

  ‘Greetings, friend,’ Molk called loudly in the Hengan dialect.

  ‘Trespassers are no friends of ours,’ answered the spokesman in kind – a young warrior, his kinky black hair tied in a multitude of tails, a leather jerkin painted in umber and yellow streaks and swirls, the dusting of a moustache at his lip. ‘Trespassers?’ Molk laughed. ‘No, friend. We are Talian – allies.’

  The youth frowned, considering. He pointed north. ‘Last I saw, Heng was that way.’

  Molk laughed again. ‘Yes, yes. We’re meeting our squadmates in a village south of here.’

  ‘We’ve burned down all the villages. Killed all the men and…’ he bared his teeth to Ghelel, ‘raped all the women. There’s no one alive to the south. That was the last of our fun. Now, we just ride in circles around Heng while they squat in their city. It’s dull. Our only fun is riding down Hengans who flee the city.’

  ‘Ah, well, we’re Talians. We’re wearing blue, as you see.’

  The youth nodded. ‘Oh yes, you wear blue. But it strikes me, there must be blue cloth in Heng.’

  Ghelel had had enough of this adolescent baiting, ‘Look here, you Hood-cursed—’

  Molk clenched her arm. ‘My employer wishes to remind you that your warlord is an ally of our commander, Choss.’

  With a squeeze of his knees the warrior began backing his mount. ‘The warlord, it seems to me,’ he said, ‘is very far away.’ With a touch of the reins the mount turned aside and the five wheeled, galloping off.

  Ghelel watched them go. Damned thugs! She faced Molk. ‘Now what?’

  He adjusted the saddlebags at his shoulder. ‘Well, seems to me, they mean to have themselves some fun. Let’s move.’

  Twilight gathered while they jogged through the tall grass. A whoop or the thump of hooves from the dark announced their pursuers. Occasionally an arrow would slash the grasses next to her and Ghelel would clench her teeth, Bastards. Molk, jogging ahead of her, suddenly disappeared. At first she thought it a trick of the late afternoon light but after a few more steps it became clear that the man was gone. Had an arrow from the ingrate ambushing Seti taken him? She involuntarily slowed, wondering, should she throw herself down? Hide? But to what end? They’d just trample her. Walking, her next step kept descending and she found herself falling forward tumbling head over toes and she managed one yell before slamming down on to stone bottom-first. ‘Ow!’

  ‘How expressive.’

  Wincing, she leaned aside to rub her buttocks. ‘What in the Abyss?’

  ‘Just my thought as well.’

  ‘I’m sure. What’s this?’ She gestured to the flat shadowed road running low between twin rows of tall grasses.

  Molk, his head cocked listening to the night, whispered, ‘The Imperial road to Dal Hon. Thank the Malazan engineers for it.’

  ‘Quon Talian, you mean,’ Ghelel countered. ‘The only thing that island produces is pirates – not engineers.’

  ‘It produced the will to employ them.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Both.’

  Sighing her irritation, Ghelel rearranged her armour and belts. ‘Now what? On this road the Seti would run us down in an instant.’

  ‘True. And that wouldn’t be much fun.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t!’

  ‘I was talking about them.’

  ‘I was talking about both of us.’

  Molk grinned crookedly, winked. ‘Now you’ve got the hang of it.’ He raised his chin to the north-east, up the road. ‘This way…there should be a hostelry close by, if memory serves.’ He started off and Ghelel followed.

  ‘The Seti said they burned everything down.’

  ‘I’m willing to bet they didn’t burn this one down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, as the youth said, the warlord is far away…Anyway, you’ll see.’

  Twilight deepened, transforming the road into a slash of darkness. Ghelel thought she heard the movement of something large through the grasses parallel to the road. After a long hike a curve in the flagged way revealed the burnt remains of a building. It resolved into the piled stones of a foundation supporting standing blackened timbers. A field of knee-high weeds surrounded the sacked structure. Ghelel stopped short, set her hands to her belt. Molk stopped beside her. ‘Oh,’ he said, and scratched his chin.

  She was about to loose upon the incompetent fool the full torrent of the day’s frustration when a man straightened from beside the road. He was almost indistinguishable in the dark, wearing blackened studded leather armour. He held a cocked crossbow and a long curved sabre hung at his side. A wide black moustache completely hid his mouth. ‘Who in cursed Fener’s own entrails are you?’ he demanded in the Talian dialect.

  Molk nodded to the man. ‘You’re of the Sentries?’

  ‘Who’s askin’?’

  Molk gestured to Ghelel. ‘May I introduce Prevost Alil – a new officer.’

  The man looked her up and down. ‘Really?’

  Ghelel opened her mouth to answer that but the man raised a hand for silence. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, and walked out on to the road. He faced the darkness, listening, then raised his chin. ‘Cut it out!’

  A moment later a horse leapt through the grass and thumped to the road, snorting and stamping. Its rider, the same Seti youth, twisted the reins around one hand, grinning his delight at them as the animal pranced in circles.

  ‘Toven,’ the man greeted him.

  ‘Just having some fun,’ and he directed the wide grin to Ghelel.

  The soldier waved him off. ‘Yeah, well. Fun’s over.’

  Toven raised himself high on his mount and offered a bow. A kick and the mount reared and leapt up, pushing its way through the thick stands of grasses.

  Grinning bastard. Ghelel watched the Sentry while he took the bolt from his crossbow and snapped the trigger. He swung the heavy weapon up on to his shoulder. ‘And who’re you?’ he asked Molk.

  Molk bowed. ‘The Prevost’s servant.’

  ‘Oh-ho…So, you’re the Lady’s servant, are you? C’mon. This way.’

  ‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Ghelel demanded.

  ‘Shepherd,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Shepherd.’

  They walked a good way into the night, the sergeant content to be silent, Ghelel determined not to ask him a blasted thing, and Molk apparently enjoying the cool night air. Eventually, Ghelel smelled smoke from cookfires, caught snatches of wind-carried conversation. The glow of fires and lanterns brightened the night ahead. ‘And just what are your numbers currently, sergeant?’

  The man turned his head to eye her and Ghelel wondered if she’d made a mistake but worked to keep all such doubt from her face. She cocked a brow. He shrugged. ‘Well, at a guess we number about five hundred now. About four hundred medium cavalry and a hundred mounted heavies.’

  Ghelel shot a hard look to Molk who appeared oblivious, peering into the darkness, whistling softly to himself. The road opened up on both sides to trampled fields dotted by tents and horse corrals. Shepherd escorted them through two pickets. Ahead, lights blazed from the windows of a three-storey brick building fronting a square of outbuildings including a large stable. Soldiers, men and women, came and went, laughing and talking, many drinking from leather tankards. Across the front of the house was the legend ‘House of Pleasant Welcome’.

  Ghelel stopped short. ‘A brothel? A Poliel-damned brothel?’

  Molk coughed into his fist, head lowered. Shepherd winced as if only now becoming aware of the fact. ‘Ah, yes, Ma’am – that is, Prevost, sir. It’s our temporary headquarters. The troopers are only allowed in off-duty.’

  ‘I see. And is this where you’re taking me?’

  ‘Taking you to the Marquis, Prevost. He�
��s inside.’

  ‘Off duty, is he?’

  Another coughing fit took Molk. Obviously happy to pass this one on to his superior officer, Sergeant Shepherd waved an ‘after-you’ to the door. Inside, Ghelel winced at the sudden light. The main floor was crowded with tables. Soldiers ate and drank, laughing. The heat brought a sudden sweat to her; it also brought a wave of drowsiness. Her knees suddenly felt weak. No one, it seemed, paid them the least attention. Shepherd led the way to a table next to an open window where a man sat smoking a pipe, talking to a seated female soldier. The man was older, heavyset with short grey hair. He wore a leather vest over a linen shirt. The woman was slim, her brown hair hacked short. The scar of a sword cut drew her lips down into a permanent frown. Sergeant Shepherd leaned close and spoke into the man’s ear. He nodded and stood. The tables nearby quieted. The man eyed Ghelel expectantly. She stared back then suddenly remembered and snapped a salute. The man slowly answered the salute. ‘Marquis Jhardin at your service, Prevost.’ He indicated the woman, ‘Prevost Razala. She commands the heavies.’

  Ghelel bowed to the Marquis.

  ‘I would offer you a room but I imagine you wouldn’t want to stay here.’

  ‘In that you are quite correct.’

  ‘Sergeant, ready quarters for the Prevost. No doubt you would like to freshen up after your journey. Afterwards we could see to the briefing.’

  ‘My thanks, Marquis.’

  ‘Commander will do.’

  Sergeant Shepherd saluted and hurried out. Jhardin came out from the table and invited Ghelel to follow him. Lieutenant Razala bowed, ‘Welcome,’ she said, her voice hoarse – perhaps from the wound.

  All eyes now followed as the two made their way through the tables. Ghelel thought their gazes held reserve mixed with open contempt. Molk followed at a distance. On the steps she asked, ‘You have been here for some time, Commander?’

  He nodded, knocked the embers from his pipe. ‘Yes. We were sent ahead by Choss.’ He indicated a turn to a row of tents.

  ‘And you knew I was coming?’ He sent a questioning look. ‘One hardly would put a sergeant on picket duty.’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘Yes. Word was sent.’