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

  Bars picked up the blade still at his feet, turned, and pointed at Corlo.

  Rather than thrilling Corlo the gesture terrified him. I am a dead man. If not the Riders, then my own commander. I am so sorry, Bars.

  The Chosen grunted his relief. ‘Good. I was worried there, for a moment. Threat of death always brings them round. Half-detachment stand down! Warm your bones! You two as well,’ he added, indicating Corlo and Hagen.

  As they shuffled to the nearest tower, Hagen leaned down to Corlo, who dragged along behind. ‘Very impressive. Your man reminds me of the fellow who was Champion before me – though he has not the man’s elegance. He was Malazan too. They called him Traveller. Do you know him?’

  Corlo shook his head, hardly listening, feeling that he would vomit with self-loathing. ‘No. I don’t know anyone named Traveller.’

  ‘No? Too bad. If anyone deserved fame, he did. I would face anyone with sword, axe, or spear, but not that fellow.’ The Toblakai leaned closer, glancing left and right. ‘He escaped, you know,’ he whispered hoarsely, and winked.

  Corlo could not muster any interest in the man’s hints. From what I have done, Hagen of the Toblakai, there is no escaping.

  Closer to the wall’s centre sections, the door to a minor tower crashed open to admit two Chosen Stormguard aiding Hiam, the Lord Protector. They sat him next to a roaring fire. One pulled off the man’s helm, poured a glass of steaming tea. The other yanked off ice-layered gauntlets to rub the pale clawed hands.

  ‘He stood two shifts in the thick of it,’ said Shool, crouched, rubbing the man’s hands.

  ‘Come and get me next time!’ Wall Marshal Quint snarled.

  ‘I had his back!’

  ‘Quit bickering,’ Hiam slurred through numb lips. ‘I am fine.’

  Gaze slitted, Quint canted his head to the door. Shool nodded. Aside, Quint rounded on the younger man. ‘You do not allow this to happen,’ he hissed, outraged.

  ‘I cannot order him—’

  ‘Then get me! Send word! Anything.’

  ‘He’s determined—’

  ‘I know. But standing to the end is my job right now, not his. We can’t afford to lose him. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The older man’s scarred face softened, and he brushed melting ice and rime from Shool’s cloak. ‘It’s too early for this, yes? Wait for the midseason bonfires and the high-water bore. Let’s not all call for the Lady’s Grace yet, hey?’

  A curt nod from Shool, who was hardly able to stand himself.

  ‘Very good. That’s the extent of it, you know – my sympathetic side. From now on it’s the butt of my spear for you lot and the business end for the Riders, yes?’

  The lad managed a half-smile. ‘Aye, Wall Marshal.’

  ‘Good. We’re done here.’ Quint pulled on his helm then yanked open the door, admitting a blast of frigid wind and a swirl of snow, and stamped off to the ramparts.

  Shool heaved the thick door shut behind him. Yes, old spear, there will no doubt be time for the Lady’s Grace. I can see it in the eyes of all the brothers and sisters. We may yet all be calling on the Lady before this season’s end.

  CHAPTER V

  And so the people came to the land promised and set aside for them by the Blessed Lady from time immemorial. And they found it empty, virgin, and unspoilt, but for the wild peoples who lived like animals upon it and knew not Her name. And so the people brought to these wild folk Her name with flame and with sword. And they were enlightened.

  Excerpt from The Glorious History of Fist

  Compiled in the Cloister of Banith

  DEVALETH STOOD PEERING OUT OF ONE OF THE LARGE GLAZED windows of Nok’s cabin on board the Star of Unta. Rain lashed the glazing, obscuring her view of the dim evening light and the vessels rising and falling out amid the great iron-blue rollers. Yet they called to her, the gathered mages of Ruse out there. How the Warren beckoned! She just had to reach out … they would all know then, of course. And they would mass against her and she would not last an instant.

  For the last three days and nights Greymane’s expeditionary force had been losing ships to Marese predation. It had become a continuous running engagement of sudden ramming and retreat into the heaving waves.

  Greymane’s divisional Fists, Shul and the nobleman Rillish, had withdrawn to their own vessels. Greymane had asked her – his ‘sea-witch’, he called her – to remain with him and the Adjunct, Kyle, on board the flagship. Reports streamed in of these darting Marese attacks, and every dawn the list of lost vessels mounted. ‘Morale?’ Nok had asked one Malazan captain come in from the convoy rear. The woman shook her head. ‘We understand orders not to pursue or engage, Admiral. But … it’s hard to just sit there and wait for them to take us like ripe fruit.’

  This evening Nok leaned over his desk, charts flat beneath his palms. His long white hair hung down, obscuring his lined face. ‘Prevailing winds will remain out of the north-west?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By now, I presume,’ he continued, straightening, and pushing back his hair, ‘any fleet would have bunched up, ready for slaughter, or been torn apart in countless minor engagements.’

  Devaleth glanced to Greymane, a dark shape hunched in a chair, leaning forward, thick forearms on his knees. ‘Yes.’ She remained fascinated by the man, unable to take her eyes from him.

  ‘Then,’ Nok gestured to an aide, ‘let us not disappoint.’ To the aide: ‘Send my compliments to Admiral Swirl. Have him direct the Blues’ warships to begin forming up.’

  ‘Yes, Admiral.’ The aide departed.

  She’d been leaning against a wall, her arms across her wide chest. She watched the aide go, frowned her disquiet. ‘Admiral … with all due respect … no one has ever defeated we Marese at sea.’

  ‘That was never our intent,’ Greymane said from his dark corner seat.

  The young Adjunct’s face echoed Devaleth’s own confusion – this was news to him as well. Greymane sat forward, the chair creaking ominously beneath his bulk. ‘Nok and I are in accord on this. Only a fool attacks an enemy where he or she is strong. Such a fool deserves to fail.’

  ‘But the battle order …’

  ‘The Blues will form a wedge between the Marese and us,’ Nok explained. ‘A skirmish line, or flying chevron, call it what you will. They will engage.’

  ‘While you …’

  ‘The transports, with a few Blue vessels, will punch through and head for the coast.’

  Devaleth was shaking her head, horrified. ‘The losses …’

  ‘I am charged to secure this front for the Empire,’ rumbled Greymane. ‘And I intend to do that. One way. Or another.’

  But she was not convinced. ‘You don’t understand what you are facing, High Fist. To you Malazans the “Warren of Ruse” is a forgotten mystery. We of Mare have never forgotten it. And it is more than a Warren of power to us. It is our religion. Every Mare vessel is sanctified to Ruse. Every vessel carries a priest-mage sworn to Ruse. The rowers and crew are all initiates. Every board and rope is bound by ward and ritual to the will of the captain. High Fist … our vessels cannot be sunk.’

  ‘If we are going to sink, Devaleth,’ Greymane said, low and precise, ‘then why are you with us?’

  ‘High Fist …’ Nok objected.

  But she raised a hand, accepting the blunt question. ‘Fair enough. You have been to the region, High Fist. You know why I am returning. ’

  ‘I may. But I want to hear it from you.’

  She felt a tight grimace twisting her face. ‘The cult of the Lady. It must be confronted. It is a sickness upon us.’ In the gloom, Greymane was nodding his agreement. ‘Do you know, High Fist,’ Devaleth continued, musing, ‘why your Malazan invasion failed in the first place?’

  ‘No.’

  Almost hoarse with the strength of her emotion, she ground out: ‘It is because our lands have already been conquered. We just don’t realize it.’

  Kyle, she saw,
shared a look with the High Fist and something eased within her chest. They know. Somehow, they understand.

  ‘Devaleth …’ Greymane began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remain with the Admiral. Give him all the help you can for the coming battle.’

  She flinched, considered explaining how outnumbered she was – thought better of it – bowed curtly. ‘Yes, High Fist.’

  Greymane gestured to Kyle. ‘And you …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The assault. I want you with them in case there’s trouble.’

  ‘Me? What of you?’

  ‘I will be with the last transport.’

  ‘What? The Marese will pick you off!’

  ‘Kyle … consider the men. It won’t look like flight if my banner is with the rearguard.’

  ‘Admiral, talk some sense into him.’

  Carefully pouring himself some wine while the vessel rolled and heaved, Greymane was almost chuckling. ‘The Admiral, Kyle, agrees.’

  The youth sent a wordless appeal to Devaleth but she shook her head; she agreed as well. The least hopeless of all the hopeless options, it seemed to her.

  Kyle stared from man to man, unable to find the words. The two commanders exchanged amused looks. Finally Kyle waved his disgust. ‘Lunatics – both of you!’ He stormed out.

  Bowing, Devaleth followed.

  Alone, the two were quiet for a time; Nok accepted a glass from Greymane. ‘Your Adjunct,’ Nok said, savouring the drink. ‘Are you sure the lad is up to the job?’

  Greymane swallowed, then frowned over his answer, considering how to reply. Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘Nok … I tell you this in all trust. Kyle is from Assail.’

  The old Admiral straightened, his eyes widening. ‘That is impossible. ’

  ‘I was with the Crimson Guard when it slunk its way wide south of Assail lands. Kyle was recruited then. He’d come down from the north.’

  ‘There’s so much I would ask … What of the Imass?’

  But the High Fist was shaking his head. ‘No. He’s just a tribesman. He knows nothing of wars or fighting further north. Although …’ and here the High Fist looked away, thoughtful, ‘there were three lads – friends of his – I believe they knew more of what was going on up north. They kept damned mum about it all, understandably.’

  Nok raised his glass. ‘One mystery at a time then.’

  Greymane answered the salute. ‘Yes. A slow fighting retreat, yes? Give us all the time you can, Admiral.’

  The old man smoothed his white moustache, grinning. His eyes, deep in their nest of wrinkles, flashed an almost fey anticipation. He extended a hand. ‘Until we meet again on the west coast.’

  Laughing, Greymane took the hand as hard and dry as wood. ‘Until then, Admiral.’

  A shake of his foot woke Suth. The hold was almost completely black.

  ‘Collect your kit,’ Goss’s voice whispered from the dark. ‘We’re shipping out.’

  Suth grunted his acknowledgement. He swung from his hammock, began pulling his gear together. Around him the 17th stirred to life.

  He’d been thrown around below and so he knew what to expect when he climbed up on to the deck. Tall waves crashed into the Lasana, sending a biting spray across his face. Beside him a sailor was ordering a coil of rope. ‘There would be a storm, wouldn’t there?’ he said to the fellow.

  The sailor looked up. He was chewing a great wad of something that he spat out. He glanced around at the low slate-grey clouds, the heaving rough seas. ‘Call this a storm?’

  Smart arse. The 20th was gathered at the port rail. Suth carefully edged his way over. Next to the tall Lasana a small launch was struggling to come alongside. The waves alternately threw it up then dropped it suddenly and the waters threatened to suck it under the Lasana’s hull. On board, Blue marines used poles to fend it away from the giant transport. Sailors from the Lasana threw down rope ladders. ‘After you!’ one shouted gaily to the gathered heavies, laughing.

  A trooper sent the man an evil eye.

  ‘Hey, Yana!’ a woman from the 20th yelled: Coral, its sergeant. Suth glanced back to see Yana running up. ‘This is stupid! We want a cradle.’

  ‘What’s the hold-up?’ Yana asked, her eyes puffy with sleep.

  ‘Ha! Very funny. We should have a cradle for this.’

  ‘Fuck, I hate all this fucking water,’ someone said next to Suth. Surprised, he glanced down to see Faro. Though the small man wore heeled boots, he barely came up to Suth’s shoulder. He held his pipe in his teeth, unlit, and wore a loose dark jacket over a vest and shirt. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said mostly to himself, set both gloved hands on the rail, and promptly vaulted over.

  A horrified shout went up from everyone crowding the rail. Suth threw himself forward to peer down. The man was hanging from a rope ladder, being knocked about, swinging wildly.

  ‘Who in Hood’s name is that?’ someone said.

  ‘One of Goss’ boys.’

  ‘His pet knife.’

  ‘Get hisself killed.’

  The Blue marines allowed the launch to lurch closer. Faro let go and flew, landing and rolling in the broad belly of the launch.

  ‘Blast it!’ Coral snarled. ‘Bring rope! Tie your gear to ropes.’

  One by one the squads lowered bundled gear until the wide belly of the launch was fairly covered. Then they descended by rope ladder. By the end, the launch was riding insanely low in the rough seas. The Blues pushed off and set long sweeps. They gestured that everyone should lend a hand. Some thirty men and women scrambled to help, displaying more eagerness than they had the entire journey.

  They crossed to a Blue vessel waiting nearby. Troopers were climbing netting hung at its sides while launches bobbed like insects and empty ones were being raised. Despite his fear of either drowning or being dashed to pieces, Suth was curious to see the inside of one of these ships. Eventually their turn came, but not soon enough for some of the men and women, who had thrown themselves to the sides, heaving up their guts.

  Suth waited in line for the dangerous task of climbing the netting. When he finally pulled himself up on to the decking he lay soaked and exhausted. Their gear followed, heaved up on ropes. They collected their kits then were directed below decks to quarters. Rain lashed down now, as cold as ice. A Blue marine directed them to the companionway. On the way Len, next to Suth, touched his shoulder then brought a finger to his eye, glancing aside. Suth followed the man’s gaze to where a soldier leaned against the side, arms crossed. He was a young fellow, broad with a long moustache, in a sheepskin jacket under thick cloaks.

  ‘The Adjunct,’ Len murmured. It was the first Suth had seen of him. ‘Some say he’s Greymane’s hatchet-man.’ Suth merely grunted, knowing nothing of him. ‘Maybe he’ll lead the landing.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s here to execute anyone who holds back,’ said Pyke, who’d come abreast of them.

  ‘Then I guess that would be you,’ said Len, aside.

  Suth laughed out loud as they took the stairs.

  Like a curtain of night a dust storm hung in the distance, cutting the horizon in half. It was, Kiska finally decided, strangely beautiful in its own stark way. She had no idea how much time she’d spent watching the front’s grave, stately advance across the far plain. An afternoon? A day? Two days? Who was to know here in Shadow? Or were these even the right questions to ask?

  Her companion in their unofficial captivity lay curled up asleep, or at least pretending. He was good at both: relaxing and pretending. She saw him as a natural hunter, with that ability to wait indefinitely for prey to wander by, while the pretending part was all the camouflage necessary. Indeed, so far he had learned much more about her than the reverse.

  And on that note … Kiska turned from the narrow gap, adjusted her sore back on the jagged rock seating. She cleared her throat. ‘So … you fought against the invasion, then …’

  Jheval grunted the affirmative, stretched.

  The man is like a
cat.

  Blinking, he gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Did you face the Imass?’

  ‘Am I dead?’

  ‘Sorry. Silly question. Did you—’

  The man had raised a hand for silence. He rubbed his face, yawning. ‘No, an understandable question. Your Imass hold such a grip on your Malazan imagination. There was only Aren, really.’

  Kiska understood. It was shortly after the massacre at Aren that the dreaded undead army of Imass abandoned Imperial service to march off into the deserts west of the Seven Cities region. Everyone assumed it had to do with the transition from Kellanved, the Emperor, to Laseen, his successor. ‘But you fought …’

  ‘Oh, yes. I fought against you invaders.’ Jheval gestured vaguely, agreeing. ‘I was young, foolish. I thought I was so fast and skilled and smart that nothing could touch me.’

  He stopped there, staring off at the rock wall; perhaps reliving old memories. ‘And?’ Kiska prompted after a time.

  A shrug. ‘War taught me otherwise.’

  ‘You ran into someone smarter and more skilled than you?’

  He looked to her, quite startled. ‘Oh no. I haven’t met anyone smarter or more skilled than I.’

  Ye gods! Queen deliver me from this man’s overweening vanity! ‘So what did happen, then?’ she asked, rather drily.

  ‘I saw that such qualities were mostly irrelevant in war. Chance. It all just comes down to dumb chance. Whether you live or die. Chance. The tossed siege boulder crushing the man next to you. The arrow shot high into the sky coming down through your shoulder armour without breaking your skin. The half-strength patrol running into a party even smaller than it.’ Jheval made a wave through the air as if tossing something away. ‘So it goes. Some fall, some are spared. But not for any good reason.’

  Such a cold and futile view of life made Kiska shudder. ‘Surely the gods decide …’

  ‘ … who lives and who dies?’ Jheval canted his head, looking pensive. ‘We are trapped here, so it would be best not to argue … But from what I have seen the gods do not decide anything. Oh, certainly they intervene occasionally, when it suits their purposes, but otherwise I think they are as bound by happenstance as we. And you know what?’ He looked to her, knitted his fingers across his waist. ‘I find that endlessly reassuring.’