Bakune forced himself to ask, ‘By whose authority?’
The Guardians shared a surprised glance. ‘By order of Abbot Starvann, of course.’
Bakune swallowed hard, but pressed on: ‘And by what authority does the Abbot intervene in civil affairs?’
One Guardian stepped down from the threshold. He held his stave sideways across his body. ‘You are Assessor Bakune?’
Bakune managed a faint, ‘Yes.’ His hands were damp, cold, useless things at his sides.
‘You will come with me.’
The Guardian started down the street. Bakune hesitated. Why should he cooperate? But then, what else could he possibly do? Should he run? Where? Be dragged kicking and blubbering down the street? How undignified. The Guardian stopped, turned back to peer at him. He set his stave to the cobbles with a sharp rap of its iron-bound heel. To cover his panic, Bakune drew out his lined gloves and took his time pulling them on. When he had finally finished tugging each finger, his heart had slowed and he had reconciled himself to what was to come. As he approached the Guardian he even managed to say evenly, ‘Cold this morning, yes?’
The man turned away without replying.
After two turns the Guardian’s destination became clear to Bakune and his panic took hold of him once more. The Carceral Quarters. Of course. Where else for an undesirable such as himself? Despite the biting wind out of the west, sweat pricked his brow and he dabbed at it with the back of a glove. More Guardians at the thick armoured doors to the Carceral Quarters. The City Watch was no longer in charge of maintaining order. Bakune’s heart sank; not for himself, but for his city, his country. They were sliding back into the ancient age of superstition and religious rule. All the strides of civilization over the last few hundred years were being swept away by this crisis.
In the halls Bakune was handed over to a priest, who, with obvious distaste, looked him up and down. ‘You are Assessor Bakune?’
‘Yes.’
The priest gestured him on. Two Guardians walked behind, staves stamping the stone flags in time. He was led past many galleries of cells to one far beneath the holding areas reserved for common thieves and murderers. Bakune’s stomach tore a bite out of his innards with every turn and every staircase down. What a fool he’d been! Karien’el had as much as urged him to run! Looking back now, it seemed as usual that Karien’el had done all the work to lead him to the obvious, self-serving decision, which he had then mulishly refused. The priest opened the door to the cell and stood by it. The Assessor could not move; was this it then? The end for him? Would he obligingly walk in like a calf to the slaughter? A Guardian stepped close behind, set his stave down hard in a stamp that echoed harshly within the narrow passage. Almost unable to breathe, Bakune wiped a gloved hand down his face, and then straightened. No! No weakness! He would show these fanatics how a civilized man, a man of true ethical principles, behaved. He stepped up next to the priest, met his eyes and nodded. ‘Very well. Since you leave me no choice.’
The priest slammed the door shut behind him.
Facing what he had thought was to be his prison for perhaps the rest of his – presumably short – life, Bakune halted, startled, because it was not a cell. It was a courtroom. His heart clenched and his innards twisted; the Lady was not done with him. She was not content that he should quietly disappear in the confusion of all this upheaval and panic.
It was to be a trial. Signed confession. Public disapprobation. The courts divine would legitimize themselves by discrediting the courts civil. Very well. The good opinion of the public had never been his obsession. Quite the opposite, in fact.
A long table ran along one wall, and behind it sat three tall chairs. My judges. A single, much poorer chair faced the table from the other side. Bakune sat in this, crossed one leg over the other and carefully folded and smoothed his robes. He pulled off his gloves, clasped his hands on his lap. And waited.
Shortly thereafter many men came marching up the passage. The door clattered open. In walked another priest, this one much fatter and older, wearing the starburst symbol of Our Lady. He was vaguely familiar. The priest’s brows rose upon seeing Bakune. ‘My dear Assessor! Not there!’ Bakune placed him: Arten, Chief Divine of the Order of the Guardians of the Faith. Abbot Starvann’s second. This court was to have a seal of the highest authority. Chuckling, Arten invited Bakune to move to the other side of the table. ‘Here, if you would. On my right.’
Bakune could only stare up at the man. The other side of the table?
Arten repeated his invitation. Guardians now stood waiting at the door, someone in chains between them: a short, extremely stocky figure. Bakune rose shakily to his feet. Arten shepherded him round the table. ‘There you are. Very good.’ He nodded to the Guardians, who entered.
Bakune sat, blinking, quite shocked, while the prisoner was seated opposite, armed Guardians flanking him. Bakune took the time to study him. He was well past middle age yet still quite powerful, with burly shoulders and chest. But the man’s most striking feature was the faded blue facial tattooing of some sort of animal. A boar – so the man was, or had been, sworn to that foreign god … the boar … Fener! Lady, no. Could this be he? That foreign priest Karien’el had mentioned?
The priest who had first escorted Bakune now sat on Arten’s left. ‘Brother Kureh,’ Arten addressed him, ‘would you read the charges?’
Kureh drew a sheaf of parchments from within his robes, sorted through them, and then cleared his throat. ‘Defendant … would you state your given name?’
The man smiled, revealing surprisingly large canines. ‘As of now,’ he ground out in a rough voice, ‘I take the name Prophet.’
‘Prophet,’ Kureh repeated. ‘Prophet of what?’
‘A new faith.’
‘And does this new faith have a name?’ Arten asked.
The man regarded Arten through low heavy lids. ‘Not yet.’
‘And which degenerate foreign god does it serve?’
‘None … and all.’
Kureh threw down the parchments. ‘Come, come. You make no sense.’
The man lifted and let fall his shoulders, his chains clattering. ‘Not to your blinkered minds.’
Kureh glared his rage. Arten raised a hand for a pause. ‘Pray, please educate us.’
The man sighed heavily. ‘All paths that arise from within partake of the divine.’
Arten nodded, smiling. ‘True. And Our Lady is that divine source.’
Here the man revealed his first burst of emotion as his mouth drew down in disgust. ‘She is not.’
It seemed to Bakune that the man could not be trying harder to commit suicide.
Kureh slammed his hands to the table. ‘I for one have heard enough!’
Arten sadly shook his head. ‘Yes, brother. A disturbing case. There is almost nothing we can do for such delusion. We can only pray the Lady grant him peace.’ He regarded the man for a time, drew a breath as if reluctant to continue. ‘You give me no choice but to broach the distasteful subject of your implication in the murder of a young girl last week. Possessions of yours were found with the body—’
‘Convenient,’ the man sneered.
‘And witnesses …’ Arten gestured to Kureh, who raised papers, ‘have attested under oath to seeing you with the girl that evening. How do you plead?’
‘Disgusted.’
‘You remain defiant? Very well. The papers, Kureh.’ Brother Kureh slid a few sheets and a quill and inkpot to Arten, who signed the papers then slid them along to Bakune. ‘Assessor, if you would please …’
Bakune examined the sheets. As he suspected: a death sentence calling for public execution. The charge, murder. He set them back on the table. ‘I cannot sign these.’
Arten slowly swung his head to look at him. ‘Assessor Bakune … I urge you to give due consideration to your position. And sign.’
Knowing full well what he was about to do to his own future, Bakune drew a weak breath and managed, ‘I see no compelling
evidence of guilt.’
‘No evidence!’ Kureh exploded. ‘Have you not been sitting here? Have you not heard him self-confessed from his own mouth? His utter lack of seemly repentance?’
‘Sign, Assessor,’ the Prophet urged. ‘Do not sacrifice yourself on my account.’
‘The accused is dismissed!’ Arten roared, and pointed to the door.
The Guardians marched the man out. Arten rose to stand over Bakune. ‘I am disappointed, Assessor. Surely it must be clear to you that what we require is merely your cooperation in these few small matters. Give us this and you may return to your insignificant civil affairs of stolen apples and wandering cows.’
Bakune blinked up at the man. He clasped his hands to stop their shaking. ‘I do not consider the life of a man a small matter.’
‘Then I suggest, Assessor, that you spend your remaining time considering your own.’ He snapped his fingers and a Guardian entered. ‘Escort this man to his cell.’
‘Yes, Divine.’ The Guardian grasped hold of Bakune’s robes and pulled him to his feet, then marched him out. In the hall he glanced back to see the strange man, this Prophet, peering back at him as he was dragged off. And it was odd, but the man appeared completely unruffled. Bakune could not shake the impression that the fellow was allowing himself to be taken away.
‘That smoke in the distance there,’ Ivanr asked, gesturing to the northern horizon. ‘That all part of your big plan for deliverance?’
Lieutenant Carr had also been watching the north as they walked amid the dust of the main column, his expression troubled. Beneth’s rag-tag Army of Reform had reached the plains, which fell away, rolling gently to northern farmlands and the coast. To the east, they had passed the River White where it charged down out of the foothills bearing its meltwater to the bay. Burned cottages, the rotting carcasses of dead animals, and the blackened stubble of scorched fields was all that had greeted them so far. It seemed to Ivanr that the Jourilans would rather destroy their own country than see it given over to any other creed or rule.
They also met corpses. Impaled, crucified, eviscerated. Some hung from scorched trees. Many bore signs or had carved into their flesh the condemnation Heretic.
Ivanr knew that the advance scouts had passed these grim markers days ago, but Martal must have ordered them to remain untouched. At first the sight of the bodies and the vicious torture their torn flesh betrayed had horrified the untested volunteers of the army; many of the younger had actually fainted. As the days passed and the endless count of blackened, hacked bodies mounted, Ivanr saw that fear burn away, leaving behind a seething anger and outrage. His respect for this female general’s ruthlessness grew. It seemed odd to him that he’d never heard of her before. Where had Beneth found her? Katakan? He couldn’t think of any mercenary or military leader hailing from that backwater there in the shadow of Korel.
Carr waved the dust from his face. ‘There must be fighting in Blight.’
‘You think so?’
More Reform cavalry charged past, heading for the front of the straggling column. A small detail, only some forty horses. The sight reminded Ivanr of the Jourilan nobleman, Hegil, supposed commander of the army. So far all the man commanded was the cavalry. He seemed to share the Jourilan nobility’s contempt for infantry, judging the peasantry beneath his notice. But the vast majority of the Army of Reform was just those peasants – farmers and displaced burghers – and to them, if the army had any leader, it was Martal.
The potential for confusion or outright argument troubled him. An army was like a snake; it should not have two heads.
Ivanr and Carr’s place in the column reached a curve in a hillside offering a view east of the city of Blight and the Bay of Blight beyond. The city’s stone walls were tall. But now smoke wreathed them, billowing in plumes from almost everywhere within. It drifted inland, a great dark pall, driven by the prevailing wind that held from the north-east during this season of storms. The south gate gaped open, a dark invitation. The Army of Reform was ordering ranks before it. Seeing this, Ivanr cursed and pushed ahead. Carr followed.
Ivanr tracked Martal simply by keeping an eye on all the messengers coming and going. He found the woman mounted, surrounded by staff and bodyguards, dressed as always in her blackened armour, black boots and blackened gauntlets, her short night-dark hair touched with grey. Such martial imagery was all in keeping with some kind of legendary warrior-princess, until one saw her face: the lips full, yes, but habitually grim, drawn down as if constantly displeased; the eyes dark, but sharp and dismissive, not mysterious or alluring; and the nose what one would expect to see sported by some grizzled campaigner, canted and flattened. The Black Queen indeed.
A queen of war.
The guards allowed Ivanr and Carr through. When Martal finished with a messenger Ivanr cleared his throat. She nodded distractedly for him to speak.
‘You’re not going in there,’ he said, his disapproval clear.
A faint near-smile, her gaze scanning the broad columns of infantry. ‘No, Ivanr. We’re forming up. I’m told the adherents of the Lady are withdrawing to the north.’ She spared him a quick glance. ‘They need time to complete their flight.’
Ivanr grunted his appreciation. ‘You would burden the Jourilan Imperials with them.’
‘Yes. Why should we be the only force herding civilians along? The difference being ours fight.’
‘Once they withdraw the city will be ours,’ Carr said, triumphant.
‘So we’ll own a burned-out ruin,’ Ivanr added, sour.
Martal was reading a scrap of vellum brought in by a messenger. Its contents twisted her lips into an ugly scowl. ‘For Hegil,’ she told the messenger, who snapped his reins and charged off. She blinked now at Carr as if seeing him for the first time. ‘If we own it already, Lieutenant, then we can ignore it.’
‘You mean to just go round,’ Ivanr breathed, impressed.
‘In conquering a nation, squatting in the towns and cities is the surest route to failure.’
Ivanr’s breath caught. He eyed the woman anew, her heavy outland armour of iron bands over mail, black-lacquered, battered by years of service. That opinion had the sound of quoted text. ‘What would you know of conquering nations?’
The woman merely smiled. But it was not a reassuring smile; it spoke of secrets and a dark humour. She pointed a gauntleted hand to the west. ‘Jourilan lancers are harassing our flank. That would be the 10th Company, the Green Wall. Your lads and lasses, yes, Carr, Ivanr?’
The two exchanged alarmed looks. ‘Gods beyond, Martal,’ Ivanr exploded. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ They pushed their way out of the ring of guards.
Tenth Company, which had selected the nickname the Green Wall, was formed up in a wide front, pikes and spears facing west. Beyond their ranks skirmishing Jourilan cavalry raced back and forth across open ground of burned fields. Edging his way through, Ivanr reached the front rank. He’d already collected a spear. ‘Lights,’ Carr said, drawing his sword. ‘They won’t press a charge.’
‘They’re pinning us down, though. Can’t advance. Where’s Hegil’s cav?’
Carr shrugged. ‘Occupied elsewhere, perhaps. We’ve few enough.’
‘Can’t just sit here. Martal’s damned wagons are about to roll up our backsides.’
Carr glanced behind: the entire mass of the Army of Reform was lurching west, groping its way round the city, about to run them over.
Ivanr straightened, taking a great breath. ‘Company! Broaden line! On my mark! Now!’ He watched to the right and left while the rows adjusted their spacing to allow an extra pace between them. It was one of the most difficult manoeuvres he’d covered with them. He’d never dare attempt it facing a body of heavies awaiting a chance for a charge. As it was, the movement caught the eye of the lights and they raced over, forming a chase line, swinging close, lances still held tall. Ivanr bellowed: ‘Company, brace!’ Carr raised his sword.
The flying chevron of lights charged obliquel
y across the line of the levelled pikes and spearheads. Lances and javelins flew. Men and women screamed, impaled. The clean line of bristling pikeheads shook, rattling. A second charge was swinging in behind the first. Ivanr fumed. Archers! Where was their support? They needed archers to drive these skirmishers off. ‘Steady, company! Brace!’
The second charge circled past. Another flight of javelins and lances drove ferocious punishment into the column. Ivanr saw the wall of pikes waver like wind-tossed grasses. ‘Steady, Lady damn you all! Break and you’re trampled!’
Then a wall of smoke came streaming down from the plumes overhead, obscuring everything. The thick greasy fumes stank of awful things. Things Ivanr didn’t want to imagine burning. He covered his mouth. Soot darkened his hands. Everyone was coughing and cursing. Blind to everything, he heard dropped pikes clattering to the ground. Somewhere in the dark horses shrieked their terror. He glimpsed a smudged light off to his right and staggered to it. Here in a small depression he found an old woman hunched over a smoking fire, blowing on the glowing brands.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
The old woman blinked up at him. She wore the tattered remains of layered wraps over frayed skirts. ‘Making lunch.’ She dropped handfuls of freshly cut green grass and green leaves on the fire. A great gout of white smoke billowed up.
‘Would you stop that!’
‘Stop it? I’m hungry.’
‘You’re making all this smoke!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. All this smoke is from the city.’
Carr came running up, waving the fumes from his face and coughing. ‘The cavalry has fled. The field is clear.’
Ivanr eyed the old woman crouched before the fire like a penitent, bony elbows sticking out like wings. She gave Ivanr a wink. ‘Horses, they say, are in a terrible fear of fire.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Sister Gosh.’
‘Well, Sister Gosh. If the Lady knew there was magery here on this field, you’d be a dead woman.’
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) Page 144