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

  Wickan horsemen had already met and stopped the small column, which consisted of some twenty Untan cavalry. Room was made for Rillish to edge to the front. He inclined his head to the man leading the column, who, by the markings on his helmet, held the rank of Imperial Fist, though Rillish did not recognize him. The man’s dark eyes glanced to him but in no other way did he acknowledge Rillish’s presence. Eventually, Nil and Nether arrived from their more distant camp. They pushed through to the front, nodded to the Fist who saluted, bowing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fist Tazil Jhern. I am come as envoy from the capital, empowered to discuss terms.’

  Nether inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘I am Nether, this is my brother Nil. And this is Lieutenant Rillish Jal Keth. Greetings.’ The man continued to studiously ignore Rillish.

  ‘What terms, may I ask?’ Nil inquired. ‘Terms of your surrender?’

  ‘Terms of cessation of hostilities. You have grievances, conditions you wish to discuss, surely?’

  The twins exchanged narrowed glances. ‘We have demands and conditions, Fist,’ Nil corrected.

  ‘You say you are empowered, Fist,’ Rillish asked. ‘Empowered by whom?’

  The envoy said nothing, continued to stare straight ahead. Nether’s brow furrowed. ‘The lieutenant asked you a question, Fist.’

  ‘I am sure you understand that I feel in no way obligated to speak with a traitor,’ the man told her.

  Nil flinched, stung, and tightened his reins. ‘Then I am sure you understand that we—’

  So, the day has come when I am repudiated. Rillish raised a hand. ‘It is all right. Please, take no offence. I will go.’

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Nether ordered, startling Rillish. ‘You will remain and listen to all this envoy has to say. Then, my brother and I will expect you to advise us afterwards.’

  Struggling to keep his astonishment from his face, Rillish bowed stiffly. ‘As you order.’

  Nil invited the Fist onward. ‘This way, envoy.’

  Later that day, the Fist begged off early to retire to the quarters prepared for his party. Once the man left the large tent a fury of debate leapt to life among the gathered clan representatives, elders and surviving warlocks. The twins sat quietly, letting the storm blow itself out. Rillish was alarmed by some opinions he overheard: sacking the province, ravaging the countryside, even claiming the Throne. When that suggestion, taking the Throne, was called across the tent to Nil, he merely observed, ‘What would we do with it? It’s too heavy to sit on a horse.’

  A new round of debate began, this time peppered by escalating retorts, condemnations and insults. It seemed to Rillish that the discussion was veering further and further into the territory of past transgressions, slights and ages-old grudges. He glanced to Nil and saw him watching – the lad winked, tilted his head to invite him outside. Rillish uncrossed his numb legs, bowed to the assembly and ducked out of the tent.

  Without, twilight was gathering. The hillside sloped down like a dark green swath of silk to the Jurd, which glimmered, tree-lined, wide and black. The air was thick with the scent of ripeness, pressing into rot. Night moths and flies clouded around, attracted by the light. It occurred to Rillish that he was home yet this was no longer his home. Where could he call home now? The Wickan plains? They could hardly be expected to be welcoming at this point. Nil ducked out, joining him. The lad hugged himself over his plain deerskin jerkin. His unkempt black hair was a tangle, yet Rillish said nothing – one does not tell the premier Wickan warlock that he needs a haircut.

  ‘A rich land,’ the youth said, viewing the green hillsides. ‘You people have done well by it.’

  Rillish eyed the Wickan adolescent, blinking. ‘Pardon…?’

  A blush and duck of the head. ‘Sorry. All this once belonged to my ancestors.’

  ‘No, Nil,’ Rillish managed, his stomach clenching, ‘It is I who am sorry.’

  The youth blew out a breath. ‘So different from Seven Cities.’

  ‘So, what will you do?’ Rillish asked, gesturing to the tent.

  ‘We will let them talk, then give our opinions, then let them talk some more, then give our opinions again and let them talk. Once they begin saying our opinions back to us as if they are their own, then we will agree with their wisdom and we will have their unshakable support.’

  Rillish eyed the lad, who was looking down the slope, unmindful of his regard. ‘Nil?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are far too young to be so cynical.’

  A bright smile. ‘My sister and I are far from young, Lieutenant.’

  Yes, you have come so far too swiftly and for that I am sorry. ‘What are those opinions then? What should you do?’

  ‘Ah…you’ve hit upon the problem. We aren’t sure yet.’ Horses nickered in a nearby corral, stirring restlessly and the lad’s eyes moved to the noise. ‘What do you think of our envoy?’

  ‘It’s possible we’re intended to judge the offer by its bearer – candid, honest and practical.’

  A boat appeared floating down the Jurd, sail limp, long sweep raising a bright wake. The eyes of both tracked it. ‘Yes,’ Nil said. ‘An honest offer honestly given, to be just as honestly disregarded at earliest convenience.’

  In that statement Rillish listened for echoes of sullen resentment, sneering disdain or suppressed rage, but heard none. Only a sad sort of resignation that the world should be so ordered. ‘You are caught,’ he said. ‘You’ve done everything you can but you still have no true leverage.’

  A long slow assent. ‘We are in a strange situation, Lieutenant. We ought to have all the advantages, camped as we are on the capital’s doorstep, yet we find ourselves a sideshow. Unta has been sacked already. We can hardly threaten that. What will be our fate is in fact being determined far to the west – and we are not even there.’

  ‘You must still work to achieve the most advantageous terms you can.’

  ‘Yes,’ the lad sighed. ‘We must. Yet I wonder – have we done all that we can?’ Nil turned to face Rillish, and his gaze slid to the tent then back, cautious. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For listening. Unlike many of my countrymen I think it useful to talk through things. I find that it helps unravel knots.’

  Rillish motioned to the tent once more. ‘Your countrymen do not seem averse to talk.’

  ‘Most use it only to tighten existing knots.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  The warlock took hold of the tent flap. ‘You need not endure any more of this tonight. Nether and I will manage things. I understand you have much more pleasant company awaiting you,’ and he grinned.

  An adolescent effort at adult banter? ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The grin faltered. ‘Now, if only I could find someone for my sister…’

  Rillish bowed quickly, ‘Goodnight.’

  On the dark road back to the farmhouse Rillish found two mounted figures waiting. Sergeants Chord and Talia. Sergeant Chord saluted, turned his mount, and rode off ahead. Rillish brought his mount alongside Talia’s. ‘Sergeant…’

  ‘Lieutenant…’ She leaned aside and they kissed. There was something about her tonight; her smile was so bright in the dark, her eyes so full of a hidden humour.

  ‘You are looking…mysterious…this night.’

  She turned her mount while watching him sidelong. ‘I have a secret.’

  He stilled, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I am, as they say in your fancy aristocratic society – with child.’

  ‘What?’ He stared, utterly shocked. ‘But that’s impossible!’

  An arched brow. ‘Has no one told you how all this works, then?’

  ‘No! I mean, what I meant was…how could you know so soon?’

  ‘The horsewives told me. They’re beside themselves. You should’ve heard them clucking over me.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to leave the ranks, of course.’

  She faced him squarely. �
��I certainly will not. I’m a sergeant now. Got a pay increase.’

  ‘I could bust you down.’

  ‘For what?’ she snapped. ‘Misconduct with an officer?’

  Rillish opened his mouth then quickly shut it, thinking that perhaps another assault would be inadvisable at this time. Reconnoitring and observation were clearly called for. Perhaps some judicious probing. Talia rode in a loud pointed silence, her back stiff, face averted. He cleared his throat. ‘Not the reaction you were expecting, I imagine.’

  ‘Damned straight.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just…quite a surprise. My first reaction is that you don’t take any risks…’

  ‘You think I want to?’ She sighed, eased her mount closer, took his arm. ‘Old Orhan and I can swap duties.’

  Orhan, Rillish reflected. The company quartermaster and horse-master. Demanding work, potentially dangerous, but not a battlefield position. A gimp leg and getting slow, yet a canny veteran who’d been in the service all his life. Was a sergeant on the listings.

  ‘…then I’ll find a wetnurse among the Wickans. After that the little tyke can go to stay with my brother in Halas. He’s a wood-wright there. Or what about your people?’

  Rillish thought about his people. He thought of the high-season house in Unta and the off-season house in Haljhen. The family lands along the Gris River where vineyards, fields and orchards stretched for more than a day’s ride in any direction. He thought of the barrels of wine ageing beneath the great manor house, the countless families who lived on and worked those lands.

  All lost to him. Lost to Rillish Jal Keth, the family traitor.

  And now he had an heir. An heir to the two swords he carried, the bag of coin under his shirt and a name he or she could never claim. He took Talia’s hand. ‘So where is this Halas?’

  One of their remaining Seti scouts came roaring up and pulled short at the last moment, his mount stamping, sweaty and lathered. Ghelel recognized Toven, the young smartarse who had teased her and Molk earlier. Now, she was grateful for the lad’s love of excitement.

  ‘They’re headed for Heng,’ he reported.

  The ‘they’ in this case was a huge Kan Confederacy army that had come marching out of the south, consisting of some four thousand lancers and twenty-five thousand infantry. The ‘they’ being the reason the Marquis and his command were now hunkered down in a copse of trees south-west of Heng.

  The Marquis nodded his acknowledgement.

  ‘Thank you, scout. Get yourself a fresh horse.’

  ‘Aye, commander.’ A leering grin to Ghelel and the lad kicked his mount onward.

  ‘Going to get himself killed,’ Prevost Razala said with a kind of reluctant affection.

  ‘I hope not,’ the Marquis murmured, ‘we’re running out of scouts.’

  ‘So this Kan force – they’re our allies?’ Ghelel asked.

  The Marquis drew his pipe from his shoulder-pouch, clamped it unlit between his teeth. ‘Not necessarily, they may be with Laseen. But, if I were to lay any wagers on the matter, I’d say they’re on the side of the Itko Kan Confederacy.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning that they may be here to try to take Li Heng.’

  ‘What? But that’s ridiculous! With our army here, and Laseen’s!’

  A thoughtful frown. ‘Not at all. Itko Kan has always resented the establishment of the Free Cities. Heng is the only reason the entity exists. Now’s their chance to rid themselves of it. Not to mention possibly keeping hold of Heng. No, I imagine they plan to negotiate with whoever wins up north, using Heng as their card. Sound strategy.’

  ‘That’s—’ Ghelel stopped herself from saying anything that would reveal any more of her lack of…well, cold-bloodedness.

  ‘Makes me wish the beast would cross the Idryn,’ Razala grated.

  Jhardin shot the woman a look. ‘Believe me, Prevost, you do not wish that.’

  ‘What of us, then, Marquis?’ Ghelel asked.

  ‘We withdraw west. To the Falls.’

  ‘West? West to Broke Earth Falls?’ Ghelel repeated, disbelieving. ‘But that would take us completely from battle! We are needed up north! Choss is facing off against Laseen. Every man and woman is needed!’

  ‘Five hundred would make precious little difference, Prevost Alil. In any case, our way north is blocked. We are cut off from the Pilgrim Bridge, from Li Heng. The only place we may be able to cross is the Falls.’

  ‘I differ with you on that point, Commander. A charge of a hundred heavies could make all the difference in any battle. Razala? What of you?’

  The commander of heavy cavalry held her gaze long and hard on Ghelel, who caught a storm of suppressed emotions writhing just beneath her sweaty, plain, scarred face: resentment, anger, shame and finally regret. Then the woman lowered her eyes as if studying the backs of her gauntlets crossed before her on the pommel of her saddle. ‘I wish it more than I can say, Prevost. But…I’m sworn to follow the Marquis.’

  ‘So we go west,’ Jhardin said. ‘The Seti will keep us informed.’ And he kicked his mount into motion.

  ‘Kanese forces,’ Sergeant Banath snorted next to Hurl. ‘Ploughboys, fishergals and runaway ’prentices. Not a backbone in the lot. Don’t know why they bother. Might as well pack up and go home.’ He spat over the edge of the tower next to the South Outer Round gate. ‘’Cept their mages. Plenty tricky, them Kan mages. Like the Dal Hon – only not so bad.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Sergeant,’ Hurl said, head in hands. It still hurt. Liss said she was all healed up, but it still hurt. And this Kan parley did not help at all. Gods help its commander; she was in a mood to bite stone. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

  Hurl rode out accompanied by Silk, Sergeant Banath and a detachment of twenty Hengan cavalry – a good fraction of all that remained to them. Liss was watching the north, Sunny was handling repairs and reconstruction, while Storo lay in bed, barely alive, recovering from the savaging the beast had inflicted upon him. And Jalor; Jalor had fallen doing his job – standing next to Rell. As for Rell, he made it plain these sort of negotiations were not for him. And so it came to Hurl, now Acting-Fist, and commander of the city’s defence.

  Kan outriders stopped them just a short ride along the road south. Here they waited for the Kan representatives. They had a long wait. Hurl took the opportunity to get as much room as possible between her and the horses. She walked to an abandoned farmhouse and grounds – the trampled garden plot picked clean, the rooms emptied of all furniture, tools. All hints of the family that had occupied the homestead gone. Standing in the thatch-roofed, single-room house, watching the dust swirl in the light from the open door, all she felt was a sense of sadness and loss. Who had lived here? She wondered if their own scavenging parties had been responsible, or the Talian force reportedly in the south, or these very Kanese outriders keeping an eye on them. Eventually, a large carriage drawn by four oxen came rumbling up the south road. Lancers escorted it, and a van of five horsemen preceded it. Hurl went out to meet them.

  One dismounted and approached, a man wearing functional armour of banded strips and a long jupon bearing the seven entwined blossoms of the Itko Kan Confederacy – an insignia last seen some hundred years ago. He pulled off his helmet and cloth cap revealing a middle-aged man, darkly featured with a moustache and closely trimmed beard. He bowed to Hurl. ‘Commander Pirim ’J Shall at your service.’ He motioned to the riders. ‘Invigilator Durmis.’ The short robed man bowed. The rest of the riders were obviously guards. ‘Within the carriage is Custodian Kapalet. Sadly, the demands of the expedition have proved wearying for the custodian and she is indisposed.’

  ‘Acting-Fist Hurl.’ She motioned to her own escort. ‘And this is Silk.’ The commander bowed. Exhaling noisily, he sat on the edge of the broken water trough.

  ‘Congratulations in forestalling the Talians. It must have been very difficult.’

  ‘Accepted.’

  ‘Yet…’ and he was looking off to the w
est, ‘it has no doubt left you sorely diminished. You must ask yourself, how much more can your men take? How much more must they have left within them?’

  ‘Enough to turn away your dog and pony act.’

  He flashed a tolerant smile and motioned to the surrounding countryside. ‘We of the Confederacy did not come empty-handed, Acting-Fist. We know these lands well – they used to be ours. We know of the shortage of wood and so we brought our own. Enough for many siege towers.’

  ‘There’s nothing I like more than a good fire.’

  Again, a smile of forbearance. ‘Consider, commander, can you face us in the south and keep adequate watch on your north? I very much doubt it. Consider well, and offer terms – if only for the sake of your men.’

  Hurl pulled on her gloves. The formalities had been observed; she had no interest in jousting with the man. ‘Our terms are that you withdraw to a day’s march to the south. Otherwise we consider you a target. Am I understood?’ She finally succeeded in wiping away that smile. The man stood, gave a curt bow and gestured to the horses. Hurl led.

  Readying her horse, Hurl saw that the fat bald Invigilator and Silk were locked in something of a staring match. As she mounted, the Invigilator addressed Silk: ‘Many of my brothers and sisters in the south say that now that the Malazan peace has been broken the man-eater has returned, summoned by the bloodshed. What say you?’

  ‘I would say the current hostilities have much to do with it, yes.’

  ‘Those responsible for his return deserve to die in his jaws,’ the Invigilator called as Silk turned his horse. ‘Just as the ancient curse prophesies. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Silk did not turn. His back stiff, he snapped his reins and rode off.

  ‘How many has he taken so far?’ the man yelled.

  Hurl followed, but she could not help glancing back: the Invigilator pointed a damning finger at her. She urged her mount on to catch up to Silk.