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

  They’d left his gear at their camp. Wincing and hissing his pain, he pulled on his long padded gambeson then laced up his hauberk and grieves. Helmet high on his head, he limped down to the bridge. A mounted officer, an unattached lieutenant acting for Command, thundered past then reared, halting.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  Suth saluted. ‘Just returned from scouting up north, sir.’

  The officer grunted, accepting this. ‘You’re wounded.’

  Suth wiped his face, finding a layer of flaking dried blood. ‘It’s nothing, sir. I can fight …’

  ‘Report to the infirmary.’

  ‘Sir, no. I—’

  ‘No?’ The officer wheeled his mount to face him directly. ‘I order you to the infirmary!’

  Suth bit his tongue. Fuck! Should’ve just saluted, dumbass! ‘Yes … sir.’

  Nodding a warning, the officer kicked his mount and raced off, dirt flying. Suth glared at the ash-grey overcast sky then headed for the infirmary tents.

  Envoy Enesh-jer watched the engagement from a narrow window in the top floor of the Three Sisters stone tower. Some time ago he’d summoned the field commander, Duke Kherran, and now impatiently awaited the man’s arrival.

  Far later than he expected, the man appeared, helmet in hand, cloak dragging in dirt behind. His round moon face gleamed with sweat. Mud spattered his fine mail and Roolian brown surcoat. ‘With all due respect, Envoy, it is unadvisable to summon me from the—’

  ‘Duke Kherran!’ Enesh-jer cut in. ‘Last I knew I was the Overlord’s chosen and so you shall treat me as such.’

  Stiffening, the Duke clamped his lips shut. He knelt on one knee, bowed, then straightened.

  Enesh-jer nodded. ‘That is better. Now … I have been watching the engagement and I am rather surprised to see that our lines have in fact retreated. Why is that, Duke, when I gave strict orders that these invaders were to be swept from the bridge?’

  The Duke blinked at Enesh-jer, utterly at a loss. At last he cleared his throat and said, ‘Of course, Envoy. I will see to it myself.’

  ‘Good. Do so. And Duke …’ Enesh-jer bent closely to him. ‘If you cannot fulfil my expectations then remember – there are many others here awaiting their chance.’

  Duke Kherran bowed again, his face held rigid. ‘Envoy.’ He marched out. Enesh-jer eyed the mud the man had tramped into the room, his mouth sour, then returned to the window.

  Behind him the thick doors swung closed and the lock rattled shut. The Envoy whirled round. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’

  A man all in black stepped out from behind a display of carved ivory icons of the Lady. He was quite short and he smiled with small pointed teeth. The Envoy backed away. The man plucked an icon from a shelf, studied it. ‘You remember enough, don’t you, Enesh-jer, to know who I am.’

  The Envoy reached behind him to touch a wall, pressed his back to it. ‘I will call for the guards.’

  The man waved the icon towards the entrance. ‘Those doors are built to resist a siege.’

  The Envoy raised his chin, ran a hand down the front of his robes, straightening their folds. ‘I am not afraid to die. The Lady will welcome me.’

  ‘A true believer.’ The man tossed the icon over a shoulder to shatter on the flagstones. The Envoy winced. ‘You come across them … now and then.’ The man walked to one of the slit windows, peered out. ‘Ah! He’s broken through. Took him longer than I thought.’ He offered a wink. ‘Guess he’s out of practice.’

  Enesh-jer slid along the wall to a window, glanced out. His face paled even further. It was the invaders who had broken through. Leading the charge came an armoured giant. Even as the Envoy watched, the man heaved aside an overturned cart, knocked soldiers from their feet with raking blows.

  ‘In a rare fury, he is,’ the assassin commented.

  ‘Both his swords are broken,’ Enesh-jer said, wonder in his voice.

  ‘Breaks all his swords, he does.’ The man glanced at him again and bared his pointed teeth. ‘All ’cept one.’

  The Envoy raised a hand to clutch at his throat. ‘No. I refuse to believe it. Lies.’

  The little man’s smile was a leer. ‘Yes, it’s him. Your old friend, Greymane. I hear he carries a grudge for all you betrayers. Voted to oust him, didn’t you?’

  Enesh-jer was shaking his head in denial. ‘Yeull would have told me.’

  ‘Or not.’ The man leaned back against the window slit. ‘Question is then … do I kill you or not? Who’s it going to be? Me or him?’

  The Envoy straightened, adjusted his rich silver-threaded robes yet again, jerked his chin to the assassin. ‘You.’

  The man smiled. Long thin daggers slid into his hands. ‘Good.’

  Devaleth reached the end of her options quite quickly with the wounded Adjunct. She’d cleaned the wounds as best she could and studied the man to diagnose what afflicted him. The problem was that what had happened to him was far beyond her own quite minor expertise. Some sort of fever coursed through his blood, probably inflicted by the animal bites. As to what his contact with the apparition of the Lady might have done to his mind – she had no hope of ameliorating that.

  Someone spoke from the front of the tent. ‘Mage of Ruse. May I enter?’

  She straightened, reached out to her Warren. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Carfin, of the Synod of Stygg.’

  The Synod of Stygg? She’d thought that mere legend, stories. An association of mages who met despite the Lady’s best efforts to stamp them out. She relaxed, slightly, calling out, ‘You may enter.’

  ‘My thanks.’

  Devaleth flinched, spinning: the mage had spoken behind her.

  He was tall and skeletally thin, wearing tattered dark finery: trousers, vest and shirt. Arms clasped behind his back, he was studying the Adjunct. ‘You seek to heal him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We in the Synod agree that he must be healed. Certain of us foresee a role for him.’

  ‘A role? In what?’

  His gaze had not left the Adjunct. He pursed his lips distastefully. ‘This one is foreign indeed.’

  ‘What do you mean? Foreign – how?’

  ‘Unfortunately … what ails him cannot be treated in any mundane way.’

  She let out a long breath. ‘I see.’

  He lowered his head to study her from under his stringy black hair. ‘Yes. One or both of us must access our Warren.’

  ‘Ah.’ And bring down the Lady upon them. They may heal the Adjunct, but then one or both of them would be dead or no better off than the Adjunct was now. ‘I don’t know if I’m ready for that.’

  ‘No one is,’ said someone from the flaps and both Carfin and Devaleth jumped sideways to regard the newcomer. He was an older man, bearded, in battered, travel-stained clothes.

  ‘Totsin?’ Carfin said, his gaze narrowed. ‘What in the name of the ancients are you doing here?’

  The man entered, pulling the flaps closed behind him. ‘I’ve come to see what I can do here.’

  Carfin returned his gaze to the Adjunct. ‘Well. Damned late, but welcome, I suppose.’

  The man, Totsin, bowed to Devaleth. ‘Mage of Ruse. Not many of the Marese have joined the invaders, I presume?’

  Devaleth offered him a thin smile. ‘Not many. You are with this Synod?’

  ‘From very far back, yes.’ He gestured to the Adjunct. ‘What do you intend?’

  ‘He must be healed by Warren.’

  ‘Ah …’

  Devaleth nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’ Totsin asked.

  ‘We are … considering,’ Carfin answered. He sniffed the Adjunct and wrinkled his nose. ‘Terribly foreign.’

  Totsin smoothed his greying beard. ‘If it must be done, then, well, no option to flee exists for me. As to our host, well, we are not at sea …’

  Carfin cocked his head, looking like a tall emaciated crow. ‘You are suggesting … ?’

  The older m
an raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘Well – if now is the time to commit fully, as the Synod appears to have voted …’

  The tall mage ran a hand down the edge of the pallet, the other going to his chest. ‘True enough, Totsin. Though coming from you that is a surprise.’

  Devaleth cast a look between the two. ‘What are you getting at?’ she demanded.

  Totsin bowed. ‘Carfin here is a mage of Darkness – Rashan, I believe the Malazans name it.’

  ‘I see.’ So, Carfin could heal the Adjunct then flee into the Warren of Rashan, hoping to shake off the Lady. Seemed straightforward enough. ‘Yet … you are reluctant … you fear the Lady’s attack, of course …’

  Carfin was shaking his head, almost blushing. The man’s not afraid – he actually looks embarrassed! He cleared his throat. ‘Unlike Ruse, madam, we here under the thumb of the Lady rarely dare to exercise our, ah, talent. The truth is – though I know how to do it – I have never actually entered Rashan …’

  Oh. Oh dear.

  ‘And so having entered …’ Carfin continued, ‘I have no way of knowing whether I’ll ever be able to return – if you see the dilemma. ’

  ‘Yes,’ Devaleth breathed. She touched his arm. ‘I understand fully.’ She regarded Totsin. ‘What of you? You seem ready enough to push others forward.’

  He raised his hands apologetically. ‘My talents run in, ah, other directions.’

  The tall pale mage took Devaleth’s hand, kissed the back of it. ‘Madam, it is of no concern. I will do this. It is something I should have done long ago, in any case.’ He looked to the older man. ‘Totsin. My thanks. You, of all of us, stepping forward has emboldened me. My thanks.’

  The older mage was dragging his fingers through his ragged beard, his gaze fixed on the Adjunct. ‘Yes. Now is certainly the time to act.’

  ‘You should both wait outside.’

  Devaleth nodded. She clasped the man’s hands in hers. ‘My thanks.’ He bowed very formally.

  Outside, Devaleth focused on emptying her mind of all concern for what was going on within. She turned her back to watch the engagement on the far shore. It appeared that the infantry, even with the aid of Greymane, had yet to break through. Just as before. Too narrow a front to assault. And they were all so weak – famished, sick.

  Totsin had walked off to one side and was kicking at the dirt, hands clasped at his front.

  Though Devaleth was prepared for it subconsciously, the sudden levelling of the Lady’s awareness and ferocity left her staggered. Behind her the tent cloth billowed and tore as if a silent explosion of munitions had been unleashed within. One pole yanked free, falling crooked. She sent an alarmed glance to Totsin, who had turned, his gaze hooded. He raised his thin shoulders in a shrug.

  She closed on the tent while making a strong effort to withhold any sensing outwards. ‘Carfin?’ she called. No one answered. She edged aside the cloth, peered into the darkness. ‘Carfin?’ Totsin entered after her. She found the Adjunct as before: lying supine, undisturbed. But he was alone and her possessions had been reduced to wreckage. Either the Lady had snapped up the mage of Darkness, or he had escaped. Made his own leap of faith.

  She quickly laid a hand upon the young Adjunct’s brow, let out a long breath of relief. ‘The fever has lessened. His mind is … calm. He sleeps.’

  ‘He actually did it,’ Totsin mused from the entrance. ‘I am astonished.’

  Something in the mage’s manner irked Devaleth. ‘You should be grateful.’

  ‘And … he is gone.’ The man studied her now, hands loose at his sides. ‘What of you, mage of Ruse? It must be hard – being so far from the open sea, from the source of your power.’

  Searching for a clean cloth and water, Devaleth said, distracted, ‘I do not have to be on the sea to call upon it.’

  ‘Ah. Yet you are weakened, yes? By such separation?’

  She looked up from digging among the scattered pots and boxes to where he stood at the entrance, his eyes oddly bright in the gloom. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  The man appeared about to say something. He raised his hands to her.

  Then someone threw open the tent flap behind him.

  Suth sat in the grass outside a tent in the infirmary area waiting to be seen by one of the bonecutters who had been sent along with the expeditionary force. Personally, he had no faith in them, though he understood the use of herbs and poultices and such to cure sicknesses and fever and cleanse wound-rot. He also accepted the need to drain the black-blood that can sometimes come to even the smallest cuts. All these mundane healings and procedures he would grudgingly go along with – all except head wounds. From what he’d seen growing up on the Dal Hon plains, head wounds were a mystery to everyone, even these self-professed healers. They’d prescribe the strangest things, from temple-bashings to drilling holes in the skull to remove ‘pressure’.

  He swore that if they tried anything like that he’d be out of the tent quicker than shit from one of these gut-sick soldiers around him. From the fighting across the river a great roar reached him and he bolted upright. There appeared to be movement at the front; a breakthrough? Dammit! And he was stuck here!

  A man joined him. His shirt-front was sodden, blood dripping to the ground, and he was wiping his hands on a dirty rag. ‘What is it?’ the fellow asked.

  ‘Might be an advance.’

  A grunt and the man eyed him up and down. ‘What in Togg’s name are you doing here?’

  Suth pointed to his head. ‘Fell on a rock.’

  ‘You can walk, talk – you’re fine. Bugger off. There’s enough to handle.’

  Suth jerked a salute. ‘Yes, sir!’ He dashed down the slope.

  On his way to the bridge he noticed the High Mage’s tent. It leaned drunkenly aside, the cloth torn in places as if it had been attacked. Where they said they were taking the Adjunct! He ran for the tent.

  He threw open the flap and an old man he’d never seen before turned upon him. The fellow gestured, his mouth opening. Suth reacted automatically and his sword leapt to the man’s throat.

  The man snapped his mouth shut. ‘It’s all right, trooper!’ a woman called from within. ‘Relax.’ The High Mage came forward, pushing the sagging cloth out of her way.

  Suth inclined his head. ‘High Mage.’ He sheathed his sword.

  ‘High Mage …’ the man breathed, something catching in his voice.

  ‘Honorary only,’ she told him.

  He touched a quavering hand to his throat, said, ‘Perhaps I had best be going.’

  ‘If you must,’ the High Mage answered, her gaze narrow.

  ‘Yes. In case she should return. Until we meet again, then,’ and he bowed.

  The High Mage lowered her head ever so slightly. ‘Until then.’

  The man gave Suth a wide berth and walked off down the slope. Suth watched him go, then remembered why he’d come. ‘The Adjunct – how is he?’

  The High Mage pulled her gaze from the retreating figure. A frown turned into a smile, her plump cheeks dimpling. ‘I believe he is well, trooper. I do believe he will recover.’

  Suth let out a great breath. ‘My thanks, High Mage.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Though perhaps I should thank you,’ she added musingly.

  ‘I’m sorry, High Mage?’

  ‘Nothing. Now, no doubt you wish to return to the fighting, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well.’ She shooed him away. ‘Go, go.’

  Bowing, Suth turned and ran down the slope as best he could. He jogged, hand on his helmet, wincing where it dug into his wound, and he wondered whether he should have told the High Mage that for an instant he could have sworn he’d seen murder in that fellow’s eyes. But that was not something you would mention to a High Mage based upon a fleeting impression, was it? Not if you didn’t want to make a lot of trouble for yourself. And he’d already missed enough of the damned fighting.

  The Malazan guards posted at the doors to the Envoy’s c
hambers saluted and stood aside for Greymane. He entered, pulling off his helm, which he slammed down on a convenient table, scattering icons and small reliquary boxes. He pulled off his bloodied gauntlets and scanned the room. A man dressed all in black – black trousers, black cotton shirt, and black vest – sat in a plush chair, smoking. Something that might be a body lay on the floor, hidden under a rich silk bedsheet.

  Greymane slapped the gauntlet into his helm, then pulled a white scarf draped over a tall statue of the Lady and wiped away the sweat sheathing his face and the blood smearing his hands. ‘How many more of you are there, hidden away like lice?’ he asked.

  The man smiled, revealing tiny white teeth. ‘I’m more of a freelance. ’

  The High Fist only exhaled noisily through his nostrils. He raised his chin to the body. ‘Is this him?’

  ‘In the flesh.’

  Still wiping his hands, Greymane used a muddied boot to pull the cloth away. He stared at the pale face for some time. ‘Enesh-jer,’ he breathed.

  ‘You knew him?’

  The High Fist scowled at the question. ‘Yes. I knew him well enough.’

  The man was studying his thin kaolin pipe. ‘What do you want done with him?’

  Greymane stared down at the body for a time. ‘I used to want that head on a pike. Now, I don’t care. Burn him with the rest.’

  The man coughed slightly, covering his mouth. He eyed the High Fist anew. ‘These Roolians don’t burn their dead. They bury them.’

  ‘We don’t have the time.’ He tossed the bloodied scarf on to the body. ‘See to it.’

  The man offered a vague bow as the High Fist picked up his helm and stalked out. He sat for a time, tapping the pipe in a palm, frowning.

  Ivanr chose to walk rather than riding in the large two-wheeled cart that had carried Beneth. The conveyance was his now, holding the tent and brazier and few simple goods belonging to the spiritual leader of the Army of Reform. He’d set aside his sword and armour, wearing instead layered plain clothes and a cloak against the winter. He used a walking stick, yes, but other than a shortsword hidden under his cloak he appeared weaponless. His self-appointed bodyguard surrounded him as before, but at a greater, more respectful – and less visible – distance.