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

  Chapter II

  The wise learn more from their enemies than fools learn from their friends.

  Attribution Unknown

  (Possibly Gothos)

  ‘OBELISK HIGH, DEATHSLAYER CLOSE, CROWN INVERTED, THE Apocalyptic!’

  Arm raised to throw, Nait stared at Heuk, the company cadre mage. ‘So? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

  The old man blinked sallow bloodshot eyes and fell back into his seat. He gestured to the cards. ‘It means something’s happening.’

  At the company table, Least let go a great farting noise. Nait kept his hand high, shaking the bone dice. ‘Something’s always happening somewhere, you daft codger!’

  ‘Swearing,’ Corporal Hands warned, ‘and throw the damned dice.’

  ‘Fine!’ Nait shook the dice in Hands’ broad sweaty face. ‘You want me to throw, I’ll throw!’ He threw; the dice bounced from the box, disappeared among the sawdust, straw and warped boards of the Figurehead Inn’s floor.

  ‘Aw, you dumb bumpkin!’ said Honey Boy.

  ‘Shithead.’

  ‘Swearing!’

  ‘Look, you better find them,’ said Honey Boy, ‘they’re made from my grandmother’s own knucklebones.’

  ‘Then she can bloody well find them.’

  Hands, Honey Boy and Least all stared. Nait threw up his arms. ‘Fine! I’ll look.’ He got on his hands and knees between the crowded tables. ‘Can’t find shit down here anyway.’

  ‘I did,’ Least said, serious.

  Nait searched the floor, deciding to look more for dropped coins than anything else. The door banged open and a man stopped in the threshold blocking the bright light of midday. ‘It’s the end of the world,’ he bellowed into the common room. Conversation and the thumping of pewter tankards stopped. Everyone turned to squint at the man, his eyes wide, hair dishevelled, fine velvet jacket askew and wrenched. ‘Hood’s Gates have opened and the dead of all the Abyss are vomiting up upon us!’

  Nait, straightening, banged the back of his head on the table. ‘What in Hood’s ass?’

  ‘Flee! Run!’ and, taking his own advice, the man ran.

  Nait looked to Hands who looked to Honey Boy. A few patrons peered out the oiled and stretched hides that served as blurry windows. The light shining in the door did have a strange greenish cast to it – like that of an approaching storm front. A number of blurred figures, no more than wavering shadows, ran past the windows like fleeing ghosts. Shrugging, most patrons returned to talking – now discussing even stranger things they’d seen; the day a two-headed cat haunted the streets of Unta and the whole quarter was turned upside down so that the cursed thing could be caught and drowned in a trough; or that night not so long ago when a falling god – perhaps Fener himself – turned the night into day.

  Yet Nait thought he heard distant yells of alarm and wonder from the open door. Sighing, Hands pushed herself up from the table and stretched her arms, straining the broad front lacings of her linen shirt. Looking up from the table, Least whimpered and Honey Boy sank his head into his hands. Hands glared, ‘Oh, c’mon!’ She drew on her padded vest and hauberk, took her belt and sword from the back of the chair. Nait pocketed his coins from the table, pushed the birdbone toothpick into the corner of his mouth. He eyed them at the table. ‘Well? C’mon, you limpdicks.’

  Watching Hands go, Least rumbled sadly, ‘Not so limp now.’

  Honey Boy slapped the Barghast on the back of his bhederin cloak. ‘Wasn’t that swearing? I’m sure he swore.’

  Nait just spat. One of these days, Hands, I’ll pull those big ol’ boots off you.

  Outside the sky over Unta Bay flickered with a strange aura. It reminded Nait of the lights that play over the Straits that some say presage the arrival of the Stormriders; not that he’d ever seen any of those demons himself, being from far inland. The glow was receding or dying away even as he watched, leaving behind the normal midday blue vault laced with high thin clouds.

  Honey Boy grunted, pointing to the mouth of the harbour. Two ships had entered, both alarmingly low in the water. One’s masts hung shattered, the other listed. Sweeps propelled them, but raggedly, all of them unaccountably short, many broken to stubs. Both vessels seemed to glow as if painted white. The squad headed for the wharf.

  Commerce on this reach of the mercantile berthings had stuttered to a halt. Bales and sacks lay abandoned. As they ambled past, labourers gingerly straightened from cover. Sailors watched from the rails of merchantmen. One raised a warding gesture against evil. ‘It’s the drowned returned – as at the end of times!’

  ‘Damned few of them,’ Honey Boy opined.

  They came abreast of the guard shack and Nait stepped in, ‘Hey, Sarge, did you—’

  Sergeant Tinsmith and another stood at one window. The other wore the rags of a dock rat but stood straight with arms folded, a hand at his chin as he peered out. ‘Who in the Queen’s privates is this?’ Nait said.

  ‘Manners,’ Sergeant Tinsmith ground out. ‘This is a guest.’

  ‘What do you think?’ the fellow asked the sergeant.

  Tinsmith stroked his grey moustache. ‘One of them has a Genabackan cut but the other,’ he shook his head, ‘I’ve never seen the like. What’s left of it, anyway. No flagging.’

  ‘No, none.’

  While they watched, the listing one of the vessels came abreast of an anchored Kanese merchantman. The crew of the sinking vessel swarmed over the sides on to the merchantman. Shortly thereafter, that vessel raised anchor, lowered sweeps and headed for the wharf. The abandoned vessel promptly sank in its wake.

  ‘Damned brazen,’ the dock rat observed.

  ‘Get the full company down here, Honey Boy,’ Tinsmith shouted outside.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘They’re in an awful hurry to get themselves arrested,’ said Nait.

  The dock rat regarded him for a moment with hard, amused eyes. ‘We’ll see.’

  The vessels reached the head of the wharf. Figures climbed down, all armed and armoured, though also bizarrely pale as if whitewashed, or ghosts. A thought struck Nait and he laughed aloud. Tinsmith raised a brow. ‘I was just thinking, sir. It’s the sorriest-ass invasion fleet I’ve ever seen.’ Both men regarded him in silence. ‘Just a thought.’

  The dock rat returned to the window. ‘There’s something…’ he began, then fell silent. He jerked backwards a step as if struck. ‘Hood no!’ He gestured and Nait felt the prickling sensation of Warren energies gathering. The hairs of his nape tickled and a wind blew about the hut, raising clouds of dust. Nait covered his eyes. A blow sounded, meaty and final, followed by a gurgle. Nait threw himself into a corner, knife out before him. The wind dispersed. He found himself looking up at the long slim legs of a woman who would have been beautiful if she wasn’t covered in filth. Her white hair was matted into tangled locks. A crust of white scale limned her bare muscular arms. A tattered shirt and shorts hung in rags limp on her frame. She had Tinsmith up against one wall, an elbow under his neck, knife to his chin. Hands filled the doorway, two dirks out. Tinsmith waved her down.

  ‘Water…’ the woman croaked through lips swollen and bloodied. Tinsmith glanced aside to a pail. The woman let him fall, grasped the pail and upended it over her head. Hands cocked a questioning look to Tinsmith who waved wait.

  The woman spluttered and gasped, swallowing. Panting, she turned to them. ‘Order your men to stand aside, sergeant, and they won’t be harmed. Our argument isn’t with you.’ Tinsmith rubbed his neck and slowly nodded his agreement. ‘Very wise, sergeant.’ She gestured and the wind rose again, raising dust and sand and Nait glanced away, shielding his eyes. When he looked back, she was gone.

  ‘Who the Abyss was that?’ Hands demanded.

  Tinsmith crouched at the side of the dock rat, felt at his neck. The man looked to have been slain by a single thrust. The sergeant returned to the window. ‘So they’re back,’ he said as if thinking aloud.

  ‘Who?’ said Hand
s.

  ‘The Crimson Guard.’

  Nait barked a sneering laugh. ‘A name to frighten children!’

  ‘Pass the word, Corporal. No hostilities. Fight only if attacked.’

  Hands frowned her disapproval, her thick dark brows knotting. But she nodded and withdrew.

  ‘And Corporal!’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Put everyone to work readying the chains.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  His back to Nait, Tinsmith said, ‘That was Isha. Lieutenant of Cowl.’

  Nait opened his mouth to laugh again but the name Cowl silenced him. Cowl, truly? But he’d been the long-time rival of…Dancer. And Dancer was…gone…as was Kellanved. And Dassem. In fact, no one was left. None who could oppose them. Nait dropped his gaze to his knife; he sheathed it. As the sergeant says, no hostilities.

  Mallick Rell was reclined on a divan enjoying a lunch of Talian grapes and a Seven Cities recipe for spiced roast lamb when a servant entered. ‘The streets are seething with news, sir,’ the servant offered, his voice low.

  ‘Oh, yes? And this news contains specifics?’

  The servant paused, coughed into a fist. ‘Well, sir. They say the Crimson Guard has returned.’

  Mallick chewed a pinch of lamb meat, savouring it. ‘You interrupt my meal to tell me this? A rumour I myself started?’

  ‘Ah, no. Sir. I understand they’re here now. In the harbour.’

  Mallick gagged on the meat, spat it to the marble floor. ‘What?’

  ‘That is what some are saying, sir. Reliably.’

  Sitting up, Mallick wiped his face, waved the cloth at the servant. ‘Get out. Now.’

  The servant bowed.

  ‘I said get out of my sight!’

  The servant hurried out. Mallick gulped a glass of wine, straightened his robes. ‘Oryan!’

  A shimmer of heat-rippled air and the old man appeared. He bowed. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Crimson Guard are here, Oryan?’

  The Seven Cities mage blinked his black stone eyes. ‘Some entities of great potential have entered the harbour, yes.’

  ‘Some entities…’ Mallick reached out as if to strangle the old man. He let his arms fall. ‘That is the Guard.’

  ‘So you say, Master.’

  Mallick’s voice was a snake hiss, ‘Yes.’ He snatched up a crystal carafe of red wine, pressed the cold vessel to his brow, sighing. ‘Gods deliver me…At least Korbolo isn’t in the city.’

  The old man snorted his scorn. ‘How unfortunate for him.’

  ‘Now, now. So, what steps have you been taking?’

  ‘I have been raising wards, strengthening protections…’

  The carafe slammed cracking to the marble table. ‘What?’

  ‘Strengthening—’

  ‘No!’

  Oryan blinked anew. ‘I’m sorry, Master?’

  ‘No, you fool! You’ll only pique Cowl’s interest. Drop them. Drop them all then hide.’

  The mage’s wrinkled face puckered in consternation. ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Hide, Oryan. That’s your only hope. Now go.’

  Visibly struggling with his commands, the old man bowed, arms crossed. The air sighed, shifting, and he was gone. For a moment Mallick thought he could detect a sharp spice scent in the air in the man’s passing, but it drifted away before he could identify it. He raised the carafe to pour himself another glass but he found it empty, the blood-red wine pooled on the marble flagging; he threw the carafe aside. The fools! They weren’t supposed to come here. What could they hope to – Mallick clasped his hands in front of his face as if praying. Of course! ‘Sennit. Sennit!’

  A far door opened, the servant reappeared. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Ready my carriage. I will travel to the Palace.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The Palace, man! The Palace! We have important guests.’

  Shimmer set her mailed feet on the stone wharf and paused to offer up a prayer of gratitude to any of the Gods who had had a hand in their deliverance from Mael’s Shoals of the Forgotten. Gods! What a trial. Mael, you have made your point! A third of their force lost to thirst, exhaustion, sickness and those monstrous eels. And how long had it taken to bull their way through the maze of becalmed rotting vessels – some still manned by crews driven insane by their torment? Months? A year? Who knew? Time did not run parallel from Realm to Realm or even Warren to Warren. And that the least of the dangers of daring such short-cuts.

  Yet against all odds they had returned. Once more the Guard faced its true opponent – the entity they had vowed to see negated. The Imperium. She waved Smoky to her. ‘Activity?’

  The mage rubbed the crust of salt and blood from his lips. ‘Negligible,’ he croaked. ‘But he is here.’

  He. The mage who overturned all the comparisons of numbers and strategies. Tayschrenn, their old nemesis. Shimmer adjusted the hang of her mail coat; damned loose, she’d lost a lot of weight. She drank a long pull from a skin of water scavenged from the merchantman they’d taken. ‘He’s Cowl’s worry. It’s the Palace for us.’

  ‘Cowl might not be up to it.’

  ‘Then Skinner will be.’

  Smoky picked at the salt-sores on his forehead, frowned in thought. ‘True.’

  ‘Blades form up!’ Shimmer called, and she started up the wharf. Greymane came to her side.

  ‘I’ll take possession of some better vessels, and await your return, if you don’t mind?’

  Shimmer eyed the renegade. Ah! Ex-Malazan, of course. ‘Our return you say?’

  The man’s glacial-blue eyes shared the humour. ‘If necessary, of course.’

  ‘Very well. You have command.’

  Greymane bowed, waved for a sergeant.

  It had been over half a century since Shimmer had last seen Unta. It looked bigger, more prosperous, as befitted the adopted Imperial capital. Stone jetties and a curved sea-wall of fitted blocks now rose where wood and tossed rubbish once served. Many more towers punched high into the air over the sprawling streets, including those of the tallest, the Palace.

  They formed into column at the mouth of a main thoroughfare leading to Reacher’s Square and the government precincts beyond. She and Skinner led; he ordered the silver dragon banner unfurled. As they marched Shimmer watched the gazes of the citizens who jammed the storefronts and stalls lining the sides of the thoroughfare. She searched their faces hoping to see eager friendliness, even welcome, fearing that she would instead meet hostility and resentment. Yet what she found troubled her even more: open perplexity and confusion. Some even pointed and laughed. One woman called out to ask whether they’d come from Seven Cities. Had none of them any idea who they were? Smoky, at her side, muttered, ‘It’s like the goddamned carnival’s hit town and we’re it.’

  ‘Perhaps we have outlived ourselves…’ And she felt dismay close even more tightly upon her, for the capital was a much larger city than she remembered. The populace lining the street numbered perhaps more than a hundred thousand and it seemed to her that, should they be roused, they could tear them limb from limb. ‘Cowl?’ she asked of Smoky.

  ‘Dancing with the Claws. Right now they’re holding off. Seems they’re curious too.’

  Shimmer eyed the armoured back of Skinner who had strode ahead with the standard-bearer, Lazar. ‘As am I, Smoky. As am I.’

  Guards bowed and opened every sealed door he met, locks clicked and yielded, and wards parted like thinnest cloth before his questings, until Cowl found himself before the final barrier between himself and the innermost sanctum of Tayschrenn’s quarters. He reached out to the door then hesitated; why should he have been invited onward? Was it a trap? Yet his every sense told him the High Mage awaited within – he and none other. Alone. As it should be; he and Tay, duelling once again.

  He pushed the door open with a blow that sent it banging from the wall. A bare empty room, lit by open windows, and at its centre wards carved into the very stone of the marble floor and filled with poured
and hardened gold and silver filigree in concentric circles surrounding a bowed, cross-legged man, long scraggly hair fallen forward over his face.

  ‘Greetings, Tay.’

  The seated figure did not raise his head. ‘You should not have come, Cowl,’ the man intoned in a rough voice. ‘Yet I knew you could not have stayed away.’

  ‘Getting all mystical in your old age, I see.’ Cowl walked the edge of the craven wards – these he could pass but they would send him to wherever it was Tayschrenn had taken himself off to, and all indications were it was a place he would not wish to be. While Cowl paced the circle Tayschrenn failed to respond, so, impatient with the man’s theatrics – some things never change – Cowl said directly, ‘Will you stand aside?’

  ‘If you mean, shall I intervene? The answer is no, I shall not.’

  Cowl did not bother keeping a smile of victory from his face. ‘Wise move, Tay. All alone now, you would fall to my knives.’

  The head rose, greasy lank hair shifting to reveal a haggard strained face, eyes sunken, fevered. ‘Wise?’ the unnerving figure demanded. ‘Do you know the final attainment of absolute power, Cowl?’

  ‘The final what of what?’

  ‘Powerlessness, Cowl. Absolute power diffuses into powerlessness.’

  Cowl stepped away from the warded figure. ‘Is this some kind of elaborate self-justification for cowardice?’