A tall and very thin man stood from behind a table and offered a brief bow. Bakune responded, mystified. Who was this? A secretary of some sort? Where was the Blue commander?
‘You understand Quon Talian?’ the man asked, sitting, and inviting Bakune to do the same.
Bakune bowed again. ‘Yes. It is the language of the ruling class here.’
‘You are the local magistrate … “Assessor”, I understand?’
Bakune sat. He eyed the man more closely: quite old but well preserved. A shock of pale white hair, white moustache and goatee; face and arms sun- and wind-darkened to the hue of ironwood. Bright sharp eyes that appeared … amused. ‘I am Assessor Bakune.’
‘Excellent. I am Admiral Nok. I command this Malazan naval unit.’
Nok? Now where had he heard that name before? And a regular Malazan in command? Not some Blue Admiral? Well … that was something at least.
‘First of all,’ the Admiral continued, ‘let me reassure you that the last thing we wish to do is interfere with day-to-day life here in Banith. I want that to be the message you will pass on to your people … that they should simply return to their normal routines and merely … ignore us.’
Ignore the enormous vessels blockading our harbour? You ask a lot, Admiral.
‘Secondly, I also want to reassure you and the people of Banith that we in no way wish to interfere with your local religious practices. You may continue to worship as you choose.’
Bakune struggled not to quirk a sceptical brow. Really? That flew in the face of everything he knew regarding these Imperials. Everyone agreed their goal was eradication of the Lady’s cult. A goal he himself had given no thought to prior to last night. He tried to keep all inflection from his voice as he murmured, ‘How very generous of you.’
The reply seemed to disappoint the Admiral, but he continued, hands clasped on the table before him, ‘We of course will require some small supplies and refitting: food, potable water, lumber, rope and such. You will supply a list of merchants and we will reimburse in Imperial script.’
That would make me popular … but I don’t have to tell anyone who supplied the list … would that count as collaboration? Bakune stirred uncomfortably, cleared his throat. ‘And your troops, sir? A billeting list?’
The Admiral waved the consideration aside. ‘The troops will remain on board our vessels for a time – to avoid any unnecessary tensions. However, there will be patrols.’
‘Of course.’
‘Very good. Then, we have reached an understanding. Our goal is to interfere as little as possible. The populace may even forget we’re here.’
I doubt that very much, Admiral. But we can always hope.
The Admiral stood, came round the table and invited Bakune to precede him out. Straightening, Bakune bowed and entered the hall. The Admiral, he noticed, had to hunch to avoid bashing his head in the companionway. On deck, Bakune was shown to the set of stairs hung over the side. Blue sailors moved about, handling gear, adjusting the sheets. Bakune passed an opening on to the hold and saw for an instant how empty it was. Where were these troops? Was this not a transport?
The Blues sailors with him urged him on and he stepped out on to the stairs. He bowed to the Admiral one last time, then firmly grasped hold of the rope guides and started down.
On deck Admiral Swirl came to Admiral Nok’s side at the gunwale. Together they watched the launch return to shore. ‘What do you think?’ Swirl asked.
Nok rolled his neck, easing the muscles. ‘Hard to say. Very guarded, that one.’
‘At least he was not overtly hostile.’
‘But no fool, either. I just hope we’ve bought enough time.’
‘How far away do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know.’ Nok scratched his moustache. ‘Frankly, I was half expecting him to be here already.’
The Blue Admiral nodded his helmed head, perhaps agreeing. ‘And the patrols?’
‘Four at first, let’s say. Two four-hour shifts.’
‘Reserve?’
‘A hundred marines at the pier.’
The Blue Admiral was nodding again. ‘That’s about all we can field … Let’s hope they don’t test us.’
Nok grasped hold of the gunwale, eyed the townscape. ‘They will. But let’s hope we’re out of here before then.’ He leaned his elbows on the wood and let out a long low breath into the icy wind. ‘We’re here, Greymane … but where are you?’
‘Well – would you look at that,’ Wess drawled while hunched behind his wide heavy-infantry shield. Kneeling behind his own shield, Suth ignored him. Len, whom they both covered, shushed the man as he untangled his line. A pink and gold dawn was brightening beyond the eastern hills. The three stood at the Ancy’s muddy shore.
It was their turn to go fishing.
For his part, Suth silently prayed to his entire inbred menagerie of Dal Hon gods that they get a bite right away. Any moment now the archers would catch sight of them and the torrent would begin. He reached down to select a water-polished stone from the shallows and stuck it in a cheek to suck on. It was an old trick to stave off hunger and thirst. Being of the Dal Hon, he was no stranger to want. He’d grown up through a number of droughts and lean times, so these last weeks of privation hadn’t hit him as hard as some. Likewise Wess, who never seemed to eat anyway; the man would just jam a ball of some resin or leaf into a cheek and he’d be good for the day. Lard, however, could hardly muster the strength to stand, while Pyke had disappeared – deserted, probably. Dim they’d lost in the defence of the bridge. Keri had taken an arrow in the side and lay in the infirmary tents. Yana was sick with the epidemic of the runny shits, which afflicted almost everyone in camp and added terribly to the general indignity of dying by degrees. Goss seemed unaffected, though his eyes were sunken and his cheeks behind the salt and pepper bristles were as hollow as caves.
‘You guys really should take a peek,’ Wess said.
‘Quiet,’ Len hissed, sotto voce.
Suth watched the water, seeking any slim darting shape. If only he held a sharp fishing stick now instead of this bulky shield.
‘Okay, but I gotta tell you—’
‘What?’ Suth cut in, glaring. Wess inclined his head towards the far shore. Suth scanned the slope; the lightening dawn was revealing the enemy – and themselves as well to the archers keeping watch on the shore. Smoke hung like mist, slowly drifting. Suth’s own breath plumed in the chill morning air. He examined the ranks. Something strange there … he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. ‘Something,’ he breathed.
‘Un-huh. No Moranth. Them Black bastards is gone. Their whole encampment’s picked up ’n’ flown.’
Len straightened. ‘What?’
Wess was right. Where the Moranth encampment had stood now stretched an empty field of churned-up mud.
Len started rolling up his gut fishing line. ‘Let’s go.’
‘They’ll all see in a minute,’ Wess objected.
An arrow hissed past them. ‘Now everyone can see,’ Suth cursed.
‘We haven’t caught a thing,’ Wess pointed out. ‘Unless we bring something to the pot we don’t get a share …’
Len shoved the line into a shoulder bag. ‘This is important.’
An arrow slammed into Wess’ shield, throwing him back a step. Len started backing away and Suth moved to cover him. Sighing, Wess followed. Outside bow range they met a crowd gathered along the shore, pointing and talking, and pushed their way through. Suth heaved the heavy shield on to his back. ‘We should report,’ Len said. Wess just rolled his eyes.
They crossed to where their squad had set up camp. Yana lay under an awning made from a tattered blanket. Goss sat before the blackened pit where they used to cook their meals when they had food and firewood.
‘The Moranth look to be gone,’ Len told Goss.
Goss nodded at the news. ‘So I heard.’
‘Good report there, Len,’ Wess said, lying down.
‘Now wh
at?’ Suth asked Goss.
A slow shrug from the man where he sat in his threadbare padded aketon. ‘Guess we’ll attack.’
‘Attack? Half of us couldn’t drag our backsides across the bridge.’
Goss pondered that for a time. ‘I hear they got lotsa provisions over on that side …’
‘If we controlled the river we could build weirs,’ Len added.
Suth was suddenly maddeningly hungry. It was as if the mere mention of a solid meal was enough to set his juices flowing. He almost said aloud how desperately famished he was, but refrained: those who mentioned that forbidden subject were looked on as if they were idiots. Who in the name of Togg and Fanderay isn’t, you horse’s arse? was the usual comment. He lay down to sleep, mumbling, ‘Let’s just get it over with.’
An aide summoned Devaleth to the command tent. It was still quite early; she hadn’t even broken her fast yet with a glass of thin tea. She finished dressing hurriedly and headed across camp, which was seething with the most commotion she’d seen in weeks. Was there to be a fresh assault? Or an attack? The bridge was quiet; rather, everyone was studying the far shore. Glancing over as well, she tried to see what was of such interest but couldn’t identify it.
She found Greymane and the Adjunct, Kyle, standing before the tent, scanning the west shore. The High Fist appeared more animated than she’d seen in a long time. The man had frankly been deteriorating; losing weight, becoming withdrawn and sullen. Only Kyle seemed able to rouse him from his dark moods. Now a faint smile, or eagerness, kept pulling at his mouth behind the iron-grey beard he’d been growing. Kyle bowed, greeting Devaleth. Even Greymane offered a smile – though one tinged with irony. ‘What do you think, water-witch? What are we to make of this?’
‘Make of what?’
Kyle raised his chin to the west. ‘It seems the Moranth Black have decamped.’
‘Really? Whatever for?’
The High Fist nodded. ‘That’s what everyone’s wondering.’
Fist Rillish appeared, walking stiffly and carefully towards the tent. Devaleth fought an urge to help the man – that he was even on his feet was painful to see. The dysentery ravaging the troops had drained pounds from the man: his face was ashen and greasy with sweat, and his shirt hung loose on him. He saluted and the High Fist curtly responded.
‘I understand the Blacks have marched off,’ he said weakly.
‘So it would seem,’ Greymane rumbled.
‘Then we will be attacking?’ Devaleth asked.
‘Not quite yet …’ Greymane answered, his shaded gaze on the far shore.
‘Oh?’
‘It could be a ploy,’ Rillish explained. ‘A fake withdrawal to draw us into committing ourselves. The remaining troops would fall back, then the Moranth would counterattack, catching us exposed. ’
Devaleth knew she was no strategist, but she was dubious. ‘Sounds very risky.’
The High Fist was nodding his agreement. ‘Yes. And unlikely – but best be sure.’ He looked to the Adjunct. ‘Kyle, take some scouts north, cross the river, and follow them till nightfall.’
Devaleth felt a stab of empathetic pain for Fist Rillish: strictly speaking, the Adjunct was not currently in the hierarchy of command. Greymane should have addressed the Fist. Yet the nobleman’s taut strained face revealed nothing. Kyle invited the Fist to accompany him, saying, ‘Perhaps you can recommend some names …’ Kyle at least seemed aware of the awkwardness.
The High Fist watched the two leave, his mouth turning sour once more, and ducked back into the tent. Devaleth was left alone to ponder the news, and she wondered whether this was the opportunity Greymane had been waiting for, or just another false hope. The gods knew some relief was desperately needed. Fist Shul remained bogged down with the rest of the invasion force, stymied by landslides, floods, downpours and two Skolati uprisings. It seemed the supplies the High Fist had counted on sat rotting in the rain and snow along some nameless track.
Around noon, while Suth dozed, someone came to camp. He thought he heard his name mentioned, then someone shook him. He sat up, blinking in the harsh light, to see Captain Betteries scowling down at him the way someone might regard a dog turd he’d just stepped in. Suth saluted.
The captain returned the salute; he was bareheaded, his red hair a mess. His eyes were bruised, and he wore only a dirty linen shirt hanging down over wool trousers. ‘You Suth?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘You can scout?’
Suth thought about saying no, then decided he’d probably already been volunteered for whatever it was so nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Come with me.’
Suth dragged himself upright, grabbed his armour. ‘Leave that,’ Betteries ordered. Shrugging, Suth complied.
Sergeant Goss eased forward. ‘I’ll go, sir.’
‘No, not you. Just the young bloods.’ The sergeant’s face clouded, but he said nothing. ‘Let’s go, trooper.’ Goss saluted and the captain acknowledged it. ‘Sorry, Goss.’
The captain collected three others, two squat Wickan plainsmen and a tall girl recruit, coarse-featured, wearing thick leathers, with a wild tangled mane of hair tied off with beads, bits of ribbon and leather braces. ‘Barghast,’ one of the Wickans mouthed to Suth.
The Adjunct was waiting for them. He wore plain leathers. Tall moccasins climbed all the way to his knees. His sword was sheathed high under his shoulder, wrapped in leather. Suth had seen a good deal of the young man, but he was struck anew by how rangy the fellow was, squat but long-limbed, his face seemingly brutal with its long moustache and broad heavy chin. He motioned to piled equipment. ‘Kit yourselves out.’
Suth picked up a shoulder bag and found a stash of food. A strip of smoked meat went straight into his mouth while he searched through the rest. Belted long-knives went to his waist, a bow and bag of arrows on his back.
The Adjunct spoke while they readied themselves. ‘We’ll head north then cross the river. We’re to shadow the Moranth. If you’re spotted, cut away – no leading back to anyone.’ All three nodded, stuffing their mouths. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
They jogged off. The Adjunct led them east at first, off behind a hillock until out of sight of the far shore, then cut north. Suth was wincing for the first few leagues: gods he was weak! But then his legs loosened up and he found his rhythm.
The Barghast girl jogged along beside him. ‘You are Dal Hon?’ she asked, grinning.
‘Yes.’
‘They say you are good warriors, you Dal Hon. We must fight sometime.’
Fight? Ahh – fight. He eyed her sidelong: heavier than he usually liked, but that was a promising grin. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tolat, of the Yellow Clay clan.’
‘Suth.’ He flicked his head to the two Wickans following, their eyes on the western skyline. ‘What about those two?’
‘Them?’ Tolat shook her head. Her tangled mane swung in the wind. ‘Too much like my brothers. But you … you are different. I like different.’
Wonderful. Some Barghast gal out to taste the world. Well … who was he to complain? The same could be said of him. ‘Any time you want lessons, you just let me know.’
She let out a very unladylike braying laugh and punched his arm. ‘Ha! I knew I would like you!’
‘Quiet back there,’ breathed the Adjunct.
Tolat made a face, but Suth did not. He remembered the solid iron grapnels clutching the stern of the Blue war galley, and the Adjunct swinging, severing each cleanly. And on the bridge, shields parted like cloth by that bright blade wrapped now in leather. He also recalled overhearing Goss mutter something while eyeing the young man: ‘Damned Crimson Guard,’ he’d said, as if it were a curse.
Crimson Guard? Some here claimed seeing them at the Battle of the Crossroads, where the new Emperor was victorious, but Suth wasn’t sure he credited stories like that. Surely they were long gone by now … In any case, he was fully prepared to follow this one’s ord
ers.
Mid-morning they crossed the river. The Wickan youths held their bows and arrow bags high out of the water as they half drifted, half paddled across. Tolat and Suth followed suit. On the far shore they ran anew, now picking up the pace, eating as they went.
Night fell and still they hadn’t caught sight of the Moranth column. They’d found the main west trader road and seen signs of a large force’s passing; but still the Adjunct wanted confirmation, and so he pressed on into the dusk. Even the two Wickans, Loi and Newhorse, grimaced their pain when he’d signed for them to start off west anew.
Suth was beyond grimacing: his chest burned as if aflame, his legs were numb dead weights, even his vision swam. All his gods forgive him. Not one decent meal in weeks and now this? Neethal Looru – the god that comes in the night whom no one has seen. Take me away from this!
Tolat cuffed Suth on the back, grinning. ‘Come now, Dal Hon. Show me what you can do!’
He was beginning to dislike that grin.
It was near the middle of the night before they sighted the Moranth. The reason became instantly obvious as they saw that the damned Blacks hadn’t stopped. They obviously intended to march through till dawn and then probably through the next day as well – otherwise why bother stealing the night march? They meant to get as much room between themselves and Greymane’s forces as they possibly could.
Suth and his fellow scouts were crouched in the dark amid the brittle brown stalks of a harvested field. Snow lay in patches. The frozen ground numbed Suth’s hands. The Adjunct gestured a withdrawal back behind the ridge of the hill.
Inside a crude shack, a harvest shelter, they sat together, watching the darkened surrounding fields. ‘They aren’t stopping,’ the Adjunct said, blowing on his hands. No one disagreed. ‘We’ll rest here, then return.’
‘I’d rather rest in that farmstead we passed,’ Newhorse said.
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 164