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

  Clamping his mouth shut, Bakune nodded a neutral greeting, which the newcomer ignored, peering about the office, studying the many shelves groaning beneath their burdens of scrolls and heaped files.

  ‘Might I offer some Styggian wine?’ Bakune suggested, motioning to a side table.

  ‘No.’ The man still hadn’t glanced at him. ‘Have anything stronger? ’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’ The small hard eyes swung to Bakune. ‘How long have we known each other, Assessor?’

  Oh dear, very bad news. ‘A long time, Captain.’

  Karien’el nodded, his neck bulging. Studying the man, it occurred to Bakune that all those intervening years had not been good to him. He’d put on weight, was unshaven, and generally looked unhealthy, with red-shot narrowed eyes, grey teeth, and a pasty complexion. Drank far too much as well. He, on the other hand, was wasting away with his thinning hair, constant stomach pains, and stiffening of the joints.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  An amused snort followed by a one-eyed calculating gaze. ‘Ever wonder why you’ve been here at Banith all this time … not one promotion while so many others went on from Homdo or Thol to the capital?’

  Bakune pushed himself back from his desk. ‘I suppose I’m just not one to curry favour or agitate for consideration.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Bakune could not keep his irritation from tightening his face. ‘What is it you want, Captain?’

  ‘And your wife left you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Captain! I consider this interview finished. Please leave.’

  But the man did not move; he just sat there, his wide blunt hands tucked into his belt at his stomach. He cocked his head aside as if evaluating the effects of his comments. Bakune had a flash of insight that raised the hair on his neck: just as he must when interrogating a suspect.

  Swallowing, Bakune steadied his voice to ask, cautiously, ‘What is this about?’

  A satisfied nod from the captain. ‘Truth be told, Assessor, I really shouldn’t be here at all. I’m here as a favour because of all the years we’ve worked together. It’s about your investigation.’

  ‘And which investigation would that be?’

  The man cocked his gaze to the locked cabinet.

  Dizzied, Bakune felt the blood draining from his face. ‘Your men have searched my office.’

  An indifferent shrug from the captain. ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘Your job is to enforce the law.’

  The unshaven, pale moon face moved from side to side. ‘No, Assessor. Here is where you have failed to question far enough. I enforce the will of those who decide what is the law.’

  So, there it was. The brutal truth of power. Was this why I failed to question further? A selective self-serving blindness? An inability, or a reluctance, to admit to this unflattering truth behind everything I stood for, or believed in? Or was it simply the everyday pedestrian distaste of peeling back the mask and revealing the ugliness behind?

  ‘In any case,’ Karien’el said, ‘we have our suspect.’

  ‘You do?’

  A slow firm nod. ‘Oh yes. We’ve had our eye on him for some time now. A foreigner, and a priest of one of those degenerate foreign gods as well.’

  Bakune pressed his hands to his cluttered desk. ‘And how long has the man been in the city?’

  Again the man hunched his shoulders in an uncaring shrug. ‘A few years now.’

  Bakune did not have to say that the killings went back decades.

  Sighing, Karien’el straightened, pushed himself to his feet. ‘So, Assessor. You need not continue your investigation. We have our man. As soon as he makes a mistake we’ll bring him in.’

  Meaning when the next body surfaces you’ll arrest him, trot out a few paid witnesses, then execute the man before anyone can pause to think.

  And it occurred to Bakune that for that execution to be enacted he would have to draw up and sign the papers. My name will be the authority behind this execution.

  Bakune hardly noticed Karien’el bow and leave the office, quietly shutting the door behind him. He sat unmoving, staring into the now empty space above the chair, silent.

  And if I refuse? Who would write my name into that blank?

  Would Karien?

  Yes, he would.

  But he does not have the authority.

  Bakune rose, went to the tiny glass-paned window of his office, stared out at the pebbled rippling view of the Banith rooftops to the tall spires and gables of the Cloister beyond. But there was one other in the city who did.

  You, dear Abbot. And you have sent your message by way of Karien. It seems that perhaps I have questioned enough. Come close enough for you to finally act.

  The Assessor’s gaze shifted to the tall locked cabinet and a cold dread coiled in his stomach – that all too familiar pain sank its teeth into his middle. He crossed to the cabinet, the sturdiest piece of furniture in his office, and examined its doors. Unmarred, as far as he could tell. He drew the key from the set at his waist, pushed it in and gave it two turns.

  He swung the doors open and stared within.

  Swirling dust. Torn scraps. Empty shelves.

  Failure.

  A decades-long career of sifted evidence, signed statements, maps, birth certificates, and so many – too many – certificates of death. Affidavits, registries, and witnessed accounts.

  Gone. All gone.

  Bakune fell back into his chair. He hugged himself as the pain in his stomach doubled him over, retching and dry-heaving. He wiped his mouth, leaving a smear of blood down his sleeve.

  Damn them. Damn everyone. Damn the Abbot and his damned precious damned Lady.

  The soldier was most definitely dead. Limp, looking boneless on the deck of the Lasana, he – and most definitely a he, being naked and such – had died a most ugly and agonizing death.

  ‘Take a good look, soldiers of the 4th!’ Captain Betteries shouted.

  Not that he had to shout. Suth noted how the fish-pale corpse dumped on the decking silenced the constant chatter more surely than any sergeant’s bellow.

  ‘This soldier chose to desert … a crime punishable by death.’

  The soldiers of 4th Company craned their necks, peering round their companions. Betteries, hailing from the archipelago region of Falar, shook his head disgusted, scowling behind his rust-red goatee and moustache.

  ‘But the real mistake this soldier made was trying to desert here and now on the island of Kartool.’ Suth, and everyone else on board, glanced towards the beckoning, oh-so-near, treed and shaded shore of Kartool. ‘Terrible mistake! And why?’

  ‘The spiders,’ everyone repeated on cue, halfheartedly.

  ‘That’s right, boys and girls. The yellow-banded paralt spiders to be exact. You’ve been repeatedly warned! The island’s overrun with them. Look how the poison attacks the nerves and muscles. I’m told the unbearable agony alone can kill.’

  The man’s face was hideously contorted; so much so it was painful just to look at it. Suth didn’t think anyone could even recognize the fellow. And his limbs were twisted as if someone had broken the joints.

  ‘ … look at the crotch and neck where the nodes of your clear humours are gathered. They have swollen and burst …’

  Suth’s gaze skittered away from the crotch where – yes – the flesh was horribly mangled by exploded pustules.

  ‘ … poor fellow. I almost feel sorry for the bugger. Better a clean sword-thrust, yes? Anyone care for a closer look?’

  No one volunteered. Captain Betteries ordered the corpse be left lying on the boards. In less than one ship’s bell under the glaring sun its stink drove everyone to the stern decking behind the mast. Lard, Suth knew, was on punishment detail for the day. That detail would have to dispose of the body and scour the deck come sundown. Suth could only shake his head; the fool might mutiny.

  Grisly though it was, opinion on board the Lasana was that the company captain’s displa
y had been the highlight of the month, a welcome relief from the cloying boredom of weeks of confinement waiting like prisoners on board a flotilla of assembled hulks. Shore leave came in rotation once every five days and then strictly within the grounds of the Imperial garrison in Kartool city. And that was a full day of close-order drilling that left everyone wrung out like wet leather.

  Other than more drilling and cleaning details on board the crowded ships, there was little else to do but engage in the soldier’s favourite pastime of out-strategizing Command. Suth was crouched on his haunches next to the ship’s side with his squadmates Dim, Len, Keri, Yana, Pyke and Wess. The two squad saboteurs, Len and Keri, had a line over the side; Dim could sit content to stare at nothing all day; Yana was inspecting her armour; Wess was apparently asleep; and Pyke was holding forth as he usually did.

  ‘Gonna get us all killed, the officers running this circus.’

  Dim roused himself to shade his eyes. ‘Why’s that?’

  The squad corporal gave the big Bloorian recruit a sneer of lazy contempt. ‘Don’t got us any squad mages, do we? Or healers or priests worth the name.’

  ‘Maybe they’re aware of that,’ Yana drawled without looking up from rubbing the rust from the mail of one sleeve.

  A spasm of irritation twisted the man’s face and he glared down from the duffels and crates he reclined on. ‘Then maybe they should do something about it!’

  ‘Maybe they have – why should they tell you?’ she said distractedly, and scoured the mail with a handful of sand she kept in a pouch.

  Pyke just made a face; he narrowed his gaze on Len, who was peering out over the gunwale, line in hand. ‘And what about you, Len? Still think we’re headed for Korel?’

  ‘It’s a good bet,’ the saboteur answered, his voice hushed, as if a fish were close to his bait of old rotting leather.

  ‘Ha! A pail of shit, that’s what that is! Korel! Might as well jump over the side with a stone tied round your neck right now. Save the Marese the trouble of doing it for you later. You lot are fools. No one’s gotten through that blockade.’

  ‘Some have,’ Len answered, still hushed.

  Pyke again pulled a mocking face and this time his gaze settled on Suth. ‘What about you, Dal Hon? What’s your name again? Sooth? Hello? You speak Talian?’

  A number of responses occurred to Suth as he crouched, testing his balance against the motions of the ship, and alternately tensing one arm, then the other. The traditional jamya dagger sheathed at his side thrown into the man’s neck was one. But murdering a fellow soldier – no matter how irritating – would get in the way of his testing himself against whichever enemy they were to face. And so he exhaled, easing the muscles of his shoulders, and said without looking up: ‘There is much running of vomit and faeces on board this ship. Please stop adding to it.’

  Pyke, a native of Tali, just gaped a moment, uncomprehending. Then Dim chortled, having sorted his way through the comment, and the corporal leapt from the piled equipment, drawing a fighting knife from the rear of his belt. ‘Ignorant Dal Hon! I’ll teach you respect.’

  Suth straightened as well. His curved jamya blade slipped easily from its oiled ironwood sheath. ‘Your constant chatter bores me.’

  ‘Give them room!’ Yana bellowed, straightening and using her armour to push back the crowd.

  Word spread like an alarm through the hundreds of men and women gathered on the deck and they jostled for a view, climbing the piled crates and bales and lining the upper decking. So far no one had managed to force his or her way through to put a stop to the confrontation.

  Pyke made a show of pointing the straight blade. His dark eyes were wide with a silky love of violence. ‘Talk? How ’bout if I cut your tongue out?’

  Suth just bent his knees, arms spread. So far Pyke had squirmed out of every drill, ducked any practice, and shirked all work details. But he was a tall fellow, solidly built, a veteran of combat. And he gave every appearance of being experienced in killing – but so was Suth. This sort of one-on-one challenge was his specialty; he’d grown up practising it with his friends – and rivals – every day. What was new to him was all this Malazan organized soldiering.

  ‘Put them away!’ a new voice bellowed.

  Suth edged sideways. Sergeant Goss had pushed his way into the cleared circle. Since the corporal gave no indication of complying, Suth chose not to as well. Goss pointed to Pyke. ‘Do I have to say that twice?’

  Scowling, Pyke straightened, let his arms fall. ‘This recruit needs a lesson, sergeant.’

  ‘Knifing him won’t give it.’ Goss turned on Suth. ‘Put that away, trooper.’

  Suth complied.

  Goss raised his chin to the some three hundred infantry crowded on deck. ‘I know tempers are short. I know we’re all jammed in here like sheep with nothing to do. But the waiting’s near done. Remember, discipline is what will keep you alive! And …’ here the burly man lowered his voice, ‘on board ship naval punishment is the rule. And believe me … you don’t want to be whipped by the barbs of the daemon fish. You’ll wish you were dead. That’s all. Fall out.’

  As the crowd turned away the sergeant motioned his squad to him. ‘Pyke,’ he said, his voice even softer, ‘you are hereby stripped of rank—’

  ‘What!’

  Goss merely watched the taller man, his eyes almost lazy in their nests of wrinkles. He cocked his head ever so slightly. Pyke hunched, grumbling under his breath, ‘ … better off on my own …’

  ‘Yana—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’m not going to mother these apes.’

  Goss grunted his understanding. ‘Len, you have it.’

  ‘Many thanks,’ the older saboteur answered, sounding far from pleased.

  ‘That’s all.’ Suth and the others saluted; Pyke merely flicked his hand as he turned away.

  After a lunch of fish, hot grain porridge, and fruit fresh from the island, Suth sought out Len. At least, he reflected, these Malazans were making sure they ate well before being thrust into whatever in the Abyss awaited them …

  He found that the saboteur had returned to his fishing. ‘Catch anything?’

  ‘Nothing edible. All the fish off the coast of this D’rek-damned island are poisonous – just like the spiders.’

  ‘What do you know of the sergeant?’

  ‘Goss?’

  ‘Yes. Everyone’s wary of him. We’re more crowded here on board this ship than a herd of thanu at a river crossing. I have to fight my way to get anywhere. I’ve watched him walk the deck here – everyone gets out of his way.’

  Len turned to face him, set his elbows on the gunwale. Gulls and other seabirds swooped and dived over the waves between the anchored troop transports, squabbling over the trash and leavings cast overboard. Though it was nearing winter the sun’s heat prickled Suth’s back and chest. Growing up he’d rarely worn any sort of shirting; now Malazan military standardization had him and everyone in thick long-sleeved jerkins of wool, felt, leather or layered linen – the undergarments of their heavy armour.

  ‘Goss, hey?’ the old saboteur repeated thoughtfully, and he rubbed the crushed and uneven left side of his throat and jaw responsible for his hoarseness. ‘All I know is talk. Rumour. You know how it is. All kinds of stories get bandied about but no one really knows anything. Anyway, he’s served all his life and now he’s pushing fifty. Thing is, he’s new to the regulars. So, question is … what outfit was he with all that time?’ The man offered Suth a wink. ‘Some think maybe the Claw.’

  The Claw. Imperial assassins. Trained slayers. These soldiers spoke of them with awe and fear. For his part Suth yearned to test himself against one. He nodded his understanding. ‘That saboteur lieutenant, Urfa. She called him “Hunter”.’

  ‘That’s right. The old hands, that’s their code for a Claw.’

  Suth scanned the crowded deck; amidships room had been cleared for close-order drills and shield work. A detail was check
ing for rot in the sails of the three-masted vessel.

  Len yawned expansively. ‘But it’s all talk. No one knows for sure. And he’s not saying.’

  Across the way Suth caught Pyke watching. The man pointed as if still gripping his blade, and smiled a promise. Suth just looked away; it was his experience that those who made the most show and bluster were the least dangerous.

  ‘Listen,’ Len tapped him on the chest and raised his chin in the direction Suth was staring, ‘don’t worry about Pyke. He would’ve ridden you until you broke. Now he knows he can’t.’

  Too bad. I’ve been too long without practice. ‘And the little meanlooking one, Faro?’

  ‘Faro?’ Len waved his disgust. ‘Faugh! The man’s wanted for murder in more cities and provinces than I can name. He just loves to pick fights and knife people. You stay out of his way.’

  ‘Yet he listens to Goss.’

  ‘Yeah … strange, that.’ And the saboteur offered a sly sidelong glance before returning to his fishing.

  That night their squad had the last watch. Pyke didn’t even report. Wess showed up but promptly lay down among the piled equipment and went back to sleep. Lard was still on punishment detail for brawling. Suth had arrived on deck to find Len already fishing; best time of day for it, the saboteur had whispered hoarsely. That left him, Keri, Yana and Dim. Faro, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Suth didn’t mind standing alongside Keri and Yana, both veterans. But Dim – well, it wasn’t his fault, but the man was just painfully dim.

  The water with its moods was alien to him, growing up as he had on the plains of Dal Hon. There, one’s ears were as important as one’s eyes – more so of course in the night. Dawn came differently as well, a distant flame-orange glow gathering across the sea’s clouded east and a diffuse bluish light all around. The bay was calm, as was the slate-grey expanse of Reacher’s Ocean beyond. A mild wind brought the surge of the heavier surf out beyond the bay. Cordage shifting and the planking of the ship’s hull creaking sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness. From another of the anchored vessels five bells rang.