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

  Head down, lost in thought, he failed to note the row raging around Borun’s command position. If he had seen it he would have turned right round; as it was, he walked right into it. ‘You! Mage,’ someone demanded. ‘Talk some sense into your companion.’ Ussü looked up, blinking: a crowd of the Envoy’s officer and aristocratic entourage surrounded Borun. The Duke had spoken. Kherran, that was his name.

  ‘Yes, my Duke?’ Ussü asked mildly.

  ‘Remind him of his duty!’

  Ussü turned to Borun. ‘Well, Commander? Whatever is the matter? ’

  ‘It is now Envoy Enesh’s wish that the bridge be blown.’

  Ussü raised an eyebrow. Rather late for that. ‘I see. And?’

  A shrug. ‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

  ‘I see.’ Ussü turned to Duke Kherran. ‘You heard the man. You had your chance. Now it can’t be done.’

  The Duke advanced upon him, his round face darkening with rage. For a moment Ussü thought he would strike. Through clenched teeth he snarled, ‘We note you had sufficient munitions to mine the bridge earlier!’

  ‘That was earlier,’ Borun said, his voice flat. ‘Now, more importantly, what we do not possess is the bridge itself.’

  The Duke was almost beyond words in his frustration. He pointed to the structure. ‘Well … do it here! This end!’

  Borun waved the suggestion aside. ‘Inconsequential. The damage would be no more than that incurred on the far side. It could be repaired in a day. No, our only hope would be to seize the nearest shoreward pier and demolish it.’

  ‘Well? Do it!’

  ‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

  The man went for his weapon. He froze in the act, his chest heaving, gulping down air. ‘You two … You are deliberately frustrating our efforts! You wish us to fail! Overlord Yeull will deal with you!’ He gestured to the entourage. ‘Come!’

  ‘I strongly urge that all boats be pressed into a general withdrawal from the east shore,’ Borun called after the Duke.

  ‘Let it be on your head!’

  The Moranth commander watched them march off. ‘We will be blamed no matter what,’ he mused aloud.

  ‘Yes. But not to worry.’

  The matt-dark helm turned to him. Ussü could almost imagine the arched brow. ‘No?’

  ‘No. I have a feeling that we may count on the intervention of a higher authority.’

  The helm cocked sideways in thought. ‘Indeed.’

  Ussü entered the opened front of his tent. He searched among his herbs, touched a hand to his teapot: cold. ‘Hot water!’ he shouted. At the fire a servant youth leapt up to do his bidding. ‘So much for the imponderables, Borun. What of the practicalities? Do we withdraw?’ And Ussü glanced out of the tent. The Moranth commander was facing the river, armoured hands brushing his belt at his hips.

  ‘No.’

  Ussü was quite surprised. ‘Really? We relinquish one bank just to keep the other?’

  The commander entered the tent. He picked up a twist of dried leaves and brought them to his visor, took an experimental sniff. ‘Haste, High Mage. Speed. This quick dash to take the bridge. The forced march across Skolati. All these speak of a strategy for a swift victory. Yes?’

  From a meal set out for him Ussü tore a pinch of cold smoked meat. ‘Granted.’ The dirt, he noted, had been raked clean. Poor Yurgen, Temeth and Seel. Able apprentices, but all without even the slightest talent. What would he do for assistants now? He sighed. Ham-handed soldiers no doubt.

  Borun crossed his arms, leaned against the central table. ‘Then it is my duty to frustrate this strategy, no? I must impede, slow, delay. Disputing the crossing will effect that.’ He began pacing. ‘Oh, he may cross downstream, or upstream, but that would add weeks to his march. Not to his liking, I think.’

  ‘Very well. So we remain.’

  ‘Yes. And thus the question, High Mage … What can you contribute? ’

  Ussü popped the meat into his mouth, both brows rising. Ah. Good question. He cleared his throat. ‘I will need new assistants.’

  Bakune sat hunched forward on his elbows over his small table next to the kitchen entrance at the back of a crowded tavern. He was dressed in old tattered clothes, his dirty hair hung forward over his face and he kept one hand tight round the shot glass of clear Styggian grain alcohol. He studied that hand, the blackened broken nails. When was the last time he had been so dirty? If ever at all? Perhaps once, as a child, running pell-mell through these very waterfront streets.

  That night of the escape the Theftian priest might have had a boat waiting but neither he nor Bakune had anticipated the harbour’s being closed. No vessels allowed in or out. The gates of the city had been sealed as well. They might have escaped their cells, but they effectively remained imprisoned within Banith. Bakune was under no illusions; he was certainly not important enough to warrant these precautions, nor did he think the priest so. No, the posted notices revealed that these prohibitions against travel had been levelled more than ten days ago.

  The giant Manask, about whom Bakune had his doubts – after all, the man’s features betrayed none of the telltale markers of Elder blood, such as pronounced jaw, jutting brow, or deep-set eyes – had then bent down for a whispered conference with the priest. It was yet some time to dawn and the three occupied a narrow trashchoked alley close to the waterfront. While Bakune kept watch, the whispering behind him escalated into a full-blown shouting match with the two almost coming to blows. Only his intervention brought silence. The priest glowered, face flushed, while the cheerfulness the giant usually displayed was now clouded, almost occluded.

  Manask had turned to him, set a hand on his shoulder, and winked broadly. ‘You will wait here a time, then Ip—the priest will lead you to our agreed hiding hole. I myself must travel ahead by stealth and secrecy to make arrangements for our disappearance. Do not fear! These clod-footed Guardians will not track us down. For am I not the most amazing thief in all these lands? Come now, admit it, have you never seen anything like me?’

  ‘No, Manask. I admit that I have never seen anything like you.’

  The giant cuffed the priest. ‘There. You see?’ The priest just rolled his eyes. ‘And now … I must away into the gloom …’ and the giant backed down the alley, hunched low. ‘Disappear like smoke … like the very mist …’ He waved his hands before his face as if he were a conjuror, hopped round a corner. ‘There! And I am gone! Ha!’

  ‘Like a fart in the wind,’ the priest growled.

  Bakune never did find out just what the giant’s ‘arrangements’ constituted. The priest had merely slid down one dirty wall and sat for a time, arms hung over his knees. Then, after a while, he had stood, sighing, and motioned for the Assessor to follow. They walked the back alleys. It struck Bakune that the city was astonishingly quiet, the streets empty; there must be a curfew in place. Eventually the priest stopped at one slop-stained door. The alley was appallingly filthy here, littered with rotting food and stinking of urine. Cats scattered at their intrusion. The door scraped open and an old woman eyed them as if they themselves were no better than the rubbish they stood among. She pulled the door open a crack more and beckoned them in with a desultory wave.

  It was the kitchen of some sort of public house. The old cook kicked a bundle of rags in a corner and a child sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blinked at them. The woman picked up a butcher’s knife and motioned curtly. The girl nodded, and urged them to follow her. Behind them the heavy blade slammed into the chopping block.

  Bakune had since learned the girl’s name was Soon. Her plight pulled at his heart. To see her cuffed and kicked, forced to perform the dirtiest, most degrading tasks in the tavern, made him wince. True, she was half-blood, of the old indigenous tribes, but still it grated. The child was forced to do this work simply because she was small and weak and could not defend herself. It had never before occurred to him to be bothered by such a pedestrian tr
uth. Such was the normal way of the world: the powerful got their way – it was their prerogative.

  Perhaps seeing this principle demonstrated by a fist applied vigorously to the head of a child put a different perspective on it. A perspective that had not been available from his seat of office, or any courtroom.

  He spent his days here in the tavern, named the Sailor’s Roost, retreating at night to the room he shared with the priest and attempting to sleep through the shouts, the drunken brawls, and the shrieks of real pain and faked pleasure. As for the priest, the man hadn’t left the room since they first entered it. Of Manask he had seen no sign.

  Of course, if they wanted to sneak away, they could. The gates might be officially closed, vessels prohibited from sailing, the streets patrolled by the Guardians of the Faith, but the human urge to profit cannot so easily be suppressed. Already this night Bakune had overheard several arrangements for illegal shipments and deals to smuggle individuals in and out of the city. This tavern seemed a regular hotbed of black-market activities. He wondered why no cases involving it had ever come before him.

  Early on the priest had made it clear he had no intention of leaving. He would stay for reasons of his own that he would not discuss. He also told Bakune that he and Manask would do whatever they could to help him escape.

  Immediately his Assessor’s mind was suspicious of such generosity. ‘And why would you do so?’ he had asked.

  Sitting on his mattress of straw the priest had smiled his wide frog-like grin. ‘And why did you refuse to sign my death certificate? Who was I to you? A stranger. Nothing. Yet you helped me.’

  ‘I was merely following the dictates of my calling. It would not have been just.’

  The smile was swallowed by a sour glower. ‘Just,’ he grunted. ‘You are a man of principle and no hypocrite, and you have my respect … but it seems to me that your notion, and practice, of justice has been rather narrow and blinkered.’

  Bakune had no idea what the man meant. His brows crimped and he was silent for some time. Narrow? Had he not known – and enforced – the laws of the land all his life?

  ‘Manask and I can arrange to have you on a boat tonight.’

  Silent, Bakune shook his head in a negative.

  ‘No? You won’t go?’

  ‘I cannot leave.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Bakune smiled. ‘For reasons I’d rather not discuss.’

  The priest cocked a brow. ‘I see. So you will remain.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. Suit yourself. Who am I to tell you what to do?’

  Bakune eyed the man, uncertain. ‘So … I may stay?’

  ‘Yes. Certainly. You should be safe here.’

  ‘Well … my thanks.’

  Now, Bakune turned the shot glass in his hand and thought again about his reason for remaining. That he was free now to act as never before. More free even than when he was the city magistrate, its Assessor. Then, he’d been constrained on all sides. Now, yes, he was a fugitive, hunted, but he could do as he wished. He could pursue lines of inquiry and take actions he’d only dreamed of months ago. What consequences could he possibly be threatened with now? The Abbot and his Guardians through their actions had only escalated matters. As, of course, all confrontation does.

  From beneath his unwashed hair he watched the crowded room. Yes, he was safe here. The tavern catered to sailors and petty merchants – all now stranded and waiting for the Guardians to relax the curfew and the injunctions against movement.

  Men and women from all nations of the subcontinent mingled here; even some who might be hiding origins from beyond the Ocean of Storms. Surely, then, such a concentration of foreigners deserved the close scrutiny of the Guardians. Yet he saw no signs of their surveillance. Unless, of course, they were somehow even more subtle and discreet in their methods than Karien’el.

  Which, from what he’d seen so far, he very much doubted.

  He sipped the fiery near-pure alcohol and winced. Lady be damned! Why were there no laws against serving such poison? He was about to rise when two men thumped down at his tiny round table. At first he flinched, thinking: Invoke the Riders and they appear. Then he recognized the two slouched, stoop-shouldered, lazy-eyed men as the guards Karien’el had tapped to shadow him. His composure regained, he regarded them narrowly. ‘Yes?’

  The one with the darkest brows and a fat moustache pointed to his glass. ‘You gonna drink that?’

  ‘What do you two want?’

  ‘I want one of those,’ said the other.

  ‘Well you can’t have it ’cause it’s mine,’ said the first.

  ‘Neither of you—’

  ‘Just ’cause you asked first,’ the second pouted.

  ‘That’s right. I showed ’nitiative. That’s why I’m the captain.’

  ‘What do you two think …’ Bakune tailed off as the first guard took the shot glass between his thumb and forefinger and downed the entire drink. Then he carefully brushed back his ridiculous moustache to the right and left using the back of his hand, and sighed.

  Like a cat. And so, to Bakune’s mind, the man became Cat.

  The other, who was regarding his companion with a kind of sour resentment, Bakune couldn’t tag with a name. The fellow was pulling at his thick lower lip, his eyes on the now empty glass, and at last he offered, ‘You ain’t the captain of me.’

  ‘I’ll just be going then,’ Bakune said, half rising.

  ‘Don’tcha have orders?’ Cat said. Then, to his partner, he added, ‘Course I’m captain. Chain of command! Chaos otherwise.’

  ‘Orders?’ Bakune asked. Then he remembered: Karien had placed these two under his command. Lady, no! He was the commander of these cretins! He sat back down.

  Cat shrugged. ‘Just thought maybe you might on account of all the bodies.’

  ‘Bodies?’

  Stroking his moustache, Cat directed Bakune’s gaze to the empty glass. Giving a sigh of defeat, Bakune raised a hand to the tavernkeeper. The other fellow’s hand shot up as well. Bakune signed for two. He sat with arms crossed until the shot glasses arrived. The two raised the glasses. ‘Your health, ah, sir,’ said Cat.

  Bakune leaned forward. ‘Listen … what are your names anyway? ’

  ‘Puller,’ said the junior partner, wiping his wet lips.

  ‘Captain Hyuke at your service, sir,’ said Cat, his voice suddenly low and conspiratorial.

  ‘You’re no captain,’ Puller complained.

  Bakune used his thumb and forefinger to massage his brow. Blessed Lady! Puller and Hyuke? He preferred Cat and, what, Mole? ‘Listen … you two. No one’s captain until Karien gets back.’ The two exchanged knowing, sceptical looks. ‘So, how about sergeant, Hyuke … if you must?’

  Hyuke sat back grinning while he brushed his moustache. Then he cuffed his partner. ‘Hear that, Pull? I just made sergeant.’

  Bakune felt his shoulders sag.

  ‘’Nitiative,’ Hyuke added, nodding profoundly.

  Puller pouted into his glass.

  ‘So what was that about bodies then, Sergeant?’

  ‘Ah!’ Hyuke touched a finger to the side of his bulbous nose. ‘Been turning up at an awful rate. Used to be no more than one every few months, hey? Now it’s two a week.’

  Bakune felt himself clenching tight. A hot sourness bubbled up in his stomach. ‘Where?’ he said, his voice faint.

  ‘All over. Both male and female. All young, though.’

  Damn this monster, whoever he was! Taking advantage of the upheaval. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ He swallowed to wet his throat. Something took a bite out of his stomach.

  Hyuke was frowning at him. ‘You okay, Ass—ah, sir?’

  He waved a hand. ‘Yes. Now, are we safe here? Can we use this place?’

  Both nodded. ‘Oh, yes,’ Hyuke said. ‘Safe as the baker’s wife in the morning.’

  Bakune felt his suspicions stirring once more. ‘Why?’ he asked slowly.

  The partners e
xchanged uncertain looks. Hyuke opened his hands. ‘Because he’s busy baking …’

  Bakune just glared. Hyuke’s thick brows rose. ‘Ah! I see. On account this is Boneyman’s place.’

  ‘Boneyman … ?’

  The two watchmen shared another glance; it seemed they could communicate solely by looks alone. Hyuke shook his head. ‘Really, sir. You bein’ the Ass—ah … I’m surprised.’

  Bakune struggled to keep his face flat. ‘Please inform me. If you would be so kind.’

  ‘Boneyman runs the smuggling and the night market here in town, now that—’ Puller loudly cleared his throat, glaring, and Hyuke frowned, confused. Puller tilted his head to glance significantly to Bakune. Hyuke’s brows rose even higher. ‘Ah! Well … now that things have … changed …’ he finished, flustered.

  Bakune felt his gaze narrowing. Things have changed now, have they? Now that Karien’el has been marched off to war. So that was why so very few black-market cases ever came to me. So be it. All that is the past. The question is what to do now.

  ‘Things’ll be really bad next week,’ Puller complained.

  ‘How so?’ Bakune asked.

  The big stoop-shouldered fellow blushed, looking to his partner for help. Hyuke cleared his throat. ‘On account of the Festival of Renewal.’

  Of course! He’d lost all track of the time. The winter festival celebrating the Lady’s arising and our deliverance from the Stormriders! Banith will be crushed beneath pilgrims as usual – surely the Guardians will allow the shiploads of worshippers to dock! And the Cloister will be open to all devout as well. This monster will think he has a free hand that night. That’s when we will act! He nodded to his two men. ‘We’ll lie low until then.’

  Hyuke touched his finger to his nose. ‘Wise as a mouse in a kennel, sir.’

  Puller was frowning. ‘A kennel?’

  Hyuke leaned to him. ‘No cats.’

  The man’s round face lit up. ‘Oh yeah. Course!’

  Hyuke stood, brushed his moustache. ‘Thanks for the drink.’ He motioned to Puller, who remained slouched in his seat, unhappy again. ‘What?’