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

  Blades slashed, hands grasped, a grunt, crunch of a solid blow, then the youth spun away, hand at his face where bright blood smeared his chin. Many in the crowd let out breaths in a knowing exhalation. The old man straightened, made a throwing gesture as if to say, ‘we’re finished,’ and turned to go.

  But the youth angrily slapped aside the hands of his friends and advanced to the centre of the oval. Warnings brought the old man about. Turning, he called something; the youth’s answer was a growl and a ready stance. With a shrug, the old man complied, advancing. This time he held his arms out wide, his hands empty. The surrounding crowd tensed, shocked, edged back a step to offer up more room. The two circled warily, the youth shouting – perhaps demanding that his opponent arm himself. The old man just smiled his feral toothy fighting grin. After two circuits the youth gave up, yelled something to the crowd – probably asking they witness that he’d given the old fool every chance to defend himself – and pressed the attack.

  This time the exchange lasted longer. The youth slashed, hunting an opening while the old man gave ground, dodging. Moss could only shake his head; it was so damned obvious to him. A swing from the youth and the old man seemed to casually step inside and twist, throwing his opponent yet keeping a grip on the arm. That arm forced backwards farther and farther. A shriek from the youth. A sickening bend and wet snap of that elbow. And the old man straightened leaving the youth hugging his arm, rocking it like a crippled infant.

  The Seti woman at Moss’s side murmured something and Moss gave her a questioning look. ‘He should consider himself lucky,’ she explained. ‘The Boar showed great patience with him.’

  ‘The Boar?’

  ‘Some call him the Boar. Many elders swear he reminds him of the Boar of their youth.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Moss noted that from across the oval the Boar was now watching him steadily.

  ‘He was our last great champion from a generation ago. No one could defeat him.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  The female Seti warrior gave Moss a strange penetrating look. ‘Your Dassem Ultor came to us.’

  The Wildman, or Boar, was now coming straight to Moss’s horse. The crowd parted before him, some reverently reaching out to touch him as he passed. ‘You, Captain,’ he called in the Talian dialect. Moss moved to dismount. ‘Stay up there!’ Shrugging, Moss complied.

  He stopped beside Moss’s mount. Small brown eyes well hidden within ledges of bone studied Moss, roved about his figure. He sniffed, wrinkling his flattened nose. ‘I’m smelling a stink I haven’t smelled in a long time, Captain. And I don’t like it. You can stay the night. But don’t you step outside your camp.’

  Moss bowed his head. ‘Warlord Toc sends his regards and extends his invitation.’

  ‘He can keep both.’

  ‘You may bring an escort, perhaps fifty of your most loyal—’

  ‘I’m not interested in reminiscing. I’m looking to the future. One without any of you foreigners.’

  ‘Wouldn’t a future without Heng help in that regard?’

  ‘Heng?’ the old man snorted. ‘Heng?’ He smiled his unnerving, hungry, bestial smile. ‘You’ve been on the trail for some time now, haven’t you, Captain? Well, word’s come. Heng’s a sideshow now. She’s left Unta. Coming by sea.’

  Moss stared. So, she’s coming. Now his choice would matter even more. He bowed as best he could while mounted. ‘My thanks. This is welcome news. I hadn’t heard.’

  The old man, Wildman, Boar, now scowled ferociously. ‘Yeah. It’s welcome all right. I have a few things to pick over with her, I’ll tell you, if I could be bothered.’

  He waved Moss off. ‘Now go. We’re finished.’ He marched off without waiting for a reply.

  After a minute Moss dismounted. Seti warriors pointed him to an empty field; he waved his command over. While his men led their mounts to the bivouac, Moss watched where the Wildman now crouched shoulder to shoulder within a circle of elders, sharing a pipe and a platter of food. Who was he? Such men do not simply appear out of nowhere; he must have a history. A Malazan veteran, that much was obvious; he knew Moss’s rank. Fought abroad and learned much of the world. A Seti officer returned from overseas. How many of them could there be? Toc and the atamans would have the resources to find out. Once he returned the mystery would be solved. Then he would also know whether this man might prove a factor in his mission – or not. He pulled his mount’s reins to urge it on after his men.

  Chapter IV

  Battle is for an army to win or lose; war is for civilization to win or lose.

  Wisdom of Irymkhaza

  (The Seven Holy Books)

  NEVALL OD’ ORR, CHIEF FACTOR OF CAWN, WAS BREAKING fast with tea and a green melon on his terrace overlooking the Street of Virtuous Discretion when his worthless nephew shouted up from below, ‘Another fleet, Uncle! A fleet!’ Nevall gagged, scalding the inside of his mouth – and spat the offending liquid over the terrace. ‘What? Already?’ He stood at the railing and sure enough a cloud of sails was closing on the harbour mouth. His perfidious nephew had taken off down the street to the waterfront carried in his new sky-blue palanquin. Gods, even the village idiot travelled in style these days.

  So. Already she had arrived. Must have killed all her oar-slaves or squeezed the life from a mage of Ruse. All as his sources had told: and why not, he paid them a fortune. Yet another expeditionary force to be milked. Hood’s infertile member: after they’ve squeezed all the gold from this one even the dogs will go about on silk cushions. He tossed down his half-melon to the mud and shit-smeared cobbles below for the beggars to fight over and called for his robes of office to be readied. His last thought on the terrace was that he would have to get a much bigger palanquin.

  The wharf was heaving with onlookers but his bodyguards beat a passage. ‘Make way for your elected representative!’ Groten bellowed as he kicked the citizens of Cawn aside.

  ‘What is it? What do you see?’ Nevall called through the hangings.

  Groten stuck his glistening bullet-head through the cloths. He wiped a hand across his slick brow. ‘Small for an Imperial fleet, sir.’

  ‘That’s Chief Factor. And what do you expect? It must be the lead element.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’ He batted aside the filmy hangings.

  ‘Groten! You’re getting the cloth all sweaty!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Ducking his head he glanced out. ‘Pretty damned shabby too, sir.’

  ‘Well, she was probably forced to commandeer the scows and bay-boats left behind in Unta harbour. I heard that attack from mercenary raiders had cost her dear.’

  ‘So you say, sir.’

  Nevall waved him away. ‘Just take me to whoever docks.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the labourers tied the ropes to bollards and the gangway was readied, Nevall had his carriers set him down. He waved a hand to demand help in straightening from his palanquin. A representative stepped down the gangway – a commander or captain. Nevall rearranged his thick velvet robes of office and peered nearsightedly up at the fellow. To the Chief Factor’s surprise, the man wore a long set of mail that dragged along the gangway, a tall full helm and scaled, articulated iron gauntlets. And the equipage was not new either. It was blackened and scoured, as if having been thrown into a smith’s furnace.

  ‘Cawn welcomes – welcomes…’ Nevall searched the masts, the lines, for flagging or any heraldry at all, ‘…your forces. Consider yourself among friends.’

  The fellow stopped before him. The tall helm turned as he took in the waterfront. ‘We require drayage and mounts. Wagons, carts. All the food you can supply for an army in the field.’

  ‘Of course! Our pleasure. But a secessionist force has preceded you. They left us nothing. What little we have is vitally needed to feed us and our children.’ Nevall gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘In our defence, I must warn you, it will take much for us to part with the least of it.’

  Metal ground and scrat
ched as the helm edged down to regard him directly. ‘It will take what?’

  Flames lit the column of the Crimson Guard as it climbed the road west out of town. Afoot, Shimmer paused to look back to burning Cawn as the buildings collapsed into charred ruins. Wagons piled high with hoarded and hidden foodstuffs rumbled past her drawn by straining, sweaty racing thoroughbreds, their eyes rolling white at their unaccustomed treatment. A column of impressed Cawn levies also marched by, pikes and spears awry, the youths’ own eyes also wide from their unaccustomed treatment. She rubbed her side where Shell had cut deep to cure the infection from that crossbow bolt – one of the worst woundings she’d ever yet received.

  She had spoken against any impressments at the field meeting. But she had to admit that their numbers were needed to flesh out the base of the Guard forces. An officer cadre of nearly one hundred Avowed commanded a force of nine thousand Guard veterans, swelled now by close to fifteen thousand recruits from Bael, Stratem and Cawn. A force small in numbers, she knew, in comparison to Imperial armies, but the Avowed were worth much more than mere numbers, and twelve were mages.

  She watched the flames licking the south horizon and the coiling haze of smoke and wondered just how many towns and settlements they had left behind in similar straits. So many! Did all now count their name a curse? As surely did the Cawnese. Yet hadn’t they come as liberators? She drew off a soot-stained gauntlet to pinch her eyes for a time as if attempting to blot out the sight. A cough brought her attention around; the Malazan renegade, Greymane, at her side. Helmet under an arm, his thinned ice-blue eyes seemed to regard her with real concern. ‘Yes?’

  He raised his grey-stubbled chin to the west. ‘The column’s well past, Lieutenant.’

  Frowning, Shimmer followed his glance; sure enough, while she stood lost in thought the column had marched completely past. She was noticing such moments more often now that she and the other Avowed moved among – how should she put it – normal men and women. Occasionally, she or and another Avowed would stand sharing a conversation, or their reminiscences, only to find an entire afternoon had fled. It was as if they had entered into a different time – or more accurately a differing perception of it – from the rest of humanity.

  She inclined her head and invited Greymane onward. ‘Shall we join them?’

  A half-smile pulled at the man’s fleshy mouth and he bowed.

  ‘Many of the Avowed wonder at your being with us here, Greymane,’ she said as they walked. ‘Once more we will face Imperials – perhaps those of your old command.’

  A thoughtful nod of agreement. ‘We will face Imperials, but none of my command. They remain trapped in Korel. The truth is I am even more pleased to be among the Guard with what we hear of this civil war, or insurgency, call it what you will, and this Talian League. It would seem to me that any domestic, ah, reorganization, would hopefully work against the continuance of, ah…overseas entanglements.’

  Shimmer regarded the wide-shouldered ex-commander. The wind pulled at his long, straight grey hair; sun and wind had tanned his round, blunt features a dark berry hue. Obviously, the man had benefited from his share of the life-extending Denul rituals the riches of Empire allowed. It occurred to her that here was one of the few people alive who could be considered close to an Avowed himself. Yet so far what had he demonstrated while among them? Very little. The majority of her brothers and sisters were – to be honest – dismissive of the man. They regarded him a failure, a flawed officer who had broken under the strain of a difficult command. She however sensed within him something more. A veiled strength great enough to have defied not only his own superiors but the Korelan Stormguard as well. ‘Overseas entanglements.’ Obviously, here also was an officer who felt keenly the responsibilities of leading soldiers.

  ‘I have been considering my staff and I’m offering you a captaincy and command of a flank in the field.’

  The man’s grey-shot brows climbed. ‘A captaincy?’

  ‘Yes. Do you accept?’

  ‘I am honoured by your trust. But perhaps there will be objections—’

  ‘There damn well will be objections, but no challenges. Do you accept?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, what can we do to make these recruits reliable?’

  A grin of square white teeth. ‘A few small victories would go a long way.’

  The chambers of Li Heng’s ruling High Court of Magistrates were known officially as the Hall of Prudence and Conscientious Guidance; to others it was the Palace of Puckering and Spluttering. Predictably, it mirrored the city as a round room where a raised gallery looked down on a central floor. A continuous table of pink marble circuited the upper gallery where the magistrates held court over all petitioners below.

  Hurl, her torso tightly bandaged beneath her leathers, now occupied that floor, alongside Storo, Silk, Liss, Rell and Captain Gujran. Gritting her teeth, it was all she could do to stop herself from walking out on this absurd proceeding immediately. But Storo had requested her cooperation and so she was present, despite the strong need for a drink. It was also only the first time she’d seen Silk since the attack – the mage had been busy or making himself absent of late. She still had a lot of pointed questions for him regarding that city mage, Ahl.

  The magistrates fiddled and shuffled their papers, or rather, their servants did, sitting behind them and acting as their amanuenses. Many eyes, Hurl noted, watched not Storo, as one might expect, but rather the wiry Genabackan youth Rell, who stood with his head lowered, long greasy hair obscuring his face. Rumours abounded of what this man had accomplished at the North Gate of the Inner Round. Hurl was not surprised; she’d seen him in action enough not to be surprised by any of his unbelievable acts of swordsmanship.

  Magistrate Ehrlann tapped the butt of his switch on the table, cleared his throat. ‘Honoured fellow magistrates, assembled citizens, appellants. We are gathered here to discuss a serious course of action arising from the recent catastrophes inflicted upon this city by its current military leadership.’ Behind Ehrlann his servant, Jamaer, scribbled awkwardly on a vellum sheet balanced on his knees. The magistrate pointed the switch at Storo. ‘Sergeant Storo Matash, temporarily promoted Fist, do you have anything to say in your defence at this time?’

  Storo unclasped his hands from behind his back, his broad face impassive. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  High above them, the magistrates exchanged uneasy glances. Ehrlann shook his switch as if dusting the table of the case. ‘Very well, commander. You leave us no choice but to pursue the painful course of action this court has decided upon.’ He pointed the switch. ‘You, Fist, are stripped of all rank, dismissed and placed under arrest for gross negligence.’ The switch flicked to Captain Gujran. ‘You, Captain, by the power invested in this court, are promoted to rank of Fist – on a provisional basis only, of course – and charged with military command of this city. Your first action as commander will be to open negotiations with the besieging force to explore terms of surrender. There you are, Fist Gujran. You have your commission. Please act upon it.’

  Hurl turned to peer about the room, at the set faces of the magistrates glowering in a full circle down upon them. It occurred to her that the place didn’t have one window. Just seven old men and five old women blinking inward at one another from across a circular room. A single window looking out on the city, it seemed to her, would have helped this court a great deal. As it was, Captain Gujran standing beside her just scratched a flame-scorched brow and said, ‘No.’

  The switch froze. ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  The switch trembled. ‘Think, Captain. You are risking your future, your career. You are being offered a rank far above that which your breeding could otherwise ever allow.’

  Gujran’s hands went to his belt. ‘You’re doin’ yourself no favours with that, magistrate.’

  ‘Enough of this charade,’ Magistrate Plengyllen burst out from where he
sat a quarter of the way around the room. ‘Arrest the lot of them.’ He waved his switch at a guard. ‘Summon the soldiers of the court. Arrest these criminals.’

  The guard glanced to the centre of the room. Storo gave the smallest of assents. The guard left. Three of the twelve magistrates also sprang to their feet and hurriedly left the room. Hurl grasped Storo’s arm to point but Storo waved her concern aside. Shortly the magistrates reappeared, backing into the chamber, forced in by soldiery filling all exits.

  Magistrate Ehrlann glanced about, took in the soldiery, their Imperial colours, and swore. He threw his switch to the tabletop. He slipped his fingers over the forward edge of the table, his mouth twisting his disgust. ‘So,’ he hissed. ‘It comes to this. Usurpation of legitimate republican rule. Once more you Malazans are revealed for the pirates and thugs you are. Your rule is the sword and the fist. Ours authority arises from the consent of the ruled. We shall see of which history approves.’

  Storo inclined his head to the guards, who motioned the magistrates from their seats. ‘It seems to me, Magistrate Ehrlann, that you are only legitimately blind to the truth that oppression comes in many forms. Consider, if you are capable, the rather narrow constituency you and your circle claim to speak for in this city for the last hundred years.’

  The magistrate gaped at Storo – as did Hurl. Never before had she heard the man speak in such a manner. It occurred to her that many hours of expensive private tutoring stood behind such opinions. Contact with rulership seemed to be bringing out the man’s hidden talents.

  As a guard reached for him, Ehrlann spun to his servant. ‘Do something, Jamaer! They’re arresting me!’ Jamaer’s feather pen scratched as he dutifully copied down the magistrate’s words. Snarling, Ehrlann slapped the papers from the man’s lap. ‘No, no! Do something, you fool. You’ve worked for me for over thirty years! Doesn’t that count for something?’